Hii, dear 💞 saw you're reading "The other Bennet sister" and wanted to ask if you've watched the first 5eps that are out of the new show? I loved it, Dónal Finn is so fine(as usual, he's great in Young Sherlock too)🤌🏻
Hiiiii! I have not watched any of it yet but saw it advertised on the BBC. I’ve saved the first few episodes as I wanted to finish off the book first.
I never know which way is better book or show/film first. The book is often better so I suppose I should do that first. But the shows/films have the phenomenal actors I can picture whilst reading the book (thank you AKOTSK 🧎♀️)
It looks great, and with your rec I know I will enjoy it - young Sherlock is on my TBW list too 🙈
@multyfangirl I loved the book! The whole governess aspect gave me an idea for a Maekar story but I have far too much to write 😂
Just started the series today and it’s brilliant so far, especially when he rolled his sleeves up when playing games with the children, talk about yearning POV’s 😂
Also I just realised who he is, Irish Orpheus! I saw him on stage for Hades Town on the west end!
Hello, I have spent a few hours this evening reading everything you've written. You are completely brilliant and have such a fantastic grasp on voice and character. I am deeply in love with your lyonel. The spinster series is absolutely wonderful.
Stoooopp you guys are feeding my ego too much (and I love it like the attention whore I am 🤭)
Thank you so much! This series has been such fun to write and I’m glad I’m not too OCC with my favourite men.
The muses have blessed me with the spinster series and there is more to come soon 👀✍️
Beautiful, Jaw -Dropping, ASTOUNDING — I am never gonna recover. Everything was a delectable treat, but Baelor - *chef’s kiss”. You were right, Daeron II’s moments were excellent.
The secondhand embarrassment for the younger sister, mesmerizing. That had to be a quick growing up period for her.
Thank you for the delicious food, I have read all 3 more than 3 times each.
Thank you so much! As much as am a Maekar girly through and through, Baelor has become my Mr Darcy as this point 🤭😂
It was so fun writing King Daeron! I’ve seen so many wonderful artists do comic strips of Daeron and Bealor as a baby and I could not help but add him in. That’s his first boy and he knows him better than anyone 🥺🥺🥺
Did I drop a devastating What If and disappear for a week? - Yes
Did I write three yearning and somewhat smutty stories to make it up to you all? - Also Yes
Spinster Series His POV - Lyonel Part One
Spinster Series Masterlist
Maekar
Baelor
Warnings: Male gaze yearning (he wants that cookie bad) wanking, father is his own warning, drowning, smut - Under 18’s DNI
Storm’s End had seen its share of noble visitors. This family was no different.
Lyonel had been told enough before their arrival to know what was expected of him, a good match and a future heir.
He was told by his lords that the family was in good standing from a great house, and that the daughter would be a suitable match. The younger daughter, in particular.
He had expected beauty, softness, something easy like most ladies in the realm. She was exactly as expected. She was pretty in the way spring was pretty. Bright, warm, eager to please. She smiled often, laughed quickly, and watched him like he was already something to admire.
Her father did most of the talking, guiding her forward with careful pride, laying out her virtues as though presenting a well-bred horse.
The elder daughter stood beside them. Lyonel noticed her only in passing, she did not seem to like him, her eyes sweeping over him in disapproval, but brief enough that he might have imagined it. He did not linger on her, there was no reason to, especially when he was led off with the father and younger daughter alone.
Lyonel listened, nodded where appropriate, offered a charm here, a smile there. It came easily to him, it always had. She responded just as easily.
He walked the grounds with them. Spoke of Storm’s End, of hunts, of weather and ships and small, inconsequential things. The younger girl delighted in all of it. She asked questions that were easy to answer, laughed at the right moments, looked at him like he was already something fixed in her future.
Lyonel played his part well. He smiled, he entertained, he let her orbit him as though it were natural.
It was not unpleasant. It was familiar, comfortable and required nothing of him, but also did not make him feel anything either. He was not disappointed per ser, it was only that nothing about it surprised him. A bit dull if he were honest.
Lyonel had decided that the match would suit. The girl would be happy and seemed content enough with match. Whilst was nothing in it to challenge him, but there was nothing to object to either.It was enough.
Or so he thought.
——————————-
The card game had been meant to pass the time.
Something light, something easy, whilst the your sister tried to get to know Lyonel more. He settled into it without thought, one arm slung easily over the back of the chair, his attention divided between the game and your sister at his side.
She leaned toward him, bright and eager, laughing softly at his remarks, not really playing attention to her own hand of cards. Lyonel had played his part easily. Charm, wit, just enough attention to keep her glowing beneath it.
However, he looked at his hand and decided to be dishonest enough to keep himself entertained. The card slipped easily up his sleeve, a small indulgence, something to amuse himself more than anything else. No one ever noticed.
Until someone did.
“You moved that card”
At first he did not recognise the voice, his head turning to find the eldest daughter, you, staring daggers at the card peeking out of his sleeve.
He did not look at the card, he looked at you. Truly looked at you for the first time since you had arrived, as though someone had dragged you out of the background and set you directly before him.
You were looking at him like you had already judged him and found him lacking. He should have been annoyed at your directness, Instead, he felt something dangerously close to delight
“I did not” he replied easily slipping into a grin, because he wanted to see what you would do.
“You absolutely did” you say. There was no hesitation in it, no simpering, no attempt to make the accusation easier for him to swallow. It only made him more interested.
You leaned forward boldly, reaching for his wrist, your fingers brushing his warm skin and Lyonel felt it like a spark struck too close to dry kindling. It was certain, as though you had every right to take hold of him.
You tugged the hidden card free from his sleeve, ignoring everything but your purpose and held it up to him defiantly “What is this then?”
He should have looked at the card, but he did not. He looked at you.
Really looked, as though he had been halfblind before and only now understood it. The fire in your eyes, bright and sharp and entirely unimpressed. The set of your shoulders, steady and unyielding. The hard line of your mouth. Gods, he had not noticed your mouth before. He noticed it now, he shape of it, the way it pressed into that disapproving line, the way it drew his eye without permission.
He barked out a laugh, real and unrestrained, because the alternative was to sit there and stare at you like a man who had just been struck “Ah that card! I simply misplaced it” he said, still smiling, taking clear enjoyment in your disapproval.
“Misplaced a winning hand up your sleeve?” you said, keeping his gaze. That sent a rush of heat through him, sharp and immediate, settling low in his chest.
“Exactly” he replied, though he had already forgotten the game entirely, his attention fixed wholly on you.
“Your definition of misplaced is most creative, my lord” you said, spinning the card in your fingers.
“And yours is most severe, my lady” he countered smoothly, though his gaze remained fixed on you now, drinking in every detail he had so carelessly overlooked before “No one has ever accused me of cheating” he admitted, tilting his head slightly, curiosity sharpening into something far more dangerous “Not to my face at least”
“Then I am pleased to be of service” you replied coolly “You are a lord, after all. It would be remiss of your guests not to correct you when you stray”
“Stray?” he echoed, his brows lifting slightly as his fingers came up to take the card from your grasp, his fingers brushing yours, he did not expect to like the warmth of your skin so much.
“From honor” you said. He was not entirely certain whether it was the words themselves or simply the fact that you had said them, but it felt like the most arousing thing he had ever heard.
For a heartbeat, neither of you moved.
For a brief moment, you both held it, a silent, stubborn contest neither of you seemed willing to concede. He was acutely aware of you, of the warmth of your fingers against his, the way you held your ground and the fact that you had not looked away once.
No one spoke to him like this, no one challenged him like this. No one touched him without invitation and then held their ground as though daring him to object.
Yet you did, and gods help him, he wanted to see how far you would go.
Your sister cleared her throat loudly, the sound sharp in the silence, and you withdrew your hand at once, folding it neatly in your lap as though nothing had happened.
He noticed that too. The control of it, the way you could step back so cleanly while he was still very much in it. He found it all the more compelling.
“If we are to continue” you said briskly, though there was a faint quickening beneath your composure that he would not have noticed before, but did now “perhaps we might attempt to do so honestly”
His gaze dropped briefly to your mouth before returning to your eyes, the movement instinctive, unthinking, but he found the sight to be one that made his heart race.
“And if I prefer a challenge?” he asked, his voice lower now, roughened by something he did not bother to hide.
“You have one” you replied without hesitation.
His grin returned, but it was not the same grin he had worn when the game began. This one was slower, hungrier, delighted “Then I shall endeavor to be honourable. I would hate to disappoint you” he replied slipping into easy flirting.
When he dealt the next hand, he did not cheat. Not because of honour, he could care less about honour in a game of cards. No it was because you were watching and he wanted to see what you would do next. He wanted to push you, just enough, just carefully, and see how far that fire in your eyes would go before it burned.
He had only just noticed you and already, he found himself cursing it, because how many things had he missed. How many moments had you stood just out of his notice while he wasted his attention elsewhere.
For the first time since your arrival, Lyonel Baratheon was no longer bored.
He was interested.
—————————————————————
Lyonel was not a man given to quiet curiosity. When something interested him, he pursued it. He leaned back in his chair, cards forgotten entirely in his hand, his sister’s voice drifting past him without meaning.
Why had he not noticed you before? The question lingered.
It did not take long for him to find an answer. Storm’s End was not a place where anything remained unknown for long, and Lyonel was its lord. A quiet word to a servant, another to the steward, and soon enough the pieces fell into place.
The eldest daughter, unmarried, of an age where she should have been settled long ago.
“She has remained with her father, my lord” the steward had said carefully “to manage his household after her lady mother passed”
Lyonel had frowned slightly at that “And no match?” he pressed.
“A few offers in her younger years, I believe” the man said, hesitating just enough for Lyonel to notice “but none accepted. It is said” he trailed off.
Lyonel’s gaze sharpened “Say it”
The steward shifted faintly “It is said she is difficult, my lord”
Lyonel almost smiled at that, of course you were “And now?”
The steward hesitated again, then said it quietly “She is considered a spinster, my lord”
The word sat poorly in Lyonel’s mind. It did not fit, not with the woman who had looked at him like she might very well dismantle him piece by piece if he gave her reason.
“Spinster” he repeated, the word tasting wrong. It sounded like something dull, overlooked, forgotten.
You were none of those things.
He dismissed the steward without another word, but the irritation lingered.
A spinster, what fools.
——————————————————
The first time he found you again, you were in the solar.
Afternoon light spilled through the windows, soft and golden, catching on the edge of the book in your hands. You sat alone, one leg tucked neatly beneath you, entirely absorbed, as though the world beyond the page held no interest.
You did not notice him at first. Lyonel paused in the doorway, watching.
You looked different when you were not watching him. Softer, perhaps, but no less composed. There was something in the way you held yourself, something deliberate, simply existing as though you required nothing from anyone.
It pulled at him in a way he did not immediately understand.
“Does Storm’s End not require governing?” Your voice cut cleanly through his thoughts. You had not looked up, but you had known he was there.
A slow grin spread across his face “It does” he replied easily.
“And yet here you are” you said with almost a sigh, it only made him grin wider.
“And yet here I am” he agreed, pushing himself off the doorframe and crossing the room without invitation, dropping into the seat beside you, as though he had every right to be there.
You did not look pleased. Good, he found he preferred it that way.
You did not ask him why he had come, you did not welcome him, you simply turned a page.
Lyonel leaned back slightly, watching you, utterly unbothered by your silence. His gaze lingered longer than it should have, on the way your sleeve had slipped back from your wrist.
It was ridiculous, and yet he found himself thinking, not for the first time, that he would very much like to see how far that composure of yours could be undone.
Gods, this was better than any hunt, you made him work for it. The thought sent a sharp thrill through him
It irritated him, more than he liked, that you had been here all along. Walking his hall, sitting in his rooms, existing just out of his notice while he wasted his time on something easier.
His gaze lingered, taking in details he should have seen days ago. The way you held yourself, the quiet confidence in it, the complete lack of performance.
