Chapter Text
The house is too big for one man.
Baelor has never been used to solitude, to silence. He spent his childhood with his three brothers, his student years in the Dragons fraternity at King’s Landing College. His adult life with Jena, then Valarr and Matarys.
The house is too big for one man.
He becomes aware of it in the details: the faint echo of his footsteps on the wooden floor, the hum of the refrigerator that had once gone unnoticed. On its surface, pale rectangles mark the places where photographs hung for so long.
Baelor steps into the living room and lets his gaze fall on the bookshelf. He is like a stranger discovering his host’s home. Rows of books cover the wall, pressed against one another like a silent crowd. History, philosophy, poetry… entire lives stacked on dark wood.
How long has it been since I opened one of them?
His fingers slide over the spines as if searching for something solid to hold on to. Sometimes he catches himself thinking that he has already used up the best of his life.
His best years given to the Targaryen Industry.
His family, built in part without him.
And now, this suddenly immense stretch of time before him.
Baelor sinks heavily into an armchair, his back straight despite the fatigue weighing on his shoulders. In front of him, a glass of whisky rests on the coffee table. He has barely touched it.
Forty-seven years.
All his life he prepared himself to lead the family company. Their legacy. His father’s, and his father’s father before him… all the way back to Aegon I Targaryen, nicknamed the Conqueror for having managed to establish himself among the other industrial giants some two hundred years earlier. All of it leading to Baelor.
He had never once entertained the idea of walking away from it all. He studied, worked hard, accepted impossible hours and early responsibilities. By the time he was thirty, Braavos Economy was already speaking of him as the most promising future leader in Westeros.
He applied himself.
With seriousness. With discipline.
And meanwhile, the years passed.
Valarr and Matarys grew up, loving and lovable, perfect as on the day they were born. Baelor saw only fragments of it. A few ordinary afternoons, conversations without urgency, memories one gathers like crumpled receipts at the bottom of a pocket. And then one day, the boys left. Valarr moved in with his girlfriend closer to the university, Matarys to that prestigious boarding school for elite athletes.
He closes his eyes for a moment.
Jena’s departure is only slightly more recent. There was no spectacular drama. Just a slow erosion. Cancelled evenings, repeated absences. One night, she simply stopped waiting. He signed the divorce papers without negotiating, without pleading, ashamed and grateful that she had waited so long before choosing herself.
Baelor has just done that himself, in a way. He chose himself. Or at least he chose another path, something that pulls him off his axis. Will he wander indefinitely through the vacuum of space? Perhaps.
He left Targaryen Industry three days ago. A decision that surprised everyone, and which he explained calmly, as always. Too much fatigue, he said. A need for distance.
Baelor has refused every interview request since, every call from his father as well. Shame floods him when he thinks of the anxiety that must be gripping the old man’s poor heart, he who retired from business a few years earlier, convinced the company was in good hands.
It still is, he thinks. Maekar will see to it. But will he forgive me?
The question tightens around his heart. His little brother, the youngest of them, abandoned.
Baelor drains his glass in one sharp swallow.
He does not know what to do with the time that remains to him, immense and yet diminished.
His face crumples; a dull pain rises behind his eyes.
It is not so much sadness that inhabits him as a kind of profound emptiness. A strange sensation of having arrived in the middle of his life without quite knowing what for.
The doorbell rings.
The sound cuts through the silence like a stone thrown into water.
Baelor straightens almost at once. His face regains that calm, composed expression that comes so naturally to him. It has become a reflex: putting things back in order before anyone sees them.
He walks slowly down the hallway.
When he opens the door, his brother is there.
Tall, broad-shouldered, his face marked by fatigue. Maekar is a rough man whom life has not spared. Widowed for three years. Father of six children. And now alone at the head of the family company.
Guilt strikes Baelor with unexpected brutality.
It rises all at once, cold and heavy, like a wave that steals his breath.
And despite everything he is already carrying, it is for him that Maekar has come.
“Maekar, I…”
I what? I’m sorry? I don’t know what I’m doing? I don’t know where I’m going?
His brother does not wait for an answer. He knows him too well. He pulls Baelor into an embrace. It happens rarely between them, the last time was when Dyanna died. The last time, it was Maekar who clung to him. Today, he seems to say: cling to me.
So Baelor does. Because he is weak and fragile.
“You are strong, brother,” Baelor murmurs in a low voice. “You have always been strong.”
