⚕ summary: in a world where targaryens are no longer the feared dragon riders and leaders they once were, having dark hair is seen as an ugly curse
⚕ paring: baelor targaryen x niece!reader
⚕ cw: targcest, niece/uncle, significant age gap, angst, talks of feeling and looking different and being rejected for it, intimacy, smut (minors dni please), inexperienced reader, protective baelor, jealous baelor, possessive baelor, reader thinks/talks about not being worth it, brief mentions of non-con but nothing graphic (not from baelor), brief mentions of baelor and reader interacting when she is young but all is platonic then, contains some spoilers for house of the dragon
Shame was a constant in your life.
It was embedded in you. Cold and dark and deep inside your bones, ever since the day you drew your first breath. Some blamed the darkened head of hair you wore, long and dim and ugly, pooling over your shoulders down to your waist. Others whispered of your bastardy, a false princess born not from the wicked prince who gained to run about the Reed Keep bare, but from a common fisherman your mother had grown fond of in her despair.
But you knew the truth. Or you thought you knew. That your father, your real father the prince, was ashamed you had inherited his gods forsaken plain features. He refused to blame himself, a son of King Daeron the Good, how could he? The blood of Old Valyria coursed through his veins, thick and deep.
But he could not attest to it, not physically at least. The people at court spoke ill of him enough. Whispering that he, like his older brother Baelor, was cursed by the gods, old and new and pagan gods alike, for mingling pure dragon blood with that of the filthy Dornish.
His perfect brother was blessed with good looks and chivalry. He, not so much. His crooked nose and teeth were a testament to it, or perhaps it was his inclination to madness.
So, when the time came for the prince to bear children of his own, he was determined. Set on proving to the world that he, too, was worthy of House Targaryen. That from his blood would come children of Valyria, white silver-haired and purple eyes alike.
Your father had smiled when your older brother and sister entered the world on a sunny and bright summer afternoon, a perfect image of the children in his dreams. Your mother had tried again the next few years, she had. Pain and blood were all she knew during that time, screaming and ready to meet the gods.
But on a cold and dark winter night, you emerged. The world had held its breath—yet another Targaryen. You opened your dark eyes, your left mingling with a light but deep purple. Your mother had held you tight against her chest, kissing the top of your head where darkness engulfed it, before taking her last breath. Your father had stormed off the moment he laid eyes on you.
The maids took over immediately. Your grandsire, the king, was there but a few hours later, torn between the sheer joy of holding you in his arms and mourning the life you would have without your mother by your side.
Your uncles were quick to follow. You did not speak much, but when you did, it was to ask about the days your mind could not recall. When it was but you and your lady in waiting in the sanctuary of your chambers, she would speak of that night.
Your uncle Baelor had sounded distraught. “She is your daughter. Your good wife has just left this world, left her alone to fend for herself. How can you—“
“She is not my daughter. That filthy fisherman fool, I know she is of his blood.” Your father had cut him off, cold and stern and almost hysterical.
“You know that is a lie, brother. Do you take me for a fool?” Baelor had asked. His brother turned fully toward him then, a hint of madness in his eyes now clear as day.
“If I can fool the rest of the realm, that is enough for me.”
You don’t remember much of your first years. You remember being hidden from your brother and sister, shunned like the failure that you were. Your brother spent his days in the courtyard, wielding his wooden sword, silver hair battered by the wind. He swore he would be a better swordsman than the Blackfyre bastard. Your sister, beautiful but simple, learnt of the ways of being a lady in her pretty dresses and perfectly braided Valyrian hair.
You were not allowed outside of your chambers if not for distinct hours, mainly when the moon had claimed the sky. Your secludedness only reinforced the realm's false image of you, that of a bastard princess with no claim to the Targaryen name. If of his own blood, why would the prince hide his daughter away?
Your days were spent with your lady in waiting inside the tall walls. She played games with you, brought you supper when you were forbidden from eating with the rest of your family. She braided your hair, your beautiful long hair, she liked to call it. She was kind to you.
Your uncle Baelor was also kind to you. You did not speak much, but you grew to like having him around. You did not understand why he was kind to you—your father had made it clear, in the few times he dared speak to you, that you were not to address anyone of importance. Baelor was your uncle, but he was also the future king.
Yet when he approached you, it was not to lecture you about your shameful appearance, one you somewhat shared with him, you once noticed. Baelor, the chivalrous prince, gave you a glimpse of what the world looked like outside of your chambers.
You would follow him, curiosity and a bit of fear clouding your unequal eyes. You had heard whispers of it, of what lay beneath the Red Keep. The skulls of your family's dragons, so beautifully terrifying. Such gorgeous creatures, now reduced to dust and bones, you thought. When Baelor saw the sadness in your eyes, he would take you back, and you would dream of the dragons, flying high in the sky, alive and breathing warm, bright fire.
Other times, your uncle walked with you in the gardens that surrounded your prison. Beautiful in the spring, the gardens were, possibly the most beautiful thing you had seen in your short life. He easily plucked the cherries and apples that hung a world too high for you to reach, a rare smile tugging at your lips when you tasted their sweetness.
But perhaps what brought you the most joy was when you accompanied him to visit his horse. A tall stallion, black as night, and as gorgeous as he looked powerful. He called him Midnight.
"Would you like to mount him? He is more gentle than he looks." Your uncle smiled fondly.
Sat on such a beast, who huffed and puffed playfully, you felt like maybe the world wasn't as dark as it seemed. Maybe, you could live out your days holding onto your lady in waiting's kindness and your uncle's company.
You began looking forward to his visits, quietly hoping today would be the day you could see him again, naively unaware of the princely duties that haunted him and occupied most of his days.
On one particular evening, you found yourself feeling somewhat thrilled. An odd feeling, you thought. Pulling at your chest and belly, cold but not entirely unpleasant. Tucked inside the hidden pocket of your dress were two apples from your walk in the gardens earlier this week. Your lady in waiting had helped you sew it. You had kept them for Midnight.
When the knock at your door came, you rose to your feet, another rare smile tugging at your lips. But when the door opened, your father appeared. Surprise and another ugly feeling invaded your chest. Disappointment, but also fear. Your father rarely ever made the effort to walk to your chambers.
"You leave at dawn for the Vale." Your father had declared. Nothing more, nothing less.
You were sat in the rocking cramped carriage but a few hours later, with only your lady in waiting as company. You knew no one was very fond of you, but you wished you could have said your farewells to your family. Your grandsire, your brother and sister. Your uncle Baelor.
Instead, you were here, a prisoner of lost free will, dragged to your mother's family. Perhaps they would treat you better, you thought.
It would not matter either way. You were cursed, and you knew it. It mattered little where you lived out your days; everyone would see the rotten inside you, dark and ugly and foul.
Buried inside your cloak, you let hot tears run down your cheeks silently. You closed your eyes, your left hand clutching onto one of the apples still hidden in your dress.
Soon, it would become as rotten as you.
Three and ten years had passed. You think it was three and ten years, at least that is what the Maester had told you. Time seemed trivial when you did not have much to live for.
Your days were mostly the same, dark and cold and insignificant. You were mostly alone. Cared for but unloved, spoken to but forgotten. Every year around summer came the few letters from King’s Landing, words of decorated care you told yourself, a reminder that you still had blood living and breathing somewhere. You wondered if that thought was comforting or rather a tool meant to twist the many knives already lodged in your blackened heart.
You only found a semblance of happiness in the mare your relative had gifted you out of pity. She was beautiful, a pale grey with a dark mane and tail. You named her Moonlight. You rode her every day, cared for her like your own child. The only child you would probably ever have.
Who wished to bring more rot into this life?
You had told yourself your last day in this ugly world would be the one where her heart stopped beating.
You were lost in that thought as you dismounted her, gently petting her face and grabbing her reins to make your way back, when a knight of the Vale interrupted you.
“My lady,” he startled you. You were not used to people speaking to you.
“I do apologise, my lady, but your presence is required at the Eyrie. A raven from King’s Landing.” He bowed his head.
You felt your heart drop. You are uncertain why; ravens from King’s Landing were rare but not uncommon. Taking Moonlight with you, you followed the knight in silence back to the high castle.
Thoughts clouded your mind. Were you going to go back? Perhaps your father was to visit you at last. Or maybe it was your grandsire. He was getting old after all.
When you stood in front of your old aunt, you could see the twisted expression on her face. One she poorly hid.
“I suggest you get some rest tonight. His Grace Baelor Targaryen will be here on the morrow. A new robe will be sent to your chambers, do make sure you wear it and have your hair done when he arrives. I do not wish for the heir to the Iron Throne to think we have been mistreating you. You are looking frailer by the day, child.” She rambled.
You wondered what she was speaking of, something about a dress, you believe. The clouds inside your head began rumbling, and you felt something pull at your heart at the sound of your uncle’s name.
He was coming here, to the Vale.
You had made your peace a long time ago with the cold reality that you would never see him again. You were a fool for thinking he cared for you enough to grant you a visit during the years you were cast away like some sort of offender.
Your kind, sweet uncle. A man you looked up to, who offered you nothing but gentleness and compassion. One of the only faces you remembered unmistakably from your time at the Red Keep, a face you thought of more than you cared to admit.
He had given you apples and eaten with you when no one else would. But he was also the busiest man breathing. Of course, he would not come.
You nodded at your aunt and retreated to your chambers. You did not eat that night. Your stomach felt tight and upset, and churned at the thought of seeing Baelor again.
When the sun slowly claimed the sky, you were still awake. Your lady in waiting had drawn you a bath, helped you into the beautiful blue dress that had been placed on your desk the night prior. She braided half of your hair only, leaving the rest of your dark mane pool over your shoulders. You thought of cutting it all off right then and there, not wishing to remind your uncle of your ugly curse.
You didn’t. Instead, you made your way to the great hall, where your presence was expected. Heart threatening to jump out of your chest, you stopped in the dark hallway, hand clutching the stone cold wall.
There, you heard him in the distance. A voice that haunted your dreams and nightmares alike. A voice you thought you would never hear again.
“—something is wrong with my niece, I expect to be made aware of it at once.” You heard him say, voice as calm as ever but sharp nonetheless.
“Of course, Your Grace. The princess is well, though a bit slender. She is not always fond of the food we serve here.” Your old aunt tried to jest.
You did not hear a response from your uncle.
You were about to make your way back to your chambers like the coward that you were when two knights approached you.
“We will make the announcement, my lady.” One of them said.
