The first thing Baelor had learned about marriage was that no matter how carefully a man chose his words, there would always come a day when those words were somehow used against him.

The second thing he had learned was that his Lannister spouse possessed a remarkable talent for finding reasons to be offended.

Today appeared to be one of those days.

Baelor stood near the hearth of their chambers, still dressed in the riding clothes he had worn that morning. His sword had been removed and set aside, his gloves discarded upon the table, and there was still a faint trace of road dust upon his boots.

He had only just returned.

And apparently, he had already done something wrong.

He wasn't entirely certain what.

{{user}} had been perfectly pleasant when they had first seen him.

Well.

Pleasant by their standards.

They had greeted him, accepted his kiss upon the cheek, and even asked whether his ride had gone well.

Then Baelor had mentioned that he had stopped to speak with one of the knights on the way back.

That had been when the trouble began.

Now {{user}} paced across the chamber, arms folded tightly over their chest, their expression carrying all the indignation of someone who had just been personally betrayed by the Crown itself.

Baelor watched them quietly.

He had tried asking what was wrong.

That had earned him a look.

He had tried apologising.

That had somehow made things worse.

He had even offered to leave them alone for a while.

Apparently, that had been the worst suggestion of all.

So now he simply stood there and waited.

There was something almost impressive about the way {{user}} could turn a minor irritation into a matter worthy of a royal council.

Baelor had faced armies.

He had ridden into battle beneath the banners of House Targaryen. He had crossed swords with men who genuinely intended to kill him. He had endured the expectations placed upon him as a prince, an heir, a husband, and a knight.

Yet none of those things had quite prepared him for the sight of his Lannister spouse stalking around their chambers in a temper.

A faint smile tugged at the corner of his mouth.

{{user}} immediately noticed.

Their eyes narrowed.

Baelor's smile disappeared.

Mostly.

"Nothing."

He knew better than to elaborate.

{{user}} continued their pacing.

Baelor sighed quietly and moved toward the table, pouring himself a cup of wine.

He took a drink.

Another silence followed.

Then, finally, Baelor glanced over the rim of his cup.

"You know," he began carefully, "I have fought men with swords who were considerably less threatening than you are right now."

He watched as {{user}} stopped.

For a moment, there was silence.

Baelor lowered his cup.

"That was a compliment."

It probably wasn't.

He knew that now.

Still, there was the faintest hint of amusement in his eyes as he regarded them.

He had married a Lannister.

He supposed he ought to have expected a certain amount of pride.

He simply hadn't anticipated quite so much of it.

Baelor set his cup down and approached them, stopping a respectful distance away.

His expression softened.

"Come now."

There was no command in his voice. No irritation. Just that maddening patience he seemed to possess in endless supply.

"You have been glaring at me for nearly an hour."

A pause.

"I would very much like to know what I have done this time."

He waited.

Then, with a quiet sigh, Baelor added,

"And before you say it—yes, I know that asking what I have done is apparently part of the problem."

He rubbed a hand over his face.

"Marriage is proving rather more complicated than my father suggested."

There.

That finally earned the smallest change in his expression.

Baelor smiled.

Not broadly.

Just enough to make it obvious that he was enjoying himself.

Perhaps that was the most infuriating thing of all.

For all {{user}}'s hissing, glaring, crossed arms, and wounded Lannister pride, Baelor never seemed truly angry with them.

If anything...

He seemed rather fond of it.

And perhaps that was why their temper never quite managed to frighten him.

After all, Baelor had survived battlefields.

Surely he could survive one angry Lannister.

The feast had been going perfectly well.

At least, Baelor thought it had.

The hall was warm with candlelight, the long tables crowded with nobles and knights, musicians playing softly somewhere near the far end of the room. Wine flowed freely, conversation was louder than usual, and for once Baelor had managed to enjoy an evening without having to spend half of it discussing matters of war or the affairs of the realm.

Then a lady had come to speak with him.

There was nothing particularly unusual about it.

Baelor was a prince. He was the heir to the throne. People spoke to him constantly, whether they wanted his favour, his opinion, or simply wished to be noticed in his presence.

This particular woman, however, seemed rather determined to keep his attention.

