wanted to do smth fun for all of my asoiaf oc mutuals and thought this was a cool idea! much thanks to @idanthrene and @robnikmeria for their help with the questions (and for giving me the courage to post!)
đ â if your oc could have ridden any historical desgon, which would it be and why?
đ° â if your oc could make their own house from the ground up, what would they name it? what would their words be?
đ â how would your oc rule if they sat the iron throne? what would their small council look like?
âïžâ if they could wield any valyrian steel sword throughout history, what would it be and why?
đĄïžâ how aligned are they with their house and family in terms of temperament? do they share the same goals? alternatively, do they wish they had been born into another house?
âïž â how are they remembered by history? are they loved, reviled, or something in between? is there anything the history books omit from their life?
âł â if you had to place them in any other era of westeros, what would it be and why?
âïžâđ„ â if they studied at the citadel, what links would they forge? do they like learning?
đâ do they have a favorite historical event and / or figure? if so, why? what draws them in?
đŻïžâ are they religious? what faith do they follow and why? do they pray of habit or true belief?
đŠââŹâ does your oc have any magical abilities? do they believe in the occult or do they think itâs just stories and old tales?
đïžâ is your ocs favorite region of westeros that of their own house, or somewhere else? is there a place in the seven kingdoms theyâve never been but would love to see and explore? alternatively, do they have a favorite keep / castle?
make sure to include the pairing(s) you are wanting these questions to be answered for . these should work for poly ships as well as monogamous . feel free to edit these as you see fit .
đ How did they both realize âoh wait, this is actually loveâ?
đč Who fell harder & who fell first?
đ« Whatâs their favorite way to hold each other when words arenât enough?
đ„ Whatâs the pettiest thing theyâve ever argued about?
đ Who says âI love youâ first & how?
đ Whoâs the little spoon & who pretends they hate it but secretly loves it?
đ Would they ever get married? What would the proposal look like?
𧞠Who still has the very first gift the other ever gave them?
đ Who is more likely to start chaos âfor the vineâ & who films it?
đ¶ Whatâs their song - the one that makes them both tear up / grin like idiots?
â Whoâs the morning person & how do they lure the night owl out of bed?
đĄïž Who jumps in front of danger for the other without thinking?
đł Whatâs the most embarrassing thing theyâve walked in on the other doing?
đ Whatâs the one fight that almost ended them?
Hands you a drink that's so obviously spiked with love potion and looking at you with big wet eyes and starts to sniffle a little when you don't want to drink it
summary: you did not want to marry prince baelor targaryen. you had heard the stories your entire life and none of them had made you want to be anywhere near the man they described. but the crown owed your father a debt, and debts in king's landing were paid in daughters.
pairing: baelor targaryen x fem!tyrell!reader
content: canon divergent, arranged marriage, non-implied age gap, angst, slow burn, jealousy, yearning, court politics, mentions of past character death (Baelor's first wife, vague insecurity, implied smut (18+ MDNI)
You did not want to marry Prince Baelor Targaryen. You had known it the moment your father summoned you to his solar with a particular stillness on his farce, one that meant a decision had already been made and your presence was a courtesy rather than a consultation. You had sat across from him and smiled and said nothing, because it was your duty to not say anything, and just obey. You loathed the thought of such.Â
The maester read the terms of the arrangement over supper, as though he were reading a list of household accounts. Even now at the Red Keep, after quite the travel from your home, your father sat across from you with his hands folded on the table and his eyes fixed on the tablecloth, and you sat very still and still thought of nothing at all, because that was the only way to keep yourself from doing something foolish.
You had the urge, briefly and vividly, to stand up from the table and walk out the room and keep walking, out of the Red Keep entirely, out through the gates and down to the harbour and onto the first ship that was going somewhere your father hadnât already arranged. But you knew better than that. They would drag you back before tide turned. They always found a way too.
âThe betrothal will be formalized within this moon period,â the maester said, glancing up from his scroll to look at you with the mild apologetic expression of a man delivering weather. âThe wedding is to follow swiftly after. Prince Baelor has agreed to it, so I do not see why it shouldnât go forward without trouble.âÂ
Without trouble. As though trouble were something that lived in logistics. As though the trouble had nothing to do with you sitting in this room and being talked about like a parcel to be sent on.
Prince Baelor. You had heard the name your entire life. Everyone had. You grew up on the stories the way other children grew up on songs. Baelor Targaryen, who had held the line at Ashford when lesser men had broken and run. Baelor Targaryen, who had ridden through a burning village to pull three smallfolk children from a collapsed roof, and emerged the other side with his cloak in flames and not a word of complaint about it. Baelor Targaryen, who had put down the Blackfyre Rebellion with cool efficiency that men still talked about at feasts, their cups raised and their voices hushed with something that sat right at the border of reverence and fear.Â
They called him Breakspear. They called him that because no one had ever broken him.Â
You thought about that even after the maester excused himself and your father finally looked up from the tablecloth with the expression of a man who believed he was being generous.Â
"You'll be a princess," he said. "You understand what that means."
"Yes," you said, and your voice had no happiness in it, no solace, nothing that could be mistaken for either of those things. "I understand."
He took that as agreement, because he always took silence and stillness as agreement, and perhaps that was your fault too.
You lay awake in the guest chambers they had assigned you, the ones you would occupy until the wedding made you someoneâs wife, and you turned your fatherâs ambition over in your mind like stones you already knew the shape of. He wanted children from this union. Heirs who carried Tyrell blood and Targaryen blood. Not giving any mind that Baelor already had two sons by his first wife, the one who had died in her labours years ago, giving birth to Prince Baelor's youngest son. Your father made it clear to you that he wanted his blood in the line of succession. He wanted to be able to look at the Iron Throne one day, and say, somewhere in that, there is something of mine.
You did not want that. You did not want any of it. You did not want to be near the prince, did not want to give him heirs on top of the ones he already had, did not want to spend your life in service of an ambition that had never once asked what you wanted from your own.Â
Two sons was enough for any man.Â
That night, sleep did not find you.Â
You saw him for the first time in the courtyard of the Red Keep, three days after your party had arrived. He was speaking to two knights in riding gear, his back half-turned to you, and your first thought was that he was taller than you had expected. Your second thought was that he looked like a man who had never in his life needed to raise his voice to make a room go quiet.Â
He turned when your footsteps scraped the stone, and you caught the full measure of him at once. The grey decorating his beard in patches. The broad set of his shoulders, built for armour even in plain clothes. The mismatched eyes, one brown and one blue, that settled on you with an attention so direct it was almost physical.