You did not have time to respond. Both knights entered the hall, and you blindly followed. You were fairly certain you had stopped breathing then. They announced your presence, and suddenly, he was real again.
When Baelor Targaryen looked at you, you felt your soul being touched. His mouth was slightly agape and he stood tall, looking his part perfectly. He looked older, silver grey kissing his beard and hair, but he looked strong. His dark cloak hung over his broad shoulders, his sword and dagger decorating his waist.
He was just as beautiful as you had remembered.
And he was looking at you.
“Your Grace,” you managed to say, bowing slightly to him.
You were fairly certain no one spoke. Fairly certain. Your ears were ringing, high-pitched and painful, blood rushing to your head. You wanted to disappear.
After what felt like hours, your uncle approached you. Suddenly, his scent, a familiar scent that made your heart leap, invaded your senses. You finally looked up.
Your uncle quietly spoke your name. He sounded like a man in agony, a man who had been punched in the gut. Guilt eating away at him, at the thick scales that covered his entire being.
He lightly touched your shoulders, a warm and genuine but sad smile tugging at his lips. “I am glad to see you again.”
And you wanted to cry at how much you reciprocated that feeling. You had prayed to the gods—just once. Even if it was just in your dreams.
As if he could not help it, Baelor took you in his arms, hugging you gently. He cradled your head softly against his chest, and you felt tears burning your eyes. Were they tears of joy that the gods had listened to you for the first time in your life?
Or perhaps they were tears of frustration, for abandoning you here, leaving you to rot and be forgotten. You knew the world sensed how broken you were. You still refused to allow Baelor to see that for himself. You quickly blinked the tears away, lightly wrapping your small arms around his middle, the feeling of his dagger cold against your skin.
In the dining hall, the long table was decorated moutains of food, the music playing from the other side loud and cheerful.
“You haven’t touched your food,” Your uncle quietly spoke. “Is there any truth in that you do not like the food here?”
You were startled by the question. Why would that matter?
“I do, Your Grace.” You looked at him, then quickly looked back down to your plate.
You could feel your uncle’s stare. The left side of your face burned from it.
When you picked up your fork, you saw his own placing a piece of roasted lamb on your plate.
“If you won’t touch the rest, at least eat the meat.” Baelor said.
You forced yourself to eat it, red and bloody, just as you hated. When you glanced at his plate, it was empty.
Supper was loud and cheerful. The people around you celebrated the Hand of the King’s presence in their halls. Your uncle was kind to those who addressed him—polite and respectful, as was his nature.
Though most of his words were reserved for you, quiet and intimate. His questions were innocent, slightly interrogative, daringly prying into the last ten and thirteen years you had been by yourself.
You still ignored why he was here.
Not addressing the real questions you wished for him to ask you began to feel like suffocation, a dark and cold cloud invading your throat and nose. You had to be alone. You were always alone.
But, just when you were about to excuse yourself, Baelor gently placed a hand on your forearm. He knew.
“Would you join me for a walk outside, princess?” He asked.
Of course you would. Of course. Stupid, cannot even stay faithful to your own self.
You nodded slightly, excused yourself, and followed your uncle outside the castle.
The cool summer air hit your face, and you felt like you could breathe again. You liked the summer air. You thought it smelt nice.
Baelor walked slowly, ensured you were comfortable, but you could see him struggling. He wanted to speak, you witnessed his fight, his voice failing him.
At the stables, he finally spoke.
“Your aunt tells me you are quite fond of your mare.” He smiled.
His voice sent shivers down your spine. You could not quite believe you were allowed to hear it again, alive and ringing in your ears.
“I do. Her name is Moonlight.” You gently smiled back, a smile only reserved for your beloved horse. The first of the night.
At the sound of your voice, Moonlight approached you.
“She is quite the beauty.” He said as he gently touched her soft snout. Moonlight seemed to enjoy his touch, nodding her head up and down.
“She is,” you said. “She has my whole heart.”
Baelor looked at you then, another painful flash in his eyes. Who could have caused him so much pain?
When you looked away, you reached inside a small pocket of your dress, the same in every one of them. You removed a small red apple and gave it to Moonlight, who happily chewed on it.
You made your way down to the hill after your horse had retreated to her stable, Baelor following you quietly. You overlooked the entire Vale from where you stood. One of the few beauties you had seen in your life, lit by the cold moonlight.
“I come here when I struggle to find sleep,” You suddenly spoke. Baelor looked at the side of your face. “Which is often, but that’s all right. It’s peaceful and quiet, and I know Moonlight is behind me, watching over me.”
Baelor looked at the spot your mare had stood a few minutes ago. When he looked back at you, he noticed your trembling figure.
Baelor undid his black cloak and placed it gently over your shoulders. His hands lingered where he clasped the robe underneath your chin. Just a few seconds.
It was heavy, and way too big for you, but it smelt like him. It was warm.
He did not know you were not trembling from the cold.
Silence followed. You could practically see the words trying to form inside his mouth. So, with the little strength you possessed, you spoke first. “Why are you here, Your Grace?”
“Please,” He started quietly, pain lacing his words once again. “Do not be so formal with me.”
“Why have you come here, uncle?” You asked again after a few moments, this time looking him in the eyes.
This startled Baelor. Like he suddenly could not believe it was you, standing in front of him, all flesh and blood and rot.
“It’s your father,” he finally said, sighing. “An unfortunate accident. He is no longer with us, princess."
You stared at his eyes. His mismatched eye resembled your own, a flicker of Old Valyria fighting to make itself seen to the world.
You were supposed to feel saddened by the news. Your cousin had received similar news a few moons ago, and she wept for days. You could hear her every night from your chambers.
You felt nothing. You blamed the rot inside you for it.
“I hope he is no longer troubled, then.” You finally said.
You noticed your uncle had not expected you to weep over your father’s impending doom. He did not even bother with an explanation. An accident, he said. You quietly thanked him for it.
His face was crippled with concern nonetheless.
“Why did you come all the way here? I am sure a raven could have delivered the news.” You sounded genuinely curious.
If only you knew how it pained Baelor—to know you did not think yourself worthy of a visit to have such news delivered to you.
“You have just lost the only parent you had left. I did not want you to be alone when—“
“I have been alone my entire life, uncle. My father hated me, we all know it. He may not even have been my real father.” You cut him off. You were surprised by it yourself. You do not believe you ever spoke this freely. You do not believe you ever spoke this much at once at all.
You still sounded as gentle as ever.
“Do not say that. You are blood of the dragon, you know this deep in your heart. You are my niece.” He straightened his posture, towering over you.
“Then where were you?” You suddenly asked. You spoke slowly, your speech almost slurred from the pain it caused you. “Where were you all these years, uncle? I know the gods hate me, I know I should not be here but—“
“Don’t,” Baelor said abruptly, as if you had insulted him personally. You saw his hands hesistantly reach for both your cheeks, warm and trembling slightly. “Gods, please, don’t say that.” He pleaded again, his thumbs lightly wiping away the tears that had slowly filled your eyes. You had fought so hard to keep them away all night.
His touch burned you. You wanted him off you; you wanted him closer. You wanted to scream and cry and let out the ugliness that had flourished inside you over the years. You placed your own trembling hands on his chest, pushing him away, begging him to keep holding you.
“I should have come sooner, I know.” His eyebrows were pulled tightly together. “I wanted to, the gods know how much I did. I should have fought harder when I was told I couldn’t.” He thumbs continued their gentle assault on your face.
“I sent you letters. Did you read them? I wanted to know that you were safe, that you were happy. I prayed for it.” He confessed.
You, however, did not confess that you had kept all of them in a small box underneath your bed. You read them again and again on nights when you believed your worth was no more than that of a sheet of paper.
“I am sorry, princess.” Baelor whispered. “Nothing I ever do will make up for the past years, but I am here now. I won’t leave until I know you are truly happy in your heart.” He slowly withdrew his hands.
You thought he might as well die in the Vale, then.
Baelor walked you back to your chambers that night, a look of concern still deeply settled on his face.
"Lord Arryn kindly offered me the chambers down the hall," He spoke once you reached your doors. "I am right here if you need me."
You frowned tiredly. The biggest chambers were on the other side of the castle.
"Will you be all right?" He searched your eyes.
Of course you would be. You weren't even sure if this was real. Maybe another cruel jest from the gods.
You smiled tiredly. "Goodnight, uncle."
You gave his cloak back, retreated inside the room, and collapsed onto your bed. Sleep overtook you like a wave crashing onto the shore, quick and powerful.
You dreamt of a dark dragon that night. He was terrifyingly beautiful.
When you woke the next morning, you had convinced yourself that last night's events had been a dream, indeed a cruel jest from the gods.
You forced yourself up. Bathed and changed into another dress, a green one this time. Two small braids decorating the crown of your head. Breathing felt more painful today.
So, when you joined the dining hall, you thought your eyes had been an accomplice to the cruel jest the gods had played on you the night prior.
Because your uncle Baelor was sitting at the table. He was there, breathing and alive. He held fruits in his hands and politely smiled at one of the lords speaking to him.
He must really be here if others could see him too, you thought.
His eyes found yours as soon as you entered the room, a real smile reaching his eyes.
"Princess," he called. He pulled the chair to his right.
You sat next to him. The fruits tasted sweeter today. You heard your uncle speak of war and battle stories, the lords around him offering him all their attention.
"Allow us to offer you our condolences, Your Grace." One of the lords suddenly spoke after a moment of silence had claimed the room. "The loss of your brother, the prince, hurts us all. We shall mourn his—"
Of course. Your father was dead, this was the reason for your uncle's visit. He would leave soon, you told yourself. Leaving you again, leaving you to rot like you were always meant to.
"I hear the Vale is quite the beauty during this time of the year," Baelor's voice snapped you out of your thoughts. "I ought to go for a ride and explore the compounds to see for myself. Would you and Moonlight care to join us?"
A warm feeling buzzed inside your chest. You had not felt this in years, and it frightened you. It would not last.
When you reached the stables, you noticed the horse your uncle mounted was different from the one you remembered. Mightnight, you think. The big, dark stallion.
Baelor caught your expression. He always did.
"Midnight passed a few years ago."
You felt your heart squeeze painfully, the look on your face raw and unfiltered.
You never got to give the horse the apples.
"Do not be saddened, princess," he smiled. "I promise you, Midnight lived a long and happy life. He was cared for."
You nodded, petting your own horse a bit more lovingly this time.