Aerion’s birthday is the last place Baelor would wish to be and, paradoxically, the one where he feels least alone. His brother’s children, for all the trouble they can cause Maekar, are joy incarnate. Rhae, who loves him so much; Egg, whose energy seems to correlate directly with his good mood… He finds comfort in his youngest niece and nephew. For a moment, Baelor no longer feels the devouring emptiness that threatens to swallow him, no longer sees the scrutinizing glances cast his way. In Rhae and Egg’s eyes, there is neither pity nor disappointment.
Away from the tables set up in the garden, Aerion is trying to impress Aelor and Aelora with a grotesque story about his arrival at college. He joined the Dragons fraternity, like every man in their family who has set foot at King’s Landing College. Baelor regrets that he should tarnish its reputation.
He watches his blurred reflection in the bottom of his glass of wine and quickly looks away, unable to bear what he sees there. Instead, Baelor looks toward the street beyond the gate surrounding his brother’s house and is the first to notice two figures approaching. The first belongs to Daeron, the second… the second he does not know.
A young woman enters behind his nephew. She cannot be more than twenty-four, and her face is the most singular Baelor has ever seen. He looks at her a few seconds too long.
It is not like him. Long ago he learned to observe people with restraint, almost with distance.
Freckles cover her face like a fine constellation scattered across the bridge of her nose, her cheekbones, even beneath her eyes. Not the few discreet spots one barely notices. These are numerous, lively, almost insolent in their freedom. They give her skin a texture of light, as though the sun had decided to linger there too long.
He follows their pattern, trying to give them shape, direction.
His gaze meets hers and abruptly interrupts his reverie. He smiles politely and looks away as quickly as possible. Beneath the table, his fingers brush his ring finger, but the wedding band is no longer there, so they settle on the ring he wears on his index finger, turning it one way and then the other.
To give them something to do.
Something to think about.
“Thank you for the invitation, Maekar.”
Her voice is deep for a woman. Slow, too. Baelor detects an accent in it, something not local. Her hair is black, but her skin and eyes are light. She cannot be from Dorne.
“That’s only natural,” Maekar replies, “and my idiot son should have thought of it himself.”
Daeron rolls his eyes.
“Come on, Lenore.”
Lenore.
“Who is she?” Baelor hears himself ask.
“She’s at college with Daeron. You know he lost his license with his… antics. Since he came back from rehab, she drives him everywhere. They’re always together, so when I want to know what he’s up to, I text her. She sometimes watches the little ones. They all like her a lot.”
From the way he says it, Baelor knows that Maekar likes her too. Earning his brother’s affection is rare and difficult, especially since Dyanna’s death.
Baelor follows his gaze and sees that all the children have gathered around her, even Aelor and Aelora. She is telling a story that seems to captivate them. Aerion has emerged from his inner world of fire and blood to listen.
Longing mingles with tenderness inside Baelor. He too would like to be pulled from the darkness, to touch the light.
“I hope Daeron and her start dating,” Maekar continues.
That surprises Baelor. His brother is not the sort to interfere in his children’s romantic lives.
“She does this family good, the children especially. Daella and Rhae most of all. They need a female presence, a role model I can’t give them.”
“Maybe she should date you,” Baelor jokes.
Maekar rolls his eyes, which only accentuates the resemblance between him and Daeron.
“Don’t be ridiculous. She’s my son’s age. You’d have to be a fucking degenerate.”
Baelor forgets the girl as he forgets everything else these days. He sinks into silence, into emptiness, into the certainty that the abyss beneath his feet will swallow him soon enough.
He feels as though he stands just a few steps outside the world, where one sees without being seen. Around him, everyone moves forward, everyone chases dreams, flees nightmares, puts one foot in front of the other. Baelor is stuck, motionless. Around him, life goes on.
He chose to withdraw from the world, so why does that ugly, bitter thing rise inside him when the first numbers from the Braavos stock exchange appear? When Targaryen Industry’s shares keep climbing? Is he so selfish that he would rather drag the company down with him? Burn everything in his wake?
If I must burn, then let me burn alone.
He only remembers Lenore when he finds himself standing in front of her again. Literally.
She opens the door for him, and Maekar points his thumb at his phone with an exasperated look.
Lenore waits with him in the hallway. She is lightly dressed, which is hardly surprising given the furnace that is his brother’s house. Baelor is guilty of the same excess of heating; the Targaryens like it warm. She is wearing a white lace tank top that reveals more freckles. They dust her skin like brown sugar, gathering particularly on her shoulders. Baelor wonders if they have ever been kissed.
The thought chills him. Burns him. Fills him with shame. He is forty-seven. She is barely twenty-four. What would she think if she knew what idea had crossed his diseased mind?
“I don’t believe we were properly introduced,” he says to her in an amiable voice, the one he is used to using, the one behind which he hides all his cracks.