"My lady of Highgarden," he said, and there was a small smile on his lips, something measured and polite, as he tilted his head slightly down to look at you.
"Your Grace," you answered, almost too quickly, and kept your eyes down for a beat longer than you needed to, studying the worn stone at your feet like it might offer you something useful.
He waited for you to look up. You got the sense he was patient at waiting. You got the sense he had waited out many things larger than this.
"You've come a long way," he said.
"Indeed," you said, because you had to say something. "The road was kind. We had good weather, by the gods' grace."
"Did you."
"Yes."
A silence settled between you that felt less like discomfort and more like he was simply observing you, cataloguing something at a pace you couldn't rush. You smoothed your skirts with both hands, a nervous habit, and hated yourself for it almost immediately.
"I hope you are pleasant with having to wed me," he said, pausing briefly, watching you twist your fingers together in front of you. "Are you?"
No. The word arrived in your mind before anything else did, clean and immediate. No, I am not pleased, I am frightened and resentful and I have not slept properly in two weeks and every story I have ever heard about you ends with someone not getting back up.
But you could not say any of that. Your father would have your tongue before the sentence was finished.
"Do not do that to your fingers, my lady," Baelor said, interrupting the spiral before it could swallow you whole. "You'll do harm to them."
You stopped instantly. The command was not unkind, but it was a command, and your body obeyed it before your mind had finished deciding whether to. The smile that had been on his face when he first turned was gone now, though the faint softness underneath it remained, held carefully in place.
"I'm starting to wonder if you aren't pleased with the match," he said, his voice entirely calm, the way deep water is calm. "You still haven't answered."
"I apologize, Your Grace." The words came out smooth and easy, rehearsed without meaning to be. "I am pleased. It is my duty to be, and if our union strengthens the bonds between our houses, then I am glad of it."
A lie. A very good one. You had been practicing variations of it for weeks.
He looked at you for a moment longer than felt comfortable, long enough that you wondered if he knew, long enough that you felt the specific heat of being studied by someone who was accustomed to reading situations accurately and quickly. Then he exhaled slowly through his nose and looked out across the courtyard, giving you the small mercy of his profile instead of his full attention.
"A diplomatic answer," he said.
"I've been told I give those."
"I don't doubt it." He glanced back at you, brief and measuring. "I've been told you paint."
The change of subject was abrupt enough to unsettle you, which you suspected might have been the point. "I do," you said carefully. "Sometimes."
"What do you paint?"
The question was so plain and without ceremony that it caught you off guard. You had been braced for something political, something that required a careful answer, and instead you got this. "Flowers, mostly. And the water. We have a lake at home, on the south side of the grounds. I've painted it perhaps a hundred times."
"And it still interests you?" Not sarcastically. Genuinely curious in the way of someone who finds focus in other people interesting rather than puzzling.
"Every season it looks different," you said. "Every hour of the day. I don't think I could exhaust it."
Something shifted in his expression then, small and real, the faint softening of a face that held itself deliberately composed as a matter of long habit.
"I have kept you long enough," he said, and inclined his head to you. "I'll see you at supper, my lady."
He walked past you back into the keep, and you stood in the empty courtyard with your hands still at your sides and tried to decide what you made of that, and found that you couldn't. The wind came through and lifted the loose edge of your sleeve, and somewhere above you a bird crossed the grey sky, and you stood there until the sound of his footsteps had faded entirely.
Then you went inside, and sat with your ladies, and smiled, and said nothing at all. Because thatâs the order of the way things were here.
The feast was loud and long and you drank your wine too fast and smiled until your face ached. Baelor sat at the head of the table to your left in the same dark cloth he had been married in, the three-headed dragon embroidered at his chest, and you had been a wife now for approximately six hours and you could feel the full weight of it settling over you like armour you hadn't been measured for.
You had married a man who had killed people.
Not cruelly. Not without cause. But he had, and the stories were very clear on that, and they did not try to soften it, not even for the women who were being handed to him. He had done what needed doing and done it well and the realm had benefited and all of that was true and none of it made a difference to the part of you that was sitting at this feast watching the candlelight move across his hands and thinking about all the things those hands had done before they had touched your jaw this morning.
You did not know how much wine you had drunk. Enough. Not enough. Somewhere in between. You had lost count around the third cup and stopped caring around the fourth, and the noise of the feast pressed in from all sides, laughter and music and the scrape of chairs on stone, and somewhere in the middle of all of it you sat very still and rethought your entire life from the beginning.Â
Merry found you eventually, your cousin with her pretty laugh and her gift for making any room feel smaller and warmer. She dropped into the seat beside you and took your hand under the table and squeezed once, and you squeezed back, and neither of you said anything about it.
"He keeps looking over," she said quietly into your ear, after a while.
"Does he?"
"He's been watching you all evening."
"He's probably worried I'll knock something over," you said. Merry laughed. Across the table Baelor said something low to the man beside him and did not look up from his cup, and you watched him for one unguarded moment before you looked away.
You watched him sometimes, after that, in the spaces between conversations. When he wasn't looking. You tried to read him the way you read the lake, the way you looked at a thing from different angles until it gave you something. He did not gesture when he spoke. He did not laugh loudly. He listened more than he talked, which among men of his station was genuinely unusual, and when he did speak the people around him leaned in without seeming to realize they were doing it. Like plants toward light. Like something involuntary.
What surprised you, later, was the bedding ceremony. Or rather, the absence of one.
Baelor had refused it. Quietly, without spectacle, in the way he seemed to do most things, and the court had no choice but to fold around his decision and pretend they had never expected otherwise. You heard it from Merry, who had heard it from one of the Kingsguard, and you stood there absorbing the information with a feeling you didn't immediately have a name for. Relief, you decided. It was relief. Strange and unexpected and slightly humiliating to feel so strongly, but there it was.
Even so, when the door to your new chambers clicked shut behind you both and you heard the latch catch, your chest tightened all the same.
The room was full of candles, dozens of them, casting everything in soft shifting gold. Someone had arranged fresh flowers near the window, roses among them, and turned down the bed with the kind of careful attention that made the whole thing feel more deliberate, more inevitable. You crossed to the window and stood with your arms folded loosely at your waist and looked out at the dark city below and tried to remember what breathing was supposed to feel like.