"This is his son, actually." Baelor spoke again, the warm feeling returning to your chest at his words. He looked happy, proud of the stallion that stood by his side. It was endearing. This horse was a bit brighter than Midnight, with a striking white streak running down his mane.
The ride lasted for hours. The Vale was indeed beautiful, a fact you found yourself forgetting at times. This was your sentence, after all, your punishment for entering the world the way you did, a glamorous prison hidden high in the skies between the mountains. If you closed your eyes, pretended you were here of your own free will, you would almost feel like a princess in a fairy tale, one that songs were written about.
And so, this unprompted ride had turned into a routine in the days that followed. Your mornings were the same, but they became increasingly easier to confront with each passing day. You awoke, dressed in your riding clothes instead of your usual dresses that hugged you too tightly. You forced breakfast down your throat to please your uncle, then mounted your horses for hours on end.
On the second day, you rode down to the rolling green fields and pasturelands that expanded farther than your eyes could ever reach. You stopped in the middle of one of the fields, your mounts happily grazing on the thick and fresh grass beneath their hooves. The look of awe in Baelor's eyes made your heart swell, and you could not help but stare at the side of his face as he looked ahead of him, his mouth slightly agape.
"Beautiful, isn't it?" You asked quietly.
"The words fail me, princess." Baelor said as he looked back at you.
The sudden sound of bells forced you to tear your gaze away. To your right, wide pastures fenced off by stones and wooden posts held a flock of sheep, lazily walking towards the bright green grass, an old farmer on their tail. You both smiled at the sight.
Then, when Moonlight had decided she wished to graze no longer, you carried on with the ride, the two of you slowly disappearing into the gentle hills that basked in the warm orange sunlight.
On the third day, you guided your uncle past the pastures this time, promising him that what lay beyond them would not disappoint. You trotted side by side, answering his questions, and you were glad about it. His curious nature shone bright during these escapades, and you grew fonder of him for it, selfishly pleased he came to you with his queries rather than some lord or lady at the Eyrie.
You approached your secret favorite scene in the Vale, Moonlight's too it seemed, as she happily took off and galloped away. You heard Baelor call out for you, his laugh ringing in your ears as he chased behind you, no longer the prince burdened with carrying the weight of the realm on his shoulders. You laughed softly as well, a rare sound escaping your throat, a secret hidden between you and your mare. Your heart galloped just as fast.
Finally, rows in the hundreds of apple orchards came into view, each tree hanging heavy with bright red fruits. You stopped at one particular tree in the middle and dismounted from your horse, waiting for Baelor to reach you.
"You could have warned me you were taking us to a paradise for horses." He chuckled as he tied their reins around the tree's trunk. You smiled back at him, beaming at his voice, so gentle and caring when addressed to you.
"Is this your doing?" He suddenly asked, and your heart skipped a beat when you noticed he was pointing at it. Carved deeply into the side of the tree bark; a small dragon.
"Oh," you picked at your nails. "Yes, I—" you studdered, suddenly feeling shy. "I did this years ago when I first discovered this place. I fix it every time I come here."
Baelor looked at you, his gaze filled with so much pride and joy, and it turned your insdes warm again. He ungloved his right hand and touched the rough patch, feeling it, then gently brushed his fingers against your chin. "My little dragon."
Baelor walked past you and picked one of the red apples that hung low on the tree, but you found it difficult to breathe with your heart beating so violently against your chest.
He offered it to you, and your ungloved hand brushed his when you grabbed the fruit. His gaze locked onto yours for a few seconds then, his eyes mismatched but so strikingly beautiful, shining brighter than ever with the sun's reflection swimming inside them.
You moved then, forcing yourself to, and walked towards his horse.
"May I?" You asked softly, pointing at the stallion.
"Of course," he laughed quietly. "I suspect Moonlight is quite the spoiled mare."
You nodded blissfully, tenderly offering the apple to the black horse who happily munched on it. You thought of Midnight.
You remained underneath the rich trees longer than expected, basking in the happy chirps of the singing birds surrounding you. The comforting scent of grain flying with the wind from the nearby golden fields of wheat invaded your senses, and just for a second, just for this moment, you allowed yourself to feel simply and freely happy.
On the fourth day, you felt adventurous. Instead of fields and orchards, you took Baelor to the small villages spread across the hills surrounding the Vale. You disguised yourselves in commoner attire, your dark hair for once coming to your aid, shielding away your dragon blood from anyone to witness.
"Is the ale not to your liking, my prince?" You feigned curiosity, an innocent but mocking undertone to your question.
"I am not sure I would call this ale." Baelor coughed, his face faintly scrunched in distaste. "I did not think a young lady such as yourself would find pleasure in drinking—this." He reluctantly smelled his cup.
"I don't," you quietly laughed. "But I do love the cherry pie."
Baelor looked different in these clothes; he looked normal, and common, and free. Everything he was not. You found it especially difficult to tear your eyes away from him that day.
You walked towards the village square, your shoulder bumping into his every so often. It sent shocks throughout your body each time. You frowned at them.
The smell of smoke rising high from the stone cottage chimneys was strong in the air, and you breathed it in, dulling your stirring nerves. Baelor's curious eyes scanned the busy markets, and when he deemed his distinctiveness hidden well enough in the confines of the cape he wore, he approached the merchants. He spoke to them, touched the grains harvested the day before in his hands, bought eggs from the hard-working farmers.
Hidden behind him, a twin to his own dark shadow, you smiled. He will be a good king one day.
On the fifth day, you abandoned your bed before dawn. Your tingling nerves were far too busy stealing your sleep away from you anyway, so you surrendered, both of you lazily riding towards the rivers that wound through the rich forests.
You sat side by side at the edge of the riverbank, and the sun hung low in the sky still, almost too shy to show its face. The moon's last efforts of the night turned the flowing water beneath you into molten silver, shimmering so brightly through the mist it held you mesmerised.
"Why did the gods make us warriors when such beauty exists?"
Baelor's leg touched yours as he sat on the wet grass, his dark cloak pooling around him.
"To entertain themselves, perhaps?" You asked after a moment of silence.
Baelor hummed, his gentle gaze still fixed on the flowing silver strips.
You selfishly stared at his profile, breathing in the cold crisp air steadily. You would pick up a shield and sword and fight the gods all by yourself if it meant his burden would die away, if he could find this peace and beauty you knew he craved so.
Baelor sighed when he slowly turned to look at you, a soft smile tugging at his lips. And while you found it increasingly difficult to breathe as his eyes locked onto yours, you did not waver. You held his gaze, questioning, longing for something that held such secrecy.
His hand rose to your face, and you noticed the sun unhurriedly waking up on his back. Baelor felt a strand of your dark hair in between his fingers then, delicately tucking it behind your ear.
The reflection of the moon's dimming light behind you kissed the iris of his eyes, and they equally shone bright when they centered on you.
"Do you think the gods also intended to make your eyes a perfect reflection of my own?" Baelor's palm now cupped your cheek, his touch painfully gentle and warm as he stroked the soft skin there.
You felt the sun's rising beams behind him shine into your soul, and you blinked a few times. "I am your kin, Your Grace".
Baelor's touch moved to your jaw, carefully craddling it in his hand, scarred and bruised by the battles of his past. "You are my little dragon," he said. "His Grace belongs to the rest of these supposed kingdoms."
The river whispered through the wind as the day slowly awoke. With Baelor so near and your horses resting by the trees a few yards away from you, you listened.
But on that fifth night, sleep could not find you.
You tried, you begged for it to come. Your mind was racing with vile thoughts, and you blamed your curse for it. They were as vile as they were consuming, and you desperately needed them to quiet before insanity engulfed you whole. You did not know just how much of you was left to be devoured.
You got up abruptly, thin night gown clinging to your sweat-covered body. You needed air, you needed water, your lungs were burning.
You walked, you ran towards your door. But when you opened it, Baelor stood behind it, right arm slightly raised and ready to knock.
He looked just as surprised as you did.
"Your Grace?" You sounded almost breathless.
He stared at you, the look of surprise on his face replaced by a blanker, darker one. He cracked his neck.
"I told you not to be so formal with me." A quiet warning.
You felt something strange grow inside you, tight and almost uncomfortable.
"The hour is late," you swallowed. "Is there something you—"
Baelor cut you off, suddenly invading your space all tall and imposing, forcing your steps back. He shut the door behind him.
He towered over you. Fully and intentionally. It hit you then just how weak you were in comparison. He could snap you in half if he wanted to, and you wouldn't be able to defend yourself. You would not wish to.
"My entire life, I have been noble." His voice was dangerously low. His steps were slow but determined, yours feeble and clumsy. "I have played my part. Done everything that was asked of me."
Your back hit your bedpost, and it startled you. You gripped it with your arms slightly behind your back, grounding yourself. Trying to.
"I secretly hated my brother for what he did to you, did you know?" He continued. "Dying such a cowardly death. I know that was his punishment for treating his own child the way he did."
You saw it then. The thin layer of sweat above his forehead. The smell of red wine on this breath.
He was drunk. And he was in your chambers. So close, you could feel the heat of him, warm against your cold figure.
"So, I felt responsible for you. As an uncle, as the future king. Protector of the Realm, Protector of my own niece." His tormented eyes were unfocused, searching for something to rest on. Somewhere safe.
"I only ever wanted to see you safe and happy. I came here, stupidly believing I would find the little girl who always looked so sad. I wanted to bring you back to your family, I wanted to bring you home."
The prince was pleading, and the raw sound of it ripped your heart apeart.
"But I was wrong," a bitter scoff. His eyes left your own and found your lips for a slight moment. "You are not that little girl anymore."
You thought you had stopped breathing. Your lungs were going to fail you, and you were going to die a cowardly death just like your father did.
Baelor's hand slowly came up to your cheek again, just like it had at the river. This time, it felt more intimate, more dirty. It felt like his touch ignited a fire that spread throughout your whole body, one you knew you would fight hard to kill.
His thumb lightly stroked the apple of your cheek. "You are grown." He whispered, a secret only you were meant to hear. “Beautiful and dangerous.”
His eyes found your lips again, and you let out a short breath.
"You startled me, you know?" He slowly slid his hand from your cheek down to your neck. Slow, always so slow. "I never expected to be faced with such a beauty," he rested his hand possessively on the right side of your throat. "I almost did not recognize you, if not for your hair."
You swallowed, and you know he felt it under his touch. It brought his eyes to it. His thumb pressed into your throat, the delicate and hollow skin dipping under the pressure, and you gasped.