You were not trying to be seen. That only made him want to look harder
——————————————
After that, he stopped pretending meeting you was coincidence.
He found you on the battlements first. The wind was sharp that day, tugging at cloaks and hair alike, the sea below restless and loud against the rocks. You stood near the edge, though not too near, your hands clasped loosely before you as you looked out across the water.
You did not turn when he approached “You favour high places” he observed, falling into step beside you as though he had been invited.
“I favour quiet” you replied.
He huffed a faint laugh at that, glancing out at the sea before letting his gaze drift back to you instead “You could find that anywhere” he said lightly.
“Not here” you returned, your tone mild, though your meaning was not. You did not even try to soften it.
His mouth twitched “Am I disturbing you?” he asked, though there was no real intent to leave.
“Yes” You said it without hesitation.
His grin widened, slow and deliberate, something pleased settling into his chest.
There it was, not politeness or tolerance. Resistance. He had spent his life surrounded by people who yielded to him without being asked.
This was going to be fun.
⸻———————————————————
The next time, it was the gallery.
You were walking slowly along the long stretch of windows, your fingers brushing lightly against the stone between them as you read something in your hand.
He did not announce himself, he simply fell into step beside you.
You did not startle, of course you did not “Do you follow all your guests so diligently” you asked without looking up “or am I afforded special attention, my lord?”
“Only the interesting ones” he replied.
That earned him a glance, albeit a brief one, but it felt like a a victory all the same “You find me interesting?” you asked, quite disbelieving.
“I find you difficult, my lady” he said honestly grinning like it was the greatest compliment he could bestow, because to him it was.
Your brow lifted slightly “And that holds your interest?”
“It does” he said, far too easily.
You made a soft, noncommittal sound and continued walking.
He matched your pace without thought.
⸻——————————————
The solar became a habit.
He would find you there more often than not, seated with a book or a ledger, entirely absorbed in whatever occupied your attention, as though the rest of the castle simply ceased to exist.
The first few times, you ignored him. He would enter, sit, speak, and you would not so much as look at him unless he forced the matter.
No one had ever ignored him so completely, he found it endlessly entertaining “You could at least pretend I am not a nuisance” he said one afternoon, leaning back in his chair as you turned another page without acknowledging him.
“I am not pretending” you replied calmly.
He let out a quiet laugh “You wound me” clutching his chest in faux hurt
“I doubt that” you said lips twitching ever so slightly, his eyes dropping to them immediately. It should not have pleased him as much as it did.
⸻———————————————————-
He began to seek you out more deliberately after that, part of him needing to see you each day, despite the fact the he was still courting your sister.
If you walked the gardens, he appeared.
If you spoke with the maester, he lingered nearby, listening with that infuriating patience of his.
If you tried to slip away unnoticed, he would somehow already be there.
First it had been curiosity, then amusement, Now it was something else entirely.
He did not stumble across you anymore. He looked for you, he measured his day around where you might be, how long it had been since he had last seen you, whether you would look at him the same way you had the first time.
It was not subtle and he did not care to make it so.
⸻————————————-
He realised, at some point, that he was no longer looking for reasons.
No longer justifying it to himself as curiosity or courtesy. He simply wanted to see you, hear you speak, provoke that look in your eyes again and feel that spark when you turned your attention fully on him.
It settled into him, quiet and certain and gods help anyone who thought that meant he would give up easily.
————————————————————-
The walk had been meant for your sister. That, at least, was how it began.
The sky had finally cleared, the sea restless below the cliffs, the wind sharp enough to keep the air bracing rather than cold. Your sister had insisted upon it, bright and eager, slipping easily into step beside him as he led the way along the path.
You followed behind. A few paces back, Lyonel was aware of you anyway. He was always aware of you now.
“I tell you” he said, gesturing broadly as he walked beside your sister “The boar was monstrous! Tusks like swords! It charged straight for me”
Your sister’s eyes widened, just as he knew they would “And you did not run?”
“Run?” he scoffed lightly “I stood my ground”
He heard it then, The words carried on the wind, quiet, but not quiet enough to escape him “Of course you did”
His mouth curved immediately. There you are.
“I beg your pardon?” he called back over his shoulder, already slowing his steps.
“I said” you replied sweetly, though there was nothing sweet in the look you gave him when he turned “that the beast was fortunate to encounter such bravery, my lord”
He slowed just enough that you were forced to draw nearer “It was bravery” he insisted, his eyes meeting yours, holding them.
“I do not doubt that you believe it so” you replied, your head tilting just slightly.
Your sister laughed nervously between you, sensing something she did not understand.
Lyonel did not look at her, his gaze, as always, fixed on you. “And what would you call it?” he asked.
“Overconfidence” you answered without hesitation, stepping ahead.
He followed immediately “And if I told you it charged from the brush without warning?” he pressed, falling into step beside you now, leaving your sister to trail behind for once.
“I would suggest you were making too much noise” you returned.
His jaw ticked, but there was that spark again, sharper now, brighter “And if I told you” he said slowly, leaning just slightly closer as though sharing something meant only for you “that I wrestled it to the ground with nothing but strength and will?”
You came to a stop. So did he. You folded your hands neatly before you, looking at him with that same infuriating composure “I would ask whether the boar consented to such theatrics”
Your sister gasped, Lyonel stared at you laughed, it was not the same careless sound he gave the rest of the world. This one was sharper, pulled from somewhere deeper, because you had met him, matched him, and then twisted it just enough to make it something entirely your own and it delighted him endlessly.
“The truth then” he said, still watching you, still caught in it “the boar charged. I slipped on mud. It ran headfirst into a tree” He held your gaze as he said it. He watched your face for it, for the moment it landed.
There it was, the break in that perfect controlled composure of yours. You searched his face for mockery and found none. And then, you laughed. It burst from you, bright and unguarded, carried by the wind, entirely unladylike and entirely real.
It ruined him. Lyonel did not move, he could not. He watched you, utterly transfixed, as your composure slipped, as your cheeks flushed, as that sharp, cutting woman from moments before simply vanished into something warm and alive and devastating.
Gods, he had never heard anything like it. Never wanted anything like it.
The sound of it hit him low and deep, something instinctive and immediate, something that settled into his bones before he could even begin to make sense of it ‘I want that. I want her’ The thought came without restraint.
You cleared your throat quickly, gathering yourself, your hands moving to smooth your hair back into place “It was the mud then” you said, a hint of laughter still clinging to your voice “a most fearsome opponent”
He did not answer. He was still looking at you, restraining his body from lunging forward and kissing you right there and then “You laugh as though you are surprised” he said at last, his voice lower now, rough.
“I am” you admitted, a small smile lingering despite yourself “I did not expect such honesty”
“You prefer it?” he asked, his gaze dropping briefly, traitorously, to your lips.
“I prefer accuracy” you said, though your eyes dropped from his now, something in you shifting as well trying to hide yourself from him again.
“And did I improve my standing?” he asked, trying keep you with him.
“In what regard?” You ask
“As a storyteller” he smiled.
You blinked “Oh. Marginally”
He huffed a quiet laugh, though his attention had already moved beyond the question.
“I am difficult to mislead” you added.
“Yes” he murmured, almost to himself. He had already learned that.
Your sister hurried to rejoin you then, bright and delighted, filling the space between you once more “That was dreadful” she said fondly “You in the mud!”
Lyonel glanced at her and gave her a polite smile Then his gaze returned to you. Always to you.
You turned away first, unaware of the way his eyes followed you. Unaware that something had shifted so completely in him that there would be no returning from it.
Your laughter still echoing faintly in his mind, Lyonel realised something with a clarity that struck harder than any blow.
He had never wanted anything in his life as much as he wanted that sound again.
And he would have it.
——————————————
That night, Lyonel couldn't shake the image of you from his mind. Now, alone with his thoughts, he stripped off his tunic and breeches, his cock already half hard from the memory of your lips curving in that smile.
He settled onto the edge of his bed, the blanket scratching against his bare thighs. His hand wrapped around his thickening shaft, fingers gripping firmly as he gave it a slow, deliberate stroke.
A low groan escaped his lips as he pictured you, your body close to his, the way your breasts had strained against the fabric of your gown.
He imagined pinning you against the cold stone of the castle wall, your defiance melting into gasps as he hiked up your skirts. He thought of your mouth, those lips parting in surprise, as he thrust into you.
“Fuck” he muttered, his free hand clenching the bedsheet. In his mind, you arched against him, your pussy clenching around his cock, wet and hot, your nails digging into his shoulders as you begged for more, begged for him only him.
His breaths came ragged, hips bucking into his hand. He envisioned your arse in his grasp, spreading you wide as he drove deeper, the slap of skin on skin drowning out everything else.
His release built at the base of his spine, tension coiling tight. With a guttural curse, he came, ropes of hot seed spilling over his knuckles, his body shuddering as your imagined moans pushed him over the edge.
Even as the pleasure ebbed, leaving, the desire for the real you lingered.
—————————————————-
The storm had been coming in for hours. Lyonel had felt it before he saw it, in the way the wind shifted along the walls, in the restless pull of the sea below the cliffs. Storm’s End always warned you, if you knew how to listen.
He had not meant to go looking for you. That was what he told himself, at least. He was already halfway along the battlements when he saw you. Walking alone, of course you were.
You walked near the curve of the wall, the wind tugging at your skirts, your hair already loosening from whatever careful arrangement you had attempted earlier. You looked like something that belonged to the storm.
His jaw tightened faintly “You have a remarkable habit of placing yourself where you should not be, my lady”
You turned at once “Lord Baratheon” you replied calmly but he could see that delightful irritation bubbling below the surface.
He approached “You should be inside when weather likes this rolls in” he said, stopping close enough to feel the edge of the wind as it moved around you.
“And yet” you replied “you are our here”
His mouth twitched despite himself “I came to fetch you”
You gave a soft, unimpressed sound “How dutiful”
He grinned “I have my moments”
The rain began then, sudden and sharp, striking stone, catching in your hair, soaking quickly through the light fabric at your shoulders “I am not in need of rescuing” you argue despite slowly becoming drenched.
He watched the rain gather against your skin “That remains to be seen” he replied and before you could argue, he pulled his cloak from his shoulders and set it around you.
You stilled “I did not ask for”
“You were not going to” he cut in, fastening it at your throat before you could shrug it off. His hands lingered, long enough to feel the warmth of you beneath the damp fabric, long enough to register the way your breath shifted, barely, but enough that he noticed. That was becoming a habit.
“I am quite capable of walking in the rain” you said.
“I am quite aware” he replied “I simply chose not to watch freeze to death” he smiled, liking how the irritation brought a beautiful flush to your cheeks.
You turned away from him then. Not toward the castle, instead continuing along the wall.
He almost laughed “You misunderstand” he said, falling into step beside you “That was not permission to continue”
“I did not realise I required permission” you argue
The rain thickened, heavier now, driven by wind that pressed it sideways against stone and skin alike. You pulled the cloak tighter around yourself.
He saw it and felt something sharp and satisfied settled low in his chest at the sight.
“I will return it” you said.
“I did not ask you to” he replied his voice slightly rougher as the image of you wearing his cloak burned into his memory. Something possessive clawing inside him.
“I am not in the habit of keeping things that do not belong to me” you argue
His gaze slid over you, slower now “You may make an exception”
You shook your head faintly “I think not”
He huffed a quiet breath, something dangerously close to a laugh “You are very determined not to be obliged to me”
“I prefer not to be obliged to anyone” you say, despite pulling the cloak tighter.
He did not answer. The doors came into view ahead, servants already moving to open them as the storm worsened.
You stepped inside first, Lyonel close behind you. Warmth hit immediately, firelight and dry stone replacing the cold rush of wind.
You removed the cloak at once and held it out to him “Thank you, my lord”
His gaze dropped to the cloak, then back to you “You will keep it” he said
“I will not” you say adamant.