Then he said your name.
Not my lady. Your name, and it sat differently in his mouth that it did in anyone elseâs. Lower, somehow. More considered.Â
You turned from the window. He was watching you with that same quality he always had, the direct unhurried attention, but there was something else underneath it now. Something careful. Like a man approaching a problem he didn't want to make worse.
"You don't have to worry so much," he said, and moved to the table across the room, pouring wine with his back half-turned to you. His hands were steady. Of course they were. "We won't consummate it tonight."
The words landed and your stomach dropped, but not from relief. From something closer to dread, the specific crawling dread of a daughter who could already hear her father's voice somewhere in the back of her skull telling her she had failed before she had even begun. It had only been a couple hours of being a wife and you already failed short. You dropped your gaze to the floor. Your fingers found each other, and you started pulling at the skin around your knuckles without meaning to.
"Did I do something, my prince?" The words came out smaller than you intended. Quieter.
He set the goblet down. You heard him turn.
"You don't have to keep calling me that," he said. "We're married now."
"What would you prefer?"
"My name," he said. "Just my name."
You pulled in a slow breath. "Have I done something wrong, Baelor?"
His name in your mouth felt foreign and right at the same time, like a word in a language you had been studying a long time and had only just spoken aloud.
He crossed the room toward you, not quickly, not with any urgency, just steadily, and he stopped when he reached you and put two fingers under your chin and tilted your face up. His touch was warm. Dry. Unhurried.
You were not expecting the kiss he pressed to your forehead. Soft, brief, almost nothing, and yet it stayed on your skin after he pulled back, like the impression of something.
When you looked up at him your lips were parted and you had nothing to say.
"No," he said, simply. "You haven't done anything wrong." He searched your face for a moment, his mismatched eyes moving between yours. "I don't want my wife drunk and anxious the first time. I'd rather you come to it because you trust me enough. Not because the court expects it of you before morning."
A silence opened up between you. Outside, the city murmured on, indifferent.
"That could take a long time," you said, and you meant it lightly but it didn't come out quite that way.
"I know," he said. And then, without any particular weight to it, like a man stating a fact he had already made peace with: "I can wait."
You looked at him standing there in the candlelight, large and steady and entirely serious, and you thought about all the stories, all the things they said about him, the battles and the efficiency and the men who had not gotten back up, and you thought: none of them mentioned this part. None of them thought to.
In the weeks that followed, you learned that baelor woke before dawn, every morning, and could be found in the training yard before the light had fully come. You learned that he ate simply and without fuss and that feasts bored him, that he tolerated them because they were required and endured them the way another man might endure a long sea voyage.
 You were still frightened of him. Not in the way you had been that first night, with your arms crossed and your heart hammering. You didnât know how he made you feel.Â
Baelor noticed your distance, of course. How could he not. You were always in bed before he came to the chambers, feigning sleep or close enough to it that he never tested the difference. You declined his invitations to share supper with excuse after careful excuse, a headache, correspondence from home, fatigue from the afternoon. He accepted each one without comment, and somehow that was worse than if he had pressed you. You were grateful, most of all, that he had not yet commanded the marriage to be consummated. That was the thing you held onto.
You felt guilty about it sometimes. In small quiet moments, when you were honest with yourself. But guilt was a feeling you could set down and pick back up. Fear sat differently in the body.
Every other day there was a new rumour. Your ladies brought them to you the way birds bring things back to a nest, little bright pieces of nothing that accumulated into something. You had no choice but to sit and listen, just as you were doing now, in the small solar off the main hall where the afternoon light came in sideways and made everything look warmer than it was.
"He is a great man," said Elayne Hightower, in the tone of someone conveying information she believed you were too simple to already possess. She was one of the ladies assigned to you upon your arrival, and in the weeks since you had arrived at a quiet and absolute conclusion: you did not like her. Not even a little. She was the kind of woman who delivered cruelty with a smile and then looked confused when anyone minded. "A great man in every sense of the word, if you take my meaning."
She let the last words hang there and looked at you sideways, watching for a reaction.
You took a slow sip from your goblet and gave her nothing.
"Surely you've consummated the marriage by now," she said, leaning forward slightly, dropping her voice in the conspiratorial register of someone who wanted an audience but pretended otherwise. She set her goblet down on the table and smiled at you with all her teeth. "Do tell. How was it?"
The bluntness of it made your eyes go wide before you could stop them. "I do not wish to speak of such matters with you, Lady Hightower."
She rolled her eyes, the gesture practiced and a little bored. "No need to be so shy about it, princess. Virgins always get so delicate when someone brings it up. It's rather sweet, really." The word sweet landed the way a small blade lands, point first. The other ladies around you had gone very still, a few of them hiding their mouths behind their goblets. "It's nothing to be ashamed of, not knowing what you're about."
"Mind your tongue," you said, and you meant it to come out firm and it came out soft, which was worse.
She made a small sound with her teeth, a dismissive little tsk, and waved her hand as though you'd said something tedious. Then she tilted her head at you, her smile going thin and sharp at the edges.
"Well. If you won't share, I suppose I'll simply tell you how he spent the remainder of the evening. Once he was done with you, that is." She paused for effect. Let the silence do its work. "He came to me."
The room went very quiet.
You sat completely still. You were aware of every person in that room, every averted eye, every carefully controlled expression. You could hear the city outside the window. You could hear your own pulse.
You thought about the night of your wedding. Baelor helping you out of your dress without making anything of it. Baelor sitting with you until you had went into a dreamless sleep, after the many wines you had that evening. You had thought, lying there in the dark, that whatever he was, he was at least that. Decent. Trying.
But then. A man of his station and appetites, refused by his new wife night after night. It was not hard to imagine. It was, in fact, very easy to imagine, and you hated how easily the picture assembled itself.
You felt the anger arrive before you'd decided to feel it. It was different from the distant background dread you'd been carrying for weeks. This was sharp. Immediate. Something with edges.
Your brows pulled together without meaning them to.
"I can tell you the particulars if you like," Elayne said, pleasantly. "He talks you through it, I'll say that much. Very thorough. He did write me this morning, actually, to say he'd be visiting again soon." She glanced at the other ladies with a little lift of her chin, a performer acknowledging her audience. "I suppose things between you two haven't quite found their footing yet."
You stood up.
It happened before you had finished deciding to do it. One moment you were sitting and the next you were on your feet, and the room seemed to go even quieter somehow, the way rooms do when something shifts.