"Maybe this is my own punishment for wishing ill on my brother," he sounded breathless, his hand now fully circling your throat. "But I cannot sleep. I barely eat. You invade my thoughts, day and night, you do. Dark and ugly thoughts, I feel as if I can barely restrain myself."
"Is this your way of punishing me? For letting my brother send you away?" His hooded eyes found yours again. The hold on your throat tightened. You brought your own hands to his wrist, gripping it, grounding yourself once more. You shook your head.
"You will hate me for this," he brought his other hand to your cheek, angling your face the way he liked. "I suppose no more than I already hate myself."
Your heart galloped faster than it had ever before. He was so close, you felt his nose bump into yours. Your lips parted, and you hated how breathless you sounded.
His grip on you was tight. Maybe if he let go, even just a bit, you would disappear into thin air, just like you did all those years ago.
You felt his lips, warm and there, slightly touch your own. You realised he was breathless, too. Breathing into each other, suspended in a stolen moment meant just for the two of you. Savouring it before it crystallises. Frowning deeply, you looked tortured, and so did he. Your small hands weakly squeezed his wrist, strong and imposing.
When you felt his lips were about to claim yours, he froze.
Baelor slowly moved away from you. When his conflicted eyes found your confused ones, he spoke without words. What did I just do?
He removed his hands, as if disgusted by the rotten flesh covering your inner self. The same flesh he held onto so desperately just moments ago. You suddenly felt so cold, it knocked the breath out of you.
"What," barely a whisper out of you. The overwhelming feeling growing inside you brought tears to your eyes, and you moved your hand to your throat, clinging onto whatever was left of his touch.
"I didn't," Baelor stumbled back, a look of horror on his face. "I shouldn't—"
You had never seen your uncle so uncertain before, so not in control. The commanding prince, the powerful warrior, reduced to a shaking and muddled mess in front of you.
You had caused this. You made repulsiveness bloom inside anyone who dared touch or look towards you, and your uncle was at last no longer an exception to your curse.
You knew this would happen eventually. You knew Baelor would not be blinded to your vile core forever. That he would join the rest of them in due course, looking at you with a blend of pity and foulness.
You did not know it would burn so violently when he finally did.
Baelor mumbled something under his breath before stumbling out of your chambers. When the sound of the door shutting hit your ears, you fell to the ground. The air around you was heavy, struggling to reach your lungs. You felt it, gripping onto your chest, your body forcing you to take deep breaths.
Why must nature make it so when all you wanted in that moment was for the Stranger to finally come knock at your door?
When you awoke the next morning, you felt the hard floor dig into your back. You stared at the ceiling, the cold feeling inside you slowly numbing you completely. Your head was pounding.
Your lady in waiting stumbled inside your chambers after what seemed like an hour, horror lacing her words at the sight of you on the floor. You let her pick yourself up, bathe you and dress you. You let her take control of your body when you no longer could.
When she finished, you were urged to join the dining hall. The thought of food almost made you vomit, so you climbed into your bed, wishing for darkness and quiet to claim your mind once more.
You spent the next few days in bed, only leaving its false comfort to bathe.
"Please, princess," your lady in waiting begged you. "You must eat something."
You refused to leave your chambers. You allowed her to bring you some porridge, forcibly swallowing the meal in your bed. It tasted like mud.
On the seventh day, you finally spoke.
You felt your lady in waiting's hands stumble for a second at the sound of your voice. She knew who you spoke of.
"His Grace is still here." The water was cold, it was always so cold. "The Hand has been attending matters with Lord Arryn. He and his son have returned from their hunt."
"He worries about you, princess." She said after a moment of quiet.
"He questions me every day. He worries you are not eating enough, that you are not getting sufficient sunlight." She continued. "His Grace is personally tending to Moonlight as well," you heard the smile in her voice. "Says you will want her ready and healthy when you decide to ride her again."
The mention of your horse drew a reaction out of you. You instantly felt guilty for abandoning your beloved mare, who deserved so much better than you, for allowing yourself to feel a sliver of hope at the mention of your uncle's actions.
On the ninth day, you heard a strong knock at your door. Startled, you sat up straight in your bed.
"What could possibly be the matter with you that you would allow yourself to rot away like some kind of sickly peasant?" Your old aunt's voice was stern, as stern as her features.
You stared at her blankly.
"You will ready yourself and join the dining hall at once for supper. His lordship's son is beginning to ask questions."
You felt an unpleasant shiver run through your spine. But you obeyed, like you always did. Your opinion mattered not; most of the time, you knew that.
So, you wore the tight dress that was meant for you, the one that forced your chest and made it difficult to breathe. You let your hair be combed and braided, even allowed a bit of powder to be dabbed onto the delicate features of your face. At the sight of you, his lordship's son rose from his chair, toothy smile on display. He moved towards you, and he smelt of leather. It instantly irritated your nostrils.
"I am glad to see you, my lady," the man said as he took your hand in his. You fought the urge to pull it back. "Sickness be damned, a lady such as yourself should not waste away in bed."
When he lowered his head to place a kiss on your hand, wet and sticky, you stared ahead of you.
You saw him then, sitting at the table, dark clothes hugging his broad frame that screamed of power, a cup of wine pinched in between his right hand.
Baelor looked ahead of him, his stare locked onto your hand, the one being kissed by another man. It was dark and menacing, and you hated the dress you wore even more for making the simple act of breathing so burdensome.
The man pulled you next to him at the table, and you sat right across from your uncle. He spoke a lot, you thought. The man sitting next to you. He had killed three boars with his bare hands, he said, and even dedicated one of the kills to you.
You did not feel particularly inclined to reciprocate his interest, quietly hoping you were not expected to entertain him later tonight. He also touched you a lot, his hand often on your own, on the table, underneath it. His arm heavy on your shoulders once the wine got to his head, a bit too wide for his own shoulders, his touch moving to your nape, down to your back.
You felt uncomfortable. Not just because his touch was undesired, but because your uncle was unnaturally quiet. You noticed his right leg fidget uncontrollably underneath the table, his cold gaze fixated on the man jesting beside you.
Your heart was beating painfully inside your chest, the situation you found yourself in slowly but surely suffocating you. You felt shame claim its place right beside your uncomfortableness, and your cheeks burned at the thought of your uncle witnessing the way you were handled, like some kind of servant whore.
You picked at the food on your plate, desperately trying to distract yourself, when you suddenly felt the man's breath, hot against your ear.
"If it pleases you, my lady, I would love nothing more than to tell you all about the hunt in the comfort of my chambers later tonight."
You shrank slightly at his words, your gaze naturally seeking your uncle's for the first time tonight. But when you glanced up, he was already looking at you, his stare darker than ever before.
Baelor was noticeably fuming, looking every bit the dragon he was always meant to be. You shivered as you stared back, slightly out of breath, right hand gripping your dress until your knuckles turned white. Feeling the man's lips so near your neck, you fought your inner self at the thought that crossed your mind. It was fleeting, lasting a second only. But, it was there. Your eyes never left Baelor's.
Your throat began feeling tight, shame and desire alike choking you. You knew what your uncle thought of you, you knew what you were to him. You knew you disgusted him.
You still wished it were him.
When the man lightly smacked your thigh as he went over the gruesome details of the third boar he had slaughtered, the sharp sound of it louder than he surely intended it to be, you flinched.
Baelor snapped then, the fire inside him consuming him from the inside out, taking over his senses, his usually diplomatic and controlled senses. His closed fist hit the table, loud and striking, and suddenly the room went quiet.
"Pardon me, my lord, but I was not aware of your proximity to my niece."
His voice was menacing and echoed throughout the space surrounding you. Gone was the chivalrous prince, composed and polite. Tonight, the people of the Eyrie were facing a dragon.
"Your Grace?" The red wine he had poured down his throat all night slurred the man's speech. His hair fell in front of his eyes, untidy and greasy.
The prince stood up, his chair sharply screeching as it scraped the floor. He firmly gripped the edge of the table in front of him with both hands and said, "I would like to know whether the recent hunt that has you boasting for the past hour has filled your feeble mind with such deluded confidence that you now feel entitled to touch royal blood so freely?"
Baelor's voice was low and scarily sharp, slicing its way through the deafening silence of the room like a skilled swordsman. You were afraid to move, you were afraid to breathe.
You could feel the man beside you stiffen as he removed himself from your personal space.
"And yet you laid your sullied hands on my niece right in front of me." He spat.
Your eyes never moved away from your uncle, not even once. He was all you could see, all you could feel beside the painful and rapid pulse in your throat.
Baelor left his place at the table and approached you. He looked at you then, a silent order to stand up with a subtle tilt of his head.
When you felt his hand grip your arm, strong and possessive, he spoke again, looking down at the man who had cowered into his chair.
"The princess is but a young woman not yet betrothed to any man. Do the people of the Vale fail to teach their sons to refrain from touching ladies when they are not meant to?"
"My prince, I meant to speak to you about this—" the man stuttered.
"There is nothing to speak of." Baelor's tone was final. "The princess is tired, I will see her to her chambers."
You blinked, and you suddenly felt yourself being dragged back to the hallways, your uncle's hold on you as present as ever. It almost felt desperate.
The walk to your chambers was quiet, safe for Baelor's harsh breathing. His pace was quick and unforgiving, and you struggled to keep up with him.
"Uncle, please," you managed to say. "I cannot walk that fast."
The pleading in your voice made him stop, and he slowly turned towards you, a look of guilt flashing through his eyes. When you looked back at him, he sighed, his eyes closing for a few seconds.
When he opened them again, he tightened his grip on your arm, almost as if trying to calm himself, to remind himself that you are here, standing beside him, safe and protected. Then, he pushed you back slightly against the cold wall behind you.
"Why did you not tell me?" He whispered.
"I know this was not the first time that foolish lord put his hands on you. Why did you not tell me someone here was bothering you?" He searched your eyes.
"I did not think that mattered." You spoke after a while.
You saw the look appear in his eyes again. The dark look that had clouded his eyes earlier at the dinner table.
"Stop doing that," he whispered through gritted teeth, shoving you further into the wall. "Stop living your life as if you did not matter."
You looked into his eyes, your own widening slightly at your uncle's loss of composure.
"I have never mattered. You know that, you have witnessed it yourself."
Baelor looked at you with so much despair, it hurt. But you knew you did not matter; you had forever lived your life by that reality, day after day.