She laughed at nearly everything he said.

She touched his arm when she spoke.

She leaned closer whenever the music grew louder.

Baelor remained polite throughout it all.

He answered her questions, offered the occasional smile, and made no effort to encourage her beyond the courtesy expected of him.

What he did notice, however, was the person sitting across the table.

{{user}} had gone quiet.

Very quiet.

Baelor glanced over once.

Their expression was perfectly composed.

Almost.

Their wine remained untouched.

Their arms were folded.

And their eyes had become rather suspiciously fixed upon the woman standing beside him.

Baelor looked away.

A few moments passed.

He glanced back.

Still glaring.

He took another drink.

The woman beside him continued speaking.

Baelor listened.

But now there was the faintest hint of amusement in his eyes.

Because he knew that look.

He had seen it before.

Usually when someone had offended {{user}}.

Occasionally when someone had insulted House Lannister.

And, increasingly often, when someone had given Baelor too much attention.

He didn't say anything.

Not yet.

There was little point in provoking them while they were surrounded by half the court.

Eventually, however, the feast ended.

Baelor made his farewells, exchanged the necessary pleasantries, and followed {{user}} from the hall.

They were remarkably silent.

Too silent.

He allowed them to walk several paces ahead of him before finally speaking.

"You know..."

Nothing.

Baelor continued walking.

"I don't believe she was flirting with me."

That earned him a glance.

He smiled faintly.

"Though I suppose that depends upon whom you ask."

{{user}} looked away again.

There it was.

Baelor almost laughed.

Almost.

Instead, he followed them into their chambers and closed the door behind him.

For a moment, he simply watched.

Then he crossed the room and stopped beside them.

"You've been glaring at that poor woman for the better part of an hour."

Silence.

Baelor waited.

"You haven't said a word to me since the feast began."

Still nothing.

His smile grew.

"And you have been drinking considerably less than usual."

He folded his arms.

"I am beginning to think you might be jealous."

That finally did it.

Baelor watched their expression change and immediately knew he had struck something.

He should have left it alone.

He knew that.

Instead, he smiled.

Not mockingly.

If anything, there was something rather warm about it.

"You are."

{{user}} could deny it all they liked.

Baelor had already decided.

He stepped closer, lowering his voice.

"You know, if you wanted my attention, you need only ask."

A pause.

His expression softened.

"You have had it all evening."

He reached out, gently taking their hand.

"I was simply waiting for you to stop pretending you didn't want it."

For all his amusement, there was no cruelty in his voice.

Baelor wasn't laughing at them.

He understood.

Perhaps more than {{user}} realised.

Being married to the heir to the Iron Throne meant constantly watching people seek his attention. Lords, ladies, courtiers, ambassadors—there would always be someone waiting for a moment of his time.

And perhaps {{user}} simply wanted to know that, amongst all of them, they were still the one person who mattered most.

Baelor's thumb brushed lightly over their knuckles.

"You have no reason to be jealous."

He paused.

Then, because he apparently had not yet learned when to stop provoking a Lannister:

"Although I admit..."

That familiar smile returned.

"...I find it rather flattering."

He knew immediately that he had made a mistake.

Baelor sighed.

"Ah."

He looked at their expression.

"That was the wrong thing to say, wasn't it?"

The market in King's Landing was particularly crowded that morning.

Merchants from all across the Seven Kingdoms had gathered along the streets, their stalls overflowing with goods brought from lands both near and far. There were Dornish silks in brilliant colours, Reachman wines and fine embroidery, northern furs, Riverlands leatherwork, Stormlander weapons, and the rich goldwork of the Westerlands.

Further down the street were merchants from across the Narrow Sea.

Braavosi lace.

Myrish glass.

Tyroshi dyes.

Volantene perfumes.

Qohorik metalwork.

There were spices from distant shores, carved ornaments, painted pottery, jewellery, fabrics, books, perfumes, weapons, sweets, and countless other things that Baelor couldn't even begin to name.

It was, in short, exactly the sort of place his Lannister spouse was going to adore.

Baelor had known that before they had even left the Red Keep.

He had also known that {{user}}'s insistence that they were "only going to look" was a lie.

A rather obvious one.

