this blog is a collection of obsessions, moods, aesthetics, and fictional men who would absolutely ruin everything (including me).
i write about intensity — about devotion, desire, power, and the kind of love that feels consuming rather than comforting. stories that linger. dynamics that haunt. men who feel larger than life. women who stand at the center and refuse to shrink.
expect fanfiction, series brainrot, fashion as expression, and reminders to choose yourself — with a touch of chaos.
the old, honorable baelor is long gone — but still collides with the newer, hungrier one. baelor enjoys flying too close to the sun, almost burning his wings, which could lead to his own demise.
Ser Duncan the Tall, Prince Baelor Targaryen, Ser Lyonel Baratheon, Ser Raymun Fossoway, Ser Humfrey Hardyng, Ser Humfrey Beesbury, Ser Robyn Rhysling
A KNIGHT OF THE SEVEN KINGDOMS // 1.05 In the Name of the Mother
PETER CLAFFEY and BERTIE CARVEL as SER DUNCAN THE TALL and BAELOR TARGARYEN
↳ A KNIGHT OF THE SEVEN KINGDOMS (2026), dir. SARAH ADINA SMITH
⤷ 1x04 "Seven"
what kinda fuckass vague answer is that on whether its canon or not so he can see how the audience takes it and depending on that change it 😭😭😭
[anon is referring to this post]
george really needs to sit down and finish those damn books, but we know he won’t do anything. it’s frustrating and annoying. “maybe it is canon, maybe it is not” — annoying.
lyanna stark couldn’t stand robert’s affairs and his womanizing attitude, which made her recoil at the idea of marrying him — yet she had no problem being the mistress of a married man with children, to the point of running away with him?
mind you, she was 15 years old and knew exactly what she was doing, she knew it was wrong. it wasn’t elia’s fault that her parents had never taught her decency.
rewatching the battle scene between ned stark and arthur dayne at the tower of joy disgusts me more than it fascinates me: why is arthur dayne protecting lyanna stark, who is in the tower, instead of protecting elia and her children in the red keep, knowing that house dayne is sworn to house martell? why is elia treated with such disrespect? why did the show treat dorne so unfairly?
Summary: Baelor Targaryen steals a Baratheon woman out of pure obsession and sets the realm on fire to keep her. What begins as abduction becomes a twisted, secret marriage in hiding — until the war he started finally finds them both.
Additional tags: fem!read; no use of Y/N; physical abuse; suicide; graphic violence; stockholm syndrome; kidnapping/abduction; non-con elements; dead dove: do not eat; dubious consent; psychological manipulation; emotional manipulation; dark romance; blood/gore; +18; MDNI
A/N: the spiritual sequel to The Hand’s Justice. upon reflection, i think this one might actually be darker than THJ — enjoy!
* * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *
The feast had been going for hours when he took you.
Music still spilled from the great hall of the Red Keep. Laughter. The clatter of cups. Baelor Breakspear, Hand of the King, rose from his seat beside his father as if he meant only to speak with someone at the far tables. No one marked him leaving. No one marked you following a servant’s message into a side corridor.
He was waiting in the dark.
The moment the door shut behind you his hand closed over your mouth and his other arm locked around your waist. You fought at once — twisting, kicking, trying to drive an elbow into his ribs. He was larger, heavier, trained for war. He took the blows without sound and simply dragged you deeper into the service passages. When you managed to sink your teeth into the edge of his palm he hissed once, then struck you hard enough across the face that white light burst behind your eyes. The taste of blood filled your mouth.
“Be still,” he said, almost gently.
You were not still. You cursed him with every filthy word you knew. You called him traitor, coward, oath-breaker, the shame of his house. He bound your wrists with a strip of his own cloak, forced a gag between your teeth, and carried you the rest of the way like a sack of grain. By the time he put you on a horse outside a postern gate your arms and hips already carried the deep bruises of his hands. He mounted behind you, one arm clamped around your middle, and rode hard into the night.
He did not speak again until the lights of King’s Landing were only a glow behind the hills.
“I have wanted you,” he said into your hair, voice calm, almost conversational, “for longer than I cared to admit. I grew tired of wanting.”
You tried to answer through the gag. The sound came out broken. He only adjusted his grip and kept riding.
The Baratheons learned of it before the second dawn.
Steffon Baratheon, Lord of Storm’s End and your close cousin, received the news in silence. Then he called his banners. The stormlords answered. Within a fortnight the Stormlands were in open rebellion. Other houses, smelling blood and opportunity, began to choose sides. What had begun as the theft of one woman became a war that tore across the south and threatened to swallow the realm whole.
Baelor already knew it would happen. He had calculated the cost and decided you were worth it.
He kept you in a half-ruined watchtower deep in the kingswood, then later in a lonely holdfast that belonged to a minor knight who owed him a private debt. The rooms were sparse. The doors were locked. Outside, the kingdom burned.