"I will no longer have you speak so ill of yourself in my presence, you do understand?" His face drew closer to yours.
And you wanted to say yes, you wanted to be good for him, to do as he says. But then you wondered, why must he be so cruel?
Because he was cruel in that moment, you thought. For looking at you with such intensity, you were willing to give up breathing for him. For being so close to you, you could almost see his soul through his mirrored eyes, bare and exposed and longing. For being so fiercely protective of your wellbeing, it tricked your mind into believing fantasies you knew only lived in the sanctuary of your most secretive thoughts.
For looking as though he were fighting his own inner demons with every ounce of power and courage he had built throughout his years as a warrior when his eyes eventually fell to your lips.
You became aware of the burning tears in your eyes too late. How much more of this would you be able to endure?
"You matter to me," he spoke more softly this time, his free hand gently caressing your cheek. You closed your eyes at his touch; it made you mad. The same hand that was clenched so tightly earlier, that would have choked the life out of that man if he wanted to, touching you so gently. "More than you can imagine."
When you opened your eyes again, you saw his slightly shining as well, now a perfect reflection of yours.
"So, you must tell me," he spoke again. "Has he ever hurt you?"
It took you a few moments to understand who your uncle spoke of.
"Do not lie to me," he begged.
"I am not lying, uncle." You brought your hand to the one cupping your cheek, gently removing it from your face. You could not bear such gentle touch when you knew you repulsed him. He should not be touching you, he should not be near you.
"He never truly hurt me," you spoke, looking at his hand that now lay limp by his side. "He sometimes requests that I come to his chambers, but he does not touch me, not much at least."
You felt the grip on your arm tighten once again. "What does he ask of you, then?"
"He likes to speak a lot. He wants me to sit on the bench by his bed and listen to his tales." You explained.
Baelor looked at you with a demented look.
"He does not ask much of me," you spoke the truth, yet you could not meet his eyes, too ashamed, too weak. "Only that I wear a light night gown when I join him."
Your uncle's eyes slowly squeezed shut, pained and enraged, before bowing his head down, his forehead slightly touching yours. You heard him curse quietly, and his breathing came out harsh against you. You stayed there for a while, the man's queer requests suddenly dawning on you, cold and ugly.
"He does not touch me, uncle." You felt the need to reassure him. "I suspect my aunt wishes for me to marry him eventually. She says it is an opportunity to further strengthen the ties between House Arryn and House Targaryen." You placed a tentative hand on his shoulder.
When Baelor looked up again, he looked scarily composed.
"I will kill him," he then said. He released your arm and stormed off.
Panic engulfed you, and you ran after him, latching onto his sleeve. Why did you have to speak?
"Please, uncle," you pleaded. "I cannot see you hurt, I would not bear it." Your hands slipped down to grab his, holding onto it with every shred of strength you had left.
"What makes you think he could ever hurt me?"
"He could hurt you in many more ways than just bruising your flesh." You hoped the desperate look you bore would be enough to convince him. "Please."
Baelor looked at you, frowning, scanning your face for any truths you may still be hiding from him.
When he finally sighed, a sign of defeat, you released a breath you did not know you were holding.
"You shall never be alone with that man ever again," he said. "As of this moment, you will have two members of Kingsguard guard your door and accompany you wherever you go until I have handled this situation."
You nodded, compliant, willing yourself to breathe normally again.
Baelor escorted you to your chambers after a while, not leaving until the Kingsguard arrived. With so much left unsaid, you retreated inside, alone.
You did not see Baelor for days after that. You told yourself that he was busy with his duties, busy fixing the mess you had created for yourself.
Perhaps it would be better if you were not seen, not by your old aunt who would likely strike you down with a disappointed look, nor by the man who shamelessly lusted over you, now perhaps driven by vengeance over his soiled honour.
You busied yourself as much as you could. You rode Moonlight from dusk till dawn until your thighs screamed in protest, groomed and fed her more than you should have, the Kingsguard twins always at your tail. When even she could not dim the painfully hollow feeling that tore your insides apart, you began scheming.
If Baelor would not see you, you would ambush him.
You tried, your poor soul begging for a rest. In the dining hall, in the gardens, at the stables. You followed him, you waited for him. But the moment he saw you, that serious and dutiful look permanently fixed onto his tortured features, he left, taking a piece of your damaged and rotten soul away forever with him.
You burned in shame in front of the knights sworn to protect your blood as they followed your every move and witnessed your every blow. If you strike yourself down right this instant, would they help you, you wondered? Would they press the blade further into your flesh, or would they break their vow and remove it?
You felt your sanity begin to slip away as the days stretched on. Because as your thoughts fought against each other in the cold confines of your mind, you struggled.
Baelor was an honourable man, and you knew the feelings he held for your family’s queer traditions. He despised it, it repulsed him, you once heard him say when your father had betrothed your older brother and sister. He was disgusted by it, he was disgusted by you, that much was clear.
But how could you ignore the way he looked when his eyes found you? The night he had burst into your own personal and protected corner, uncharacteristically drunk and seemingly on the brink of collapse if he did not let himself be tempted by the forbidden fruit trembling right in front of him.
He was going to kiss you, you knew it, you were sure of it. You had felt his lips brush yours, tasted his desperation on your tongue with every breath he took. The hold he had on your throat was possessive, it was claiming and desperate, you could still feel it in your veins, on your skin.
He had wanted you that night.
How could he reconcile craving something he was repulsed by?
When your thoughts began bleeding through your ears, you hid your face in the cape of your cloak and let your steps override your mind. The hour was improper, you knew it, but your efforts to confront your uncle had been in vain, and you were drowning inside.
When you reached Baelor’s chamber door, you knocked, soft and fragile and trembling. You could hear your own breathing, harsh and suffocating, but you knocked again. Again, and again, and again.
The door opened, and as your uncle’s tortured and confused eyes met yours, you pushed past him. The room was dark, but you focused on the few lit candles scattered across the boards, willing, begging for your heart to take a rest.
“What—“, barely a whisper. “What are you doing here?”
Breathe, you told yourself. Focus, and breathe.
“I have always believed you to be the wisest and most honourable man in the realm,” your voice quivered as you turned to face him, sounding nothing like the confidence you tried so hard to achieve. Baelor had closed the door, wary, or most likely ashamed of exposing your presence at such an intimate hour in his chambers.
His look was stern, almost cold.
You would not let it get to you.
“You took care of me when no one else did, and I grew fond of you for it." Pain laced each word you spoke. “But when I saw you here again, I realised it was more than just fondness, uncle, it was—“
“Stop,” Baelor raised his hand and walked firmly past you towards his desk, his voice failing his action. “Return to your chambers, princess.”
“No,” you said firmly. Baelor looked up from his books, a look of surprise taking over his painfully beautiful features. “Where was your honor when you visited my chambers that night?"
Baelor's face visibly blanked, and you saw him swallow.
"I do not speak much, but I am not blind, uncle." You removed the cape from your head, the candlelight reflecting the darkness of your hair.
"Stop it." Baelor's palm hit the book in front of him.
"I saw it in your eyes," you slowly approached him. "How can a wise man like yourself be so repulsed by it yet betray your beliefs at the mere sight of me?”
“What are you speaking of?” Baelor tapped the book with his knuckles now, anxious and fearful, his voice ragged.
“Which one is it, uncle?" You asked as you stopped in front of him. "Do I repulse you that much that you feel the need to run away from me?"
He was slightly trembling, too, his brows deeply frowning.
"Or do you wish to press me against this wall and touch me as if I were yours?" Your voice shook, and you slowly brought a trembling hand to his face.
Baelor harshly grabbed your wrist before you could touch him, his grip bruising. You gasped.
"Stop." he breathed again, looking down at you.
"Because I do," you brought your other hand to where he gripped your wrist and slowly touched your lips to his withening knuckles. His hold on you eased, and you heard his breath catch at the feeling of your lips on his skin.
Releasing yourself from him, you placed your hands on his broad, hard chest, his own falling limp by his side. Ever the faultless prince, still dressed in his perfectly fitted robes, drenched in the colors of your house.
"I want to feel you on my skin," you said quietly, pushing yourself on the tip of your toes before pressing a soft kiss to his cheek.
"Gods, please, princess." Baelor's hands instantly found your waist, and he gripped it, hard. His face lowered, instinctively granting you easier access despite his evident reluctance.
"I want you to touch me," you pressed another hesitant kiss on his jaw, feeling his beard under the soft skin of your lips. "I want you to take from me what you came to claim the other night." Another kiss underneath his jaw.
Baelor's breathing became uneven, and you saw his chest move from it.
"I want you to kiss me," you finally said, pressing a kiss on his neck, lingering and breathing there, waiting.
Baelor felt his sanity snap at your sinful words. He softly groaned as he pressed you harshly against the wall behind you using the bruising hold he kept on your waist.
You slowly gasped as you felt your head strike the stone. When you opened your eyes, you saw it again—the conflicting and aching look in his.
"Why are you doing this to me?" He spoke harshly, his hands travelling to your face. They were big and strong, and they held your head with precise purpose, his thumbs slowly feeling your cheeks.
"Tell me that I repulse you," you sounded breathless, your hold on the fabric covering his broad chest tightening. "Speak the words, and I promise to vanish from your life forever."
Baelor's mismatched eyes desperately searched your own, jumping from one to the other, dropping to your mouth at times, too.
His sweet and innocent niece, so beautiful he caught himself asking the Mother why she had to make you so. He was meant to be your protector, a knight in heavy armor bound by an inner oath to shield you from this brutal and ugly world. Guard you from harm caused by others or by your poor self, from hungry, greedy, and prying eyes looming over your purity when you were too blinded to see.
"Baelor…" you whined, impatient and desperate, clinging onto whatever restraint you had left.
But at the sound of his name on your lips, so raw and needy, Baelor's sanity snapped for the second time that night, so did his honor, and he crashed his lips onto yours.
The kiss was bruising, and you could not help the hopeless sound that escaped you as you finally, finally, felt his lips move against yours. You sighed heavily against him, and he held your face firmly in between his hands, this precious thing he knew was not his to touch, yet he devoured you with such fervor you felt your consciousness slowly slip away.
When you made another sound, Baelor suddenly stopped, the side of his face touching yours as he breathed heavily against it.
"I can't," he whispered. "I cannot do this to you, please do not make me do this to you."
Your heart dropped at his words, at the sound of his voice, filled with so much pain and grief you could taste it yourself.