She nods politely.
“You are Mr. Targaryen, aren’t you?”
“Yes. Maekar’s brother.”
“The eldest?”
He nods. He loves Aerys and Rhaegel, but it has always been Maekar and him. He is the one. His brother.
Baelor’s gaze drifts toward the living room, which has been transformed into a giant fort of pillows, mattresses, and blankets.
“Movie night,” she says with a wide smile.
Her blue eyes crinkle, he notices, forming crow’s-feet at the corners. She will probably have wrinkles in a few years. Baelor hopes no one ever manages to convince her to stop smiling.
“My brother told me you’re one of Daeron’s classmates.”
“Only in a few courses. I study English literature.”
“Is Munkun still teaching? I took one of his electives back in the day.”
“Yes, partly, but he’s getting old. Shiera Seastar has taken over most of the Old English and Latin classes.”
“Really? I didn’t know Shiera was teaching at King’s Landing… She’s a cousin. Well, my aunt technically.”
“Really?” Lenore asks in surprise.
“Yes. My grandfather had… many children. Do you enjoy your studies? Fewer and fewer people choose the humanities.”
“And aren’t they the wisest? It’s a choice that doesn’t lead to great career prospects… Only those who love this world without truly wanting to be part of it choose it.”
Her tone is light, as light as a deep voice can be. They don’t know each other. And yet Baelor hears the truth in what she says, the tension, the depth.
“You’re young to take such a defeatist view of the world, don’t you think?”
“And you’re to rich to take such a defeatist view of the world, don’t you think?”
“Touché.”
Her smile fades, and in the blue of her eyes he reads a trace of regret.
“I hope I didn’t offend you, Mr. Targaryen. I’ve grown used to your brother’s sharp jokes.”
“No offense was taken, I assure you.”
“I find no reason to mock your situation.”
Baelor’s smile turns bitter.
“You know.”
“I understand.”
Her answer is strange, like a scratch on a vinyl record that suddenly skips you to the next track.
“I…”
The sound of pounding footsteps erupts on the staircase and the children burst out, all wearing their finest pajamas.
“Uncle Baelor! Look!”
Egg puffs out his chest, hands on his hips, to show him his scale-patterned onesie.
“And me! And me!” Rhae shouts, pointing to the glittering pink wings printed on the back of hers.
“Very nice,” Baelor compliments. “Real dragons.”
Maekar takes the family emblem a bit too seriously, but the tenderness Baelor feels toward the children keeps him from finding it ridiculous.
Daella comes down the stairs with all the dignity of a teenager. She may cultivate a blasé expression, but she too is wearing pajamas. And dragon socks.
“I love your family.”
Baelor looks at her, too surprised to answer.
She watches Rhae, Aegon, and Daella as they bicker gently. As they curl up together in the middle of the blankets.
And he watches her. He sees her smile, too sad. He sees her eyes, too nostalgic. Too empty, too…
Despair.
The word flashes through Baelor’s mind in letters of fire. He recognizes it: an old friend. How can Lenore feel so familiar to it?
“I’ve got the popcorn,” Daeron announces as he comes out of the kitchen with a huge bowl in his hands. “And Aerion’s bringing the sodas. Not as good as alcohol, but what can we do?” he adds, glancing at Baelor.
“You look well, Daeron. I’m proud of you.”
Baelor places a hand on his nephew’s shoulder.
“That’s a lie, but thanks, Uncle. This time I hope I can stick with it.”
Lenore brushes his arm lightly.
“Come on, let’s go deal with the monsters!”
“Have a good evening.”
She gives Baelor one last smile before turning away.
“So: The Princess Bride or Nanny McPhee?”
He remains in the hallway, silently watching the bursts of laughter and the sparkling eyes. Even Daeron looks at peace. Happy, even.
Is it your doing, Lenore?
He tends to believe it is.
A longing rises in Baelor. He wishes the pain would leave him. He longs to be light, like a feather, like a sigh.
Maekar reappears and slips his phone back into his pocket, after shooting it one last threatening glance.
“Sorry to keep you waiting. That asshole Fossoway keeps bothering me. Shall we go? I’m starving.”
“Let’s go,” Baelor confirms.
Baelor has always preferred football to rugby, but that doesn’t stop him from attending the Ashford Club’s friendly matches against the Stormlands Stags.
Friendly, Baelor thinks, is a word whose definition should probably be reminded to the parents of these young athletes.
Judging by the uproar in the stands, the U8 friendly match looks more like a World Cup final… while on the field children far too big for their jerseys run happily after the oval ball, and in the stands Maekar experiences every play as if his life depended on it.