"That is my husband you are speaking of," you said. Your voice was very even. You were rather proud of how even it was, given that your hands were trembling slightly at your sides and you could feel the humiliation pressing up behind your eyes like water behind a dam. "Whatever the circumstance, whatever your history with him, you will not speak his name to me in this manner again. If you do, I will take the matter directly to His Grace the King. Do you understand me?"
Elayne looked up at you from her seat with that same thin smile, and said, "I've hurt you. I'm sorry for it, truly," in a voice that contained not one single grain of apology.
The lady beside her pressed her lips together to hide something that was almost certainly a smile.
You did not say another word. You turned and walked out of the room, and you did not wait for your knight to fall into step behind you. You walked until the corridor bent and the solar was out of sight, and then you stopped and pressed your back against the stone wall and breathed and looked at the ceiling and thought about absolutely nothing at all, which was very hard to do, and which you forced yourself to manage anyway.
You stayed there until you trusted your face again. Then you went back to your chambers and sat at your window and watched the world outside until the light faded, and you did not want to think about Elayne Hightower, and you certainly did not want to think about Baelor.Â
You didn't hear the door open. Your eyes were distant, fixed on nothing in particular beyond the glass, and your meals had come and gone untouched all day, the chambermaids cycling in and out like tides, and you had let them. Appetite required a kind of presence you did not currently have.
Without meaning to you, as Baelor spoke your name, as you turned to face him you glared at him, a pouty look on your face.Â
"Is it true?" The words left your mouth before you had decided to say them. You didn't know where the nerve came from. Only that the jealousy had been sitting in you all day like something swallowed wrong, and underneath it the thing you had been less willing to look at: that somewhere in the weeks of distance and avoidance and careful politeness, you had grown fond of him. Quietly. Without meaning to. You had been seeking him out even as you pulled away. Maybe that was why he had gone elsewhere. Maybe the fault was yours and you hated that thought most of all.
You hated her. You were certain of it now.Â
Baelor looked confused. More than confused, actually. Surprised, in the specific way of a man who had learned not to expect much and was recalibrating in real time. You were always the one who waited to be spoken to first, who answered in half-sentences and agreeable nods. You speaking first, and like this, meant something was wrong. His brows drew together. "What's true, princess?" he said quietly, his eyes moving over your face.
"Do not make me say it." Your voice was unsteady and you resented it. "It hurts enough to think about. Let alone say it to your face."
He took a step toward you and you looked down and that was when he noticed your hands, your fingers picking at the skin around your nails the way they always did when you were trying not to cry.
"How many times," he said, and his voice was very calm, "have I told you to stop doing that."
"Do not act as though you care," you said, and your voice cracked on the last word and you hated yourself for it. You looked up at him. "Did you care when you went to Elayne Hightower on the night of our wedding? Did you think of me at all? People call you honourable. They say it like it is the truest thing about you."
Something moved across his face. Something small and quick. He pressed his lips together and the corner of his mouth shifted, barely, the suggestion of something that in any other moment might have been amusement.
"What is funny about this?" You stared at him. "Do you know what it felt like, sitting there while she told me in front of everyone. While they smiled behind their goblets and thought I couldn't see."
He closed the distance between you. "What did she say." Not a question. A quiet command.
"Vile things. Things I don't wish to repeat." Your voice broke properly then and you turned away and walked toward the window because you needed something to look at that wasn't his face. You could feel the tears and you refused them, crossing your arms over your chest.
You startled when his hands found your shoulders. His fingers gathered your hair and moved it aside, and then the scratch of his beard against the slope of your neck, the press of his lips there, warm and deliberate, and his hands settling at your waist, drawing you back against him. You let him, because you were tired and hurt and his hands were warm, and some part of you had been wanting something like this for weeks without knowing how to say so.
"Tell me what she said," he said against your hair.
You told him all of it. The smile on Elayne's face. The details she offered without being asked. The letter she claimed he had sent that very morning. Your voice stayed mostly level and only broke once, near the end. His hands did not move from your waist the entire time.
"She said you'd promised to see her this evening," you finished. "It was humiliating. I never want to see those women again. You have made me friendless in a court that was never mine to begin with."
You pulled away and turned to face him. He looked down at you with an expression so steady and intent it was almost hard to hold.
"Were they laughing," he said.
"Smiling. Murmuring. Close enough."
"Then why would you call them your friends."
You opened your mouth and closed it. He had a point and you hated that he had a point and you were not going to let it distract you. "That is beside the matter. You still haven't answered me." The next words came out low and laced with something that surprised even you. "Whether you truly found comfort between her legs on the night you wed me."
You lifted your chin at him. "If you promised to see her this evening, then go. I won't keep you."
He held your gaze for a long moment. And then, very quietly, "do you think I would do that to you."
You stared at him.
The question sat between you, very quiet, and he did not move while he waited for you to answer it. He just looked at you the way he always looked at things, with that patient undivided attention that had unnerved you from the beginning and unnerved you still, though differently now. Less like standing in the path of something and more like being seen.
"She said you did," you said finally. Your voice came out smaller than you wanted. "She said it very plainly."
"And you believed her."
It was not an accusation. It was not even a question, quite.Â
"I didn't want to," you said. "I tried not to. But I sat in that room and I listened to her describe you and I thought about all the nights I've gone to bed before you came in, and all the suppers I've refused, and I thoughtâ" You stopped. The words felt too honest. Too much of something you hadn't meant to say out loud.
"You thought what," he said.
"I thought that you would have every reason to." You lifted your eyes to his. "I have not been easy. I know that. I have not been what a wife is supposed to be to you and I have known it every day and done nothing about it because I was frightened, and Iâ" Your voice broke on the last word and you pressed your lips together hard and looked at the ceiling and refused to cry in front of him. Absolutely refused.
His hand came up and curved around your jaw, tilting your face back down toward his. His thumb moved once across your cheekbone, slow and deliberate, the way you might steady something fragile.
"Look at me," he said.
You did. You had no choice when he held your face like that.
"I have not touched Elayne Hightower," he said. "Not on our wedding night and not since. Iâve never done so, and I have no intention of doing so ever." He held your gaze, not blinking, not letting you look away. "I don't know what she told you or why she told it, but it was a lie. Every word of it."
