{Baelor Targaryen x f!Reader}
Two moons late and a world away from the nervous bride you were, you discover the greatest lesson of all.
♡♡ The only lesson I learned from writing this is that I have a DILF addiction ♡♡
6k words - Warnings: smuttt, morning sex, oral sex (f!receiving ), praise kink, softdom!baelor, pregnancy reveal, lots and lots of fluff, then more smut and more fluff, pregnancy sex, bathtub sex, domestic bliss, childbirth (brief, not graphic) and class dismissed...
You woke to the smell of flowers. It drifted in through the open windows of your chambers, mingling with the salt-touched air of the Dornish coast. The morning sun was already warm and somewhere outside, you could hear the distant call of birds you didn't recognize, the low murmur of servants beginning their day.
You lay still for a moment, watching the light shift across the ceiling. Beside you, Baelor was stretched out on his back, his arm tucked under your head, his chest rising and falling, slow and steady. His dark hair mussed, his face slack with sleep. The lines of age and worry gone. He looked so much younger, you realized, with the weight of a kingdom lifted from his shoulders.
Your gaze traveled down his chest, over the trail of salt and pepper hair and the scarred skin, to where the bedsheets were pushed down to his waist. You leaned down and kissed a scar on his shoulder, then up to his neck, his jaw, his chin.
He let out a sleepy sound and pulled you closer, his eyes still closed, a small, content smile on his lips.
You laughed and kissed him again, this time on the corner of his mouth.
"Are you awake?" You whispered, tracing the line of his cheekbone.
"Mmm." His eyes stayed shut, but his hand slid down your waist, over the curve of your hip, squeezing your bare backside. "I was dreaming I got to sleep in."
You smacked his arm, but the corners of his mouth were twitching, his eyes still shut.
"Go back to sleep, if you like." You leaned forward and brushed your lips against his, a light, teasing touch. "I have plans for the day."
His eyes opened. "Plans?"
"Its our last day at Starfall. There are still things I wish to do."
"Oh?" He rolled to his side, propping his head on his elbow, his free hand lifting your thigh, pulling it over his hip. "Tell me about these plans."
You bit your lip, trying not to smile. "Well first, I heard there is a secret beach nearby."
"A secret beach." His hand moved up your thigh, pulling you closer.
"Yes, a hidden, secluded little cove where no one goes." Your hands slid over his chest, his shoulders. "But I thought it would be perfect for a picnic."
"A picnic." He kissed the sensitive spot below your ear, his stubble grazing your skin.
"And I thought afterwards," you struggled to get the words out. His hand was slipping between your thighs now. "I thought we could take a walk in the gardens, maybe go riding..."
He nipped your ear, the movement of his fingers more insistent. "I have a better idea."
"Baelor." It came out like a whine.
"Let's stay right here," his voice was low, shifting you back against the pillows. "I can think of all sorts of things to do with my pretty wife, in a room all to ourselves, with no one to interrupt us."
"It's our last day," you protested, but your thighs were already parting, your hands curling around his neck.
"Mmm it is..." His mouth skimmed down your throat, moving lower, his lips teasing the swell of your breasts. "So, I'm going to spread you out on this bed and break my fast."
You let out a soft giggle, then a gasp as his teeth grazed your nipple, they were already pebbling and sensitive. He gave a wicked grin and moved lower, his mouth and his tongue and his teeth trailing down the line of your stomach.
"Baelor." The word came out breathless.
"Hmm?" He pushed the sheets aside, his hand sliding over your thighs, urging them higher "I haven't had nearly enough time to taste you."
Your hands found his hair, tangling in the dark strands, holding on tight. He moved lower still, pressing kisses to the inside of your thighs, his beard grazing the sensitive skin, maintaining that intense eye contact.
The first touch of his tongue was soft, a slow lick from your entrance up to that little nub at the top. Then he did it again. And again. Slow, torturous licks, holding your thighs apart, making you arch and squirm.
He moved one of your legs over his shoulder, holding you tight against him, the fingers of his free hand intertwining with yours.
"Beautiful." His breath was warm against your skin. "My pretty wife."
"Please." You squeezed his hand, wriggling, trying to get closer.
"Mmm." That slow lick again. "So sweet."
He did something with his tongue, flicking it a certain way that made your hips buck, so overwhelming you tried to move away. He held you still, his arm braced across your hips.
"No no, don't go," he whispered.
You let out a moan, your eyes squeezed shut, your head pressed back into the pillow. You were so close, so close.
His finger eased inside, a slow movement, in and out, matching the motion of his tongue, and it pushed you over the edge. Your release crashed over you, and your hands gripped his, so hard your nails left marks.
He was smiling, watching your face, the sweat spread across your skin making it glow, the way your hair tumbled around you.
"I think that was the best breakfast I've ever had."
You smacked his arm, pulling him closer, wrapping your legs around his waist, still panting, trying to catch your breath. "Is that all I am to you? A meal?"
He laughed, leaning forward to kiss you. "The most delicious, delightful meal I could imagine."
"Mmm." You kissed him again, deeper, slower. "I fear you spoil me, husband."
"Good." He grinned, pressing his hips forward just enough for you to feel his arousal, the hardness of him, pressing against you. "You deserve to be spoiled."
You let out a breathy sigh, rolling your hips, feeling his length against your entrance. You were wet and ready, and still wanting.
He was smiling, watching you, enjoying the look of anticipation, the flush spreading across your cheeks, the way you bit your lip, looking up at him through lowered lashes.
"You know," he whispered, kissing you again, and again. "It’s hard to believe it’s been over two moons since we left the capital."
"Two?" You blinked, the word slow to register.
"Yes," his lips moved to the line of your jaw. "And in these last two moons, my dear wife, we have had quite a bit of trouble finding moments alone."
You tried to focus, but his mouth was trailing down your neck, hot and slow. Then the words finally sank in.
You pushed at his chest, just enough to make him pause and open his eyes, with a lazy, self-satisfied grin on his face that suddenly turned to concern when he saw your expression.
"What is it?" He was sitting up now, pulling you up with him.
"I’m late."
"You’re not, it’s barely morning," he protested, and you realized he was still thinking about your earlier conversation.
A laugh escaped you, high and strange, your heart suddenly beating a frantic pace.
"I mean," you swallowed, a sick feeling rising in your throat. "I haven’t bled… since-"
He stilled.
"Since?" His voice was hoarse, his expression frozen.
"Before we left King’s Landing," you finished, and then the words were spilling out, fast and panicked. "We’ve been traveling. We’ve been busy. I haven’t had a chance to think about it. I didn’t even realize. But you’re right, two moons…"
The words hung in the air. Two moons. You hadn’t bled in two moons.
Baelor was already moving, reaching for his smallclothes, his tunic, pulling them on with a speed you hadn’t seen since you were interrupted in the council chamber. His face had gone very still, the way it did when he was working through a problem, weighing outcomes, planning three moves ahead.
"Stay here," he said, smoothing out his hair. "I’ll send for a midwife."
"But what if-" you started to rise, and his hand shot out, pressing you back into the sheets.
"I’ll be quick." His hand pressed against your belly, just for a moment, warm and gentle. Then he was gone.
You lay back against the pillows, staring at the canopy. Your hand drifted down to your stomach, resting there, flat and ordinary. Could there be something inside? Something growing?
The door opened a short while later and a woman entered. She was older, with silver-streaked dark hair and skin kissed by the Dornish sun. Her eyes were sharp but kind, and she carried a leather satchel.
"Princess." She gave a shallow curtsy. "I am Meri. The Prince asked me to attend to you."
You sat up, suddenly aware of your state of undress, quickly pulling a shift over your head. A servant followed behind with a basin of water and clean cloths, setting them on the table before retreating.
Meri approached the bed with the calm confidence of someone who had done this a hundred times. "His Grace said you’ve missed your courses. Two moons?"
"Yes." Your voice came out smaller than you intended.
She nodded, setting her satchel on the bedside table. "Any sickness in the mornings? Tiredness? Tenderness in the breasts?"
You thought back. The long days in the wheelhouse, you’d put the nausea down to the constant rocking. The exhaustion, the heat. "Perhaps. I thought it was the travel."
"That’s common." She smiled. "May I examine you?"
The examination was thorough but gentle. Meri’s hands were warm, her voice low and reassuring as she asked questions, felt your belly, checked your breasts for the changes she said she expected to find.
When she finished, she sat back on her heels, a smile spreading across her face.
"Well, Princess. I’ve seen enough to be certain… and of course you’ll have a maester confirm when you return to the capital, if you wish." She paused, letting the words settle. "You are with child. I’d say about three moons along, maybe a little less."
The words hung in the air.
You stared at her. Then down at your stomach, still flat beneath the sheet. Three moons. Perhaps it happened the first night in his chambers, or the morning in his study. Or any of the dozens of times since.
You are with child.
Tears pricked at your eyes, and you pressed a hand to your mouth, unsure whether you were about to laugh or sob.
Meri patted your knee. "This is happy news, Princess. The Prince will be overjoyed."
"Is he here?" You looked towards the door. "Did he return with you?"
"Yes. I sent him away." Her tone was amused. "Men have no place during a woman’s examination."
Your hand fell from your mouth. "Can I see him?"
"Of course."
Meri gathered her things and left. You barely had time to pull a thin robe over your shift before the door opened again.
Baelor stood in the doorway, looking a little wild.
"She wouldn’t let me in."
"No." You laughed, the sound still trembling. "Apparently men have no place."
His lips twitched. He crossed the room in a few quick strides, pulling you into his arms. "Is it true?"
"Yes."
He took a shuddering breath, and his arms tightened around you.
"Are you alright?" You pulled back to look up at him, a little worried by his expression. "Are you pleased?"
"Pleased doesn’t begin to cover it." His voice was thick. "Are you?"
"Yes."
A slow smile spread across his face. Then, suddenly, he lifted you into his arms and spun, holding you against his chest, your feet dangling. You let out a startled yelp and then laughed, wrapping your arms around his neck, the sound loud and joyous in the early morning light.
"Do not drop me," you chided, a little breathless, as he carried you back towards the bed. "I mean... Us. Do not drop us."
He set you down gently, his hands cradling the back of your head, his eyes shining. "Never."
You reached up and touched his face, his smile, the lines of joy and worry, the soft graying beard. He leaned down and kissed you, soft and lingering.
"I love you," he murmured against your lips.
"And I love you."
He smiled again, his hands moving down to splay across your belly, warm and gentle.
"Now," his tone turned serious. "You need to rest. Stay in bed and I will have the servants bring you anything you wish. Wine, fruit, honey cakes, the finest dishes the kitchen can provide."
"Oh, do not spoil me so," you teased, though your heart fluttered. "I just want that picnic."
"We can have a picnic." His lips moved down your neck, nipping the skin. "Then I will take you on a tour of all the secret beaches in Westeros."
You giggled, running your fingers through his dark hair, feeling giddy and a little foolish. He was nuzzling the hollow of your throat, and you could feel his smile.
"And afterwards," he continued. "We will have a tourney, a feast, and a ball. All in honor of my wife and new babe."
"All that?" You teased, lifting his head.
"And more," he promised, leaning down to brush his lips against yours. "Anything you desire."
"I think we should start with the beach." You let your eyes close, sinking into the warmth of him, the morning, the quiet joy humming in your chest. His lips brushed yours once more, soft and unhurried, and you smiled against his mouth.
"As my lady wishes."
The journey back was quicker than the journey out. Baelor insisted on it, eager to be home, checking on you at every stop, his hands holding you close in the dark of each night.
At first there was nothing to feel. Then, somewhere in the Reach, you noticed the laces of your gowns were tighter. By the time the red walls of King's Landing rose against the grey sky, there was a small but unmistakable curve beneath your bodice.
The news had traveled to the capitol before you, and the castle was bustling when you arrived, servants running up and down the halls, a steady stream of lords and ladies arriving at court.
A nursery was being prepared, Baelor informed you. Cradles, blankets, toys. Maids and wet nurses were brought in from across the Seven Kingdoms. The best midwives, the finest healers.
The maesters confirmed what Meri had already told you, and for the first time, the words took shape in your mind. A baby. Yours and Baelors.
The first week back was chaos. The lords who had remained in the capital, who had kept the realm running in the Hand's absence, all of them demanded his attention from dawn until well past dusk. He attended endless council meetings, reviewed petitions, signed decrees.
You saw him at breakfast, when he was already half-focused on the day ahead. You saw him at dinner, when exhaustion shadowed his eyes and he listened more than he spoke. And you saw him at night, when he climbed into bed beside you, his arms finding you in the dark, his hand resting on the small curve of your belly.
And you were not your best either. The nausea that had plagued you in Dorne had followed you home, striking without warning. The fatigue settled deep in your bones, making even a short walk to the gardens feel like an ordeal. The maester said it would pass, that your body was simply adjusting, but each day seemed to stretch longer than the last.
You tried not to complain. He had enough to carry without your ailments adding to the weight.
But one evening, a servant found you in the library, bearing a folded note sealed with his sigil:
Come to our chambers as soon as you get this,
Or the water will get cold.
~Baelor
Your heart gave a little flutter. You set down your book and made your way through the corridors, curiosity tugging at your steps.
The door to your chambers was closed. A pair of guards stood outside; they bowed as you approached, and one of them opened the door for you.
You stepped inside and stopped.
Candles burned on every surface, casting a warm, flickering light over the stone walls. The fire in a hearth had been built high, and before it sat a large copper tub, steam rising from the water. The air was thick with the scent of rose oil and lavender. Thick towels were laid out on a bench, and a tray of fruit and cheese sat on a small table nearby.
And in the tub, stretched out with his arms along the edges, his head tipped back against the rim, was your husband.
Servants were still moving about, bringing more buckets of steaming water, laying out decanters of water and wine. Baelor's eyes were closed, the firelight playing across his broad chest, the scars, the dark hair damp and curling at his temples.
He opened his eyes when you entered, and smiled, his gaze lingering on the curve of your stomach.
"Princess," a servant said, her eyes widening as she saw you. "We didn't expect you so soon."
"If you wouldn't mind helping my wife with her gown," Baelor said, his voice low and rich, "I would be most grateful."
The young woman dipped her head. "Of course, Your Grace."
She began working at the ties and buttons, and the other servants busied themselves with their tasks, though their eyes flicked in your direction, to the swell beneath your gown.
One by one, the layers were removed. Your gown, your underskirts, your shift, your smallclothes. You stood naked in the candlelight, the heat from the fire warming your skin.
Baelor's eyes followed every movement, the slow reveal of skin, you grinned and his lips twitched in response.
The servants gathered your clothes, dipping into curtsies. "Will there be anything else, Your Grace?"
He waved a hand, his gaze still fixed on you. "You may go."
They hurried from the room, the door closing with a soft click behind them.
He held out his hand. "Come here."
You took it, and he helped you step over the high side of the tub and into the water. It was deliciously warm, and you let him guide you down, your back to his chest, until you were submerged up to your shoulders. His arms came around you, both hands settling on your bump.
You let out a long, shuddering sigh. The heat soaked through you, the warmth and the scent and the weight of his body behind you. You let your head tip back against his shoulder.
"Good?"
You hummed, letting your eyes close.
His lips brushed your temple, and the room fell silent, except for the crackle of the fire and the soft, steady sound of your breathing.
"Did you plan this?" You murmured, after a moment.
"Mmhm, every time you turned away your breakfast. Every time you said you were tired. Every time the council meetings dragged on and I knew you were waiting for me." His hand moved in slow circles over your belly. "I knew my wife needed looking after."
"You're the one who's been working yourself to exhaustion," you murmured, but your eyes felt impossible to open now, the heat seeping into your tired muscles.
"Then we are both in need of this." He pressed another kiss to your temple. "Tonight, we rest."
For a long while, neither of you spoke. His hands simply rested on your belly, not moving, just there. You could feel his heartbeat against your back, steady and slow. The tension of the past weeks seemed to dissolve in the warmth.
"I've missed this," he murmured finally. "Just... this."
You nodded against his shoulder. "The quiet."
"The quiet with you." He pressed a kiss to your temple. "The council pulls me in a hundred directions. But here, with you, I remember what matters."
You covered one of his hands with your own. "The realm needs you, but I fear you work too hard."
"There is always more to do." He let out a sigh, his fingers linking with yours. "But that does not mean I have to do it all."
You turned your head, looking up at him. His face was soft in the candlelight, the lines of worry smoothed away. "What are you saying?"
He was quiet for a moment, his gaze distant. "I spoke with my father about reducing my role slightly, once the child is born. Perhaps even for a time after."
"Reducing your role?" You shifted in his lap, trying to read his expression.
"Not immediately. But after the babe comes..." His hand moved from your belly to your chin, tilting your face up. "I want to take my family to Dragonstone. You, the child, Valarr, Matarys. Let the capital spin on without us for a while. Let someone else manage the grain shipments and the trade disputes."
"That would please me," you said softly.
"I thought it might." He leaned forward, brushing his lips against yours, his hand still cupping your jaw. "There will be plenty of time for ruling. Years and years. But I have only one chance to teach our son or daughter to walk and talk, to watch the first sparks of their mind take shape. And I will not miss it for anything."
Your chest tightened, a warmth spreading through you that had nothing to do with the bathwater. "Dragonstone."
"Have you seen it? The stone, the sea, the way the light catches on the battlements at sunset..." His voice grew softer. "I want to show you. I want us all to see it together."
You smiled, thinking of the waves and the cliffs, the sea stretching out before you, endless and blue. "It sounds beautiful."
"Good, then it's settled."
He reached for a cloth, dipping it in the water, and began to wash you. Slow, methodical strokes, smoothing over your shoulders, down your arms, across your chest. His touch was gentle, reverent, and you let yourself sink into the sensation, all of your fatigue slowly unraveling.
"The maester came to see me today," he said quietly, a hint of amusement in his voice.
"What did he have to say?" You asked, a little bitter. The maesters seemed to never inform you directly. They told him, and he told you.
"I told them to inform you first, but traditions are hard to break." He set aside the cloth and wrapped his hands around your waist, gently pulling you closer.
"He said," Baelor continued, his breath warm against your ear, "that I must ensure my wife does not overexert herself. That she should be kept comfortable. That she should be allowed to rest."
You laughed. "He did not need to tell you that."
"He also said," and here his voice dropped lower, "that I must spoil you...and pleasure you...as often as possible..."
You burst out laughing. "I doubt he said such a thing."
"He implied it." His hands glided down your sides, fingers trailing through the warm water. "I can have official orders written up by the maester if you need proof."
"No need. I’m inclined to take your word for it." You let your eyes close and leaned back against his chest.
"Good." His breath was warm against your neck, lips brushing the curve of your shoulder. His hands slid lower, skimming your thighs. "Spread your legs a little wider, sweetheart."
The pet name melted through you. You obeyed, knees falling apart, sinking deeper into the water and the heat of his body behind you.
"That’s good, that’s perfect." His mouth found the tender spot between your neck and shoulder, pressing a kiss there, then another. "Relax. Let me take care of you."
One hand held your thigh, steadying you. The other slipped between your legs, and then he was stroking; feather‑light at first, barely there, making you shiver.
You arched into his touch with a soft noise, and you felt his lips curve against your skin.
"Pregnancy makes you extra sensitive," he murmured, pleased.
You nodded, a gasp catching in your throat as his thumb found the apex of your sex and pressed more firmly, circling.
"And so responsive." He caught your mouth with his, tongue sliding in a slow, filthy glide. You moaned into the kiss, and he swallowed the sound, his thumb never stopping its lazy circles.
When he finally pulled back, his lips brushed your ear. "How many times do you think I can make you come?" A light nip at the shell of your ear. "Would you like to try and find out?"
You nodded, a little desperate, and he laughed low in his chest.
"Good. That’s what I wanted to hear."
Then he touched you in earnest. His palm pressed, rubbed, fingers sliding easily through your slickness. The water lapped against the tub’s sides, splashing softly with every movement. Your moans tangled with the rhythm, his voice a constant whisper of praise. Your eyes squeezed shut, everything narrowing to the heat of his hands, the coil winding tighter and tighter in your belly.
When he pushed you over the edge, it was with the ease of long practice, his fingers knowing exactly how to draw out every pulse of pleasure until you were gasping his name.
You slumped back against him, boneless. He kissed the side of your head, arms wrapping around you.
"I think it’s time to move to the bed." He pressed a kiss to your shoulder, then stood.
Water cascaded from his body, catching the candlelight, tracing the scars and the dark hair along his chest. You watched, admiring, and the corner of his mouth twitched.
He helped you out, wrapping a towel around your shoulders before rubbing it briskly over your arms, your back, the swell of your belly. His hands were warm and steady, and then he was guiding you toward the bed, settling you in his lap on the edge.
The towel fell away. His hands found your hips, your breasts, his mouth hot and demanding against yours.
"I love you like this," he breathed, palms curving over the slight roundness of your stomach. "Carrying my babe."
"Then perhaps we should have a dozen." You ran your fingers through his damp hair and tugged lightly.
He laughed. "You won’t be saying that once the little one arrives."
You smiled and kissed him. His hands drifted down to your backside, squeezing possessively. He spread his legs, and you slid forward until the hard length of him brushed against your inner thigh. A moan escaped into his mouth; your fingers tightened on his shoulders.
He guided you forward, one hand steady on your hip, the other positioning himself at your entrance. His mouth stayed on yours, teeth grazing your lower lip. You loved the way he took control, the ease and confidence with which he handled your body.
Then he eased you down onto him, and the kiss broke on a gasp.
He watched you intently, hands still holding your hips, his cock buried deep inside you.
"All right?"
You nodded, breathless, as he repositioned your legs, calves bracketing his thighs, knees bent to either side of him. Your body pressed flush against his, his skin still warm from the bath, water droplets clinging to both of you.
The intensity of his gaze made something hot and desperate curl low in your stomach. His eyes dropped to where you were joined, then roamed back up your body, lingering on the rise of your breasts, the flush spreading across your chest.
Your cheeks heated, a little self-conscious. You were aware of every difference: the fullness of your breasts, the slight roundness of your belly, the way your hips seemed to flare a little wider.
But he drank you in like he couldn't get enough, he began to move your hips in small, grinding circles, his hands guiding the rhythm.
He leaned forward and pressed a kiss between your breasts, his beard scratching softly against the sensitive skin. Then he turned his head, and his mouth closed over one nipple, hot and wet and sucking, his tongue swirling and teasing.
You gasped, your fingers digging into his shoulders, pleasure sparking and sizzling through you. You could feel him smile, and then his mouth switched to the other breast, his beard catching and scratching and driving you wild.
His mouth released your breast, lips trailing up your collarbone, finding the sensitive spot below your ear, his breath warm and ragged against your neck.
"You are so lovely." He murmured the words like a prayer, his hips picking up the rhythm, hands gripping your backside.
The compliment made you blush. Your fingers tangled in his hair and pulled him in for a kiss, your teeth tugging at his lower lip.
He groaned, the sound vibrating against your mouth, his hips bucking, pushing him even deeper inside you.
The heat pooling in your stomach tightened, his name escaping on a broken moan.
He was breathing hard now, his muscles taut, his hands moving down to your thighs, pushing them wider, opening you up. You felt yourself tightening around him, his hips rolling, every thrust sending sparks through you.
You broke the kiss, burying your face in his neck, muffling the cry as you fell over the edge.
His fingers dug into the soft flesh of your backside, his movements stuttering, hips grinding against yours as he followed you. You could feel the warm rush inside you, and the sensation sent another pulse of pleasure through your belly.
You lay tangled together, his hands still gripping your hips, both of you panting. He rested his forehead against yours, eyes closed, the two of you sharing breath.
After a moment, he kissed you, and then slowly, gently, lifted you off his lap and laid you down on the bed. He kissed and nipped along your neck, down your chest, his beard tickling. You giggled, and his eyes lifted, a smile playing about his lips.
He settled next to you, propping himself up on his elbow, his other hand finding its way to your belly, stroking the curve.
"Are you hungry?"
You shook your head. "Tired."
He nodded, a slight crease forming between his brows. He reached down, grabbed the blanket and pulled it over both of you, pulling you close. You curled against his side, tucking your head into his neck, his arm coming around you.
His voice was a low rumble. "Is there anything you need?"
"You're fussing."
"Yes."
