207 AC - King Daeron has lived long enough to know that stories rarely end the way they should. Princes die too young. Princesses are promised to the wrong men. And every generation of Targaryens seems determined to repeat the mistakes of the last. So when a frightened princess seeks refuge from one prince and finds it in another, Daeron cannot help but wonder whether history is beginning another familiar song—or whether, for once, it might choose a different ending.
AO3
Chapters: Part 1 • Part 2 • Part 3 • Part 4 • Part 5 • Part 6 • Part 7 • Part 8 • Part 9 • Part 10 • Part 11 • Part 12 ••• ...
Playlist Links: Part 1 • Part 2 • Part 3 • Part 4 • Part 5 • Part 6 • Part 7 • Part 8 • Part 9 • Part 10 • Part 11 • Part 12 ••• ...
*Warnings: 18+ MDNI, Targcest (what it says on the tin), Arranged Marriage, Forced Betrothal (discussed), Emotional Abuse (referenced and ongoing), Verbal Abuse, Fear of Marital Abuse, Emotional Distress, Patriarchal Society, Family Politics & Dynastic Marriage, Hurt/Comfort, Aerion Targaryen is His Own Warning
*subject to change with updates
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Alias • Behind the Scenes of Creation • Foils • Mythologies
Read more about Saerys and Baelor in My Little Fire, here or on AO3
Aliases: “Little Fire”, “My Dove”, “Sweet Girl”
Behind the Scenes of Creation: Well if you can’t tell already, Saerys is very much a self-insert! This story didn’t quite come to me fully formed but it was close. I imagined the kind of motivations Baelor might’ve had to participate in the Trial of the Seven, the kind of animosity a man like him would’ve had for a boy like Aerion, I imagined what kind of unseen baggage could exist between the two of them. A woman? Well if a woman was going to come in between those two men, and they are Targaryens… well you get the idea.
I imagined [REDACTED FOR SPOILERS] [REDACTED FOR SPOILERS]. In an AU as close to the source material as possible, I imagined what circumstances would make a man like Baelor consider partaking in the Old Targaryen Pastime. This also became a fun exercise of how to make Baelor less perfect, so far my method has been dialing up his virtues to the extreme. It’s been a delightful exercise. Saerys came from imagining what kind of woman would draw out his need to protect, to behave dutifully and honorably. What kind of woman would make him bend his morals amidst that? I imagined someone genuine, kind, unassuming, but in enough distress to make a man like Baelor need to come to her rescue. The scene on the hearth came first, I already had [REDACTED FOR SPOILERS], what came next was everything in between.
Mythologies: Hades & Persephone: I’m one of those Hades x Persephone fans. I love Lore Olympus, and when playing in the Greek Mythology sandbox I’d rather imagine a woman making a choice than imagine her having her choice taken away. Saerys is in conversation with a Persephone that aligns herself with power, that becomes more powerful in her marriage than she would’ve been sequestered alone, and married to a man who adores and reveres her.
And in the myth Hades is technically her uncle. I digress.
Foils: In the text, I do draw a direct line to Naerys and her Dragonknight. To a story so similar to Saerys and Baelor, but one that ultimately ended unhappily. The wheels began turning then on the themes that run through Targaryen history, princesses who aren’t matched where they ought to be and dutiful, often dark haired princes, who die too young. Saerys and Baelor are, in many ways, an attempt to ask what happens if one of those stories is allowed to turn differently.
I also see Baelor and Saerys as an inversion of Daemon and Rhaenyra in a lot of ways. On paper, the pieces look surprisingly similar: an older Targaryen prince wed to his niece, a considerable age and power imbalance, possessiveness, sexual awakening, and an intensely devotional love.
But almost everything beneath the surface runs in the opposite direction. Daemon tends to treat desire as permission to act. Baelor treats desire as a reason to become even more cautious. Rhaenyra begins from a place of I want, therefore why should I not have? Saerys begins from am I even allowed to want?
Daemon and Rhaenyra are two dragons who often amplify one another. Baelor and Saerys are more often learning how to make one another larger without consuming each other in the process. The burning devotion is still there. The ethics of what that devotion permits are where the stories diverge.
[REDACTED FOR SPOILERS], is a parallel that’s coming VERY soon.
Lastly. Sansa was my favorite character in the main series and it shows.
NOTES lowk wrote this because i am freaked out for this man, lowk would do this for aerion.
WARNINGS 18+, smut, fingering, valarr is rough (yum), toxic if you squint.
MASTERLIST
“just friends” you both would say to your friend group, whose eyes lingered a bit too long on the way valarr’s hand brushed your legs laid over his lap.
“just friends” you both would say, when valarr would run his fingers through your hair whilst you waited in a queue, loving the way you breathed so deeply at the contact.
“just friends” you both would say, when he would take such good care of you on a night out. making sure to buy and hold your drinks, take your hand to guide you through the crowd, holding you as you danced.
“just friends” you both would say, when the both of you crawled into his bed, tipsy and giggly. you, in nothing but your underwear and one of his shirts.
“just friends” you both would say, when you asked him which nude seemed the better one to send to a guy. and you would wait innocently, for upwards of twenty minutes, until he would choose.
“just friends” you both would say, when you would take suggestive pictures with him to make your ex’s jealous. his fingers hooked under the sides of your bikini bottoms, his hands on your ass in a mirror selfie, taking a picture against his very toned back.
“just friends” you both would say, when you would be broken up with. and he would tell you to come over, shower you with much needed affection, letting you crawl into his arms in bed, taking your socks off for you at the end of the night and kissing your ankles.
“just friends” you both would say, when he would stand behind you at the bar as you ordered, feeling him press himself into you. to make sure no other man did.
“just friends” you both would say, when he would spoil you rotten. with gifts, with remembering your coffee order, reminders on his phone for the latest drop of a new collection you’d been waiting for.
“just friends” you both would say, when you were dizzy with drinks and the thumping of music. when his hands would hold you so nicely against him, to keep other men from ogling at you.
“just friends” you both would say, when you’d lose yourself in a haze of a drunken makeout. bodies dancing around you, his tongue fighting with yours to learn your mouth.
“just friends” you both would say, when he’d have a really shitty date. immediately texting or calling you to talk about it.
“just friends” you both would say, when he would turn up at your house, and you’d drag him to your room. when you would let him lay on your bed and whine about how every girl was missing something.
“just friends” you both would say, when you would tease him about having such high standards. straddling him with your arms folded to scold him for speaking of other women in such a way.
“just friends” you both would say, when he would have you pinned under him, fingers shoved into your wetness to find what was truly missing in every other girl.
“just friends” you both would say, when he would fuck you so hard your headboard would slam against your wall, no doubt concerning your parents.
“just friends” you both would say, when he would tell you how beautiful you looked, and how you had ruined every other girl for him.
“just friends” you both would say, when he would spill onto your breasts, or into your mouth. and tell you how you were trouble, and that you’d be the death of him.
“just friends” you both would say, when since that day, every date you both went on with others, had always ended in him fucking into you with such ferocity, such newfound desire.
Princess Saerys Targaryen was the only surviving child of Prince Aerys Targaryen, second-born son of King Daeron II Targaryen, and Lady Aelinore Allyrion of Dorne. Lady Aelinore died giving birth to her, and Prince Aerys, preferring his scholarly pursuits to the duties of rearing a child, sent Saerys to ward at Summerhall when she was five years old. There she was taken into the household of her uncle, Prince Maekar Targaryen, and his lady wife, Dyanna Dayne.
Saerys remained at Summerhall into adulthood, eventually assisting in the management of the keep and the rearing of Prince Maekar's younger children. She returned to King's Landing in 207 AC for the celebrations marking twenty years since the union of Dorne with the Seven Kingdoms, already aware that her future marriage would be amongst the matters discussed while the royal family gathered at court.
Before his death, Prince Aerys had proposed a match between Saerys and Prince Aerion Targaryen, Prince Maekar concurred with the idea. Saerys, having endured Aerion's increasingly volatile treatment at Summerhall, regarded the prospect with dread. Upon their arrival at court, Maekar remained determined to present the match to King Daeron.
Saerys, in desperation, sought out Prince Baelor Targaryen, Prince of Dragonstone and Hand of the King, and begged him to intercede on her behalf, to find her another match, any match.
Within a sennight, a betrothal between Prince Baelor and Princess Saerys was announced before the court.
What began as a match of convenience became a courtship in truth. During the four moons of their betrothal, Baelor and Saerys were frequently seen in one another's company, sharing a fondness for books and a shared outlook on the realm. By the time their wedding approached, whatever apprehension Saerys had once felt toward marriage appeared to have left her. Those closest to the princess would later insist that she went to Baelor not merely willingly, but eagerly.
Following their union, Saerys took up residence with her husband in the Tower of the Hand and assumed the title of Princess of Dragonstone. Baelor soon began inviting her to meetings of the small council, first as an observer and, in time, increasingly seeking her counsel upon matters of office.
About:
Saerys possessed a distinctive combination of Valyrian and Dornish features. She had warm olive-brown skin inherited from her Dornish mother, thick dark waving hair, expressive dark eyes, and strong brows. Though her coloring differed markedly from the traditional Valyrian appearance of many of her Targaryen relations, her father's blood showed itself most plainly in the streaks of silver threaded through her dark hair.
Her countenance tended toward seriousness, though Saerys was particularly known for a smile said to transform her face entirely.
Reserved and observant, Saerys was often mistaken for timid or aloof by those who knew her only from the fringes. She possessed a stubborn streak, a dry sense of humor, and a curiosity that had been evident since childhood. She was an avid reader with a particular fondness for courtly love tales, poetry, and histories of notable women, and maintained a substantial personal collection of books and correspondence.
Saerys received an extensive education at Summerhall and possessed a keen interest in histories and literature. Years spent assisting with Prince Maekar's household had likewise made her an able administrator. Her intellectual curiosity would later become one of the foundations of her marriage to Prince Baelor, who encouraged her political education and, unlike many men of his day, welcomed his wife into those portions of his life concerned with the governance of the realm.
Read more about Saerys and Baelor in My Little Fire, here or on AO3
summary: you run from the weight of society and take to the road in order to escape. along the way, you are protected by a hedge knight who never asks who you truly are, only who you choose to be beside him. when at the tourney at ashford, what grows between you two is quiet and fleeting. something born of trust, and the understanding that some things are meant to be felt, not claimed.
authors note: im so sorry this took so long. i really love this chapter tho! so thanks for being so patient with me. pls tell me what you think, the story is really picking up eek! go check out the playlist for this story, its very good - from a 19 year old with questionable taste. no longer secret targ hehe
warnings: hints to sexual harassment (not heavy at all), cursing, blood, violence, cliffhanger, not proof read im lazy.
word count: 14k+
Masterlist
<previous chapter I next chapter>
...
You wanted to burst into a ball of smoke, disappearing not only out of the castle but out of your skin. Your fingers curled into your palms, nails biting hard enough to feel something real. All you could see were eyes, eyes of astonishment, worry, and disgust. They followed you from the entrance to the solar where your father stood. Almost swaying in red, hot anger. If there was ever someone who desired your position, they could have it.
You and your brothers had been escorted by several yearning guards who all wanted to be the first one to report your arrival to the prince. They practically tripped over one another trying to all pile into the darkly lit room. You walked in last, hoping that maybe they could not see you.
All you could see was Dunk. And the last look on his face when he was dragged away by the guards. No words left his mouth, but you could feel the deep betrayal in him. The image stuck, unmoving, no matter how hard you tried to look away. There were so many thoughts left in your brain, unsaid feelings, and questions you wished to shout at the man. And yet, when his eyes were on you for the last time, you couldn't even meet his gaze.
You killed him, and you couldn’t even give him the decency to look him one last time in the fucking eyes.
Maybe you should take his place.
Maekar’s booming voice pulled you out of your trance. The room seemed to shrink around him before he even spoke. “Why weren’t my children brought to me at once when I asked?” he yelled. The words cracked through the chamber, sharp enough to make even seasoned men flinch.
“There was too much commotion, my prince. We apologize,” one of the knights said, head bowed as if he was scared of poking the dragon.
Maekar’s gaze shifted from steaming anger to landing on the three of you. He studied you all closely, the drawn lines on delicate skin, exhaustion etched in your brows and shoulders carrying the weight of the whole world. He was particularly stricken by the bloodied faces of you and Aerion. His eyes also lingered on the disguises of you and Egg.
But for the first time, you could not read what he was thinking. Only then did he shift back to anger and bark out for all the guards to get the fuck out. Leaving the three of you alone in a den with a wild animal.
When the three of you stayed silent, Maekar spoke for you. “Well, someone explain!” he shouted.
Explain? Where to even start?
The three of you all spoke in unison, shouting several different accounts of the events that took place in the spacious puppet tent. Maekar tried to make you quiet down again and again. After the fifth shout, your ramblings collapsed into silence.
“Silence! From all of you. I will no longer hear this buffoonery.” He gritted his teeth.
He focused on the youngest. “Aegon.” The name made the little boy stiff, even though it was his own; he had tried not to think of the name for so long. “Go. I will deal with you later.”
Egg looked up at him, stunned wide. “But—”
“Now, boy. The maids will show you.” The tone left no room for argument. Egg hesitated only a moment longer, sparing one last glance in your direction. You could see the fear in his eyes, the unspoken apology. Then he turned and walked out of the room as the door closed softly behind him.
Maekar’s brows scrunched at the two of you, sharp and accusatory. “Why? Why is it always you two?”
You tried not to audibly shriek at the way he roped you in with your brother.
“Because he never stops,” you said, voice low. “He struck a woman!”
Aerion scoffed, though there was a flicker of something uneasy beneath it. “She was a threat,” he said. “Anyone who dares to bring down our nam—”
“You don’t care about that!” you snapped. “You only care about yourself, how she made you look small.”
That one landed. You saw it. Just for a second.
“You came at me with a dagger,” Aerion shot back, “and sent your beast on me.”
Your head whipped toward him. “That’s a lie.”
“Aerion struck Tanselle first,” you said, forcing the words steady despite the heat rising in your chest. “She did nothing,” you went on, louder now. “She didn’t fight you. She didn’t touch you. She begged you to stop.” You swallowed, but didn’t stop your rant. “And you broke her fingers anyway.”
Aerion’s jaw set. “I will not be made a fool of by common—”
“You made a fool of yourself,” Maekar cut in. The words cut him further than any punch Dunk threw at him. “You name every slight a threat,” he continued, each word measured. “You turn sport into spectacle, and spectacle into scandal. Do you think the realm blind? Do you think they will not speak of what they saw? I will not have my children running wild through tourneys in disguise, striking at puppeteers and performers, and calling it justice.”
Then his lecture stopped. He ran a hand through his beard. You waited for something, anything, a sign that this was not simply going to slide. “I care little for which of you struck first,” he said at last. “What I see is disorder. So fix it.”
You watched him, really watched him this time. The way his anger bent, not toward what had been done, but how it had been seen. The way Aerion still stood, unbowed, unbroken, and unafraid. He wasn’t going to punish him. Not truly. Not for this.
The realization settled warm in your chest.
Your voice, when it came, was quieter than before, but it carried. “After all of this? Where is his punishment?”
Aerion’s head turned toward you sharply, but it was Maekar who answered first, his expression hardening at the challenge. “You presume much—”
“Oh, I think it’s quite clear,” Aerion cut in smoothly, stepping forward just enough to draw attention back to himself. There was something eager in the way he spoke now, sharpened by the opening. “There will be punishment.”
You didn’t like the sound of that.
Maekar’s eyes narrowed. “What now?”
Aerion’s lips curved, faint and cruel. “The man who aided her,” he said. “The hedge knight. He raised his hand against a prince of House Targaryen.”
Your stomach dropped.
“He will answer for it,” Aerion continued, almost lightly. You already knew. Before he said it.
“As any traitor would, with death.” The words rang in the room like a sentence already passed.
You stepped forward without thinking. “He defended—”
“He struck a prince,” Aerion snapped, the edge breaking through now. “Before witnesses. That alone is enough.”
“You speak as though the judgment is yours to give.” Maekar let out a sound that could've doubled as a laugh.
Aerion stilled.
“It is not,” he finished. The words were quick, but absolute. “You do not decide who lives or dies,” Maekar continued. “Not here. There will be a council held.”
Aerion’s jaw tightened, something frustrated flashing beneath his composure. “What?” he yelled.
Something in you snapped. This still was not good enough.
“You may not give him the power,” you said, your voice tight and body trembling, “but you’ve never taken it from him either.” Maekar’s gaze shifted to you slowly. That was your warning. You didn’t take it. “You ask why it is always us,” you went on, the words coming faster now, sharper. “It is because you let it be.”
Aerion let out a quiet, disbelieving breath. “Careful—”
“For years,” you cut over him, “you’ve let him do as he pleases. Call it temper. Call it pride. Call it anything but what it is.”
Maekar went very still. “And what is it?” he asked.
Your hands trembled, but you didn’t stop. “Unchecked foolishness. It festers,” you said. “Because you allow it.”
The room felt smaller now. Dangerous.
“You look at what happened today and see embarrassment,” you continued, your voice unsteady but unyielding. “You see whispers, and witnesses, and shame to your name.”
His expression hardened.
“But you do not see what he’s done,” you finished. “Not to them. Not to me.”
Aerion’s head turned toward you, almost giddy that you were about to set your father up and face the consequences. Maekar’s voice, when it came, was quieter than before. “Choose your next words carefully.”
You met his gaze anyway. “When has it ever mattered what he does?” you asked.
Your voice faltered, just for a second.
Not from fear. From something older.
“You didn’t even care when it was me.”
Silence, complete and suffocating silence.
For the first time, there was no quick answer. No immediate anger, just stillness.
A command left your father's mouth with swiftness. “Leave.” You flinched, thinking his words were thrown at you. But they weren't, for the first time, your father picked.
Aerion blinked, caught off guard and disappointed for no fight. “Father, what?”
“I said leave,” Maekar repeated, sharper now. “Go anywhere but here.”
The finality in it landed. For once, Aerion did not have an immediate retort. His jaw tightened, eyes flicking between you and Maekar, searching for something, an opening, a challenge, anything to regain footing.
There was none, since the room no longer belonged to him.
“…As you command,” he said at last, though the words were tight with restrained frustration. He turned sharply, his outfit shifting with the motion, and strode from the room. The door shut harder than it needed to.
The two of you stood there, alone now.
Maekar let out a groan. “What in the seven hel—”
“What are you going to do with him?” you blurted out. The words burst free before you could stop them.
“With whom?” he asked, genuinely confused.
“With Ser Duncan, the knight.”
He threw his hands up in frustration. “I don’t fucking know yet! I am more concerned about why my own children are sneaking out and causing problems.”
Despite his anger, you kept calm. “It wouldn’t have been a problem if not for Aerion,” you said quietly.
“Speak up, girl.”
You cleared your throat, heart pounding. “I said it wouldn’t have been a problem if not for Aerion. He always ruins everything. I mean, he thinks of himself as a dragon.”
“Aerion is no longer of your concern; he is gone,” he barked. “The concern lies with my daughter disobeying me. You were told to stay at Summerhall.”
“I had to do something!” you cried out.
“You shouldn’t even be here!” The words hit harder than a blow.
“Is that all you care about?” you demanded. “What rules have I broken when a man is now being imprisoned, and a woman’s fingers are broken? All because that idiot took her craft as a snide against House Targaryen?”
“It’s your fucking house!” he shouted.
“This hasn’t been my house,” you said, voice shaking with fury. “Not for a long time.”
Maekar stood rigid near the hearth, broad shoulders tense, his shadow stretching long and crooked across the walls. He had always been loud when angered, sharp and cutting. But where others bowed and withered under his fury, you only grew brighter, hotter, and more defiant.
After all, you were your father’s daughter.
The words tore out of you like something breaking. “I will not hear this anymore!”
He turned on you sharply. “You will? You will?” he snapped. “I am your father. What you will do is listen to me. Heave my words into that thick, stubborn skull of yours.”
Your hands shook, fists clenched so tightly you drew blood. “I care for him,” you choked out, the truth scraping your throat raw as it escaped.
For one fragile heartbeat, Maekar froze.
Then his face twisted, disgust curling through his expression. “Care? What is this? Love?” he scoffed. “What do you know about love, girl? You are a foolish child who believes desire is destiny, who thinks she can force the world to bend simply because she wants it to.”
Something inside you fractured.
“I know enough about love,” you said, voice trembling but rising, “to know I have not felt it from you in years.”
The room seemed to contract, the fire dimming low.
“Ever since Mother died,” you went on, the words coming faster now, harder to hold back, “you shut me out. You vanished into grief and left me to pick up everything you dropped.”
Maekar’s jaw tightened. “That is not—”
“I was a child,” you cut in, sharper now. “Barely old enough to understand what death was, and suddenly I was expected to run a household.”
You took a step closer.
“The feasts. The guests. The expectations. All of it.” Your voice wavered, then steadied. “And I did it without you.”
He said nothing.
“I raised them,” you continued, quieter now, but no less fierce. “Egg. Daella. Rhae.” Your throat tightened, but you pushed through it.
“I was the one who put them to bed. The one who dried their tears when they cried for a mother who wasn’t coming back. I taught them their letters. I braided their hair.” A breath. Sharp. Unsteady.
“They won’t remember her,” you said. “Not really. Just pieces. Stories.” Your gaze didn’t leave his.
“Stories I had to tell. Because you wouldn’t.” Silence pressed in around you. “I was a child,” you said again, softer this time, but it cut deeper. “And you left me alone.”
“I will not hear another word,” Maekar growled, teeth clenched.
“Why?” you demanded, stepping closer, the space between you suffocating. “Why must I always be quiet? Why do you never want to hear me?”
He turned away from you then, already moving toward the door, as though your pain were something he could simply walk away from, as he always did.
“Maekar!” you cried. “I am standing right in front of you. Listen to me.”
His hand closed around the latch.
Something desperate and dangerous rose in your chest. “Or you will never see me again!” you shouted, the words tearing free. “I will leave, and you will never see me again. You will hear of me only through others… and songs for the rest of your life.” Your voice echoed violently against stone and timber, louder than you had ever spoken, louder than you ever thought you could. The castle itself seemed to shudder beneath it.
For the first time, you realized that no matter what he chose, something between you had already been irrevocably broken.
Maekar stood at the door with his back to you, hand braced against the latch as if it were the only thing keeping him upright. The silence stretched, heavy and suffocating. You could almost hear him breathing, slow and uneven, as if he were forcing himself not to turn around.
When he finally spoke, his voice was low and rough, scraped raw by restraint. “There are chambers set up for you,” he said. “Go to them, and fucking stay there.”
The words were not shouted. That almost made them worse. Then, quieter still, thick with bitterness and something dangerously close to care, “And wipe that muck out of your hair.”
He did not look at you. He did not say your name. You stood there for a moment longer, chest aching, then turned away before he could see what his words had done. The door remained closed behind you.
Not slammed.
Just shut.