You searched his face the way you searched paintings, looking for the thing that was not right, the detail that would give the lie away. There was nothing. There was only Baelor, steady as he always was, telling you something plainly and without performance, the way he told you everything.
"Why would she say it then," you said. "She had details. She said you wrote to her."
"She is a woman who enjoys the particular power that comes from making other women feel small," he said, without heat or drama, as though he were noting the weather. "And you are new here, and a princess, and a considerable threat to people who were comfortable before you arrived. She said it because she could and because she wanted to see what it would do to you."
Your mouth was dry. "And what did it do to me."
Something shifted in his expression. Softened, in that way that still caught you off guard when it happened.Â
"It made you speak to me," he said. "First. Without waiting to be spoken to."
You hadn't thought of it that way. You hadn't thought of much of anything clearly today. You became abruptly and uncomfortably aware of how close he was, his hand still at your face, the warmth of him in the cooling room.
"I made a fool of myself," you said quietly.
"You were jealous," he said. "That's not foolish."
You felt heat climb your neck. "I wasn'tâ"
"You were." And there was that near-smile again, the one that lived at the very corner of his mouth and barely made it further than that. "I'm not saying it to embarrass you. I'm telling you because I'd rather you know that I noticed and that it mattered to me. That you mattered enough to be jealous over."
You didn't have anything to say to that. You had prepared for denial and deflection and a polite dismissal, you had not prepared for this, for him standing in the candlelight holding your face and telling you plainly that you mattered, without ceremony, without asking for anything back.
"You should have told me," you said finally, because you had to say something and it was the truest thing left. "If she had said those things to you about me you would have told me. You wouldn't have let me believe it."
"No," he agreed. "I wouldn't have." He studied you for a moment. Then: "I'll speak to her."
"Don't." The word came out quickly. "It will only make it worse. It will only give her more to say."
He shakes his head in a silent no. âShe wonât, Iâll make sure of it.âÂ
"Baelor, please." You moved after him as he turned, reaching for his arm without thinking. "I'm asking you not to. She will humiliate me further for it. She will talk about me behind my back to anyone who will listen, she'll make my life a livingâ"
He kissed you.
Not gently. Not the way he had kissed your forehead on the wedding night, careful and brief and almost impersonal. This was something else entirely. His mouth pressed to yours with a kind of fierce certainty, one hand cradling the back of your neck, his thumb tilting your jaw up, and the sheer unexpectedness of it emptied your mind of every word you had been about to say.
For one stunned moment you simply stood there. Then, without deciding to, your eyes closed and you leaned into it. It was not a polite kiss. It was not the kind of kiss a man gives a woman he is merely fond of. It was hungry and deliberate, all heat and pressure and the slide of his tongue against yours, the faint graze of teeth at your bottom lip, his beard rough against your skin, and it tasted like wine and something underneath it that was just him, and it stole the breath from your lungs so thoroughly that when he finally pulled back you had to remind yourself how lungs worked.
You looked up at him. Your mouth was still parted. You had nothing at all to say. He did not step back. He did not look remotely apologetic. He simply watched you absorb what he had done.
A faint thread of warmth lingered between your lips when he pulled away, and his thumb came up to swipe it from your skin almost absently, eyes never leaving yours.
âThat is what you were afraid of,â he said quietly.
You swallowed. âOf being kissed?â
âNo.â His thumb pressed once against your lower lip. âOf wanting it.â
Heat climbed your neck.
Before you could answer, he leaned in again, but this time the kiss was slower. Not an interruption. Not a silencing. His mouth moved over yours with intent, coaxing instead of claiming, and when you softened beneath him, when your hand tightened at his chest and your body leaned into his without instruction, he made a low sound of approval in his throat.
âGood girl,â he murmured against your mouth. âThat is honest.â
His hands slid down from your shoulders to your waist, broad and steady, and then lower, settling at your hips. He pulled you flush against him, slow enough that you felt the full press of him between you, solid and unmistakable even through layers.
Your breath caught.
He noticed.
âYou feel that,â he said, not asking.
âYes.â
âAnd you thought I had no appetite.â
The corner of his mouth lifted faintly.
When he called for Elayne Hightower before the small council that evening, the scratches at his throat said everything he did not need to, and every lord present saw them just as clearly as she did.
A Knight of the Seven Kingdoms: Prince Maekar Targaryen x Stark!reader
Rating: Mature (MDNI)
WC: 4.2k
AKOTSK Masterlist
Requests Open
Tags/Warnings: Arranged marriage, canon divergence, tension, Daeron is just a lost cause, age gap (Maekar is in his forties and reader is 20), bedding ceremony, spicy times at the end, wedding night consummation, loss of virginity, no use of y/n, no physical description of reader given, no beta we die like Daemon Blackfyre
A/n: For a request sent by @clumsycopy, for Maekar and Stark!reader warming up to each other. I have a few requests for Maekar with stark!reader so I'm turning them into a little series. :) Reblogs, comments, and likes are appreciated. My inbox is always open!
Summary: A marriage pact was made between you and Prince Daeron years ago. Now, the wedding day arrives, and Daeron's decision to flee forces you down a different path.
There were vague memories from all those years ago, when you were a mere child of eight, clad in black fur and a light gray gown, with the young Targaryen prince by your side, with red silk clinging to his slender frame. You found him a bit odd, having heard many tales of the Targaryens with their otherworldly violet eyes and silver hair. This one seemed quite plain, with dirty blond hair and periwinkle eyes. You remembered he looked sullen as well, not a smile to be found on his face. King Daeron the Good had sent his two sons, the war heroes, to Winterfell to broker the pact to unite the houses. Later you would learn that King Daeron wished to marry the Targaryens into as many noble houses as he could to diversify the bloodline. Following your mother's instructions, you nodded and smiled before lowering into a curtsy to thank the princes. Prince Baelor was kind, with sparkling eyes of different colors, and you remembered how he kissed your hand. Prince Maekar seemed uninterested, his pockmarked face twisted in a scowl. These memories clung to the corners of your mind like wispy smoke, pushing far from your mind until the wedding day finally arrived twelve years later.
It had been a long trip to Summerhall, and the warm weather didn't agree with you. It made you feel irritated and restless. Your dress seemed unbearably heavy as you tugged at the sleeves and high collar, wishing to rip it off and go running naked through the woods. Mayhaps if you pretended to be mad, you could get out of this whole situation. The wheelhouse came to a stop, and you were eager to throw open the doors to get some fresh air. The stuffiness was almost intolerable. One of the Stark guards opened the doors and offered you his hand while you descended the steps. The lush greenery and perfectly manicured topiaries that surrounded the courtyard almost took your breath away. You deeply inhaled the fresh air as a gentle breeze fluttered around you.