You let out a soft laugh. "You don't need to."
He pressed a kiss to the top of your head. "Perhaps not, but I want to."
"Then let's get some sleep." You let your eyes close.
For a long while, you both lay there, the silence settling around you. His hand still stroked your belly, soothing and slow. You could feel yourself drifting, the exhaustion weighing heavily on your limbs.
"You will be an excellent mother," he murmured softly, so quietly you almost didn't catch the words.
You smiled, a little embarrassed, but warmed by the confidence in his voice. "Thank you."
"I know it," he said, sounding so certain. "And our child will love you."
The simple certainty in his voice made your throat tighten. "I hope so."
"They will." He sounded almost offended at the idea of anything else. "Being a parent is just...learning how to love without reserve. Without expectation or demands. You simply love, and that is enough."
You smiled, a sudden, bright happiness spreading through you. "That's a wonderful way to look at it."
"It is what I wish someone had told me when I became a father for the first time."
Your fingers stroked his chest, his heartbeat steady and slow. "I'm glad you will be with me."
"There is nowhere I would rather be."
You both fell silent. The candle flames began to stutter, the darkness deepening, and you realized just how much things had changed between you.
You had come to him frightened and uncertain, a girl who knew nothing but her duty. He had given you patience, pleasure, a place to belong. And now, a child.
He was so certain of your future together. Of the role you would play as a mother. You hoped he was right. You wanted him to be right.
You curled closer, pressing a kiss to his shoulder. "I love you."
His arms tightened around you. "And I love you."
You lay there, feeling the weight of his hand, the warmth of his chest, the quiet certainty settling into your bones. How far you had come. How much he had taught you without ever making you feel small.
And you were ready for whatever the future held.
Epilogue
Your daughter was born on a summer day, the light spilling through the windows, a cool breeze whispering through the curtains.
You screamed, and Baelor held your hand through it, his knuckles white, his voice steady even as his eyes went wide. "You're almost there, sweet girl. Almost there." His other hand brushed the sweat-damp hair back from your forehead. You pushed and panted, and then a sharp wail of a newborn filled the room.
"A daughter," the midwife said, wrapping the infant in a blanket. Baelor pressed a kiss to your forehead, then another, his lips trembling. "A daughter," he repeated, sounding almost dazed.
You reached for her before you knew what you were doing. Your arms were shaking, your whole body trembling with exhaustion and euphoria. The midwife placed her in your arms, and she was so light, so small, her face scrunched and red and absolutely perfect.
Baelor's hand was still clutching yours. You looked up at him, and there were tears on his cheeks. You had never seen him cry before.
"She's beautiful," he whispered.
You looked down at your daughter. She had stopped crying. Her eyes were open, unfocused, seeing nothing and everything.
"She is," you agreed.
You had come to him afraid. Afraid of his age, his title, his hands, the weight of a marriage you did not choose. Afraid you would not be enough. Afraid there was only so much room in his heart, and that you had arrived too late to claim any of it.
But fear, you learned, was a poor teacher.
It was Baelor who taught you otherwise. Not with lectures or lessons written in books. Not with pretty words or grand gestures. But with patience. With the way he looked at you. With the way his hand found the small of your back in crowded rooms. With the way he said your name when you were alone.
You learned that intimacy was not just the joining of bodies. Until pleasure was no longer a mystery but a language the two of you spoke fluently. That intimacy was also falling asleep to the sound of his heartbeat. Waking to find his arm still around you. Arguing in the daylight and making peace in the moonlight. Choosing each other, over and over, not because duty demanded it but because you wanted to.
You learned that jealousy was a poison you had swallowed willingly, believing the whispers of lords who knew nothing of your marriage. You learned to spit it out. To ask the hard questions. To trust his answers even when they stung.
And you learned that a family was not something you married into. It was something you built with steady grace. Day by day. With every meal shared, every fear confessed, every small forgiveness.
Now you held the proof of all of it in your arms. She had his dark hair and his mismatched eyes. She gripped your finger with a strength that surprised you, and you understood why Baelor had wept. This was what it meant to love without reserve. Without expectation or demands.
There is room, you realized, watching him watch her. There has always been room.
Love did not divide. It did not replace. It only grew. It only multiplied.
That was the final lesson. The one no book could teach. No servant could whisper. No mother could prepare you for. You had to live it. You had to risk it. You had to open your hands and let it in.
Summary: he comes across a lady in a fateful night, he does not know her name or her stance, just that he wishes to become the reason she smiles. Unbeknownst to him, she is the newly widowed Lady Tyrell.
Warnings: 18+ mdni! Eventual smut, angst, hurt/comfort, alcohol consumption, p in v sex, breeding, reader is a widow and a mom, reader is nondescript, making out, English is NOT my first language <3
Word count: 15.5k+
An: hi hello idk if you know me from another GOT related fandom but here is my first fic for this delicious scrumptious old man and you WILL be getting more soooooon!!!! Both for him and his equally gorgeous brother:> kinda nervous starting a new blog but I AM EXCCCITED!!!
Day one
The Red Keep is filled with guests to the brim, yet Baelor finds himself wandering through the quieter hallways. A week-long ceremony for his eldest son’s marriage; tourneys, feasts, huntings, and all the things a young prince and future heir to the Iron Throne could want.
The young ladies are quiet, the young lords not so much. They drink, they dance, they break the silence Baelor is so desperately seeking in his own castle. The guards look down whenever he passes, heads bent in a slight bow, a hand resting on their swords as they breathe, on alert for any danger, waiting for a moment they could protect the heir.
His boots’ noises grow louder as he walks into the royal wing of the Keep, finally finding some solace in the silent halls. He can even hear his own breathing while he counts his steps.
One. Two. Three. Four.
He hears the click of a heel ruining his counting; his head whips to the sound, trying to find the person responsible for bothering his peace, but he is met only by the soft ‘whoosh’ that is barely heard in the hallway.
He shakes his head again, thinking nothing of it before he resumes the path he was taking. Sighing, he looks around the place; the candelights are brightening the hallways enough but not too much, moonlight seeps through the cracks, and suddenly he aches for a breath of fresh air.
He strides toward the balcony — his unnamed balcony — counting his steps again. Five, six, seven, eight. And he stops for a second when he sees the bottom of a skirt sliding against the floor before it disappears in the direction of his destination.
Curious and cautious, Baelor walks more slowly this time, trying not to make any other sounds that could frighten the person — a woman, he assumes — and lose the chance to talk to someone who is also seeking a quieter spot.
Nine, ten.
He freezes.
Wow.
Beautiful is the first word that comes to his mind as his widened eyes take in the way this woman is staring up into the stars with a content look on her face. No smiles, no, but he can sense the peace and ease in her eyebrows.
He can’t even see her full face, yet he can read her like an open book.
He is staring, he realizes, he is staring shamefully at a woman who is so unbelievably pretty in a way that steals the air from his lungs. He watches with a heaving chest as the silver moonlight spills over her hair like a shading in one of the paintings hanging in the painting room of the castle. She is perfect.
There is a sadness to her, he assumes, a pain that lingers in the twitch of her mouth when she notices a shooting star in the pitch-black night. It isn’t even a true smile, but it is more than he could ever ask for.
“My lady?”
She gasps softly, turning around with her lips parted and her hand clutching her necklace in surprise. She seems frightened, her chest heaving with each exhale as she stares at him like a deer caught by the hunter with an arrow ready to be shot.
She seems frightened, Baelor thinks, so he takes a step back and bows his head, his hands clasped behind him. He has a soft expression, a small smile on his lips as he tries to lighten the moment, even for a small moment.
“I apologize, I did not mean to startle you–”
“Pardon me, your grace,” she falls into a deep courtesy, her fingers threaded in front of her dress — a black long-sleeved gown adorned by black lace at the neckline, and a very beautiful corset that tantalizingly hugs her bosom — but he is not looking. He is not looking.
“No need,” he shakes his head softly, his fingers itching to grab her arm and help her straighten her back, “Rise, please. We are not at court; it is not needed for you to be this polite.”
“You are a Targaryen prince, your grace. Court or not, I shall always respect you,” she replies softly, standing back to her height again, looking at him with a nervous yet curious gaze, “I am deeply sorry for wandering in the castle. I was becoming restless at the feast.”
“As I said, no need for apologies,” he walks on the balcony, three steps until he is standing side by side with her, “That we have in common. The celebrations can get too intense at times. That is why I am also wandering about. This part of the castle grows quiet at night.”
“Yes, it seems it does,” she agrees, her eyebrows moving down a little at a thought, “But are you not required to be in the Tower of the Hand?”
“Ah, yes, true, I spend most of my nights there,” he nods, a small smile tugging at the corner of his mouth, his posture straightening for reasons unknown as he looks at you with tender eyes, “Though I still own my previous chambers in this part of the castle.”
“The sky must be beautiful from the tower,” she sighs a little dreamily, looking between him and the stars until her stare locks with a flickering star in the pitch-black night, the reflection of it shining on her irises. “Does it not get lonely there?”
So she is not frightened, he thinks and sighs in relief, letting out a relaxed chuckle as he takes another step closer to look at the gardens from atop the railings.
“It is hard to sense loneliness when you have many parchments to fill with words.” He looks up at the sky, keeping one hand behind his back whilst the other moves to the railings in front of him, “Being the Hand of the King has its advantages, though you have to pay the price of the power with sleepless nights.”
“It must be rewarding,” she sighs quietly, glancing at him before looking down at her shoes, “To have everything you could ask for, without even asking; security, respect, peace.”
“The Targaryen name alone ensures you are never truly safe, My lady. Prince or not, even a bastard with silver hair will never see peace.” He explains, “Many lords wish me death. They might bow, they might smile, they might bring me gifts as a gesture of gratitude, but they stand with a dagger at my back. It does not matter how deep their courtesy is; they will always believe a Targaryen born means madness and unruly chaos for the realm.”
“But you are not chaos, are you, My prince?” Her tone is as soft as a feather, a ghost of a smile on her features as she watches him, “From what I have heard, you are the calmness that holds the pieces of the Keep together.”
“I am not as you see me,” he takes a step closer, and he notices the way her breath hitches in her throat, “I am a man before anything else, I have urges and needs. I am ambitious, even though I am told to be the most levelheaded brother,” he gazes down at her, the way her eyelashes crul in the end, “And you, My lady? Who are you?”
“That… is a mystery for another day,” she bends her knees in a quick courtesy, grabbing the skirt of her gown in her hands before she walks past him, “Have a nice night, your grace.”
“Goodnight, my lady,” he smiles and watches her leave, his heart beating like a bird, hard and fast and breathtaking. Who is she?
With a sigh, he looks back up at the sky, looking for the star she was gazing at earlier, wishing it were his reflection in her eyes instead.
Day two
“Lady Tyrell?”
You groan at the sound, already done with the day before it had even begun. Rolling to your back on the bed, you sigh loudly, looking at the ceiling and blinking rapidly to wipe the exhaustion off your face.
“May we come in–”
“Mama?”
“Ah, I was wondering where she was,” you whisper and sit up against the headboard with a yawn, the tiredness of yesterday’s feast already drying out your bones. You fear what the rest of the celebrations will do to you.
It is not only the feast to be blamed for your exhaustion; your late-night rendezvous is also one of the reasons you are the way you are. You did not mean to slip away, truly, you needed a second to breathe, and got lost in the castle. It was your luck that led you to that balcony, as if the stars were calling your name, as if the pull between you and the Heir had brought you together.
He was strikingly handsome; tall, yet he used his height to bring safety and not to corner you, mismatched eyes that glimmered under the moonlight — one a very unique shade of blue that was nearly violet, and one a chocolate brown color that reminded you of his Dornish heritage. The beard on his jaw and cheeks made him soft yet authoritative.
You have never met a man who has made your heart beat this fast. Not even your late lord husband.
You pull your hair over one shoulder, the soft sleeves of your night shift bringing your attention back to the world surrounding you. With a quiet and resigned exhale, you speak up.
“Come in.”
The world is pushed open gently, your chambermaid walking in hand in hand with your daughter, peeking inside the room before she guides the little girl to you.
“Mama! They have sea!” Little Margery exclaims with a delighted smile, rushing out of the maid’s grasp before running for the bed and crawling on the mattress with a little struggle, huffing and puffing until she is situated under the blankets with her head on your chest, blinking her doe eyes up at you, “It is so blue!”
“It is the Blackwater Bay, sweet girl,” you kiss her forehead, wrapping your arms around her body tightly as you acknowledge your chambermaid, “Good morrow, Celeste. I apologize, she must have dragged you out of the room at dawn.”
“It is no problem, Milady! She is the sweetest. I am glad to be of service.” She smiles at the two of you, waiting for a heartbeat before she speaks up again, “What would you like to wear today, Milady? There is to be a hunt for the White Stag in the King’s woods in honor of Lady Kiera.”
“A hunt–”
“With a blade?” Margery looks up at you curiously, yet you can see the sadness creeping into her eyes, “Will they hurt the animal?”
“No, sweetness, the Stag will feel no pain,” you smooth her auburn curly hair out of her face with a gentle caress, tucking a few strands behind her ear, “And you would find great friends there! There must be a tent for the kids, am I correct, Celeste?”
“Yes, Milady! Little lords and ladies do have their own tent for the hunt! A safe and happy place for Lady Margery, I am sure.”
“See? All will be well, and we shall have an excellent meal with the rest of the court,” you peck her small nose, pushing the covers off both of you to slowly wiggle out of the bed with her clinging to your chest, small arms wrapped tightly around your neck, “And if anything happens, send word for me, and I will come to you.”
“Will you really?” She asks, her legs tightening around your waist as you walk with her through your room until Celeste helps you wash your face in the basin in the corner while you hold her up with one arm, drying your face as you walk to your mirror and sit in front of it with Margery on your lap.
“Of course! Tell Celeste, and I will run to you without a second thought,” you watch as your maid stands behind you, untangling your hair out of your breath, reaching for the brush to gently comb through your strands, bringing oil out to shape the curls with her fingers. You return to your daughter, tipping her chin up, “What do you wish to do with your hair, sweet girl?”
She thinks for a heartbeat, Aubrun's eyebrows frowning in concentration, before she gasps, “Pearls! I want it the way Grandma used to do it!”
“I’m sure Celeste can think of something appropriate for today,” you kiss her head, chuckling when she reaches for the box of your hairpieces, waiting patiently for her turn while she observes every pin between her small fingers.
Your morning goes by in a blink of an eye as you break your fast with Margery and help her get dressed for the day without her causing any trouble. The silence of the room was calming at some point when the little girl fell asleep in your arms as Celeste braided your hair in the fashion of King’s Landing.
You manage to finally walk out of your chambers, hand in hand with your daughter, as she gawks at the tapestries and the King’s Guards’ shiny helmets. She is a joyful soul, wanting to explore the world around her, talking about everything and nothing until she has tired herself out, having the mischievous glint her Lady grandmother has, the same one her father had.
Your gown is simple: a black gown with long sleeves and a neckline that even covers your collarbone. There had been designs sewn in green under your bosom and corset, fading into the black as it reached the end of your skirt. Elegant and fitted for a freshly turned widow. Respectful enough to keep the court silent.
Your beautiful daughter, on the contrary, decided to go with the brightest orange ever seen among the seamstresses, with a long, flowy skirt that bounces with every step she takes.
She is so happy, with how she is swinging your hand and jogging next to you as you make your way towards the yard to get inside your carriage and start your short journey to the King’s Woods.
“Are you hungry, sweetness? We could ask Celeste to bring you some for the road,” you ask her, bending your knees a little to make sure she looks you in the eyes, “Because if we leave, we would not be able to eat anything till we reach the tents.”
“I do not think I’m hungry, Mama… but maybe I am?” She is confused due to the fact that every time she is famished, her stomach growls. But now, it does not make any sounds that could potentially alert her, “Maybe an apple for the road?”
“That sounds amazing,” you smile at her and wait for both your chambermaid and carriage to arrive, watching your daughter rock back and forth on the balls of her feet impatiently, glancing around the yard and the castle with a bit of remorse.
“Our home is prettier,” she whispers, “But I love it here too! Maybe you would marry a prince, and we would stay!”
“Shh,” your eyes widen, heart pounding in your chest as an image of a certain prince passes by your vieoon for a second before you crouch down next to her and make sure she is looking you in the eye, “We were invited because of your uncle, we came as Tyrells, besides, sweetness, no prince will like me nor it is appropriate to speculate about such things.”
“Why not?” She pouts when you pinch her cheek, crossing her small arms over her chest, “I would like to stay here! I love the castle! Please–”
“I, too, love this place, but it is for the royal family and the people of the court; we are not a part of either of them, my love.” You pull on her fingers until she is holding your hand again, watching as your carriage approaches you, the horse stomping its feet on the ground as it stops in front of you, “Let us go and enjoy the hunt!”
****
To say the lady he met the other night has not been consuming every one of his thoughts would be a lie. And he, Baelor Targaryen, does not lie. He might not say the truth out loud, but he does not twist it and utter words that are a lie.
He has been thinking, and thinking, and thinking about her. Every time he closes his eyes, he sees her face, the slope of her nose, the curve of her lips, the way her skin glistens under the moonlight, the reflection of the black sky in her orbs. She is all he can see, all he can hear; she has become the only thing Baelor can focus on.
He focuses on the way wind rustles the leaves of the King’s Woods. The noises of the knights and lords who are drinking and laughing while the maids and servants put up the tents and prepare the fire for the night. And yet, no sign of the mysterious beauty he saw last night.
Baelor Targaryen is a humble man, confident and kind, ruthless when he ought to be. But his heart has not yet slowed down from his encounter with her, and it truly makes him dizzy, so he decides to help without a care about what his lords might think about him.
He approaches the young man who is trying his best by carrying a huge wooden box, undoubtedly holding the possessions of his good daughter, Kiera. He truly wishes to help, really hopes he can pick up a thing or two to busy his unsettled mind and ease the pain of a few of his people, but it seems as soon as he starts walking towards the boy, he is causing a lot of problems.
“My prince!” The boy gasps, dropping the entirety of the wooden box on the mud as he bends down on the low bow, his hands shaking as he waits for Baelor to respond.
With a long defeated sigh, Baelor smiles and asks the boy to rise, knowing he has caused more trouble than helping anyone, totally the opposite of what he had in mind.
“I apologize, it seems I have done nothing but cause unease today,” He smiles down at the boy, reaching to pat his head before he steps back a little, “Make sure you tell the others to clean this up. Lady Kiera won’t be pleased to see dirt on her belongings.”
“Yes, my prince! At once!”
He watches the boy bend down quickly, picking up the box with a groan, before he bows his head at Baelor and dashes toward where Lady Kiera’s tent is awaiting her arrival.
“Well done,” he shakes his head at his mistreatment of the boy, sighing and puffing out air as he strides across the field, watching everyone closely as some of them hammer the nails into the ground while the others fill the glasses with rich Dornish wine.
He stumbles across a large table, covered with different plates: goose, meat, lemon cakes, tarts, and even duck with lots of different little side dishes that will most likely be ravaged by the lords.
As soon as he reaches for a tapestry that has caught his eye, a hand comes down for the same dessert he is reaching for. He chuckles before looking up at the person, his laughter dying in his throat as he finds her in front of him.
She looks equally shocked, her eyes wide and lips parted in surprise as she takes in his features, her gaze landing on his mismatched eyes before she remembers who he is and drops into a courtesy.
He is quick to reach for her elbow, not letting her bend her knees for him, shaking his head softly and smiling at her gently, “No need, my lady.”
“Your grace,” he grins at her, his fingers twitching over her covered skin, the heat radiating from her body making him dizzy. You nod and stand next to him with ease after you slowly pull your arm away, looking down at your shoes in embarrassment when he clears his throat and withdraws his touch, straightening his back with his hand behind him. “Good morrow.”
“Good morrow, my lady. I hope you had a good night,” he says quietly, his eyes memorizing every detail as he watches her closely, “I didn’t get your name before.”
“And I said that mystery is the only way to survive the court,” she shrugs, a ghost of a smile making its way to her lips, and he feels as his own cheeks pull in a smile as well, “How else am I supposed to keep running into His Grace if he knows who I am?”
“You would not need to run into me,” he confesses quietly, the words hanging between the two of them, “I would seek you out myself.”
He hears the small breath falling from her mouth, her hands stopping the fidgeting before she licks her lips and regains her composure. She looks down at the pastries, “Now you have to seek me out more, because you do not know me.”
“How so?” He steps a tiny bit closer, reaching for the dessert he was looking for before, gazing back at her softly, “You wish for me to run after you?”
“Maybe,” she breathes out, blinking at him from beneath her eyelashes, “but you would be too busy with the realm’s demands to notice me. And that would be upsetting.”
“For whom?” He asks, holding up the pastry for her to take, watching as she gently replaces his fingers with hers, their skin brushing against each other, and Baelor has to flex his other hand as the shockwaves rock through his body, “You, my lady?”
“Hmm,” she brings the dessert up, taking a gentle bite from it, licking her lips as the powdered sugar sticks to her lips, his eyes are immediately drawn to them, and he is sure she is noticing the way his kind eyes are growing darker, “Perhaps. But a prince would never bother with a widowed lady.”
“You are too beautiful to be a widow, my lady.” his fingers are twitching behind his back as he tries to hold himself from reaching to swipe his thumb over her lips, “Young and beautiful, it is a shame you are wearing black.”
“It is expected of me, your grace,” she shrugs slightly, finishing the pastry with a soft expression before she reaches for another one, this time, handing it to him, “You did not get to taste the sweetness of this one, my prince.”
“Is it good?”
“It was baked by the castle’s best maids, I can only assume this has to be the most delicious pastry one could ever taste,” she says, and for the first time, she smiles at him even with the ever present sadness in her eyes, and his heart leaps into his throat, “I can only imagine his grace, the king, hires the most talented for his kitchens.”
“Yes, he is very fond of his desserts,” he chuckles, dragging his ringed fingers from her waist up to her knuckles until the pastry is in his palm, the corner of his eyes crinkling with ease, bringing it to his mouth and taking a big bite from it. “Mhmm…”
“How is it?” She asks with a soft tone, her eyes twinkling, “It seems your Grace hasn’t had one in so long.”
“I stick to my Dornish wine and salty cheese,” he replies, licking the tip of his fingers with his gaze locked on your face, “Desserts are always present because of our Lord Father, but I am too busy to stay for it. The realm never waits.”
“Ah, that explains your reaction then, Prince Baelor,” he smiles at the way his name sounds on her tongue, “Hopefully you will not be too busy for the hunt.”
“I sure hope not–”
“Lady Tyrell!”
She turns around toward the sound, watching as — assuring — her maid running to where they are standing, panting with a pitiful yet terrified look on her face.
“What is it?” His companion asks, taking a step closer to the maid, her brows weaving into a frown, her fingers clasped in front of her, “What’s happened?”
“Margery, she fell–”
“Excuse me, my prince,” she — you, he knows who his mysterious woman is now — does a quick bow before turning toward the maid, “Lead the way.”
He sends you away with a quick nod, his own eyes wide and curious as you grab your skirts in your hands and walk with haste, letting your maid lead you to Margery, whoever she might be.
****
“We seem to run into each other every hour and then,” you reach him, Baelor Targaryen, near the huge bonfire, throwing the end of your shawl on your shoulder as you approach him slowly, a goblet of wine in your hand.
He turns around at the sound of your voice, his eyes softening at your familiar face while he raises his chin to look at you. “It seems so, my lady. I see you are out again under the sky.”
“What can I say, I love the stars,” she replies, standing shoulder to shoulder with him as they both look at the edge of the flames soaring into the midnight sky, “It is too beautiful to miss, especially when the city is far away. There is no unnecessary noise, only calmness and peace.”
“It is a hunt, my lady,” he says, taking a sip of his drink while his gaze turns from the fire to your face, taking in the way the flames shine in your eyes and lighten up your skin, “This must be the only peaceful thing about it.”
“Will you be the one to push the lance into the white stag’s heart?” You blink at the fire, sighing when he does not respond immediately, “I am of a softer nature. I despise violence, but I know it is the way the world goes day by day.”
“What would you wish me to do then, Lady Tyrell?” His voice is soft, his eyes even softer as he looks at you fully, watching you closely as you frown a little, even biting your cheek, and he is delighted to notice those small movements.