Tears would not come. Not for him. They had not for years. Whatever had once existed in you had long since run dry. But your breath caught, and you folded in on yourself, shoulders caving as the sound tore out of you anyway, raw and broken, nearly choking you where you stood.
Blood started dripping again from your nose, warm and persistent as it slid past your lips and down your chin, each drop landing softly against the stone beneath you in a rhythm that felt far too loud for how distant everything else had become.
You did not wipe it.
You kept walking.
The hallway stretched endlessly ahead, torchlight bending and warping against the walls as if the castle itself was shifting around you, and for a moment, you thought you recognized where you were, until you turned a corner and found yourself staring at the same tapestry you were certain you had already passed.
Or maybe you hadn’t.
It was hard to tell.
Your hand drifted outward, fingers brushing along the cold stone as you moved, grounding yourself in something solid while everything else felt just slightly out of place, like your body was moving a half step behind your mind. The ringing in your ears had not stopped since the hall, a low, constant hum that swallowed the edges of every sound around you, turning voices into distant murmurs and footsteps into dull vibrations beneath your feet.
You turned again, slower this time, your steps faltering as something inside your chest tightened, not sharp, not sudden, but steady, pressing inward as if the weight of everything was beginning to settle all at once.
The pain followed.
Your nose throbbed first, then your ribs, then something deeper that you could not name, each ache arriving dulled and delayed, as though your body had been waiting for you to notice it.
You exhaled slowly, though it did nothing to steady you.
Shadows moved at the edge of your vision, figures passing you in the corridor, their presence marked only by the faint shift of air and the suggestion of motion. Someone spoke, perhaps to you, perhaps not, but the words slipped past before they could take shape, leaving only tone behind, soft and uncertain.
You kept walking.
Or tried to.
At some point, your steps slowed without your permission, your body lagging as if wading through something unseen, until you stopped entirely, your hand pressing more firmly into the wall beside you as the stone seemed to tilt beneath your touch.
That was when they approached.
Three girls, their movements quick but careful, their expressions shifting the moment they took you in, the blood, the bruising, the way you swayed slightly where you stood, as though even remaining upright required more effort than it should have.
“My princess—”
The words reached you this time, though faintly, as if carried from a distance too far to matter.
Another voice followed, overlapping, softer but more urgent, and though you could not catch the meaning, you understood enough from the way their hands hovered near you before settling lightly at your arm.
You did not pull away.
Not out of trust.
Simply because the effort of resisting felt too far removed from where you were.
They guided you forward, their touch careful, almost tentative, as though you might break beneath it, and you let them, your steps falling into place beside theirs without thought as the corridor shifted again around you, unfamiliar doors and dimmer light replacing what had come before.
Voices grew clearer, then blurred again, questions asked and left unanswered, your silence passing unnoticed or unchallenged as they led you somewhere warmer, somewhere quieter, where the air did not feel quite so sharp against your skin.
You blinked,
and the space had changed.
A washroom now.
You did not remember entering.
Their hands lingered a moment longer, one of them reaching for you again, more hesitant this time.
“My princess, you should—”
“No.”
Your voice came out low, flat, but it was enough.
They stilled.
You moved past them without looking, stepping toward the basin as your fingers curled around its edge, gripping it tighter than necessary while the room swayed faintly around you.
Then, without allowing yourself to think, you lifted it and poured the water over your head.
The cold struck immediately, sharp enough to force a breath from your lungs, dragging you back into your body with a suddenness that almost hurt, and for the first time since leaving the hall, something felt real.
You filled it again.
And again.
Each time the water ran heavier, soaking through fabric and skin alike, dripping from your hair and pooling at your feet as the world narrowed to the simple, repetitive motion of lifting, pouring, breathing.
Your fingers moved next, scrubbing harshly at your arms, your neck, your scalp, nails dragging across your skin as if you could strip away more than just the dirt and sweat that clung to you. Dark streaks began to run with the water, curling and twisting as the dye bled free, staining the floor in uneven patterns that thinned with each passing moment.
You did not stop.
Not when your hands reddened.
Not when the skin beneath them began to sting.
Only when there was nothing left to take.
The movement slowed, then ceased entirely, your hands falling still at your sides as the last traces of color slipped away, leaving only pale strands clinging wetly to your shoulders.
For a moment, you did not look.
You only stood there, water dripping steadily from your frame, your breath uneven, your body suddenly too light without the weight of what you had been hiding behind.
Then your gaze lowered.
The reflection wavered in the shallow water below, distorted at first, then slowly settling as the ripples stilled.
White.
Not pale.
Not faded.
White, bright, and unmistakable, catching what little light remained and holding it there.
Silver, just as your father’s had always been.
Your throat tightened, a small, involuntary hitch of breath breaking the quiet before you could stop it, and though you blinked quickly, something still slipped free, vanishing the moment it fell.
The door opened behind you, softer this time.
They had returned.
You did not tell them to leave.
Hands found you again, gentler now, more certain in their movements as they worked in practiced silence, drawing dry fabric over your shoulders, guiding your arms when needed, careful not to jostle what was already bruising beneath your skin.
You let them.
The resistance you might have offered before never came, not because it had been taken from you, but because you could not find it within yourself to reach for it.
They moved around you with quiet efficiency, tending to what they could, drying your hair, smoothing oil into your skin, their touch light but steady, as though trying to ground you in a way you no longer seemed able to do on your own.
You barely registered it.
The warmth.
The closeness.
It passed through you without settling.
By the time they finished, the room felt dimmer, the candle they had lit casting long, wavering shadows along the walls as they guided you toward the bed, their presence lingering only a moment longer before slipping away entirely.
The door closed.
Silence returned.
You lay back without remembering the moment you decided to, your body sinking into the mattress as you stared up at the ceiling, the faint flicker of light above you the only indication that time was still moving at all.
You were tired.
You could not sleep.
Your thoughts did not come all at once, but in pieces, slow and uneven as they found their way back to you.
Egg, somewhere in this castle, alone.
Dunk.
That thought did not continue, catching too quickly, too sharply, leaving behind only the image of stone and iron, of space too small and too dark, of him held somewhere you could not reach. Your hand shifted slightly against the bedding, searching without thinking, your fingers brushing space where your dagger should have been.
Gone.
You felt that absence more than anything else, your hand curling faintly against the sheets as if holding onto something that was no longer there.
The room remained still around you, unmoving, unfamiliar in a way that settled deep beneath your skin. And when your mind drifted, it did not linger here.
It returned to the road.
To uneven ground and open air, to the crackle of a small fire and the quiet weight of Dunk’s presence beside it, to Egg’s voice cutting through the night with something bright and unguarded.
Simple things. Clear things. Things that had felt solid beneath your feet. You held onto those small, steady memories for as long as you could. But the quiet stretched too far.
It settled into something familiar in a way that made your chest tighten, something you had felt before, long before the road, long before Dunk and Egg, back when silence did not mean peace but absence, when rooms full of people could still leave you entirely alone.
And without meaning to, your thoughts shifted again.
Not to the road.
To a table.
To a hall filled with voices that had never once been meant for you.
Aerion’s boot found your foot beneath the table, not by accident, never by accident, pressing down just enough to make your toes ache before easing away, only to return moments later, measured and deliberate, as though he were testing the boundaries of your patience, or perhaps simply reminding you that he could.
The red dress did not help.
It clung where it should not, tight across your ribs when you tried to breathe too deeply, the fabric heavier than anything you would have chosen, thick and warm beneath the candlelit heat of the hall, its color impossible to ignore even when you wished to disappear into the background like you usually could.
You never wore your house colors.
Never allowed yourself to be wrapped so plainly in what you were meant to represent, but tonight there had been no avoiding it, no slipping past the expectation, only careful hands pulling you into something presentable, something proper, something that sat on you like a lie the longer you remained still in it.
A perfect princess, if anyone cared to look closely enough.
Aerion’s boot pressed down again.
Above the table, he ate without restraint, chewing loudly, wet and unrefined, as though he took some quiet pleasure in fouling the air itself, in making his presence unavoidable in every possible way.
You kept your gaze fixed ahead, on your uncle as he spoke, forcing yourself to follow the shape of his words even as their meaning slipped past you, your focus pulled again and again to the pressure beneath the table, to the slow, deliberate way it returned.
“Sit still,” Aerion murmured, not looking at you. “You make it obvious when you twitch.”
You stilled.
You had been looking forward to this night. Foolishly. Tomorrow, you will ride to Ashford. There would be banners, horses, a tourney held in honor of Lord Ashford’s daughter, a girl you knew only through stories, spoken of as something gentle and kind, something untouched by the sharp edges you had grown used to.
The thought of her had stayed with you. A small, fragile thing. Proof that the world could be something else.
All you had to do was endure this. That had never been difficult before.
You knew how to sit quietly, how to fold yourself inward, how to let discomfort pass without acknowledgment. You had done it for years.
But Aerion did not tire of testing that control. Everyone knew it. They saw enough to understand what he was, even if they chose not to name it. Most of all, your father. You had told him. More than once.
Aerion did not simply provoke you. He lingered where he was not wanted, broke what was not his, turned your chambers into something you could not recognize when it suited him. He struck your attendants when they displeased him. He laughed when they flinched.
And those were only the things spoken aloud.
His hand brushed your leg beneath the table, light at first, then firmer, lingering where it should not have been, and your entire body went rigid.
“If you speak,” he said quietly, “they will only hear you making noise.”
Above the table, his voice lifted easily moments later, answering a question with practiced ease, as though nothing at all had changed.
You stared at your plate until your vision blurred. This was the only meal you were required to attend. One evening, before you could return to your chambers, to quiet, to something that belonged to you.
One night.
Your breath came shorter without your permission, your fingers tightening slightly against the edge of the table as the pressure beneath it shifted again, more deliberate now, more certain.
The hall seemed to tilt. Candlelight wavered, stretching and bending at the edges of your vision. When his hand moved higher, something inside you faltered.
You stood abruptly, your chair scraping sharply against the stone. The sound cut through the hall. Voices faltered. Heads turned. Not in concern. In interruption.
“Little sister,” Aerion said lightly, almost amused. “Have you forgotten yourself?”
The name settled cold in your chest. Your pulse hammered, too fast, too loud, your thoughts slipping just out of reach as you turned, not to him, but to your father.
“Father,” you said, forcing the words out through a tightening chest, “the hour has grown late. I am spent from your talk of battles and knightly deeds, and I would retire.”
“Sit.”
He did not raise his voice.
He did not need to.
For a moment, you only stared at him, disbelief rising slowly and heavily in your chest.
“I—”
“Sit down,” Maekar said, irritation threading through the words now. “You are not dismissed.”
You lowered yourself back into your seat, slow and controlled, moving as far from Aerion as you could manage without drawing further notice.
Conversation returned. Cups were filled. No one spoke of it.
No one asked.
Your uncle glanced toward you once, something tightening briefly in his face before he looked away, as if even that small acknowledgment was more than he could afford.
You picked at your food until it went cold, untouched, your appetite gone entirely, leaving behind only a hollow, uneasy weight in your stomach that had nothing to do with hunger.
Perhaps it was over.
Perhaps he would tire of it.
He did not.
His hand returned, slower this time, deliberate in a way that left no room for doubt.
Your palms struck the table before you fully understood that you had moved, the sound cracking through the hall, sharper than it should have been.
“That is enough.”
Your voice carried, strained but steady.
“Father,” you said, more tightly now, “I will leave.”
“No.”
The word came heavier this time, edged with annoyance.
“But Aerion.” Your voice lowered, controlled in a way that felt fragile, as though it might splinter if pushed even slightly further. “You know his behavior. Everyone does. I will not sit here and be treated as though I am something to be handled at his leisure.”
Then, quieter, more dangerous, “I am done enduring it.” You said.
Aerion let out a soft breath beside you, almost amused.
“What is she speaking of?” he asked mildly. “I have done nothing.”
“You are lying!” The words slipped out before you could stop them.
“Always so certain,” he said. “And yet never correct.”
“I have had enough of you,” you said, the restraint in your voice beginning to splinter. “Enough of this fucking table, this fucking silence.”
“I have had enough of both of you,” Maekar cut in, his hand striking the table hard enough to still what little movement remained. “Cease this fucking arguing or starve.”
He looked at you when he said it.
Aerion smiled.
Something in you gave way, not slowly, not in pieces, but all at once.
You seized his goblet and threw it over him, the red wine soaking into his pale hair, running down his face in uneven streaks that looked almost like blood.
“You insufferable, miserable creature,” you said, your voice breaking where you had meant it to hold.
Aerion wiped at his face slowly, unbothered.
“There,” he said softly. “Now they will remember you.”
You turned before anything else could be said, moving toward the doors, your pulse still racing, your hands shaking despite yourself.
“Come back,” your father called after you.
You did not stop.
“I choose to starve,” you said, not turning.
Laughter followed you.
Aerion’s.
“Let her go, Father. She was never suited for this. No man would take her as she is. Might as well send her to the Silent Sisters before she worsens.”
You stopped.
Your hand tightened against the door.
For a moment, you stood there, the distance between you and him stretched thin, your breath uneven, your body held in place by something that had not yet decided what it would become.
Then you turned.
The space closed quickly.
Your fist connected with his jaw, the impact sharp, immediate, reverberating up your arm in a way that felt almost grounding.
For a heartbeat, the hall froze.
Then it broke.
Voices rose, chairs scraped, Daeron laughed too loudly for it to be anything but a spectacle as Aerion staggered, then straightened, blood and wine mixing as he reached for the nearest cup and threw it back at you, soaking you in turn.
“Better,” he said. “Now we match.”
You were on him before the guards could react, striking again and again, each blow landing harder than the last, the force of it carrying something you had not been allowed to release before, something that refused now to be contained. He couldn't even shake you.
Hands grabbed at you.
Pulled.
Shouted.
You fought against them, even as they dragged you back, your breath ragged, your vision narrowed to him and nothing else.
He laughed. Spitting blood.
They tore you away. For a moment, everything fractured into noise and motion, hands still gripping your arms as you fought against them, your breath coming sharp and uneven, your pulse loud enough to drown out the first few words thrown your way.
“Have you lost your mind?” Maekar’s voice cut through it, not concerned, not even surprised, but furious in a way that made it clear the offense was not what had been done to you, but what you had done in return.
“Unhand me,” you snapped, twisting against the grip on you, the fabric at your shoulders pulling tight as you struggled, the dress biting where it had already begun to strain.
Aerion laughed again, not even shaken.
“You see?” he said, dragging a hand back through his hair, pushing it out of his face only to smear the last of the wine further along his temple. “You can lace her into silk, sit her at the table, teach her which fork to use, and still this is what comes of it.”
“Enough,” Maekar said sharply, though his gaze stayed on you. “You will hold your tongue.”
Aerion tilted his head slightly, as though considering that, but did not stop.
“Though I suppose we should not be surprised,” he went on, his tone turning almost thoughtful, as if he were making an observation rather than an accusation. “Some things do not take, no matter how much effort is spent trying to make them fit. Blood will show itself in the end.”
A chair shifted softly along the stone.
One of the ladies lowered her gaze to her plate, adjusting her sleeve as though something about the fabric required her full attention, while a knight further down the table reached for his cup without looking up, his posture settling into something deliberately neutral, as if stillness itself might keep him from being drawn into it.
No one spoke.
No one asked him to clarify.
They did not need to.
Your hair had come loose in the struggle, pins slipping free one by one until it fell unevenly around your shoulders, strands sticking where the wine had soaked into the fabric at your collar, where sweat and heat had undone whatever careful work had been done to make you presentable.
You could feel it, the difference. The unraveling.
“Look at you,” Aerion said more quietly now, his gaze moving over you with something like quiet satisfaction. “All that effort, and it slips the moment you are pressed.”
Maekar said nothing. He did not look at Aerion. He did not correct him.
His attention remained fixed on you, hard and unyielding, as though you were the only part of this that required discipline.
Something in the room settled again, not into comfort, but into understanding, into something unspoken that passed easily between them all, as though a question had been answered without needing to be asked aloud.
Your grip on the moment slipped. The hall, the voices, the hands on your arms, all of it began to pull away from you, not all at once, but in pieces, like something receding just beyond your reach.
A strand of silver hair caught against your lips when you tried to breathe. You did not move to fix it.
Morning came without ceremony, and you woke into it already in pain, not the sharp kind that demanded immediate attention but the deep, spreading kind that had settled into your body overnight, lingering in your knuckles where they had struck harder than they should have, in your ribs where each breath pulled a little too tightly, and behind your eyes where the world felt slightly misaligned, as though you were still half a step out of place in it.
You lay there for a moment without moving, staring at the canopy above your bed as if it might offer something recognizable, but all it gave you was stillness, and the faint pressure of sunlight pressing through narrow windows that had already begun to warm the stone of the room, turning it from cold to indifferent.
When you finally sat up, it was not with urgency but with the slow acceptance of something already decided for you, and only then did you notice the clothes laid out across the foot of the bed.
Carefully prepared in a way that made it clear this morning had been arranged without your input, the riding dress already pressed and waiting, boots placed side by side as though you would simply step into a role that had been set for you in advance, your cloak folded with precise attention to the colors of your house, bright and undeniable in a way you never dressed yourself.
It was wrong, sitting there like that, too intentional, too composed, as though nothing had happened at all, as though you had not spent the previous night shouting until your voice broke and your hands bled, and yet the castle itself seemed to insist on continuing forward as if you had never stepped out of line.
You dressed because there was nothing else to do, each movement slow and quiet, the fabric of your clothing feeling unfamiliar against your skin after everything that had been stripped away from you, and when you finally stepped into the corridor, the emptiness of it was the first thing that struck you, not just quiet but emptied in a deliberate way, as though the life of the castle had been carefully removed rather than simply absent.
There were no voices ahead of you, no distant arguments, no footsteps of attendants or guards shifting in their routes, only the long stretch of stone and the echo of your own movement, and it did not take long before you understood why.
They had already gone.
The realization did not arrive as anger, not yet, but as something hollow and weightless that settled in your chest and stayed there, unmoving, as if your body had accepted it before your mind had fully caught up.
You made it halfway down the stairs before a servant appeared at the base of them, hurrying toward you with visible hesitation, his hands restless at his sides as though unsure where they were meant to rest, his expression carefully neutral in the way of someone delivering something they did not wish to be responsible for.
“My princess,” he said quickly, eyes fixed somewhere just past your shoulder rather than on you, “I was told to find you.”
You stopped, though not because you expected anything good.
“Told by whom?”
“His Grace, the prince, Maekar,” he replied, swallowing once before continuing, “I am to speak in his place.”
That, more than anything, told you everything you needed to know.
“Well,” you said, your voice even in a way that felt distant from you, “speak.”
He hesitated only briefly before reciting what had clearly been given to him word for word, the cadence of it rehearsed and stripped of warmth, telling you that in light of your conduct the previous night and in consideration of what was appropriate for ladies of the realm, you would remain at Summerhall while the rest of the court departed for Ashford.
There was no softness in it, no pause that suggested uncertainty, only the clean delivery of something already decided, and when he finished, the silence that followed felt heavier than his words had.
Then, as if remembering something secondary, he reached into his sleeve and produced a small parcel wrapped in plain cloth, holding it out toward you with visible reluctance, as though even this gesture felt misplaced.
“And from Prince Baelor,” he added more quietly, “he says happy name day.”
The words did not land immediately, not as meaning, only as sound, until they slowly gathered weight and became something sharper, something that did not belong in the same space as the message you had just been given.
Your name day.
The thought of it surfaced belatedly, disjointed from the rest of the morning, and with it came the realization that the clothes, the preparation, the careful arrangement of your chamber had not been for nothing, but for something you had been excluded from before it even began, remembered only enough to be acknowledged after you had already been left behind.
You took the parcel because there was nothing else to do with your hands.
It was light.
Almost carefully so.
The servant lingered for a moment longer, then bowed with something that might have been discomfort or pity or simply the desire to leave quickly, and when he finally spoke again, it was no longer part of his message but something that escaped him despite it.
“I am sorry, my princess,” he said quietly.
Then he turned and left you standing there alone in the corridor, still dressed for a journey that no longer existed, holding something meant to soften an absence that had already taken shape around you.
You remained there for a long moment, listening to the quiet settle properly into the castle, and somewhere beyond its walls, far enough that it no longer mattered whether you heard it or not, hooves had already begun to fade into the distance toward Ashford, carrying with them every sound that should have included you.
And you were still at Summerhall, in the highest, hidden tower of the castle.
Egg pushed open the large oak doors, the hinges creaking softly against the stillness of the chamber, and he came in with the kind of urgency that did not belong in a place like this, his steps uneven and too quick for his small frame, as though he had been running long before he reached you and only just remembered how to be careful once he arrived.
“Sister,” he said, and then again, faster this time, “sister, please, please say something.”
It took you longer than it should have to understand that he was speaking to you at all, because for a moment the room still felt slightly unreal, like you had not fully returned to it yet, like your thoughts were still catching up to the fact that there was a floor beneath you and air in your lungs that required effort to use properly.
When you did breathe, it came uneven, too shallow at first, as though your body had forgotten how to regulate itself in the absence of violence, and you only slowly became aware of Egg standing near your bed, hesitating in that way he always did when he wanted to be close but was not entirely sure he was allowed to be.
You noticed the clothes then, belatedly, the way the maids had dressed him in black and red without explanation, as though color alone might prepare him for something they had not told him about, and yet it only made him look more exposed, more like a child being fitted into a role that had not been designed with him in mind.
He climbed onto the bed without fully asking, but in a way that made it clear he did not expect permission anymore, not from you, not from anyone, and his hands were already reaching for your cloak before he even spoke again, clutching at it as though it might tether you both to something stable.
“Please,” he said, voice breaking now, “please come with me. We have to go to Dunk.”
The name did not strike as it had before.
It settled instead, heavier, slower, as though it had been waiting in the background of everything else and had only now been allowed to exist fully in your mind.
What followed was not a memory so much as a layered awareness of absence, of where he was not, of what had been taken out of your hands before you had been given any real chance to understand the shape of it, and you felt the weight of it without needing to see it again.
“I can’t,” you said, though the words did not feel like refusal so much as delay, as though your mouth had spoken before your mind had agreed.
Egg shook his head immediately, too fast, too desperate to accept it.
“He doesn’t hate us,” he insisted, voice rising in a way that made him sound even younger than he was. “He can’t. He wouldn’t. We just have to explain it. We just have to fix it before Father—before he decides anything.”
His grip on your cloak tightened as he spoke, fingers curling into the fabric as if it might anchor him, and only then did you realize how hard he was trying not to fall apart in front of you, how carefully he was holding himself together because he believed you were still the one who could steady him.
And then his voice faltered, just slightly, as if something in him had finally caught up to itself, and you saw it clearly then, not just his fear for Dunk, but the strain of being the one who had come to find you instead of the other way around.
“Egg,” you said quietly, and he looked up immediately, as if your voice alone could change direction.
For a moment, you hesitated, not because you did not know what to say, but because you were suddenly aware of how small he still was compared to what he was trying to carry.