“You will” he repeated, stepping closer, lowering his voice just enough that it did not carry “If only so I have cause to come looking for you again”
There, that shift again, small and quick, but he saw it. The way your breath caught, the way your composure faltered for just a fraction of a second before snapping back into place.
“I am certain” you said, too smoothly “you could find an excuse without such effort”
“I could” he smiled stepping closer
“Then I see no reason to assist you” you challenged, you voice breather than before.
Something in him tightened at that “Take it” he said once more, his voice lower.
You hesitated for a moment. Then you turned, folding the cloak over your arm instead of placing it back in his hands “Very well” you said with a gulp, he would be a liar if he said his gaze didn’t follow that action down your neck to the curve of your breast.
Then you walked away. He watched you go instead, his gaze following the line of your back, the way the cloak hung from your arm, the way you did not look back.
—————————————————-
He noticed it the moment he entered his chambers, the dark lump folded on his bed
Already knowing what it was. His jaw tightened as he picked it up, the first thing that hit him was the scent. It clung to the fabric, unmistakable.
You.
Lyonel stilled, the cloak still in his hands. For a long moment, he did nothing. Then, slowly, he lifted it and breathed in once.
Something low and possessive settled into his chest, heavy and certain.
Because it was his and now, whether you intended it or not, it carried you with it.
————————————————————
The feast had been arranged for your sister, an opportunity to announce the betrothal.
The hall was full, bright with candlelight and music, voices rising and falling in easy celebration as wine and ale flowed freely and the household gathered in anticipation of the announcement to come.
Lyonel should have been pleased. The match was suitable, the family respectable, the evening proceeding exactly as it should.
And yet he found himself searching the room. Not for the girl at the centre of it all. For you.
He spotted you at the edge of the hall. Of course you were there. Removed from the centre, from the light, from the attention that your sister wore so easily. You stood where you could observe without being observed.
His gaze caught. The colour struck him first, deep and rich beneath the candlelight, clinging to you in a way that made it impossible to look anywhere else once he had noticed.
It was not the dress, It was you in it.
The bodice fitted close, drawn tight at your waist, shaping you in a way that made something low in his chest pull hard and sudden.
He found himself thinking, with a flicker of irritation that had no clear target, that you should not be standing at the edge of the room at all.
You should be at the centre of it, with him.
———————————————————————
You startled when he approached. His mouth twitched, he liked that he could still do that “My lady”
You turned, and there it was again, that look, that sharp, assessing awareness that settled over him like a challenge issued without words “You seem determined to hide” he observed lightly, unable to stop his gazed flicking over you.
“I am not hiding” you replied, not quite meeting his eye “I am simply observing”
He stepped closer, the scent of your perfume surrounding him, sending heat through him “You have observed enough” he said, extending his hand without hesitation “Dance with me”
You blinked. For the first time since he had known you, you looked uncertain.
“Surely my sister would be a better partner” you said, hesitating.
His jaw tightened, just slightly “She is otherwise occupied” he said smoothly, not giving you time to refuse as he took your hand.
Your hand in his felt different than your sisters, like it belonged. That made his grip tighten instinctively as he led you into the centre of the hall.
He was aware of the attention immediately, the watching eyes. None of it mattered, only the way your hand rested in his mattered, the way your other hand came to his shoulder. His hand settled at your waist and for the first time since he had known you, you did not pull away. You fit there perfectly.
That alone was enough to make his grip tighten.
You were warm beneath his hand, real in a way that struck harder than anything he had imagined in the quiet of his chambers, your body moving with his as the dance carried you both through the hall. He had held women before, none of them had felt like this. None of them had made him aware of every inch of contact as though it mattered
“You are quiet” he murmured, his voice lowering without thought as the dance began.
“I am focused on not tripping” you replied, your gaze fixed somewhere near his shoulder.
A faint smile touched his mouth, but his hand flexed slightly at your waist all the same “I would not let you fall”
“You are very confident” you muttered.
Gods, if only you knew “You think me arrogant” he said.
“I think you certain of yourself” you replied, finally looking at him.
That was a mistake. For him. Because now he had your full attention again, and it did something to him, something immediate and consuming. He noticed everything at once, the colour in your cheeks, the way your lashes lowered just slightly, the softness that lingered at the edges of that sharp composure when you were this close.
“And you are not?” he challenged, resisting every instinct in his body that told him to pull you closer and not let go.
“I am not” you said, with a twitch of your distracting lips.
His grip tightened, just slightly. The dance turned you, drawing you closer. Close enough that your bodies brushed. Close enough that the tight line of your bodice left no space between you, your chest pressing against his for a fleeting moment that lingered far longer than it should have.
His breath caught, you shifted with the movement of the dance and it only made it worse, the contact repeating, softer this time, but no less devastating. He became acutely aware of everything. The warmth of you, the shape of you. The way you fit against him as though there had never been meant to be distance at all.
“You must be glad” you said after a moment.
The words dragged him back to reality distracted by the scent and feel of you in his arms “Glad?”
“That tomorrow everything will be settled” you continued, your tone light, polite “When my sister becomes your betrothed”
Something in him went still.
“When we return home after the wedding” you added, your smile practiced, distant “You will have peace again. No more interfering sisters”
Return home. The words struck harder than they should have “You mean to leave Storm’s End” he said, the question sharper than he intended.
“Of course” you replied, brows drawing together faintly.
The thought hit him like a blow, and that same reckless instinct rose again, sharper this time, more insistent. For one reckless, unguarded moment, he thought of it, his chambers, the door closed, you beneath him, moaning his name whilst he made you his, consequences be damned. You would not leave. He could not, would not, simply watch you walk out of his life as though you meant nothing.
As though you could simply walk out of Storm’s End and take that fire with you like it did not belong here now. Like it did not belong to him
“And then?” he pressed.
You blinked, confused “And then nothing” you said simply.
Nothing. You said it so easily, like life here without you in it would be just as easily endured.
“I shall manage the household as I always have. There is no shortage of work for an unmarried daughter past her prime” you added lightly.
His jaw tightened. There it was again, that dismissal of yourself “You are not past—” he started, sharper now.
“It is hardly a tragedy” you interrupted gently. “Not everyone is meant for grand romance”
The music shifted, drawing you closer again.
“You speak as though it is decided” he said, his voice rougher now
“It is decided” you replied “My sister is the beauty. It was always my duty to see her settled”
“And you?” he asked again.
“I am content”
He did not believe you. Not for a single second. Something in him rejected it entirely.
You would not leave, you were his as he was yours.
The thought came too fast, too certain, and he did not stop it.
The music came to its final note. You stepped back immediately, slipping from his hold before he could stop you.
He felt the loss of you immediately.
You dipped into a quick curtsey and withdrew before he could say anything further.
Before he could stop you, before he could act on the impulse still lingering, dangerous and insistent, at the back of his mind. He stood there, the space where you had been suddenly, painfully empty. ‘Return home’ the thought swirled in his mind. This was your home, with him.
He turned sharply, his gaze already searching for you and then he saw your sister leave and watched you follow. He did not hesitate. Because whatever this had become, whatever you had become to him. He knew one thing with absolute clarity.
You were not leaving him.
Not without a fight.
—————————————————-
He saw it happen.
Your sister too close to the edge. Your stride, sharp and immediate, already moving to get her down. The slick stone beneath your feet, the way the wind pulled at your skirts.
Your hand caught her wrist, the force of it nearly dragging you over with her, your body straining, your feet scrambling for purchase on stone that offered none.
The knight seized her, pulled her back and the force of it took you instead.
He saw it. Saw the moment your footing gave way. Saw the way your body tilted, the sharp, sickening slide as you toppled.
“No!!!” The word tore from him, but you were already gone.
Over the edge, vanished into the dark.
There was no thought, no pause, he just ran at battlements at full speed and did not slow, did not look, did not measure the distance.
He jumped.
⸻————————————-
The cold hit like a blow.
It stole breath, stole sense, stole everything but the single, driving instinct burning through him ‘Find her’
He forced his eyes open against the sting of salt, scanning the dark water, the violent churn of the sea. There a pale shape beneath the surface, sinking.
His heart slammed hard enough to hurt. He drove himself downward, cutting through the water in powerful strokes, reaching out. Your dress billowed around you like something ghostly, dragging you down, your body already too still, your movements slowing.
His hand closed around you, one arm hooking tight around your waist, pulling you against him as he turned and kicked for the surface with everything he had.
He broke through with a violent gasp, dragging in air, your body heavy in his arms, unresponsive, your head lolling against him.
“Stay with me” He did not even realise he had spoken.
He shifted his grip immediately, one arm under your thighs, hauling you higher against his chest, keeping your face above the water as he fought the current.
Above, voices. Your sister’s sobs. All of it meaningless. He saw only you, cared for only you.
He forced himself toward the rock face, toward the narrow outcrop he knew was there, boots scraping stone as he found purchase and dragged both of you from the water.
You did not move “Breathe” He dropped to his knees beside you, hauling you onto the stone, his hands already on you, already searching, already trying to force life back into you by sheer will alone.
“Breathe” he ordered again, voice breaking. Your gown clung to you, soaked, your bodice tight, restricting your breath.
He did not think. His dagger was in his hand in an instant, slicing through the laces with one sharp motion, fabric parting beneath the blade as he tore it open.
“Breathe!” The word ripped from him now, no longer command but plea.
You coughed, water spilling from your lips as your body jerked in his arms.
He froze. For one impossible second, he could not move, could not breathe, could not even understand what had just happened.
A sound tore from him, something broken and relieved all at once, almost a laugh, almost a sob as he pulled you tighter against him, holding you upright, his hand pressing firm against your back as though you might slip away again if he loosened his grip even slightly.
“Easy” he murmured, though his voice still shook, his forehead pressing briefly against your temple, his breath unsteady against your skin “I have you. I have you”
He had you and he was never letting you go again.
———————————————-
He did not wait, he did not call for servants nor trust anyone else to carry you.
You were in his arms before the world had even fully come back into focus, your body still trembling faintly from the cold, your breath uneven against his throat as he hauled himself up from the rocks and onto the path.
His grip tightened instinctively, one arm braced beneath your legs, the other locked around your back, holding you flush against him as though the space between you might somehow steal the breath from your lungs again.
He had lost you, twice, in one night. His jaw clenched hard enough to ache. Not again. Never again.
“Move” he barked as he reached the castle doors, his voice carrying through stone and air alike, sharp enough to cut through the chaos that followed behind him.
Servants scattered instantly. Doors opened before he reached them.
You shifted faintly in his arms, a weak sound catching in your throat, your fingers curling against his tunic as though searching for something solid.
“I have you” he said immediately, the words low and fierce, more vow than reassurance as he adjusted his hold, bringing you closer still “You are not going anywhere”
If your breath stilled again, he would tear this castle down, stone by stone.
⸻——————————————-
He did not take you to the guest chambers. He took you to his.
The door slammed open beneath his shoulder, echoing through the room as he crossed to the bed and laid you down with a care that did not match the violence of everything else about him.
“Maester!” someone shouted.
Voices moved around him. He barely heard them, his attention was fixed entirely on you. Your skin pale beneath the remnants of your soaked gown, your bodice cut open, your chest rising unevenly as you fought for breath.
His hand came to your face without thought, too firm at first before softening, his thumb brushing water from your cheek as though he could erase the memory of it entirely.
You stirred. Relief hit him like a second wave, just as violent as the first.
Behind him, your sister burst into the room, her voice breaking with sobs, words tumbling over one another “I did not mean— I never meant—”
He did not look at her, she did not exist. Not when you lay before him like this.
The maester arrived in a rush of robes and orders, ushering hands away, directing movement, calling for warmth, for cloth, for space.
Lyonel did not move, nor would he leave. He stood there, close enough to touch you, close enough to see every breath, every flicker of life as it returned.
The your father arrived “What has happened?”