Messengers still found him. Letters arrived in cipher. He read them at the rough table while you sat on the narrow bed, wrists no longer bound but the bruises still dark on your skin.
One evening he turned a page toward you without speaking. Casualty lists. Names of stormlords dead in a skirmish near the Wendwater. A note that Steffon had sworn before the gods that he would see Baelor’s head on a spike. Another that royal forces had put three villages to the torch in reprisal.
You stared at the words until they blurred.
“You did this,” you said.
“Yes.”
“You stole me and now men are dying!”, you shouted.
Baelor looked up. His dark eyes were clear and untroubled. “I will burn the Stormlands to ash before I send you back. Do not doubt it.”
You threw the nearest cup at his head. He let it strike his shoulder and clatter away. When you came at him with your fists he caught both wrists, spun you, and pinned you face-down against the table. The soft sex that followed was somehow worse than violence. He was careful. Tender, almost. He kissed the fading bruises he had put on you and made you come with slow, devastating patience while you hated him and hated the way your body answered.
Afterward he held you against his chest and spoke quietly into your hair.
“You will stop fighting me. Not today. But soon.”
And he was right.
The days blurred. The reports of the war grew worse. A cousin of yours died at the crossing of the Blueburn. Another lost an arm. The letters from Storm’s End became fewer, then stopped. Baelor continued to receive his own messages. He shared none of them unless he wished to watch your face change.
You began to sleep against him without being forced. You began to answer when he asked you questions. The arguments did not stop — they only changed shape. You still called him madman, tyrant, thief. He still agreed.
“Yes,” he would say, calm as ever. “All of that. And you are still here.”
One night, after a particularly vicious quarrel that left both of you raw-voiced, he produced a simple cloak and a strip of cloth. No septon. No witnesses. Only the two of you and the old gods of the forest beyond the walls. He spoke the words of the northern rite from memory. When he asked if you took him you said yes in a voice that did not sound like your own.
The marriage was as secret as the rest of it.
By the time the war had ground into its second season you no longer tried the door at night.
You sat with him when the reports came. You listened when he spoke of ships and gold and the Free Cities. The plan had formed slowly, practically: a quiet departure from a minor port, new names, enough coin to vanish into Essos and never return. He spoke of it the way other men spoke of harvests. Certain. Patient.
One evening you stood at the narrow window and watched smoke rising far to the south. Another village, or a field of late grain, or a pyre. You could no longer tell.
Baelor came up behind you and rested his hands on your waist. The possessiveness in the touch was absolute.
“They will keep dying for as long as they believe they can take you from me,” he said. “When we are gone, the dying will stop. Or it will not. Either way, you will be beyond their reach.”
You leaned back against him and closed your eyes.
“You have ruined everything,” you whispered.
“Yes,” he answered. “And I would do it again.”
Outside, the war continued.
Inside the locked room, the Hand of the King held his stolen wife and waited for the tide that would carry them both out of the world that was already burning.
* * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *
The night before you were to leave, the holdfast was quiet.
No new letters had come. The horses were already packed. At dawn you would ride for a minor river port where a ship waited under a false name, ready to take you across the narrow sea.
Baelor locked the door as he always did.
You stood by the narrow bed and watched him undress. When he came to you he did not rush. He kissed you slowly, thoroughly. You told him the truth between kisses.
“I hate you.”
“I know.”
He laid you down and settled between your thighs. The first push of his cock into you was slow, careful. You were already wet. He moved in long, deep strokes, forehead pressed to yours. The tenderness made the truth harder to deny.
“I hate you,” you whispered again, even as your legs wound around his waist.
Baelor’s mouth brushed your ear. His next thrust went deeper, harder. The rhythm shifted.
“You love me,” he said, calm and certain.
Your hips jerked up to meet him. He gave you more, driving into you with steady, relentless force. You moaned louder, then louder still, until the moans broke into sharp, helpless cries. Your hips left the bed in short, desperate bucks, trying to take him even deeper.
“Please—” The word escaped before you could stop it. “Please, Baelor—”
“Please what?”
“Your cock— fuck, please—”
He gave it to you. Deeper. Harder. You came with a broken scream, walls clamping around him, hips still moving in greedy little rolls. He followed soon after, burying himself to the hilt and spilling into you with a low, guttural sound.
Afterward he stayed inside you and repeated it once more against your skin.
“You love me.”
You turned your face into the pillow and did not answer.
Dawn came clear and cold. You never reached the horses.
The first shouts rose from the trees while the sky was still more black than grey. Baratheon men who had ridden without rest broke from the treeline in a sudden rush. Baelor’s remaining guards met them at the wall and the narrow gate. Steel clashed. Men screamed. The thin door of the holdfast shuddered under the first heavy blows.
Baelor was already on his feet, sword in hand, half-dressed. He shoved you back toward the bed.
“Stay behind the door. Do not come out.”
Then he was gone into the chaos.