“Are you okay?” you asked, softer now, and it did not feel like a question you expected an answer to so much as something you needed to say out loud so he would not forget he was allowed to be more than the messenger of something breaking.
He blinked at you, caught off guard by it, and the urgency in him faltered for just a moment as he tried to process it.
“I’m fine,” he said too quickly at first, then quieter, more honest without meaning to be, “I just don’t want him to get hurt.”
That answer did not fully hold.
But it was enough to show you what he was doing with himself.
So you let your hand rest against his head again, slower this time, grounding him as much as yourself.
“I’m here,” you said after a moment, though it felt more like something you were reminding both of you of rather than a promise.
He nodded quickly, but did not let go of your cloak.
“Then come on,” he said, voice still unsteady but determined in a way that did not match his size. “We have to help him. You always know what to do.”
That should have made something in you tighten.
Instead, it only made the silence inside you shift, as though responsibility had simply changed direction rather than disappeared.
You stood slowly, not fully because you were ready, but because staying still no longer felt like something you were permitted to do, and when you reached for your cloak properly this time, it felt heavier than it should have, as though it understood more than you were willing to say aloud.
“Go on,” you told him quietly. “Put on something heavier, it's cold.”
He obeyed immediately, too quickly, as if afraid you might dissolve again if he waited.
When he returned, you followed him out.
The corridor beyond your chamber felt narrower than it should have, though you knew it was not, the stone walls closing in with every step as though the castle itself had begun to adjust to the weight of what had happened within it, and the quiet that followed you was no longer peaceful but deliberate, almost watchful, as if even sound had learned to move carefully around you.
Egg walked ahead, but not far ahead, always close enough that you could see the tension in his shoulders, the way he kept glancing back at you without meaning to, as though he needed confirmation that you were still there, still moving, still something he could rely on to remain steady even when he was not.
The stairs came sooner than expected, or perhaps you simply had not noticed reaching them, because one moment you were walking level ground and the next you were descending, the angle of the world shifting underfoot in a way that made your stomach tighten, and the air grew colder almost immediately, as though the castle was pulling warmth away from you with every step downward.
Stone replaced stone, but it no longer felt like passage, only repetition, the same turn of corridor, the same narrowing light, the same weight pressing in from all sides until even Egg’s small footsteps began to sound louder than they should have, echoing too sharply in spaces that felt too enclosed to properly contain them.
At some point, a guard passed you without speaking, his eyes lowering too quickly, not in respect but in avoidance, and that small refusal to acknowledge you at all lingered longer than it should have, settling into the space between your thoughts as another confirmation that the world above had already made its decision and was no longer interested in revisiting it.
Egg did not notice.
Or if he did, he chose not to stop.
He kept going.
Always forward.
Always downward.
Until the light behind you had thinned into something distant and unreliable, and the only remaining certainty was the sound of his voice when he finally spoke again, quieter now, as though even he understood that raising it too much might disturb something he could not see.
“It’s just down there,” he said, and it was not really reassurance, only direction, as if naming the destination might make it less frightening for both of you.
The air changed again as you reached the lower levels, becoming damp and still, carrying the scent of stone that had not seen sunlight in a long time, and the walls here were closer now, not visibly but perceptibly, as though the castle had forgotten how much space was necessary for comfort and had begun to prioritize containment instead.
Every sound felt absorbed before it could fully form.
Even your own breathing seemed muted.
Egg slowed without meaning to, his steps shortening as the corridor ahead grew darker, and for the first time, he did not look back immediately, as if whatever lay ahead required more attention than reassurance, and that small shift in him made something in your chest tighten without fully becoming fear.
You did not speak.
There was nothing to say that would not change what came next.
So you followed him into the narrowing dark, where the castle stopped feeling like a place you were moving through and started feeling like something you were being lowered into instead.
The only thing separating you from Dunk was a guard and a kitchen servant bringing his meager dinner. The food was gruel fit for the lowest kitchens, thin enough that even from a distance it looked like it would not hold a man upright for long, and the sight of it made something in your chest tighten in a way that had nothing to do with hunger and everything to do with what it meant to be kept here like this.
Egg did the talking, his small voice steady in the way it only ever became when he was afraid but refusing to show it.
Explaining carefully that you were there on official business from the crown, that there was no need for disturbance, no reason for alarm. The men at the door exchanged glances that lingered just long enough to make you feel it, that subtle shift of recognition that did not quite settle on you as a person, but on something more distant, something half-real, like a story being repeated rather than a presence being acknowledged.
Royals, yes.
But not one they had expected to see in a place like this.
And then they let him pass.
You pulled Egg aside before he entered. “Talk to him first,” you said gently. “I’ll go in after.” The boy nodded, taking a deep breath before opening the dungeon door and stepping inside.
The door closed again, and the sound of it felt heavier than it should have, like something had been sealed rather than opened. Suddenly, there was only the corridor, the dim torchlight, and the realization that you were still standing on the outside of something you had already set in motion.
You did not move at first.
In that gap, in that thin stretch of waiting that had no structure to hold it, your thoughts began to press in on you more sharply. Not in words, but in implications, in the slow awareness of what could happen behind that door without you, of how little control you actually had over anything once it was out of your sight.
Your breath came uneven again, and you found yourself staring at the seam where stone met iron, as though watching it closely might prevent it from becoming something irreversible.
Time did not feel like it was passing correctly.
It felt like it was gathering.
Each second stacking without release, without sound, until even the corridor behind you seemed too narrow to stand in, as if the space itself had begun to lean inward.
When Egg finally came back out, it was so sudden you almost stepped forward without thinking, your body reacting before your mind had fully caught up, but he was already there. Wiping at his face in a way that did not fully hide the relief in him, the kind that came from a tension finally loosening rather than a fear worsening.
“What happened?” you asked immediately, voice sharper than you intended.
He sniffed once, then steadied himself.
“He’s ready for you,” he said. “I will be here.”
There was something in the way he said it that made it sound like a promise he was offering you rather than something you had asked for.
You hesitated only a moment longer, because the thought of stepping through that door did not feel like movement anymore but like consequence, like entering a space where every decision you had made so far would finally stop being theoretical and become real in front of you.
Then you drew a breath that did not fully settle your nerves but forced your body forward anyway.
And with one last moment of stillness at the threshold, you stepped inside.
The first thing Dunk noticed when the door swung open was that you were not a guard telling him it was time to die. You were yourself, but different. Smaller somehow, drained of color, silver hair loose around your frame as if whatever had been holding you together had finally stopped doing its job, and the dress you wore did nothing to keep the cold from reaching you.
And yet it was still you.
Neither of you spoke at first. The silence did not feel calm, only uncertain, like neither of you trusted what would happen if you filled it too quickly. Dunk stayed seated, rigid in a way that suggested he had been holding himself still for far too long, while you stood near the threshold longer than necessary, as if crossing it meant committing to something that could not be taken back.
When you finally moved, it was careful, almost hesitant, as though even your steps were asking permission.
You did not sit immediately.
Instead, you hovered near him, hands twisting into your cloak, and when you spoke, your voice came out thin, strained by something you were still trying to keep under control.
“Are you alright?”
Dunk let out a breath through his nose, not quite a laugh, but something tired. “I’m alive.”
That should have been enough to settle something.
It wasn’t.
You swallowed and tried again, quieter. “Did they hurt you?”
“No.”
A pause.
“Have you eaten?”
“Yes.”
Another pause, heavier now, stretching until it became uncomfortable.
“Has anyone told you what happens next?”
“No.”
Each answer made the space between you worse instead of better, because there was nothing in them to hold onto, and your chest tightened as you realized how much of this had been decided without either of you being allowed to speak inside it.
Dunk shifted slightly, the scrape of chains or restraint faint in the background, and when he finally looked at you again, there was something more fragile underneath his earlier anger.
“I do not understand this,” he said, voice rougher now. “I do not understand how I go from standing for your honor to sitting here like this while you walk in and look at me like I am already something you are trying to fix.”
Then his voice sharpened slightly, not angry yet, but worn at the edges. “What is this supposed to be?”
You hesitated. “I had to see you.”
That earned you a look, not cruel, but searching. “Had to,” he repeated.
And something in that made your chest tighten.
Because it sounded wrong out loud.
Like everything else.
Your fingers tightened in your cloak. “I needed to make sure you were—”
“Safe,” he finished for you, but there was something guarded in the way he said it.
That word pressed harder than the rest. And suddenly the air felt too thin to hold your thoughts.
“I do not know how to do this,” you admitted, voice breaking slightly at the edges. “I do not know how to explain it in a way that makes sense because nothing about this should exist in the first place.”
Dunk’s jaw tightened. “Then explain what you can.”
And that was where it cracked. Not loudly. Not all at once.
Just enough that everything you had been holding behind your ribs began to press outward.
“I did not want this,” you said, and your voice wavered before you could stop it. “I did not want any of it. I did not want the court, or the name, or the way everything I do becomes something someone else decides for me.”
Your breath hitched.
“And I did not want you in this,” you added, softer now, more broken. “I did not want you dragged into something that started because I exist in the wrong place at the wrong time.”
Dunk frowned slightly. “That is not how it happened.”
But you were already shaking your head, the thought turning inward before you could stop it.
“It is,” you whispered, and then it came out worse, more fragile. “If I had never met you, none of this would have reached you. None of this would be sitting in a cell because of me.”
Your voice cracked fully then.
“And I keep thinking that maybe I am just… a curse that follows people until it ruins them.”
The words landed in the space between you as something dropped too hard.
Dunk went still.
Not softened yet. Not comfort yet. Just still.
Your fingers tightened into the fabric at your chest, like you were trying to hold yourself in place.
“And I did not want to lose you.”
That last part came out smaller.
More honest than you intended.
Dunk exhaled slowly. Then, quieter, sharper in refusal than argument:
“No.”
You flinched anyway.
Dunk leaned forward slightly, elbows resting on his knees, eyes fixed on you now in a way that did not let you disappear into your own thoughts.
“That is not how this works,” he said more firmly now. “I chose to step in. I chose to act.”
Then, slightly lower, less about logic and more about truth:
“And I do not like the idea of you being anywhere near that man without someone making sure you are safe.”
That part lands heavier than the rest.
You shook your head again, but weaker this time. “You would not have been there if not for me.”
“And I would have been somewhere else,” he cut in, sharper now, but not unkind. “Getting myself into trouble in some other way, because that is what men like me do.”
That pulled something out of you that you were not ready for. A broken sound that was almost a laugh, but not quite. Almost a sob.
“I cannot keep pretending I am fine,” you said, quieter now, but unstable. “I cannot keep doing this and acting like I am not breaking every time I am alone.”
You did not speak clearly after that anymore, only fragments of breath and pressure, and Dunk did not force you back into words.
Dunk’s expression shifted, something in him loosening, not in relief but recognition.
“You are not the only one carrying it,” he said finally, lower now, more grounded. “I am not angry at you. I was angry because I did not know what I was supposed to do with all of this. With being taken, with being used like a point in something bigger than me.”
His jaw tightened slightly.
“And because I do not like the idea of you being anywhere near that man without someone making sure you are safe.”
Dunk exhaled slowly, then added, more quietly, “I came here thinking I was going to lose something I did not even understand I had yet. That is what scared me.”
Your hands came up to your face before you could stop them. The sound that left you next was uneven, torn between relief and grief, because it was not just about him anymore; it was everything that had been sitting behind your ribs for too long, finally finding somewhere to go.
Dunk moved immediately as you lost yourself, crying uncontrollably.
He reached for you and pulled you in, steady, anchoring, his presence solid in a way the rest of your world had not been.
“Hey,” he said quietly, closer now, voice rough but not unkind. “Dry your eyes, sweet girl.”
That was all it took to make it worse and better at the same time.
Because now you could let it happen. Now you were not holding it alone.
You clung to him without thinking about dignity or titles or anything that had been built around you, and he held you there like it was not something unexpected, like it was not something dangerous, just something real that had finally stopped being denied.
And after a long moment, when your breathing began to slow again, Dunk spoke again, lower, steadier.
“I am not letting you walk into whatever this becomes alone,” he said. “Not if I have anything to say about it.”
It wasn’t a promise of certainty. But it was a promise of presence. And that mattered more.
Neither of you moved after that. Not because there was nothing left to say, but because anything spoken now would have felt too loud for the space between you. Dunk’s hands were still steady where they had settled around you, not holding tight anymore, just there, as if he had forgotten the exact moment he was supposed to let go.
And you had not moved away. Not even slightly.
It took a moment for you to notice that.
The silence stretched, but it was no longer empty. It felt like something suspended, like time itself had stopped asking either of you to make a decision too quickly.
Dunk looked at you then.
And something in his expression shifted in a way that did not belong to anger, or confusion, or duty anymore. It was quieter than all of that. Present in a way that made your breath catch without warning.
You realized you were looking back.
And neither of you corrected it.
You should have looked away. You did not.
The distance between you had not changed, but it felt smaller now, like it had been worn down by everything that had already happened and simply forgotten how to stay large.
Dunk’s voice came low, uncertain in a way you had never heard from him before.
“You are still shaking,” he said.
“I know,” you whispered.
Neither of you moved after that, either.
But the moment did not break.
It deepened instead, quietly, as if it had found somewhere to settle.
His gaze flicked once, briefly, to your mouth, then back to your eyes, as if he had not meant to do it but also could not pretend he hadn’t.
That small moment changed something.
Your breath slowed without permission. Dunk didn’t speak again. He didn’t need to. And then, very quietly, as if neither of you had fully decided to allow it, the space between you stopped feeling like distance.
It stopped feeling like anything that could be maintained.
He kissed you, as if it had been decided long before either of you spoke.
Everything went still in a way that felt almost unreal, like the world had paused mid-breath and forgotten to continue. When he pulled back, it was only slightly, as if even that distance felt uncertain now. Neither of you spoke. Dunk looked at you like he was trying to understand what he had just done without undoing it.
“I am so sorry. We shouldn’t,” he said quietly. But he didn’t move back.
“I don’t care,” you admitted, barely above a breath. “Just you and me, together.” You pulled him back in.
It shocked him at first, he expected to be slapped or yelled at. But when you kissed him like you needed his air to breathe he pulled you in closer. If that was even possible.
The two of you pulled and pawed at each other like youd be gone if you stopped kissing. It was so intense that you, too, flopped over. You land back first on the cold ground, with one of his hands shielding your head from it slamming. All while still grabbing at each other, even here, he still protected you.
You only pulled apart to reposition yourself, and then went back in. He moved his affection from your lips to your neck as he began to kiss down your body. Hands roaming to hold onto your thighs, stopping only when the sound of knocking was heard.
You were in a dungeon, don't forget
It was Egg who was knocking. He said that it had grown quiet and that he was coming in.
The two of you halted. Slowly, Dunk adjusted your dress and cloak to make sure everything looked right. But it could not fix the way your body flushed against his, and your chapped lips. It was enough for Egg not to say anything, though.
“Prince Baelor request your presence.” The boy looks at the two of you. “Sooner than later.”
There were no escorts as you walked back down the hallways of the cobblestone castle. Egg’s words weighed heavy on your chest. The crowned prince is requesting you, in all of this.
Still, you followed.
By the time the doors opened, you had already braced yourself. For more judgement, more words you would have to learn how to let slip down your brain.
The first thing you noticed was how warm the room was. It was almost comforting. The exact opposite of how it had been when you and your father stood in here together.
It instantly seeped into the cold of your bones. Light from the calm fire caught onto dust in the air, softening the edges of the room, making everything feel quieter than it should have been.
Baelor did not loom. He did not fill the space with his voice or force. He sat writing as if he hadn’t noticed your presence at all.
“Uncle?” you croaked, the word feeling foreign in your throat.
He said your name—your true name—softly. His face almost brightened when he looked up at you, but it settled quickly when he saw you still standing there, unmoving.
You weren’t sure what to do. How this conversation was going to go. If you needed to keep track of the door behind you.
“Please, take a seat.” He gestured to the chair in front of his desk. “I assume you’re confused as to why I called you here.”
“Forgive me, Your Grace. I just… I already spoke to Prince Maekar. My words have lost their emphasis.”
Baelor’s brow lifted slightly at your formality.
He paused before answering, studying you for a moment longer than expected. “You are still my niece, yes? No matter what you present as?”
You looked anywhere but at his mismatched eyes. “Well ye—”
“Then why do you speak to me like this?” he interrupted, not sharply, but firmly. “We are family. I did not call you here to make you explain yourself again.”
The words struck something deep in your chest.
“Then why am I here?” The question came out sharper than you meant it to.
“This situation is less than ideal—” he began.
“The situation?” you cut in, something hot rising up before you could stop it. “This situation… it’s not new, Uncle.”
The words hung there.
Baelor did not snap back. He did not raise his voice.
He simply waited.
And somehow, that was worse.
“I was not called here for this,” you said, your voice tightening despite yourself. “If this is about Aerion, then you already know what he will say. What everyone will say.”
Still, he said nothing.
Your hands curled at your sides.
“You all do,” you added, quieter now. “You always do.”
Baelor set the quill down carefully. Not rushed. Not startled. Deliberate.
“I know what has been reported to me,” he said. “That is not the same as knowing.”
You let out a sharp breath, something between a laugh and disbelief. “And what difference does that make?”
“A great deal.”
Silence stretched again, but it did not feel empty. It pressed, gently, insistently, until something in your chest gave way.
“You ask why I did it,” you said, your gaze fixed somewhere just past him. “Why I left, why I interfered, why I put myself there.”
A pause.
“No one else was going to.”
The words landed heavier than you intended.
Baelor’s expression shifted, something quieter settling behind his eyes.
“No one?” he repeated.
You swallowed.
“That is not how it works,” you said quickly, like you could reshape it into something safer. “People don’t step in. They watch. They always watch.”
Your voice faltered slightly on the last word.
“And you have learned that from us.”
It was not a question.
Your throat tightened again, but you did not answer.
Baelor leaned back slightly, his gaze still on you, but different now. Not distant. Not weighing.
Trying to understand.
“That is my failing,” he said quietly.
The words did not make sense at first.
You blinked. “What?”
“My failing,” he repeated, more firmly this time. “Not yours.”
You stared at him.
“I have no daughters…” he began, the words slower now, less certain. He paused briefly, as if searching for the right way to say it. “Maybe one day. But until then, I told myself that meant I did not know how to guide you. That your father would. That your brothers would. That the household would.”
A faint, humorless breath left him.
“I see now that I used that as an excuse to stand at a distance.”
Something in your chest shifted, uncertain and sharp.
“When your mother died,” he went on, quieter now, “I told myself grief was a private thing. That it was not my place to intrude.”
Your hands trembled slightly. You stilled them quickly.
“When Aerion’s cruelty began… I told myself it was a matter of temper. That boys grow cruel in ways they must unlearn.” He paused again, jaw tightening faintly. “I thought it would pass.”
It didn’t. You both knew that.
“When you were given responsibilities beyond your years,” he continued, “I told myself it was because you were capable.”
Each word felt placed carefully between you, like something fragile that might break if handled wrong.
“I watched you carry all of it,” he said. “Silently. Without complaint. Without asking anything in return.”
Your vision blurred, but you refused to let it show.
“And I thought that meant you did not need anything from me.”
That hurt more than anger ever could have.
Baelor’s gaze returned to you fully.
“I was wrong.”
The room felt too warm all at once. Too small.
“You should not have had to step into that situation today,” he said. “Not because you were wrong to see it for what it was, but because you should have believed—known—that someone else would stop it before it came to that.”
His voice lowered slightly.
“That is what we failed to give you.”
We.
Not you. Not just him.
Your breath came unevenly now, something fragile cracking under the weight of it.
“I did not—” you started, then stopped.
You didn’t know how to finish that.
Baelor did not rush you.
“I think,” he said carefully, “that we have mistaken your silence for strength, and your endurance for willingness.”
Your throat tightened painfully.
“They are not the same thing.”
No. They weren’t.
You had just never been given the space to separate them.
Baelor straightened slightly, though his voice remained gentle.
“I cannot undo what has already been done,” he said. A pause. “But I can do better than I have.”
Another pause, quieter this time.
“If you will allow me to.”
The words settled somewhere deep, unfamiliar.
“I… don’t know how,” you admitted, your voice quieter now, stripped of its edge.
That seemed to settle something in him.
“Then we will learn,” Baelor said. “Both of us.”
Silence followed again, but it felt different now. Less like something to endure.
You dragged a hand down your face, exhaling a quiet, frustrated sound, as if your body did not know what to do with everything that had just been placed into it.
“What is to happen now?”
Baelor did not answer immediately. He stood, moving around the desk slowly, as if giving both of you space to step out of what the conversation had been.
“As you know, Aerion would like Ser Duncan’s head for what he did.” He grimaced faintly. “He will not have it.”
You looked up at him, something sharp and desperate in your eyes. “How do you know that’s true?”
“I will do everything in my power to stop it,” he said. “For honor, for sacrifice… for you. But I cannot deny him a trial.”
You could finally breathe.
Relief came sharp and sudden, like something you had been holding back without realizing.
“There is one other matter,” Baelor added, his tone shifting slightly.
You stilled.
“Daeron has claimed that Ser Duncan kidnapped you from Summerhall, and the boy from the inn. A desperate attempt, I think, to cover his own failings.”
You were on your feet before you fully realized it, the chair scraping harshly behind you. “That’s blasphemy. Dunk would never—”
Baelor’s brow lifted slightly at your openness.
“I mean—Ser Duncan,” you corrected quickly.
Even so, you did not take it back.
You swayed slightly, and this time when Baelor stepped forward, there was a pause—just enough to notice—before his hands settled carefully on your shoulders.
Warm. Steady.
You stiffened for half a breath.
Then… didn’t pull away.
“That is where you come in,” he said, his voice gentler now. “An eyewitness. The court will not favor him otherwise.”
His hands dropped after a moment, giving you space again.
“I will personally see that you are present when decisions are made. You will speak the truth of what happened. And we will see it set right.”
You shook your head slightly, uncertainty creeping back in. “But… what if—”
“I’m afraid we can only act on what is right, not what is feared,” he said quietly. “We will face the rest when it comes.”
You nodded slowly, drawing in a deeper breath than before, forcing something steadier back into yourself.
“I will do all I can.”
Baelor studied you for a moment longer, then nodded once.
“He has only one other option, if punishment is to be avoided,” he said more quietly. “So I will ask you this.”
A small pause.
“How good of a knight is he?”
You took a step back, but this time it was not out of fear. Something in you had settled. Something certain. There was no hesitation when you answered.
“The best.”
There was something steadier in your step as you made your way back through the halls. Not lighter, not easier, but steadier in a way that felt unfamiliar. Baelor’s words still sat heavy in your chest, the weight of what was to come pressing at the edges of your thoughts, but it no longer felt like something you had to brace against. It felt like something you could carry.
By the time you reached your chambers, your hands had stopped trembling.
The door closed softly behind you, sealing you into a quiet that felt almost unnatural after everything. No voices. Just the stillness of the room and the sound of your own breath as you stood there, unmoving for a moment, letting it all settle into place.