“Egg! Tackle! Tackle! No, TACKLE!” he shouts.
Leaning against the railing, his brother looks ready to jump down and join the scrum.
“Seven hells! What kind of refereeing is that? CUNT!”
Baelor shakes his head, amused.
“Easy, brother, or you’ll end up getting a red card yourself.”
“That would only be the second one a Targaryen gets today,” Maekar replies, casting a dark look toward Aerion.
Sitting at the end of the bench, the boy is hunched over, his injured leg stretched out in front of him, glaring viciously at anyone who looks a bit too long at his black eye. Nephew or not, Baelor is satisfied to know Aerion was punished for tackling an opponent by the neck earlier that morning.
On the field, Egg finally grabs the ball and manages three heroic steps before tripping over his own laces and sprawling face-first. Fortunately another boy on his team picks up the ball and manages to score a try.
This time even Maekar’s voice is drowned out by the coach’s shout, Dunk raising both fists into the air as the final whistle blows.
Once they’ve collected Aegon, the whole troop heads toward Maekar’s car. Baelor cannot help the fond smile that rises to his lips when he sees the four blond heads following their father like ducklings across the parking lot. Only Daeron is missing, too sick to come, and Aemon, still at boarding school in Oldtown.
“Alright, we’re going home to… Pennytree!” Maekar exclaims when he spots Egg’s coach in the distance. “Stay here, I’ll be there in a minute.”
He strides toward the coach, who, upon seeing him, shrinks his shoulders. Maekar often has that effect on people, rightly so when one of his children is involved.
“Look, Uncle B!” chirps little Rhae.
“I’m looking, sweetheart.”
And she spins around, making her flowered dress swirl as she bursts into laughter.
Baelor yearns for that innocence, that simple, charming pleasure that turns life into a constant wonder where he sees only regrets now.
The most recent one appears suddenly, as if to prove his point.
“Hi everyone!”
“Lenore!” Rhae exclaims, stopping her spinning to run, somewhat unsteadily, into her arms.
The blue of her sweatshirt is exactly the same as that of her eyes. A sky blue, as if the purest cerulean had been veiled with gray. Is it just before the rain, or just after? Baelor couldn’t say.
“How are you today?” he hears himself ask.
It is an empty, impersonal, expected phrase. And yet for Baelor it carries a sincere question.
Who are you? Where do you come from? What are you doing?
It echoes inside him like a refrain, a song whose words he cannot quite recall. Then it comes back to him: Are you there? What are you doing? Can you hear me?
An old nursery rhyme he must not have heard since Matarys was a small child. A story about a wolf dressing himself as a man, layer by layer, until he resembles something he is not. Until he comes to devour the children.
Will you devour me, Lenore?
Unaware of his turmoil, she smiles at him.
“I’m well. I hope you are too.”
She turns to Egg.
“I’m sorry I couldn’t come to the match! I heard you did very well!”
“I fell, but at least the team won!”
“How about I take you for ice cream to celebrate? What do you think?”
“Oh yes! I’m so excited, and I just can’t hide it!” he bursts into song, dancing in the middle of the parking lot.
“What’s going on here?” Maekar asks. “Hello, Lenore.”
“Hello. I was offering to take Egg for ice cream, is that alright?”
“Yes, no problem. Works for me, since Pennytree needs a ride home.”
“No way he’s getting in the car with me!” Aerion exclaims. “And I need space for my leg,” he adds, pointing to the crutch he was given after the match.
The look Dunk gives makes Baelor think he doesn’t want to stay in a confined space with Aerion either. They’ve never gotten past last year’s fight.
“I didn’t ask for your fucking opinion, boy, you…”
“Come with us, coach!” Egg chirps. “Come get ice cream!”
“Aegon, it isn’t polite to impose like that. It’s not your car,” Baelor intervenes.
“No problem. I don’t mind. Dunk, right? A sundae at Tanselle’s, how does that sound?”
“Yes,” he replies quickly. “I love Tanselle. She’s so good. I mean, her sundaes. They’re very good.”
He smiles nervously.
“Would you like to come?” Lenore asks, turning to Baelor.
“Me?”
“Aerion needs space, apparently. He’ll have more if you come with us. We’ll just make a quick stop at Tanselle-To-Tall Sundaes and I’ll drop you off with Egg. What do you say?”
Baelor does not remember what he answered, but it must have been coherent and articulate because his brother simply claps him on the shoulder before ordering his children to put on their seatbelts. Baelor, meanwhile, finds himself sitting beside Lenore in her cherry-red Fiat 500.