Prince Maekar stood with his children in the stone pathway to greet you, the family dressed in black and red, the perfect image of Targaryens. Daeron stood to his right, looking as sullen and forlorn as ever, making you stifle a giggle. He was taller, but no less different, it seemed. Your mother gently nudged you, taking your hand as you walked closer.
"We thank you for your hospitality, my prince," your mother said as you both lowered into a curtsy.
He grunted. "The pleasure is mine. Please come inside, I'm sure you're eager to rest after such a long trip. A grand meal is prepared for tonight, and the wedding feast will be held at week's end," he said before turning on his heels with his black cloak billowing behind him. Well, he certainly hadn't changed much from that gruff man all those years ago.
Suddenly, you found yourself surrounded by his two daughters tugging on your dress and hands while asking you a million questions. You took a deep breath and gave them a kind smile.
"Princesses, might I step inside and have some wine first? Then I will answer all the questions you have."
"Oh yes! Father has a cask of Arbor Gold that has been opened," the elder said. You would learn she was Daella.
The younger one, called Rhae, held onto your hand as you entered the white marbled palace dubbed Summerhall. Little amethyst jewels glittered in her pale, moonlit hair.
"I will fetch the wine for you, my lady," Daeron offered.
"That would be most kind."
You had hoped to catch Daeron in conversation, but after handing you a cup of wine, he skulked off with a wineskin in hand. After indulging in two cups and constant chatter, you retired to the guest quarters for a long nap, stripped free of your heavy dress and left in just your undershirt. You were rudely awoken later by a barrage of knocking on the door.
"Yes?" you grumbled, throwing them up with a heavy scowl to find Prince Maekar standing before you.
Those violet eyes raked over your body. The shift was thin and allowed him to see the outlines of your breasts and a faint peek of your nipples. Quickly, you crossed your arms over your chest.
"Forgive me, my prince, IâŠ"
"I have brought you some lighter gowns to wear. I'm sure your Northern clothes are too warm for here in the Stormlands. Should you need alterations, there is a seamstress in the household," he said. You hated the way he said Northern, as if it were an obscenity. Still, you were touched by this thoughtfulness.
"Thank you," you murmured, and two handmaidens followed in with an armful of colorful gowns each.
"Which would you like to try on, my lady?" one of them smiled.
You were drawn toward the green silk that reminded you of shimmering emeralds; you had never seen such a vibrant color before. They helped ready you for the evening, rubbing oils into your skin and dabbing a fragrant perfume behind your wrists and ears before helping you into the gown. The bodice was tightly fitted and cut lower than the style you were used to, flaring out into a fuller skirt at the bottom. Tiny silver dragons with silver flames decorated the bodice. A sudden warmth rose to your cheeks as you studied yourself in the looking glass. You were instructed to sit before the two young ladies brushed out your hair. Once you were married and settled in Summerhall, you would send for your ladies, Cerelle Cerwyn and Mara Umber, to join you.
The handmaidens brushed your hair until it gleamed, then began to knot and braid it, styling it into an elegant half-up, half-down style. A netting of emeralds was draped over it, and you could not help but feel like a true princess. In the North, you tended to remain bundled up in furs and your riding leathers to join your brothers on hunts. Your dresses were rather plain and sturdy, as you had never cared much for fashion to your mother's chagrin. She would be in for a pleasant surprise tonight.
"All eyes will be on you tonight, my lady."
"You shine just like a jewel!"
"Thank you both, I hopeâŠI would love for you to attend to me during my stay here," you smiled at them.
"Oh, it would be our pleasure, my lady!"
"Prince Maekar hoped you would be pleased with us."
"I am, greatly so. Might I ask a favor?"
They nodded, eyes eager in anticipation of your request.
"Would you tell me all you can about Prince Maekar's household? I would like to know more about them," you admitted.
"Glady, my lady!" they answered in unison. Over a fragrant orange tea, you learned of Prince Maekar's love of the hunt, Aerion's desire to prove himself a strong knight, Aemon's thirst for knowledge, Daella's love of song and music, Aegon's dreams of being a squire, and Rhae's enjoyment of dolls and rabbits. You noted how they evaded the topic of Daeron. Were you to never know your betrothed?
Evenfall soon came, and your mother arrived to collect you. Her dropped jaw and gasp of surprise delighted you. Your eldest brother, Eddard, now Lord of Winterfell after your father's death five years ago, gave a nod of approval as well. He would be escorting you during the wedding.
"My, look at you, my dearest. Prince Daeron will surely have all his attention on you tonight."
Though that would not happen. The prince was already deep into his cups and barely able to sit up straight during the meal. Maekar had a disapproving frown on his face, his intense gaze alternating between you and Daeron. The musicians began to play at Queen Myriah's behest, no doubt an attempt to distract from the awkwardness.
"Dance with your betrothed," Maekar hissed at his eldest son.
"I fear I cannot," Daeron hiccuped. You would bet he could barely stand up. He hadn't touched a crumb of food on the gold plate before him, but had consumed three glasses of wine. Red rivulets streaked the golden cup, and his eyes were glassy.
"Well, the opportunity becomes mine. Lady Stark, might you join me in a dance?" Prince Baelor offered as he stood and extended his hand. Dancing with the crowned prince was a great honor, and you would not refuse it.
"It would be my pleasure, my prince," you smiled, slipping your hand into his. You felt Maekar's gaze linger on you as you danced with his brother. You glanced over Baelor's shoulder to discover King Daeron whispering into Maekar's ear while soothingly squeezing his upper arm. Maekar waved to servants over to escort Daeron from the table. Your heart sank slightly as you were hoping to get to know him better this evening before the wedding took place at week's end. Perhaps another day.
"Lady Stark, my husband and I have a gift for you," Queen Myriah smiled, waving a servant over who held a red velvet cushion. Nestled on the plush fabric were golden earrings with three tiny rubies dangling from them, a golden chain with a lavish ruby, and a shimmering ruby ring inlaid on a golden ring.
"Thank you, Your Graces; they are lovely," you said, smiling and bowing your head.
"We do hope you will wear them on the wedding day," she noted.
"It would be my honor, Your Grace."