Your gaze drifted toward the wardrobe, looking for something else to wear other than your nightgown. Your fingers brushing across fabrics. Soft colors, simple cuts, pieces that allowed you to exist without being seen too closely. They could have been enough before. They could have been safe.
Not now.
You pushed further into the wardrobe, shifting past what you knew until something darker caught your eye. The black stood out immediately, deep and rich, threaded through with gold that caught the light in sharp, deliberate glints.
It demanded to be noticed.
You stilled, your hand hovering over it before finally pulling it free. The fabric was heavier than what you were used to, structured in a way that held its shape instead of falling away from it. It felt different in your hands, like it carried expectation within it.
It wasn’t yours. Who’s was it? You tried not to dwel.
For a moment, you hesitated.
Then the memory of Baelor’s voice returned, quiet and certain in a way that left no room to retreat from it. He had not raised his voice. He had not demanded anything of you. You could fully trust him, he was safe.
You tightened your grip on the dress.
Let it be known.
Today.
They would see you.
You dressed slowly, more deliberate than you had ever been before. Each movement felt intentional, every adjustment made with care until the fabric sat properly against your frame. It felt strange at first, the way it held you upright, but as you settled into it, the unfamiliarity began to shift into something else.
When you turned toward the mirror, it took you a moment to recognize what you were looking at. Not because it was unrecognizable, but because it was not what you were used to seeing. There was something sharper there, something more defined, like the version of you that had always been expected but never fully realized.
You looked amazing.
You reached for the brush next, dragging it through your silver hair with more care than usual. Each pass smoothed something out, not just the tangles but the lingering hesitation that still clung to you. You did not rush it. You did not avoid your reflection. You watched yourself as you worked, as if trying to understand this version of you as it formed.
Your eyes caught on the small items left on the table.
A pot of rouge. A small glass vial of perfume, the scent faint even from where you stood.
You hesitated again, your fingers hovering before slowly reaching forward. There was something strangely intimate about it, about taking what was not yours and making it part of yourself, even for a moment.
You pressed the color lightly onto your lips, then your cheeks, the warmth of it bringing life back into your face in a way you were overly noticing was missing. The perfume followed, just a touch at your wrists, your neck. Something soft, something that lingered without overpowering.
You stepped back from the table slowly, your hands falling to your sides as you took yourself in again.
Different.
Not someone else. Not something false.
Just… more.
Your thoughts drifted then, pulling you somewhere you wish you could go back to/
To him.
Dunk.
The way he had stood between you and the world without hesitation, as if there had never been a question in his mind. The way his voice had sounded when he said your name, not careful, but certain in a way that had caught you off guard.
And when he kissed you.
Your breath caught slightly, the memory sharper now that you allowed yourself to linger on it. It had not been soft or hesitant. There had been nothing uncertain about it. It had been sudden, unguarded, something that had broken through every wall you had carefully kept in place.
You had not stopped it. That thought lingered longer than the rest. Your hand lifted slightly, as if you could still feel it, before you forced it back down..
A knock sounded at the door, pulling you back into yourself.
“My princess,” the maid’s voice came, gentle but firm. “It is time.”
Finally
You closed your eyes briefly, drawing in a slow, steady breath, letting it settle deep in your chest. When you opened them again, there was no hesitation left in you.
“Thank you,” you said, your voice louder than usual, but no less certain.
When you stepped through the door, you did not pause.
You stepped back into the hallway with your head held just slightly higher, the weight of the dress grounding you, the warmth of the room still lingering faintly against your skin.
This time, you were not walking toward something waiting to judge you. You were walking toward something that would have to hear you.
After the confession of profound love from Baelor,You are walking on air, believing nothing can top the feeling. But your husband,The Crown Prince proves you wrong
Baelor Targaryen x Stark!reader
(Fluff, so much fluff🫠 and smut🫣) (Minors do not interact)
Series Masterlist
“That was quite entertaining I must say” Maekar smirked at you “Glad you enjoyed it” “I was not aware you had claws” you looked at him, and found him looking back at you. A proud smile stretched on his face. “We are taught to keep our steel hidden until we are ready to strike”. With an agreeing nod Maekar replied “Element of surprise, Good advice”
As you approached the high table, your eyes spotted Baelor making his way back into the Hall. His eyes were dead set on you. His strides were long and purposeful. He walked like a man possessed. A moth drawn to a flame. Approaching your form, he halted right in front of you. His eyes shined with new purpose, they looked at you like they were seeing you for the first time. Mismatched eyes roamed your face as if he wanted to sear it into his memory, a need to soak it up so deep that only you remained. His wolf .
His fingers trailed down your arm, and found your digits to intertwined themselves. You felt his thundering pulse under your fingertips,And all he did was look at you with reverence. Bringing your joined hands up to his lips, he placed a lingering kiss on your knuckles and then he stepped back and did something that made the entire hall gasp as time stood still.
Baelor Targaryen, the Crown Prince, Hand to the king, Heir to the Iron Throne, kneeled in front of you as the whole court watched in awe.
The breath in your chest left you in its entirety. Beside you Maekar looked at his brother brought down to his knees. Never has he seen his brother like this, so infatuated by someone that at their presence everyone else disappeared. Disintegrated from existence like they did not matter. All his life he has known his Brother to put the realm before his own needs and wants, suppressing every little desire. But this, Him on his knees in front of the woman he loves with the realm in witness, might just be the most selfish thing he has ever done.
Baelor has spend his entire life being of service to the realm. Every little decision, every little thought begun and ended with it. To be just, to be of service. But now after the way you just claimed him, your possessiveness, the way you said ‘you are mine’ without saying anything at all rattled him to his core.
And for the first time in his entire life, he longs to bear himself. He needs everyone to see who holds the key to his heart. See who can bring the most important man after the King and the Queen to his knees. To show the realm a glimpse of what their future looks like and who holds the absolute authority over their future King.
Baelor asked for your hand, his palm outstretched, eyes filled with longing as he looked up at you. “Would you do me the honour and let me have this dance?” The moment you placed your hand in his, he pulled you softly as he lead you to the middle of the dance floor.
Baelor held you to him, in an embrace. Too close for it to be deemed appropriate as you both swayed to the musicNot once did his eyes stray away from you. Chest to chest, hearts in sync, breathing each other in.
He leaned in to place a chaste kiss to the corner of your lips forgetting himself, lingering a second too long “Everyone is looking at us “ your eyes roamed across the hall, the watchful eyes of onlookers, Lords and Ladies alike fazed you, but Baelor and his calming touch anchored you to him
“Let them “ the brazenness with which he replied stunned you.
“Baelor” you warned as he caressed your cheek.
“What? Is it a crime for a husband to love his wife openly?” The man in front of you looked relieved, lifted… free.
His hand inched lower as it settled over you back, too low for it to be proper “You have appearances to keep remember ,its unbecoming for the crown prince to be so…slanderous”
He gingerly leaned in to whisper in your ear, his breath hot against your skin “Fuck appearances”
You chuckled in amazement and disbelieve this was certainly not the answer you expected “What has gotten into you?” You peered up at him.
“You, Sevens above its you… I do not know where I end and you begin within me, And I find myself liking it that way”
And you felt yourself swoon. You pulled yourself up on your toes, closing the distance to meet his lips with yours. His own arms tighten around your waist, bringing you impossibly close, totally absorbed in one another.
Tucked away in the gloom, Lady Alyse looked on, a silent witness to your exchange, consumed by a burning jealousy.
There was another figure who adverted his eyes, the sight in front too much to bear. The white cloak on his shoulder felt two times more heavy. And under his helm a stray tear escaped his eye.
___________________________________________
“Have you both secretly agreed upon something?” Maekar grumbled as you and Baelor made your way back to the high table hand in hand. “I do not know what you speak of brother” Baelor retorted while tossing a date into his mouth, all while you indulged in lemon cake. He narrowed his eyes at his brother, then turned to you.
“An hour ago you were ready to slit his throat and now you are here devouring him with your eyes, what happened?,”He huddled closer to you both “You both fucked on the balcony, did you not?” That made you choke on your cake. Baelor rubbed his hand on your back as an amused grin played on his lips “We did no such thing” and that made Maekar scoff “Well I wouldn’t put it past you after the whole stunt you just pulled off”
You bashfully looked up at your husband, lower lip between your teeth, to find him already staring at you. After a wordless exchange, he stood up offering his hand to you. “It’s getting late, we should retire”
Moving in front of the table with your hand in his, you both turned to The king and The Queen. “We wish to retire for the night” Baelor addressed his King father “The night is still young, my son”
“Oh let them go, my darling. I’m sure they are tired” a knowing look in her eyes Queen Myriah nodded her head towards you and you bowed your head in thanks gracing her a smile.
____________________________________________
As soon as the door to your shared chambers was shut close ,You both pounced on each other like animals. His hands pulled at your layers, your teeth on his skin. He pressed his hips flush against yours as he backed you towards the wall.
He steered you around to face the wall, caging you between his arms, his chest to your back. You felt his hardening manhood through his breeches. His mouth warm against your pulse as he marked your neck.
Desire took root in both of you, burning deep, turning your blood to gasoline. His trembling fingers quickly worked on the laces of your corset while his mouth sucked on your earlobe.
The laces were resisting his frantic fingers, putting up a fight. Growing frustrated he curled his digits around the hilt of his dagger and with a flick of his wrist he sliced through the laces and your gown pooled around your ankles baring you to him.
He stepped back overwhelmed at the sight of you. The dagger in his hand clattering to the ground. Your chest flushed against the wall, obsidian hair unruly down your back, knees slightly bent and your back arched. You looked like a vision, a dream come true and then you turned to face him and it took his breath away.
Eyes hazy, Your lips swollen, your cheeks flush with redness, the swell of your breast rising and falling rapidly as you tried steading your breath. Patch of black hair over your mound and your legs shaking a bit in anticipation. A sheen of sweat was making you glisten in the candle light. You looked like a goddess anchored in a human form.
You saw the power you had on him as you strutted forward, towards him. He succumbed to your beauty, sinking to the ground. For the second time that night he found himself brought to his knees by you. You stopped an inch away from him. His eyes held yours captive as he titled his chin up to look at you.
With a palm to his jaw, your thumb begin a slow caress over his cheek as he leaned in to place a kiss over your womb. His hands held your hips, his touch grounding. Fingers roamed the globes of your ass kneading the flesh, his lips trailing down the path to where you needed him the most. His mouth hovered over your glistening core, his breath over your needy core made chills run up your spine. He laid his tongue flat as he licked up your slit, gathering the evidence of your desire. Drunk on the taste of you he closed his mouth on your mound. The gasp that left your lips at the sensation was sinful.
You pulled on his hair as pleasure washed over you, you felt the groan that left his lips deep in you. He lifted your right leg to place the pump of your thigh over his shoulder as he lapped up all you had to offer. Digging your heel into his back, you started moving your hips engulf in ecstasy.
He lapped at you like a man dying of thirst under unforgiving heat. His tongue worked you up as you felt your release nearing. “No….. Stop,” you pulled his head away from your dripping cunt stopping his assault. “Not yet”
Baelor looked up at you confused. “With you…. Around you…Need you” your words incoherent as you pulled him up, smashing your lips to his, tasting yourself on his tongue. You pushed him back on to the bed as you pulled on his doublet trying to get it off. Baelor’s own fidgeting fingers helping you in your task. Lips still sealed together.
Pushing his breaches down, his harden length prodded against your stomach. You fisted his girth, pumping him a few times as he whined at your touch.
Crawling on top of him, your thigh on each side of his hips. You straddled his hips grinding against the hardened length, soaking him in your wetness as you leaned down to capture his lips in a bruising kiss.
He clawed at your hips with an ache to feel you from within so you hoisted yourself using his chest as a leverage hovering over him as he lined himself at your aching slit and with a single slow thrust he plunged himself into you. Your body fell slack on top of his chest making him sink into you to the hilt. The sensation too much for you to withstand. “You feel divine, my love” Baelor exclaimed breathlessly.
You simply rolled your hips in circles as he moaned your name like a prayer, like you were his salvation. “I’m not going to last long” Baelor croaked, his voice strained as the feeling of you, all around him, drowned everything else. Same as him you felt your own high approaching as you buried your face in the crook of his neck, biting down trying to anchor yourself to him as the world around you spun.
Your movements were now jerky as you lost all your senses. Seeing you falter he raised your hips and fucked up into you as your walls clenched around him in an aching grip. The change in pace made you scream in ecstasy as you found your release and he followed soon after, spending himself deep into you. The warmth of his seed, radiant as a dragon’s breath in your womb, stole the air from your lungs.
You were still shivering, overwhelmed by the sensations as he held you tight to his chest trying to ground you to him. He turned his head and breathed the words into your ear “I love you” and a sob tore through your chest. His voice unyielding, reverent as he repeated those three words like a mantra I love you…I love you…I love you. Still intertwined like vines at the bottom of an olive grove, you felt him soften, the spend of your combined fluids running down your slit.
You drew back slightly, drinking him in, his mismatched eyes looking up at you with devotion. Your man, your husband, your king, your love…Mine…mine… Mine. And his own replied to you in your relentless possession, yours…yours….Yours.
Closing the distance between you, pressing your forehead to his, you whispered “And I love you”finally granting him the same peace he gave you
When your land is plagued by wars and death becomes an everyday thing, your hands learn to become more stable than a maester's.
You learn to look into a killer's eyes and understand forgiveness. You learn that justice is a heavy sword to be carried.
But when you meet a Targaryen Prince burdened by duty and grief, your souls vibrate to the same frequency. And perhaps, the world is not as dark as you both originally thought.
Pairing: Baelor Targaryen x Fem!Reader
Warnings: None
Chapter XXI: LINK
Chapter XXIII: LINK
Chapter XXII: A Break, part 1
By nightfall, sleep did not come easily to you, not after your confrontation with Baelor.
The words spoken in the tower did not stay behind in those old stone walls where you had left them. They followed you into your chambers, into the silence, into the bed where you had hoped exhaustion might grant you peace.
It did not.
You twisted and turned beneath the sheets, unable to settle, each shift of your body only heightening your discomfort.
The linen felt too warm against your skin, the mattress too confining, as though even the bed resisted offering comfort.
Eventually, in quiet frustration, you pushed the bedcovers away altogether, sending them into a loose heap near the corner of the bed.
Then you lie still.
Your back turned toward the window, your gaze fixed instead on the closed chamber door, staring at it as if answers might come if you watched long enough.
None did. Only thoughts.
Relentless thoughts.
What you had said to Baelor was true.
If he did not change, you would leave.
You had meant it when you spoke it. In that moment, with anger hot in your chest and wounded pride pushing words free before hesitation could stop them, you had meant every part.
And yet, as the night deepened and the castle quieted around you, another question slowly rose to meet the first.
Could you really leave him? The thought came uninvited, and it lingered. And with it came another, far harder to bear. Could you really leave the children?
Sweet Valarr, who had become almost clingy to you in ways he himself likely did not yet understand.
Little Matarys, who sought your arms as naturally as he sought sleep, whose small hands reached for you with the blind trust only children possessed.
To both boys, you had become something dangerously close to what they had lost.
A mother’s comfort.
A mother’s affection.
Perhaps, in ways none of you dared name aloud… the only source of that tenderness they still had.
The realisation settled over you like a weight, making your chest feel tight.
Those questions haunted you through the long hours of darkness. They circled and returned, each answer giving way to doubt, each doubt feeding another thought. Even when you shut your eyes, they did not leave.
Only when the first pale rays of dawn crept through the window, soft and almost ghostlike against the floor, did sheer exhaustion begin to overpower thought.
It was not sleep so much as surrender.
And even then, what little rest came was shallow, light, unrested.
More drifting than peace.
When Ellyn entered later that morning, balancing a tray of food carefully in her hands, the scent of the meal reached you before your thoughts fully gathered.
And suddenly... Your stomach turned.
The sight of the rich breakfast laid before you, which once might have brought quiet gratitude or at least routine acceptance, struck differently now.
Because you remembered.
The tower.
Baelor, His silence.
And, worse than that... The meaning you had assigned to all of this.
What once had felt like care now sat before you under a harsher light.
Ellyn noticed. Of course she did.
By now, she had become far too observant of you, of your moods, of the subtle shifts in your face you often thought hidden.
And because of that very awareness, another thought rose; unwelcome and sharp. Was this also an order from Baelor?
The question came so suddenly that it nearly reached your tongue.
It would have been easy to ask. And yet you did not.
Because perhaps what stopped you was not uncertainty but fear.
Fear that she might say yes.
Fear that what you had slowly built with her, this friendship you had come to lean on more than you realised, might prove thinner than you believed.
A foundation not rooted in genuine affection, but arranged for you… like every other comfort that had lately been pressed into your hands.
That thought did not sit right. It lingered half a second too long. Long enough to wound, and so you said nothing.
You only stared at the food for far too long, the knots in your stomach pulling tighter than any rope secured for climbing.
It did not go unnoticed.
“Everything alright, my lady?” she asked at last, observing you from beneath the thin line of her lashes.
You lifted your gaze from the barely touched meal and looked at her. “Just thinking,” you said, pausing only to drink some tea before continuing. “I have been thinking of changing the princes’ schedule… for today.”
The words were deliberate and not entirely innocent.
If Ellyn truly answered to Baelor in ways you suspected, then whatever plans you had would never come into fruition.
And if they did… Then you would know whom you could trust.
As expected, surprise crossed her features.
“Is this wise, my lady?” she asked, studying you carefully. “The Grand Maester has created their schedule, meant to prepare them for their royal duties and ensure their proper education befitting of their station.”
Her words landed oddly. Too polished. Too rehearsed.
Like a lesson repeated rather than a belief spoken.
It sat wrong with you, though you blamed her less than the system that had likely taught her to speak so.
Still... Something of your reaction showed.
Because your reply came with quiet force.
“They are boys, Ellyn. Young, innocent and stripped of their fun days where other children enjoy them for years,” you argued, though your voice never rose. “Weren’t you once a child playing around? Enjoying life?”
For a moment, you expected resistance.
Instead, Ellyn looked aside.
And in that turned gaze, something softened.
Of course, she had known such days.
However brief.
However long ago.
Almost everyone within the Keep had once known them.
Perhaps that was why so many grew bitter later, because life turned out so much narrower than childhood had promised.
“We are not meant to be rulers, my lady,” she replied after a pause, softer now. “We were not raised to lead houses and armies and kingdoms.”
Your answer came sharper. “Perhaps this is why we had so many failed Kings.”
Ellyn stared at you, lips parted.
Eyes widening with such alarm that, for a fleeting absurd second, she looked as though she expected guards to burst through the door and drag you both away for treason.
A sigh escaped you. “It’s only for today,” you said, gentler now. “I was thinking of taking them to the beach. A free day.”
Whether that fully eased her worries, you could not tell. But you noticed the faint drop in her shoulders.
She did not argue further.
She did not touch the remains of the food.
And neither did you.
For the first time in a month, there was faint tension between you.
An hour later, you found yourself walking towards the Blackwater Bay, boys in tow, the morning already warming beneath the rising sun.
The path itself felt strange beneath your feet, almost unfamiliar despite being stone and earth like any other.
Perhaps because it did not lead deeper into the Red Keep, into halls of carved dragons and heavy doors and duties stacked one upon another.
It led away.
And that alone felt like a relief your body noticed before your mind did.
Young Matarys was held in your arms, even though the young prince was slowly getting the hang of walking.
It was faint, unstable, his little legs still unsure of what they were meant to do, but there was eagerness behind it. A stubbornness, too.
You had noticed it days ago in the way he would insist on trying again after falling against your skirts, after wobbling and collapsing on his bottom with an offended little sound.
You had not brought it up to Baelor yet, wishing to wait and pose it as a surprise once the boy was fully walking.
The thought of Baelor brought a tightness to your chest as you recalled the precious night.
The way he had looked at you before and after.
The fleeing guilt in his mismatched eyes.
You lowered your gaze for a moment, adjusting Matarys higher in your arms, though in truth, he had not slipped.
It was only something to do with your hands. Something to interrupt the ache that came whenever your thoughts wandered there.
He had not meant harm, but he did manage it in the end, an ironic twist of fate or a joke by whatever gods watched over the world.
The words you had thrown at him returned now, not as sharp as they had sounded in the tower, but heavier somehow. They weighed more in memory.
And you hated that a part of you wondered if they had wounded him more deeply than you intended.
You glanced behind you at a single guard following, their mouths pressed into thin, strict lines.
They were unsure of your decision to take you to the coast. Still, they had not argued, especially when Valarr had agreed excitedly to this trip, all bright eyes and restless feet, speaking over you before anyone could object.
The eldest of the boys walked by your side, his small hand holding yours. Such a little hand. And yet how much trust it carried.
He was the guide leading you through steps and corridors to the isolated private area of the bay, reserved purely for the royal family, speaking once or twice to tell you which way the path bent, where the stones turned uneven.
As if he were the one keeping you safe. That thought nearly made you smile.
And then... When the sea became visible from afar, your steps slowed faintly.
Not from hesitation but from wonder.
Each step brought the vast blue ocean closer and closer to your vision. And it seemed impossible that something so wide could exist.
It stretched far, farther than the eye wished to measure, stopping at distant lands you could not even name. It gently touched the lighter blue of the sky, a thin line on the horizon separating them.
You stared at that line far longer than you realised. As if, if you looked long enough, you might understand where one world ended, and another began.
The sun rose high above it, reflecting a bright glare straight into your squinting eyes.
The reflection of rays upon the water reminded you of minerals, of rare gems you only saw on expensive jewellery worn by ladies of the court and rich houses.
But no jewel you had ever seen moved like this.
No jewel breathed.
No jewel answered the wind.
The smell of salt reached you, stronger than what you picked up while residing in the Red Keep.
Fresh. Clear. Alive.
It bore none of the expensive oils worn by ladies or the closeness of the piled-up city.
The wind lifted a few loose strands near your temple and brushed them against your cheek. Your skirts stirred faintly at your ankles.
And suddenly, as the sound of gentle waves against the beach echoed in your ear.... You felt… ease.
Not the kind one thinks into existence. The kind that comes upon the body first.
The tightness that had sat in your chest since last night loosened without warning.
Your shoulders, though you had not realised how rigidly you held them, softened.
Your next breath came deeper. Fuller.
As if your lungs, starved all night for something beyond anger and regret, had at last found room enough to open.
And standing there, with the sea before you and the boys at your side, it struck you that perhaps what suffocated you had never been only the walls of the Red Keep.
But everything they represented.
And here...
For one brief, fragile moment...
None of it could reach you.
The weather was perfect for that visit, as if the gods favoured your decision.
There was no harsh wind to trouble the waters, no clouds to dull the brightness of the day. Only warmth, sunlight and the long murmur of the sea breathing against the shore.
Even the air seemed lighter there. Kinder.
Your slippers were gently placed aside, allowing you to dig your toes into the hot, golden sand of the bay.