Dunk sits behind her, thanks be to the gods. He and Egg talk loudly, filling the silence that would otherwise threaten to suffocate him. Lenore says nothing, but there is pleasure in every one of her movements, a joyful tension that suggests she is savoring the moment fully.
“It’s sundae time!”
“Yeah!” Dunk and Egg answer in unison.
“I want a vanilla sundae with caramel sauce. No, peanut. And caramelized hazelnut bits on top!”
“We’ll see about that, young man,” Baelor replies with mock severity.
“And you, coach?” the child asks without pretending to listen to his uncle.
“A double sundae: vanilla and chocolate, cookie sauce, whipped cream, chocolate sprinkles, and a cherry on top,” Dunk recites.
Baelor exchanges an amused glance with Lenore.
“That sounds disgusting.”
“Rubbish! It’s excellent.”
“Disgusting! Disgusting! Disgusting!”
“Want a clout on the ear?” Dunk teases. “I’d never hit him, Mr. Targaryen. Just an expression,” he adds quickly.
“I know, don’t worry. Besides, this young man might deserve it if he speaks to adults who take care of him that way. Isn’t that right, Aegon?”
“Yes, Uncle. I’m sorry.”
The conversation in the back resumes, calmer.
“And you?” Lenore asks. “What’s your favorite sundae flavor?”
“I’m afraid I’ve never had one.”
“You’re joking? Mr. Targaryen, you…”
“Baelor, please. Mr. Targaryen is my father.”
I was him. I am not anymore. I do not want to be. Let me be only Baelor.
“Baelor, today you’re going to eat a sundae. I insist. My treat.”
She uses the red light to throw him the brightest, warmest smile he has ever seen.
“You’ll see. It’s delicious.”
“I don’t doubt it,” he murmurs.
The radio crackles with the opening notes of a song Baelor vaguely remembers hearing once before. Lenore taps the steering wheel and begins to hum.
So she said, “What’s the problem, baby?”
Egg and Dunk immediately join in, a chaotic chorus.
What’s the problem? I don’t know
Well maybe I’m in love (love)
Baelor wonders if he somehow offended the gods in a previous life.
Think about it every time
I think about it
Can’t stop thinking ’bout it
She turns up the volume and they laugh and sing louder, leaning forward in their seats. Lenore’s smile is so wide it threatens to split her face in two. But Baelor barely notices it.
What he watches are her eyes.
In them he sees a devouring hunger, a fierce joy that consumes everything in its path. She feeds on their pleasure the way she feeds on the joy Maekar’s children feel in her presence.
Why? Baelor thinks sadly. What terrible emptiness is there inside you that you feel such a need to fill it?
Valarr and Kiera had come for dinner, as they did every week since he left Targaryen Industry. They watch him with worried eyes, speak to him as if he is an old, fragile man whose reactions might spark fear.
Baelor is not mad, but he does not mind. He loves his son, and he would never regret a single minute spent in his company.
He had ordered from Sunspear’s Delights and brought out an excellent red from Dorne, a bottle given to him by his uncle Maron. Baelor imagines they spend their student nights drinking cheap beer, but it pleases him. It is the small gestures that carry great feelings.
Baelor does not speak much. He listens. The assignments they had to turn in, the frustrations they encountered, their doubts, friendships, little gossip and grand scandals. He had never had the time for all of this.
In hindsight, he realizes that Valarr, Matarys, and Jena had quickly learned to filter what they shared with him. No long anecdotes, no trivial musings. Always concrete, always useful. Always getting to the point, so as not to waste the brief moments he could grant them, so as not to overload his mind already burdened with far weightier responsibilities.
What a waste of time.
“The charity gala will be held the week of the new term. They’ve decided the theme will be ‘All in White’. Not very original, but well.”
“Do you need me to pick you up?”
“No, that’s kind of you. We’ll go in Kiera’s car; she’s driving since she isn’t drinking. We’re taking Daeron and Lenore too.”
“So… they’re together?” Baelor asks innocently. “Maekar was wondering.”
Kiera and Valarr exchange a knowing glance over their glasses.
“What?”
“I don’t think Daeron is her type,” Kiera says politely.
“She likes them older.”
“Valarr!”
“What? You can’t say otherwise,” he defends himself.
Baelor’s gaze shifts between them, waiting. Curiosity devours him, but he doesn’t see how to press further without seeming intrusive.
Kiera shakes her pale pink curls. She seems almost pitying him. Blessed be the gods for placing such a charming girl in his son’s life.
“She dated Lyonel Baratheon for a while.”