“Nothing, your grace, I…” you shake your head, a small chuckle leaving your mouth before you find the courage to look him in his very breathtaking eyes, “I spoke things that were irrelevant to our conversation–”
“No, please, I have only learned of your identity for a few hours, my lady. I do wish to know more about you,” he watches you swallow your wine, not breaking eye contact as you bring the goblet to your lips, “Tell me about your life.”
“I am from the Reach,” you start, tightening your shawl around your shoulders as a cold breeze hits your body, “A Hightower, to be exact. I grew up with four brothers. I was taught how to use a crossbow, how to wield a sword, and to mount a stallion. That is why I detest violence.”
“What is it that you like to do?” He points to the chairs scattered around the bonfire near his tents, where he was sitting an hour ago with Valarr and Kiera, “Please, take a seat. I would hate myself for a lifetime if I were the reason your feet ache the next morrow.”
“Thank you, my prince,” with a smile, you walk to the chairs, choosing one that is placed the closest to his, the corner of your lips pulling up in a bashful smile, but you are quick to shake it away, “Well…” he rests his chin on the palm of his hand, “I like to… bake. It is unbecoming of a lady, I know, we are not supposed to get our fingers dirty, but after my husband’s sudden passing… it has been of great help.”
“What do you bake, my lady?” He asks, his gaze unwavering as he keeps his irises locked on your face.
He is so handsome, you think. His short hair makes his eyes stand out more; his beard, long and soft-looking, you wish to run your fingers through it, caress his defined jaw, and watch him lose his focus.
Unfortunately, it is you who is losing her focus at this point.
With a not-so-subtle shake of your head, you look down at your goblet, the warmth of the fire kissing your cheeks, heating your body, adding to the tension hanging between the two of you.
You met him last night for the Seven’s sake. You must not enjoy how one looks in your direction, which is enough to send your heart racing.
“Berry tarts,” you sigh, smiling a little, “My daughter helps too. She eats more than she helps, but it is good to have us… occupied so we do not wallow in grief.”
“You have a daughter…” Baelor hums in amusement before he raises his eyebrows in surprise, “Margery?”
“Yes, I am impressed,” you look at him just as shocked, his cheeks pulling into a wide smile, and you have to hide your flustered amile behind your drink, sipping gently before continuing, “Did you seek out information about us?”
“No,” he chuckles, moving away a little to lean on the back of his chair, looking up at the sky for a heartbeat before his gaze finds you again, “I put the pieces together.”
“Hmm, you seem to like a good riddle, my prince.” You mimic his pose and look at the side of his face, noticing the sharp ridge of his nose, “And scenery.”
“True,” he meets your gaze, smiling at you softly, and you notice the beautiful shade of red on his cheeks; you do not know whether it is from the flames or the wine, “You seem to like a black night sky as well.”
“We used to have a telescope to watch the stars from the highest tower of the castle,” you explain in a hushed tone, “My brothers did not enjoy it as much as I did, especially when I would drag the Maester up there to help me look at the stars. It was a beautiful time, sometimes I miss being a child; away from grief and motherhood.”
“That is a beautiful memory,” he replies, blinking at you with a curious yet empathetic look, “Did you love your lord husband?”
“Ah,” you laugh in a gentle manner, looking at the stick closest to you as it burns at the other end, the fire coating the length of it slowly, “I did not at first, though. We weren’t a love match, but we grew closer; he was the second son, and I was the eldest child and the only daughter. Shared troubles were the reason we grew to love each other. And then came Margery in our second year of marriage. Seven years is a long time,” you suck in a sharp breath as you finish before looking at Baelor, “What about you? I’ve heard quite the tales about you and your lady wife.”
“The tales are pretty dramatic compared to what we had,” he starts, finishing his wine, putting the goblet down on the ground before he combs his fingers and closes his eyes, a small smile growing on his face, “Just as you, our marriage was not as pleasant as a lady would like. Heir to the throne, Hand of the king from a young age… it was a lot of responsibility for us. But we got closer as the time passed, Valarr was born, and we were happier than ever. It did not take us long to fall in love.”
“It is a lovely thing, to love another,” you whisper, smiling when his misty eyes meet your own, “To create a human and give them life. I wish Margery had more time with her father. The Seven took him from us too soon.”
“You will find love again,” he mutters, and you notice how he fiddles with his rings, maybe to ground himself, maybe to stop himself from touching you. “You are a young and beautiful lady.”
“Maybe,” you nod, squeezing your own fist before you bite your lip, “Maybe.”
Day Three
“I like eating,” Margery says as she sits at the Tyrell table with you, swinging her legs and eating the meat they have brought from the hunt for lunch, “I like eating with you, Mama!”
“I can tell, sweetness,” you kiss the top of her head, burying your nose in her beautiful curls as you smell the petals Celeste had dropped last night in her bath, “I like eating with you too.”
“Can we have cake later?” She asks, looking around the tent to find the cake she saw earlier, huffing when she sees it on the high table where the royal family is sitting, “So far away!”
“I do not know, maybe. We have to wait and see what plans the court has for us,” you reply, pushing her hair out of her face when she groans and pouts, busying herself with her food. You laugh softly, kissing the crown of her head again, “If you are good and eat all your meal, they might give us a huge piece!”
“Truly?” Her big eyes shine with happiness as she looks at you, “A big piece with looots of cream?”
“Yes,” you nod, then point at her plate, “Eat, and I shall think of a way to get you a piece, sweetness.”
“Thank you, Mama!”
You are about to respond when you see Prince Valarr stand up as soon as Lady Kiera walks into the tent, kissing her hand when she reaches him and easing her into her seat. That is when you notice Baelor.
He is looking at you in a way that could set fire to your skin; unshakable, soft, with undivided attention as if he is memorizing you, carving the shape of your face in his mind until you are all he sees in his waking moments and dreams.
A smile threatens to pull on your face, but you are quick to notice your good sister looking at you with a curious expression on her face. And you have to try to keep a mask on as long as you need to so she does not notice anything out of the ordinary.
It is not that something has happened, nothing is going on, but the idea of anyone finding out you have drunk with the Heir, you have stargazed together, makes your heart beat against your ribs like a rabbit being chased.
You do not wish for anyone to find out.
You glance at your good sister, making sure she is happy and distracted with Margery before your eyes find Baelor’s mismatched ones; truly a wonder, a dark-haired Targaryen set to rule over the kingdom with orbs lovelier than the sea itself.
Watching with bated breath as he stands up, he raises his cup to his son and future good daughter, “It is an honor to be the host of a lovely event held for my son and Lady Kiera. I have watched you grow into a handsome capable young man, and now, you have found compassion in a loving lady who will help you become the best man and knight you can be.” He smiles, looking around the room before his eyes catch your gaze for a brief moment, “You will become a strong and fair king one day.”
“Thank you, father,” Valarr says, smiling broadly, “May we see you happy once more.”
“Let us thank our guests as well for joining us in this week’s beautiful celebration!” Baelor sits down after that, and your eyes are magically pulled towards him, and you notice him whisper I hope so too in response to Baelor’s words.
****
He does not realize how the time passes; from riding his horse back into the castle walls to the beginning of the feast at sunset. He is already changed into a black and red doublet, sitting at the high table with the King present next to him, sipping on his wine.
People are dancing, and the King’s guard is standing nearby as they search the hall for any threat. There sit the big houses of the realm; Starks, Hightowers, Martells, Arryns, and Tyrells have all attended, and are placed closest to the high table.
That gives him a good look at you and your little girl, whom you are caring for. He is reminded of Jena; she took care of Valarr and Matarys fussings, fed them herself as long as she had to. She would pat their heads and kiss them goodnight. He never had the chance to have his own little girl, a princess to spoil because his wife was taken too soon from him. Just as your husband was taken so hurriedly by the Seven.
He watches the way yet another black gown is laced across your back, too beautiful yet soulless for a woman like you. He wishes to see you in your house’s colors; Tyrell and Hightower. But more than anything, he wants to see you in the bloodiest and finest silk in the entire Westeros. In his colors. In the Targaryen colors.
Baelo Targaryen is a man of class, a man of patience, which is why his father has bestowed the position of his Hand on him. But even the mightiest men must have one weakness, and shockingly, his newest one is you.
He watches you talk with an enthusiasm that could become the sole source of his heart pumping blood. He can not help but smile broadly as he sees Margery jump out of her seat and twirl at the music, showing off her green gown to everyone.
But then, he sees it. He sees the lord approaching your table. At first, he thinks nothing of it, the lord could have many reasons to come to the Tyrells, he could have a business plan, a trade deal, something, anything.
Apparently, it is none of them as he stops right next to your chair, extending his hand and smiling at you sweetly. Sickeningly sweet. Baelor has to stop himself from rolling his eyes, but he can not stop the grimace on his face when you laugh and look down at your plate.
“Are you well, son?” The king asks, his old body resting against his chair as he looks at Baelor with curious eyes, “You have been silent for far too long.”
“Of course, why would I not be?” He tries to mask his emotions, but his emotions are too strong to handle, and his frown deepens even more when he sees you stand up with your hand in the Lord’s palm, your skirt sweeping behind you as the guy leads you to the dance floor.
“Maybe you would like to dance…?” He has to stop the urge to grunt at his father, but he is not entirely wrong. He is not very good at dancing, the last time was with Jena at Matarys’ name day, the exact day he was born, in their chambers as she clung to him in pain, but she was happy and safe in his arms.
He thinks about the last time you danced. Was it at Margery’s name day perhaps? Or at your wedding? Could it be at a feast in the castles of Highgarden, or maybe in the garden of roses surrounding your home? Did you enjoy it? Are you enjoying it now?
The lord is respectful, keeping his hands where Baelor can see; one on your back and the other holding yours as he slowly moves you across the floor among the other couples.
His body moves before he has the chance to rethink his decisions. The song is near its ending, his footsteps follow the rhythm of the music as he walks around the high table, passing the Tyrells and glancing at Margery watching you with a beautiful smile.
He nears the end of the dance floor where you and the lord stop, bowing as the song ends. You smile at the lord before you notice a familiar shape of dragon embroidery and turn your face to where Baelor is standing.
“My prince,” you drop in a courtsey, ignoring as the guy bows deeply before he is dismissed with a single nod from Baelor. That was easy, he thinks, much easier than expected as he offers you his hand.
“Please, Lady Tyrell,” he whispers, his fingers closing around yours when you place your hand gently in his palm, allowing him to pull you closer, “May I have your next dance?”
“You may,” you reply, placing your hand on his shoulder, looking at him with wide eyes, your fingers trembling in his hold, but he is steady and will be more steady for you. “I did not take you for a dancer, your Grace.”
“Nor did I take you as one,” he loses his head until his lips are closer to your ear, “Though you are a beautiful dancer, a delicate one too. I had to sit and watch you brighten the entire room.”
“You flatter me, my prince,” you breathe out, your chest heaving, your skirt brushing his boots as he twirls you once, pulling you even closer than before yet still making sure it is an appropriate distance.
He looks at you, wide-eyed and smiling, the glee in your eyes making this experience more joyful than it already was for you.
As soon as the song ends, everyone stops, and for the first time, he lets his most suppressed feeling become known in his eyes; you notice his pupils are blown that the blue and violet hue of his iris is invisible, his lips are a few shades darker, and his cheeks are tinted with red.
You are the same with how you inhale harshly, your hands getting clammy and a longing look in your eyes. He wishes to devour you if he could right here, but the king is present, the court will whisper and worse, your reputation will be tainted because he could not resist his urges.
“Meet me at our terrace?”
“Yes.”
****
You remember the first time you walked through these hallways, needing an escape from the feast, away from the noises of the boots stomping on the ground. The dark pathway led you to the balcony, where you met the Heir to the Iron Throne.
That fateful night had changed something in you both; something that started to pull you to each other whenever you were next to each other. As if you were tied together with invisible strings.
You jog through the hallways as if you were born here, turning right by a memory and grabbing your skirt in your hands as you near the end of the pathway.
There he is, standing with his back to you. His posture is straight, hands locked against his waist as he looks up at the sky. For a brief second, you wait and watch him; his shoulders are a little tight, his fingers fiddling together, the red of his doublet as red as human blood.
He turns around, and you move without thinking as soon as his eyes meet yours. It takes three strides to meet him, cupping his cheeks before crashing your lips into his.
Sparks fly across your skin, his lips are soft and warm, and the realization makes you nearly melt. He is everything you have been missing, something good, something alive.
His hands are unbelievably warm when he places one on your waist and the other on the back of your head, his lips moving against yours in a heated rhythm, stealing the breath out of your lungs feverishly.
You grab the short hair strands on the nape of his neck, whether to tug on them or pull him closer you do not know, but you know that you do not wish for him to ever be parted from you, today or any other day to come.
You gasp when one of his hands slips downward, grabbing your buttocks and squeezing harshly, making you gasp into his mouth, clutching him harder. His beard rubs across your skin – so unbelievably soft – as you scratch his jaw and kiss him with an open mouth.
He pushes his tongue past your lips, pressing you to the stone wall as he pushes his knee between your legs when he feels you begin to go soft in his arms, holding you up and straight as he tastes the wine on your tongue.
“You are so fucking beautiful,” he groans against your lips before he trails his kisses down your neck, making sure to pull down your neckline to attach his mouth to the soft flesh above your bosoms, his beard burning your skin as he kisses and nibbles across your skin.
“My prince–”
“Baelor,” he sinks his teeth into your collarbone a little as a warning, “It is Baelor to you, my dear.”
“Baelor,” you whine, beginning to rock a little against his thigh, the amount of layers of your gown and his pants does not allow you to take your pleasure, “I need more.”
“Tomorrow night,” he whispers, he kisses you again, “After the ceremony, come to my chambers. The tower of the Hand,” he licks your bottom lip and it makes you moan, “Shh, I will have you tomorrow night just the way you deserve.”
“After the ceremony?” You rest your forehead on his, gazing into his eyes with a small smile on your swollen lips.
“Yes,” he kisses you one last time before he steps away from you, and you notice the pained look he sends your way as soon as he loses your touch, “I will tell the guards to let you in without hesitation.”
“I will see you then, Baelor.”
He laughs softly at the way his name sounds this breathless and in awe, “Yes, tomorrow night.”
Day four
His day started with the image of you, the memory of last night and the taste of your lips against his tongue, and a smile as big as his face as he got dressed.
Last night was magical, it had been so long since he had felt such a strong emotion swirling inside him. The last time was with his late wife, and he remembers that night the best; it was a few months after Matarys’s second name day, he was exhausted but she was very much lively and in need and they spent the rest of the night curled up together under their sheets.
Baelor thinks of the two memories, side by side. He feels guilty for being alive after his late wife, he feels as if he is betraying her trust and love, but you… He has not felt so warm in such a long time, and you are making him feel like a person once more.
He walks through the hallways of the Keep, passing ladies and lords as they greet him briefly, trying to keep his grin to himself but he is barely managing to hold his posture as a prince should.
Until something, or someone small collides with his legs.
“Save me!” Oh. Margery. She is pulling on his sleeves as she giggles and looks behind her before she tugs on him again, “She is coming after me!”
“Who is?” He crouches in front of her, a small smile on his face as he notices the disheveled look on her; dark red curls in different directions, her white night shift large enough to cover her entire small body.
“Mama!” She gasps when she hears the knocking of the boots against the hard floor, looking at him with wide eyes before she throws herself into his arms. “Save me from the beast!”
He catches her effortlessly, already used to his boys tackling him down. She is far too gentler than he is used to, and he loves how she clings to him, arms wrapped around his neck.
“Your mother is no beast,” he corrects her gently, picking her up with his forearm keeping her weight against his body as he pushes a few unruly strands out of her face, “She is a lovely woman who wants the best for you.”
“She wants me to take a bath and wear a gown so tight it hurts my chest!” She huffs out, pouting a little and he is so close to crying because she looks so much like you, it feels him with so much endearment it nearly spills out of his ears.
“I could save you from a gown but not a bath, little flower,” he kisses her forehead, walking slowly with her in his arms, “You should be clean, always. I took a bath this very morrow too!”
“Did your maid scrub your arms–”
“Margery!” You round the corner, heaving as you stare at her, eyes widening when you notice him holding her, dropping into a quick courtesy, “My prince.”
“You are a prince?” Margery asks, tilting her head to the side, blinking her huge hazel eyes at him, “You did not tell me!”
“I am,” he chuckles, glancing at you for a brief second, finding you smiling and looking all flustered at your daughter’s antics, “You did not give me a moment to introduce myself. I am Baelor.”
“My prince, put her down,” You take a step closer, rubbing Margery’s back slowly, but she only hugs his neck tighter, placing her head on his shoulder, “Come on, please. We have a wedding to be ready for.”
“Your lady mother is right,” he bites his cheek to stop from laughing when she huffs out in annoyance, “I want to see you dancing with beautiful hair at my son’s wedding.”
“He is your son? He did not give me cake yesterday–”
“Get down, little lady. I am not going to repeat myself, let the prince be.” Your tone changes into a stern one, making both Baelor and Margery look at each other before he kisses her forehead again before he puts her down.
“She was not being rude,” he states gently, taking another step closer, smiling down at Margery who grabs your hand and waves shyly at him, “I shall see you at the wedding. Would you save me a dance, little flower?”
“Will you marry Mama if I dance with you?”
“Margery!” You gasp, squeezing her hand in warning but she shrugs and hugs your arm closer, you close your eyes, trying not to melt when Baelor laughs softly, “I sincerely apologize, your grace. She is a child and–”
“No need,” he shakes his head, reaching to hold your hand gently in his, the small contact between your fingers tinting his cheek in red, “I do not know about marriage, but I would like to see you in something other than black, my lady.”
“What do you have in mind, your grace?” You ask, breathless and panting as he brings your knuckles to his lips, his beard brushing the back of your hand as he plants a kiss there, his thumb caressing your pulse point.
“Red!” Margery squeals, pulling on your other hand as she jumps up and down, “You must wear red!”
“I–”
“Great choice,” he winks at Margery before kissing your hand one more time and letting go, his gentle eyes filled with an unknown warmth, “Targaryen red would be more than I could ask for.”
“I do not believe it would be appropriate,” you whisper, clenching and unclenching your fingers, “The court will talk…”
“They always do,” he replies, “Let them talk about your beauty, not grief.”
“I… I will think about it,” you bend your knees in another courtesy before beginning to lead your daughter away, “Tonight…”
“Tonight.”
****
The gasp your good sister let out was truly worth it when you walked inside the Sept with Margery holding your hand. Red. A red so deep it looked as if you were draped in blood, Targaryen Red as it was requested.
You watched the young couple get married in the eyes of the Seven, watched how Valarr’s cloak wrapped around Kiera’s body as she belonged to this house; the face of a beautiful queen to be.
Baelor, as handsome as always, stood next to the King as he watched his son get married to the woman he so loved, but during the ceremony, his eyes would find yours. His attention, although mostly on his son and good daughter, would drift to you and Margery every moment or so.
“Why is Prince Baelor looking your way?” Your good sister asks, her sharp judgmental eyes narrowing as she glances between you and the prince, “He seems to be shocked by your… appearance as well. You are grieving, that is an awfully inconvenient gown for a widow.”
“I lost my husband almost a year ago,” you say, helping Margery climb into the seat next to yours as you wait for the married couple to arrive at the throne room, “I am young, I deserve to be happy.”
“Yes, well, it seems you have lost all etiquette of the court after my lord husband’s brother died,” she smiles at you, her teeth sharp and his tongue poisonous, “At least for the sake of your daughter… do not tarnish her future.”
“Mama, look!” She waves at Baelor, grinning when he sends a small wave back in her direction, “Prince Baelor promised me a dance!”
“We shall wait and see, sweetness,” you run a hand over her curls, filling her plate to feed her enough if he decides to make good on his promise, “Let us have supper for now.”
“I wish to dance! I will go to him myself!”
“No, sit–”
“Lady Tyrell.”
“My prince!” Your good sister and Lord Tyrell stand up immediately, you though, can not because he is standing behind your chair, looking down at you with a gentle gaze that makes your heart palpitate so fast.
“Your grace–”
“Prince Baelor!” Margery squeals and wiggles in her chair, “We shall dance!”
“Of course, my lady,” he chuckles and offers his hand to her, giving you a little room to help Margery down and hold his hand, “If it is alright with your mother…”
“Absolutely, please,” you stand up as well, which seems to be the wrong move given how close you end up to him, having to look up at him as he towers over you, his eyes falling to your lips. You clear your throat and look down at Margery who is clutching Baelor’s fingers tightly in her small hand, “Be good for our prince, okay?”
“I am always good!”
“True, my lady,” he cocks his head to the side, smiling reassuringly, “We will have the best dance, and we shall show it to the court.”
“I would not hold you back then,” you reply, bending your knees in respect and he bows his head a little before leading Margery to the middle of the room where the rest of the ladies and lords are gathering – Valarr and Kiera included – and he kneels in front of her, bringing her hand to his lips, relishing the small giggle she lets out.
“Will you hold my hand?”
“Dancing is all about holding hands, little flower,” he straightens his back, pulling her a little closer until she is standing on his boots with her flat boots, “Ready?”
“Yes!”
You watch them dance, ignoring the way some heads turn in your way, watching you then at your daughter and the Heir to the throne. You ignore them, as you always do, and watch your daughter giggle as Baelor spins her around. She looks so happy, her eyes shine as they did with her father when he was alive, and her smile makes your body warm.
He picks her up when they have to move across the room, keeping her close and laughing when she says something, his eyes crinkling in joy.
The dance ends sooner than you notice. Margery is fast on her feet as she bolts toward you with a big smile on her face, Prince Baelor in tow.
“Mama! Did you see me?” She makes grabby hands at you, and you pick her up with ease, “Prince Baelor was so kind! He helped me a lot!”
“I did! He is a prince, of course, he would help, sweetness!” You kiss her flushed cheek before meeting Baelor’s overwhelming gaze, “Thank you, your grace. You… you made her entire night.”
“That was the least I could do for the most beautiful lady in the realm,” he pinches her cheek before withdrawing himself from your space completely, “I am very glad that I could be the cause of her happiness even for a brief moment.”
“Thank you, your grace,” you smile, dropping in a small courtesy with Margery still in your eyes, ignoring the burning glare of your good sister against your back.
“Have a great night, my lady.”
****
Your heart is beating so fast against your chest as you walk through the hallway that you know ends at Baelor’s chambers. The guards are already standing there, white cloaks and shiny armor glinting under the soft candelight. You give them a small smile as you approach them, one of them ignoring you as the other nods, scanning you from head to toe in order to find something amiss.
You nod in reply when they push the door open gently, slowly walking inside like a scared cat, taking in your surroundings before you find Baelor sitting behind his desk.
His chambers are spacious; a large bed on your left, a terrace close to his work desk, a dining table close by, and even a small set of furniture gathered around a table. Lived in, dark, warm, and him.
You find a bathtub close to the hearth, and the steam of the water dampens the air in the room. With a curious yet shy smile, you stride in his direction, and he stands up as well, meeting you halfway.
“Hello,” you whisper, placing your palms on his chest, his hands finding home on your waist just as quickly, pulling you closer until you are pressed against his body, “I was not aware we were going to take a bath.”
“Neither did I, dear,” he brushes his nose along yours, “A change of plans that will only lead to me worshiping you.”
“You are as tempting as sin,” your palm moving up slowly, cupping the side of his neck, your thumb caressing his bearded jaw softly, “It is… unbelievable, the way you make me feel.”
“You do not give enough appreciation for your own beauty,” he bends down a little, placing a kiss on your cheek, “I believe you are the most alluring person I have ever met. Beautifully crafted by the old gods, new, and the doomed gods of the Valyria.”
“I feel so strong about you,” you cradle his face in your hands, your lips only a breath away, “Undress me, Baelor.”
“With pleasure,” he closes the distance, kissing you with an enthusiasm that makes you gasp into his mouth.
His fingers reach for the laces of your gown, deliberate fingers, pulling on each knot until the red gown is pooling around your ankles, his lips moving with yours in sync.