The sensation startled you. You had not expected sand to feel so alive beneath your feet.
It yielded at once, shifting and sinking under your weight, hot at the surface but cooler underneath where your toes instinctively dug deeper.
You giggled faintly, lifting one foot and then the other, only to watch the tiny sand grains slide between your toes and trickle down.
Like ground gold.
Like something playful.
Something made not to be owned, only touched.
For a moment, you repeated the motion, almost absently, pressing down again simply to feel it once more.
As if testing whether the strange delight of it was real.
Spur, who had of course come with you, had also found joy in his first time. Perhaps even more than you.
He rolled and rolled until his body sparkled with sun grains, making the texture of his fur even coarser to the touch. Sand clung to his sides, his neck, even the whiskers around his muzzle.
He looked half dog, half creature sculpted from the beach itself.
Then, having apparently decided rolling was not enough, he occupied himself with digging with alarming seriousness.
Leaving different-sized holes across the sand line, front paws expertly kicking sand out in quick bursts, each throw sent flying behind him with such force that more than once it nearly struck the guard.
You bit back laughter.
Matarys had been sitting on the sand as well, a little hat perched atop his red, curly locks, making him look absurdly solemn for a child busy discovering dirt.
He watched Spur toss sand high into the air, laughing as he attempted to mimic the canine.
Little fingers grabbed fistfuls of sand only to watch the grains slip through them. Again. And again.
As though each loss fascinated him more than the last.
Then he threw them high into the air and watched them shower both him and Spur as they descended, his laugh bright enough to rise over even the waves.
It warmed you in places you had not known were cold.
And Valarr?
The young prince had wasted no time diving into the cold waters, caring little for the clothes he wore and would be stained.
The freedom of it.
The utter lack of concern.
It almost made you envious.
You had dressed them light enough to ensure the heat did not catch them, but in single layers so swimming would not be an issue.
A practical decision.
Though now, watching Valarr splash with reckless delight, it seemed almost inspired.
His dark locks stuck to his forehead, water dripping between his eyes and along the side of his temples. Yet his mismatched eyes glowed with joy as he splashed some water while staying in the shallow.
Not once did you look back to see whether such behaviour was allowed.
Because here... It simply was.
And you… You eventually tried to join him.
Though at first, only with your feet submerged.
The skirt of your dress was held up, allowing the cold water to caress your bare legs all the way to your calves.
The shock of it made you draw breath.
“It’s so cold,” you chuckled, toes twirling beneath the clear surface of the water.
The current moved around your ankles with a softness you had not expected.
Not grabbing.
Not pulling.
Only touching.
It reminded you of the river near your town, where kids often played nearby. Few were brave enough to dive in and try to race the current, to face the unknown depth of the peaceful stream.
Some of your brothers loved jumping into it after hard days’ work under the summer sun.
Then they would come running to find you, hugging you with their wet clothes despite your pleas and fleeting attempts to escape.
Cold and wet, they would make sure your own clothes were far from dry by the time they were done, leaving you laughing and throwing your slippers at their mischief.
The memory rose so suddenly it caught at your heart. Sweet and bitter.
You had realised your mind was drifting into those old memories until you heard your name being called.
Focusing on the present, you found Valarr watching you.
“Join me,” he said gently, splashing the water faintly in invitation.
You smiled. “I would love to, Valarr, but I don’t know how to swim. I can’t come deep,” you confessed, feeling no shame before the kind boy.
Valarr started to swim towards you until his feet touched solid bottom, then stood. “I will teach you then,” he said, extending his hand as if asking you to a dance. “And I will save you if something goes wrong.”
There was such solemn confidence in the promise that you almost laughed, not at him.
At how seriously he meant it.
You looked down at him and at the eagerness glowing in his eyes. He smiled big and truly, holding no malice and no hatred.
Only joy.
Only happiness.
And that naivety you were trying to maintain, to preserve for as long as you could.
Defeated by his charm and polite invitation, you placed your hand in his. “Very well. I am counting on you.”
Victorious, Valarr grinned, flashing his quite straight teeth as he led you deeper into the water.
You halted where the water reached past your waist, your skirt and dress floating faintly around you as slowly the absorbed water brought them down, pinning them against your body.
You shivered faintly at the cold temperature. The sea held you differently now.
Valarr let go of your hand as he floated on his back, at ease with the element and unfazed by the coldness of the water.
“First rule, you have to use your hands to swim forward,” he started, turning to lie on his front. “Like this.” He proceeded to demonstrate, arms flailing in excess and water splashing everywhere. “And you just kick your legs as well.”
More water splashed as he started to swim, circling aru like a shark surrounding its fresh prey.
You watched him go, giggling as droplets of water were thrown your way accidentally. You moved slowly, turning around yourself to keep him in your line of vision.
He halted, spitting some salt water that had gathered in his mouth.
“Now you try it,” he grinned again and waited.
You looked around at the vast sea surrounding you, then at Matarys playing with Spur and the two guards watching everything.
For a brief moment, the sight steadied you.
Little Matarys sat where you had left him, his small body dusted in sand, entirely occupied by his own discoveries.
His hands grabbed at the grains as if they were treasure. Spur hovered close, digging furiously one moment and then pausing, as though checking whether the young prince approved of his work.
Even the guard looked less rigid than before, as if the sea itself made it difficult to remain entirely hard.
Then your eyes returned to Valarr.
Still waiting.
Still smiling.
Still holding that impossible patience children sometimes had when they believed in something fully.
And somehow that made your heart beat faster.
Not because of the water. Because of what he asked of you.
To trust.
Your heart beat faster in your chest, the idea offering a certain fear in you. Not extreme enough to make you cower, not intense enough to make you sick.
Just the uncertainty of the unknown that awakened your instincts and kept you on edge.
You could feel the water moving around you, pushing faintly against your skirts where the soaked fabric clung to your legs.
Each small shift of your weight stirred the current. It touched and moved, touched and moved again.
And though the sea seemed calm, you knew calm things often held depth one did not first see.
Valarr seemed to notice your uncertainty. “It’s okay, I will be here,” he encouraged, suddenly sounding far older and wiser than he was.
Momentarily, you looked at him. Truly looked.
And in that instant, something in you gave way.
Because the way he spoke…
The softness of it.
The certainty.
The patient manner in which he waited for you, not pushing, not demanding.
You did not see Valarr but Baelor.
The thought came so sharply it startled you.
You imagined his charming smile.
Imagined him saying those words as he guided you.
Patiently waiting for you to catch up, always ensuring you were safe.
And suddenly, standing there waist-deep in the sea, with sunlight dancing across the water around you... The ache returned.
The situation you were in because of him and his attempt to “fix” things, and you, felt like a direct stabbing to your heart.
It still pained you that he saw you in such a way.
That you had to discover for yourself his intentions, while kind, had ulterior motives you did not agree with.
And what hurt even more, though you hated admitting it, was that a part of you still understood the kindness buried inside those actions.
That made anger difficult to hold.
Made hurt heavier.
Your throat tightened.
For one dangerous second, you felt the tower return.
His silence.
His face when you turned from him.
And those eyes...
Gods, those eyes...
Looking at you as if he had only then understood he had wounded something fragile between you.
The memory sat like iron inside your chest. And you did not want it there.
So...
To leave behind all those dark thoughts that have weighed you down since last night…
You took a deep breath.
It trembled slightly as it filled your lungs.
Then, before thought could return and stop you, you let yourself submerge into the water.
Not all at once in some reckless plunge, but with a strange deliberate surrender, as though your body understood before your mind did that this was something you needed.
The sea rose over you slowly.
First, your shoulders vanished beneath it, then your neck, the coolness climbing your skin in a spreading shock that made every nerve wake at once. It slipped beneath the neckline of your dress, against your collarbones, down your spine, finding every place the sun had warmed and claiming it for itself.
Then your chin.
Your lips.
The salt touched there first, sharp and unfamiliar.
And then, the water closed over your face. Over your eyes. Over your thoughts.
Cold embraced you whole.
It pressed around you from every side, and for one suspended instant, you no longer knew where your body ended, and the sea began.
Your hair drifted weightlessly around your temples.
The soaked fabric of your dress loosened and stirred, no longer dragging against your legs as it did above the surface but moving almost gently now, alive with the current.
And sound changed.
The world that had moments ago been full of waves and laughter and gulls crying overhead vanished into a deep, muted hush.
As if the sea had placed both hands over your ears and asked the world to be still.
There was only the dull thrum of water moving.
Only the distant rushing pulse that might have been the tide, or your own blood.
And within that strange underwater silence, something inside you shifted.
Because there, beneath the surface where no one could see your face, where no expectation could reach you, where not even memory seemed to carry the same sharp edges—
The ache loosened.
The words spoken in the tower felt farther away.
Baelor’s silence, which had clung to you all night like a wound not yet sealed, seemed dulled beneath the weight of the sea.
Even the image of his face when you turned from him...
Those wounded mismatched eyes...
Lost some small measure of their power over your chest.
And for the first time since the night before, you were not thinking in arguments.
Not thinking in regret. Not thinking at all.
Only feeling.
Cold against skin and salt at your lips.
Water moving around your limbs with a slow, living pull, and the simple, undeniable fact that you were here.
Breathing held.
Body suspended.
Alive.
Attempting to forget about him, about the pain, and merely remind yourself you were alive… and going.
The thought passed through you not as words exactly, but as instinct.
And perhaps that was why you stayed a moment longer beneath the water than caution required.
Not from foolishness, but because some small hidden part of you was reluctant to leave that silence.
Reluctant to return to the louder world above where memory waited.
But lungs make demands even grief cannot ignore.
And at last, when breath began to burn faintly in your chest, your body chose for you, you rose.
Slowly at first, then breaking upward.
The surface shattered around you in a burst of light and spray as your head emerged, air rushing back into your lungs with a startled gasp.
Salt clung to your mouth, and water streamed down your face, your lashes, your neck. Loose strands of hair, darkened now with seawater, clung to your cheeks.
And the world came rushing back all at once.
The cry of gulls.
The crash and hush of waves.
Valarr’s voice, bright and triumphant, was shouting something you did not at first understand.
Everything sharper.
As if emerging from beneath the water had returned you not to the same world, but to one faintly altered.
You blinked salt from your eyes and found Valarr watching you with open delight, as though you had performed some impossible feat rather than simply obeyed his childish lesson.
And unexpectedly, you laughed.
Not the small guarded chuckle you gave so often.
But laughter that escaped before you could measure or restrain it.
Breathless.
Light.
Real.
It came with the shock of cold still lingering in your limbs, with water dripping from your sleeves, with the absurd triumph shining in a child’s face before you.
And for one fleeting, fragile moment...
With the sea holding you upright and the sun upon your skin...
You felt lighter than you had since entering the Tower of the Hand the night before.
(Baelor x reader. I hate writing Y/N so named the character Ilya, no physical description given except female though so can replace in your head)
Her chambers feel quieter than usual that evening. Not peaceful. Just… still. The occasional footsteps of someone passing by in the hallway, a muffled voice from above or below, and the air. The air that feels thicker than usual.
Jane has long since settled into her corner, another piece of embroidery she’s mending in her lap, though her needle moves slower than usual, as if she too is feeling the thickness of the air. The resistance on her arms. Like swimming.
Or perhaps it’s all in Ilya’s mind. Probably.
She sits by the window. The book resting in her hands, heavy and unopened. She gazes at the cover for longer than necessary, imagining his fingers flicking through the pages, mismatched eyes scanning the words. Hunched over a desk in the library, maybe? Or laid in bed, a fire crackling, after a day of court? She tears her mind from the visions. Stupid.
The roots of the old tree scream.
He said that was his favourite poem in there.
The title does not sound soft. Not romantic. Not the sort of thing one admits easily. It sounds… pained perhaps? Solitary maybe? Intimate definitely.
Her thumb brushes along the spine.
Then, finally, she opens it.
The first poems don’t hold her. Not really. She struggles to get absorbed, to feel the words, take them in. As she so often does.
She feels the frustration growing. The yearning that she could just drown in the words like others do, like Jane almost definitely could. But there’s a distance, always. A distance she’s always felt between her and words on paper. They rarely come close to her. Rarely approach her soul. And for some reason she can never seem to approach them herself. Just treads water, unable to sink.
Her eyes keep moving across the words, but her mind drifts; back to the gardens, to the warmth, to the way his voice lowers when he speaks something with a smile. That thoughtful hum.
She turns another page. And another. Until she doesn’t. She knows before she reads the title fully. A feeling first. Something pushing out beneath her ribs. Her eyes scan the lines slower this time. Carefully. This one has meaning. He chose this one. He wanted her to read this one. Wanted her to know this one was his.
The roots of the old tree wail
deep beneath the quiet earth
not in fear of reaching,
but in mourning of what was reached.
They remember warmth
in a place that has none.
They remember reaching
and being answered.
Now they stretch through emptiness,
learning its shape by heart,
curling around nothing
as if it were still there.
Locked in a single room,
With only the ghost of that touch,
and I still would not want for the world outside.
And when they finally tear free,
when the soil gives way,
and the old tree falls
it is not peace that they seek.
Let it hurt.
Let it split them open at the core,
so the earth might know
they held something once
worth breaking for.
She stares at the page for a moment. Something feels heavy. Something else inside aches, and she’s not quite sure what. It hurts. Hurts in a strange way that feels something like peace. A paradox within her.
She reads it again. Slower. And again. The ache doesn’t stop. Doesn’t go away. Like a phantom limb.
Locked in a single room,
With only the ghost of that touch,
and I still would not want for the world outside.
That part. That part aches the most. In a strange, unsettling way.
So why keep reading it? Why keep the ache there? Where is the self preservation in that?
It makes no sense and yet perfect sense. She sinks underneath the words finally, and reaches out to touch an emotion she can only describe as profoundly, devastatingly human.
The room feels different now. Like everything is so far away and yet so close at the same time. Her fingers tighten slightly around the spine of the book, tracing down the length.
It is not a long poem in comparison to the previous ones, which reach out to bridge multiple pages. Nor is it particularly complex. Not grand.
But something about it lingers. Like moss growing within her rib cage.
Uncomfortable, but strangely right.
“My lady?”
Jane’s voice is soft. Careful. Like how one might call out to wake a child from a deep sleep. Gentle.
She blinks, as though surfacing, her head breaking through the silence of the water and into the rush of the air once more.
“Yes?” Her voice feels hoarse, strained. Tired? Is she?
“Is it… good?”
Ilya hesitates. Is it? Is good the correct word?
“I don’t know.”
Hollow honesty wins out.
Jane tilts her head slightly, as if half between understanding and not.
“That usually means it is, my lady”
A small, involuntary huff of breath leaves Ilya. Does it?
Then why does something she can’t even identify, deep inside her, ache? Why does something beneath her ribs feel like it’s straining? Why does she feel the need to stare off into nothingness all of a sudden?
“Or perhaps that I don’t understand it.”
The words leave her mouth like something foreign. She doesn’t even remember saying them. Just hears them.
Jane sets her embroidery aside, rising to stand by her side.
“May I, my lady?”
She hesitates only a moment. It feels strangely intimate, giving Jane access to something that has so clearly affected her. Like handing her a piece of something that’s wrong inside of her. But she holds the book out anyway. Let her see. Perhaps she’ll identify the ache, the ailment.
Jane takes it gently. Their fingers do not touch. She reads silently. Her expression doesn’t change much, no flickering of light or darkness behind her eyes, but Ilya notices the slight tightening at the corners of her mouth. The way her eyes linger on the last lines.
“Do you understand it?” Ilya says. It feels vulnerable, asking that question. Like admitting to a fault within herself, a deficit that she can’t understand.
Jane simply closes the book gently, pausing a moment before responding softly.
“I think so.”
“And?”
Jane looks at her then. Not as a handmaiden. Just as herself. Just as another woman.
“It feels like something that didn’t need very much,” Jane says, her voice measured, thoughtful. “Just one thing… and that was enough.”
Ilya watches her. Stays quiet.
Say more. Fill the silence. Please.
Jane’s fingers brush lightly along the edge of the page, as if tracing the thought rather than the words themselves. She speaks again, mercifully.
“It sounds like something that found enough of the world in one place,” A small pause. “And never needed to go looking beyond it.”
Ilya exhales softly. That felt right, true. Something feels like it loosens within her. The ache still there, but more familiar now, more understood. An acquaintance within her ribcage rather than a stranger
“That’s comforting”
It’s the first thing that comes to mind. Not weighed out or measured, but no less true.
Jane glances at her, a furrow of the brows tells her that she’d spoken the wrong answer. Said something strange, off-putting.
“I don’t think it’s meant to be,” Jane says simply.
Oh. Okay.
A pause. Ilya looks back toward the window, toward nothing in particular.
“It is to me”
The words seem so small. Like a child defending the wrong answer to their Septon.
Only a small pause before Jane speaks once more.
“Well I suppose there’s no wrong interpretation to art, my lady”
My lady. The barriers are back up. Princess and handmaiden again. No longer woman to woman. Ilya sighs softly, somehow missing her already.
Silence stretches between them for a second.
Come back. I liked talking to you.
“I think he chose it deliberately.” The words slip out before she can police them. Before the thought has even properly crossed her mind.
Jane does not ask who. Perhaps she was listening in the library. Perhaps she just implicitly knows.
“He seems the sort,” she says quietly. Whatever that means.
“That is not reassuring.”
“No,” Jane agrees. “I imagine it isn’t meant to be.”
A knock at the door breaks the quiet contemplation. Sharp. Formal. Business.
Ilya straightens, book still clutched. But Jane is already moving. When the door opens, a young servant boy stands there, head bowed. All pale skin, dark curls and plain, neat clothes.
“Your grace. You are requested in the small council chamber.”
She frowns slightly. What? Why?
“At this hour?”
“Yes, your grace. Apologies were sent, but the matter is pressing.”
The walk there feels different than usual. She knows the path too well, could trace it without light if she had to.
But today she notices it in pieces. The angle of a turning, the pause between corridors, the distance still left to go. As if the space itself is aware of to whom it leads.
When she enters, the room is not full like usual. Only a handful of councillors. And him. Already seated. Already watching her as she walks in, bowing their heads slightly.
Just do the usual routine, she tells herself, dipping her head at the table toward where he sits without meeting his gaze.
“Your Grace.”
A slight incline in return.
“Ilya.”
He says it naturally, so solidly.
In council it is always Princess.
Formal, correct.
This is neither. Her stomach twists.
“Apologies for the late summons,” one of the councillors says, though she barely registers which. “A minor matter, but one requiring your insight.”
“On Dorne,” another adds.
Of course.
Just do the usual routine.
So she moves to her seat, meets the gaze of a councillor. Doesn’t matter which. Just anyone but him. And places her hands neatly before her. Composure. She knows how to do that. Here, at least.
The councillors begin speaking. Explaining first, then discussing. Or arguing. Depending on your outlook. But when she reaches for her notes-
She realises.
She’s brought the book. Not clean parchment. Not ink. The book.
Her fingers still, just for a moment. Too long.
Across the table, she sees it. The flicker. The smallest shift in his expression. Recognition. And then… Nothing. Gone as quickly as it came.
“Princess?” She looks up. Forces her attention forward to the weathered face of the councillor looking her way.
“Yes. Of course.”
She speaks well. Carefully. Measured. Everything she should be. She knows the dialogue here. Knows the script. Where to go off, where to stay on. This is her arena. What she’d been raised for. Comforting in its conformity, its predictability.
But once, just once, she makes the mistake. Whether it’s a deliberate choice she makes, or an honest blunder, she can’t say. But her eyes flicker across the table, and find his.
He is already looking at her. Not studying. Not searching. Just… there. Present. And it feels like too much. Too much to be seen. Her gaze returns to the councillors so quickly it might as well have never left.
When the meeting ends, and chairs scrape softly against stone, he does not approach her. Does not speak. A small mercy. A soft exhale escapes her. Not tonight.
But as she gathers her things, her fingers brushing once more over the spine of the book, his quiet voice, low enough not to carry, reaches her ears.
“Did you read it?”
No. Yes.
She does not look at him. Can’t. Pathetically keeps pretending to gather her papers.
“Yes.” Her voice feels weak. Too soft. She doesn’t like it.
A pause. She doesn’t look up to his face. Doesn’t want to see.
“What did you think?”
She gathers the last of her papers. Nothing to hide behind now.
“I don’t think it was about trees.”
She can’t stop it coming out. Wrong answer. Or perhaps right answer, but wrong to speak aloud. Her gut twists. Silence.
Then… A quiet hum. That hum. Her gaze finally flickers up to meet his mismatched eyes. Watching her. Intently. Like something profound.
“Goodnight, Ilya.”
She leaves before she can answer. Rude, perhaps? Definitely. But something implicitly tells her he would not take offence. He knows, understands. Something that that she does not wish to examine too deeply.
The corridors feel longer on the return. More oppressive. The route somehow less familiar. Her grip on the book does not loosen.
Jane is already standing when she enters, as if she had not sat at all the entire time.
“My lady?”
She does not answer immediately. Just moves further into the room, setting the book down on the desk where it should have sat the whole time. It shouldn’t have left this room. Shouldn’t have left the library in the first place. A blunder. So, so many blunders. But still, her finger lingers on the cover a moment longer than necessary before withdrawing.
“It was a council matter,” she says, her voice breaking through the silence too abruptly, too sharply.
Jane simply nods. “I assumed as much, my lady.”
She moves to the window. Nothing to see but the darkened gardens below that feel more like an abyss at this time. She exhales.
“He was there.”
Jane says nothing. Of course he was. Why say that? Why mention it at all? Why assume Jane even knows who ‘he’ is? Stop talking. But she doesn’t. Can’t. Never measured without a script. Words seem to betray her. Escape her. Run from her, and into the arms of another.
“He asked about the poem.” There. It sits between them now.
Jane tilts her head slightly.
“And what did you say, my lady?”
“I said I did not think it was about trees.”
It just comes out. Again. She almost feels resigned to it now. Perhaps she just has a leak. It all drips out of her no matter how hard she tries to plug it.
Jane’s lips press together, not quite a smile. Not quite anything. Just a shift. One she can’t decipher and isn’t sure she wants to.
“And was it?”
Ilya huffs softly, but there is no true amusement in it.
“No.”
Silence settles again. Thick and stifling. If it’s awkward, she’s too far gone to notice. Her gaze drifts back to the desk. To the book. To the sketch, half-finished beside it. The mirage lily stares back at her. Wrong still. Still not quite right. She crosses the room and picks it up again.
Jane watches, then speaks softly like one may to a child. It doesn’t feel particularly patronising though.
“You were working on it before”.
“I still am.”
“It looks finished.”
“It isn’t.”
Jane hesitates. As if not sure whether she can step further. But does anyway. Good. She’s acting like a human again.
“What is wrong with it?”
Everything. Everything and nothing.
She shakes her head.
“It does not feel like anything.”
Jane frowns slightly.
“Does it need to?”
Yes. Dorne. It needs to feel like Dorne.
Her fingers tighten slightly on the edge of the parchment.
“Yes.”