Baelor must remember to keep chewing. Lyonel Baratheon. Owner of the Stormlands Stags and half the drinking establishments in the capital. An inveterate flirt with the most scandalous reputation in all of King’s Landing.
And a pretentious bastard.
His expression must betray his thoughts, because his son shakes his head.
“He’s at least forty! No offense,” Valarr adds quickly under his father’s stern gaze. “Still… old.”
“I didn’t know you knew her,” Baelor says cautiously.
He takes a sip of wine, but tastes nothing.
“She’s a year older than me, but I’m in the drama club with her,” Kiera explains. “And since she and Daeron are best friends… it’s crazy how he’s changed since meeting her. He comes to class, turns in his work on time, and I don’t think he’s started drinking again.”
“For now.”
“Don’t be cruel, Valarr,” Baelor intervenes. “He’s your cousin.”
“Sorry,” he mutters. “But still, I can’t shake the idea that she’s interested in him only because he’s a lost cause. She needs to feel useful.”
“To save those who can be saved,” Kiera murmurs.
And you, Lenore, why can’t you be saved?
Valarr gives him the answer.
“Two years ago, her father couldn’t bear that her mother asked for a divorce. He killed her, then the two little boys, and then himself. It was Lenore who found them.”
Aemon and Matarys come home for the holidays. Baelor held his boy close the moment he stepped off the King’s Road Express. He has grown, and under Baelor’s hands, he can feel the muscles his son had developed over the past three months. He is sixteen now, almost a man. Almost as tall as him. Soon, stronger.
Baelor remembers the first time his own father had seemed weak to him. He wonders how long it will be before his sons stop seeing him as a model, when he will become something to protect instead.
Everyone is on the platform, waiting for Aemon’s train, which arrive a few minutes later. The girls have made a banner that read: “Welcome Home.”
As soon as Aemon’s platinum-white hair appears in the crowd, Egg starts running. The two brothers throw themselves into each other’s arms.
Baelor turned to Lenore. She has come too, officially to help with the luggage. Now that he knows, Baelor can read every emotion that passes across her face as she watches the two brothers.
I love your family, she had told him.
“I’m sorry.”
He murmured it, but he knows she has heard him.
Lenore closes her eyes, and a single tear rolls down her cheek.
He has to summon every ounce of self-loathing not to wipe it away.
Kiera makes a stop at Maekar’s house before picking up Valarr at Baelor’s. His son has enlisted his help to find a pair of white shoes for the charity gala.
Baelor never imagined that Lenore could step out of the car, could enter his house.
She appears in his entryway like an illusion, an image he has dreamed of so often it has burned itself onto his retina. Yet Baelor knows at first glance that he is not dreaming; he wouldn’t have the imagination to picture her dressed like this.
Lenore wears a long white gown that clings to the round curve of her hips and ties around her neck, forming a neckline plunging so low that Baelor glimpses a mole between her breasts. Her shoulders and arms are bare, revealing even more freckles, hundreds, perhaps thousands, that he longs to count, one by one, placing a burning kiss on each.
She opens her mouth, ready to speak, to break the silence with which he has received her, but Daeron calls to her from the car. She turns, and Baelor flinches.
Her luxuriant black hair is swept into a bun, a choice that reveals her bare back. His fingers ache; he would give everything, would become a beggar, if it allowed him to map every freckle that dots her back like stars in a night sky. Like stars guiding lost sailors.
In that instant, Baelor is certain that if he touches them, traces them, he will find his way.
Lenore casts him a glance over her shoulder. He feels a fleeting, violent emotion cross her face, instantly replaced by a smile.
“Good evening, Baelor.”
The door closes on Valarr. Suddenly, Baelor is alone. Alone with his desire.
He spends the evening moving from room to room, opening and closing books, turning the radio on and off. He eventually drifts off, just for a moment, until the vibration of his phone against his glass wakes him.
The number is unknown, and it’s nearly two in the morning. Without knowing why, he answers.
“Baelor?”
“Lenore.”
A breath. A soft, low laugh, lasting less than a heartbeat.
“You recognized my voice.”
“I have a good memory for these things.”
I would never forget anything about you.
Baelor doesn’t say it. He says nothing, in truth, since his eyes first fell on Lenore. The seal of infamy prevents him: he knows that if the darkness in his heart escaped through his lips, he would turn to a pillar of salt.
“I’m sorry. Maekar gave me your number in case of an emergency with the children and…”
Another sigh. What wouldn’t Baelor give to trap it between his lips? He closes his eyes, banishing the thought, knowing it would summon others far more licentious if he allowed it.
“Is this Daeron? Is he drunk?”