“Allow me,” he pecks your lips before he pulls back a little, “raise your arms,” you do and he pulls your shift up until you are only left in your small clothes, bare breasts falling into his line of vision, “Fuck me…”
“It is unfair,” you reach to undo his doublets, dropping fabric after another until he is standing with his own white shifts until you are tugging at it, making him chuckle as he pulls it off, showing his toned chest and abdomen. “Oh…”
“I have grown old–”
“Do not say that,” you shake your head, “You are perfect for your age. Truly… a body sculped by the gods.”
“You are sweet,” he kisses you again until you are breathless before he lowers himself on one of his knees, dragging your underwear down slowly, mouthing at your belly as he drops the fabric away as if it had offended him, “beautiful.”
He grabs your hand, making sure you are secure as he helps you inside the tub with a steady hand after he kisses your thigh. His own desires made their presence known by making a tent in his underwear.
“Join me,” you lean over the edge of the tub, resting your cheek on your forearm as you watch him stand up and pull the last piece of clothing off until he is as nude as the day he was born.
Your eyes are immediately drawn to his cock, noticing the soft blush that runs from the top of his stomach to his neck and cheeks, moving to make room behind your body, ignoring the way your body calls for him. Not now.
He sits behind you, his knees bracketing yours as he pulls you flushed against his body, arms wrapped around your middle and his nose buried in the soft braids you have not bothered to undo.
He kisses your shoulder, his fingers caressing the skin under your breasts as the warm water surrounds your bodies. He is gentle and caring in a way you have never experienced before – not even your late husband was this careful with you – and he makes you feel as if you are made of the most fragile and exquisite glass in the entire Westeros.
“Beautiful,” he whispers, one of his hands moving to cup your breast, squeezing the flesh, making you gasp and throw your head back. He smiles, nipping on the shell of your ear, “I would pour us wine, but I am already drunk on your scent.”
“Sweet talker,” you let out a breathless laugh, wrapping one arm around his neck before turning around a little to look him in the eyes, finding his gaze already dark and wanting, “Do you always invite noble ladies to your room?”
“Never,” he brushes the tip of his nose against yours, the hand on your chest moving up to hold you by his fingers on the side of your neck, drawing you closer until his lips brush yours, not in a kiss but a promise of one soon, “You are the only woman I have found myself being smitten with.”
You kiss him then, pulling him in by the back of his head, moving your lips against his forcefully, moaning in his mouth when one of his hands drops between your legs, fingers finding your pearl with ease.
He is enjoying the way you melt in his arms, head resting on his shoulder as you let him feast on your tongue, sucking and pulling on the flesh of your lips as if they belong to him. They do, though it is too soon to admit.
“Baelor…” you gasp when one motion of his fingers along the sensitive nerves sets your skin ablaze, “I need you.”
“And I you–”
You detangle yourself from him, pushing him back until his back hits the bathtub, a gush of water spilling out of the tub because of his movements.
He is stunned, you can see it in his eyes as he spreads his arms over the edge of the tub and leans back with a surprised smile, watching with hooded eyes as you crawl into his lap, finding home on his body before kissing him again feverishly.
You do not wish to waste any more time. You want him, here and now, and for many days as you can have with him. As you moan and gasp into his mouth, he helps you line up his cock with your winking hole, holding you against him by one hand wrapped around your back and the other on the back of your head.
“Fuck– Fuck, Baelor.”
“I know, dear,” he says through a choked breath, “Slow and gentle.”
You nod but when you take him inside you finally, you slump forward on his body, your breasts rubbing against his hairy chest as you adjust to his girth. He is big; bigger than your late husband as it is only him you can compare Baelor to.
He groans, holding you close as he stretches your walls deliciously, enjoying the warmth of your walls as they hug him close. He tucks your face into his neck, the hand on your back moving to your buttocks, squeezing the flesh while he tries his best to resist the urge to fuck you.
“Gods be good,” he throws his head back when you roll your hips down, using his shoulders to hold yourself up as you begin to move, leaning down enough to kiss his throat, smiling at the vibration that is felt over his skin as he groans.
“You feel so good,” you whisper, trailing your lips up to his jaw, then cheeks, “Gods, you feel so fucking good–”
“You were made for me,” you moan at his words, sinking your teeth into his thin bottom lip as you begin to move faster, the water around you crashing into your bodies in hurried waves.
He squeezes your ass, fingers digging into your flesh as he bends his knees to thrust up inside you, slotting his tongue with yours in a desperate kiss as he takes his pleasure and brings yours to the edge of yours.
Your noises fill the room, the sound of the water hitting the bathtub over and over again, adding even more noise to your coupling.
He kisses you like you are air, he holds you as if you are a dream and he does not wish to wake up from it. He wants you more than ever, more than yesterday, more than the first time he met you.
Baelor tugs in your hair until you are gazing into his eyes – misty orbs meeting each other in the throes of pleasure – and you have to try to hard not to break the contact but his cock nudges the spot inside you that has your vision going white.
You climax with a broken cry, fingers leaving half-moons on his broad strong shoulders, cunt clenching around his length for life. You do not wish to let go of him, you want him inside you for as long as possible.
Your legs shake around him uncontrollably until he pulls you down and holds your limp body against his while he hammers his cock inside you. You can feel his body contracting for a second before he buries himself inside you to the hilt, filling you up with his warm seed as he whimpers your name into your hair.
He is trembling slightly from the pleasure. You are sure he has had his share of women since his wife passed, but you do not believe any of them to be this intense.
“So good,” he whispers, caressing your bare back and holding you close with a soft kiss to the curve of your shoulder, “You were so good, my darling.”
“So were you,” You wrap your arms around his neck, clinging to him as the heat leaves your bodies, “It had been so long since I experienced… such a pleasant moment.”
“I shall give you more if you allow me,” he tightens his embrace, afraid you would leave even if he is the one shielding you from the toxic reality of the court, “The night is young…”
“I have to leave before dawn,” you whisper, but do not push him away, “But I suppose I have earned the right to join you in your bed,” he smiles at your words, pecking your lips, “And this water has grown cold and disgusting. We must get out of this instant.”
And when his chest rumbles, you are sure of the decision you made.
Day Five
“Look at the flowers!” Margery whines, stomping her feet as she stands in front of the bushes of the royal gardens, “They look so dead!”
“Sweetness, they are just fine–”
“They are not! Mama, look, the petals are turning down!” She almost starts crying, looking frantically across the field to find someone, anyone to come and listen to her, “They are not getting enough water.”
“We shall find a way to tell the gardeners, is that alright, Marg?” You ask, turning her so you could look her in the eye, “Besides, these are not ours to mend–”
“I miss my flowers,” she pouts, but does not pull away when you kiss her cheek and chuckle, “I love to stay but their gardens are bad, Mama! Can we tell–” she is distracted again, this time, by noticing three shadows walking in the same path as you, “PRINCE BAELOR!”
“Margery!”
You know the whispers will start to fly off soon with the way every head turns to the little girl running to where the Heir is standing with his son and good daughter.
Baelor is quick to notice her, finding her panting as she reaches the three of them, frowning so deeply that a small crease forms between her light brown eyebrows.
“Hello, Lady Tyrell,” he says gently, leaning down a little to be less intimidating, “How can I help you on this fine morning?”
“I am very displeased by your gardens!” She huffs, crossing her small arms across her chest, looking at him with a deadly glare that makes his heart burst through his chest, “Your flowers are dying!”
“Oh, no,” he crouches down in front of her, his thumb moving to untangle her eyebrows. He has to stop the endearing teasing smile that threatens to overtake his features so he does not upset her further, “What shall we do, little flower?”
“Our roses bloom when they get enough water. Yours are dying because you do not help them! If I don’t eat, I will die. Flowers are the same!”
“Best we start feeding them, then!” Valarr jumps in, clearly interested in the little fiery girl in front of him, and he notices you finally approaching them with a tired look, “My lady.”
“My prince, princess,” you courtesy to the married couple before looking at Baelor, “Your grace, I apologize–”
“No need,” he shakes his head, looking at Margery with a small smile, “Would you like to stroll with Prince Valarr and Princess Kiera?”
“He did not give me cake!”
“Margery, please don’t be rude–”
“Please, my lady,” Kiera laughs softly, extending her hand to Margery, “We should remedy that! There is cake on the table at the end of the path, we could share some.”
“Truly?” Margery asks, turning around to look at you for permission, “Mama, can I go? Please please please–”
“If it is alright with Prince Valarr–”
“Absolutely,” the young prince says, offering his arm to his wife as they begin to walk with Margery holding tightly on Kiera’s fingers. You can hear how Margery immediately starts talking.
“I like your hair!” She says excitedly, making Kiera smile at her when she starts swinging their arms, “I like pink! I also like red! Like roses!”
“Would you join me for a walk, my lady?” Baelor waits for your response, holding his elbow out for you to take, “We could stay behind them if it eases your mind.”
“Oh, thank you,” you weave your arms through his, leaning a little of your weight on him as he guides you through the path, “She is going to talk their heads off.”
“Good practice for when they would become parents of their own,” he replies quietly, resting his free hand on top of yours over his forearm, “Last might was…”
“Magical,” you finish his sentence, smiling at him with a glimmer in your eyes. He chuckles and nods, remembering the vivid memories of last night with you tangled beneath his sheets, “I wish we could stay in those moments. You and me, hidden from the world.”
“I wish you could stay,” he whispers, the words making your breath hitch, heart bursting inside your ribcage, “In the court, with me. Margery already loves this place, perhaps you could… find a position among our court.”
“What exactly, Baelor?” You ask softly, shaking your head but smiling when you see Valarr pick Margery up, “As Princess Kiera’s lady in waiting? I am a widowed mother, no one would ever look twice my way.”
“I would,” he stops, his grip on the back of your hand tightening slightly, “I would look more than twice. I wish I could look at you every day, my lady. Stay, I promise I will find a way to make it worth your while.”
“We should not dwell on the unfortunate circumstances we are facing, instead,” you look around to make sure no one is actually paying you two any mind before leaning up to press a quick kiss to his cheek, gazing at him with a small grin, “We should find joy in the remaining moments we have.”
“Would you want to… go somewhere less crowded?” He does not wait for an answer as he slowly leads you to a hallway that reaches the lower levels of the castle, crowding you against the wall as soon as you are out of sight.
He kisses you without a second thought, only wishing to taste the fine morning tea you shared with the rest of your family. And taste he does with how passionately he licks and nibbles on your tongue, pushing his knee between your legs and pulling one thigh around his hips, caressing the exposed skin of your leg until it teases your garments.
You moan and kiss him back, one hand fisting his clothes and the other clawing at the back of his neck to hold him closer. It is insanity how much you need him, the prince of the realm, the heir to the iron throne, but more than any of his titles, you need Baelor.
His lips fall to your neck, sucking on the exposed skin and grinning against you as he notices the eye-catching green of your gown – the color of the Hightowers – you are wearing. Colors, not those black doomed dresses you would wear the first few days.
You hear the clutter of the plates against the ground close, making you gasp and push him away with a force that nearly knocks him to the opposite wall of the hallway as you both pant and look at the servant who is visibly shaking and crying as she stares at the two of you.
“Stay where you are,” Baelor commands gently, not a hint of anger in his voice as he approaches the maid slowly, “Do not be frightened.”
“M-my prince! I- I…”
“This shall stay between us, do you not think so?” He stands closer to her, clasping his hands behind his back as he looms over her a little, “There is no reason to fear me. If words do not get out, you can stay and keep your job in the Red Keep.”
“I will not tell a soul, my prince!” She drops to her knees in front of him, clutching his boots, “I beg of you, please have mercy on me–”
You do not wait to find out what he wants to say, instead, you flee from their company with a hand to your chest, tears burning your vision as you try to find the path ong the sea of flowers to go back inside.
You can only hope the words do not find their way into the gossip of the court, or The Seven forbid, to the ears of your good sister.”
****
What we hope for does not usually come true. What we love always comes with a price, and loving the prince of Westeros is the hardest of all.
You knew from the moment you set your eyes on him he would become the sun in your rainy days. He became so dear to you in the shortest time possible, not just someone you liked but someone you loved.
Baelor Targaryen is a maddening man with the most beautiful eyes someone can possess; a blue so rich you could paint the sky with it and a brown so pigmented you would think they have built the mountains of the hue of his iris.
He is whole-consuming, humble, soft, kind, and he can make your heart explode if he touches you. He is everywhere in your dreams and thoughts, he was all over you the night prior, and now, he is nowhere to be found.
It is not his fault that your good sister is yelling at you with her husband, Lord Leo Tyrell shaking his head in disbelief, Margery still clinging to Kiera and Valarr. For the best to keep her away until the issue is resolved.
“How could you jeopardize our name!” She screams again, pacing around your chambers as you have personally offended her. “They will now write songs about your stupidity! What were you thinking? Getting involved with a prince, and not just any of them but the one who will become King?!”
“Clearly she was not thinking–”
“Would you two stop berating me like I’m a child?” You hiss at them, looking out of your window and at the calm water that slides over the sands, “I knew what I was doing. A mistake but I do not regret it–”
“You should,” she grabs you by the elbow, pulling you closer by a harsh tug, “You have ruined our reputation. We are the most important vessel of the crown and you and your careless actions have put us in a tight position.”
“The court is already talking,” Leo sighs, clearly less agitated than his wife, “They have seen you. The prince has danced with Margery, with you, you have been caught in a compromising… way. It is not looking good, sister. We were planning to wed you to a Lannister to ensure you have a good life but now… I doubt anyone would want to cross paths with you.”
“You wanted to wed me without my consent? I have a child, a Tyrell child who belongs to Highgarden, you can not take that away from her, from me!” You pull your arm out of her grasp and walk past her, “I would rather die than marry someone I do not hold affection for again.”
“The prince – who it seems, you like, will not marry you, get that into your head,” she scoffs and throws her hands up in surrender, “He has his hands full with responsibility. He has an heir, he would not care to marry another.”
“You shall leave then,” Leo stands up, glaring at you, “At noon, with the first carriage you could find. Leave for Highgarden, we will decide your fate when we come back.”
“You can not send me away–”
“You have caused enough trouble, do not make me rethink my decision and marry you off to avoid the scandal you caused,” and with that, he leaves, his wife – burning with fury – follows after.
You drop on the chaise in defeat, slapping your hand to your mouth to muffle the sobs that wreck your body. You are going to leave before you make your prince’s life hell.
You do not know how long you cry, only that one second, your chest stops heaving and you fall into a dreamless slumber.
Day six
“I have not seen her all morning, brother.”
“Who the fuck are we talking about?” Maekar drops his weight on one of the small council’s chairs, propping his feet up on the stone table.
“Lady Tyrell,” Baelor sighs deeply, staring into the distance from the balcony, trying to get his mind to cooperate and help him remember where he could possibly find you, “She… she has disappeared since yesterday. I saw her at the feast last night for a moment but she vanished again.”
“Why are you looking for a Tyrell anyway?” Maekar scoffs, drinking his wine while he looks at his Baelor’s face with disdain, “I have never seen you interested in any woman that walks inside this fucking castle.”
“Yes, because none of them were interesting to begin with,” Baelor rolls his eyes, exhaling so loud it makes Maekar snort, “If you don’t have anything remarkable to say, then get out of this room.”
“I believe your lady has been suffering from the court gossip, your grace,” his brother laughs, and the words draw Baelor’s attention immediately, “I heard Keira talking last night. The ladies have seen her with someone inappropriately–”
“Fuck,” Baelor’s eyes widen in panic, his palms finding the back of the King’s chair as he holds himself up, “It was me… I- I am the reason she did not attend the feast.”
“It was you? Fuck me, I thought you had lost your charm,” another snort leaves Maekar, groaning as he sits upright before drowning the rest of his wine, “They saw her with a lord’s hand up in her skirts, unbeknownst to them it was the Heir himself. Instead of these games of cat and mouse, you could have just courted her.”
“It was not my intention to fall for her!” Baelor’s calm tone finally breaks as the gravity of the situation dawns on him, “I have not felt such an intense desire for anyone since Jena, and now I am about to lose her because of my selfishness.”
“You could go and ask about her whereabouts if you are truly so concerned about her,” Maekar shrugs, approaching his brother with a pointed look, “But if you do, that means you are turning the rumors into the truth. Do what you deem best.”
“I have to find her,” Baelor shakes his head and skips his way into the room, ignoring Maekar’s voice calling for him. He must find you, he must.
He goes for your chambers first, finding no guard stationed at the doors. He bursts through the door in hopes of finding you and Margery there, but he finds the place empty of you and your belongings.
The bed is made, the closets already empty, the desk void of any tea glasses, no sign of toys or small clothes that could be Margery’s.
“No,” he exhales sharply before turning around to move and find someone, anyone, he can help him. “No, no, no…”
He runs down the stairs, ignoring the questioning looks of the lords and the sound of his assigned guards’ armor as they follow him. He must find Lord Tyrell this very second, or he will go mad.
And he is very successful in his hunt, as he finds him standing with his wife in a corner of a distant hallway, talking in anger and hushed whispers.
“You,” he approaches them, grabbing the lord by the collar before he slams him to the closest wall. This is not him, this is not the calm and collected Prince Baelor, this is Baelor Breakspear who is angered and distraught. “Where is she?”
“W-who, your grace?” Lord Tyrell swallows harshly as he utters the words and Baelor feels the bump in the lord’s throat moving against his knuckles.
“Lady Tyrell and Margery,” he hisses, tightening his fists on the lord’s clothing, “Speak before I tell my guards to go and search for her. If they do not find her, you will pay the price–”
“Please, my prince, let go of him–”
“Where the fuck is she?” He yells, and he can see the fear in Leo Tyrell’s eyes for the first time, “Tell me instantly if you wish to have a place in my court–”
“She has left!” Lady Tyrell cries out, grabbing Baelor’s sleeves to stop him even though he has not raised a finger on her husband yet, “She was told to leave at noon.”
“You sent her away,” the realization breaks his heart as he lets go of the lord to look at the lady, his attention completely on hers, “When?”
“An hour or so, your grace–”
“May the Seven give me patience,” he leaves the couple without a glance as he marches downstairs and to the courtyard, grabbing the reins of the first stallion he sees before he puts one foot in the saddle and swings his body over the horse, “Hey!”
He rides out of the gates with the King’s guard behind him, following the path that he is sure you and Margery must be on. He is not thinking clearly, his head is foggy and his hands are shaking.
He needs you to be alright, he needs you to be close so he can get to you and bring you back. He can not, and shall never leave you again.
He does not know how long he rides until he sees a lonely carriage on the dusty road, he only knows he has to stop it before it leaves his sight.
His stallion gallops up to the carriage until he stands several feet away, forcing the boy behind the reins to pull a sudden stop to the horses. He waits patiently for his guards to come and take control before he jumps down and walks to the door of the carriage.
“Prince Baelor!” Margery is the first to gasp his name, “You came for us!”
You look at him then, with a soft pout and misty eyes. He is as equally teary as you are, body shaking with worry and agony as he stares at you.
There seems to be years of longing between the two of you, months of departure and pain, but it has only been a few hours. It feels as if they have chained you in a room on opposite sides without letting you speak to each other, as if you have lost him altogether in a terrible nightmare.
“Baelor…”
“My dear,” he holds his hand for you to take, a pleading look sent your way, “Come outside, let us talk.”
“I have to go back–”
“You will not go anywhere,” his tone is clipped, he is not responding to argue, “You will stay by my side, here, in King’s Landing.”
“I can’t,” you breathe out a broken sigh before placing your palm in his, stepping out of the carriage with small steps, looking back at Margery who waits eagerly for a moment to speak, “stay inside, alright, sweetness? I will be back in no time.”
“I wanna hear!”
“After we’ll talk, I will let you ride with me back to the castle, alright?”
“Do not promise her something that you will not be able to do–”
“She will ride with me back to the Keep,” he cups your cheeks in his hands, pulling you close until his forehead rests on yours, “I am a man of my words.”
“Baelor, this was… we did not think this through,” you whisper, placing your palms on the back of his hand, lips wobbling as you try to hold back your tears, “I have caused you too much trouble already. Allow me to leave so you can live in peace–”
“I can not find peace if you are not with me,” he kisses the tip of your nose, letting his tears fall on his cheeks finally, “I did not get a lick of sleep last night. You are occupying every thought I have; what you are wearing, what you are eating, how your eyes crinkle when you smile, how you touch your neck when you are nervous. There is no mistake in loving you, it never was.”
“People will talk, they already do! They think I have corrupted you, they believe I am manipulating you into taking my hand in marriage–”
“Then you are very good at it,” he lets out a water chuckle before placing a gentle kiss on your lips, not even drawing back to talk, he allows his lips to brush against yours as he speaks, “I want your hand in marriage. I want you to become my queen when I take the throne one day, I want you by my side even more in the days ahead. Margery will become a legitimate princess if I ask my father–”
“You can not say these things,” you shake your head tasting his salty tears on his mouth as you peck him once more, “You will find someone who is better suited for this role. I am already spoiled…”
“Spoiled?” He forced your neck back a little to look you in the eyes, “You are the most perfect woman I have met since my wife’s passing. You are kind, generous, and gentle, how could I seek someone more loving than you when you exceed all expectations?”
“You are a charmer,” you smile at him a little, and he sighs in contempt, “How would we do this? How would you be able to tame the people–”
“That is my burden to bear,” he kisses you again, this time a little harder to make his point known thoroughly, “I will request an audience with the King this evening. I need you to have some faith in me, and I will make both of you the happiest women in the realm.”
“Can I come out now?” Margery peeks at you from inside the carriage, “Please? I am hungry, I wish to eat lunchen soon!”
“You heard the lady, dear,” he kisses the side of your head as he tucks you into his side, wrapping one arm around your waist as he helps Margery onto the ground slowly with his free hand, “Have you ever ridden a horse?”
“No, Mama never lets me get close to the stable,” she pouts, “Can I go with the prince, Mama?”
“If you promise to listen to him and follow–”
“YES!” She grabs Baelor’s hands and tries to drag him to his stallion, “We will see you at the castle! Bye!”
“Have a safe trip,” you manage to steal one more kiss from Baelor before he is entirely focused on your little girl, picking her up and placing her on his shoulder as he walks to where they are keeping his horse.
With one last look at them, you sit inside the carriage on your way back to the Red Keep.
****
Baelor’s head is pounding. The audience with the king went surprisingly well, but he had to be careful about the way he talked to him, even if the king was his father. It did not matter if they were related in those moments, he had to make sure every step was carefully planned to achieve what he desired.
He pushes the door open to his chambers slowly, walking inside and finding you and Margery under the covers, sleeping soundly without a care in the world. He smiles at the sight, warmth spreading through his body as he gazes at the two of you until his feet begin to protest.
He strips, carefully placing the clothes on his chair, peeling layers of the day off until he is standing in only his breeches. He has even discarded the white linen shirt he wears.
Walking quietly to the basin in the corner of the room, he washes his face and hands, letting the cool water flow over his lashes and lips. With a towel that has been placed nearby, he dries himself before approaching the bed.
“Baelor?” You whisper into the dark, slowly sitting up and searching for him, mindful of the little body sleeping next to you. You reach for him when he slides behind you under the sheets, his warm chest solid against your back, “How was the king?”
“Well and healthy,” he replies, kissing your shoulder over your nightshift, “I told him everything, from the first night to today, I do not remember the last time I have been this detailed about something.”
“You were nervous,” you smile craning your neck to look at him and he takes the opportunity to kiss you softly on the lips, “What else?”
“We agreed to postpone the wedding to a fortnight from now,” he rests his head on the hollow of your neck, “It was a little tricky to tell him I wished to get married again, but my brother helped and strengthened my argument.”
“That is good, I was worried you were alone in the dragon’s den.”
“No, my brother couldn’t lose this chance to see me beg our father for something,” he scoffs, wrapping his arm around you while the other one stretches over your body to caress Margery’s head, “He wishes to meet you, both of you.”
“Really?” You sigh softly, already tensing at the thought of talking to none other than the King himself, “Whatever will we say?”
“That I am unable to predict,” he kisses your shoulder again, settling beside you with a soft smile, “Sleep, my dear. No one is going to need us on the morrow, I have made sure of that.”
“Thank you,” you squeeze his forearm, “For coming for us, for fighting for us…”
“I will do it a thousand times more, never think otherwise.”
Day Seven
Baelor Targaryen spends the entire day from today to his last breath cherishing the life he has gained after years of loneliness.