The fight in the yard was short and brutal. Baelor cut down two men before Steffon Baratheon himself shouldered through the press. The Lord of Storm’s End was mud-spattered and bloody, antlered helm dented, warhammer already dark with other men’s lives. When he saw Baelor his face twisted into something beyond rage.
“You,” he roared. “You fucking whoreson.”
They met in the centre of the yard.
The duel was savage. Baelor was the finer swordsman, faster, more precise, but Steffon was larger and fuelled by a hatred that had burned for months. The warhammer smashed against Baelor’s blade hard enough to send sparks and shock up both their arms. They traded blows without pause, without mercy. Baelor opened a deep cut along Steffon’s ribs. Steffon answered by shattering Baelor’s shoulder with a glancing strike that still had enough force to drive him to one knee.
Baelor rose again. He always rose.
The end came when Steffon’s hammer caught him clean across the side of the head. The sound was wet and final. Baelor dropped. Steffon stood over him and brought the hammer down twice more until the man who had been Hand of the King no longer moved.
The yard went quiet except for the groans of the dying.
Steffon spat blood and walked toward the holdfast.
The door hung crooked on its hinges. Inside, the single room was dim. The bed was against the far wall.
You lay there naked, eyes open and empty, the sheets beneath you black with blood. A knife — one of the small ones from the table — was still loose in your fingers. The cuts on your wrists and across your throat had done their work while the fight raged outside. You had not waited to see which of them would walk through the door.
Steffon stopped at the foot of the bed.
For a long time he said nothing. The hammer hung heavy in his hand. The rage that had carried him across half the realm drained out of his face, leaving only a hollow, exhausted horror.
He had come for Baelor’s head and for his cousin’s freedom. He found only two bodies and the end of everything the war had been fought for.
Outside, the last of the Baratheon men were finishing the wounded. The sun finally cleared the trees and lit the yard where Baelor Breakspear lay broken in the mud.
Inside the holdfast, Steffon Baratheon stared at the woman on the bed and understood that there would be no victory speech, no ransom, no restoration of honour.
“They whispered of Ser Arthur Dayne, the Sword of the Morning, deadliest of the seven knights of Aerys’s Kingsguard, and of how their young lord had slain him in single combat.“
To those who insist that Elia would never blame Lyanna for anything...
What's it to you if she did?
What's wrong in Elia cursing out ALL those who wronged her?
If, as she was lying beneath Gregor, getting sexually brutalized to death by the monster her idiot husband knighted, she thought in those last moments "FU*K RHAEGAR FU*K AERYS FU*CK TYWIN FU*K GREGOR FU*K ARTHUR DAYNE AND FU****K LYANNA BLOODY STARK! DISHONOR AND CURSE ON ALL OF YOU WHO BROUGHT ME AND AEGON AND RHAENYS TO THIS MOMENT!!"
Then what's wrong with that?
Why does the fandom insist she would never have held Lyanna's actions against her?
Lyanna can regret going with Rhaegar all she wants (if she ever even did regret it), it does nothing to change the situation the lovers put Elia and her children in.
Regret or goodwill will not make the r*pe and murder of Elia and her children's butchery unhappen.
Regret and goodwill will not bring back Elia's uncle and countless other dead Dornishmen back to life.
GRRM allowed Catelyn Stark her helpless anger in her last moments. He allowed her to show her fury by sawing a knife through poor innocent Jinglebell Frey's throat at the Red Wedding.
I cannot imagine Catelyn or Cersei or any woman in asoiaf mothering her husband's mistress.
Yet, the fandom insists that Elia would and should look entirely kindly on Lyanna and her spawn in the name of nonexistent sisterhood, and only blame Rhaegar.
When any rational woman should blame BOTH
-the husband AND the mistress.
Elia Martell is not Lyanna Stark and Jon Snow's Nanny/Mother.
It's not Elia's fault that the Lord and Lady Stark failed to teach their daughter common decency and sense.
It's not Elia's fault that Rhaegar killed Lyanna to get his Third Head of The Dragon.
Elia has her own deep shit to worry about, all thanks to the utter lack of consideration that Rhaegar and Lyanna showed to her and Rhaenys and Aegon's happiness, life and safety.
After the giant lack of thought and consideration Lyanna showed to Elia, why should Elia not wish her dead?
Lyanna saw Rhaegar dishonor his wife at Harrenhal, yet still she ran off with him... God, how little she must've thought of the princess, that she was willing to help Rhaegar in doing to Elia the same thing Lyanna hated and feared Robert would do to her.
By denying Elia her anger, you turn her into an emotionless robot made of cardboard.
And all can see, though not all will dare say, that you plainly do it for the benefit of poor perfect precious Lyanna Stark.
Elia is her own character. Let her be three dimensional. And not just a puppet to prop up the saga of Prophesied JonJaehaerysAegonAemon StarkSnowTargaryen.