“No, no, he’s fine. Don’t worry about him. He went with Kiera and Valarr to continue the party elsewhere. I wanted to come back, I told them I’d call a taxi but… I left my wallet in their car. I have nothing but my phone on me and they aren’t answering."
“I’m coming to get you. Don’t move, I’ll be there as fast as I can.”
A gentle euphemism for the speed at which he pulls on his coat and shoes. In an instant, he’s in his garage, pressing the switch frantically for the door to slide faster. He drives fast, too fast, as if he has strapped on Hermes’ winged sandals himself.
On love's light wings.
Why Shakespeare’s line comes to him now, Baelor cannot say. Perhaps it is a cruel warning from his mind. After all, Romeo and Juliet’s love brought only desolation and sorrow in its wake.
She sits on the stone steps when he stops the Bentley. Lenore is a vision, a hollow of light in the dark night. She walks toward him, and he notices the bare skin of her shoulders glimmering with a thousand silver sparks, perhaps glitter, making her the child of the moon and stars. She is the goddess of the night’s most secret hour. She simply is.
“Thank you for coming at such a late hour, Baelor. I’m embarrassed…”
She settles into the car, and he slides into the driver’s seat after closing her door.
“I hesitated to walk, but with this cold…”
“The streets of King’s Landing are not safe for a young woman alone. I would have been very worried knowing you were out there by yourself. Never take such a risk, please. And never hesitate to call me if you need help. I will be there.”
Baelor gives no caveats, no rules, no exceptions. He hopes she hears him, understands.
I will be there.
Lenore says nothing more. She lowers her seat slightly, her head rolling lazily back as if trying to loosen every muscle, every stiffness acquired during the evening.
“You should undo your hair,” Baelor murmurs. “Your neck will thank you.”
She hums in reply. A low, rich sound that he futilely tries to commit to memory. Perhaps then, in the secrecy of a guilty moment, he could attempt to reproduce it. Everything about her fascinates him; everything is worthy of being dissected and examined under a microscope.
Such desire is real, but far from wise as he drives through the nearly deserted streets of King’s Landing. Baelor must content himself with the scraps his peripheral vision offers when Lenore lifts her pale, freckled arms. He sees the glint of a pin, then another, and suddenly a cascade of rich black curls freed from their restraint. They extend like dark serpents of desire, brushing her neck, her chest, grazing her hips…
Baelor swallows and averts his eyes. He fixes the horizon, an imaginary point, far away, perhaps far enough to be out of reach of Lenore, or at least not thinking of her every moment.
He stops in front of her house and smiles. This smile is devoid of lust, for in his heart, what matters most for Lenore is tenderness. He cannot imagine how a woman so magnetic could be walking home alone from this evening. Baelor likes to think that, if they had belonged to the same time, his younger self would have had the courage to ask her to give him a little of her time.
“Good night, Lenore.”
He realizes too late that it is the first time he speaks her name aloud in her presence. Over the phone, he had concealed it, but the inflection just now betrays him. It carries the warmth, the languor of the liquid consonant that begins her name, which he has so often let slip from his mouth. It wraps the open vowel in a sensual embrace and rolls the final vibrating consonant like a drumbeat. Her name is a prayer, a curse in his mouth. Baelor had never noticed this until now, but it hits him square in the face as he watches her features shift before him.
She knows, he realizes, terrified.
Fear climbs his fingers, white from gripping the wheel. They feel like wood.
“Again.”
He stares, stunned.
“Again,” she repeats.
“Lenore?”
She leans forward, her hand cupping his cheek, caressing his beard and sliding up to the top of his cheek until her thumb covers his eyelid. He hasn’t even realized he closed his eyes.
Lenore’s mouth tastes of cheap champagne, the kind always served at these parties. The astringency hits him and makes him shiver.
It is the last coherent thought Baelor has; what follows is only a long white noise that fills his ears, his mind, and his heart with the softest, thickest cotton imaginable. Everything else is forgotten, sacrificed on Lenore’s altar.
Her burning mouth ignites Baelor with a sacred, inextinguishable fire.
“You’ve been drinking.”
“Three glasses of champagne in three hours, I don’t think anyone would call me tipsy. Don’t be afraid.”
Don’t be afraid.
Isn’t it pathetic, for a man his age, to be so transparent?
“I’m not afraid.”
I am.
“I’m not afraid,” he repeats, praying that nothing betrays him. “But it’s not reasonable.”
“Probably not,” Lenore concedes, “but who will it hurt if no one knows?”
Me, thinks Baelor, me it will hurt. And you, child of the moon, do you not see what my rough hands could do to you? What stain I could leave on your spotless soul?