You brought your hands to his neck, cupping it, caressing the soft skin there. Could he not feel it, you wondered, the unfiltered desire that spilled out of you so shamelessly?
"Look at me," you said quietly, your voice so soft it made his head shake in despair.
Your right hand touched his jaw, gently turning his face towards you. Both your mismatched violet eyes locked onto each other, and you knew, then and there, you had him.
"I want this," you whispered with so much conviction, so much desire, before pressing a soft kiss to the corner of his mouth. "I want this," you said again, placing another kiss on the other side. "I want you, I want you." You kissed his face, over and over again, your touch so light and gentle it almost turned sinful.
Baelor's breathing was ragged, and he fought hard with himself, he did. His eyes screwed shut, he could see it, your father's sneer, ugly and disgusted.
But he was only just a man, as honorable as he was, and he was your uncle, and the hunger he felt for you could not be balanced with his chivalry, could not be put into words.
So, when he deemed to have served the realm well enough, his honor be damned, he grabbed your face again and kissed you with so much vigor and passion you could physically feel it, traveling throughout the rest of your body.
You wrapped your arms around his neck, pulling him closer, deepening the kiss. Baelor pushed you further into the wall, and you let him consume you the way he was always meant to, your lips trying to reach his fervor.
When he angled your face higher, you suddenly felt it, his tongue, hot and heavy, invading your mouth and soul. You moaned at the feeling, his tongue caressing yours with such gentleness it almost pardoned the filthy sounds that came out of it. You licked him back, your hand scraping the back of his scalp, and you heard him groan.
Baelor kissed you and kissed you, shifting slightly as he slowly slotted his right leg in between yours. The feeling caught you by surprise, and you gasped, breaking the kiss, your hooded eyes searching his.
"Fuck," he breathed harshly, his forehead resting against yours. "Does that make you feel good?"
You nodded, not trusting your voice. Baelor did it again, this time applying more pressure, more purpose, and he caught your lips again. The heat in between your legs spread, and when you moved slightly against his leg, you felt raw pleasure spike through your spine.
"That's it, my love," he spoke against your lips. "Use me—I'm right here, use me." He kissed you again, and you did as he said, slowly shifting your hips against him. You moaned into his mouth, the pleasure you felt dizzying.
Baelor's lips moved to your jaw, leaving a trail of kisses over every inch of your skin there. You tipped your head back against the wall, his hands leaving your face to unclasp your cloak, letting it fall on the ground at your feet, before grabbing you once more. Left in only your thin silk nightgown, your movements were shy, but you kept moving, the pressure in your lower belly growing stronger and stronger.
You moaned again when you felt his lips on your neck now, leaving open-mouthed kisses there that made your eyes slowly roll back into your head. Baelor lowered himself, kissing your colorbone, biting it slightly, smoothing it with his tongue. Both your hands held his head, subconsciously pushing him lower and lower, holding him against your beating heart.
When he placed a kiss over the swell of your breast, you felt his thumb gently, ever so gently, stroke your nipple above the soft silk. You moaned softly, your hips bucking against his thigh, and you felt it harden as he slowly circled it.
"Can I?" He asked so innocently. You nodded again, not sure what he meant, trusting him fully. "Fuck, I need—"
Baelor touched the strap of your dress, letting it fall over your shoulder, his fingers warm on your skin. The silk dropped on one side and exposed one of your breasts. Baelor cursed and bit his lip as he took you in, your skin impossibly soft and addicting, his gaze devouring you.
His thumb gently went over the curve of your breast, and he kissed the swell of it once more. He moved down then, taking your nipple into his mouth, and you whined at the wet and hot feeling, still holding his head in between your hands, pulling him closer and closer. The rough feeling of his beard against your sensitive skin there made you delirious, even more so when he rolled his tongue over your nipple, groaning at the feeling of it stiffening inside his mouth. He kissed above it, next to it, moving to your sternum, to your chest, your neck.
When Baelor reached your lips again, you melted against him, slowly becoming addicted to the feeling of him. With one hand cupping your face and the other holding onto the dip of your waist, he gently guided you towards the bed in the corner of the room.
You broke the kiss with a quiet gasp when you felt the bed hit the back of your legs, suddenly feeling anxious. Baelor stood tall above you, caging you completely with his height and his hold on you. You thought of it, of him taking control with such ease, such practice, such experience—he knew exactly what he was doing to you, how to guide you, how to make your knees go weak.
You were at his complete mercy.
It made your vision blur, and you craved it, this feeling of nervousness and unfiltered need.
Baelor noticed the look in your eyes. He gently grabbed your chin in his hand, tipping your head backwards to look at him.
"Do you trust me?" He asked, voice low.
Baelor smiled, then placed the softest kiss on your forehead, almost protective.
"I have you." He whispered as he gently let go of your face to grab your wrist instead.
He placed himself against the headboard then, gently pulling you onto him, your back touching his chest. You thought your skin was on fire, and you found it difficult to breathe when you felt Baelor's firm and broad chest engulf you, caging you in his own selfish desire.
His strong arms snaked their way around your sides, holding you firmly against him. His hands were curious; they were tentative and hungry when they slowly touched your skin. One hand crossed your belly and held onto your hip, the other cupped your shoulder and slid it down your arm, leaving a trail of goosebumps behind.
"Fuck, how are you allowing me to—" His face was in the crook of your neck, his voice low and starving. His hand travelled to the sharp bone of your clavicle, his palm rough but so warm against your skin, slowly dragging towards your chest. "I dreamt of you this way, pliant and bare in my bed." He cupped your exposed breast in his hand, the nipple of it still damp from his tongue's earlier assault, and squeezed gently. "It made me go mad for days, made me ill with guilt and need."
You let out a soft whine when his fingers gently squeezed your nipple, the words whispered so filthy in your ear, spreading the fire inside your veins. "But look at you now, you fucking want this." He breathed harshly, his voice still disbelieving, still convinced you are but a mirage from his darkest dreams.
"I do." You whined, trembling.
"Mm, and you dare think you repulse me," Bealor hummed. His free hand removed the remaining strap of your silk gown, and then you were fully exposed from the waist up, bare and vulnerable for his now unfiltered hunger. He cupped your other breast, the warm and soft skin of it sharply contrasting with his rough palm, and you heard him quietly curse at the sight of you this way. "I crave you as I have never craved anything in this dark world, can't you see?"
Baelor breathed into your neck, bit at your skin there, and you wondered why the gods had deprived you of this for so long.
His hold on your waist loosened, and you felt him touch your inner thigh, gently pushing your bent legs open. Baelor's other hand reluctantly released the sensitive skin at your breast and traveled down your chest, your belly, your thighs. He touched you like you were sacred, like he needed this, his palm passionately tender, your skin alight with bright fire.
Then, Baelor cupped your core over the soft material still covering you there, testing, and you whimpered softly, your hips instantly bucking into him, chasing him—showing him just how much you craved him, too. He pressed there, once, twice, and your ragged breathing began matching his.
Baelor's fingers then moved to your knees, and he delicately moved the end of your gown away, letting the material scrunch at your belly. Suddenly, you felt the cold air hit your most intimate parts, clashing with the wet heat nestled deep inside you. His touch returned to your inner thighs, inching closer and closer to where you craved him most. Your poor heart violently pounded against your chest, almost painful, and you knew he could feel the beat of it when his other arm crossed your chest once more, holding you firmly in place.
Baelor placed kisses on your shoulder, hiding himself in the crook of your neck, almost as if trying to soothe himself.
Your breath caught in your throat when you finally felt his middle finger touch you, thick and warm against you. It was tentative, running through your damp folds, up and down, exploring you.
"Has anyone ever touched you here?" He asked, his voice impossibly dark and possessive, and your vision slightly blurred at the implication of his words.
You shook your head, gentle whines falling from your lips.
"I need to hear you say it," he whispered in your ear, kissing it softly. "Please, I need it."
"No, uncle." You breathed. "No one but you."
Baelor groaned softly, his fingers now moving more intently against the velvet-like skin. He touched your entrance, teasing it, spreading your heat to your swollen pearl. When he circled it with his wet finger, you moaned, your hands gripping the arm holding you against him. The feeling was foreign; it was painful, it was addictive, pulling harshly at the sensitive knot in your lower belly.
He circled your entrance again, his middle finger now gently pressing inside you. A broken cry ripped from your throat- It hurt, but you craved it, your eyes shutting closed as you let your head fall against his shoulder. Baelor kissed your exposed neck, trying to soothe you, making you open up for him.
"You are doing so well, my little dragon, just like that." His voice may as well have driven you to inanity, his breath hot against your skin. Your muscles relaxed because of it, and his finger reached deeper inside you, the pain from moments ago melting into hot white pleasure.
His thick finger moved slowly inside you, and it dragged against your inner walls, touching the most intimate parts of you. You thought of it, of the man you secretly craved so much you wondered if such desire was considered humane, real and alive against you, feeling you, touching you. It was suddenly too much for you, and when he slightly crooked his finger deep inside you, you cried out loud, your right arm grabbing onto his neck behind you.
You felt uncovered against him, completely stripped of the walls you had built over the years. And you wanted him there, your desire to have him strip you bare, making you come undone, using you as he pleased, almost too consuming to survive. The feeling of your almost naked and fragile body against his fully clothed one should make you blush in shame—instead, the rough material of his royal robes, the thick of his belt, the cold of his Hand pin and scales, digging harshly into your skin, under you, made you feel alive.
"Can you take one more, sweetheart?" His ragged voice stole you from your own mind and blind pleasure. You quickly nodded, desperate and wanting.
"Are you certain? You are so fucking tight down there, I cannot believe—"
"Please," you begged. "Baelor, please."
You turned your head to the side, your hand touching his cheek, and you kissed him messily, desperately. Your hand moved to his head, pulling on the short dark hairs there, and he groaned into your mouth when he pressed another finger inside you, slowly sliding against the other.
Your whines slowly turned into soft cries. You felt full, full of him, of his fingers, of his desire. You turned back then, the sudden need to see him overtaking your senses. His lust-filled eyes found yours, and they were so dark you could barely see the violet in them anymore. You knew yours were most likely a reflection of his right now, just like they had always been.
"We look the same," you looked deep into his soul, your hand holding onto his face, falling to his throat at times, too afraid to let go. "We look the same, you and I—why—why do they love you but hate me?" You half cried, never leaving his eyes.