Your sister tried to speak, the words breaking apart under her own guilt “She slipped— I went to the battlements— she followed— she saved me—”
Lyonel spoke over her “She went over the edge” he said, his gaze not leaving you “I pulled her from the water”
Your father’s eyes sharpened, flicking over you, taking in the state of your gown, the cut laces, the bed you now lay upon “I had intended” he said slowly “to announce my younger daughter’s betrothal this evening”
Lyonel’s jaw tightened. He knew what was coming, he did not care.
“But instead” your father continued, voice hardening, “my eldest is now compromised”
The word landed like a strike. Compromised, as though that was what mattered. As though the fact that you still breathed beneath his roof was not the only thing that should matter at all.
Lyonel’s gaze flicked from you then “If there is any question of your daughter’s honour” he said, his voice low, steady, leaving no room for interpretation “it rests with me”
Your father held his gaze “And how do you propose to answer it?”
There was no hesitation. The decision had already been made the moment you caught him cheating at cards “She will be my wife” The words cut clean through the room.
Lyonel did not look at either of them. He looked at you.
“I was to wed her sister” your father said.
“I was” Lyonel agreed, the past tense deliberate, unyielding. Because that had already changed, everything had already changed.
Your father exhaled slowly “Then we will correct the announcement”
Lyonel did not respond. He did not need to. His attention had already returned to you, to the faint rise and fall of your chest, to the proof that you were still here. As he stood there, watching you breathe, something settled into him with a certainty he had never known before.
He had almost lost you. Twice. He would not survive a third.
And so he did the only thing a man like Lyonel Baratheon knew how to do when something mattered beyond reason. He claimed it. You were not leaving him. You were not returning to nothing. You were not fading back into a life that did not see you.
You were his.
And he would burn the world down before he let you slip through his hands again.
Did I drop a devastating What If and dissappear for a week? - Yes
Did I write 3 yearning and somewhat smutty stories to make it up to you all? - Also Yes
Spinster Series His POV - Maekar Part One
Spinster Series Masterlist
Lyonel
Baelor
Warnings: Male gaze yearning (he wants that cookie bad) wanking, fire, father is his own warning, slight possessiveness, smut - Under 18’s DNI
Summerhall received guests often enough. Lords, banners, obligations dressed up as courtesies.
Maekar had been informed of this visit well in advance, the letter arriving from the King weeks ago.
A suitable match, he had been told. A daughter of a great house, well bred, well tempered, of an age to wed. It was framed as a practical solution, steady presence for his household, woman to stand beside him and more importantly to help him raise the children.
It had not been presented as a question, it was a command for him to find a bride. Maekar had accepted it as such. It was not the first time duty had been placed before preference. It would not be the last.
The introductions began as such things always did, too formal by half, the herald announcing each of his children as though they were strangers in their own home.
Maekar stood through it with the patience long drilled into him, one hand resting at his back, his gaze moving where duty required. First to your father, then to the younger daughter as she stepped forward with the sort of bright smile men often praised in girls they did not intend to truly know.
He had expected a certain type of woman. Soft spoken, agreeable. Someone who would not challenge the structure of his household, but fit neatly within it. The younger daughter was exactly that. She smiled easily when presented, bright and open, her expression full of warmth that did not quite reach depth. She spoke when prompted, laughed when expected.
Maekar found, upon meeting her, that she felt far too young. Not childish, not foolish, but young in a way that left him cold. She smiled easily, laughed quickly, and looked at him as though he were meant to impress her. The Crown might see a bride, but Maekar saw another girl who would need guiding, indulging, managing.
He had no desire to raise another child. He had enough of those already.
His gaze moved from her, briefly, without intention, settling instead on the figure standing just behind. The elder daughter. You did not smile, your gaze moved over him once, deliberate, assessing, as though weighing something unseen.
That alone caught his attention more than he cared to admit. There was nothing shy in the look you gave him, nothing softened for politeness, only a quiet, steady assessment that struck him far more cleanly than your sister’s admiration ever could.
It should have irritated him. Instead, it made him curious.
His eyes met yours properly then. You did not drop your gaze at once. You held it, steady, unflinching, as though he were not a prince at all, but simply a man standing before you to be judged.
Something in his jaw tightened.
Introductions carrying on pleasantly, then Rhea jumped in “Are you the one Father is marrying?” She asked looking directly at you.
Your sister went scarlet. Your father stiffened beside her. Maekar’s jaw tightened faintly, he was about to correct her when you moved first with the ease of someone used to dealing with children before they embarrassed themselves beyond repair.
You crouched so you were level with Rhae, your voice gentler than he expected from a woman whose gaze had been so cool a moment before “No, princess. My sister is to be your father’s new bride”
Careful words. He noticed that too. Your sister is to be your father’s new bride, not your new mother.
Rhae tilted her head, violet eyes bright with bold curiosity “You look braver”
You smile then was small, but real, and something about the sight of it caught at him unexpectedly “Bravery is not required when meeting your new family” you said “Only good manners” and then you winked.
Rhae considered that seriously, her little brow furrowing as though she had been handed some great wisdom to carry away and ponder.
Maekar heard himself speak before he had fully meant to “Rhae” The single word was enough. She stepped back at once, but his attention had already shifted. You straightened, composed again, but he had seen enough in those few seconds to unsettle something in him.
Your gaze lifted and met his then, direct and unflinching, and for one long moment it felt less like an introduction and more like a challenge.
He held it. So did you.
Only when your father nudged you did you finally look away and curtsy in proper silence.
Maekar remained where he was, listening to the rest of the introductions, to your sister’s bright attempts at conversation, to the herald’s endless formality, but his mind had already betrayed him in one small, dangerous way.
When he thought of the family standing before him now, it was no longer the younger daughter he noticed first.
It was you.
He did not yet know that was the beginning.
——————————————-
The gardens of Summerhall were often quiet.
He walked beside your sister, listening as she spoke, music, needlework, all the things a lady is told she must like.
He responded where required, his tone even, his attention measured. It should have been enough. It had been enough, countless times before. Yet his gaze shifted, drawn across the stretch of green toward the trees.
You sat beneath it, at ease, one leg tucked beneath you, the other stretched slightly where the sunlight caught against your skirts. Your shoes had been slipped off without ceremony, forgotten beside you.
Rhae lay beside you, mirroring you without instruction, her small hand already tangled in yours as though it had always belonged there. Daella leaned close, listening intently, her usual composure loosened by your presence.
You spoke, something low and measured, and both girls responded at once.
Maekar’s steps slowed. Your sister faltered beside him, still speaking, still smiling, unaware that she had already lost his attention.
You laughed, your head tipping back slightly, the sound bright and unrestrained.
Maekar stopped walking, he watched as you lay back fully against the grass, sunlight catching against your throat, your skirts shifting just enough that the line of your ankle showed, the curve of your calf revealed for a fleeting, careless moment before the fabric settled again.
His jaw tightened. Not at the sight itself, at the fact that he had noticed it at all. At the fact that he noticed you.
Rhae copied you without hesitation, her laughter rising again at something you whispered to her. Daella followed, her dignity forgotten for the moment as she leaned closer, drawn in despite herself. There was no effort in it, no careful performance. You simply fit into a space that had never quite held together so easily before.
Something in his chest shifted. He changed direction without comment.
Your sister stumbled after him, confused, still speaking, still trying to hold his attention. He had already given it elsewhere.
“Your Grace” you address him, still relaxed.
His daughters straightened at once “Rhae, you were instructed to practice your letters” he orders looking at the small girl.
Rhae faltered, guilt flashing across her face.
“She was telling me of the tower” you said calmly, stepping in before the reprimand could land fully “I believe she understands now why it was unwise”
Maekar’s gaze settled on you fully then “Do you?” he asked. The question was for Rhae, but it was you he watched. Taking in your relaxed face, unable to stop his eyes following the curve of your cheek.
Rhae nodded quickly “I do”
He held the silence a moment longer than necessary “Very well. Letters after supper”
Relief lit her face. Daella’s gaze moved between you both, something thoughtful settling there.
He resumed the path. Your sister hurried to fall back into step beside him, her voice picking up again as though nothing had interrupted it. He let her speak, he even answered.
But something had shifted, he could still hear your laughter. Could still see the ease with which his daughters had turned toward you. Could still recall, unbidden, the brief, unguarded line of your calf against the grass, the way you had not thought to hide it, not thought to care. It was not desire. It was something quieter and more dangerous.
He had not been looking for you. He had not been meant to notice you and yet, as he walked on, listening to a conversation he no longer cared for, one thought pressed forward with quiet, unwelcome certainty.
This arrangement was not as simple as it had been made to seem and it was because of you.
————————————————-
When the ride was suggested, Maekar had not objected.
It was practical. Something that required no forced conversation or polite performance. Horses did not require charm, nor did he.
Your sister, however, seemed to think it would improve matters between him and her. She approached the mounting block with careful precision, smoothing her skirts, accepting assistance, her movements deliberate in a way that made it clear she was thinking of how she appeared.
Maekar watched, not unkindly, but without interest.
His gaze shifted of its own accord to you. You took the reins, placed your boot in the stirrup, and mounted in one clean, fluid motion, your body moving with the ease of long familiarity rather than careful instruction. You settled into the saddle easily, your posture straight without stiffness, your hands light on the reins. When the groom released the mare, you did not hesitate, your legs pressing in a quiet cue that the horse obeyed instantly.
Maekar’s gaze lingered, he did not yet examine why.
The ride began at a measured pace. Your sister remained close to him, speaking where she could, her attention divided between the conversation and maintaining control of her horse.
Daella rode properly, every movement precise. Rhae rode as children did, eager, careless, her confidence outpacing her skill. And you moved as though you belonged there.
Your mare responded to the smallest shift in your weight, the slightest pressure of your knees, as though the two of you understood one another without effort.
“You ride often?” Daella asked.
“Every day I am permitted” you replied lightly “It is my favourite pastime”
Your sister laughed “She races the stable boys and refuses to lose”
“I do not refuse” you corrected “I simply do not lose.”
Rhae giggled. Maekar said nothing, inside he was cataloging all these new things about, like you where a puzzle he could not figure out.
The path opened ahead. Grass stretched wide, the low hedge marking the edge of the field.
You did not hesitate. Your heels pressed in, your body leaning forward, and your mare surged beneath you, gathering speed as you approached the jump.
Maekar’s attention sharpened instantly. The line of your body followed the movement, fluid, controlled, your legs firm against the horse’s sides, your skirts shifting with the motion
His gaze dropped. He saw the strength in your thighs, the way they held, the way your body moved with the animal beneath you rather than against it.
The thought came without warning. How that same control would feel beneath his hands. How easily you would ride if it were him between your legs. His jaw tightened, annoyed at himself, at the way his body answered it without permission, heat settling low and insistent, making him strain against his breeches like a fucking green boy.
You landed cleanly, laughter spilling from you, bright and unrestrained, carried back to them on the wind.
He exhaled slowly, forced his gaze forward. But the image did not leave him, especially not now he could add your flushed cheeks to the picture.
————————
He saw it before it happened. The way Rhae leaned too far, the sharp, uneven kick.
“Rhae” he warned too late. The pony joulted and she fell.
The world narrowed. Maekar was already moving before the thought had fully formed, his boots hitting the ground hard as he crossed the distance “Rhae!” He dropped beside her, his hand already reaching, already checking, already searching for injury “Look at me”
She blinked rapidly, more shocked than hurt “My arm”
Relief hit first, almost violent in its force. Then another presence dropped at his side. You.
You dropped beside him without hesitation, close enough that your shoulder brushed his as you reached for the girl “Let me see” you said, your hands steady, your voice calm in a way that cut through the panic.
Maekar let you, that alone should have told him something.
You examined quickly, efficiently “You landed well. It is only bruised”
Rhae’s lip trembled, but she did not reach for him. She reached for you. Lunging at you for a hug, you gathered her without thought, the force of it pushing you back into him.
He caught you both. His hands came to your hips, firm, grounding, steadying the shift of weight before you could fall.
Then, everything slowed. The curve of your hips beneath his palms, the strength there, the way your body fit against his without space, without hesitation, as though it had always belonged there.