Despite the discomfort with Prince Daeron earlier, you were beginning to feel more at ease with the Targaryen family and were slightly touched by their generosity and Prince Baelor's kindness. You marveled at the Dornish cream swans served for dessert, delighting in their sweetness and decadence. The sour Dornish wine perfectly counteracted the sweetness, bringing the meal to an end, and the guests began to depart for their rooms, with various guards trailing behind. You waited for the guests to thin before approaching Maekar.
"Thank you again for the gowns, my prince; they are very lovely," you told him, gazing up at him.
He nodded, giving a soft grunt. "This one is ratherâŠbecoming on you," he said, one long, ringed finger trailing down the edge of the bodice, tracing over an embroidered dragon. "I cannot make many excuses for my son's behavior, but I hope you will be patient with him. Daeron has always beenâŠdifferent."
"A good wife demonstrates patience with her husband. I'm certain we will find our way together."
He snorted. "Is that so, little wolf?"
You nodded, feeling warmth curl in your belly when he called you that. "We Starks are made of strong stock. Us Northern ladies are not made delicately."
His hand pulled away from your bodice, slowly reaching for your cheek before hesitation overtook him and he pulled away. "So it seems." With that said, he left you in the care of your brother and mother.
The days passed, and you grew frustrated at being unable to pin down Daeron. Your betrothed seemed to escape you at every possible turn. You seemed to take the matter more seriously than he did. You had hoped not to marry a stranger, but the Gods, old and new, seemed to mock you at every turn. One afternoon, you found yourself wandering around the large estate and inside the stables. Though it was warm, you had dressed in your riding leathers during your exploration. The horses whinnied softly, and you found yourself taken with a black palfrey who had a white diamond shaped spot between her eyes.
"Hello," you cooed, stroking her muzzle and finding a handful of feed to give her. Her mouth was soft as velvet against your palm, a striking difference compared to her sandpaper tongue.
"You should not be out here by yourself," Maekar said, trotting in on his massive black destrier. A stable boy quickly rushed over to help him.
"I find better company here than in the palace walls." Your words sounded more bitter than intended.
"I will ensure Daeron dines with you tonight," he said, dismounting his horse gracefully and tucking his cloak behind him.
You snorted. "He has a way of disappearing into the walls."
"Geoff, prepare Velvet for Lady Stark to ride," Maekar instructed.
"IâŠthanâŠ"
He held up a gloved hand. "No need to thank me. Consider it an apology for my son's behavior. I will straighten him out. Enjoy your ride, little wolf."
Once Velvet was saddled and bridled, you mounted her quickly and without the aid of steps, clicking your tongue before taking off on her. Prince Maekar was left behind with an amused smile on your face. True to his word, a private dinner was arranged between you and Daeron that evening, but he was silent through most of it. Yet it did not dampen your good mood from the ride earlier, and perhaps having a silent, unimposing husband wouldn't be the worst thing in the world. You'd rather that than a loud and cruel one.
"We are on wed in two days' time; do you not wish to know me?" you asked softly before sliding the tender roasted duck between your lips. You were used to the gamier meats of the North: venison, rabbit, pheasant, and the occasional goose. Duck was your favorite during your time here, apart from the tiny stuffed quails, which were utterly divine.
Daeron drained his cup of red wine, his posture slumped. "It does not matter."
"And why is that?"
"We will not be wed," he whispered before standing, knocking the chair onto the floor. "But the wolf will marry a dragon."
You were left feeling bewildered as he fled the room, and suddenly your appetite disappeared. The taste of duck forever soured whenever it touched your tongue. His words haunted you, making you toss and turn and feel on edge until the wedding night arrived. It did not help that a strong summer storm rolled through with thunder crackling in the distance as rain thrummed steadily against the palace. The two handmaidens, Mya and Margot, helped you bathe in a fragrant mixture of rose oil and orange blossom petals, scrubbing your skin until it glowed and leaving your hair feeling like silk.
"Do try and rest, my lady," Mya encouraged, bringing you a warm tea to sip before bed.
"A bit of anxiety on the wedding night is normal," Margot said warmly as she rubbed your shoulders before wrapping you in your robe.
But in the morning, Daeron's words would come back to haunt you.
The hours seemed to pass as you paced the room in your ivory samite gown with small direwolves embroidered on the fabric in a delicate silver thread. Gray fur trimmed the collar and cuffs, and the long white cloak with the large direwolf head in the center dragged behind you. The golden and ruby jewelry gifted from Queen Myriah sparkled. Prince Daeron was missing, along with a horse from the stables and some of the household gold. It was clear he had fled under cover of the storm, and everyone was in disarray.
"Prince Maekar will track him down, my lady," Mya assured you.
And if he doesn't? Where would that leave you? You could return to the North; perhaps your brother could broker a match with one of the allied houses. Manderly, mayhaps.
A steward came to collect you, guiding you through the halls to a large solar located at the far right end. Your mother and brother stood with the royal family. The king looked exhausted while the queen looked vexed, wearing a scowl on her face that rivaled her youngest son's.
"What a beautiful bride you are," Prince Baelor told you warmly.
"Thank you," you whispered.
Your brother's cheeks were flushed, resembling a bold red wine, and you knew he had been yelling. Part of you wished you had witnessed the wolf who bared his teeth to the dragons.
"My sister has been shamed. Your kind words cannot fix this," Eddard growled, and your mother squeezed his shoulders.
"Calm yourself," she warned.
"He is right, I fear. The hounds have lost the scent, and we are told the horse prints seemed to have disappeared," Baelor sighed.
"Then what is to be done?" Eddard demanded.
A silence befell the room; many gazes cast towards the ground as you twisted the ruby ring around your middle finger, noting that Maekar wore a similar one on the same finger. The silence continued, carrying into uncomfortable territory and beginning to feel stifling. It felt hard to breathe, and you tugged nervously at the fur collar around your neck. Mayhaps this was a blessing; you could return to Winterfell and marry a Maderly, living amongst your people, your culture, and your customs. Daeron had given you a way out, taking all the burden onto his shoulders. Then Maekar spoke.
"I will marry Lady Stark."
Every gaze in the room snapped toward him. A sea of mixed expressions: confusion, shock, amusement, and disapproval.
"MaekarâŠ" Baelor began to say, and Maekar held up a palm to silence him.
"She was promised a Targaryen prince, and I am one."