Tagging: @sylasthegrim @venmondiese <3
I hope y’all enjoyed this piece I wrote! More fics will come soon! I’m kinda nervous to get into a new fandom but i’m soooo excited🥹🥹
Summary: The moment Baelor sets his sight on you, he cannot look away.
Word Count: 7.5K
Warnings: SMUT, afab reader, age gap (reader around early 20s), baelor is down bad and he makes you his wife, this is kinda romancey before the filth, fingering, oral (f!receiving) he's a munch, piv, lil bit of manhandling, praise, breeding, creampie, swearing, pentames, marriage, not plot heavy, if I've missed anything lmk??
Author's Note: MINORS DNI!! hello besties, heheh I hope you enjoy! ugh I could watch him play with his rings all day. lmk what you think, any comments, reblogs and feedback are really appreciated - thank you <3
Hesitant in remarrying after his Wife’s passing, Baelor underestimated just how fast he would fall for you. Utterly and irrevocably.
The Heir to the Iron Throne was under a tremendous weight of pressure to marry again, weighing him down for many moons until he met you, a new lady at Court in King’s Landing.
At your young age, but years into blossoming womanhood, your parents had sent you to the Red Keep to find yourself a match and secure a noble alliance with a larger House. Your house was much smaller than the Lions, Stags, Wolves, Roses and so on.
They had expectations that perhaps an Arryn or Fossoway would suit you nicely, a benefitted match joining your smaller House with a greater noble House.
What they did not expect however, was to receive a raven delivered scroll from the Hand of the King just one moons turn after your departure stating that you were to now be a Princess of Westeros, future Queen and Wife to Baelor ‘Breakspear’ Targaryen himself.
Baelor was taken aback upon noticing your presence within the Keep for the very first time.
His daily duties had him stretched thin on top of the strain in which the Small Council befitted him. ‘An Heir and Spare’ they say. The Crown Prince already fathered two sons but he understood the importance of securing his line’s succession. The King was ill. Anything could befall his beloved sons at any moment, living in this world of violence, sickness and sorcery.
Fretting over decisions for the good of the realm and House Targaryen, he found himself seeking respite within the gardens of the Red Keep. Leaves rustled against the cooling breeze on this hot day. Birds were chirping soundly and the florals flourished after drinking in the sunlight.
Exhaling slowly, Baelor felt relief within his solitude as he strode through the gardens until he reached the Godswood. It was quiet. Nobody else in sight.
And then he spotted you.
Back against the hard bark of the Heart Tree, your focus was etched into the words of the small, leather-binded book between your smooth hands. Your skirts fanned around you and your skin glistened with a sheen of sweat from the heat.
Baelor’s steps fell short, eyeing you. He did not recognise you.
Lost in a daze of the story before you, your features contorted endearingly at whatever was progressing within the pages. Humming in seeming frustration you snapped the book shut, mumbling to yourself, “Why ought he do so? What a cumberworld!”
Finding the corners of his mouth twitch up, Baelor realised he had been staring for more than a moment necessary. Walking closer, your head lifted to his direction, catching his movement.
Embarrassment rushed through your veins as you scrambled to stand, book still in one hand and fluffing your skirts out with the other, upon noticing the zinc alloy Hand Of The King Pin secured onto the man before you. The pin twisted up in scaly plates which the sun reflected off.
Curtseying before him, he noticed the way your plump lips quivered as you spoke.
“Your Grace.”
Soft and subdued, your voice was calming in his ears. He hadn’t stopped smiling, he realised. The closer you drew, the closer he could see every feature of your face. Young, seemingly Valarr’s age and filled with unyielding beauty.
Whichever Lord in the Red Keep had claimed you for his Wife was very lucky indeed, he thought.
“My Lady,” Baelor returned, nodding his head in greeting. “I did not mean to disturb your reading.”
“Not at all, Your Grace,” you rushed out, worried. “I apologise if I have halted your intentions here.”
Baelor could not help but let his mixed gaze linger on you. His eyes were shining against the sunlight as he took you in. One iris so bright blue it reminded you of the Sapphire Isle waters and the other iris so darkly brown that you felt yourself becoming lost in it. The hairs on the back of your neck raised under his watch.
“I came to seek some respite, it has been a busy day.”
You noticed the way his brows pinched together slightly, recalling his troubles. “I will take my leave and let you seek what you need then, Your Grace.”
He wished that you had stayed, a fresh breath amongst his chaotic air.
The second time that the Crown Prince saw you was at a feast hosted in the throne room of the Red Keep. He watched you with intrigue, a young lady trying to navigate her way around the nobles with a visible nervousness through your soft smile as you gently conversed amongst the Lords and Ladies. He thought he had never seen anybody so gorgeous and radiant before. Your features struck him to the core and he could not deny the pull towards you.
Baelor leaned further into his seat comfortably, turning slightly to reach his youngest brother’s ear. “Who is she?” He nodded towards your direction and you instantly stood out in your light pastel coloured gown amongst the dark fabrics of those surrounding.
Maekar’s eyes drifted to where Baelor motioned and he hummed shortly.
“How the fuck would I know? There are always new, young ladies in Court ready to pass their maidenhood to whichever lord gives them attention first. You should know,” Maekar smirked slightly, a knowing glint in his eye.
Baelor only chuckled lightly before stating, “you know none of those ladies have captured my attention, Brother.”
He mulled over whether you were already wed.
Many noble ladies had practically been throwing themselves at Baelor these past few moons, since it became aware amongst the people of Court that he was being made to seek a new wife. Whether it was simply because they thought him handsome, thought him strong and brave or were after the titles that came with being his wife, he did not entertain any of it.
Always presenting themselves to him in tight, uncomfortably high pitched voices, decked out in the most outrageous jewels originating from Qarth and Myrish fabrics draped into gowns, their busts forcefully pushed too far up to reach their collarbones and waterfall of bootlicking compliments flowing towards him.
It had been years since his Wife’s passing and yet, he had not felt a single fraction of attraction or connection with anyone else since.
He settled back into his meal, eyes wandering over to your direction at any opportunity presented, watching you like a Dragon observing a lone sheep before making haste and devouring.
After dinner was had, the tables and seating arrangements were pushed aside by the Red Keep’s staff to make way for social enjoyment and dancing. The Prince of the Realm did not hesitate to approach you with long strides in his poised steps, eager to greet you again.
The group of nobles you were conversing with quickly came to a silence, much to your confusion. You followed their stares which were lingering behind you and slowly tilted your head around to see what had made your peers' words stop.
The Heir to the Iron Throne stood before you, posture straight, yet relaxed. His look was transfixing.
“Y-Your Grace.” Head bowing and body leaning to curtsey, your pulse began to thump through your figure as you lifted your gaze back up to meet him.
“May I have this next dance with you, my lady?” His vocals were deep, articulate and husk. He extended a hand, gracefully awaiting your response.
The group behind you broke out into small gasps. The Heir to the Iron Throne was not known to dabble in such activities since his late wife, no matter how many ladies attempted to be in this very position, which you were blissfully unaware of - being new to Court.
“Of course, Your Grace.” You were in no position to deny the Crown Prince. Your small, smooth hand lifted to meet his extended one with a flush of heat rising to your cheeks. You had certainly not expected this.
He smiled slightly at your bashfulness, large hand taking in the warmth of your smaller one as his thumb moved over your knuckles whilst escorting you in small steps towards the centre of the throne room.
All eyes were burning into you both and you couldn’t help but shake at the unexpected attention. You were far from used to many a people watching your every move.
Baelor felt the tremble of your hand in his and quietly rubbed his thumb gently across your knuckles in an attempt to soothe your uneasiness. Your heart felt like it was going to leap out of your chest.
“No need to fret, my lady.” He began lightly, “I simply wished for an opportunity to speak with you upon seeing your beautiful self.”
His kind words had triggered fluttering within your belly. “T-thank you, Your Grace. How kind of you to say.”
“May I?” He requested permission, motioning with his spare hand, to take hold of your waist. Ever the gentleman.
You nodded lightly, shivering as his arm slithered around your middle, effectively pulling you towards him whilst he raised your already connected hands into the air. His brawny body loomed over you and your chest was near bouncing against him due to your rapid heartbeat. It took all his strength and honour not to look down.
“Do tell me your name, my lady.” He spoke with a smooth, low voice, calming against the hustle of the throne room and others dancing around you to the flow of the music.
Your smooth, youthful skin glowed against the candlelight and his blue and brown crinkled eyes locked with yours deeply as he began to sway with you to the instrumentals reverberating through the Crown Hall.
Your name and House rolled off your tongue as you waited for the visible disappointment to reach his handsome, bearded face. But it never came. And you were surprised.
His heterochromic eyes only twinkled in the flames of the candles situated above on the chandeliers whilst he gazed at you through his dark lashes and you thought him to be strikingly alluring.
Many noble lords attempt to court you until they came to realise the lower level which your House remained at. Men were greedy, power hungry and title seeking. Pretty enough or not, if you were a lady of noble birth who sat lower than the great house of Westeros, many higher Lords would brush you off as if being a common whore.
But Baelor only smiled at you as if your lower status was of unimportance to him.
He recalls the exchange of scrolls with your father, the request to send you here in order to secure a match in marriage. After many moons of pressure from the small council, it seems like The Seven had sent you straight to him.
“Why?” You suddenly asked him with your tender lips pursing plumply and he so wondered what it would be like to lay his own on yours.
Baelor’s mouth moved into a questioning line, a little perplexed. “Regarding?”
“You have many higher noble women to choose from and share a dance with, Your Grace. Many ladies who would be suited better for you.” The hesitancy in your vocals only made Baelor pull you closer and speed up his pace with the increased beat of the music.
“My sweet lady,” he began with a light laugh. You flushed further at his words, becoming breathless amongst the ascending dance movements. “I am the Blood Of The Dragon, Hand of the King and Heir to my Father’s Throne. I have already provided future succession and hold the realm together through many allegiances. Nothing is of consequence to me at this point in my years of living. I have freedom to dance with who I please. And I wish to dance with you.”
Baelor sought you out every day within the Red Keep after that night. Your pretty face, soft voice and gentleness consumed him. He was wrapped up in your kindness, consideration, knowledge and the fanciful interests which you endeavored in.
When he was with you, the responsibilities, pressure and stress of ruling the realm in his Father’s stead seemed to all dissolve and disappear. When he was with you, he did not feel like a Crown Prince of the realm, but simply a man. A man adoring and growing to love a woman as sweet and precious as you were. A man who felt comfort with your presence, gentle and reassuring but inquisitive words.
He knew you were far younger and much more lacking in experience than him but that only spurred on his courting you. He liked being the first man to show and teach you new things that nobody else had before. He liked expanding your perspective on Westeros. And he liked watching you lose composure every time he caressed a part of your body with tender, considerate hands.
Being around you, he felt like a young man again. Excitement running through his veins, shared stolen touches and an unyielding yearning to have you in his arms and never let go.
Passion had sparked between you both and you couldn’t help but nervously reciprocate the Heir’s advances towards you.
Nobody had ever cherished and nurtured you so dearly and genuinely before. When you spoke of any concerns, something you held close to your heart or even just the events of your day, he did not just hear you. He listened to you. Acknowledging every syllable and thought to leave your pretty mouth.
He had begun to seek you out everywhere (much to the Council’s disarray who found their Hand gradually passing more of his duties onto them). From interrupting your daily tasks, library and embroidery lessons to interrupting late noon tea with the other court ladies to sweep you off to the Red Keep gardens for a walk with him. The ladies incessantly held their giggles and gossiping back until the Crown Prince whisked you away out of ear-shot.
Then came the gifts. Treasured jewellery from Essos. Silk gowns from Lys. Ancient books from his personal library within the Keep. And a new bouquet of flowers by the bedside in your chambers every single day when you returned to meet slumber.
After weeks of stolen touches, laughter, deep discussions, sly flirtations and a shared fondness for each other… Today, Baelor had something a little different planned for you both.
Large hand resting on the small of your back, he guided you towards the courtyard of the Red Keep. However, the usually bustly area was completely void of anybody. No members of the Royal Court. No goldcloaks, no Kingsguard following Baelor, and no serving staff were to be seen.
Walking through the halls, you drew closer and suspicion began to fill your senses. Not the bad type of suspicion but the type which had an excited knot forming in the pit of your stomach and made your heart flutter in anticipation.
“What have you arranged this evenfall, My Prince?” You couldn’t help but ask with a growing grin.
Seven Hells, how he loved it when you called him that. Yours. He wanted to be and terribly so.
“Something special for us, my sweet lady.” There was a certain lilt in his voice which indicated something important forthcoming and it made the knot in your stomach tighten.
Gods, how you loved it when he called you that. His sweet lady. It affected you just the same as the very first time he uttered those words to you.
Further down the halls you noticed soft flickering lights, shadows dancing across the stone walls and pillars.
A small gasp escaped your throat as you walked between the stone pillars of the courtyard.
Your right hand lifted to your heaving chest as emotion overwhelmed you from the sight before your eyes. Baelor quickly swerved to your left side, delicately swiping your left hand up into his right one. Your fingers intertwined and you squeezed around his large, rough palm. He squeezed back slightly harder, callouses catching on your smooth palm. A sign of nerves finally overcoming his typically well-composed self.
“This is ever so beautiful, truly.” You gaped at the sight before you and your heart was aflame. He had organised this, for you.
Flamed torches hung against the shaped pillars with candles littering around the floor besides a vast amount of bright, sweetly scented, blooming floral arrangements which created a pathway into the centre of the courtyard where a small table with two cushioned chairs remained.
A crystal flagon of wine sat atop the table next to two golden chalices, flower petals and a silver candle holder organised beside it with small plates of fruits, nuts, crackers and cheeses.
The tiny flames flickered around the flowers on the tiled, flower covered floor, mimicking the shining stars above.
“I know.” Baelor’s affectionate gaze did not leave you as you gushed over and complimented the scene. He smiled and gestured towards the centre, “please sit, my dearest.”
His dearest. Your mind was starting to whirl. You obeyed his instruction, hand never leaving his and pulling him along to follow.
Baelor had the Kingsguard positioned further down each of the halls, under strict instruction to block entry way to the courtyard with no exceptions. He did not want any disturbances.
After three cups of Arbour Gold, nibbling from the placed plates, various topics of conversation, flirtatious remarks and laughs, your head felt tipsy and your heart was thrumming ecstatically.
Comfortably perched on the cushioned seat, your gaze drifted towards the dark night sky, floating across the beam of the moon and the twinkle of the stars.
“I have never felt so at ease and appreciated with you.” You admitted through hazy eyes, still admiring the night above.
“And I, you.” He returned with a small smile, mouth opening to speak further but his words became caught in his throat.
Hearing the hesitation, your gaze drifted back down to meet his and you smiled softly. “What else, My Prince?”
Pausing for a moment, Baelor contemplated his next words. He had spent many late nights in his chambers, preparing for this moment and all of those practiced speeches and words relented as soon as he saw the way you peered at him. So lovingly. So wholly. Like you didn’t see him for all his titles but just him, Baelor, alone.
“I never thought…” he drifted off in thought before straightening his posture to gaze into your orbs. “I never thought that I would be able to find affection with another, after Jena. But you, My sweet Lady, have brought life back into my withered heart. Since I laid my eyes on you for the very first time, I knew that I had to know you. And knowing you now, my heart has never felt so full.”
“Baelor,” his name was whispered breathlessly on your lips and it clung to him, seeping into his bloodstream. You had never used his first name before. He took it as a good sign. Titles and societal boundaries diminished in seconds.
“My dearest, I fear that I can no longer live as I do without you by my side. Without you as my future Queen. The realm is in need of your gentleness and empathetic views. And I am in need of your love. I am pining for you and you alone. There is no one else that I wish to spend the remainder of my life with.” He confessed, bearing his heart on his sleeve. His mix coloured eyes were glistening, tears on the edge of his lash line whilst your own tears already spilled.
Hot on your cheeks and head dizzy from the golden wine, you carefully lifted your fingers to wipe away the wet saltiness.
Before you could respond, the Crown Prince had maneuvered to the floor on his knees and reached to envelop your hands in his. As he rested on his knees before you, tenderly gripping your hands, you smiled through your overwhelming tears of love and devotion.
Bringing your hands to meet his mouth, his smooth, warm lips pressed against each of your palms in a kiss. “Be mine,” he pleaded, looking into your crying eyes. “Be my Wife.”
“Yes.” You laughed lightly, gripping his hands tightly, “and be my Husband.”
The realm was full of delight and celebration.
At first, upon your betrothal announcement to the Heir to the Iron Throne, there had been some uncertainty from the Small Council.
“She is not from a well-known noble House, Your Grace.”
“The Smallfolk here do not know of her, Your Grace.”
“She is not of a strong bloodline, Your Grace.”
“Her dowry is little, Your Grace.”
Baelor did not care. “I have sacrificed much for this realm. There is little consequence in whom I marry now. I have already provided two healthy heirs and there will be more now, as you all requested. Speak ill of my betrothed and you will find your tongues missing the next morn.”
After that, the Small Council became ever gracious towards you. As did the Court, upon hearing that the Crown Prince would cut out the tongues of any bad word against you - not that there was many from your noble peers.
You were kind, playful and clever. The Court had taken a liking to you upon your arrival.
And soon, the wedding ceremony followed. It was a lavish celebration. Baelor never left your side despite the hounds of nobles trying to converse with him, to which he politely dismissed them wanting all of his focus on you. His bride.
There were performances, celebratory activities, dancing and a great feast following your martial vows in The Sept. Lords and Ladies alike travelled from all across the realm to attend the Crown Prince’s second wedding, and to see if his youthful bride was truly as beautiful and kind as claimed.
“Time for the bedding!” A drunken, foolish lord from the Iron Islands shouted out late into the night, amongst the celebrations. The crowds roared with enthusiasm, eager to see the Crown Prince bed his new, young and beautiful Wife. The realm’s new Princess.
Your happy expression fell as the words reached your ears. Lips turning downward into a worried pout as you looked up at your new Husband.
This was something you had not considered with much thought. Being from a small House, the bedding ceremony’s importance was not that of the greater noble Houses. And with Baelor already having been married perviously, the thought of a public bedding ceremony was resting at the very back of your mind. You suppose that was very silly of yourself now.
“Husband, I-I-” you were at a loss for words.
Shaking his head, you had never seen such a fury rise within Baelor. “I will not let any man lay their eyes upon you in such a manner,” he reassured you, taking your hand tightly in his. The cool metal of his rings provides a grounding sensation amongst the chaos and his words calmed your rapid heartbeat.
The Grand Maester approached you both, slyly leaning over to His Grace’s ear. “Shall we prepare your chambers, Your Grace?”
“No,” Baelor gritted out in frustration. “We shall not.”
“But I do think it wise-”
“Rest assured, Grand Maester,” Baelor cut him off, “there will be proof of consummation in nine moons time.”
Swallowing at your beloved’s words, a foreign heat rushed to your core as you clutched Baelor’s strong hand.
And so, your new Husband whisked you away between the crowds of royals and nobles after ordering the Kingsguard to prevent any persons from following you both to your newly shared marital chambers.
Being the epitome of chivalry and justice, Baelor had never once pressed his lips to yours during his time courting you. He knew that your young maidenhood was untouched, no man ever claiming you in such a way before. He hadn’t even attempted to steal a kiss from you no matter how dearly he wished to, especially when he confessed his feelings and asked for your hand. He hadn’t even enlightened you when you leaned into him like you desperately wanted it too.
The door to Baelor’s chambers slammed shut and suddenly you were pushed against it. The hard wood met your back, a harsh gasp left your throat in surprise and all honour left your husband. Baelor was a starved man, itching to feel every inch of you.
His large hand gripped the side of your face, resting on your jaw, fingers peaking between your styled hair at the back of your neck. The contact was so sudden, all air left your lungs as his other hand grasped at your waist, kneading through the fabric as he held you in place.
“My Prince,” you blurted in shock, gazing at his lustful expression. His scent filled your senses, fresh mint, burnt wood and something sweeter surrounded you.
The hair of his beard tickled your face as he drew closer and finally, after weeks of wondering what it would be like, he pressed his mouth to yours.
It was tender, delicate and warm. Your arms snaked up to reach his covered shoulders, pulling him closer whilst you were melting into him.
His tongue dipped out slowly, wet and spongy against your untainted lips, begging for an entrance. Parting your lips under his ask, you began to move yours against his, following your natural instinct as he started to explore your mouth and move with you.
You couldn't help the gentle moan which vibrated onto him. The Dragon had set you alight with his flame and you wanted more.
“Seven Hells,” he grunted against your lips as he reluctantly departed, catching his breath. “The Gods have known how long I have waited to do this.”
“You’re not the only one.” With fluttering eyelashes, you slowly pushed him back further into the room and his grasp on you loosened, allowing you to move him in the direction of the giant four-postered bed.
His lips curled up at your movements and implication. Tonight you wanted him just as much as he wanted you.
“Lay down, Husband.”
Baelor felt like combusting at your command. Blood rushing to his cock, his breeches tightened whilst he sat on the edge of the plush bed to lay back.
You approached him with a sultry look which he hadn’t seen on you before and you shifted your heavy skirts up, knees finding the padded mattress as you moved to straddle him.
“Fuck.” The word left his mouth as he took in the sight of you climbing over him until your pelvis met his. He groaned at the weight of you pressed against his hardening length.
You rested both hands beside his head whilst his large hands dipped under your skirts to caress your smooth, soft thighs. Whimpering slightly at the new feeling of his touch, you leaned down to meet his mouth with yours again.
You may have been a maiden but some of the Ladies you spent time with at Court were not shy about discussing their marital beds. And you listened, learning things which you did not think possible, with Baelor in mind. You expected that a man of his age had expectations and you wanted to impress him. To show him how much you wanted it too.
But you knew him. He was your Baelor. And you knew that he would not fret over the skills and movements you had yet to learn to please him.
His lips were hot against yours, mouth moving hungrily and eagerly tasting you. His hands slowly reaching over the warmth of your thighs to grip your hips tightly and push you onto him.
Moaning at the hardness and sudden friction, your hips jolted at the contact, causing Baelor to grunt. He was painfully hard now, a wetness seeping into his breeches from his leaking tip. It feels like he has waited his whole life to see you like this.
“Grind your hips onto me,” Baelor directed between kisses and you obeyed, small whines escaping you whilst you moved your clothed heat over his hardness.
Calloused hands moving round to cup your arse, he kneaded the flesh, enticing a breathy moan from you. His touch felt passionate and needy and you wanted more, an ache growing deep within your core.
“Just like that, My sweet Lady. My sweet Wife.”
“I-I want more,” you pleaded as he grabbed your cheeks harder, a soft smack making you gasp at the slight sting it left behind.
Before you could process anything else from being too wrapped up in these new heightened feelings, his arms left your skirts, quickly grabbing your torso and flipping you around.
You hit the bed with a quiet bounce, panting as you watched the Crown Prince top you before sinking lower and leaning off the edge of the bed. Your brows furrowed in confusion as he was on the floor leaning on his knees but his strong hands quickly distracted you, wrapping around your ankles, pulling you to the edge - you let out a small squeak in surprise.
“Lift your hips for me,” he ordered, reaching for the thin fabric of your smallclothes and swiftly pulling them down your legs as you complied.
“Oh,” he muttered airless, taking in the sight of you. Heat rose to your cheeks and you bashfully tried to snap your legs shut, never having anybody see you like this before. He only gripped your thighs tightly, pulling you open again to offer your hot, weeping, slick cunt before him. “Gods be good.”
Heat rushed through your body as Baelor took in the sight of your spread legs, tongue darting out of his mouth to lick his lips.
“Do you trust me?” He asked, gazing at you with passion and need burning in his blue and brown eyes.
“Of course,” you spoke earnestly, awaiting his next move.
Lifting his arm, his long, strong fingers moved towards your sopping heat. Slowly, he dragged his index from your wet hole up to your bundle of nerves and you shuddered pleasantly.
“I have barely touched you and you’re already dripping for me, sweet girl.” The low, measured tone of his vocals nearly made you squirm in embarrassment. Was that not normal?
“I-I’m sorry, Y-your Grace.” You fumbled to apologise, not knowing any different, having not laid with a man before.