His grip tightened. Instinct, mixed with omething far more dangerous.
“She is not injured” you said, turning your head, your face close enough now that he could see every detail, the flush still high in your cheeks from the ride. The faint rise and fall of your chest, not yet steadied. The way your lashes lifted just enough to meet his gaze “Only shaken”
For a fraction of a moment, neither of you moved.
His hands were still on you. He knew it. Knew he should release you. Knew this was already too much.
“Thank the fucking seven” he muttered, the words slipping out unfiltered, his focus split between relief and something far less manageable.
You did not move. Neither did he
You broke first, turning back to Rhae, your voice softening, drawing the girl’s attention away “Come” you murmured “You ride again”
Rhae stiffened against you “Must I?”
“Yes” you said, brushing dirt from her sleeve, your touch reassuring, certain “If you do not, you will fear it next time”
“She is right” Maekar said, his voice lower now, roughened slightly. He hated that he heard it. Only then did his hands flex and release you. The absence was immediate, the coolness of the air replacing the warmth of you.
You did not look at him again, not immediately. Your focus remained on Rhae, steadying her, guiding her, coaxing her back toward the saddle.
As though nothing had happened, like you had not just been in his arms and unsettled something he had held in place for years.
Maekar mounted in silence, but this time, when the ride resumed, he did not keep his distance.His stallion moved closer to yours. Close enough that he did not have to look far to see you. Close enough that the memory of his hands on you did not have to fade.
————————————————————
The ride ended without further incident. Maekar said nothing as you all returned to the yard.
He saw the way Rhae did not look for him when she dismounted. He saw the way she looked at you, the way to encouraged her, your hand smoothing gently over her hair as though it were the most natural thing in the world.
That did not sit easily with him, for a reason he could not name.
Your own sister had already gone ahead, her voice drifting back in nervous chatter “Oh gods that was just terrible. I am glad my sister was there and Rhea was well”
He nodded, but in truth he was not really listening, his gaze still fixed on you. You brushed dust from your skirts, as though nothing of note had occurred.
Your sister noticing Meakar’s attention was elsewhere followed the girls inside.
“She rode again” he said at last, still not entirely certain what to make of you.
You looked at him then, and once again he was reminded of how exposed your eyes made him feel
“She did” was all you said.
He studied you, this woman who had walked into his life and unsettled something he had long kept ordered “Most would have carried her inside” he replied, wanting to understand the woman in front of him, the one whose touch burned still under his hands.
“And let her live in fear?” you challenge calmly.
There is was again that challenge in your voice, in your eyes, the same one as the hall. The challenge that made him feel like less of a prince and more a man. He felt the instinct to push back rise just as quickly “She is not fucking timid ” he said, his tone sharpening slightly.
“I did not say she was fragile” You cut across his thoughts.
He stopped, because no one interrupted him like that, no one spoke over him, no one corrected him. But you did.
“You were correct” he admitted simply through his mind whirled with the thoughts of the woman in front of him “She needed to mount again” he continued “You saw it quickly”
“I have seen it before” you answered simply.
“With your sister” he summarised his gaze casting over you in question still trying to work you out.
“Yes” you nod.
He studied your face unable to stop himself tracing the curve of your still flushed cheek “You were quite young to be raising a child” he said more a fact than question. He knew from the staff that you were quite young when your mother died and it seemed your weak willed father had left everything to you.
“It was necessary” you offered simply. There was no bitterness in it, nor self pity. Just fact. That unsettled him more than if you had complained.
Your words irritated him but intrigued him far more. He did not answer right away. He watched you instead, watched the certainty in your expression Something in his chest tightened again. He did not like it, but he could not bring himself to look away.
“I did not mean to overstep” you added after a moment, he became painfully aware of how long you had just been staring at each other in silence “She reached for me”
“She did” he agreed, he would not forget that moment. Rhea in your arms, you in his. His voice had dropped, rougher than before “Thank you” he said, something he had not felt in a long time pulling at his chest.
You inclined your head slightly, your smile faint, but his gaze dropped to it all the same “She is a brave child” you added
“She is” he replied his gaze still on your lips wondering how you would look when you smiled for real. He became suddenly aware of himself pulling himself back to reality, not foolishly staring at a girl like love struck green boy
“You ride well” he said instead, bringing himself back to the topic at hand, however the words came almost abruptly. As though he needed to say something that was not what he had been thinking.
Warmth touched your expression again, faint but unmistakable, he liked that “So I have been told”
That traitorous part of him rose up again, imagining your blushed warm face under him as his lips demented on yours. Luckily a groom approached then, breaking the moment, before he made a fool of himself.
Maekar stepped back, he had not truly realised he had gotten so close, like you had drawn him in like a moth to a flame.
The space between you returned. It felt wrong. He ignored that.
But as he turned to leave, he found himself speaking again, the words coming before he had decided to say them “She will ride with you again” It sounded like an order, it was not, not entirely.
You met his gaze “If you permit it” that small smile once again adoring your features.
His eyes flicked, briefly, to your mouth “I do” he choked out quickly and turned before he did something he could not take back.
———————————————
He had not meant to stop in the gardens.
He had told himself he was passing through, that there were always matters requiring his attention. It was an easy excuse, one he did not examine too closely, because the truth of it sat somewhere far less comfortable.
He had begun to look for you.
He saw you before you noticed him, kneeling between his daughters in the dirt, sleeves pushed back, your hair slipping loose from its careful arrangement, entirely unconcerned with the state of yourself.
It drew his attention in a way he did not trust.
He did not announce himself, instead lingering where he stood, his gaze fixed despite himself as you guided Rhae’s hand with patient precision.
He saw the mistake before it happened, the slight shift of your grip, the slickness of crushed leaves beneath your fingers, the angle just wrong enough to matter.
The blade slipped, a thin line opened across your palm, bright and immediate, and you drew in a breath that was sharp but controlled, already dismissing it before anyone else could give it weight.
“It is nothing” you assured the girls, of course it was nothing, because you had decided it was, like your wellbeing did not matter.
Something in him resisted that instinctively, sharply, before he had the thought fully formed he was across the grass “What has happened?”
You looked up at him then, and there it was again, that look that met him without hesitation.
“She cut herself” Rhae said quickly.
“It is hardly dramatic” you replied, already drawing your hand back, already intending to deal with it yourself.
He stepped closer without asking permission, without even considering it “Your hand”
You resisted, as he had come to expect you would “This is hardly necessary”
“Your hand” he repeated, his voice low, leaving no space for argument.
You exhaled, something in your expression tightening for a fraction of a moment before you extended your hand toward him, palm up, as though conceding something you did not care to concede.
He took it and for a moment, everything else fell away.
Your hand settled into his, smaller than his own, warmer than he expected, the softness of your skin at odds with the steadiness of your grip. He tightened his hold without meaning to, turning your palm to examine the cut, focusing on the task because it was something he could control.
“It is not deep” you said lightly.
“Hold still” he replied, his thumb pressing at the base of your hand to steady it. The motion was practical, meant for nothing beyond the task at hand, but his thumb shifted, just slightly, to the inside of your wrist, where your pulse beat beneath the surface of your skin.
He felt it. The sensation struck him harder than it should have, sharper than reason allowed, because it was not simply that he felt it, but that he recognised it, that it seemed to echo somewhere beneath his own skin in answer, something tightening low in his chest without his consent.
For a moment, he forgot the garden, forgot the girls, forgot himself entirely, aware only of the point of contact between you, of the rhythm beneath his thumb.
For one brief, dangerous moment, he allowed himself the thought that it was not entirely one sided. That perhaps you felt it too.
His jaw tightened as he forced the thought down, forced himself back into the task, binding the cut with efficient precision, though his movements were firmer than they needed to be, his control not as complete as he would have preferred.
“That should hold” he said at last, his voice rougher than intended.
“Yes” you replied, a fraction too quickly.
He did not release your wrist as quickly as he should have, his thumb lingering a fraction longer than necessary, as though confirming it, as though committing it to memory. Then he let go “Do not be careless” he said, his voice lower now, roughened in a way he did not care to examine.
“I was distracted” you answered.
His gaze dropped to your mouth before he could stop it, drawn there without permission, lingering just long enough to be dangerous before he forced it away again.
Rhae made a small, pointed sound behind you, breaking whatever had settled between you.
The world returned all at once.
He stepped back, the distance immediate and necessary, though it felt wrong in a way he did not care to name.
You looked away first, as you always did, and he found that he disliked it more each time it happened, because it felt less like indifference and more like retreat.
He turned without another word and left the garden, because something had shifted in him in a way he did not yet understand, something that had taken root the moment he felt your pulse beneath his hand.
And if he remained there any longer, he was no longer certain he would choose restraint.
—————————————————
The library was an easy place to sit. Maekar had taken his place beside your sister near the hearth, a goblet in his hand, the fire casting long shadows across the stone as she spoke brightly beside him, her voice light, eager, attempting to draw him into some story of his youth.
He gave her enough to satisfy appearances. A word here, nod there. He did not truly listen, because his attention, despite himself, was divided.
You sat not far from him, on the rug with his daughters, your skirts gathered neatly, your posture relaxed in a way that seemed at odds with the sharpness of your mind. Rhae’s fingers were tangled in your hair, working through a braid with uneven concentration, while Daella watched you with that same keen, assessing interest she gave anything worth understanding.
He told himself he listened to them because they were his children. It was not the truth, he listened because you were there. Because your voice moved through the room in a way that drew his attention whether he willed it or not, calm and measured, threaded with that quiet wit he had begun to recognise.
“We should play a game” Daella declared.
He did not turn his head, but his attention sharpened.
“What kind of game?” you asked, already resigned.
“A question game. You must answer honestly”
“That is dangerous”
“That is the point” Despite himself, the corner of his mouth almost shifted, she was defiently his daughter.
He took a slow drink of his wine, his gaze still fixed somewhere ahead of him, though he was no longer seeing the room as a whole, only listening.
“Very well. Within reason” he could hear the warning in your tone.
Daella leaned forward, her voice bright with anticipation.“Why are you not married?”
His hand stilled slightly around the goblet. He had not meant to care about the answer, and yet he did.
“Because no one has ever asked me” His jaw tightened. That answer sat poorly with him, what fools of men did not ask for you.
“That cannot be true” Dealla argued
“It can”
Rhae ever earnest, added “You are pretty enough”
He did not look at you. But he imagined, vividly, the way your mouth would have curved at that, the way you would deflect it, brush it aside as though it meant nothing.
“Do you not wish to marry?” Daella pressed.
There was a pause “It has not been necessary”
“That is not the question” Dealla argued
Another pause. He found himself waiting, listening in a way he had not listened to anyone in years.
“Yes. When I was a girl”
His grip tightened slightly on the goblet.
“And now?”
“I am content”
He did not believe you. Not for a single moment. Something in him rejected the idea outright, instinctive and immediate, because he had seen the truth of you in smaller moments, in the way your expression shifted when you thought no one watched, in the quiet things you did without recognition.
You were not content, you endured. The distinction mattered more to him than it should have.
“Would you want children?” Daella asked, softer now.
The question shifted something in the room. He felt it in the way your breath caught, faint but there.
“Yes” The word was simple but it struck him harder than anything you had said before.
Because he could hear what sat beneath it. He could hear the want you did not voice.
He lifted the goblet again, if only to give his hands something to do.
Then Rhae, bright and unthinking, said “Father could give you children”
Everything stopped. The image came without warning. Violent in its clarity. You beneath him, breath unsteady, your body yielding beneath his in a way that made something deep in him tighten and pull. Your hair loose, cheeks flushed, hands gripping at him in need. The way you would respond to him, the way you would say his name as he buried himself inside of you.
The thought struck through him like a blade. He choked, the wine caught in his throat, a sharp, violent cough breaking from him as he turned away, his hand coming up too late to mask it “Seven fucking hells”
Your sister startled beside him, her hand coming to his arm as he coughed again, harder this time, his composure breaking in a way he had not allowed in years.