Good King Daeron sputtered. "The arrangement was for the young generations, my boy. Perhaps Aerion would be a better suitor, or Matarys even."
Prince Matarys was barely a young man of three and ten and Prince Aerion was a well known brute; you opened your mouth to protest, but your mother pulled you back and rubbed your arms to keep you silent.
"That is a generous offer, my prince. Might we have a private moment to discuss it?" your mother said diplomatically.
"You may, Lady Stark, take the time you need," King Daeron said, leaning on his cane. Queen Myriah slipped her arm through his, helping to balance as the royal family filed out of the room. No doubt to hold their own discussions.
"I will not force you, but perhaps this is a blessing in disguise," your mother reasoned.
Eddard scoffed. "He is simply trying to save face. They have slighted the great Northern house and do not wish to start a war. I'm certain they remember how we didn't get involved with their little Southern civil war and hold it against us."
Your mother fixed your eldest brother with a glare. "It was too long a journey for the North to get involved in; the king understands that."
"Those Targaryens never forget a slight. This is their revenge."
You paced the room while your mother and brother argued. Maekar had seemed kind enough to you, paying you attention while his son did not. He did not lack for heirs, so perhaps he would not treat you like a broodmare. Yet you would still be trapped in the South and tied to certain expectations as a prince's wife. Maybe common ground could be found. You could show Maekar how independent and strong the women of the North were. You heard he loved a hunt, as did you. It seemed you knew about him more than you had Daeron, and that seemed like a good starting point.
"I will marry him," you said steadfastly as you turned to face your mother and brother.
"What?" Eddard seethed, and your mother's expression softened.
"I said I will marry him. It is a generous offer, one he need not have made," you said. "Mother said it was my choice." Your mother drew your hands into hers and lifted them to kiss.
"I am proud of you, daughter," she said, smiling. "I have raised a fine young woman."
"Fine, let us be done with this blasted wedding," Eddard sighed.
You held your mother's hand as you walked into the red marble hall where the royal family waited.
"I will graciously accept Prince Maekar's offer to wed him," you announced.
King Daeron rubbed his haggard face. "If this is what both parties wish, then so shall it be. Let us not delay the wedding any further."
There were whispers as you stood in front of the High Septon with Maekar, reciting the vows before the cloak exchange occurred. The black and red fabric billowed over your ivory gown, shrouding you in a temporary darkness. You were now Maekar's wife. He pressed a chaste kiss to your lips, and you felt the rough, chapped skin, alluring in its own way. The feast that followed overflowed with wine and food, and you were delighted to be served up stuffed quail.
"You mentioned it was your favorite," Maekar murmured to you, enjoying a thick slice of nearly bloody venison.
"It is, but might I have a bit of yours as well?"
He raised a pale brow before sawing off a slice for you, lifting the fork to your mouth. You chewed it up, savoring the buttery softness and rich, earthy flavor.
"I do enjoy a good piece of venison, even better if I put an arrow in it myself," you grinned, washing the good down with a strong red wine.
A rare smile formed on his face. "You will have to show me."
"I would be delighted."
A few rowdy guests began to call for the bedding ceremony, and you stood, removing your husband's cloak.
"You wish to participate in suchâŠa thing?" Maekar hissed at you in surprise.
"Oh, they are quite fun in the North; I'm no stranger to them. Don't tell me a Targaryen prince pales at them," you teased.
Maekar frowned, scowling as he stood. "I pale at nothing, little wolf." His violet eyes sparkled with well meaning mischief.
The lords and ladies began to rush forward, their hands tearing at your and Maekar's clothing while simultaneously pulling you toward the bedchamber. Fabric was strewn over the marble floors until you stood before your husband in the chambers with him in a thin pair of linen breeches and you in your silk chemise and silk stockings. He was lean and muscular, white hair decorating his chest in thick tufts. You could not help but run your fingers through it. Those large hands cupped your face as he bent his head down to kiss you properly. Commanding and rough, drawing air from your lungs.
He peeled away your chemise before sliding his hand between your thighs and drawing a nipple between his teeth. The sharp bite of them, followed by the delicate, tender tracing of his tongue, was wondrous. Fingers stroked you, making warmth swirl in your belly and wetness gather.
"I have never lain with a man before," you whispered.
"I have not lain with another woman since my wife died," he admitted. A velvety softness beneath the hard exterior. He was a man of many layers, it seemed.
"Will it hurt much?" You found yourself rocking against his fingertips, searching for more pressure.
"If you were with a fool, who doesn't know what to do. But I am no fool." Another win. You doubted Daeron would have been so thoughtful. You doubted one so lost in wine could even get his cock hard.
He lifted you onto the bed, spread your thighs before shedding his breeches. His cock hung heavy between his long, sinewy legs, the tip red and leaking, as he crawled between your thighs. His head disappeared, tongue lapping at your damp cunt and making you tremble. You didn't think it was possible to grow wetter, yet you did, leaving you feeling like a sopping mess. Two fingers gently breeched their way inside you, stretching you and making your cunt flutter.
A dizzy euphoric feeling danced through you, making you feel lightheaded while Maekar withdrew his fingers before rubbing his cock between your folds.
"Take a deep breath for me, little wolf," he whispered in your ear, his beard tickling your smooth cheek.
You breathed in deeply, and when you exhaled, he slowly sank inside you. An uncomfortable pressure flooded through you, making you whimper softly before your body adjusted. He remained still, his warm body resting against yours before he gave a slow roll of his hips. Unsure of what to do with your hands, you decided to press them against his shoulders before slowly moving them up and down his back in a soft caress. As he gave gentle thrusts, you grew bolder and squeezed his arse, feeling the muscles flex with his movements. An intoxicating pleasure swam through you, and an indescribable feeling crashed through you.
Your toes pointed and flexed, belly tightened, and your thighs trembled as you rode out of the wave as the pressure in your belly subsided. Maekar's face pressed tightly against the curve of your neck as his movements slowed and you suspected he had spilled inside you. The two of you remained pressed together, becoming one in all ways that evening.
Once again you were touched by his kindness and attentiveness as he wiped between your legs with a cool, wet cloth. He fell asleep first, still on his belly, and you watched his back rise and fall. How peaceful he looked. Perhaps this marriage would be a happy one after all. Prince Daeron leaving had been a blessing in disguise.
But the wolf would marry a dragon.
This little wolf would find delight in the big beast. For she too had claws and sharp teeth of her own.