She sets it back down, not willing to look at it anymore. A failure. A perfect, pretty failure. Her eyes flicker involuntarily to the book again. Then away. Then back.
“He said perfection was not required.”
Jane’s brows lift faintly. Surprise? She hadn’t been listening in the library, then. Odd. And sweet. She likes her more now.
“That sounds… kind.”
“It was not,”
It comes out quickly. Too quickly.
Jane’s mouth twists slightly. Not a frown or smile. But she says nothing. Well what can she say to that? Poor girl, she hadn’t really given her much to work with.
Another stretch of silence. Longer this time. She can see Jane fiddling with her sleeves out the corner of her eye. She wants to say something, Ilya can tell. She can also tell that she won’t. And to be honest, for once, Ilya doesn’t want to hear it anyway.
“I think he chose it. The poem. Deliberately”
She says it definitively this time, surprising even herself in the solidness of her tone.
Jane nods.
“I thought as much too, my lady”
“Why?”
Jane’s mouth twists again in that familiar way. She doesn’t want to say it, doesn’t want to cross that uncomfortable line into familiarity she’s been trained not to cross.
Cross it. Please.
She does, finally.
“Because it feels too intimate of a thing to recommend without reason.”
A hum. His hum from her mouth.
Stop it.
She moves back to the desk. Sits. Opens the book again. Her fingers find the page more easily this time, bent from where she’s held it. The maesters would cringe at the sight.
Give me but a single room,
and the echo of that touch within it,
and I would not call my life a small one.
That ache again. Familiar now.
“You should sleep, my lady” Jane says after a while.
“I will.”
But she doesn’t move.
Jane hesitates, then begins to dim the candles anyway, one by one, leaving only those nearest the desk still burning.
The room softens. Shadows stretch. Friendly though, somehow. Embracing.
“I think,” Jane says quietly, pausing at the door, “that perhaps it does not feel like anything… because you are trying to make it everything.”
Ilya looks up. She’d crossed that line again. By choice this time. A warmth grows inside of her.
Jane does not elaborate, though. She simply dips her head in that familiar, trained way. Scripted in the same way Ilya is, in council. Not so different.
“Goodnight, my lady.”
“Goodnight, Jane.”
The door closes. The silence that follows is different. Not empty. Occupied. Busy.
She looks down at the sketch again. At the fine, precise lines of the petals. The light. The careful, measured slopes and shapes. She reaches for the charcoal, and turns the page.
Begins again.
This time, the lines are less careful. Not measured in advance. Less perfect, precise. Softer in some places. Sharper in others. Imperfect but alive.
She does not notice how much time passes. Only that the candles burn lower, and her hand aches slightly.
When she leans back at last, it isn’t finished. But it feels closer. Her gaze drifts, once more, to the open book. To the page.
Let it hurt.
Let them split open at the core
She closes it gently. Not hiding it this time. And when she finally moves to her bed, the warmth of the room feels different. Not like Dorne. Not quite. But not entirely unfamiliar, either.
Part 3:
💬 0 🔁 0 ❤️ 20 · Dornish flower (3) · Baelor x reader (I hate putting Y/N so I named the character Ilya - no physical description except fe
You come to Valarr's apartment straight from a dinner your father made you attend. You’re still in a dress and heels, still carrying the particular tense irritation that two hours at such gatherings always loads into your shoulders.
He opens the door with a glass of wine already in his hand for you, and the look on his face when he sees you—the one that’s half-devotional and half-hungry—somehow sharpens the irritation instead of easing it.
You don't let him kiss you hello.
You stalk past him into the apartment, set your bag down, turn around, and you say coldly, quietly, "Bedroom."
He doesn’t ask. Valarr's expression shifts once—the surprise, the recalibration, his pupils blowing—and he follows you without a word.
You’ve not planned this. You don't plan, with men. Generally. You’ve spent the cab ride home thinking about three nights ago, thinking about the sound he made when you let him finish. Remembering that precise glazed stupidity of his face when you finally let him speak.
Something in you is hungry for it in a way that’s making you reckless.
You put him on his knees.
Not with your hands. With a single word and a small gesture of your chin. Valarr goes down onto the rug at the foot of his bed with a grace that’s almost unseemly. He looks up at you. The white streak at his temple catches the bedside lamp. His shirt is unbuttoned at the collar now. He must have undone it at some point between the door and the bedroom, whether consciously or not, and you can see the pulse in his throat moving faster than it should be.
"Is this what you want?" you ask.
His jaw works. "Yes."
"Say it properly."
"I want—yes, I want this, I want—" He stops, searching for the word. He doesn't find it because he's not yet fluent in the language you're about to teach him. "Please."
You let him undress you from that position.
You make him do it only with his hands. No mouth. Not yet. He hasn't earned his mouth yet.
His fingers find the zip at the side of your dress. He's used to undressing women, not to being made to do it without being permitted to touch them the way he wants. When the zipper finally gives, he peels the dress off you in a slow, careful slide, knuckles skimming your ribs, your hip, the outside of your thigh. Not a caress. A retrieval.
You watch him swallow when the fabric catches on the curve of your hip, and he has to tug it, gently, until it slips down and puddles at your feet. You step out of it with one hand light on his shoulder for balance, and Valarr flinches faintly at the contact because it's the first you've given him voluntarily in ten minutes.
He folds it, of all things. Folds the dress and sets it aside, because he's Valarr Targaryen and even on his knees at his lover's feet, he can't not be neat, and the small domestic absurdity of it twists something warm in you that you weren't expecting to feel.
"Bra."
He reaches up. His fingers are shaking so faintly you would have missed it if you weren't watching for it. He has to slide his hands around your ribs to get at the clasp. You feel him go still for half a second when his palms bracket your sides—feel him fighting the urge to press his mouth to your sternum, to your stomach, anywhere—and then he masters it. He finds the clasp, unhooks it in one practised motion. The straps slide down your arms.
"Good boy," you hum gently.
His breath rushes out like you hit him.
It’s not a sound he meant you to hear. He makes it anyway, a short ragged thing, and his head tips forward so his forehead is almost touching your stomach. Valarr doesn't look up at you—can't, you think—but you see the flush rising up his throat.
Oh, you think.
You file that away.
You make him take your underwear off with the same rule. Hands only. He hooks his thumbs in the waistband, and he draws them down your legs so slowly it’s almost a cruelty to both of you. When he has them at your ankles, he pauses. His forehead nearly grazes your thigh, his breath hot on the skin just above your knee. Then he waits, because he’s understood, now, without you having to say it, that he’s not to rise from this floor until you tell him he can.
"Very good," you tell him.
Another shudder. Full-body. You feel it in your calf where his hand is still resting.
You let him put his mouth on you eventually. You make him earn it inch by inch.
First, he’s allowed, only, to press his mouth to the inside of your knee—closed lips, no tongue, you specify—and when he does it, Valarr’s eyes close and his whole face softens in a way that makes you warm.
Then an inch higher. Then higher.
You let him kiss the inside of your thigh in a slow ascending line, and when he shakes, faintly, against the skin he hasn't yet been permitted to taste, you feel it register all the way through you. By the time his mouth is at the crease of your thigh and you can feel Valarr’s breath against you, where you’re already wet—embarrassingly wet, obviously wet, and he knows it; you see his eyelashes flicker at the nearness of it—he’s visibly struggling not to turn his head the two inches he needs to turn and put his tongue where he wants it.
He doesn't. He waits.
That's the part that undoes you, in the end. That he waits.
"Look at you," you murmur fondly, almost to yourself. "You're so good at this already."
His eyes flutter closed. A small sound comes out of him, soft and hungry.
"Open your mouth."
He does. Just like that. Just opens his mouth, on his knees on the floor, and waits.
You press two fingers to his lower lip. Slide them inside. He closes his mouth around them without being told, and sucks, and his tongue works against the pads of your fingers with the same careful, thorough attention he applies to everything he does, and his eyes—when he opens them and looks up at you—are gone.
Not dazed. Not drifting. Gone.
You pull your fingers out of his mouth slowly, wet, and drag them lightly down his chin, down the line of his throat.
"Now," you say.
You stand over him with your fingers in his hair. His hair is silky in your grip, dark and thick, and the white streak slides between your knuckles like a bright ribbon. You guide him to where you want him to be, and you hold him there.
Valarr makes a sound the instant his tongue finds your core.
Low in his throat, half-swallowed, not a sound he meant to make.
He’d wanted this, you understand now, for longer than the twenty minutes he’s spent on his knees. He’s wanted this for weeks, maybe months, the specific version of this where you hold him in place and don't let him lead, and he’s not known how to ask for it.
You feel him go slack with the permission of it.
You feel him sink into your thighs. His hands come up and settle on the backs of your legs, not gripping, not guiding, just resting there, the way a man rests his hands on something he’s grateful for, and then he begins.
He’s good at it.
He’s Harvard-good at it, in the same way he’s Harvard-good at everything. Which is to say, thorough and attentive to feedback; he learns the rhythm you want from the very first twitch of your hips, and he adjusts to it, and he builds on it, and when he finds the stroke of his tongue against your clit that makes your breath catch, Valarr stays there with a focus that’s almost unnerving.
But this isn't what he's used to. You can feel it in him.
You can feel him trying, underneath the skill, to work out what you want from him now—not the technique, he has the technique; what you want from him as a person, in this position, in this reversal he hasn't rehearsed—and the searching of it is what's making his breath shake against you.
You tighten your fist in his hair and grind down against his mouth, once, experimentally.
He moans.
Loud. Longer than he meant to. The sound breaks against your sensitive folds, and you feel it all the way up your spine. So you do it again, harder, and Valarr’s hands tighten on the backs of your thighs, and his throat works, and you think he likes being used, he likes being used, he likes being used, and the knowledge of it makes you cruel.
"Take it."
He takes it.
"That's it,” you hum, gripping his hair tighter. “That's exactly what I want. Just like that. Don't move."
He doesn't move.
You ride his face.
There is no polite word for it, and you don't want one. You hold his head in place with both hands now—one fisted in his hair, one cupping the back of his skull almost tenderly—and you use his mouth the way you would use a tool you trusted.
With intent, with pressure, with a rhythm you choose for yourself and not for him. You don’t let him set the pace or pull back. When his breath goes ragged against you, you hold him through it, and when he makes a choked, wet sound into your skin, you tell him, "Good, you’re so good for me," and you feel his whole body jolt.
When Valarr tries to pull back to breathe, you tighten your fist, and you say, "No. Like that. Don't stop."
He doesn’t stop.
His throat works. You feel it against you. He takes a breath through his nose, ragged and shallow, and goes back to what he was doing, and you grind your hips down into his face and let him feel the weight of you against him. You hear him moan again, and this time it’s smaller. This time, it’s closer to a whimper. It’s the sound of a man who’s just discovered something about himself that thrills him.
"Look at me."
His gaze snaps to you like you’ve yanked a leash.
His eyes are glazed, his mouth glossy. There’s wetness on his chin, his upper lip, the line of his elegant jaw. The blue eye has gone so pale it’s almost white, and the brown eye has gone almost black. He’s breathing through his nose in quick, desperate pulls, and when you look down at him, he looks up at you.
"You're doing so well," you tell him quietly, stroking your thumb against his temple. “You’re perfect.”
Something in his face breaks open.
You don't know what exactly. You only see the aftermath of it. The way his eyelids flutter, the way his mouth parts against you in a shape that’s almost a smile, and then Valarr sets back to work with a renewed, shattered devotion that makes your knees wobble.
He’s putting the entire finish of his Harvard MBA and his twenty-six years of self-possession into the single project of making you come. By the time he manages it, working for it, struggling a little, his jaw trembling with the effort, his tongue gone soft where it was precise ten minutes ago, you’re coming against his mouth in long, cruel waves that you don't bother to be polite about.
"Fuck," you breathe. "Fuck, Valarr—"
You hear him moan against you.
Dry, small, wrecked. He moans into your swollen cunt at the sound of his own name in your mouth, and he keeps going, keeps working you through it, lapping at your folds, drinking you in. You ride it out against his face without mercy because you know now, with absolute certainty, that mercy is not what he wants.
Valarr’s taking it like a gift.
You have understood something.
He’s never done this before, exactly. Not like this. He’s gone down on plenty of women; his skill backs that up. But he’s never been used before, and the distinction is not lost on him; the distinction is what he’s just tripped face-first into.
He keeps going when you tell him to.
Through the aftershocks. Gentler now, but still there, still working, still mouth-to-skin and hands-on-thighs and not moving until you permit it. When it's too much—when your whole body flinches at the overstimulation—you say, "Stop."
Valarr stops instantly. He doesn't move back. He just stops. Rests his mouth there, open, panting against you. Waiting.
"Good boy," you say again, softer this time, and his whole body shakes.
When you finally let him up, he’s dishevelled in a way you’ve never seen him. His perfect hair tousled where you tore at it, mouth wet and swollen, jaw shining, eyes blown. His collar is damp at the throat. There's a red mark on his cheek where you pressed him into you too hard. The pristine line of him, that Valarr-polish you've been looking at for four months, is gone.
It's just a man on his knees with his mouth ruined.
He sways forward on his knees. He presses his forehead to your hipbone.
He whispers, "Thank you."
You freeze, briefly, because you hadn't expected the thank-you, and because you felt it in your whole body.
"Get up."
He gets up.
You fuck him against his bedroom wall. He puts his hands against the paint on either side of your head, and he holds himself there. Doesn't move them, doesn't touch you except where you’re letting him touch you, and he looks into your eyes the entire time with an expression that is, more than anything, studying. He’s memorising what works, watching for the micro-expressions your face makes, and he’s noting which movements of his hips produce which sounds from you, and he’s filing it all away, in real time, for next time.
You come a second time with his hand at your throat.
Not hard. He doesn't know how hard yet. You have to take his wrist, afterwards, and place his hand back there, more firmly, and say: "Like this. Not there. Here." And he corrects, he learns. When he comes, he comes with his face buried in your neck, and he’s whispering something, and you only catch the end of it.
—anything you want, whatever you want, tell me—
You stand in his bathroom ten minutes later, splashing cold water on your face, staring at yourself in his obscenely expensive mirror. Your hair is ruined. Your mouth is swollen. You still feel the ghost of his hands at the back of your thighs.
You have the thought, then, for the first time:
I could make him into anything.
And under that thought, immediately and with the specific chill of an instinct you don’t yet trust:
I probably will.
an: this is literally me, writing this fic. I fucking CANNOT anymore. this is just one slice of psychological warfare i'm about to unleash on you all.
This is my first time including Aerion in a headcanon post. His characterization here is very specific, so I’d be grateful for any feedback on how he feels to you, and whether he resonates with your vision of him.
Warning: Aerion
Baelor
You were already lying in bed beside Baelor. Candlelight fell across his profile, bent over a book even at this late hour. His hands turned the page slowly, almost lazily. His neck was relaxed after the long day, and his nightrobe, despite the expensive fabric, stripped away the last traces of royalty.
Your hand slipped from beneath the covers, and your fingers touched his knuckles. He lowered his head, marked the line, and looked at you. You smiled, nodding. He smiled back and sighed. He slipped a bookmark into the book, set it on the shelf by the bed, and let his head fall back onto the pillow. His fingers intertwined with yours. Your hands lay between you on the pillow as you fell asleep facing each other. Sleep came softly.
The sound of the Blackwater Bay waves outside the window. A sound that lulled you. He shifted in his sleep. Your hands were still intertwined, but your heads were closer now. His warm breath could be felt even through sleep, first on your forehead, then at your temple. The man’s nose pressed close to your cheekbone, and he breathed out unevenly. You shifted toward him on your own. You turned your head slightly, and his nose followed your temple.
The noise of the waking fortress wove itself into the sound of the waves. Servants. The changing of the guard. But a strong shoulder was beside you. Touching. A sleepy movement. Not an attempt to pull away. To come closer. You still reached for him through the veil of sleep, closer with your whole body. Even when your eyes opened drowsily and the world already demanded him for the realm, he had woken before you — watching you, and not pulling away.
Maekar
The mirror reflected your silhouette as you prepared for sleep. Maekar was already sitting on the edge of your bed, rubbing his neck and grumbling about the day, while you only nodded and answered from time to time. Once you were done with your preparations, you approached the bed, and it received you with the readiness of a long wait. The prince finished his monologue and lay down beside you.
The man’s calloused fingers found your shoulders and pulled you closer to him. His arms closed around you as he lay on his back. You chuckled quietly, settling into his arms as best you could. Another grumble slipped from his lips when your elbow pressed unpleasantly into his side. You only huffed, placing your hand on his shoulder. Your eyes closed. The warmth beside you dragged you into dreams.
In your sleep, at night, you turned onto your side, facing the edge of the bed. Abruptly, as if after a dream. His eyelids opened slightly, and he shifted after you. Maekar’s jaw tightened as he turned, never unclasping his arms from around you. His chest to your back. One arm like a pillow for your head, the other wrapped firmly over your waist, almost tucking you beneath him. He did not sleep for some time. He looked at the door over your head. Then at the crown of your head. Only when your shoulders sank did he close his eyes again.
Your hair had spread across the pillow, and a few curls had found their way into your mouth. Your eyelids fluttered. You were lying on your stomach, but it was not only the blanket covering you. His cheek was pressed into your back, his arms around your waist and hips. His back rose and fell slowly. You lifted yourself slightly, and he went still at once, frowning. His grip tightened, but he did not wake. This time, he did not wake.
Duncan
The crackle of the campfire in the night silence as you spread the bedroll on the ground. Egg had already fallen asleep and sprawled out on the other side. Dunk was poking at the dying embers with a stick, leveling them out. He had gone to the horses, checked on them, and by the time he returned, the travelling pallet was already laid out, and you were sitting beside it. Waiting.
The tall man lowered himself carefully beside you and shifted to the edge of the mattress. You raised an eyebrow and rolled your eyes, smiling. Your hand closed around his shoulder and pulled him toward the center. He raised an eyebrow, going a little still, but did not crawl away. Your palms pressed against his shoulders, and he turned onto his back. You lay down on top of him at once. The muscles of his torso and chest tightened, and his breath broke off. Not from the weight. Another quiet chuckle slipped from your lips, and you settled against his chest. He blinked, looking at you, and smiled foolishly, placing a large hand on your back.
The fire had burned down. Aegon stirred somewhere nearby. The horses snorted. Dunk slowly turned onto his stomach in his sleep, and you fell from his chest without waking. Your arms caught around his back on their own, moving you back onto him. Your warmth warmed his back, and he mumbled something in his sleep, flinching at your breath by his ear, but settled again at once. His hand found your thigh.
The sounds of morning were as if from far away. Barely audible, muffled. Dunk was lying on his back again, and someone nearby was laughing quietly under his breath. One eye opened slightly, seeing the boy bent over him. You were wrapped around the man’s head: a thigh beneath his chin, an arm embracing his face, your nose right by his ear, your chest pressed to the crown of his head. He went still, waking fully, and his hand jerked toward you, but froze at once when you breathed out in your sleep. The young squire had to make breakfast while the hedge knight remained in the cage of your body, barely breathing.
Daeron
The white light of the rising moon through the window, and a faint warm breeze drifting through your chambers. Daeron lay with you on the bed, drunkenly smirking as he read the lines from the collection on your lap together with you. The softness of the featherbed, the silence around you, and weariness. The cup was drained.
The prince’s eyes closed halfway, but scraps of phrases still slipped from his lips, impossible to make out. His shoulders relaxed along with his neck, and his head slipped from your shoulder, his face buried in your neck. You froze for a moment but exhaled at once. Closing the collection of poems and setting it aside, you slid lower in the bed and leaned back onto the pillow. The man’s nose remained pressed to your neck, warming it with his breath. Your eyelids lowered.
Pain. An unpleasant sensation, as if bone were being pressed into bone. Your eyes flew open in an attempt to breathe, your irises darting. Your face was pressed to the mattress, and around you was a body thrashing, a familiar scent. Slender arms held you, tucking you beneath him. Broken breathing. Words, unclear by your ear. His name tore from your lips. He did not hear. Another attempt. Daeron went still, his head jerking up, and loosened his arms. He did not let go. You turned in his grip and looked at him, running your palm over his cheek. Violet eyes blinked and closed again. His breathing grew quieter.
Early morning light fell across the bed. The sounds of birds in the garden below the window. Warmth low in your stomach. You rubbed your eyes and stretched, blinking yourself awake. Your head turned drowsily, searching for the familiar face. It was not there. Your brows furrowed on their own. Propping yourself up on one elbow, finally awake, you understood. Your hand lifted the blanket. Daeron’s face, still asleep, was pressed into your stomach. Your thigh was thrown over his shoulder, and his arms held your waist. Warm breath heated your lower stomach. He shivered from the chill, and you exhaled, slipping your fingers into his disheveled hair.
Valarr
A light streak in his dark hair shone in the firelight. The young prince watched the fire, listening to your day as you brushed your hair, but his thoughts were far away. He started and turned around. You were already standing beside him and smiling at him, drawing him toward the bed. A sigh slipped from his lips, and he followed you, smiling.
In bed, you settled down at once, but now you listened to him. About his day, his training, his lessons, his hopes, the advice he had been given. Face to face. Valarr’s words grew quieter and quieter. He almost fell asleep. But he blinked, feeling warmth at his legs. Your leg smoothly intertwined with his, gently stroking muscles tense after the long day. Your gaze did not leave his eyes. He breathed out sleepily, drawing closer, and closed his eyelids.
The fire had gone out, and the young man’s body turned onto its back. A straight posture. But still sleep. You moved closer, and your palm lay on his chest, clutching his nightshirt. Even breathing through sleep, and he pressed more calmly into the soft bed beneath him. His fingers covered your hand, not squeezing, only not letting you pull away.
Toward morning, you lay face to face again. But closer. The salty, slightly heavy morning air of Dragonstone. Two bodies close beneath the blanket. You opened your eyes with difficulty and met his gaze. He was not asleep. His forehead was pressed to yours, no longer pulling away as before. He only studied you, your morning face. The corners of your lips twitched, and his twitched in answer. His forehead rubbed softly against yours, not calling you to rise.
Lyonel
Your fingers gently rubbed fragrant oils into your wrists and hands as you sat in bed. The warm light of the candle by the bed trembled from the open door. Lyonel entered your chambers with flourish, with a smile, and at once searched for you with his eyes. You only raised an eyebrow, smiling back.
His clothes flew to the floor, past the chair, past the sofa, while his feet carried him to you. You had already thrown back the blanket for him, settled on your pillow. He did not lie down. He ran his tongue over his upper teeth, and your body went still. Before you could open your mouth, the man’s giant body fell over you, pressing you to the mattress with all his weight. A weak breath broke from your lungs as Lyonel’s laughter tickled the crown of your head, and he fell asleep almost at once. Throwing off the large body was difficult, but you managed to free yourself halfway and breathed fully again, closing your eyes.