“Are you well?” She asked wide eyed
He did not answer her, he could not. Because the image had not left him.
Because it lingered, unwanted and yet impossible to dismiss, settling low in his body, heavy and insistent in a way that left him momentarily unsteady.
“Rhae” he said at last, his voice rougher than intended, sharper, cutting across the room “that is not appropriate”
“I only meant” she began to protest
“It does not matter what you meant” he cut her off
Silence followed.
He did not look at you, he could not. He stared instead into the fire, his grip tightening around the goblet until his knuckles paled, forcing his thoughts back into order, forcing the image away, forcing himself back into the shape of the man he was meant to be.
But it did not leave him, not entirely.
—————————————-
The evening wore on after that, the conversation stuttering back to safer topics, but Maekar's focus splintered. He nodded at the right moments, offered clipped responses to his daughters' chatter, yet his mind circled relentlessly back to that searing vision.
The corridor to his chambers felt endless, the stone cool under his boots. He slammed the door behind him, the thud echoing his pounding heart.
He stripped off his tunic with rough jerks, the fabric whispering to the floor. His breeches followed, kicked aside, leaving him bare and throbbing. His cock stood rigid, heavy with unmet need, the tip already weeping clear fluid at the mere recollection.
He collapsed onto the bed, the mattress dipping under his weight, linens tangling around his legs as he sprawled out.
One hand gripped the base of his shaft, fingers encircling the hot, pulsing length. He squeezed, a hiss escaping his lips, and began to stroke, slow at first, base to head, feeling the skin slide over the rigid core.
The image flooded back, you on your back beneath him, thighs parted wide, slick and inviting as he notched his cock at your entrance. He'd push in deep, inch by inch, watching your face contort in pleasure, your lips parting on a gasp as he filled you completely.
His pace quickened, fist pumping steadily. He imagined your walls clenching around him, hot and tight, milking him as he thrust hard, hips snapping against yours. Your hands would claw at his shoulders, nails digging in, urging him deeper “Maekar” you'd moan, voice breaking, until he spilled inside you.
Maekar's breaths came in harsh pants, his free hand twisting the sheets as his strokes grew frantic. His balls drew up tight, the pressure building like a storm. He pictured your face in the throes, eyes locked on his, flushed and desperate.
He came with a strangled roar, hips jerking off the bed, waves of ecstasy ripped through him, leaving his muscles quivering.
Panting, he sank back, hand falling limp, the room spinning faintly. The release ebbed the urgency, but the image lingered tormenting him.
——————————————————-
The hour was late. Summerhall had fallen into that rare kind of quiet that came only when the household slept, when even the corridors seemed to rest.
Maekar did not often wander at night. Tonight, he did. He told himself it was habit, that he was checking the halls, ensuring all was as it should be.
He did not question why his steps led him here, to your chambers.
The light beneath your door was still burning, you should have been asleep.
He knocked once, sharp and controlled before he could stop himself. There was a pause, then movement. You stood peeking out through the crack of the opened door, your hair unbound, a simple shift in place of your usual gown.
It struck him harder than it should have, feeling that familiar heat curl low in his stomach.
“My prince” you said, surprise flickering across your face before you smoothed it away, pulling your shall tighter around your shoulders
“You are not abed” he said, his eyes flicking over you.
“No” you replied, eyebrows scrunched in confusion.
He should have left, he did not. “What occupies you?” he asked instead.
You hesitated, then stepped back slightly, allowing the door to open further “Reading” you said.
He stepped inside before he could reconsider it. The room was simple. A book lay open on the table beside a half-burnt candle, some dresses and shalls lay over the chairs. The room smelt faintly like your perfume. You had been writing too. He noticed that, he noticed everything about you these days.
“You do not sleep?” he asked keeping his voice even.
“I do” you said “Eventually” you say with shrug
“That is not sufficient” he says studying you now.
Your brow lifted slightly “I was unaware my sleep was your concern”
“It is” he said, before he could stop himself.
You looked at him differently then “You need not trouble yourself” you said after a moment, softer now “I am quite accustomed to managing alone”
There it was again, that quiet acceptance. That you would always be the one overlooked. Something in him rejected it outright.
“You should not have to” he said, wanting to take a step closer but holding himself back.
You stilled just slightly “And yet” you replied carefully “it has always been so”
His jaw tightened. Because he knew that was true, but he knew, with a clarity that unsettled him, that he did not want it to remain so “You will sleep” he said finally.
Your lips twitched faintly “Is that an order, my prince?”
“Yes” his voice lower and rough then he intended, his eyes dropping down to your lips.
“Very well” you said at last. You moved to extinguish the candle, he watched the way your movements slowed, just slightly, as though aware he still stood there.
When the room dimmed, you turned back toward him “You need not remain” you said you voice sounding different to his ears.
He knew that, but he felt it hard to walk away. He waited enough to see you settle, to see you draw the covers around yourself.
Only then did he turn, only then did he leave. As he stepped back into the corridor, one thought followed him, quiet and immovable.
You were not accustomed to being looked after. He would change that.
————————————————-
The courtyard had been arranged for celebration, a party for the visiting lords of the Reach. An effort for the crown to ‘make a good impression’ or so his father’s letters told him.
Lanterns hung in careful lines between stone arches, their light warm against the gathering dusk, music drifting easily through the space as wine loosened tongues and laughter followed close behind. It was not a grand feast by court standards, but it was enough, more than enough to satisfy expectation.
Maekar stood beneath the archway, your sister seated beside him, speaking brightly of nothing in particular, her voice a steady stream he acknowledged only where necessary.
He had done everything required of him. He had appeared, listened, played the part expected of a prince considering a match.
Still, his attention was elsewhere. It found you without effort, like it always did now.
You had not meant to draw notice, that much was obvious in the way you kept to the edges at first, positioned just beyond the centre of the gathering.
It did not work, not for him. He saw you the moment you stepped into the light.
Something in his chest tightened, sharp and immediate, his gaze fixing before he had the chance to look away. His gaze drifting up the flower crown woven into your hair.
He did not hear what your sister said as she carried on chatting to him, because someone had approached you. A knight, confident in the easy way of men who had never been denied by a pretty girl.
Maekar’s grip tightened around his goblet. He told himself he watched because it was his duty to observe those within his walls, to know who spoke to whom, who sought advantage where it could be found.
It was a lie, he watched because you had given the man your hand and led you onto the dance floor.
The music shifted and he found he could not look away. You moved well, the way you followed the steps with quiet precision.
He saw the way the knight leaned closer, the familiarity of it, the confidence of a man who believed himself welcome.
Maekar’s jaw tightened as the knight’s hand settled at your waist. You stiffened, only slightly, but saw it Maekar felt it like a physical thing. Something instinctive and immediate rising in him that had nothing to do with reason and everything to do with possession.
Maekar’s vision darkened at the edges, his grip on the goblet shifted, fingers tightening until the metal bit into his skin. And all he could think, was how wrong it was. How it should have been him. Maekar’s gaze fixed on the point of contact, on the way the knight’s hand settled against you as though he had any right to it.
He imagined, without meaning to, stepping into the space instead. His hand in place of the other man’s, his grip firmer, certain, leaving no question as to who you belonged to in that moment.
His jaw tightened, his fingers curling harder around the goblet as he forced himself to remain where he was, to watch rather than act.
The dance ended, The knight bowed and you answered with a polite curtsey, steeping back. Relief struck him unexpectedly, sharp enough to catch him off guard, something loosening in his chest that he had not realised had tightened.
When you made your way back to Rhea, Maekar’s shoulders eased by a fraction. Only then did he look away. Only then did he become aware again of the space around him, of your sister beside him, of the music continuing as though nothing had shifted at all.
But something had, irreversibly.
Because as he sat there, staring into his untouched wine, one truth settled into him with a clarity he could not deny, no matter how he might wish to.
He did not want you touched by another man.
He did not want you looked at by another man.
You were his. And that was a problem, because he had no right to you, none at all.
And yet he felt it anyway.
———————————————
The first thing he noticed was the sound.
A crack of something wrong, sharp and sudden, followed by a ripple through the courtyard that did not belong to celebration. Laughter broke apart, voices shifting, rising, something jagged and uncontrolled threading through it.
Then came the shouting.
Maekar was already on his feet “What” He did not finish the question. Because he saw the flames.
They climbed too fast, wrong in their hunger, catching along stone and cloth alike, licking upward where nothing should have burned so quickly.
“Water!” someone shouted “Buckets!”
Maekar did not look at the fire. He looked for his children.
“Daella!” he snapped, already moving, his voice cutting clean through the chaos. “Rhae!”
Your sister’s voice said something beside him, but it meant nothing. He was already moving through the courtyard, shoving past men who hesitated where he did not, his gaze cutting through smoke and bodies, searching.
His heart slammed hard enough to hurt. He found Daella first.
She stood near the edge of the courtyard, her face pale beneath the lantern light “Where is you sister?” he demanded
Daella’s breath hitched “Into the tower” she said, her voice breaking “Rhae went inside and…..she went after her”
He did not hear the rest, he already knew which ‘she’ Dealla meant. You went after her, of course you did.
His chest tightened, something far too close to fear clawing its way up through him before he could force it down “Stay here!” he ordered Daella, though he did not look at her as he said it.
He was already turning. The smoke had thickened at the archway, dark and choking, spilling outward into the courtyard as servants rushed with water that would never be enough, never be fast enough.
Then movement came from above. His head snapped up at the narrow slit of the tower window, hands reached through the smoke, dragging something small, struggling.
Rhae.
His breath left him in a single, sharp exhale as he saw her, saw her being pulled through, her limbs scrambling, her face streaked with soot and tears.
Alive. She was alive. For one brief moment, everything in him stilled. Relief struck hard, sudden, almost disorienting in its force.
“Careful!” someone shouted below as they hauled her free.
She disappeared from the window, pulled into waiting arms. His daughter was safe.
His gaze returned to the opening. No second figure, no movement behind her, no sign of you. The relief twisted, you had gone in after her and you had not come out.
You were still inside.
His jaw clenched hard enough to ache as he looked once more at the window, as though you might appear there belatedly, as though the moment might correct itself.
“Water!” someone shouted beside him “Buckets!”
He understood exactly what he was about to do. He had a daughter below, shaken but alive. He had another watching him, waiting. He had duty, responsibility, reason.
Still none of it mattered, because you were in there.
His gaze fixed on the archway, on the thick, choking smoke that marked the entrance, on the fire that should have driven any sensible man back.
He was not a sensible man, not when it came to you.
Rhen he moved with the same certainty that had driven him into battle, into war, into every decision that had ever mattered. He crossed the threshold into smoke and heat without a second thought.
Because you were inside and he would not lose you.
——————————————————
The smoke swallowed him the moment he crossed the threshold.
It burned immediately, sharp and choking, dragging at his lungs with every breath, the heat pressing in from all sides as the fire climbed higher through the old stone and timber.
“Where the fuck are you” he muttered, more instinct than thought, forcing forward through falling debris, one arm raised against the worst of the smoke as his eyes strained through the grey.
The stairwell loomed ahead, half lost to flame, the path he would have taken already compromised, the heat rolling down in waves that would have driven any other man back.
He moved lower instead, cutting along the edge where the smoke thinned just enough to see shapes rather than shadows, his boots slipping against stone slick with ash and oil, his breath growing harsher with each step as the air grew thinner.
“Damn you!” he rasped under his breath, anger threading through the fear he refused to name
And then he saw you, a shape against the wall, half collapsed, your body leaning where you had tried to stay upright and failed, your hand braced weakly against stone that no longer offered you support.
You swayed, knees bucking, he crossed the distance, the world narrowing to nothing but you as his hand closed around your arm, hauling you upright before your knees could give way entirely.
“I have you” The words came rough, dragged from somewhere deeper than his throat, something already fraying at the edges.
“She’s out” you managed, your voice breaking through smoke, barely more than breath.
