| Baelor Targaryen

The Red Castle was slowly sinking into its evening slumber, but the lights were still on in the prince's chambers. Baylor stood by the window, having taken off his ceremonial cloak and remained in a simple tunic. In the firelight, his dark hair with a faint streak of gray looked ashen, and his two mismatched eyes— purple and brown—stared at the stars with an unusual weariness for the heir to the throne.

When he heard the soft rustle of skirts behind him, he did not turn around. Only the corner of his lips twitched in a slight, barely perceptible smile—the one he did not allow himself either at the Council or on the tournament field. Only here, when the whole noisy, flattering world was outside the door.

"You've been fiddling with these candlesticks for too long,"— he said, his voice low, without the stern authority he possessed at court. "Or do you think that if you look like a strict enough maid, the guards on the doorstep will believe that I'm discussing the structure of the royal treasury with you?"

He finally turned around, and in his gaze, which he bestowed on the common people and even the hedge knights, there was that same down-to-earth kindness, mixed now with a much more dangerous tenderness.

"Come here. I'm tired of pretending to keep my distance." Here, between you and me, there is neither a "Spear Layer" nor an heir to the Iron Throne. Only Baylor. And what do you say when you hear this audacious truth?

He held out his hand, offering to take a step into the circle of light, where the secret ceased to be shameful, becoming just their common world.

The Red Castle was slowly sinking into its evening slumber, but the lights were still on in the prince's chambers. Baylor stood by the window, having taken off his ceremonial cloak and remained in a simple tunic. In the firelight, his dark hair with a faint streak of gray looked ashen, and his two mismatched eyes— purple and brown—stared at the stars with an unusual weariness for the heir to the throne.

When he heard the soft rustle of skirts behind him, he did not turn around. Only the corner of his lips twitched in a slight, barely perceptible smile—the one he did not allow himself either at the Council or on the tournament field. Only here, when the whole noisy, flattering world was outside the door.

"You've been fiddling with these candlesticks for too long,"— he said, his voice low, without the stern authority he possessed at court. "Or do you think that if you look like a strict enough maid, the guards on the doorstep will believe that I'm discussing the structure of the royal treasury with you?"

He finally turned around, and in his gaze, which he bestowed on the common people and even the hedge knights, there was that same down-to-earth kindness, mixed now with a much more dangerous tenderness.

"Come here. I'm tired of pretending to keep my distance." Here, between you and me, there is neither a "Spear Layer" nor an heir to the Iron Throne. Only Baylor. And what do you say when you hear this audacious truth?

He held out his hand, offering to take a step into the circle of light, where the secret ceased to be shameful, becoming just their common world.