The moon was still high in the sky, but your eyes opened faintly at the sounds of snoring. Nothing was pressing you down. You lifted yourself on your hands, rubbing your eyes, and squinted into the half-dark. Lord Baratheon lay across the bed, his legs thrown over you and his arms spread wide. The blanket had slipped from his broad chest, and you sighed, adjusting the furs over him. A broken snorting sound broke from his mouth, but he did not wake, only bent his legs, pressing your thighs to his. Leaning back onto the pillow, you fell into sleep again under the lullaby of thunder in your bed.
Warmth on your face, faint snuffling nearby, light behind your eyelids. Morning. You turned your head, lying onto your back. Your eyes opened slowly. A large palm lay on your face. Your gaze slid to the side. The man’s sleeping body had moved closer and now lay beside you on its stomach. His lips were parted, and dark curls had spread across the pillow. Something ached quietly beneath your ribs, and your eyelids lowered while your face pressed back into the palm lying on your face.
Raymun
The Green Apple rolled into your chambers with a tired gait. You looked away from the needle with which you were mending a hole in one of his shirts. He nodded weakly to you, smiling, and, kicking the boots from his feet, lay down in bed, muttering apologies. You blinked, looking at him, raising an eyebrow, but there were no more words. He was simply breathing deeper.
Once you had sewn the tear in the fabric, you joined the young man in bed. Raymun was already lying on his side, not even covered by the blanket. Climbing in carefully beside him, you covered the two of you with the blanket and wrapped your arms around him from behind. His back tensed through sleep. You pressed your face into the hair at the nape of his neck, carefully kissing him with your lips. He muttered something about tomorrow or about his dream and melted in your arms. You fell asleep after him.
In the middle of the night, he opened his eyes, blinking faintly. The bedroom. Your shared bedroom. He breathed out in half-sleep and turned to face you. You grumbled, trying to remain in your sleepy fortress, and he answered with a hum. His eyelids closed as he fell asleep facing you. His body moved closer. His nose touched your nose, gently passed over it, and stopped by your lips. Breath mingled in the night.
First, your scent. Towards morning, Raymun’s face had ended up higher, right in the hair at the crown of your head. Deep breathing, even part of your hair in his mouth. He woke first. He did not pull away, but tried to remove your strands from his mouth. You groaned faintly, lifting your head, and saw him press his face to the crown of your head again, not letting you get up, nor himself either.
Aerion
The muscles beneath your skin twitched faintly. Your body lay on the bed. Softness. But the marks on your shoulders and neck ached. A weak cramp seized your thighs, and your fingers clenched the sheets. It was dark, despite the few candles around the bed.
Your eyelids twitched. You could not close them. Behind your back was a body whose hair gleamed with silver and gold. The man’s palm held one of your breasts tightly, and his breath stirred the hair at the nape of your neck. Cold gooseflesh ran down your back. You breathed almost imperceptibly. You did not move. You stared ahead at the dragon tapestry on the wall. The flame was burning down. You exhaled sharply when the stranger’s chest pressed into your back. Consciousness slipped away, and you finally fell into the abyss of sleep.
A sharp shove, and a weak breath from your chest. Your eyes opened at once, and you sat up, wincing. You adjusted to the darkness. Aerion lay on the other side of the bed. Asleep. Turned away from you, having pushed you off. You rubbed your side, an aching feeling in your ribs, but you could breathe. Finally, you could breathe. You reached for the little jar by the bed and opened it, releasing the smell of herbs into the air. Trembling fingers rubbed the ointment into your body, where the dark patterns and prints were. A sound from the man’s side. You went still. He did not move. Measured breathing. You continued rubbing the ointment in more quietly and blacked out again.
The first sensation was a stranger’s touch. Consciousness returned slowly, in waves. The fingers were strangely soft, and your sleepy mind offered itself up. A hiss broke from your chest. The man’s fingers dug into your thighs, pressing you to him, sinking beneath the skin. His nails left crescents on your skin. No breaking free.
A Knight of the Seven Kingdoms: Prince Baelor Targaryen x niece!reader
Rating: Teen
WC: 6.5 k
Tags/Warnings: Character death, canon divergence, angst, grief, budding romance, slow burn, brief suicidal intentions, blood, brief mention of vomit, very mild Targcest, Baelor lives.
A/n: I was just in the mood for some angst. Comments and reblogs are always appreciated. Please let me know if you'd like to be added to any tag lists.
Summary: Prince Maekar dies during the Trial of Seven and changes the fate of the Targaryen family.
You heard your brother's wounded cry. Shrill and high, like a child in pain.
"AERION!" You heard your father's voice thunder.
You watched as Baelor tried to grab for him, to pull him back from the chaos. Too many swords, too much heated blood, too much confusion. For a moment, you were worried that Ser Duncan might kill Aerion, and you knew that was your father's fear. Despite his children's aggravation, you knew he loved you all dearly, and he would protect you all to the ends of the earth.
"MY BOY! MY BOY!" Maekar pushed through, making his way towards Aerion.
You gripped Egg's hand as you watched your father move like a man possessed. He drove a lance through Lord Lyonel's horse, sending the Baratheon man toppling to the ground. That fateful moment changed the tide. The slaying of his horse sent Lyonel Baratheon into a rage.
It all unfolded too fast to comprehend. The heavy swing of Lyonel's sword, your father's block with the shield. The crack. The splinter. This spar continued as the two skilled warriors faced off, each holding their own. A heavy silence filled the air as the two men battled, one driven by rage and a noble cause and the other by concern and fear for the life of his son. The very son who had caused such a mess. Then the sharp tip of Lyonel's sword pierced your father's flesh through a small gap in the armor. The mace fell from his hand, Lyonel scooping it up, swinging it in his powerful hand, and dealing the fateful blow to the back of your father's head. You did not think he meant to kill your father, but in the violent throes of a fight, blood was spilled, and a life was taken.
Tragedy oft loomed close to the dragon house: you wondered if that was a curse, and true happiness would be impossible for your family. A brother must die for another to prosper.
Your nails dug into Egg's flesh as you watched your father twitch on that muddy field, blood pouring from him. Baelor pushed his way through as Raymun and a heavily injured Dunk dragged the powerful Laughing Storm away. Your father had managed to crack Lyonel's visor in his wake, and you believed the Baratheon man had swung the mace blindly. Baelor cradled Maekar's head in his lap after removing his helm.
"I yield, I yield," Aerion brayed, tears streaming down his face as he crawled toward his uncle and dying father.
Maekar sputtered, blood foaming from his mouth. "My boy," he whispered, reaching up with a frail arm to cup Aerion's face. You ran, feet barely touching the ground, with the mud desperately trying to pull you down. It clung to your crimson gown as you cupped your father's face, falling beside him and Aerion. You clutched his armored hand tightly.
His violet eyes watered as he gave you a soft smile before his body went rigid. A part of you died with him that day. His blood dripped into the mud, mixing with it, turning a russet color.
"No, no, no," you whimpered before turning a sharp gaze on Aerion. "This is your doing, you selfish, vain prat."
"Stop! This is not the time," Baelor said firmly, his mismatched eyes filled with unshed tears. You could see the pain etched deeply on his face. An older brother mourning the loss of the younger. "I was supposed to die first, you fool." His voice shook as his palm pressed against Maekar's eyes to shut them.
Your father's body was carried off the field, and Baelor helped you to your feet, pulling you close as you trembled.
"You need to set your anger aside. You are the eldest, and your siblings will need you."
You pulled out of his grip and stormed away, not wanting your father to be alone. Perhaps that was silly with all things considered. The septon, still a green boy, paled as he stood watch over your father's body. He was barely out of boyhood, and you felt pity for him. You stroked your father's cold face and placed a kiss on his forehead while your tears fell. It was hard to see him in such a state. Such a formidable man with a large presence, even if he often felt in the shadow of his eldest brother. Gently, you slipped the rings from his fingers, placing them on yours.
"I will take care of them, do not worry. Say hello to mother for me, at least you will be safe with her," you whispered before leaving the room. Egg ran into your arms, clinging to you as his tears soaked the fabric of your gown. You planned to burn this horrible frock once the day was done. You sat down, cradling him in your lap as Baelor and Daeron paid their respects.
"I want to see him," Egg whispered.
"Are you certain?"
"Yes." His voice trembled.
You took him back into the room where Baelor was holding Maekar's cold hand, his head bowed in reverence. Daeron had his hands folded in front of him, his head dipped low. Both your brothers had taken quite the beating in the trial. Egg stepped forward, his indigo eyes swollen as he placed his small hand on Maekar's leg.
"Father," he whispered before a heart wrenching sob tore through him and he clung to Baelor's leg while his small body shook with tears. Baelor held his nephew close.
Your back hit the stone wall as grief consumed you, making you sink towards the ground. Thick tears streamed down, making it hard to breathe until Baelor lifted you into his arms. The Silent Sisters filed in to finish preparing the body and wrap him in a shroud.
Maester Yormwell fixed a sleeping draught for you, but you knocked it from his hands. Baelor sighed, exhaustion seeping into his bones. A purple bruise blossomed over his right cheek.
"Please, sweet girl, allow yourself some relief," he tried to reason.
"No, I want to feel it all, Uncle," you whimpered.
His palm rested against your forehead. "Your father would not wish to see you tormented."
"Do not," you growled. How dare he? The rage curled inside you like a hissing dragon.
Normally, he would have scolded you for such behavior, but he allowed it for now. You were entitled to it. A sudden panic replaced the anger boiling beneath your skin. You gripped Baelor's arm tightly.
"What is to become of us now? We are orphans," you whimpered. You thought of Rhae, poor little Rhae, who had never known her mother and was now robbed of the father she loved so dearly.
Baelor cupped your chin, his thumb smoothing over your flesh. "You are not without family, sweet girl. You need not bear this burden alone. Make her another, Yormwell."
The maester fixed another draught, and you allowed Baelor to help you drink this one down. Your uncle tucked you against his chest, holding you until sleep took hold. It was blissful, black, and dreamless, and when you woke, you discovered yourself out of your soiled gown and wrapped in a black and red robe belted tightly around your waist. Fresh tears sprang to your eyes when you realized the robe was your father's. You found the gown draped over a chair, and you tossed it into the blazing fire, watching the flames consume it.
Baelor was asleep in the chair, chin resting on his hand, and you took a moment to study his bruised and battered face. None had emerged from the trial unscathed. You tucked yourself at his feet, resting your head in his lap, a position you often shared with your father when you had been upset. You had been a rather affectionate child growing up, and Maekar never minded when you attached yourself to him. Baelor and Maekar had long held a strong bond, you needed your Uncle now. You needed him to help guide and support you, but above all else, you needed his love.
Baelor stirred, puffing out a small stream of air before stroking the top of your head tenderly. "Do not sit on the floor." He reached down, pulling you into his lap and letting your head rest on his shoulder. Perhaps you were too grown for such treatment, but it comforted you. "We will burn his body on the morrow."
"No, we must send for my sisters first," you insisted.
Baelor sighed. "Alright, I'll have them sent for; it should not take them long to arrive. I know it will be hard, but you must be strong."
"I…will do my best," you murmured, breathing in the warm scent of his skin. Cloves. Oranges. Spice.
"Little Aegon is quite distraught. I had Yormwell fix him a draught as well," he told you.
"I should see to him," you whispered.
"When you are ready."
You drew in warmth and strength from him before standing carefully. Baelor steadied you with his hand, and you went to Egg's room. You couldn't wait to be rid of Ashford Castle. You supposed Summerhall would be Daeron's now, as he was the eldest son. After a heavy sigh, you entered Egg's room. The small boy was curled up tightly in the center of the bed; you sat next to him and placed a gentle hand on his shoulder. Slowly, he unfurled and crawled into your lap, his arms wrapped around your neck.
"It is my fault," he hiccuped.
"Shhh, do not speak such nonsense." You blamed Aerion.
"If I h…had not asked Ser Dunk…"
"Oh, Egg," you sighed, squeezing him close and rubbing his back, remembering when you first held him in his arms after he was born. How proud your father was to have yet another healthy son. "Father would not wish for you to blame yourself. He died in battle, defending his son. It was an honorable death."
He gave a pathetic sniffle. "I want my hair back," he sobbed. How he had once hated that he looked like Aerion, but it was his father's hair too, and now he wanted that part of him back.
You had to bite back a smile. "Now, now, that will grow back in time." You rocked him gently, staying with him until the sun fell in the sky while his tears dried on your skin.
None had much of an appetite, so food was left untouched, but you found solace in a flagon of sweet Arbor gold. When you were halfway through it, Baelor pulled the cup from your hand. Egg remained attached to your side, his small face tucked against your bodice. Aerion was still recovering from his wounds, and you wickedly hoped he would succumb to them.
"You're going to make yourself ill," he scolded, doing the same with Daeron. Even though your brother had fallen in the mud as he had promised, he was worse for wear with his own wounds. Missing half an ear, a cheek ripped open, and a burst vessel in his eye. You wondered if your father thought him dead when he saw him face down in the mud.
"Do you mean to parent us now?" Daeron groaned, squeezing the bridge of his nose.
"If I must," Baelor replied seriously. "I do not intend to abandon my brother's children."
It was a sleepless night as all of you remained in the solar among the blazing candles, fire, and books. You and Daeron took turns tending to Egg, who eventually fell into a sleep from such a state of exhaustion in your lap. You placed him on the chaise, draping a blanket over him. Sweat beaded over Daeron's forehead, his hands shaking.
"Yormwell made a draught for me, I did not dream," you whispered to him, rubbing your hand between his shoulder blades.
"I've tried them before; they do not work for me," Daeron sighed.
You stood, grasping the flagon and pouring him a cup.
"I do not think…" Baelor started to say.
"I do not wish to watch Daeron suffer this evening," you interrupted, placing the cup in your brother's hand.
A stern look settled over Baelor's face, but he dropped the matter for now. Daeron whispered his thanks before diving into his cup. Aegon slept on the chaise and you picked the chair by Baelor's side, settling your hand over his as the fire crackled and sputtered. The firelight caught on the large ruby resting on your middle finger. Baelor's thumb grazed over it.
"Your mother gave him that one," he whispered.
"I remember well. Shortly after Aerion was born, for father's nameday," you smiled.
"A very joyous occasion as I recall."
"He and Uncle Rhaegel got drunk on Dornish sour red and sang that blasted song," you smiled, letting your head drop onto his shoulder.
"My sweet girl, we must continue to share our memories; we will not let him fade away."
"No, we cannot allow that to happen."
Just before the sunlight bled onto the horizon, you fell asleep against your uncle. Two days later, Daella and Rhae arrived at Ashford, having traveled with your beloved Lady Jessa Blackmont. Rhae's silvery hair streamed behind you as she ran into your arms while Daella took Baelor's hand. Both their faces were red and tearstained.
"I cannot believe father is dead," Daella whispered. Rhae sniffled against your shoulder.
"It is hard to believe, my dear girls," Baelor said, drawing them both into his embrace.
The funeral pyre was prepared, and your father's body was set ablaze as the young septon recited the rites. Rhae and Egg clung to you while you held onto your uncle's hand for dear life. You noticed Ser Dunk lingering towards the back, the poor man battered and swollen. Valarr helped to support Aerion, and rage bubbled in your stomach once more. Beside you, Baelor let out a soft groan.
"Dear girl, your grip," he whispered softly, and you released your hand. You managed to dig your nails into his palm, leaving behind crescent shapes and a soft well of blood.
"Apologies," you murmured. He gently squeezed your elbow. You lingered behind, wishing to watch the flames finish their job and turn your father to ash. Winds carrying him away to the afterlife, and you wish it would take away this void forming inside you. Strangely enough, it unburdened your heart, lifting a bit of the grief. You twisted his signet ring around your forefinger. "I love you, father."
Preparations were made to return to the Red Keep, and further arrangements would be made to bring some things from Summerhall. None of you could stomach going back home just yet. Maekar's presence loomed large in those halls. His mark on every corner. Valarr kissed your cheek as the carts and wheelhouses were prepared.
"I've told Father that I will help with anything that is needed, including minding the little ones."
"Thank you, I remember when we used to frighten you when we were children," you teased.
"It was all those violet eyes," Valarr chuckled. "And an endless sea of them staring into my very soul."
"I promise we will not disrupt everyone's lives too much."
"We are family, cousin, do not make yourself small on account of us."
"You say that now."
You felt Egg's arms circle around your waist. That spirited little boy seemed so broken, and it tugged on your heart. Gently, you patted his hands.
"Would you like to ride with your brother and cousin? Perhaps that would make you feel better?"
"Mayhaps," Egg murmured.
"Let us make sure a horse is prepared for you then."
As you walked with your cousin and brother, you noticed Baelor conversing with Dunk.
"Dear niece, might I borrow you for a moment?" he called out.
"Go with Valarr," you told Egg and stepped over to your uncle.
"Good morrow, Ser Dunk," you said, greeting him politely.
"Good morrow, princess."
"I have asked Ser Duncan to accompany us back to King's Landing. I mean to make him your sworn shield for the time being if you agree, though he has also agreed to protect your siblings as well."
"Even Aerion?"
"Yes, princess. It would be my duty."
You nodded. "Yes, I agree, and perhaps having you around might help cheer up Egg."
You wiped some sweat from your brow with the back of your hand, eager for some wine. It was almost as if Daeron had read your mind, passing you the bloated wineskin as he walked past. You took a hearty gulp before going to thank Lord Ashford for being such a gracious and accommodating host, then joining your sisters in the wheelhouse, cradling them against your sides.
There was a state of disarray once arriving at the Red Keep, and you noticed Rhaegel lingering behind a column in Maegor's Holdfast.
"What has happened?" he whispered.
You stepped closer, gently taking his hands in yours. "Maekar died at Ashford, during combat."
"Heavens no!" Rhaegel gasped.
"Please fetch Lady Alys," you whispered to one of the guards as you held Rhaegel's trembling hands while he wept openly.
"Oh my brother, my sweet little brother. I remember when he was born, you know? Little scowl on his face. He was a good man, a very good man. Always good to me," Rhaegel rambled through his tears as you held him in your arms.
You stayed with him until Alys arrived, gathering her husband into her embrace.
A state of weeping fell over the castle, your grandmother confined to her rooms with her ladies, your younger sisters and Egg. You were thankful to be surrounded by family, for the help they would provide attending to your siblings, otherwise you feared you might be drained dry of all your energy. But perhaps that was better than being left with your grief. You pressed a hand to your chest after rubbing Rhaegel's shoulders before gathering your skirts and continuing to your rooms. On your way, you passed by your grandfather's quarters and paused to listen.
"My boy, my boy," King Daeron sobbed as Baelor knelt before him, one hand pressed to his father's knee. The sound of that made your heart briefly stop as you remembered your father's cry for Aerion. Your throat tightened, the grief sticking inside it.
Dunk stood outside your rooms as you filled the void inside you with wine. Too much wine, which left you heaving over your chamber pot. Your mouth was dry, your vision blurry, and your stomach ached, but you felt numb.
"Princess? Might I send for the maester?" Dunk asked gently.
Your hazy gaze fell on the dagger around his waist. Two little slices were all that would be needed.
"Give me your dagger, Ser Duncan." Your tongue felt heavy and fuzzy, slipping over your words.
"No, I will not."
"I gave you an order!"
"I swore an oath to protect you, even from yourself," he reasoned. He may have been thick in the head over some matters, but he understood all too well what you meant to do with the dagger. He picked you up with ease, depositing you onto the bed.
"I will tell my uncle of this," you slurred, hot tears rolling down your cheeks.
"I think he will support my decision, milady," he reasoned. You dropped your head and sniffled, knowing he was correct and shame burned your cheeks.
"Egg told me you lost your Ser Arlan. Did you feel despondent?" you whispered.
"Um, begging my pardon, but I don't know that word, milady," he admitted, his cheeks red.
You gave him a soft smile. "It means to feel a profound sadness, almost a hopelessness," you explained.
"Oh! Yes, I did. He showed me such kindness even if he could be harsh at times, was for my own good really. He was a good man, an honorable man. Much like your father, I reckon. I still feel a sadness inside me at times."
"I am sorry you lost him."
"And I am sorry you lost your father, milady. If only…"
"Hush, what's done is done. I do not blame you any more than I blame Egg. You had every right to defend your honor," you whispered. "Return to your post, Ser Duncan."
"Yes, milady."
"And thank you," you whispered.
You felt like all of the seven hells when you woke the next morning, your head pounding like thundering horse hooves galloping through, and you were annoyed to find all your wine was gone. A sickness came over you, and you dropped to your knees, wretching into your chamber pot. Your door creaked open, and Baelor stepped in with Lady Jessa.
"I'll have a bath arranged for her, my lord," Jessa said.
"Have some food sent up as well, some bread and a fried egg would do her good. Gods be good, dear girl," Baelor sighed. Jessa turned on her heels, dashing off to make arrangements.
"Please do not stand there and watch me vomit," you whimpered.
"I can assure you I have seen many people vomit during my days on this earth," Baelor scoffed. "It might even shock you to learn I have done so myself."
You wiped the back of your mouth, a small laugh toppling forth.
"I do not wish to be stern, but I will not accept this behavior from you much longer. I will not witness you descend into drink and madness," he scolded.
"I feel…so lost," you whispered.
He knelt before you, using his handkerchief to wipe up your face. "That is understandable, but you can come to me. No one expects you to shoulder this alone."
"I get my stubbornness from my father," you jested.
Baelor helped you stand, made you sit, then carefully dragged a brush through your tangled hair. You pressed a hand to your mouth, choking back a sob as the feeling reminded you of your father brushing your hair shortly after your mother's death. The awkwardness of his large, thick fingers, the slight pull of the bristles, though he refused to let it defeat him. Maekar had gotten better as the years went on, and you enjoyed the nighttime ritual of him brushing your hair before tucking you into bed.
"I have sent a missive to the Citadel to request leave for young Aemon. I believe it would do everyone some good to have him around," Baelor said as the servants filed in to prepare the bath and serve food.
"Thank you, it would be nice to have him join us for a bit," you murmured. Baelor placed the plate of fried eggs and crusty bread before you. "Do you mean to watch me eat?"
"I do," he said, sitting across from you and fixing you with a stern look.
You sighed and tucked into the food, feeling famished, and it did make you feel better.
"Good girl," Baelor praised. "I will leave you alone to bathe." He squeezed your shoulders before departing.
The hot, steaming bath was heavenly and had you feeling better by the end. You dressed and had Dunk escort you to your grandmother's chambers, where your sisters and Egg had been lodging.
"My darling girl," Myriah smiled. Rhae was folded into her lap, her pale hair spread over the vivid yellow of your grandmother's dress as she was cradled like a small babe. You stepped closer to kiss her cheek. Egg played on the floor with an orange and cream cat.
"Grandmother says he can be mine if I wish," Egg murmured.
"That is lovely," you smiled.
Daella sat in a chair by the window, staring listlessly up at the sky, swelling with gray clouds. A few raindrops pattered to the ground.
"The Gods are finally crying for father," she whispered.
You sat with her, watching the skies open and the rain flood down. Your hand quickly covered her eyes when you spotted Rhaegel walking naked through the rain, his arms raised to the sky.