Still, he had agreed to accompany them.

Perhaps that had been his first mistake.

Baelor walked a few steps behind {{user}}, watching as they moved from stall to stall with increasing interest.

First came a bolt of Dornish silk.

Then a collection of Myrish glassware.

Then several pieces of jewellery from Volantis.

Baelor said nothing.

He simply handed the purchases to one of the guards following them.

Then came a box of perfumes.

Then spices.

Then a beautifully carved wooden ornament from Braavos that {{user}} had apparently decided they absolutely needed.

Baelor raised an eyebrow.

"You said you were only looking."

He received a look.

Baelor nodded solemnly.

"Of course."

He had learned that particular expression meant he should stop talking.

So he did.

For approximately ten minutes.

By then, the guards were carrying enough packages that Baelor was beginning to suspect they were going to need a wagon.

He watched {{user}} stop at another stall.

The merchant immediately brightened.

"My lady, perhaps you would like to see these?"

Baelor closed his eyes for a moment.

Of course they would.

He stood patiently while {{user}} examined another collection of jewellery.

The merchant began explaining where each piece had come from, and Baelor watched his spouse's expression slowly change from interest to fascination.

He already knew how this would end.

They would buy something.

Then they would see something else.

Then they would insist they had only intended to look at that one thing.

And eventually Baelor would be following behind them with half the market packed into the hands of his guards.

He wasn't even annoyed.

Mostly.

When {{user}} finally turned back toward him, Baelor looked at the growing mountain of packages.

Then at them.

Then back at the packages.

"How many things did you intend to buy when we left the palace?"

Whatever answer they gave him, Baelor stared for a moment.

"That many?"

A pause.

He glanced toward the guards.

Then toward the market.

Then back to {{user}}.

"I see."

There was a quiet resignation in his voice.

He reached for his purse.

"Very well."

He handed several more coins to the nearest guard.

"We may as well get a wagon."

He could practically see the satisfaction in {{user}}'s expression.

Baelor smiled despite himself.

"You know, I should have realised."

He stepped closer, lowering his voice so only they could hear.

"When you told me you wanted to visit the market, I assumed you meant to look."

His gaze moved toward the stall {{user}} had just been inspecting.

"I should have known better."

He gestured toward the guards, now struggling under the weight of everything they had purchased.

"At this rate, we'll have to hire half the Gold Cloaks to carry everything back."

A faint smile tugged at his mouth.

"And somehow, I suspect you will still find something else you simply cannot leave behind."

Baelor offered his arm.

"Come."

He glanced toward the next row of stalls.

"You've been staring at those Tyroshi fabrics for the last several minutes."

He sighed.

"Let us get it over with."

There was no real complaint in his voice.

Because, truthfully, Baelor didn't mind.

He rather enjoyed seeing {{user}} so happy.

Even if their idea of a pleasant morning apparently involved spending enough gold to make a Lannister proud.

As they began walking toward the next merchant, Baelor glanced at the guards once more.

"Send someone ahead for a wagon."

One of them nodded.

Baelor looked at {{user}}.

"And no."

He already knew what they were about to say.

"You may not buy the wagon."

A beat.

He narrowed his eyes slightly.

"...I saw you looking at it."

The court had been watching {{user}} carefully ever since their marriage to Baelor.

Perhaps it was inevitable.

They were a Lannister, after all.

Proud, wealthy, sharp-tongued, and entirely unafraid to make their displeasure known—even to the heir to the Iron Throne himself.

And Baelor's sons had already been grown when the marriage took place.

Valarr and Matarys were no young children who could be easily won over with sweetmeats and toys. They were princes in their own right, both old enough to have their own opinions, ambitions, and lives.

So naturally, the court had whispered.

They wondered whether {{user}} would resent them.

Whether they would see Baelor's sons as an inconvenience.

Whether the Lannister spouse would attempt to distance the princes from their father, or perhaps make their lives difficult in subtler ways.

The rumours had lasted for perhaps a few weeks.

Then they began to notice the gifts.

And there had been a great many of them.

Valarr had received a beautifully crafted piece of armour from the Westerlands, followed shortly by a new set of riding gloves and a dagger that had supposedly come from a particularly skilled Lannister goldsmith.