“No, no, My Wife. And no more royal formalities. You are perfect,” he hummed, rubbing soothing circles on your inner thigh which made you keen. “Let me show you how perfect.”
Baelor had dreamt of this moment, eager to please and devour you, and he shifted your legs so that they rested over his shoulders. His breath was hot on your inner thighs whilst his wet tongue stuck out to drag along your skin, his beard scratchy, making you tingle at the contrast.
A soft whine escaped you, not that you were complaining but you couldn’t help the curiosity that was consuming you. You instantly felt nerves rise within, he knew exactly what he was doing… and you did not. He had done this before and you were lacking.
The ladies at Court had never mentioned their Husband’s head between their thighs.
“What are you doing, Husband?”
A smirk filled his features as his tongue licked up your thigh, leaving a wet trail before responding, “showing you how much I have desired to have you like this.”
As soon as those words left his mouth, his head was swiftly buried in your heat, hot tongue licking up your slit as he groaned, effectively tasting your juices. You expelled a guttural moan, back arching and hands finding their way to grip his short, soft hair. The heat of his tongue licking up your sweet, dripping folds was sensational.
Baelor was aching hard whilst his mouth worked on your soaked cunt, dipping his tongue into your entrance, he had you chanting his name like a sorcerer casting spells.
“Baelor, oh Gods! Mhmmm! B-Baelor, please!” The soft scratching of his beard made his tongue feel all the more euphoric and you never thought it was possible to feel such a way. You clung to his head harder.
He lathered your sweet pussy with his spit, having drunk every drip of you and quickly pulled away, much to your dismay. After a beat, his fingers were back at your heat again and you mewled when his middle finger slowly slipped into you.
“That’s it sweet girl,” he panted, drawling, beginning to work his finger in and out of your wet, velvety walls, “you’ll take what I give you. I need to make sure you’re able to take my cock.”
His words hit your core and you clenched around him, gasping for air. The feeling of his finger curling inside you was doubled as he added another digit and your moans filtered through the air with the squelch of your wet folds as you adjusted to the intrusion.
Baelor continued to pleasure you with his fingers, mouth eventually coming back down to meet your mound with his tongue latching onto that sensitive bud of yours. His fingers curled up, hitting a specific spot within and you threw your head back, relishing in his touch and tongue flicking your bundle of nerves. Your eyes flutter shut, hands finding their way back to his dark, greying hair, pulling him closer to your core, wanting more.
“I never want to taste anything else again,” he mumbled against you, lavishing in your wetness.
Baelor let out breathy groans as you clung to him harder, the vibrations shooting straight against your throbbing heat. Ever so tenderly, he began to spread his fingers inside of you, scissoring you open. Your moans halted slightly as you tried to accommodate the foreign feeling of being stretched open.
His eyes drifted up to you in concern whilst his fingers continued to open your tightness. His length was throbbing in his breeches, begging to be buried deep within your pure pussy, but your discomfort made him pause.
His mouth retracted from your core, gaze drifting over your breathless form. You peered down at the lack of movement, catching your breath. His mouth was covered in your slick, coating his beard and it stirred something within you.
“Please do not stop,” you begged through heavy lids, lashes fluttering against your hot cheeks. “I need you desperately Baelor, I need you deep inside me,” you confessed, giving way to your carnal desires.
And that was all he needed to continue his actions, pumping in and out of you slowly, spreading his fingers within your wet walls as his lips connected with your clit again, sucking your bud until you saw stars. A pleasurable tightness in your lower region, building up so intensely that you thought you might faint.
Your breathy cries of pleasure filled his ears whilst he increased the pace of his fingers, feeling you clench around him.
“Husband,” your voice croaked through moans as you arched your back and pushed your hips up to meet his face. “I-I’m feeling so-”
And then Baelor went harder, sucking your bud whilst flicking it with his tongue, his strong fingers curling up in you so deliciously and repeatedly that you suddenly screamed out, reaching a heightened peak of consuming pleasure.
Waves of pleasure washed over you and tingles spread throughout your body, your soaked cunt throbbing as you leaked all over the Crown Prince’s face and he groaned against you in appreciation, drinking you up and slowing his movements as you came down from your high.
“What the fuck was that?” You murmured, chest heaving in blind euphoria.
Baelor chuckled, slightly shocked at the bad word rolling off your pretty lips, raising his arm to wipe the remnants of you from his mouth and glistening, thick beard.
“That, was the first of many, My sweet Wife.”
He began unbuttoning his doublet as you lay there breathless, stripping the top layers of the expensive materials cut to fit him seamlessly. Despite his older age, Baelor was extremely muscular and his skin was taught around his arms and abdomen until the slight pudge of his lower belly poked out. And it aroused you. Muscular with a soft stomach. He looked like he had been carefully curated by The Seven, themselves.
“Can you manage to stand, My Love? I wish to see all of the beauty that you bare.”
Shifting onto your elbows you pushed yourself up gradually, body still reeling over the new sensations that you just experienced. Baelor’s hands went out to guide and support you. Your legs were shaking as you stood before him and he pressed his lips against yours hungrily.
You could taste yourself on him and you whined when his tongue mixed with yours. His arms wrapped around you, fingers untying the laces at the back of your dress which held it together. Soon after undoing the lacing, he parted, hastily pulled your dress down, lifting you out of it to leave you in one last layer. A thin cotton underdress.
The torch flames within Baelor’s chambers illuminated your every curve through the fabric and he groaned deeply, “I need you, sweet girl.”
Before you knew it, you were stark naked, sprawled out onto the bed with your head beneath the plush pillows as his mouth worked on your breasts, sucking gently and kissing your hardened nipples. Massaging you with his hands, he was drunk on your satisfied moans and tender hands gripping his sturdy shoulders.
Baelor’s hot skin was pressed flush against yours and it felt incredible.
“You were sent to me from the Gods, I have no doubt,” he confessed, worshipping your body. “The most beautiful woman to grace this Realm.”
“I love you,” the words tumbled from your lips and he abandoned your breasts to kiss you feverishly, uttering the same words back to you between kisses.
“I want your cock to fill me up, dear Husband.”
Baelor’s self restraint exited his body at your crass words, his leaking tip aching and wishing nothing more than to dive into your soaked, warm depths.
Immediately, he was rid of his breeches, letting his long, girthy cock spring free to hit his belly before he was back on you, hot mouth attached to your neck, sucking on the sweetest spot which made you mewl.
“I-is it supposed to be that big?” You asked nervously, through your pleasured moans.
“Not usually for other men.” He couldn’t help but grin into your neck. His sweet maiden. His sweet Wife.
Trailing his fingertips down the valley of your breasts, across your stomach and onto your mound, you trembled. The pad of his thumb found your sensitive bud and began drawing slow circles against you. You whined at the sensation, bucking your hips back into him as he laid between your legs.
“Please let me feel you already!” You were desperate to feel his body connect with yours.
“So needy,” he began, leaning back to take his length into his spare hand whilst his other continued to focus on your clit. “You’re going to take me so well.”
Spreading your legs wider to accommodate him with more room, your fingers fiddled with the silken bedsheets, watching his hand move along his cock before shifting closer to tap his swollen mushroom-shaped tip at your still soaking entrance.
“It may hurt at first,” his concerned, mix-coloured gaze never leaving yours as he continued, “do tell me to stop if it becomes too much.”
Heart swelling, you nodded gratefully.
He resumed his movements with his thumb on your bud as his cock head dragged between your folds, picking up your slick. The sensation caused a needy whine to escape your throat.
Baelor pressed forwards, his tip slipping into you and you hissed slightly at the sharp intrusion.
Slowly, he pulled back before sliding into you a bit further and you gasped, clutching the sheets tighter. He persisted slowly, rolling his hips back and forth, inch by inch, as you adjusted to his thick girth.
The circular motion of his thumb rubbing your nub provided the perfect relief of the tight stretch around his length.
You exhaled blissfully, and Baelor could not get enough of the sight before him. Your hair was sprawled out amongst the pillows, eyelashes fluttering, breasts bouncing slightly with each slow thrust he made whilst his cock was slowly delving further into your depths.
“Seven Hells,” he grunted at your tight, sopping maidenhood, “I am the luckiest man in Westeros.”
A smile reached your lips at his words until he was fully sheathed inside of you, the air leaving your lungs as you struggled to catch your breath at how deeply you felt him inside of you.
“S-So deep,” you babbled amongst moans as he began to roll his hips whilst setting and increasing his pace.
“You’re taking me so well,” he let out a guttural groan between thrusts whilst you creamed around his long, thick cock, “you were made for me, sweet girl.”
Soon enough, his cock was repeatedly bruising your womb, thrusting into you at an animalistic pace whilst your knees were hooked over his strong shoulders and your hands tightly gripped his muscular biceps at either side of you - nails digging into his flesh.
“Fuck,” Baelor grunted, thrusting into you deeper, harder, “I want to fill you with my seed.”
You cried out into moans as he hit a particularly deep, spongy spot inside. All you could do was lay helpless as he pleasured and fucked into your throbbing, drenched core.
Your pussy clenched tightly around him after his words and he noticed, a small smile appearing on his face as beads of sweat dripped from his forehead.
“Oh,” he chuckled lowly, voice rasping, “you like that? You want to be stuffed full with my dragon seed.”
“Y-yes!” Your mewls only increased with his pace and cock slamming into your womb. “Let me give you more heirs, My Prince.”
Baelor’s balls tightened as they slapped against your arse, his hips stuttering and he quickly disregarded one of your legs on his shoulder to strum the pad of his thumb against your clit again.
His groans of pleasure mixed with your moans and the wet slapping sounds of where you both connected filled the air shamelessly. The Court could not see your marital consummation but they would definitely hear it.
The same pleasurable tightness from earlier was returning, building up from deep within your core and your whines became louder.
“B-Baelor,” you gasped out, feeling him so deeply, as if his cock was in your throat. “I’m g-getting that feeling again.”
“Good,” he breathed heavily, “that means my seed will take and you will be swollen with my little dragon in time.”
Breasts bouncing rapidly from his unrelenting thrusts, the tip of his cock kissed the deepest spot within you and with the speed of his thumb on your sensitive nub - your body convulsed underneath him, shaking euphorically and tingling with utter bliss.
“That’s it, sweet girl.” He coaxed you through it. “My beautiful Wife. You’ve been so good for me.”
Screaming out his name as you reached that heightened sensation for the second time, you shook along with the waves that crashed over you whilst he continued to fuck you through it.
You moaned lightly, coming down from your heightened senses as you gazed at his agape face through heavy lashes. “Fill my cunt with your seed. Let me give you another dragon.”
Baelor’s pace quickened at your words, hips slamming into you whilst his cock pulsed inside your soft, clenching walls. Groaning deeply, his cock was nestled at your deepest point, spurts of hot white seed shot into your womb, rope after rope whilst his hips stuttered.
The thick wetness shot into you caused you to whine softly as he slowed, filling you with his dragon seed. He dripped out of your hole as he rolled his hips to a halt, still buried within you and head tilted back back in pleasure.
After a moment, he came to his own senses, warm hands carefully lifting your leg back down. Slowly, his thick length pulled away from your seed-filled cunt and you let out a whine at the loss, now feeling empty.
Baelor was breathless as he collapsed beside you, hand reaching for your own as he pressed a kiss to your damp shoulder.
“Are you well, dear Wife?” His voice emphasised concern for you after the abuse he thoroughly conducted to your maidenhood.
“Unbelievebly so,” you uttered, laughing lightly, despite the soreness around your core, chest still heaving. Your body was reeling over the pleasure you had just experienced.
Flipping onto his side, he now faced your naked form with a smile, lifting your connected hands to tenderly press a kiss to your knuckles.
“Maybe a daughter this time,” he suddenly spoke, fondness shining through his orbs. “There are too many boys in this family. She would be a fiery version of you with the Blood of the Dragon.”
You couldn’t help but giggle into the hot air, “hopefully not too fiery.”
Pulling your Husband back closer to crash on top of you, you locked your lips with his in a heated kiss.
the scratch of the quill’s nib on parchment, the slight tink of an inkwell being dipped into, the dripping of wax onto a brass chamberstick, kitten-like mewls muffled against the side of his throat.
baelor shushes you, one hand firm on your hip. his fingers squeeze, kneading flesh, as you gently rock yourself back and forth on his lap. he sits comfortably at his desk, the quiet of his solar illuminated by dozens of flickering candles. you mouth at the side of his neck, feeling the steady thump of his pulse beneath your spit-slick lips, another breathy sound falling from the back of your throat.
baelor shushes you again, hand pulling you further into him. the movement angles you down, his cock stretching you open, the head reaching and rubbing that perfect spot inside you before he stills again.
“don’t start fussing,” he whispers, quill to parchment as if he wasn’t splitting you apart. his cock gives a feeble jerk inside you and it draws a low moan from your chest. he hums, fingers gripping. “you’ve been so good for this long, sweetheart, m’almost finished.”
you whine, heat coiling thick behind your navel. there’s a dull ache in the base of your womb too; the pain of being so close but not quite there as you sit on his cock. one of your hands plays with the short hairs at the nape of his neck, your arm curling over his shoulder, while the other drags up and down his chest, feeling along the soft padding of his doublet.
you lift your head and press a kiss to the hinge of his jaw. you whimper there too, dragging your nose back down his neck, following the shift of his pulse. you hear the quill pause against parchment, and your heart leaps, clattering against your ribs, when the hand on your hip pushes you down even further.
you take more of his cock, pussy stretching full to swallow around the thick of him. it flutters, hot and wet, all silken as he tries to even his breathing. you moan quietly, hips twitching, trying to gain some kind of friction aside from the stagnant press of your puffy clit against the thicket of hair at the base of his cock.
“d’you need something?” your husband asks, tipping his head to speak closer to your ear. he asks, deep and rolling, as if he doesn’t know what you want.
you whine in response, attempting to pick yourself off of his lap, even by just a fraction, to push yourself down again. but he holds you firm, and you let out another airy whine into the dewy skin of his neck, a solid pressure unmoving in the base of your spine.
“uh-uh, none of that,” baelor chides, swatting lightly at the top of your arse. you hear him start writing again, clued by the gentle glass tink of steel into the nearby inkwell. reaching deep inside you, his cock gives another twitch as he speaks, “i’m almost done, sweet girl. be good for me.”
you huff into his neck. “baelor.”
“be good,” he repeats firmly, and you ignore the heat building near-painfully in the pit of your stomach.
it’s a tension you know, but you can’t quite break. it settles, like the ash that cakes thick across the glowing hearth. your cunt clenches around him again, spurred on by the shallow ache in your clit and the hammering of your heart against your sternum. you can feel yourself, with heat pooling in your veins, dripping around him: pussy drooling out onto his lap, wetting the hair, the soft skin of his thighs.
you can’t help the whimper that escapes you, perfectly wanton and needy and it hits your husband right in the heart. the hand on your hip tightens and his cock jerks, and he leans his head to the side to plant a delicate kiss to your warm forehead.
“i know, i know, i can feel her too,” baelor mutters against your forehead as you pant into the side of his throat. a muffled baelor falls from your tongue, and a hum rumbles from his chest. “you’re doing so well, sweetheart. you’re doing so good for me, just hold on.”
you hush out a moan, barely a whisper in response. there’s a light tremble in your thighs where you part around him, the fat of your arse snug against his lap. your pussy flutters again, and you feel something tugging deep across the base of your womb. it makes you roll your hips, just slightly, to drag the pearl of your clit against him and shift the head of his cock over that perfect spot inside you.
“oh, gods,” you whisper, eyes screwing shut as you lean your head against baelor’s shoulder. you hold the back of his neck gently, an anchor for you, while you continue drawing circles across his chest with the other. you huff, smelling ink and cedar and the salt of his skin. “baelor, please.”
your husband doesn’t respond, but you hear the moment he finishes his work. you hear the slide of parchment against lacquered wood, and you hear the drop of the quill into it’s cup.
“so needy,” baelor says, leaning back in his chair and taking both of your hips in either hand. you pick yourself off of his shoulder to match his gaze. he smiles at you, close-lipped and knowing. “but you did so well.”
you nod as he urges you to lift your hips. you do, gladly, heat sticky between your legs as you rise. his cock slips from you slowly, and you moan when just the head remains, your body quivering as you hold you position. baelor looks you up and down, a gentle stroke of his eyes over you, before pulling you back to him.
he fills you instantly, and your lips part around a soundless moan as he knocks up towards the base of your cervix. your pussy takes him, wet and warm and wanting. you drool out onto his lap as he guides you, drops you up and down over and over.
baelor’s eyes lower for a moment. there’s a subtle, almost disbelieving shake of his head as they settle on where your pussy parts around him. “gods, you’re making an absolute mess of me.”
you whine, hands clutching his shoulders now as you roll your hips. the thick stretch of his cock renders you breathless as you chase your release—the release which has sat immobile in the pit of your belly for the better part of an hour.
his gaze flicks back up to you as you rut yourself onto his cock. he leans in then and presses his mouth to yours, swallowing your moan as you return it. it’s wet and needy, a desperate exchange of tongues and spit, and you feel his lips curl into a smile as you whine into it, chasing more, more, more—
“this is what you needed, isn’t it?” baelor whispers against your mouth before your head tips and you rub your cheek against his, feeling the scratch of his beard. you puff out a whine, barely a distinguishable sound, as your release packs hot in your womb and deep across the base of your spine. your husband coos at your lack of response, hands kneading your hips. “oh, my sweet girl, my perfect girl, that’s it. that’s—yeah, that’s it.”
you moan, cunt clenching tight around the thick of him. he groans, hips angling to meet you, the chair beneath the pair of you creaking with your combined movements.
“she’s needy today too, isn’t she?” baelor mutters, and your entire body burns from the inside out as you listen to the constant wet schlick-schlick-schlick of your pussy as you take his cock. you moan, and he shushes you gently, hands heavy on your hips. “it’s alright—s’alright, sweetheart, i’ve got you.”
the pressure in your womb and at the base of your spine finally bursts apart, and you come around your husband’s cock with a shaking moan of his name into the candlelit quiet of his solar. your cunt wraps tight around him, and he responds to the fluttering and your moaning with a deep, grumbling sound of his own, his cock jerking and his balls twitching tight as he chases his own release.
you writhe in his lap as you come, heat swimming through you. whining, you grind yourself through it as his hips meet, and your legs are still shaking, your heart is still racing, when he moans your name and spills deep inside you. you choke on a gasp at the thick warmth that fills you as his cock twitches deep where he sits up against the plug of your womb.
baelor breathes you in, muttering your name as he spills, and spills, then finally, as you pull your head across to kiss him, he stills. he kisses you back, gentler this time. your teeth skim his lip, and he pulls back with a small smile and a gleam in his mismatched eyes.
“you feeling better?” he asks you, breathing deeply, a hand lifting from your hip to cup the side of your face.
you lean into the contact like a puppy, closing your eyes and humming a pleased yes before he’s bringing you back to him for another kiss.
Ormund Hightower fucking his wife with holy purpose of siring a new heir because the first four kids his first wife gave him are simply not enough and he must show off the power of House Hightower and more babies will surely show the stability of his house.
Ormund Hightower who develops a breeding kink after seeing his wife swell beautifully with his child, her belly round, her breasts filling up with milk to nurse another of his heirs, skin glowing and radiant and that proud glim that appears in her eyes as she rubs her belly.
Ormund Hightower that doesn't stop fucking his wife throughout her pregnancy because her cunt is so deliciously swollen from carrying his babe that he gets even more addicted to it than he was before. Whenever he can he has her on her back or on her hands and knees, careful not to squish her stomach while rutting into her with vigor.
Ormund Hightower who becomes obsessed with his lady wife —spoiling her whenever he can with the softest silks, beautiful new ribbons and sweet, sweet perfume that only makes him want to spend more time with her.
Ormund Hightower finding out he adores the smell of her skin — something entirely hers mixed with the smell of the milk that leaks from her breasts the closer to the due date she is. He loves how she smells, he loves that he partly is the reason of why it's happening.
Ormund Hightower that cannot stop himself from nursing from her breast after the baby is born, latching onto her nipple and drinking the sweet like honey and so so delicious. He loves to lay with her in their bed, head on her chest as she cradle it. It's intimate and so sensual and he loves hearing her gasp and whine while his mouth is closed around her.
Ormund Hightower pretending he has no idea what is happening while maester is surprised that her milk still haven't dried up because their babe is fed by nursemaids so why would his lady wife still produce it?
Ormund Hightower that gets her with another babe as soon as she feels strong enough to bear another, making her swell with his babe again, while carrying a squealing, giggling infant on her hip — a sight that makes his heart swell and a smile to form on his face all by itself
Maekar Targaryen’s Very Reasonable Safety Measures
Maekar Targaryen x wife!reader
Word cont: 2.4k
Summary:
The floors are dangerous. The terrace is dangerous. The wind is dangerous. The servants are incompetent. The children are too loud.
According to Maekar Targaryen, the only safe place for his pregnant wife is buried under a mountain of pillows.
English is not my first language!
☆.。.:*・°☆.。.:*・°☆.。.:*・°☆.。.:*・°☆ .。.:*
The council chamber of Summerhall was cool, but the atmosphere was thick enough to cut with a sword. Maekar Targaryen stood at the table, both hands braced against the surface, fixing his steward with a stare sharp enough to make it seem as though the man had just confessed to treason. His stern face, framed by pale Targaryen hair, revealed no emotion beyond a deep, nearly permanent irritation.
“Repeat that,” Maekar demanded, his voice like two stones grinding together.
“My prince… I only noted that purchasing another twenty soft featherbeds from Myr and summoning yet another maester from the Citadel might be… a slight excess,” the steward stammered, nervously adjusting his collar. “With all due respect, the princess has already given birth six times. Your elder children are healthy. The princess knows perfectly well how to care for herself in this condition, and the household-
Maekar straightened slowly, and the knights present in the chamber suddenly became very interested in the tips of their boots. When the prince took on that posture, a wise man looked for the nearest shield. He was not his brother. He did not soften situations with a smile or a diplomatic word.
“The household,” Maekar began, taking one step closer, each footfall striking the stone floor like a warning, “is made up of a band of careless idiots. My wife carries our seventh child beneath her heart. The fact that the previous six times did not end in tragedy is not due to chance, the whim of the Seven, or, gods forbid, your competence.”
The steward swallowed audibly, not daring to interrupt.
“It is due to this,” Maekar continued, slamming his fist into the table hard enough to make the heavy brass inkwells jump, “that I personally eliminate every potential danger. If I say the stone floors in the family wing are to be covered with three layers of thick carpeting by dusk, then they will be. If there is still so much traffic and noise in the corridors that my wife cannot have a moment of peace, I will personally see to it that you and your men seek new employment at the Wall. No one there will complain of too many luxuries. Have I made myself clear enough?”
A chorus of panicked nods was the only answer given in the chamber.
Maekar did not dignify them with another glance. He pushed back the heavy chair, adjusted the collar of his outer robes, and strode toward the door with quick, decisive steps.
Officially, the council was over.
Unofficially, the clock in his mind had already counted far too many minutes since he had last seen you sitting safely in your chair. The entire castle, with its drafts, sharp-edged furniture, and clumsy servants, seemed to him in that moment like one vast field of hidden traps.
When you finally managed to rise from bed, you found your chambers in the midst of a revolution-one Maekar would, without blinking, have called “the implementation of safety measures.” Every rug runner, even the smallest, had vanished from the floors so you could not so much as think about slipping on one. The heavy carved chair you loved so much had been moved away from the window and buried beneath so many cushions it resembled the nest of some enormous bird.
The room was unbearably stuffy. The heavy, stagnant air of Summerhall made every breath feel like a challenge. You sighed, resting a hand atop your very advanced belly, and started toward the terrace doors to get even a mouthful of fresh air.
You did not even manage to touch the handle.
The door flew open with force, and Maekar himself appeared in the doorway. His severe face hardened instantly at the sight of you. In a few swift steps, he blocked your path like the walls of the Red Keep.
“Where are you going?” he growled, his deep voice vibrating through the stifling room. “The air outside is too damp. Sit.”
“Maekar, for the love of the gods, it feels like a forge in here,” you answered, setting your free hand on your hip and looking at him with a mixture of irritation and amusement. “I only want to step out onto the terrace. Get some air. I’ll be fine.”