“I know” His arm locked around your waist without thought, pulling you flush against him, your body fitting against his in a way that struck through him even now, even here, even with fire closing in around you both.
You did not resist. You did not have the strength to.
Your head tipped forward, brushing his shoulder, your weight shifting fully into him as he turned, forcing his way back the way he had come, through heat and smoke and falling debris that no longer mattered.
His jaw clenched hard enough to ache as he drove forward, his shoulder slamming through what remained of a half burnt beam, his hold on you never faltering, never loosening, not even when the heat bit into his skin through cloth.
He would not pull you from death only to watch you slip back into it in his arms.
The archway appeared through the smoke, light cutting through grey, voices rising beyond it, hands reaching, shouting something he did not process.
The air hit like a shock, cool and clean and wrong after the heat, but he barely felt it, barely registered anything beyond the weight of you in his arms, the way you sagged against him, too quiet, too still “Get me the fucking maester!” He growled at the staff frozen in shock.
He lowered you, his hand coming to your face immediately, too firm before it softened, his thumb brushing soot from your cheek.
Alive. Breathing. His. The thought came unbidden, he did not correct it.
Because as he held you there, your breath uneven against his throat, your weight fully in his arms, one truth settled into him with a certainty that left no room for doubt.
He had walked into fire for you.
——————————————————-
He did not remain in the courtyard, not once you had been taken from his arms.
The maester had insisted, hands already moving, directing servants, calling for clean cloth and air and space. He had only stepped back when it became unavoidable.
Even then, not far, close enough to see you. Close enough to assure himself that your chest still rose, that breath still found you, however uneven.
Alive.
The word settled heavily in his mind as he retired to his chambers to clean the soot and ash from his skin.
“My prince” The voice broke through his thoughts, stalling his step.
Your father
Maekar did not turn immediately. Your father stood rigid, his expression drawn not with relief, not with gratitude, but with something far colder. Displeasure.
“She has caused considerable difficulty” the man said, his tone measured, controlled, as though speaking of an inconvenience rather than a woman who had just walked into fire. “She has always had a tendency toward recklessness” your father continued, as though explaining a flaw in breeding rather than an act of courage.
Something in Maekar shifted. He took a step forward.
“She went into a burning tower” your father went on, as though the point had not yet been made clear enough “and in doing so, has placed herself in a most compromising position. Half the household saw her carried out of the flames in your arms, her gown”
“That is fucking enough” Maekar’s voice was quiet.
The man stopped, not because he had finished. Because something in the tone left no room to continue.
Maekar held his gaze then, fully, for the first time, his expression stripped of what little courtesy he had afforded him until now. “You speak of fucking recklessness” he said, measured, controlled, each word placed with care “as though she acted without cause”
Your father’s jaw tightened slightly “She endangered herself needlessly”
“She saved my daughter!” She acted where others hesitated” Maekar continued, his gaze unwavering “She did what was required when it was required, and she did it without thought for herself”
A pause. Then, colder “You would do well to consider that before you speak of her as though she were a fucking burden”
Silence followed.
But your father did not yield easily, that much was evident “And yet” he said after a moment, his tone tightening “the reality remains. She was seen, her person exposed, her state”
Maekar stepped closer “In my arms” he said, cutting across him, his voice lower now, something darker threading through it “because she would have died otherwise”
Your father held his gaze “So we are agreed” he said, attempting to reclaim ground that was no longer his “Her honour now rests with you”
Maekar did not look away nor hesitate “She will be my wife”
Your father’s expression shifted, something calculating flickering behind his eyes “You were to wed her sister”
Maekar simply held his gaze, and in that silence made it clear that what had been arranged no longer mattered.
Your father exhaled slowly, the shape of the outcome already forming in his mind, the advantage being weighed, measured, accepted “Then the announcement will be corrected” he said at last.
Maekar walked away, he did not elaborate, he did not need to.
Because the truth of it had already taken root, already shaped itself into something he would not unmake, no matter the cost.
This was not obligation. This was not convenience. This was not something that could be rearranged at another man’s discretion.
You were his, and whether you knew it yet or not he was already yours.
Did I drop a devastating What If and disappear for a week? - Yes
Did I write three yearning and somewhat smutty stories to make it up to you all? - Also Yes
Spinster Series His POV - Baelor Part One
Spinster Series Masterlist
Meakar
Lyonel
Warnings: Male gaze yearning (he wants that cookie bad) wanking, father is his own warning, attempted assault, smut - Under 18’s DNI
Baelor had not objected to the match.
He had refused others, politely, firmly, without spectacle. He had no need to remarry quickly, no urgency that could not be answered with patience and care. His position allowed him that luxury.
But this proposal had been reasonable. A daughter of a great house, well regarded, properly raised, suitable in temperament, or so he had been assured. A woman who could stand beside him, not merely as wife, but as future queen.
A steady presence within a court that had very little of it and someone who could help him improve the small folk’s view of the Targaryen’s.
He had agreed, simply because it made sense. It was not a romantic notion, it was a practical one.
——————————————————
When he was told your family had arrived he decided to receive you privately, in his solar overlooking the Blackwater Bay.
It seemed the kinder way to do it. A smaller audience, less spectacle, less room for court gossip to feast too eagerly on every expression and misstep. If he was to meet the woman intended to be his future bride, he would do so without a hall of watching eyes.
Your father entered first offering the expected courtesies. Baelor acknowledged them with ease, his attention already shifting beyond him. To the daughter, his intended, she stepped forward before she was bid, dipping into a deep curtsy with a brightness that bordered on eagerness. Her smile came easily, her voice following just as quickly, light and warm and entirely unguarded.
Baelor inclined his head, offering the same measured courtesy he offered all.
But as she spoke, as she laughed, as she filled the room with a kind of unrestrained enthusiasm, he found himself noting not what was present but what was not.
There was no weight to her words, no consideration behind them. She spoke of the city before she understood it, of court before she had seen it, of feasts and music and admiration, as though those things were the substance of the life she would soon enter.
She was young, not only in years but in mind and attitude.
Baelor received her kindly listened, he responded where required, he did not correct her. But a quiet thought formed all the same. She would need guidance, more than he had anticipated, more than he had wanted to give.
It was only then, as the conversation continued, that Baelor became aware of someone else in the room His gaze shifted, and that was when he saw you, not drawing attention in any way that might justify your presence going unnoticed until now, but simply there, as though you had been part of the room from the beginning and he had only just thought to look properly.
His attention stilled, just for a fraction. A subtle pause in breath, a tightening through his jaw that he did not allow to show, but felt all the same. Because the realisation came quickly, cleanly, and with a certainty he did not often question.
You had not been mentioned.
Your father had written carefully, thoroughly. He had detailed lineage, temperament, the expected virtues of the daughter he now stood before, ensuring that nothing of importance had been left unclear.
Not once has those letters mentioned you.
Baelor’s gaze shifted briefly back to your father, sharper now, the politeness still present but no longer unexamined, before returning to you with a focus that did not waver so easily. You stood a step behind your sister, not hidden, not uncertain, but placed, as though your position had been decided for you long before you entered the room. There was a quiet maturity there that set you apart from your sister.
Baelor felt your gaze settle on him in return, yet he did not look away. Because the question had already taken hold, steady and insistent beneath the surface of everything else.
Why? Why had you been omitted?
There was nothing about you that suggested a reason for your oversight. You were not lacking in looks or in grace, so why were you not mentioned? He noticed how you where dressed in your houses colours, poised like a lady but stood behind in them, more like a servant than a family member.
Then the answer clicked into place. Your omission was no accident, it was a choice on your father part. Something in him shifted at that realisation, not enough to disrupt the flow of conversation around him, but enough that his attention no longer returned fully to where it had been.
His gaze returned to you, taking in what he had missed before with far greater care. And that was when the second thought came, what if you had been the one presented instead of your sister, would he had been so hesitant?
He cut off thought the moment it formed, dismissed with the same discipline he applied to all things that had no place in duty or reason. The arrangement had been made, the purpose of the meeting clear, and he had no interest in entertaining distractions born of incomplete information.
Yet, the fact that the thought had occurred at all lingered, unwelcome and persistent, settling somewhere deeper than he cared to examine. Baelor did not like being unprepared. He liked it far less when something, or someone, unsettled his judgement.
For a moment, he said nothing, which for him was rare.
Then your sister pulled him back into the conversation, her enthusiasm about the city and the markets evident
“King’s Landing overwhelms at first” Bealor says warmly, even if his attention is now half torn. His tone measured, practiced, offered with the same steady ease he had given countless times before.
“It is everything I hoped it would be!” she replied brightly “I should like to see the throne room tomorrow, if it pleases you” she added, forgetting his title in her eagerness.
He noted it, the presumption, the lack of restraint, but did not correct her. Instead, he inclined his head slightly “It will be arranged”
Then he turned, his gaze settling on you “And you, my lady? What would you wish to see?”
There was the smallest pause. He saw it. The moment of surprise, the faint shift in your posture as though you had not expected to be included at all.
You blinked, caught off guard, before answering “The library, your grace” the words coming before you could soften them, your gaze dropping almost immediately after, as though you had said too much.
Your sister laughed lightly “She prefers books to all else” It was not cruel. It was not meant to wound, but it dismissed you all the same, Bealor did not laugh.
“The Red Keep library is worth preferring” he said evenly, his attention remaining on you rather than shifting back to her “It contains original records of Aegon’s Landing and back to the kings of old”
That drew your gaze up again. He watched it happen, the hesitation giving way to interest, real and immediate, unguarded in a way that the rest of you was not. It altered your expression enough that he could see the shape of it more clearly now, the intelligence, the curiosity.
“Truly?” you asked
Baelor’s mouth curved faintly in response, not the polite expression he had worn moments before, but something quieter, more genuine “Truly” for a moment, he did not look away.
Your sister resumed speaking, as though nothing had shifted, her voice bright as she returned to safer subjects, to tourneys and feasts and all the things she understood and expected.
Baelor turned back to her and offered his arm as was proper, his manner unchanged, composed, attentive, exactly as it should be.
She accepted with clear delight. Your father followed, satisfied, already seeing the shape of the arrangement settling into place.
Baelor led them toward the gardens, speaking where required, listening where expected, guiding the conversation with the same steady hand he applied to all such matters.
But attention did not fully return to her, not truly. It remained on the mysterious sister with her
You had not been meant to draw his attention and yet you had. That alone ensured he would not forget you.
———————————————-
The throne room was never as impressive as people hoped it would be. Baelor had seen it too many times. It was a seat built to remind men what conquest cost, a king who forgot that deserved every cut he earned.
Your sister, however, looked upon it exactly as most did, with wonder first and meaning somewhere far behind “It is magnificent” she whispered, eyes bright as they traced the jagged rise of melted steel, no doubt imagining herself upon it, draped in silk and admired by a full court.
Baelor stood beside her, hands clasped loosely behind his back, his expression composed as he answered in the same steady tone he used whenever men romanticised what had never been romantic in the first place “It is a reminder” he said evenly “of what was conquered”
She stepped closer, peering upward with an expression that bordered on delight “One must feel powerful sitting there” she said in a way that was no doubt meant to tempt him.
“One must feel responsible” Baelor corrected gently, the weight of the words familiar in his mouth.
She smiled as though he had made a mild jest and turned her attention to the blades themselves “Oh, they are still quite sharp. One would think you would have them dulled. To be more comfortable, of course”
Baelor had some variation of the answer ready, as he always did. Then your voice came from behind him “It is not meant to be comfortable”
He turned at once. You stood a little apart from the others, as though you had not intended to speak at all until the thought escaped you. Your face had already begun to flush, some mixture of embarrassment and self reproach crossing it as though you regretted interjecting.
Baelor did not because there it was again, that same precise, disconcerting thing he had noticed in the solar. Not merely intelligence, though you had that plainly enough, but understanding. You did not look at the throne and see splendour. You saw purpose.
“Exactly” he said simply, keeping his gaze on you rather than letting it drift back to your sister.