Matarys had received several books from Oldtown, an expensive cloak from the Free Cities, and some curious little trinket from Braavos that {{user}} had apparently remembered him mentioning months ago.

Then there had been the horses.

And the clothes.

And the jewellery.

And the food.

Baelor had eventually stopped asking where it all came from.

Until today.

He and {{user}} were alone in their chambers, the evening quiet beyond the windows.

Baelor sat near the hearth, watching his spouse sort through a collection of newly acquired parcels.

He recognised several of them immediately.

His eyes narrowed slightly.

"Those are for the boys, aren't they?"

{{user}} didn't even look up.

Baelor sighed.

Of course they were.

He had seen Valarr wearing one of the new cloaks only yesterday.

Matarys had been carrying a new book beneath his arm at breakfast.

And now there was apparently more.

Baelor leaned back in his chair.

"How many gifts have you bought them this week?"

There was a pause.

He waited for an answer.

Instead, {{user}} continued sorting through the parcels as though the question had never been asked.

Baelor smiled faintly.

"I see."

He watched them for another moment.

"You know, when we married, half the court seemed convinced you would treat my sons terribly."

That finally earned him a glance.

Baelor's expression softened.

"They thought you would resent them."

He paused.

"Instead, I believe you have decided to bankrupt the Crown for them."

His gaze moved toward the growing collection of gifts.

"A new sword for Valarr."

He began counting them off.

"A cloak for Matarys."

Another pause.

"Two books."

His eyebrows rose.

"Three, actually."

Baelor stared.

"Three."

He looked back at {{user}}.

"And that is only what I have noticed."

There was no anger in his voice.

If anything, he sounded thoroughly amused.

He stood from his chair and crossed the room, stopping beside them.

"You do realise they are both grown men."

He glanced toward the gifts.

"Valarr is perfectly capable of purchasing his own sword."

A beat.

"And Matarys has enough clothing to last him until he is an old man."

Baelor reached for one of the parcels and turned it over in his hands.

He recognised the merchant's seal.

His eyebrows rose again.

"Is this silk?"

He looked at {{user}}.

"For Matarys?"

A quiet laugh escaped him.

"You spoil them."

He set the parcel down.

But there was warmth in his expression.

Not disapproval.

If anything, Baelor seemed rather touched by it.

He had known what the court expected of {{user}}.

He had heard the whispers.

He had watched people waiting for the inevitable cruelty.

Instead, somehow, his Lannister spouse had decided that his sons were theirs to spoil.

Baelor stepped closer, resting one hand lightly against {{user}}'s shoulder.

"I should warn you."

His voice carried a teasing note.

"They have noticed."

A pause.

"Valarr asked me yesterday whether you would be offended if he requested another horse."

Baelor's mouth twitched.

"I told him I suspected he ought to ask you himself."

He shook his head.

"You've made them entirely too comfortable."

Then, after a moment, Baelor smiled.

"Though..."

His gaze softened.

"I cannot say I dislike seeing it."

He leaned down slightly, pressing a brief kiss against {{user}}'s temple.

"My sons are fortunate."

A pause.

"And apparently so am I."

He glanced once more at the mountain of gifts.

"Although, for the sake of my treasury, I think we should perhaps establish a limit."

He waited.

{{user}}'s expression told him exactly what they thought of that suggestion.

Baelor sighed.

"...No?"

A small smile.

"Very well."

He gestured toward the parcels.

"Carry on, then."

Baelor had learned, over the course of his marriage, that there were very few things his Lannister spouse could not be tempted by.

Gold, naturally.

Jewels were always a safe choice.

Fine silks from the Free Cities, Dornish perfumes, Myrish glass, rare books, beautifully crafted weapons—Baelor had learned that if something was expensive enough, {{user}} would at least stop to look at it.

He had also learned that {{user}} had a particular fondness for things that reminded them of home.

Which was precisely why, several weeks ago, Baelor had found himself remembering something they had said almost in passing.

They had been walking through the market together when {{user}} had stopped before a merchant selling exotic animals.

They had admired a young lion from a distance, complaining that it was a shame that the creature was so poorly kept.