“No,” he cut in shortly, crossing his arms over his chest and not moving an inch. “The wind from the hills is treacherous at this hour. You will not risk it.”
You took one step forward, lifting your chin high to meet those ever-stern violet eyes.
“My dear husband,” you began softly, but with emphasis, patting your belly pointedly. “This is our seventh child. Nothing went wrong the previous six times. You truly need to rest and let me breathe.”
Maekar did not even blink. His face remained deathly serious as he leaned slightly toward you, radiating that unshakable, stern certainty of his.
“My love,” he said, his voice carrying absolute, almost immovable gravity, “there is a direct correlation between my actions when you are with child and the fact that we have six healthy children. Do not question success.”
You froze for a moment.
Then a loud, helpless laugh burst from your lips.
“Are you serious?” you laughed, shaking your head in disbelief. “Are you truly trying to convince me that all of this paranoia is simply a well-considered plan?”
“It is not paranoia. It is caution,” he muttered, but in that same moment his gaze softened by the smallest degree. Before you could protest, his strong hands settled on your shoulders, and with remarkable care for him, he began steering you back toward the safe nest of pillows. “Now sit.”
Once Maekar had made certain you were seated comfortably and had no immediate plans to storm the terrace doors, he stepped out into the corridor, closing the heavy door quietly behind him. He had not taken even three steps when he heard hurried, muffled little footsteps and a distinctive shuffling sound.
Daella appeared around the corner, holding the hand of one-year-old Rhae, who was still taking rather unsteady, wobbling steps. Just behind them walked five-year-old Aegon. At the sight of his father, little Aegon immediately slowed, though his large violet eyes still shone with curiosity. In his hand, he clutched a hastily gathered bouquet of slightly crushed marigolds from the garden.
Maekar stopped and crossed his arms over his chest, looking down at them with his traditional stern expression. The children, however, did not flinch. They knew that look too well. To them, their father was not a monster, but rather an exceedingly grumpy commander whose moods simply had to be endured.
“Where are you going?” Maekar asked, his voice quiet but carrying like an order.
“To Mother,” Daella replied matter-of-factly. “I brought her fresh figs from the kitchens so she won’t be hungry.”
“And flowers!” Aegon leaned forward, waving the crushed stems. “Rhae wanted to come too!”
Maekar looked at the bouquet, then at the figs, and finally at little Rhae, who had just let go of her sister’s hand and, with a soft, delighted squeal, toddled straight toward his legs, grabbing the hem of his robes. He frowned so deeply his brows nearly became one line, but he immediately crouched so the little girl would not lose her balance.
“Your shoes.” he observed grimly, though his large hand guarded the one-year-old with incredible gentleness. “They click against the stone. And you, Rhae, stomp louder than all of them. I told the steward clearly that this corridor was to be quiet. Your mother must rest. If you wish to go in, you will walk on your toes. Like scouts. Not a single sound.”
Daella gave her father a faint, amused look, then obediently lifted her heels.
“Yes, Father.” she whispered.
Maekar turned his stern gaze on his son.
“And you, young man.” he muttered to Aegon. “You watch your sister. No running around the chamber. No jumping on the bed. You give her the flowers, sit on the stool, and behave as befits a prince. Understood?”
The boy nodded vigorously, almost saluting with his little hand.
Maekar lifted one-year-old Rhae onto one arm-making sure her small hands did not dirty his robes-and opened the door for the little troop with his other hand. He let them in, then entered right behind them, shutting the room away from the rest of the world.
As soon as the heavy door closed behind Maekar, the room immediately felt brighter. Daella, faithful to the promise she had made her father, walked on her toes, though her ear-to-ear grin entirely ruined her “scout-like” seriousness. Aegon hurried straight toward your chaise, holding the crushed marigolds as if they were the greatest treasure in the world, while little Rhae, still carried on Maekar’s arm, reached her chubby hands toward you.
“Did he terrorize you in the corridor again?” you asked with a smile, opening your arms as Maekar, with extraordinary care, set the one-year-old girl on the bed beside you.
“He told us to walk like scouts,” Aegon whispered conspiratorially, climbing onto the stool and placing the flowers in your lap. “Mommy, are you really going to burst because of the seventh baby? Because Father looks like he’s about to burst himself.”
Daella snorted with laughter, setting the bowl of fresh figs on the bedside table.
“Aegon, stop talking nonsense.” his older sister scolded, then came closer and kissed your cheek gently. “Father is just in one of his moods again. The castle steward nearly fainted when he ordered the floors torn up so thicker carpets could be laid down.”
You laughed softly, tucking little Rhae against your side. She immediately became fascinated by the tassels on your coverlet, babbling happily under her breath. You adjusted the crumpled marigold stems Aegon had brought and glanced toward the wall, where Maekar stood near the window. He watched all of you in silence, arms crossed over his chest, but there was the slightest softening at the corners of his eyes.
“Your father simply… cares about us very much” you said gently, stroking Aegon’s white hair. “But I promise, my darling, everything is all right. Nothing is going to happen to me.”
“That’s good,” Aegon muttered, reaching for one of the figs, which Daella immediately swatted his fingers away from. “Because when Father gets nervous, even the knights in the castle are afraid to breathe too loudly.”
You spent the next hour with them, listening to Daella talk about her lessons and Aegon complain that one-year-old Rhae had ruined his favorite toy. In that warm, safe nest of pillows, surrounded by your children, you could almost forget for a while about the fear that paralyzed your husband so completely.
When the sun finally began to set, Daella-as befitted an elder sister-gathered her siblings. She led sleepy Aegon away and lifted half-asleep Rhae into her arms, promising they would bring you more flowers in the morning. They slipped out quietly, leaving you and Maekar alone in the chamber.
The silence that followed slowly thickened with the approaching night, and your stern guardian finally pushed away from the wall and came closer to the bed.
Late night brought Summerhall the relief it had been waiting for. The heat had finally eased, giving way to a cooler breeze that gently stirred the heavy curtains in the bedchamber. The candles burned low, casting long, trembling shadows across the walls.
You sat on the bed, propped against a mountain of pillows, listening to Maekar’s steady breathing as he moved around the room. He had already removed his heavy outer garments, setting aside his belt and family signet. He wore only a simple, loose linen tunic now. Without all the layers of expensive fabric and harsh tailoring, he seemed strangely… human. Though still powerful and broad-shouldered, in the half-dark he looked simply like a man who was deathly tired.
He approached the bed with astonishing quiet. Despite his size, he could move soundlessly when he wished to. He sat on the edge of the mattress, which dipped beneath his weight.
For a long while, he said nothing.
He simply looked at you, the faint glow of the last candle reflected in his violet eyes. At last, he reached out one great, scarred hand and, with hesitation-almost reverence-laid it on your belly. Beneath his warmth, you felt the seventh child move faintly, as though answering its father’s touch.
Maekar flinched slightly, and that rare, almost painful grimace of tenderness appeared on his stern face-the one he never showed anyone else.
“You’re still awake.” he murmured, and his voice carried none of the rough command he had used in the corridor. It was low, raspy, and filled with exhaustion.
“I was waiting for you.” you answered softly, placing your hand over his fingers. “You spent the entire day running through the castle and terrorizing the servants. I thought you might at least stop at night.”
Maekar exhaled loudly through his nose, which was probably his version of a sigh. He moved his hand higher, stroking the taut skin of your belly with his thumb. Then he leaned forward, resting his forehead against your shoulder as if he had finally allowed himself to set down the weight he had been carrying all day.
“I cannot.” he whispered against the fabric of your nightgown. “When I lead men into battle, every movement has purpose. I know the strength of my arms. I know how long a shield wall will hold and when the enemy will break. Everything depends on my command. But here?”
He lifted his head to look into your eyes, and in his gaze was such deep, grim fear that it stole the breath from your chest.
“Here, my anger is useless. I could take the head of anyone who looked at you wrongly, but I cannot stop a fever or ill fate. Even if I placed guards at every step and covered all of Westeros in carpets, in the end my orders mean nothing against nature.”
His hand left your belly and moved to your cheek, his rough fingers impossibly gentle.
“You have survived six births, and every time, I feel as though I stand alone before an entire army without a sword in my hand. You are the one thing holding me together, (Y/N). If anything went wrong this seventh time… if you were gone… there would be nothing left to gather. Only ashes. So yes, I will be a tyrant to the servants. I will growl at every lord in this castle. But you and this child will live.”
You smiled faintly, drawing his head closer and threading your fingers through his pale hair. Maekar muttered something unintelligible, but in the end, he lay down beside you, one hand still resting on your belly like a guard unwilling to leave his post before dawn.
☆.。.:*・°☆.。.:*・°☆.。.:*・°☆.。.:*・°☆ .。.:*
Thank you so much for reading 🤍
I had so much fun writing Maekar’s version of “being calm.”
Apparently, for him, that means threatening to send people to the Wall, treating terraces like enemy territory, and making sure his pregnant wife is surrounded by enough pillows to survive a siege.
But beneath all of that, I really wanted this story to be about fear — the kind Maekar cannot command away, fight away, or frighten into obedience. He is a man who knows what to do on a battlefield, but when it comes to the woman he loves, all that strength suddenly has nowhere to go.
So he becomes impossible. Overbearing. Terrifying. Ridiculous.
And completely, hopelessly devoted.
Thank you for reading this little piece of Maekar domestic chaos 🤍
tags: +18, boyfriend!baelor, fluff, smut, a bit of angst, mature themes, romanticism (it's baelor cmon), nudity, oral (f), some dirty talk (but again, it's baelor), mentioned animal abuse and irresponsible owners, no use of y/n, badly proofread, english is not my first language. let me know if there's anything else!
word count: 1.5k+
a/n: if you like modern Baelor then please PLEASE go check out works by @ildico-the-golden and her The Dragons Next Door AU. you have my word that she is an absolute queen of AKOTSK modern AU.
Baelor is always protective in that specific way that doesn’t make you feel stupid or irresponsible. It’s the same when he explains something to you – doesn’t matter if it’s exactly his interest or something that you imagine you should already know – he never makes you feel bad. He never lectures, he just suggests and asks. Not because he thinks he knows better… Well, even if he does, it’s not better than you, just better than others, better than the world. After all, in his age, he doesn’t have that much faith in the world anymore. He finds himself to be some sort of a protector, apparently. You and the world with him in between, it seems.
Somehow, when the heavy summer and heatwaves hit, his protective nature grows thicker. Usually, it even makes you chuckle, and the smile on your face brings up one of his as well. It makes him realize that perhaps he’s treating some burned skin like the end of your life, and he panics inside a bit too much. Usually. Sometimes he’s so serious that you can literally feel his anxiety in the air.
Still, he worries that you'll get burned. Prepare for Baelor buying you every cosmetic with SPF that you could manage to think of. He’s restless in asking you to move from the sun into the shadow, reminding you to drink and everything.
Funnily, he seems to be unbothered by the heat himself most of the time. As long as the weather doesn’t turn in something truly hell-ish, he actually enjoys it. And honestly? There is nothing more beautiful than seeing his calm face, a bit tired but happy, in the light of a golden hour after the deathly heat goes away.
Perhaps he just forced himself to accept the weather and suffer inside because he refuses to change his quite elegant style…
Even though he works in an office, he tans pretty quickly himself. It often makes him look like a man who has an outside job. You’d swear he blushes when you tease him about it, mentioning how attractive he looks. Like a hot blue collar husband. It’s hard not to stare when he wears short sleeves or shows off his arms in the rolled up button-ups he loves so much.
Again, he never lectures, but that being said, he is also awfully strict about drinking alcohol in the sun. He won’t hear out any explanations, any assurances that you’re fine, until you move inside or take cover. He can’t stop you, of course, but prepare for him to stare like he could actually influence you with the strengths of his mind and complain, insist and talk, talk talk… It’s for his peace of mind, after all, so why wouldn’t you calm him and finish your wine or other drink indoors?
Baelor loves watching you rest on a beach or somewhere near the water. Perhaps you have a trip to a lake with his sons. They would surely get lost somewhere with their friends, leaving the two of you to yourself. He can spot when the sound of the water and soft conversations makes your eyelids heavy.
He picks you up with particular carefulness, scoping you in his arms, to carry you off the beach and off the heavy sun.
Speaking about vacations and free days…
You know those videos that compare young couples’ behaviour and those who've been together for 10+ years? Baelor doesn't mind both. He is a romantic soul, surely, he likes meaningful gestures, but what he loves the most is seeing you enjoying yourself. And if by that you mean playing in the hotel's pool then, hell, so be it.
Prepare for Baelor taking many, and I mean many, pictures of you.
With all his sense of injustice in the world and the weight that he carries, Baelor has trouble sleeping that seems to get worse in the summer. It's not rare that you wake up to him prompted on his elbow, watching you carefully with a gentle smile as if it was the only sight that could calm him and the sheets kicked down to his feet. Or you find the place by your side to be empty. There is something deeply gracious in the way Baelor sat on the balcony. He stares somewhere in the dark, clearly his thoughts making the look more interesting. He appreciated it every time you get out of bed and slide into his lap.
Even more if he can feel the skin of your back against his bare chest. Skin to skin, palms slowly moving to caress and trace.
Strangely, you think that those short, awful nights during the heatwave bring something depressive in your older boyfriend.
If he stays with you in the bed, you can find him sitting with his back against the wall and head thrown to the side a bit. His beautiful features are lit either by the moon or dim in the darkness, somehow in pain or worry as if he was forced to bear it all alone. “Just a headache,” he’ll mutter when you ask or throw some other easy explanation. Like, he was thinking about the non-fiction book he just finished, and it will lead him into hours of soft conversation with you.
Even when you're in your apartment or when Valarr is out for the night you both speak in hushed voices. It’s an unnecessary habit that provides some unexplainable comfort. And if it does, then why get rid of it?
Sometimes you think that seeing you so miserable actually provides him some entertainment. You would think it’s cruel if he wasn’t so damn smooth about it.
“Does my baby want some distraction from this suffering?” He asks and your breath hitch because you know that voice. The sound of it is somehow even more steady than usually, quiet and warm. Still, you did not expect the feeling of his rough beard rubbing over the skin of your inner thighs. You didn’t really comprehend the situation until he was pressing his tongue into your core and mouthing. He let you feel the groan that left his throat when you ran your fingers through his hair. “Do it again,” he asked, no, ordered hoarsely. God, you thought of something else but you weren’t complaining. It was surely rather distracting.
One day you stumble upon an animal locked in a car in the parking lot and, god, you don't even have to mutter any word of worry because your boyfriend is already on it. He is a very rational person but in moments like this he turns into the calmest version of rage known to men. His face shows a deep grimace, his voice turns even quieter but certainly more rough. As if he screamed before and now suffered from a sore throat.
You saw the focus in his eyes and the worry when he instructed you how to help. After contacting the local services and no sign of the owner around, you both decided that there's no other option than to get inside no matter what. With a brush over your back Baelor tells you to step away then rolls up his sleeves and picks up a big rock. He crashes the window with the skill of someone who did it before even though he swears he never did.
He's even more furious if the owner decides to show up eventually. The person snaps at you, trying to get the animal curled up in your arms back, and Baelor almost loses his mind. Well, that's at least how he sees it because on the outside he's still a picture of calmness. Only you could see something was wrong by how his hands shook a bit, his forehead frowned and eyes were adorned by more wrinkles. “Don’t worry, darling,” you mutter to him, “we will wait until the police get here, no need to get mad.”
“I know,” he grunts before apologizing for getting mad when he makes sure you are far enough from the idiotic owner. “They almost hit you, though…” he pointed out with his jaw clenched as if you didn’t see the fist going your way yourself. “I’m lucky you were there, yes? I’m perfectly fine,” you assure and he nods.
Yeah, consider yourself new animal owners after this! Imagine Baelor sitting still for hours because the pet rests their head on his lap or chest and he refuses to move and disturb it…
Park picnic dates where he reads to you!
He also makes sure to ask and plead for you not to go on your runs and training in the biggest sun. “I will lock you in the bathroom,” he threatens jokingly when you rolled your eyes. “Please, my love. You can go in the evening when it's colder,” he tries to reason. “But I will be too lazy to go in the evening…” you complain, “also… it will be dark. Do you want me wandering around in the–” Baelor cuts in before you can finish. “Of course not. I will go with you. Is that alright?” That makes you smile brightly. “More than that. Who am I to turn down the chance of seeing you all sweaty and…”
He chuckles deeply, but you don’t fail to notice a faint blush on his cheeks. His lips brush your collarbone as he breathes in your scent. “Yes, likewise, dear.”
a/n: i am in desperate need for baelor 'boyfriend' targaryen rn
✦ HOW THEY'D EAT YOU OUT. ⋆ valarr, daeron, maekar, aerion, aegon ii, aemond, baelor.
ᵎᵎ warnings. afab! reader, sexually explicit content, mdni, unestablished relationship, no y/n, oral sex (f receiving), suffocating, mentions of unconsciousness, overstimulation, mentions of crying, biting, marking, begging, spitting, praising.
ᵎᵎ notes. hold my wine honey i'm feeling inspired. im sorry if its too freaky this is just who i am 🙏 also reqs open, just reminding u in case u wanna go crazy.
⋆ valarr will eat you out like he’s making out with your pussy. his hands keep you pinned to the mattress, spreading your thighs with gentleness, while his lips press against your clit first — a soft, teasing brush. his mismatched eyes gaze up at you, drinking in every reaction on your flushed face. only when he sees that pretty, shy expression does he begin pressing soft kisses to your swollen bud, eventually letting his tongue flick out playfully. he won’t stop until your hips are twitching with desperation and your moans grow louder. only then does he drag one long, slow swipe of his warm tongue over your entrance. he exhales in relief, eyes rolling back as your taste hits his tongue. that’s all it takes for him to dive deeper — pressing hot, open-mouthed kisses between your wet folds, the tip of his tongue slipping inside you for a few sinful seconds before pulling back, only to do it again. and again. until you’re whimpering, gasping his name like the sweetest prayer.
⋆ daeron will eat you out while he’s suffocating between your thighs. you’re sat on his face, knees planted on either side of his head, smothering him completely. there’s nothing he loves more than the burning pressure in his chest from the lack of oxygen, his mind clouding as he edges closer to unconsciousness. just when he starts to fade, you lift your hips enough to let him gasp for air — only for his large hands to yank you right back down with a frustrated whimper. his fingers dig desperately into the soft flesh of your thighs as he pulls your pussy flush against his mouth. his lips latch on hungrily, tongue fucking deep into your clenching, spasming walls, drinking up your juices like they’re the finest wine in the seven kingdoms.
⋆ maekar will eat you out until you’re crying from overstimulation. this is exactly what you get for acting like a brat earlier that day. with lips, teeth, and tongue, he’ll make sure you understand the consequences of your reckless little whims. he’ll pull orgasm after orgasm from you, forcing you to cum on his tongue again and again until you’re breathless, shaking, and your sweet pussy is swollen, dripping, and clenching around nothing. the inside of your thighs will be decorated with red, itchy marks from his rough beard, a reminder of his unrelenting hunger. he pours every ounce of his frustration into you — not just the irritation you earned, but the deep, permanent anger he carries buried inside him. if you try to tug him closer or grind against his face, he’ll nip sharply at your clit in warning, mixing pleasure and pain until you learn your manners. no matter how unruly you act, when his mouth is on your cunt, maekar has the final word.
⋆ aerion will eat you out like it’s his last meal. his hands grip your thighs possessively, nails digging into your plush flesh and leaving perfect crescent-shaped marks. he holds you spread wide open for him, teasing you with slow, taunting licks and sharp little bites everywhere except where you need him most. he ignores your desperate whines and the way you writhe beneath him, letting you suffer until you’re tugging frantically at his pale hair, begging him to put his tongue on you. only when you’ve pleaded enough does he finally oblige. and he is not gentle. aerion devours your pussy with raw hunger — grazing his teeth over your swollen clit to keep you on edge, spreading your folds with his long fingers, and fucking his tongue deep inside you. he doesn’t stop until his chin is dripping with your juices and you’re trembling beneath his mouth.
⋆ aegon will eat you out with lazy arrogance. like, this man knows exactly what he’s doing. he has your pussy memorized by now. every slow flick of his tongue makes you grind your cunt against his parted, wine-stained lips. his eyes never leave yours — those half-lidded violet pools gleaming with mischievous intent. he deliberately stops just to tease you, savoring your frustrated little moans and the sweet sting of your fingers tightening in his hair. that only makes him smile languidly against your pussy. he’ll happily spit on your already soaked hole just to feel you shudder, then flatten his tongue and drag it obscenely over your cunt, gathering every drop of your mixed juices like he has all the time in the world.
⋆ aemond will eat you out like he's a man in a mission. his tongue is merciless as it plugs into you over and over, lost in your taste and too pleased with your moans to even think of stopping. he'll guide your legs to rest over his shoulders as he chase for your pleasure and your words of affirmation, assuring him he's doing great. his long, slender fingers won't stop stroking your hips and waist, never leaving the softness of your warm body. his eye will drift up to yours with that unhinged stare of his, the one that said ‘see? there's no man on the seven kingdoms with this power over you. only me.’
⋆ baelor will eat you out until the only thing you can think about is him. until all you can focus on is the hot press of his tongue sliding between your wet folds, and the way his lips latch around your clit, sucking gently until a shuddering gasp escapes you. his hands stay firm on your waist, only moving when you try to close your legs in overwhelming pleasure. he spreads you wider, making sure every inch of you is open and available for his mouth. whenever he pulls back to press soft, lingering kisses to the inside of your thighs, he murmurs the sweetest praises against your skin — purring about how good you taste and what a well-behaved girl you are for him. he mixes tender affection with raw pleasure so effortlessly it leaves you dizzy.
pairing(s): baelor “breakspear” targaryen x wife!reader
summary: You wear Baelor's shirt to bed. He is very normal about it.
words: 2.4k
cw: explicit, smut, piv sex, unprotected sex, fingering, somnophilia, (mild), prone bone, headlock, biting, possessive behavior, reader called 'girl’, yearning, this is quite simply just baelor jumping our bones, i love arm, mildly edited, not beta read
a/n: this is not officially a sequel to my other baelor fic but it can be read like that since i characterized him the same. i rly just want that old man to fuck me in his shirt idk
ALL MY WORKS ARE 18+ MINORS DNI. I BLOCK AGELESS BLOGS.
Baelor has been standing at the foot of your bed for… much longer than he intended to. There's a tilt to his head, seventy-six degrees and counting, and a rise and fall to his chest that seems to be getting slightly faster with each passing exhale.
You do not see it. You are, as it is, asleep.
You're wearing his shirt. This is what has him still as stone, drawing his eyes over you in slow drags that he just can't seem to put an end to.
It's not an elaborate shirt. It's not even one of his best ones— the royal seamstresses have laden him with shirts of silk and fine woven cotton, embellished with hours of needlework or, in some horrifying cases, even beading. He has shirts of every color and shade, shirts of damask and velvet, shirts for summer and shirts for winter. Tunics from Dorne. Doublets from the Reach. Myrish robes. Qartheen samite vests.
You have chosen none of those. The one you have chosen is as simple a garment as he would choose on any given day, to wear against his skin beneath his doublet. White linen gauze, unembellished, unadorned. Its sleeves almost as billowing as its body, coming to plain rectangular cuffs. A simple collar, a sturdy yoke across the shoulders, double-stitched to keep it from unraveling. It is, in a word, efficient. Standard.
He knows, without having to ask you, that you chose to wear this shirt specifically because it is standard. Because it is one that he wears often. The cuffs have gone slightly soft with the wear, the neckline just a bit stretched along the bias. The felled seams are coming undone just a touch at the hem, a fact that he always sees but hasn't brought to the attention of his attendant, because it would mean a week of waiting to have it repaired. It is unfussy. But it is his.
And you are curled up in it like a kitten, asleep in his bed, your leg thrown over a pillow that you had moved toward his side of the bed in his absence. He has spent too long at his work, he knows. You spent too long waiting for him— long enough that you removed your nightgown and donned one of his shirts, and you fell asleep like that. Alone. In the bed you are meant to share with him.