Baelor's eyebrows were pinched, and he was breathless, his hand still moving inside you with intended purpose. He kissed your forehead, his gaze then returning to yours. "Perhaps the gods knew of my hidden selfish nature," he curled both fingers, more roughly this time, and your eyes rolled slightly. "They knew better than to offer you to others."
And it made sense, did it not?
You wanted to be weak and vulnerable for him; you needed him to see you as you were at your core and completely take you apart for it. You were his, you were always his, you would always be his now. No other man would touch you, no other man could make you their own; you breathed for Baelor, lived for him only.
"Take me with you, uncle." You said, reality gradually falling on you like a heavy cloak. You gripped his face more firmly in your palm, feeling the rough hairs of his beard, begging him through your touch. "Just make me yours, please. I will be good for you, I promise." You were crying now, the heat at your core slowly beginning to feel suffocating.
"Shh," Baelor tried to soothe you, kissed your tears away, his fingers still firmly pumping in and out of you.
"I will, I promise, please, I promise." You felt delirious at the pleasure and the pain inside you, blinding your senses, and so you begged, shamelessly and without restraint. "I do not want another man touching me there."
Baelor's movements stopped at your pleas, the look on his face steadily turning dark as night, and you slightly hiccupped through your cries.
"No other man will ever touch you," his voice grumbled from deep inside his chest. "Not here," he shoved his fingers fully inside you again, his movements drenched in raw possessiveness. "Not anywhere, do you understand?"
"Just you, only you, I only need you." You nodded, and he kissed you. His lips were rough and dominating against yours, his tongue invading your mouth, claiming yours, claiming all of you.
You placed your head against his shoulder again when you found it hard to breathe, and he brought his hand from your hip to your throat, his touch light. His fingers moved with more speed now, and every time he curled them against the softer, more sensitive patch deep inside you, you bucked your hips against the heel of his palm. You moaned at the pressure on your clit, and you felt it more than ever; the knot in your belly, in your heart, almost snapping.
Baelor's hold on your throat suddenly tightened, and when his hand fully pressed against your skin there, squeezing and slightly restricting air from flowing to your burning lungs, you broke.
Your tight walls trapped his fingers inside you, and you whined, loud and desperate, his strong hold still slightly choking you. Baelor whispered praises in your ear, so good, so fucking good for me, over and over again. You felt pleasure crash onto you in waves, and he fucked his fingers inside your core until you fully came down from your high. Only when you slowly stilled, jolting occasionally from soft spasms running through you, did he slowly release your throat.
You were panting, you felt completely spent. Baelor kept his fingers inside, the warmth of you addicting, as he slowly caught his breath as well. Then, he gently pulled his fingers out, the sound of it filthy. You cried softly at the feeling before letting out a high-pitched whine when he circled your overly sensitive clit, once, twice, selfishly groaning at your reaction.
When you caught his wrist, the overstimulation too much to bear, Baelor steadily brought his slick fingers to your mouth. He tapped your lips with a wet digit, and you opened your mouth for him, shamelessly compliant. You sucked on them, blushing at the taste of your own release on your tongue. You moaned, mouth full, your hand now gripping his palm, your tongue swirling around his fingers, in between them.
You heard Baelor curse, you thought you did. When he reluctantly removed his fingers from the heat of your mouth, he gently grabbed your chin, wet and gently turning your face to look at him.
Your eyes were tired, you suddenly felt so tired. He could not help himself, so he kissed you so softly it almost lulled you into a deep slumber. You felt him remove himself from underneath you, cradling your head with so much care and love you wondered if you had been made out of glass all this time.
Baelor removed your gown fully from your body before covering it with the thick covers lying on his bed. You wanted to speak, you wanted to get up and tell him, tell him everything, but your body refused.
"I am right here, sweet girl." Baelor spoke when you tried standing up before placing a kiss on your temple, his fingers gently tucking your hair behind your ear.
And so you did just that, you did not fret. You closed your eyes, your hands gripping onto the furry covers, and you let sleep take over you.
When morning came the next day, sunlight beams seeping through the windows of the bedchamber, the first thing your mind registered was a quiet sense of panic looming inside you.
The cold feeling that had slowly but surely claimed your body over the years, as present and as constant as the blood running through your veins, had dulled. For the first time in your life, warmth had replaced the cold, and you could feel it right through the tips of your fingers.
Disoriented, you slowly turned in the bed you had just spent the night in. You felt it then, you felt him, his warm and bare chest touching your shoulder.
Baelor was asleep next to you, and the sight of him fed the warm feeling that had taken residence inside you. You turned fully toward him then, and for a few seconds, you found it difficult to breathe, your breath caught in your throat.
He seemed peaceful, the permanent frown painted on his eyebrows almost gone now, no longer looking as tortured as he had seemed since the day he set foot in the Vale. His dark hair, so painfully beautiful, looked soft and smooth. His sun-kissed skin pulled you in, and you fought hard not to trace the lines and battle scars that made him so captivating. His nose, so perfectly shaped despite looking as if the bone had been broken once or twice.
But it was his lips, pink and warm and soft, that suddenly ignited a fluttering feeling in your heart and belly. You quietly gasped at the feeling as you let it spread throughout your body. Memories from the night prior came flooding into your mind, those same lips claiming yours with such passion and intensity it made you weak to your knees.
He was so beautiful it almost hurt.
"Staring at your prince at this hour is not very lady-like," Baelor's morning voice startled you, pulling you out of the confines of your mind.
You could not help but smile shyly, your cheeks slightly warming at his words and at your thoughts. Baelor's eyes were still closed.
"I am not staring," you spoke softly.
At the sound of your soft voice, your uncle opened his eyes. The sun agreed with his beauty, you thought, when its light kissed his face the same way you wished you could. The purple in his eye stood out, and you realised just how deep the color truly was.
Baelor smiled. "Are you all right?"
You looked at him a bit longer, the purple in your own eye pulling at his. You nodded. "Are you?"
When he nodded back, a tired smile at his lips, you felt yourself loosen as some of your doubts and fears slowly melted away.
Baelor's hand neared your face, his fingers lightly tracing your forehead, your cheek. You closed your eyes at the feeling of his gentle touch, only opening them again when he moved to your hair.
"You know, I have never come across another person blessed with the same hair color as you." He threaded his fingers through your hair, softly combing it. "It's dark," he said as he gently took a fistful of it by your ear, lightly scratching your scalp. "But when touched by the sun, it turns into the loveliest and most mesmerising shade of gold, just like now."
You felt your heart bleed with unfiltered love for him, pouring out of you like a broken vase. You reached for his hand in your hair and brought it to your lips, pressing a soft kiss to his palm.
"Gods, you truly are beautiful," he whispered, his hand now resting at your throat, claiming.
Baelor raised himself on his elbow, towering slightly over you. You felt protected, you felt as if you needed his weight on you as much as you needed the air in your lungs. Then, he lowered himself, kissing your forehead in a way that made you believe you were the most precious little thing he had ever laid his hands on.
He moved to your right cheek, your left, your nose, kissing your skin, speaking to it. When he heard your breathing hitch, Baelor moved your head slightly with the hold he kept on your throat and scattered light kisses all over the line of your jaw.
He continued with his lovestruck assault down to your throat, and you let out a tiny moan. The sound coming out of you poked at the sleeping dragon inside him, and you felt his hand tighten around your throat. He kissed you there, his lips strong and passionate and wet. When you felt his teeth faintly nip at the juncture between your neck and your shoulder, you moaned again.
"If you keep making those sounds, sweet girl, I will have to have my way with you," he spoke low before returning to your jaw once more, to the back of your ear.
"Baelor," you whispered heavily, bringing your hands to his face to cup his cheeks. His hooded eyes found yours, overwhelmed with need and desire, and his lips claimed your own once more. It knocked the breath out of you, and as you sighed against him, you became acutely aware of every single nerve inside your body, tingling and singing and craving.
Baelor kissed you, his warm lips molding yours, his free hand fisting your golden hair. When you felt his tongue invade your mouth, you whined, the feeling of it colliding with your own almost too much to handle at this hour.
"Is this all right?" He asked out of breath, his forehead resting on yours. You nodded as you soothed the sides of his face, the feeling of his beard underneath your fingers making you dizzy with want. You kissed him again, and when he pushed you deeper into his bed, you bucked your hips upward.
Baelor stopped to look at you, and your eyes held onto his when you hesitantly grabbed one of his hands. You were shaking; you knew he could feel it, but you were keenly aware of what you wanted, of what you needed. Slowly but surely, you guided his hand under the covers that hid your bare body.
His eyes went dark when he realised what you were asking of him. His hand flattened on your ribs, warm and strong, and slid down towards your stomach. Pretending as if you were still the one in control of his movements, you angled his hand to feel him where you craved his touch.
Nestled between your legs, Baelor took his time when he ran his fingers through your folds, testing, taking. Your eyes shut closed and you bit your lower lip as you welcomed the feeling of pleasure once more, flowing through your body like water.
"Do I make you feel that good, princess? You are soaked down there already." He whispered by your ear, his voice laced with want.
"Please, uncle," you begged, and you witnessed the last remnants of restraint vanish from his eyes, leaving pure and unfiltered desire.
When Baelor kissed you again, you felt him claim you, the same way riders would claim their dragons back in the days of Old Valryia. Two fingers touched your entrance, slowly tracing it, then spread your wetness towards your pearl already swollen with pleasure. You moaned into his mouth, your left hand gripping onto the back of his neck, as a wet finger slowly circled your clit over and over again.
"Fuck, I cannot get enough of you." Baelor spoke lowly before latching his mouth onto your jaw.
The pleasure you felt was almost sickening, consuming you in ways you did not think possible. Baelor was everywhere, in your heart, in your soul, in between your legs. You clamped them shut, wanting to keep him there for eternity, begging to give yourself to him for eternity.
Your hand was still on his wrist, now long forgotten, yet you gripped it with all the strength you had left. You removed it then, touching the length of his arm, wanting to feel every bit of skin you could possibly get your hands on.
When Baelor kissed your lips again, his hand still pleasuring you, you bravely moved your own to his breeches. The moment your fingers grazed his hardness firmly resting underneath the light cotton, he groaned into your mouth.
"What are you doing?" He looked at you, seemingly surprised but lustful alike.
"I want to make you feel good, too." You said in between harsh breaths, sweet and innocent despite the dirty words you spoke.
"Don't—" He warned, but you only pecked his lips in return.
"Please, uncle," you whispered. "Just let me make you feel good."