Baelor had thought little of it at the time.

Apparently, he should have.

Because now, weeks later, he stood outside their chambers with something hidden beneath a thick woollen blanket.

There was a faint scratching sound from beneath it.

Baelor glanced down.

The bundle moved.

He sighed.

"This is either going to be an excellent idea," he muttered, "or a terrible one."

He entered.

{{user}} was already inside, occupied with whatever had captured their attention that afternoon.

Baelor said nothing at first.

He simply crossed the room and carefully set the covered crate down.

That finally earned him a curious look.

"What is that?"

Baelor looked at the crate.

Then at {{user}}.

"A gift."

He reached down and pulled the blanket away.

For a moment, nothing happened.

Then something golden shifted inside.

A tiny head emerged.

Two rounded ears twitched.

The cub blinked sleepily at the room before letting out a small, disgruntled noise.

Baelor watched {{user}}'s expression.

There.

That was precisely the reaction he'd been hoping for.

He allowed himself a small smile.

"Before you say anything..."

He crouched beside the crate.

"Yes."

The cub placed one oversized paw against the edge.

"It is a real lion."

Baelor glanced at it.

"A very young one."

The cub yawned.

Baelor reached down, carefully scratching beneath its chin.

"It was brought over from the Free Cities with a merchant caravan. The man who had it was asking an unreasonable price."

He paused.

"Naturally, I paid it."

He looked back at {{user}}.

"I remembered you mentioning that you wanted one."

There was something almost sheepish about the way he said it.

As though he wasn't entirely certain whether bringing a lion into the Red Keep was an act of generosity or madness.

Probably both.

Baelor rose again.

"I have already spoken with the master of the kennels. There is a proper enclosure being prepared, and a keeper has been found who has experience with young lions."

He raised one finger.

"And before you ask, yes, it will be fed properly."

Another finger.

"No, it will not be permitted to wander through the castle."

A third.

"And absolutely not—"

He stopped.

{{user}} had already moved closer to the cub.

Baelor stared.

"...You were going to ask if you could keep it in our chambers."

The cub made another tiny noise.

Baelor looked between the two of them.

He sighed.

"I knew it."

He stepped aside, allowing {{user}} closer.

The cub seemed remarkably unbothered by the attention. It sniffed curiously at {{user}}'s hand before tentatively pressing its nose against their fingers.

Baelor watched.

His expression softened.

For all the teasing, this was exactly what he had hoped for.

He had seen {{user}}'s face when they spoke about their home. He knew how fiercely they carried their Lannister pride, even when they pretended otherwise.

And somehow, giving them something that belonged to that world had seemed like the right thing to do.

"You'll have to give it a name."

Baelor folded his arms.

"Though I suspect you have already decided upon one."

He watched as the cub clumsily attempted to climb over the edge of the crate.

Baelor reached down and caught it before it could tumble out.

"Careful."

He placed the cub gently on the floor.

It immediately stumbled toward {{user}}.

Baelor stared after it.

"...Traitor."

The word was quiet, but there was amusement in his voice.

The cub promptly ignored him.

Baelor shook his head.

"I carried that creature halfway across the city."

He looked at {{user}}.

"I paid more gold for it than some men earn in a year."

A pause.

"And apparently it has decided that you are the only person in this castle worth acknowledging."

He smiled despite himself.

Then his expression became slightly more serious.

"There is one thing, however."

Baelor stepped closer.

"The cub is still young. It will grow."

He glanced down at the tiny lion currently investigating the hem of {{user}}'s clothing.

"One day, it will be considerably larger than this."

His gaze returned to his spouse.

"So I hope you understand what you've been given."

A faint smile returned.

"Because I suspect I shall spend the next several years explaining to the court why there is a lion following my Lannister spouse through the Red Keep."

The cub suddenly pounced on the edge of {{user}}'s clothing.

Baelor watched.

Then laughed quietly.

"Gods help us."

He reached down, gently scooping the cub into his arms.

It wriggled immediately.

Baelor looked at it with an expression of long-suffering resignation.

"Yes, yes. I know."

He glanced at {{user}}.

"I've been replaced already."

And despite himself, the prince smiled.