Baelor feels a tightness in his chest that is ringed with fondness, an aching longing for you that hadn't stopped after your wedding, and doesn't seem like it will any time soon. He is too taken with you, too in love and consumed by it for that intrinsic sense of need for you to fade. It is a tender thing, tied around his heart in an intricate knot, with a tail that you hold the end of. You twirl it around your little finger and he buckles like a man who has never seen combat, who doesn't know what it is to stand his ground.
Baelor sighs as he undresses, but he keeps one eye on you all the while, as though you may disappear if he moves too far away. But you don't move. You don't even stir, when his belt hits the stone floor, or when his breeches follow. You are caught up in a world of dreams, unaware of what the sight of your sleeping form is doing to your husband, bringing him to the brink of something he has never quite been able to put a name to.
You do not stir when his hand presses into the mattress.
You do not stir when his weight dips the bedding and he moves slowly, purposefully, over you.
You do, however, stir just the smallest bit when his fingers dance over the curve of your hip through the fabric, feeling its drape over the soft plush of your skin. The meat of your ass, the swell of your thigh. Baelor feels, smoothing and caressing with a languid stroke that is not intended to rouse you, although he knows very well that it might and he does it anyway. Your fingers flex on the pillow that you clutch instead of him.
He finds himself, at that moment, inordinately envious of a pillow. A lump of fabric and feathers in your hands, between your thighs.
His hand grows bolder, a broad stroke over the small of your back, into the dip of your waist. You make a small noise in your throat, twitching the slightest bit as he passes over a particularly sensitive area.
"Shh, my sweet girl," Baelor whispers quietly, a lulling murmur in the darkness. Everything about you is soft— your skin, the fabric of his shirt as it lays over you, your hair, the expression on your face, the candle light on your sleeping body. It overwhelms him. It turns him into something that he's not normally, unless he is with you: a man. Not a Prince, and not the Hand of the King or heir to the throne. Not a warrior and not a subject of songs and poetry, myths and stories. With you, in this bed, he is simply a man in love with his wife, devoted beyond measure.
By the time his hand reaches your nape, your eyes are fluttering open the barest amount. Your face is still pressed slightly into the pillow, but you shift, a perking of your head as awareness returns to you. "Baelor?"
"It's me," he tells you, his voice low enough to not even constitute words.
"Mm. Waited for you," you mumble, confirming what he already knew.
His eyes crease at the corners, his smile overly tender. "I know. I'm here now."
Even as he says it, his hand is finding the hem of his shirt draped over your thigh, its frayed edge tickling against the smoothness of your skin. You hum quietly, dropping your eyelids against the feeling of his warm hand, burrowing between pillow and fabric and skin to find you, bare and wet and waiting for him.
"Oh," you sigh when his fingertip draws a slow circle around your clit.
"I know," he reassures you again, pressing a chaste, sweet kiss to the back of your neck. "I know, my love."
You turn your head further into the pillow beneath you, letting out a small whine at the feeling, your hips arching into his touch. He responds in kind, laying his weight flush to your back, his hand pinned between you and the pillow below.
"You're wearing my shirt," he remarks, his fingers finding your entrance and sliding in, stretching you open quick enough to make you keen softly. He gives you a few shallow strokes, feeling you grind back into the press of his cock against your tailbone. "My beautiful wife, wearing my clothes."
"W-Wanted to— to feel you— mm." Your voice is still slightly slurred with sleep, the heat of his body and the slowness of his movements doing nothing to rouse you more. You are still somewhere between awake and dreaming, pleasantly lulled, drowsy in your responses to him. Still, you moan at the curving of his fingers. "Wanted you… close to me…"
"Then let me be close," Baelor whispers, dragging the wilting fabric of his shirt up over your hips. He puffs a sigh through his nose, the ghost of it breezing against your neck. "What am I to do with you, hm?"
You make a pathetic noise when he moves your thighs apart to fit himself between them, his chest pressed to the curve of your spine, the thin fabric of his shirt separating you. He kisses you beneath the ear.
"You can sleep, darling," he tells you quietly, a whisper into your ear as his cock settles heavy between your thighs, the head sliding hotly against your cunt. Even though his voice is low, it booms through you like a thunderclap. "You need rest."
"I need you," you retort, but your own voice is far off, dipping towards the fogginess of sleep already.
Your eyes flutter shut, a gentle sigh of relief leaving you when he enters you slowly, stretching you open around him. Pressure on your back, pressure between your legs, pressure where his hand is pinned and lifting your hips from the front, angling them back towards him. Baelor's arm comes up to brace beside your head, and the scent of him surrounds you— the same scent that always drives you crazy, juniper and peppercorn, and something slightly like the salt of a raging sea.
You breathe in deep, exhale on a contented, fulfilled hum. Your entire world is Baelor, your mind and body consumed by him completely. His body spanning the length of you, bone to bone, naked skin to thin, ineffectual fabric.
You clench around him, and Baelor makes a noise as though you've punched him. So close to your ear, the headiness of it is echoed tenfold. Then he shifts his weight, dropping his hips ever-so-slightly, and then just grinds into you. His cock nestles into the deepest part of you and you groan, your mouth dropping open and face turning towards the breadth of his arm beside you.
"Baelor," you whimper, soft and broken, slurred from the recesses of sleep. Your hand finds his bicep, drawn taut from the muscle holding him up, keeping him from crushing you completely. Your fingers dig in, pull. A silent plea, a command that he follows like a dog on a leash.
Baelor fits his forearm under your head and lifts, letting you rest your chin there against the crook of his elbow, getting you into a loose headlock. Your hand wraps loosely around his upper arm, your body lax, letting him rut his hips shallowly into yours.
"My beautiful girl," he breathes into your ear, and you feel his teeth, bared with intent. His nose pressed to the shell, his beard scraping rough against your cheek. "My heart. My soul."
His arm tightens. Just a tad, but just enough. You mewl like a wounded animal, stretching your limbs so that he can move closer in, can fit his mouth to the curve of your throat, while he throbs somewhere deep in you that makes your head spin and your breath stick in your chest. His weight on you turns full, crushing, an all-over press that pins you flat to the bed, the pillow tucked beneath your stomach.
You are no longer asleep.
"Say it," he tells you, a primal rasp to his voice that wasn't there before. Low, smoky. A dragon. It's dragged from the pit of him, from some hell that lurks deep inside his body. His groan slinks down your spine and pools as raw energy right above where his cock hollows out and reaches the end of you. "Say that you're mine."
"M'yours," you murmur into his arm, breathing in the hot air that radiates from him. "Baelor. M-My heart. My soul—"
A guttural sound leaves you, your open mouth muffled by the bite you take of his bicep when he pulls his hips back and ruts into you hard, hard enough to shake the bed. Baelor's breath in your ear is shaky, stilted with the desperation of his movements, the purpose for which he collects himself.
"Gods above," he groans, his face turned into your neck just as yours is turned into his arm. With great effort, he loosens his hold on you. He presses an apologetic kiss to the curve of your shoulder. "I'm sorry. So sorry, my love."
You make a short noise, shake your head once. "Do it again."
Baelor does as you tell him. He pulls back slowly, letting his cock drag through your walls just before rushing back in with a jolt up the bed. Soft hair grinds against the plush of your ass, his mouth open and heaving with gasps against your shoulder, covered in the fabric of his shirt.
You can taste his need in the salt on his skin, beads of sweat forming in the crook of his elbow, fiery heat pressed flush to your back. "I need to— to wear your clothes more often."
"Yes." The word is hungry. It leaves no room for defiance. "You will."
The hand pinned between you and the pillow moves, snakes down to find your clit again. You are blinded with white light behind your eyelids, your breath gone still in your chest. Then, you pant like your air has no place to go, your hand tightening on his bicep, his arm tightening around your throat.
"Mm. There." The sound of his voice in your ear, while he fingers at your clit and his cock makes you so full that you can barely think, undoes you. Tremors take over your body, and you feel him smile as he continues to work at you. "That's what you get. I want you shaking."
"Baelor." You cum around him, with his full weight holding you down with nowhere to go. You are held hostage to it, to the slow, seductive movements of his hips, the lazy strokes of his finger against your clit.
"That's it. My good girl," Baelor purrs into your ear, and you sob as you clench around him. "My good, sweet, beautiful—"
He runs his tongue lightly across the nape of your neck and groans, ducking his head as he cums. His moans are muffled by his shirt on your back, his body curled over yours like fog. He presses his hips hard against yours, as though he can become a part of you if he gets close enough, deep enough.
"Oh, my love." His whisper falls upon your ears like a dream, like you may wake up and not remember it. But he's real, and he's there on top of you with his heart pounding against your back, and his fist in the fabric of his shirt, the one that started all of this.
He stays there for a breath, and then two. His hips are still flush to yours, but he's stopped moving, stopped the slow grind and the desperate, cloying attempt to get as far inside of you as he possibly could. He simply holds there, with his arm still around your throat, but not pressing in anymore. Just holding. Just cradling.
"I don't know if you noticed," Baelor says after a moment, his voice tremulous and padded by a wad of fabric between his teeth, at the nape of your neck. He releases it. "But I quite like it when you wear my clothes."
You huff a laugh, and press a kiss to the inside of his elbow. "If you do that every time, I may never get any sleep."
Baelor hums. "The chances are very slim, indeed."
Even so, you wear the same shirt the next night. And the one after that.
Summary: A series of encounters between you and Maekar quickly culminated in a possessive, all-consuming connection neither of you can resist.
Word count: 1.6K
Tags: 18+/MINORS DO NOT INTERACT, SEXUAL EXPLICIT CONTENT, porn without plot, explicit smut, unprotected sex (p in v), spanking, choking, Modern AU, age gap(reader is in her mid to late 20s, Maekar is in his early 40s), she/her pronouns, AFAB reader, English is my second language
Please let me know if I’ve missed anything!
Disclaimer: I do not own the characters, setting, or story of A Knight of the Seven Kingdoms. This work is a fanfiction created for enjoyment and non-commercial purposes only.
Author’s note: Any incarnation of modern!Maekar has me in a chokehold, this is just a quick one shot I wrote a while back. Needed to get this out of my system! Hope you all enjoy.
When you first met Maekar Targaryen, you thought two things immediately.
The first was that he was intimidating.
The second was that he was unfairly handsome.
You met him at your cousin’s school performance. She had spent the entire week talking about her new best friend, Egg, and the moment the show ended she dragged you over to him to introduce you.
Egg greeted you like he knew you forever, smiling brightly. He then introduced you to his father, who was standing behind him. Maekar merely inclined his head.
“Hello.”
One word in that voice, expression serious, ice blue eyes staring at you. That was all it took, and you felt your whole brain seize at the immediate crush you had on him.
Later that night while chatting with your best friend, you told her that you were apparently losing it. Because for the first time in your life, not only you developed a crush on a blond man, you wanted to desperately fuck said blond man.
Her response was immediate.
Thoughts and prayers.
The second time you saw him was entirely by accident. You were doing some shopping therapy, when someone shouted your name loudly enough to startle half the other shoppers nearby.
Egg came running towards you.
“There you are!” He announced, hugging you.
“I was not aware I was being hunted down.”
Egg rolled his eyes dramatically. Then you noticed Maekar approaching behind him. He wore a dark shirt with the sleeves rolled up to his elbows, exposing strong forearms that immediately became the reason you forgot anything you were about to say.
You coughed and tried to recover, smiling sweetly at him. “It is nice to see you again.”
Maekar studied you for a moment, his expression unreadable. Then he nodded.
“You as well.”
You spent the rest of the interaction trying very hard not to stare.
The third time was at Egg’s birthday party. Your aunt and uncle could not attend, so you ended up accompanying your cousin. Not that you minded and Egg was happy to see you as well.
The children were having fun, and the adults were making small talk. Nearly an hour into a conversation about school admissions and property taxes, you decided you deserved a medal for endurance. The small talk got to you in the end, and you excused yourself.
While searching for the bathroom, you turned a corner and nearly collided with someone. A warm hand settled on your arm to steady you. You looked up and your breath hitched.
Maekar, who had just left his office and was looking at you with that unreadable expression again.
“Oh my god, I am sorry!” You exclaimed.
“You need to watch where you are going.” He warned, but his hand did not leave your arm.
“I know, but I was trying to escape from the parents.” You laughed.
For the first time, you saw the faintest hint of amusement in his expression.
“Come with me.”
Fingers curling on your arm, you followed him into his office. His office was quieter than the rest of the house, insulated from the noise of dozens of children and parents.
A heavy silence settled between you as he poured a glass of whiskey, the amber liquid swirling as he handed it to you.
“I am glad I am not the only one who cannot stand the fuckers.” He almost growled, his voice so low that it made your stomach flip.
You let out a chuckle and downed the whiskey in one go, the burn of the alcohol almost mirroring the heat radiating from him. You caught him watching you as you did that. Not just your lips, but his gaze roamed greedily over your body, tracing the lines of your dress as if he were imagining exactly how to rip it off you.
His expression darkened at your slight, inviting nod, and the tension snapped.
He lunged forward, his mouth crashing hard against yours. The kiss was not gentle, it was a claim, a conquest. He tugged harshly at your lower lip with his teeth, and it made you moan loudly. You reacted instinctively, your fingers diving into his silver-blond hair, gripping tight as his tongue forced its way past your lips to claim every inch of your mouth.
“Fuck…” He groaned as he firmly gripped your ass, pushing you more towards him.
Not leaving your lips, his warm hand then slid under your dress to grip your thighs with bruising force, hoisting you up. You gasped as he moved, sitting you on the cold surface of his desk, his body pressing firmly between your thighs. You wrapped your legs firmly around his waist, pulling him closer.
You could feel the ridge of his hard cock through the fabric of his trousers and your soaked panties, pressing firmly against you. You arched, grinding yourself against him, moaning as his hips moved to meet yours.
The world outside the office ceased to exist. There was only the sound of your ragged breathing, his groans and the noise of your lips meeting his, your tongue touching his in desperate need.
You were both on the verge of tearing each other’s clothes off, the hunger too visceral to be ignored anymore. But just as his hands moved to push your panties down, and yours moved to open his trousers, you both froze.
The distant sound of Egg’s laughter echoed, a sharp reminder of the occasion.
He pulled back, his forehead rested against yours, noses touching as both of you struggled to catch your breath. His eyes were almost black, filled with a raw and agonizing lust.
“Dammit.” He hissed, the word a guttural curse.
He could not do it, not here, not during his son’s party. But the restraint was clearly torture.
Before you slid out of the office, you gave him your phone number and he captured your lips one last time in a bruising, possessive kiss that tasted of whiskey and promise. He let you go, but the look he gave you as you walked out the door told you exactly what he planned to do to you the moment you were alone.
The fourth time you met Maekar was on a date he set up after three long, agonising days. The air between you was thick, tension simmering during dinner.
You wore your favourite little black dress, playing the part of the civil companion while your mind was simmering with desire. Every time his gaze roamed over you, you could feel the phantom sensation of his tongue, his teeth, and the heavy weight of his cock pressed against.
You knew he was fighting the same war, his eyes already darkened with a possessive heat.
Any pretense to civility shattered the moment you were alone. There was no slow build, only a desperate, frantic need to touch one another, for him to be inside of you.
Your moans echoed loudly in the living room. You were perched on top of him, your hands gripping his shoulders as you sank down, taking every bit of his thick cock. He stretched your walls to a delicious, aching fullness that made your toes curl and your vision blur. Maekar’s hands were iron clamps on your hips, anchoring you firmly as he leaned forward to latch his mouth onto one of your nipples, sucking hard enough to leave a mark.
On the floor beside the couch, the remnants of your red lace underwear lay destroyed, torn in his haste to get inside you.
You began to move slowly, hips rolling in a rhythmic, grinding movement before you lifted yourself high. A loud groan ripped from his throat as you slammed back down with force, burying him deep in you. He released your breast, trailing wet, searing kisses up your neck before capturing your lips in a bruising kiss. Your fingers tangled deep into his silver-blond hair, pulling him closer, needing more of him.
“Maekar-” You whimpered against his mouth, the sound cut short as his palm connected with your ass.
“You liked that?” He chuckled darkly, hissing as you gripped him tighter when he delivered another spank.
“Yes!” You keened, the sharp pain sending a jolt of pleasure straight to your clit.
You picked up the pace, your breath coming in ragged gasps. “Please… please Maekar do not stop.”
He delivered a few more firm spanks that left your skin glowing red. He moaned loudly, his head tossed back to the couch as your walls tightened around him like a vice.
“Fuck, you are so tight…” He groaned, your name sounding like a prayer on his lips. “You feel like heaven.”
His praise made you blush, and you were shaking, hovering on the edge of a cliff.
“You liked that, did you not?” He asked, his voice a low, commanding rumble. “Like to be told how good you are?”
You could only nod, kissing him again with a desperate hunger, your hips moving in a blur.
“I did... oh, so much…” You barely managed to choke out.
Suddenly, his hand shot up, fingers wrapping firmly around your throat. He squeezed, cutting off your air just enough to make your head swim and your heart hammer against your ribs. The sensation sent another jolt of pleasure through your clit, your pupils dilating as you looked down into his almost black eyes.
He released you just as the need for air became desperate, his hand winding into your hair and tugging your head back harshly to expose your throat. He shifted his weight, his hips surging upward in tandem with yours, driving himself even deeper.
“You are mine now!” He growled, the possessiveness in his tone absolute, his grip on your hair tightening as he claimed you completely.
“Yes! Yours!” You almost screamed, your walls clenching around him as you both spiraled towards release.
Because I could not figure out how to properly add and reblog my taglist to a scheduled post, I am skipping it for now. I did not want to risk missing anyone or picking and choosing unfairly. We will be back to the regular taglist once I am back from my holidays!
The idea of him at the club just makes me chuckle!!! But I also can see him some how secretly dragging himself there. Maybe to keep an eye on reader and Daeron.
this was so much fun to write jfc i love pushing that dilf's buttons
Grateful Prompt List
20. Clubbing | modern!BFF's dad!Maekar x f!reader
Maekar had made his position on the club extremely clear.
"No," he'd said, the first time.
"You don't even know what I'm asking yet," you'd said.
"No," he'd said again, which was either remarkably efficient or completely unhelpful depending on your perspective.
It had taken twenty minutes, a great deal of strategic begging from Daeron, and the specific argument — delivered by you, calmly, like a closing statement — that the alternative was the two of you getting a taxi home from a club at one in the morning with no one sober keeping an eye on things, and didn't he remember exactly how well that had worked out the last time something like that happened.
He had gone very quiet at that.
Because the last time you had been at a party and ended up drunk with Daeron, Maekar knew what happened. His jaw made that specific movement at remembering that the mole on your right underboob was common knowledge for both Daeron and him.
He did not want a repeat of that exact sequence of risk, even though the outcome had ultimately worked out in his favour years later. Mostly because he did not believe in pressing his luck twice.
"Fine," he'd said. Flatly. "I'll drive."
"You don't have to come in," you'd said.
"I'm coming in," he'd said, in the tone of a man who had already lost this argument with himself and was simply informing you of the result.
Which was how Maekar found himself standing against the wall of a club at eleven-thirty at night, arms crossed, wearing a black button-up that he had clearly put some thought into despite his ongoing and vocal disapproval of the entire evening, looking like a man personally offended by the bass-boosted music.
"You look thrilled," you said, handing him a water you'd bought him without being asked.
"I look like a man in a club," he flatlined his voice.
"Same thing, with you."
The almost-smile. Brief. Gone before you could enjoy it.
Daeron appeared with two drinks, deposited one in your hand, and surveyed his father with the expression of a man assessing a situation for comedic potential. "He's been standing like that for twenty minutes," he reported. "Like a bouncer who hates the bar."
"I'm doing you both a favour," Maekar said.
"You're doing yourself a favour," Daeron said. "You'd have spent the whole night at home wondering if we were dead in a ditch. Or worse."
Maekar didn't dispute this, which was as close to a confession as he was likely to offer.
You drank your drink. Daeron drank his. Maekar stood against the wall radiating the specific energy of a man counting down the minutes until he could reasonably suggest leaving, and you looked at his sour expression and felt a small, specific, entirely deliberate idea begin to form.
You looked at Daeron. Daeron, who knew that look, grinned immediately.
"Oh, we're doing this," he said.
"We're absolutely doing this," you smiled widely.
The plan, such as it was, required very little explanation, because Daeron had been waiting his entire adult life for an excuse to mess with his father and required no convincing whatsoever. You had to admit, as Maekar's eyes followed his son, that the kid had courage.
You pulled him onto the dance floor. Close. Closer than strictly necessary for two people who were, definitionally, just friends — your back to his chest, his hands loosely at your hips in the universal gesture of platonic dance-floor chaos, both of you grinning at each other like co-conspirators, because you were.
You did not look at Maekar.
You didn't have to. You felt it. The specific quality of attention from across the room, the bass thudding and the lights moving and underneath all of it the very distinct sensation of being watched by someone whose patience was finite and currently being tested on purpose.
Daeron spun you, laughing, entirely too pleased with himself. "He's physically vibrating," he reported, over the music. "I can see it from here. He's doing the jaw thing."
"Good," you said, and let Daeron dip you slightly, theatrically, both of you committing to the performance with the full enthusiasm of people who knew exactly what they were doing and were prepared to suffer the consequences just for the comedy of it.
You didn't get much further than that.
Maekar crossed the dance floor in a way that should not have been physically possible at that speed for a man his size, and his hand closed around your wrist — not roughly, but with absolute finality — and the next thing you knew you were being pulled away from Daeron and into Maekar's chest with the kind of decisiveness that left no room for negotiation.
"Having fun?" you said, looking up at him.
"No," he almost growled.
"You looked very calm from over there."
"I was not calm," he said. His jaw was doing the thing. His hand had moved to your waist, broad and certain, and he was looking down at you with an expression that was several things stacked on top of each other — irritation at the surface, and underneath it something much less composed and hungry.
"Daeron's just dancing with me," you said. Innocent, doe eyes. Devastatingly so.
"Daeron," Maekar said, without looking away from you, "is going to regret this."
From several feet away, Daeron — who had not stopped grinning since the wrist-grab — called out, "Worth it!"
Maekar exhaled through his nose. Then his hand at your waist tightened, slightly, and he pulled you in against him properly, his height and his size doing the thing they always did, surrounding you, and his voice dropped low enough that only you could hear it over the bass.
"Need I remind you who you belong to?" Flat. Certain. The same way he always said it, except now with an edge underneath that hadn't been there before.
"I know," you said.
"Then don't make me cross a dance floor like that again."
"You didn't have to."
"I did," he said, "and you knew I would, which is why you did it."
You smiled at him. He looked at you for a long moment with the specific expression of a man who knew exactly what had just happened and could not entirely bring himself to be angry about it, the almost-smile threatening at the corner of his mouth despite his best efforts.
"You're such a brat," he said.
"You love it."
A pause. Something flickered behind his eyes — the specific complicated thing that happened whenever the word love came anywhere near a sentence about the two of you, even sideways, even teasing. He didn't deny it.
"Dance with me instead," he said. Not a request, exactly. More an instruction with the faintest edge of something that might, in a different man, have been called asking nicely.
"You never dance," you said.
"I'm making an exception," he said, "so Daeron stops getting any ideas."
You let him pull you in properly. He was not, strictly speaking, a good dancer — more a man standing very solidly in one place with his hands on your hips, swaying with the controlled minimalism of someone applying engineering principles to a problem he hadn't anticipated solving tonight — but it was effective, and it was his, and you were significantly more interested in this than in continuing the bit.
From the edge of the dance floor, Daeron watched the whole thing with the expression of a man who had just witnessed peak comedy and intended to discuss it at length for the rest of the night.
"I'm telling Daella about this," he said as he passed both of you on his way back to the place you had been occupying.
"Don't," Maekar said, without turning around.
"I'm telling everyone about this."
Maekar's jaw worked as Daeron disappeared. His hands stayed exactly where they were, on your hips, and he looked down at you instead of dignifying his son with a response.
"Worth it?" you asked him quietly.
The almost-smile, finally allowed through. "Don't push it," he said, but his hands had gone soft at your waist, and that told you everything his words weren't going to.
Daeron, watching from a safe distance with a drink in each hand and an expression of pure unfiltered delight, simply said to himself, "Short fuse on that man. Absurd. Iconic."
remember how i told you yesterday that i'd be out of order until Sunday? yeah, well...
↪︎want more modern!BFF's dad!Maekar? check out this masterlist!