"You do not need to do that, pleasuring you makes me feel good enough." You brought your free hand to his face, pressing your thumb to his lips, your other fingers fanning over his cheek and jaw. You pulled on his lower lip, slightly dragging it down. When you felt the warmth of his mouth claim the tip of your thumb, you pushed it further inside.
Taking this as your sign, your other hand grabbed onto him over his breeches. You sensed his teeth graze your thumb, sucking on it, and you suddenly felt hot at the size you held in your hand.
Feeling brave, you dipped it underneath his clothing and took his thickness into your small hand. Baelor nearly choked around your finger as he released it. His cock was hard already, and he felt big and hot inside your palm.
You had no experience, you knew not how to please a man nor his manhood. You only remembered what your lady in waiting had told you once or twice when you had been a furiously blushing mess. Long and firm strokes, my lady, that will turn a man into your black bird, she had said.
You did just that, stroking his length downward and up to its head, squeezing it tighter there. He was leaking, just like you were, and when you felt the wetness at his tip, you flattened your palm over it, circling it lightly.
Baelor’s face fell in the crook of your neck, quiet curses falling from his lips at the feeling of your hand wrapped around him. When you spread the wetness over his length, finding it easier to stroke him this way, you heard him moan, heavy and hot in your ear.
The sounds he made were intoxicating. It made you delirious, that you were the cause of it, the one coaxing them out of him. It made the slick in between your legs gush harder than before, and you whined when you felt his fingers tease your folds once more, alternating between teasing your entrance and pressing on your clit in pulsing movements.
Time suspended as you satisfied each other, feeding off of each other’s pleasure like you hadn’t had a meal in weeks. You craved him like you had never craved anything before in your life, and even if every bit of your skin was touching his, you still felt as though he could not possibly be close enough, your moans and whines slowly turning into soft cries.
“What’s the matter, my love?” Baelor lifted his head, his eyes hooded and shiny, the pleasure he felt in this stolen moment seemingly bringing him to tears, too.
“I need you,” you said heavily, your fingers touching his mouth. “Please, please.”
“I need you too,” he said as he kissed your nose softly. “I won’t take you now, not here, princess.”
You wanted to protest, but before you could utter a word, Baelor kissed you again, and you felt your tears finally escape the warmth of your eyes.
“Let me take care of you.” He whispered. Baelor removed his hand from between your legs, and you whined at the loss of contact. He placed himself fully above you now, leaning on his elbow as he carefully avoided crushing you with his weight.
Baelor then grabbed his length with your hand, the one who held him so sweetly it made him see shooting stars. Using your hand, he guided his cock towards your swollen folds, and when he made your fingers angle his tip in a way for it to touch your wetness, you both moaned at the feeling.
He started slow, dragging his tip from your entrance to your puffy pearl. He circled it, slow and torturous, the overwhelming feeling of it making you cry and he curse. Baelor then nestled himself in between your folds, thick and hot and heavy, the pressure of his cock against you making you breathe heavily.
He removed your hand from his cock, pressed a kiss to your palm, then placed it on his neck, wanting you to touch him, to feel him. With one arm caging you in, he used his free hand to grab the side of your face.
“I have you.” He said, and you noticed his trembling figure.
Then, he began moving, and you felt his length kiss your folds. He fucked himself in between them, the tip sometimes catching your entrance, your vision going white at the thought of him inside you. It made you jolt in pleasure, and you moaned softly against his mouth, his cheek.
His face found refuge in the crook of your neck again, his now safe space it seemed, his lips and teeth marking the soft skin there. Baelor’s movements did not falter, fucking his way through your whines and his steadily.
The pleasure was consuming, it was shattering, and when you began bucking your hips slightly to match his thrusts, you felt his breathing heavy in your ear. Your delicate hands basked in sin hugged his head to your neck, scratching his scalp, his neck, his back. You felt wetness in your neck then, Baelor’s tears of pleasure drenching it.
His movements were turning uneven, and you were near, barely holding onto the edge.
“Baelor I—“ You cried, pleasure blinding you.
“Let go,” Baelor brought his face back to yours, wanting to see you when you came apart, wanting to brand the image in his mind and keep it there forever. “I’m right here, let go.”
When you felt the tip of his cock catch your clit once more, you fell apart. The tight knot in your lower belly snapped, and you moaned as you grabbed onto his face tightly. Baelor peppered light kisses all over yours as you rode out your high, quietly encouraging you, praising you for doing so well.
The feeling of your folds fluttering violently around his cock and the look on your face coming undone was all it took to draw him over the edge as well, and he kissed your lips as he released himself, painting your lower belly white.
You held onto each other as you both came back to reality, breathing harshly, too afraid to let go, too reluctant to let this moment end. With his forehead settled against yours, he cupped your cheek and gently wiped away the tears of pleasure that had spilled out of you. You touched his cheeks as well, keeping him close, loving him through your palms.
When you both caught your breath, his eyes found yours, gentle and caring. A bit worried, too. “Are you all right?”
“I am fine, uncle.” You smiled tiredly, your hand warmly caressing his face and neck as you tried to dissipate the obvious concern in his voice.
Baelor nodded, and he kissed your forehead once before gently removing himself from where you hugged him below. You whined softly at the feeling, and you noticed his length twitch at the sound.
Before you could speak, he stood up, and you saw him grab a small cloth from his desk right after adjusting himself in his breeches. Dipping the cloth in a bucket of water, he came back to you and sat at the edge of the bed.
Baelor gently swiped at your lower belly, and you felt your cheeks warm slightly. You looked away, the sight of him cleaning his release on your bare skin too much for you. He noticed.
“Do not go shy on me now.” He teased, his voice playful yet somewhat timid as well.
You hid your smile in your shoulder and covered yourself once he stood up again. You felt your heart leap when you saw him return to bed, claiming his rightful place by your side once again.
You turned your back to him, and he pulled you securely against his chest, his strong arm protectively circling your waist. You placed your own arm above his, gently tracing his knuckles.
Baelor tucked his chin above your shoulder, sighing contentedly as he placed a soft kiss there. You smiled, feeling the fire alive in you more than ever before.
“I hope I was decent enough,” you spoke quietly. “You must be used to women far more experienced than I am, I—“
“I do not recall ever sounding as desperate as I did just now,” Baelor spoke by your ear as he cut you off. “You practically made me cry, woman,” he chuckled, and you fought hard to hide the smile that was creeping up on your face. “I must make you promise not to ever speak of it.”
“That depends.” You teased back.
“Will you teach me? How to be better at it?” You asked shyly, suddenly sounding more self-conscious. Your heart began pounding, but you wanted to be good at it, to be good for him, in ways that others could not be.
“Whatever pleases you, princess.” Baelor said after a while. You sighed a sigh of relief, his words comforting you in the idea that this time would not be the last time.
“You must have more faith in yourself,” he spoke lowly, his breath tickling your neck. It brought goosebumps to your skin. “If only you knew how they speak of you, of your beauty.”
“Most of the men here,” he answered, kissing your shoulder. “You are a walking beauty, and you are a dragon. Many would kill just to lay their eyes on you.” You felt his hold on your waist tighten, his voice laced with something akin to possessiveness and perhaps even a bit of jealousy.
You traced his knuckles once more, trying to convey the words jumping at the tip of your tongue. I belong to you. I am yours, yours only, now and forever.
“It kills me that you do not see it, all because of this false idea of a curse the gods supposedly placed on our heads.” He said. You stared at the wall ahead of you, gently tracing his forearm with your fingers. “It is all a lie, you know?”
“How do you mean?” You asked softly.
“My great grandsire, the king Viserys,” he began, his voice bringing you comfort as you had never felt before.
“Queen Rhaenyra and Daemon’s son?” You interrupted him.
“Yes,” he spoke again, placing another soft kiss on your shoulder. “My father told me that when Viserys held me for the first time on the day I was born, he wept.”
“Why?” You asked curiously.
“He said that my dark hair had reminded him of his elder brother who died many years prior.” Baelor explained.
“Who, sweetling?” Baelor spoke softly, seemingly lost in his thoughts. Your fingers intertwined with his above your hip.
“Jacaerys was lost to the dance, alongside his other brothers,” he answered. “My father said one of Viserys’ greatest battles in life was losing his memories of his elder brothers. He could not recall what they looked like towards the end of his life.”
You felt a wave of sadness overcome you. You could barely remember your own siblings’ faces, too.
“The only thing he could distinctly remember was Jacaerys’ dark hair,” he continued. “None of his children or other descendants bore hair of such color. My father said I was the first Targaryen born with it ever since Viserys’ brothers.”
You blinked, your hand still clutching his.
“So, he wept when he first held me. He kissed my head, and the maids say the king cried out his brother’s name for days in his sleep after that.”
You felt a weight lift off your shoulders at his words, one that had become heavier with each year that passed. Viserys' pain made you sad, but it also comforted you in your own deluded way.
“This idea that our appearance is a curse came from people who wished to see our family destroyed,” Baelor spoke again, this time a more serious tone etched in his voice. “The fools fell for it, and the jealous spread the lie like wildfire to feed their own greed.”
His hand tightened at your hip, and you fought to swallow around the painful pit that had slowly grown inside your throat.
“The next time you feel bothered by it, I want you to think of Viserys and the love he held for his brother,” Baelor spoke closer to your ear. “I want you to think of him, and think of how much he would have loved to hold you in his arms.”
“Can you do that for me?” He asked softly.
“Yes.” You said after a while.
“Good.” Baelor sighed. He placed a kiss in your hair, right behind your ear, and pulled you closer to his chest, his heart.
Caged in between Baelor’s arms, you felt at peace, you felt loved and wanted. You felt less ashamed, more seen, worshipped even.
Baelor's breathing evened out behind you, a gentle caress against the sensitive skin at your nape.
"Queen Rhaenrya," you spoke quietly. "She fell in love with her uncle as well, did she not?"
Baelor did not respond right away, did not move, stole this moment for himself. Locked it away in the pockets of his mind with only him as guardian. Took your words in, your silent confession, savored them.
"It would seem so." He said after a while, a whispering laugh to hide his uncommon timidity. "They say Daemon loved her fiercely, too."
You closed your eyes then, squeezing his hand once more, before letting sleep slowly take over you a second time.
You dreamt of two dragons that morning, two dark and strong and gorgeous dragons. They flew high in the sky, side by side, almost dancing, and the fire they breathed turned nearly as bright and as hot as the sun.
And just like that, the darkness that had shaped you no longer felt so consuming.
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