“I know what I want,” Lenore continues, “and I want you, Baelor. From the moment I first laid eyes on you. Think about it, will you?”
Her voice is low and grave, as soft as ever, yet it lights a great fire in him, a funeral pyre on which he lays his black, rotting heart.
“I can pretend nothing happened. I don’t want to, but I can. Until this night, this moment, becomes only a dream whose contours are forgotten. Otherwise… call me.”
The opening of the car door sounds like a gunshot in Baelor’s ears. She slips out of the vehicle, a shadow of light in the black night.
“Call me,” she repeats.
And Lenore disappears, swallowed by the darkness of the street.
03:17 am
I am sorry.
03:17 am
Lenore
I’m not.
03:20 am
Then I’m sorry for both of us.
03:21 am
It has its roots in evil, Lenore.
You know that as well as I do.
03:22 am
That would be madness.
03:22 am
Lenore
I’ve been through far worse madness than this.
03:40 am
You don't want me for the right reasons.
03:41 am
Lenore
And you, what do you want, Baelor?
03:50 am
Lenore
Don’t overthink it.
03:51 am
Counting the stars on your skin.
Lenore
Seen at 03:51 am
The phone lies unlocked on the coffee table, its light a telltale glow in the otherwise total darkness of the room. It’s perfect; the gods will have no trouble finding it and striking him down on the spot.
Baelor pours himself a generous measure of whisky and spills a few drops, his hand trembling so badly.
I shouldn’t have. Shouldn’t have. Shouldn’t have.
What creative excuse will he have to offer Maekar to justify never setting foot in his house again?
The sound of the doorbell shatters the stillness of the night. It is the cry of the banshee come to announce his demise.
Baelor opens the door, and there she is.
His banshee.
“Lenore.”
She is still wearing the dress, and he can see the goosebumps covering her bare arms.
“You shouldn’t have gone out like that. You’re cold.”
She steps forward, closes the door, never taking her eyes off him.
This time, he is certain. What he sees is a sky after the rain.
“Then warm me up.”
His thumbs find the hollow of her hipbone just as his mouth meets hers. Baelor has made the first move this time, and he savours the caress of her burning lips. Lenore’s hands slide under his jumper, down his back, and he cannot suppress the shiver of desire that grips his body.
He wants her. It has been a long time since he has desired a woman like this.
Her hands move upwards, tracing a burning path to the nape of his neck, where the fabric holding the dress in place comes undone beneath his fingers. It slides to her feet in an pristine puddle.
He is still fully clothed, but Lenore stands naked before him, lit only by a ray of moonlight. Baelor cannot believe she would stoop to offering herself to a poor sinner like him. Does she not fear his soiled hands?
A hand caresses his cheek, a thumb rests on his eyelid.
“I am exactly where I need to be. Are you?”
Baelor falls to his knees.
He is not worthy, but he can strive to be. He can try. He can worship.
His hands rest on her thighs and his mouth settles between them. She is wet; he can feel it. His tongue glides over her moist folds and Lenore moans. That is all Baelor needs to penetrate her with his tongue. He wants to drink her in, just as Heracles drank the nectar of the gods. He does not aspire to immortality, but he wants peace, and perhaps she can give it to him.
Her hands run through his hair and she leans against the door to keep from falling. His stubble will no doubt leave marks on the tender skin of her thighs, but she doesn’t seem to mind. It takes only a few moments to bring her to climax; a few moments more, and Lenore is lying on the living room carpet.
Baelor puts on the condom she had in her bag and joins her; her skin has become burning hot beneath his hands. She wraps her legs around his waist, pulls his face towards hers, and Baelor swallows the long moan she lets out when he finally enters her.
The rhythm is fast, almost brutal. She’ll have marks on her bottom and he on his knees. It’s their punishment, the mark of their sin. Lenore is so wet that an obscene sound accompanies every movement of his hips. Baelor intensifies his movements, wanting her to feel him as he feels her. He wants them to forget the darkness that suffocates and chains them.
He comes just after she does.
When Baelor returns to Lenore after throwing away the used condom, he cannot stop his gaze from resting on her sex. For a moment, he regrets that the evidence of their lovemaking lies in the bin rather than inside her.
Arms welcome him into an embrace made heavy by sleep. He cannot bring himself to urge Lenore to get up and climb the stairs to the bedroom. Instead, he throws a blanket over her naked form and slips in beside her. Already, her eyes are closing.
Soon, Baelor knows he will join her. But first, he has another vow to keep.
By the light of the moon, he traces a freckle on her shoulder with his mouth.
“One,” he murmurs. “Two. Three…”