Chapter Text
The first time Baelor saw her was a day after Jena's death. Like any faithful husband, he was heartbroken at the loss of the woman he loved. So naturally, he assumed the woman was nothing more than a illusion born from a grief-stricken mind. He dismissed her easily enough, thinking the image would fade if he ignored it long enough. Then he took off his cloak and went to sleep.
The next morning, she was gone.
A week after Jena's passing, Baelor saw her again.
The woman sat by the window of his chambers, gazing at the moon with mournful eyes while softly humming the same tune as before. This time, Baelor didn't remain silent. Perhaps... perhaps he was simply too lonely and needed someone to speak to in order to forget his grief, even if that someone was merely a figment of his illusion or one of the ghosts said to haunt the Red Keep in the stories his nieces and nephews loved to tell.
So Baelor approached carefully, slow enough not to startle her.
"What are you doing here?"
The humming stopped at once when Baelor broke the silence, his voice soft against the chill of the night air. The woman turned toward him and smiled brightly.
"Hello, Your Grace," she greeted warmly as she adjusted her position on the windowsill.
Baelor fell silent.
She extended a hand toward him, and after a brief hesitation, Baelor took it. Her grip was firm and confident. The smile on her lips widened until her eyes curved with it.
"It's a pleasure to meet you, Your Grace."
"What are you?" Baelor asked after a long pause, his throat suddenly tight.
"I'm merely a woman trying to find her way home," she answered lightly. "I assure you, I mean you no harm."
“How did you get into my chambers?”
She clasped her hands behind her back. "Let's just say I know many ways to get where I wish to go. But like I said, I'm not a threat."
Then her expression softened into something quieter. Sadder.
"And I'm sorry for your wife. Truly, losing someone you love so dearly hurts enough to make you want to tear your own chest open just to rid yourself of the pain."
There was sympathy in her face. Understanding. As though she knew what it was like to lose someone. As though she understood his grief. As though she understood the hollow ache clawing at his ribs. As though she had stood exactly where he stood now.
Baelor was tired of condolences wrapped in polished lies and rehearsed pity. The heir to the Iron Throne clenched his fists, resisting the sudden urge to lose control if only to rid himself of the crushing pressure in his chest. It was difficult to express even the simplest emotions when one had spent his entire life as Crown Prince. Baelor had been raised on restraint. Duty. Composure.
But this time, he wished he could break apart completely. In his wildest dreams, perhaps it would bring Jena back to him.
Baelor carefully reviewed the kingdom's financial reports after the Master of Coin delivered the latest records of royal expenditures. Harvest season had already begun in most regions, and there was no reason fruit prices should have risen so drastically. Especially not with taxes added to every shipment.
"Well, this is wrong," a voice suddenly remarked beside him. "Fifteen crates of blood oranges? It isn't orange season in Dorne yet."
Baelor stilled.
The woman had appeared again without warning and seemed perfectly content standing beside his chair while pointing out irregularities in royal trade reports as though this were the most natural thing in the world. He looked up to find her focused entirely on the parchment spread across his desk. Dark hair partially obscured her face, making it difficult to read her expression.
"Do you always appear like this out of nowhere?" Baelor asked calmly.
At last, she glanced at him, and Baelor realized the strange woman who had been haunting his chambers possessed eyes as dark as polished obsidian. Sharp, hollow and strange in the way they reflected candlelight. They didn't look like the eyes of someone fully alive.
The woman smiled faintly when she noticed him staring.
"Perhaps," she replied lightly.
Baelor exhaled quietly. The answer explained nothing, though strangely enough, he didn't find himself bothered by it.
Ever since Jena's death, he occasionally heard footsteps echoing through empty corridors. Sometimes he woke in the middle of the night convinced someone had whispered his name. Baelor had heard stories of widowers who continued hearing their wives years after their deaths. There had once been an old knight who swore he saw his dead son standing at the foot of his bed every night after the war ended.
The maesters called it strain of the mind. The septas called it temptation from demons. Baelor did not particularly care what name people gave it.
If his grief had decided to conjure a mysterious woman who enjoyed criticizing royal financial records, then that was still preferable to the endless nightmares of Jena's coffin haunting his sleep every night.
"What do you mean the report is wrong?" he asked eventually.
She immediately pointed at a line of numbers on the parchment. She stood close enough that the edges of their sleeves nearly brushed together.
"Because Dorne hasn't reached orange season yet," she said calmly. "Fifteen crates all at once is too much for this time of year."
"You sound very certain."
"I know hot weather rather well."
Another vague answer. Like everything else about her.
Still, Baelor chose not to question it further. Whether she was a part of his illusion or some curious spirit haunting the chambers of the heir to the Iron Throne, she seemed harmless enough. And for now, that was enough.
Baelor lowered his gaze back to the report.
"Even if it isn't harvest season, these prices still make no sense."
"That's because someone deliberately inflated the shipping costs." She answered quickly, moving her finger to another section of the parchment. "Look here."
Baelor followed where she pointed.
"Escort fees?" She shook her head softly, dark hair slipping further across her face. "Far too high. The southern trade routes aren’t dangerous enough to justify numbers like these. Even with bandits, no one would charge this much."
"You know quite a bit about trade."
"I know quite a bit about people who enjoy stealing while dressed in expensive clothing." Her tone remained flat, though there was something bitter beneath the words.
Baelor studied her for a moment longer than he should have. She looked young. Far too young to possess eyes that tired. He had seen eyes like that before among the women left behind after the Blackfyre Rebellion.
Perhaps that was why they unsettled him so deeply.
Life truly did have a cruel sense of humor.
"And who do you think is responsible for this?" he asked, leaning back in his chair.
The woman fell silent long enough that Baelor thought she might not answer.
"Old men who grow too comfortable in their seats tend to forget how to live honestly," she said at last. "Especially when no one is brave enough to question them."
A quiet laugh escaped Baelor before he could stop it. He couldn't even remember the last time he had laughed at all.