"Ser Duncan, I require your help!" you called out.
Soon, Rhaegel was tossed over the tall hedgeknight's shoulder as if he weighed nothing. Luckily, your uncle found this rather amusing.
"Gods, you are a big man!" Rhaegel laughed, clapping Dunk along the back.
"I am, milord," Duncan agreed.
Alys was waiting to attend to him once Rhaegel was returned to his quarters.
"Many thanks, Ser Duncan," she told him kindly, wrapping her wet, naked husband in a cloak.
"I'm sure this is not how you were envisioning things," you sighed.
"It is a bit unexpected, milady, but I'm grateful for what Prince Baelor has given me."
"I'm certain once a position opens, he will make you a Kingsguard," you assured him.
"One day, I hope," he smiled down at you.
The rains continued, and on one sleepless night, you found yourself before Baelor's doors, in need of his company. Ser Donnel announced your presence, and your uncle guided you inside his rooms.
"I could not sleep, and I'm tempted to drown my sorrows," you told him softly.
"Well, I am very glad you came to me instead," he said, wrapping you in a warm hug. A chill had set inside the castle as the rains poured, and Baelor placed a black fur over your shoulders to keep you warm. "Yormwell tells me your brothers are healing nicely, though both will bear their scars."
"My father had plenty of them, marks of the warrior," you murmured. "Though I fear my brothers are not warriors."
"You have not spoken to Aerion since Ashford."
"I cannot find it in my heart to forgive him."
"I know it's hard, but you must. Your father would not wish for his children to splinter apart."
"Do not weaponize my dead father against me," you frowned.
"That is not what I'm doing." His tone was clipped and sharp.
"I will try," you sighed.
You stayed up most of the night with him, exchanging stories about Maekar and allowing yourself one cup of wine. If anything good had come from this tragedy, it was that you had grown closer to your uncle. When the hour of the wolf approached, Dunk came to collect you and take over his shift from Ser Roland. The fur remained around your shoulders, and you snuggled beneath it, not scared of the dreams that would come that night.
Sun came with Aemon's arrival, and his presence seemed to lift everyone's spirits. You stood with Dunk as Aemon and Aegon reunited with one another, as the two had once been close. Daeron ruffled Aemon's golden hair and you noticed the sparse silvery locks springing from Egg's scalp.
"Now I know what Egg looks like with hair, milady," Dunk chuckled.
"Yes, they do resemble each other," you smiled and watched Aerion hobble over slowly to embrace his brother. You glanced down at the rings on your hand, fanning out your fingers as the conversation with Baelor echoed in your ears. You hated it, but it was what your father would wish you to do.
When Daella and Rhae swooped in, you stepped in and gently touched Aerion's arm. The bruises and cuts on his face had faded, but the limp remained as he healed from the deep cut Dunk's sword had laid. There was a broken look in his violet eyes. Your father's eyes.
"Come," you said gently, leading him away and allowing him to use you for support.
"I do not need your sharp words. I blame myself. There is nothing you could say that would make me feel worse," he told you.
"I'm certain I could think of one or two," you teased, and he snickered.
"You always were the clever one.
"I think Aemon is far cleverer than I. I did blame you; perhaps there is a small part of me that still does, but we are all that's left of our parents. We cannot be driven apart."
Aerion squeezed your hand. "Every time I close my eyes, I hear him screaming for me."
"I hear him, too, at times. His voice echoes in my ears. I'm afraid of it stopping, I'm afraid of closing my eyes and not seeing his face. I'm afraid he will slip away entirely."
"Me as well, I think all of us are," Aerion admitted.
"He loved you. He loved all of us, even if we drove him absolutely mad. You could irritate him to no end, and yet he still came to save you. To defend you. Father was a good man," you whispered. "He was so happy when you were born, Aerion. I remember the smile on his face."
"He was the best man," Aerion agreed, tears smattered over his cheeks. You decided that your brother was not truly lost in his way, there was still time to bring him back to the sweet boy he had once been.
"Then be a better man for him, be a better man because he allowed you to live," you told him seriously before pressing a kiss to his cheek.
As the weather remained sunny, Baelor took you all for an outing into the Kingswood. The peppery, earthy scent of the grass made you think of the time when you were about four, riding in the saddle with Maekar on one of the hunts. You felt so special and important, even if it was a bit bloody for your tastes. Aemon enjoyed sending a hawk forth to collect prey. Matarys picked wildflowers for Daella to braid in Rhae's hair while Valarr went hunting with Aerion. Daeron lazed by the river before showing Egg how to fish. Baelor stood behind you, showing you how to draw a bow.
"Very good, select your aim and release," he instructed, his beard tickling your cheek.
You let the arrow fly, and well, it did not hit the center, but it at least landed on the target.
"Not bad for a first attempt," he grinned. "With more practice, you'll get better." His hands squeezed your arms, and you felt like you were floating.
Evening fell, and Dunk started a fire. You sat with Baelor under the pavilion, sharing good and wine with him. His mismatched eyes met yours, and you felt a strong pull, like. a string wrapped around your heart and the other end attached to him. You wondered if he felt it too.
Weeks passed, and you began to yearn for home.
"I think it may be time for us to return to Summerhall," you told Baelor one evening over dinner. It was Daeron's by right as eldest son, but you knew he would let you run the household.
"If you're certain. I have to admit it's been wonderful having you all here. Little pieces of my brother to remember, little Rhae possesses many of his expressions," he smiled, letting you have the last piece of honeyed chicken.
"She does," you laughed.
"Would you mind if I accompany you? I would feel better knowing you are settled instead of sending you alone."
"Yes, bring Valarr and Matarys as well. You can make a proper visit out of the trip," you smiled.
"That sounds lovely," Baelor smiled, reaching across the table and settling his hand over yours. You felt a warm spark like a flickering ember. You spent nearly every night dining with him when you weren't with your siblings. The two of you enjoyed exchanging stories about Maekar before slumber.
"I must admit it will be strange to be separated from you. I've come to enjoy our nighttime ritual," you admitted softly.
"As have I, we'll find a way to continue it. We can exchange letters."
"It would not be the same."
His thumb tucked under your palm, squeezing your hand tighter. "Well, I will stay with you at Summerhall for as long as I can, and we can worry about the issue another day."
"Yes, thank you."
You stayed awake that evening, thinking about Baelor's hand on yours. It made your heart beat faster, and you could taste your pulse in your throat.
"Princess, I was hoping that I might stay on with you at Summerhall," Dunk said as preparations were made for departure.
"You do not wish to remain at the Red Keep? I'm certain my uncle could assign you to another member of the family," you said kindly.
"I have grown fond of you, if you will have me, and I do not wish for my secret to be discovered," he admitted, his cheeks flushing.
You gently touched his arm. Dunk could not read, and you had taken to teaching him during the afternoons. Though you suspected Egg knew as well because there were times you'd discover the large hedgeknight hunched over a book with your brother. "Fear not, I shall not reveal it, and would be happy to take you on at Summerhall. We have a good master at arms, who helped train my brothers and father, he can assist you as well while I continue to handle the other matter," you smiled.
"Thank you, milady."
As the horses were readied, you noticed the small wisps of silver hair had emerged as curls. "It's growing back," he grinned, the orange cat in his arms.
"So it is."
Your grandfather leaned on his cane and took your hand. "If you are in need of anything, my dear, write to me at once."
"I will," you promised and kissed his cheek, doing the same to your grandmother.
"Do not stay away too long, please visit from time to time," she said, smiling and holding your face in her hands.
"I promise."
You watched Baelor walk along the courtyard with Rhae in his arms, her face snuggled in his left shoulder. She had been rather upset to be torn apart from Myriah, and he calmed her down.
"I promised your sister I would ride in the wheelhouse with her," Baelor told you.
"Father always said she had a gift for getting her way," you smiled, rubbing Rhae's back.
"The youngest often do. Our father often crumbled when it came to Maekar," Baelor smiled. "Mother was made of sterner resolve."
"You will have to tell me some of those tales."
"I have many to tell you yet, sweet girl."
The wheelhouse felt cozy with your three youngest siblings, Baelor, and the cat, but you liked it. It reminded you of the journeys with your father, how you would curl against his side and fall asleep on his chest. Just as Rhae was doing with Baelor now. There was a sudden ache in your womb, a feeling not yet discovered, but now one that plagued your mind. You shook it off and stroked the cat purring in your lap.
"Uncle, will you live with us forever?" Daella asked.
"No, not forever, dear one, but for a while, until you are sick of me," Baelor teased, a twinkle in his mismatched eyes.
"We could never be sick of you," Daella said seriously.
Summerhall seemed so quiet when the party arrived. Lord Jackar Celtigar held stewardship over Summerhall until Daeron's return.
"Prince Maekar would be happy to see his family has returned. Rooms have been prepared, and the staff has settled. Should you need any assistance, please reach out," he said.
"Thank you, Lord Jackar," you smiled.
The silent house came to life again with the Targaryens nestled inside. Your cousins enjoyed the training yard with your brothers and Dunk. Though everyone gathered around, when Baelor demonstrated his skills. The mighty Hammer showing off his sword skills. You never realized how swift he was on his feet. A spry finesse, while your father had been brute force.
"You are a force of nature, Father," Valarr grinned, exchanging a look with his wife . Kiera had accompanied him as your sisters had taken a liking to her.
"Years of practice, my boy," Baelor said, clapping him on the back.
"The lad is right, milord. You are truly a sight," Dunk grinned. Egg sat on the fence with Matarys.
"Don't give him a big head about it," you called out, a twinkle in your eye. There was an excited thrumming in your chest, a heat in your cheeks as you looked upon him.
Baelor's lips quirked as his gaze fell on you. "Come now, show me what you can do," he told his sons and nephews, and soon the training yard was filled with dueling boys.
Spring brought a fresh bloom and with it a terrible sickness that spread throughout King's Landing, Oldtown, and Lannisport. Summerhall was positioned in a more rural area, cut off from major cities, and you instructed everyone to remain under a tight quarantine to keep everyone safe. The small decision to bring Baelor and your cousins to Summerhall spared their lives, but sadly claimed King Daeron's.
"I suppose you will leave us now that you are to be king," you whispered to Baelor on a warm night beneath the pomegranate tree. A tree your father had planted for your mother. How she loved to crunch the seeds, staining her mouth red. Though his favorite had been the plum tree with its dark purple leaves. He had once tried to find a silk to match the hue, loving how unique it was. None would have suspected Prince Maekar's love for foliage, but he found peace in nature. Perhaps because there were no chattering voices to vex him, but you suspected because it reminded him of your mother and the time he spent with her in the gardens.
"I do not have a choice," he said softly, taking hold of your chin.
"I know. You make a wonderful king, uncle, father always said so."
"I wish he were here to share in this moment with me."
"He is smiling down on you, I can feel it."
He stroked your cheek with his thumb. "And do you think he would smile down on me falling in love with his eldest daughter?"
A soft smile crossed your face. "I think if she also has fallen in love, he would approve."
"And have you?" He moved closer, his face just a hair's breadth away.
"Fallen in love with you?" you teased. "I believe so."
His lips melded against yours in a firm, commanding kiss. More intense than you expected, though you didn't have many to compare it to. A silly one with Daeron as children, a jealous one from Aerion when he learned you had kissed Daeron, and more curious ones with a few servant boys, but never one with a skilled man before. An overwhelming sensation flooded through you, making your belly twist and tighten.
"We would not need to rush things, would we?" you asked softly.
"I would never push you into anything, sweet girl," he promised.
"It is just, I have only returned home and wish to manage here for a bit. Marrying you would make me queen; I'm not blind to the matter."
"It would indeed. Shall we give it a year or two? I do not mean to pursue another."
"Neither do I," you smiled.
You stayed beneath the tree with him, with his fingers laced through yours. You pondered if this would be your fate if your father had not been slain on that muddy field. Would the tides have turned another way?
On the day you married Baelor, a warm breeze blew through the ward, bringing with it a swirl of purple leaves. You touched the ruby ring on your finger and smiled, knowing it was your father giving his blessing. His presence lingered on long after his death.
ok so since we are talking about reader/baelor/dunk. hear me out reader finally snaps and breaks things off with baelor because she’s just done with the constant push and pull, the “we can’t keep doing this,” the feeling that she’s always waiting for him to choose her fully and he just won’t. and it’s not even just that, it’s the whole situation, him being a professor, the age gap, the secrecy, the fact that she can already see how this ends if it keeps going. so she does the mature thing for once and walks away even though it clearly kills both of them.
they try to stay friends after but it’s honestly kind of pathetic. dry texts every few weeks, the occasional “hope you’re doing well,” both of them pretending they’re normal about it when they’re very much not. so a few months later she ends up with dunk, and objectively it’s perfect. he’s open about wanting her, he’s steady, there’s no shame or hiding or moral crisis attached to being with him. and she does care about him, she really does, but it’s different and part of her misses how intense and all consuming things felt with baelor, which is not exactly a great sign
so naturally she makes the brilliant decision to reach out to baelor for “closure” and invites him over, and now you’ve got the three of them in the same space and it is immediately off. like the vibe is so tense it’s actually painfu, sort of summerhall au style. baelor looks wrecked, like he hasn’t slept in weeks, trying to act normal and failing. dunk is being polite but very clearly aware of everything, just watching the two of them with that intensity like he already knows what’s going on. and reader is stuck in the middle trying to act like this was a normal idea when it very much was not
and instead of this giving her closure it just makes everything worse because now she’s confronted with the fact that she still wants baelor, baelor very obviously still wants her, and dunk is right there, steady and good for her. so by the end of it nothing is resolved, it just kind of lingers in the air, and that’s what leads into the idea of maybe bringing him in as a third, just once, because at that point it almost feels less insane than pretending none of this is still there between them
this might've changed the trajectory of my life because can you imagine how insane that threesome would be... baelor's heartbroken and desparate and ANGRY (with himself mostly) and has all this pent up frustration simmering inside him... reader's so confused and vulnerable and she wants to protect dunk because she loves him but she also wants closure with baelor... dunk is angry at baelor for breaking his girl's heart but at the same time why does he feel so attracted to this calm, fatherly vibe (dunk and reader share the same set of daddy issues i fear)...
and idk. maybe they're all a little drunk. maybe one thing leads to another and dunk's telling her it's okay if you want to, but can i watch? and before reader can answer baelor's saying what do you want, duncan? and then someone's touching someone and everyone's clothes are coming off and... challengers
ok so since we are talking about reader/baelor/dunk. hear me out reader finally snaps and breaks things off with baelor because she’s just done with the constant push and pull, the “we can’t keep doing this,” the feeling that she’s always waiting for him to choose her fully and he just won’t. and it’s not even just that, it’s the whole situation, him being a professor, the age gap, the secrecy, the fact that she can already see how this ends if it keeps going. so she does the mature thing for once and walks away even though it clearly kills both of them.
they try to stay friends after but it’s honestly kind of pathetic. dry texts every few weeks, the occasional “hope you’re doing well,” both of them pretending they’re normal about it when they’re very much not. so a few months later she ends up with dunk, and objectively it’s perfect. he’s open about wanting her, he’s steady, there’s no shame or hiding or moral crisis attached to being with him. and she does care about him, she really does, but it’s different and part of her misses how intense and all consuming things felt with baelor, which is not exactly a great sign
so naturally she makes the brilliant decision to reach out to baelor for “closure” and invites him over, and now you’ve got the three of them in the same space and it is immediately off. like the vibe is so tense it’s actually painfu, sort of summerhall au style. baelor looks wrecked, like he hasn’t slept in weeks, trying to act normal and failing. dunk is being polite but very clearly aware of everything, just watching the two of them with that intensity like he already knows what’s going on. and reader is stuck in the middle trying to act like this was a normal idea when it very much was not
and instead of this giving her closure it just makes everything worse because now she’s confronted with the fact that she still wants baelor, baelor very obviously still wants her, and dunk is right there, steady and good for her. so by the end of it nothing is resolved, it just kind of lingers in the air, and that’s what leads into the idea of maybe bringing him in as a third, just once, because at that point it almost feels less insane than pretending none of this is still there between them
this might've changed the trajectory of my life because can you imagine how insane that threesome would be... baelor's heartbroken and desparate and ANGRY (with himself mostly) and has all this pent up frustration simmering inside him... reader's so confused and vulnerable and she wants to protect dunk because she loves him but she also wants closure with baelor... dunk is angry at baelor for breaking his girl's heart but at the same time why does he feel so attracted to this calm, fatherly vibe (dunk and reader share the same set of daddy issues i fear)...
and idk. maybe they're all a little drunk. maybe one thing leads to another and dunk's telling her it's okay if you want to, but can i watch? and before reader can answer baelor's saying what do you want, duncan? and then someone's touching someone and everyone's clothes are coming off and... challengers
♱ summary: the soft scratch of the quill has finally given way to the desperate silence of the red keep's hidden corners. in the shadow of ancient histories, a long-awaited reunion transforms moons of longing into a visceral reality that defies royal protocol. as the boundary between ink and flesh dissolves, a dangerous choice is made — one that leaves the safety of the letters behind for a truth that could consume them both.
♱ pairing: baelor targaryen x niece!reader
♱ contents/tags: smut, adult3ry, emotional intensity, targ!dynamics (uncle/niece), age gap, secret encounter, secret lovers, aftercare, power dynamics, a little bit of possessive baelor and protective baelor
♱ word count: 1.2k+
The most dangerous secrets are those whispered in the dark, where the weight of a touch speaks louder than any vow ever spoken.
the archives | part ten | other works
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The Red Keep at night was a skeletal beast, its ribs made of damp stone and its breath the whistling wind from the Blackwater Bay. You moved through the corridors not as a Lady, but as shadow reclaiming its heritage. The iron key was a cold, heavy weight in your palm, a physical anchor to the reality of what you were about to do.
When you reached the spiral stair behind the heavy, dust-laden shelves of Valyrian histories, the air changed. It grew thick with the scent of aged parchment and that unmistakable, sharp note of cedar. You heard his voice before you saw him — a low, rough rasp that cut through the darkness.
"I told myself you wouldn't come", he murmured. "I told myself you had more sense".
You stepped into the private annex, the light of a single candle casting long, flickering shadows against the spine of ancient books. Baelor stood by the window, his silhouette a jagged tear against the moonlight. When he turned, the impact was more violent than any blow.
"But here you are", he said, his voice devoid of its usual princely authority. It was a statement of defeat.
"You called for me, Baelor", his name sweet on your lips. You took a step forward, your boots silent on the stone.
He took a breath that sounded painful. "I shouldn't have. It's madness, meeting here...like this".
"It isn't madness", you countered, closing the distance until you could feel the heat emanating from his chest. "It is hunger. And you have as much of it as I do. Stop hiding from me".
He didn't argue. His hand snapped out, fingers curling around your wrist with a strength that was almost bruising — a desperate confirmation that you were real.
The firs kiss was a desperate reclamation. He pressed your back against the cold wood of the shelves, the hard spines of the Targaryen Chronicles biting into your shoulder, but you only felt the searing heat of his mouth. His hands, usually so disciplined with a quill, were now frantic and unyielding. One hand tangled deep into your hair, tilting your head back to expose your throat, while the other moved with a possessive urgency, tracing the curved of your waist before pulling your hips flush against the hard line of his own.
"You are more real than I remembered...", he whispered against your skin, his voice a ragged growl. "Warmer".
As he moved his lips to the hollow of your throat, you let out a sharp, jagged breath. You reached for the laces of his doublet, your fingers trembling but determined, needing to feel the skin beneath the silk. When your palms finally made contact with his bare chest, the shock of his heat made your knees weak. With your index you traced every scar of old battles on his skin and you could feel his heartbeat quickened under your palm. He let out a low, guttural sound — half-sob, half-growl. He lifted you effortlessly, his large hands anchoring your thighs against his hips as he pinned you between his powerful frame and the ancient wood of the shelves. The friction of your silk skirts bunching up against his rough doublet was a frantic, rasping sound in the silence of the annex.
"I have dreamed of this so many nights that no amount of words on a parchment are enough to recount it", he whispered on your lips.
He didn't wait for an answer. His mouth returned to yours, no longer seeking permission but claiming a debt long overdue. As you wrapped your legs around his waist, the cool air of the library vanished, replaced by the suffocating, glorious heat of his body. You felt the hard, lethal line of his pressing against you, a stark contrast to the soft, scholary life he led in the light of the day.
When he finally entered you, it was with a ferocious urgency that mad you cry out, the sound muffled by his shoulder. It wasn't just a physical act; it was a spiritual collision, a violent homecoming for two souls weary of parchment and ink. He moved withing you with the same relentless focus he brought to the Small Council, but here, there was no displomacy — only hunger.
His fingers dug into your hips, bruising the skin as he sought to brand his mark into your very bones. You arched against him, your fingers clawing at the scars on his back — reminders of battles fought for a crown that felt meaningless in this shadow-drenched corner.
The air in the annex was thick with the scent of aged parchment and sharp cedar, a smell that had once represented Baelor's distance but now became the scent of his skin. In the darkness, your eyes remained closed, seeing only the fire of Old Valyria behind your lids as you allowed the flame of your shared blood to finally consume the last vestiges of your restraint.
"Look at me", he gasped, his voice a ragged growl. You opened your eyes, seeing only the dark, dangerous resolve in his gaze, a fire that matched the one burning behind your lids. Every thrusy was a rebellion against the moons of enforced silence, a jagged answer of the cold, untouchable reality of your marriage.
As Baelor pinned you against the sheleves, the ancient wood groaned under the shift of your combined weight. The hard, unforgiving spines of the Targaryen Chronicles bit in your shoulder blades, a physical reminder of the centuries of dynasty and duty that stood between you. Every thrust felt like a collision with history itself; you were pressed against the recorded lives of Aegon the Conqueror and Maegor the Cruel, their legacies of blood and fire witnessing your quiet rebellion.
The scent of cedar and aged parchment mingled with the salt of your shared skin as the pace quickened, a storm of raw sensation that threatened to shatter the very foundations of the Red Keep.
You were no longer a Lady and he was no longer a Prince; you were simply two dragons consuming one another in the dark.
Afterward, the silence that returned to the library was heavy, laden with the weight of the vows you had been shattered. You lay entangled in the shadow, the cold air beginning to seep back through your damp skin, yet the heat of his body remained an invisible barrier against the world.
"He does not touch me...", you whispered into the dark, your voice still breathless. "Not like you do. He never has".
Baelor pulled you tighter, his jaw set with a protective ferocity. "He wouldn't touch you at all, if it were up to me", he growled, his eyes dark with a new, dangerous resolve.
"What will happen when the sun rises?", you asked, searching his face. "When the letters stop and the reality returns?".
"It won't", Baelor replied, his voice regaining the cold steel of the Hand of the King. "I have moved the pieces on the board to bring you here. I won't let them send you back to a man who does not know the value of the dragon he holds".
He kissed you forehead, a gesture of both love and possession. "You must go before dawn. If we were to be found...even my authority could not shield us yet".