For one moment longer than courtesy required, he let himself look properly. Not as he had in the solar, caught off guard by your existence, but with intent.
You were, he found, exceedingly pleasant to look at.
Your sister had already turned away, distracted by a tapestry along the wall, her attention shifting as quickly as it always seemed to. You, however, remained where you were for a beat longer, as though uncertain whether you had overstepped. He could see the self-consciousness in the way your shoulders drew in slightly. That, too, caught at him. You had been right, and yet you stood as though braced to be thought foolish for saying so. He did not understand that
You moved to follow your sister, your gaze dropping, your expression composed once more, but Baelor’s attention did not return to the throne at once.
It remained on you.
—————————————-
The library was not a place Baelor often needed to think about. He had spent years within its walls, studying histories, weighing accounts, learning which records could be trusted and which had been shaped by the hands that preserved them. It was a place of use, it had never been a place of interest. Not until now.
Your sister lasted only a handful of minutes before the dust and quiet began to grate on her patience. Baelor watched it happen without comment, the way her attention drifted from shelf to shelf without ever settling, her fingers brushing along the spines without care, her interest already waning.
“I cannot imagine spending an afternoon here” she said lightly, drawing her hand back as though the dust itself offended her.
“I can” you murmured. The words were soft, almost absent, but they reached him all the same.
He watched as you moved through the shelves with a quiet certainty, your attention already claimed, your gaze alive in a way it had not been in the throne room or the solar. It struck him then that you came most into yourself when you thought you were not being watched.
He moved between the shelves with familiarity, selecting a volume without hesitation. The binding was worn, the leather cracked with age “The original record of Aegon’s Landing” he said, offering it to you.
You took it carefully, almost reverently, your fingers brushing his as you did.
Baelor stilled, the contact was brief, it should have been nothing. Instead, it struck sharp and immediate, heat rather than warmth, as though something had been pressed too close to a flame. He released the book a fraction slower than necessary, aware of the exact point where your skin had met his.
“Thank you, Your Grace” you said, your voice softer now, your attention already drawn to the text.
Your sister sighed behind you “I believe I shall explore the gardens instead”
Baelor knew what was expected, he should have followed. That was the purpose of this visit, the reason for your family’s presence, the arrangement that had been made long before you had ever entered his solar and unsettled it entirely.
Instead, he remained where he was “You read histories often?” he asked, his gaze settling on you rather than the departing figure of your sister.
“When I can” you replied.
“And when you cannot?” He asked trying to figure you out.
You did not look at him when you answered “I remember them”
That drew the smallest shift in his expression. He had been taught to recognise minds that held more than they revealed, and yours did precisely that
You stepped toward the window for better light, opening the text with careful hands, your attention wholly absorbed.
Baelor should have left instead, he moved closer. Close enough that he could see the page without asking, close enough that the faint warmth of you reached him again, that subtle scent of your perfume lingered in the air between you.
“This contradicts the Sept’s later account” you murmured, more to yourself than to him.
Baelor leaned in, not because he doubted you, because he wanted to see where you read. Your finger hovered over the line, he followed it without question, his shoulder brushing yours as he did.
You went still. So did he.
“Few records survive unaltered” he said quietly, his voice lower now, more measured “There is a later account that confirms it” He reached across you to turn the page.
Your fingers met again, this time, he did not withdraw immediately. For a fraction of a moment, he allowed it. Allowed the contact, the heat of it, as though something in him had been marked.
Then you pulled back, quick and careful. He turned the page and forced himself to step away.
Because staying any longer would have required explanation, and Baelor did not yet have one he was willing to give “Good day, my lady” he said, his tone composed once more/
He left before you could answer, because he did not yet trust himself to remain where you were without wanting to understand why you compelled him so and why your touch felt like he burned him.
—————————————
Baelor had not intended to return to the library.
He had finished his duties for the evening, the last of the council dismissed, the weight of the day settling onto his shoulders. He should have retired to his chambers, instead, he found himself turning down the corridor that led to the library.
The door stood partially open, lght spilling through the gap and with it came the low murmur of voices. Yours among them.
Baelor paused only briefly before stepping inside.
You sat near the long table, sleeves pushed back from your wrists, a book open before you, your attention wholly claimed by the discussion at hand. The Maester stood opposite, his usual composure replaced by something closer to mild bewilderment as you spoke.
“If you compare the port ledgers” you were saying, your voice animated in a way Baelor had not yet heard from you “you will see the discrepancy. The tariffs shift after the rebellion, but the official record omits it. That is not oversight, that is intent”
The Maester frowned “You are certain?”
“I am” you insisted, already reaching for another page “They wanted it forgotten”
Baelor did not announce himself at once. He watched, you were different like this. Gone was the quiet composure you wore so well in company, instead in the glow of candlelight and ink-stained parchment, you were something sharper, brighter, wholly engaged in a way that made it impossible for him to look away. Your face was alive and your eyes bright.
“You are comparing port ledgers?” He said finally announcing his presence.
You startled at the sound of his voice, turning quickly, the shift from certainty to awareness immediate. The Maester straightened at once “Your Grace”
You dipped into a quick curtsy, the book still clutched in your hands “Your Grace. I did not expect”
Baelor lifted a hand, cutting the apology short without thought “No apology is needed. You are my guest”
His gaze moved past you briefly “You may leave us”
The Maester did not hesitate, bowing and retreating into the shelves with a speed that suggested he was not entirely displeased to escape.
Baelor’s attention returned to you.
You stood where you were, suddenly more aware of yourself again, the animation of moments before settling back beneath composure, though not entirely gone.
“It gladdens me to see you returned” he said, stepping further into the room, his gaze flicking over the open texts.
You flushed, just slightly “It seemed a waste not to”
He almost smiled “You were correct earlier” he said instead “The Sept’s account is sanitized”
Your head lifted at once, the change immediate “You checked?” The surprise in your voice was unguarded, bright in a way that held his attention more firmly than any practiced politeness ever could.
“I did” he replied downplaying the pride in his tone. He liked knowing things others didn’t.
You smiled then, the smile reaching your eyes and lit them in a way that made his breath still for half a moment longer than it should have. Baelor became acutely aware of you in that moment, of the way your sleeves had been pushed back, revealing the line of your wrists, the faint smudge of ink along your fingers. It was compelling, more so than it had any right to be. He found his gaze lingering.
“The hour is late” you said quickly, the words tumbling slightly as though you had only just remembered it yourself “I should return to my chambers. Good night, Your Grace” You curtsied again, retreating from the space as though the moment had unsettled you as well.
Baelor inclined his head and watched you go.
Watched the way your composure returned as you reached the door, the way you gathered yourself back into that careful, contained version of yourself he was beginning to understand was only one part of who you were.
Baelor remained where he was for a moment longer, his gaze resting on the place you had stood, on the scattered texts you had left behind, on the evidence of a mind that had not been meant to occupy his thoughts and yet had done so with increasing insistence.
He exhaled slowly.
This was no longer simple curiosity and that, more than anything, gave him pause.
————————————————
He did not mean for it to become a pattern, but that is what it became.
A corridor turned down without thought toward your chambers, a pause outside a doorway of a solar you frequented, a question asked of a servant that led to wherever you had last been seen.
It would have been easy to name it curiosity, but that would have been a lie.
Baelor was not a man who wandered without purpose. Every movement he made within the Red Keep carried intent, even when it appeared otherwise. He did not lose time, did not indulge distraction, but increasingly he found his time arranged around you.
He would find you in the library, bent over a text, entirely absorbed, your presence there as natural as the shelves themselves.
He would encounter you in the halls, hearing your voice before he saw you, low and thoughtful, asking questions most would never think to ask.
He began to expect it, worse, he began to anticipate it.
There was no clear moment where he acknowledged the truth of it, no decision made, no line crossed with conscious intent. Only the quiet, undeniable shift. He was no longer encountering you, he was seeking you out.
————————————————
It did not remain limited to passing encounters, not when he decided simply seeing you was not enough.
It started with a question, a simple one offered without weight, about a book he knew you had been reading, about a detail you had mentioned in passing that most would have forgotten the moment it was spoken. He did not forget.
You answered him, surprised that he remembered and just like that, the conversations did not end.
You spoke of histories as though they were living things, remembering details with an ease that would have impressed any maester, but it was not memory alone that held his attention. It was what you did with it, you challenged and correct it, made it interesting.
Baelor found himself answering your questions in kind. At first offering only what was necessary, matters of trade, supply, governance, spoken plainly and without embellishment. He saw it then, the shift he had first noticed in the library, the way your eyes brightened, the way your focus sharpened, the way you stepped forward rather than held yourself back.
You asked questions others would not have thought to ask and Baelor, who spent his days surrounded by men who spoke to be heard rather than to be right, found himself answering you more fully than he had intended.
He told himself it was because you could follow it, because you understood the weight of what he said without needing it softened or simplified.Whilst that was true, it was not the only reason.
Somewhere between one conversation and the next, between a discussion on trade routes and another on the shifting allegiances of the realm, he began to recognise something he had not expected.
He was looking for it.
For that moment, where you forgot yourself.
Where the careful composure slipped and something brighter took its place, where your thoughts came faster than your restraint, where your voice carried enthusiasm. Where you were no longer the overlooked daughter standing half a step behind. But entirely yourself.
He found, with a quiet and growing certainty, that it had become the most anticipated parts of his day.
——————————
The Dragonpit was not a place Baelor visited often.
Your sister had insisted and had allowed it, because he knew concessions are to be made when courting. However from the moment you arrived, it became clear your sister had already lost interest.
“It smells” she declared, pressing cloth to her nose, her disappointment immediate and unhidden.
“It is ruin” Baelor replied mildly “Ruins rarely perfume themselves”
His gaze moved past her, seeking you. You had not spoken yet, you stood at the edge of the collapsed dome, looking down into the hollow below, your attention fixed in a way he had come to recognise.
He moved closer before he realised he had done it. Close enough that he could see what you saw, that he could follow the line of your gaze, that he could feel, faintly, the warmth of you in the space between.
“They died here” you murmured.
“Yes” he said
Your voice shifted, quieter now, more certain “Not from weakness”
That caught him.
“From fear”
Baelor did not answer at once but he felt that same pull he had known in the library.
Your sister called for his attention, kicking at the sand, already bored, looking elsewhere for something that might entertain her.
He did not move immediately, his attention remained on you.
You stepped forward, the stone shifting beneath your slipper and before the thought had fully formed you were slipping.
Baelor moved without hesitation, his hand closed around your elbow, pulling you back with a force that left no room for argument.
You inhaled sharply as your footing steadied, your body turning slightly toward him closer than either of you had intended “Thank you, Your Grace”
His grip lingered a fraction too long. His eyes moved over you, never seeing you so close “Careful” he said evenly, the word came out steadier than the feeling beneath it.
He released you, his hand flexing once at his side, feeling hot as through branded.
You nodded, composed once more, though he did not miss the faint shift in your breath, the subtle quickening that mirrored something he refused to examine too closely.
Baelor stepped back then, not because he wished to. Because he understood, with a clarity that had been building since the library, that remaining close to you was no longer a neutral act.
Even as he created distance, his attention did not follow, it remained exactly where it had settled. On you.
—————————————-
The meeting had ended poorly.
Baelor could still feel it in the tightness at the back of his neck, in the lingering weight of disagreement that had not quite resolved itself, only settled into temporary silence. The lords filed out with all the stiffness of men who believed themselves right and resented not being proven so.
He remained where he was a moment longer, hands braced lightly against the table, his gaze resting on the map though he was no longer seeing it.
Then the voices carried into the corridor, sharper now, less restrained, the last of the council speaking in low, irritated murmurs as they stepped out.
Baelor followed and saw you.
You stood a few paces from the door, half turned as though you had already intended to leave, your posture composed but not entirely at ease. Not guilty, not quite, but aware enough of how it might appear.
“My lady?” one of the councillors said, his tone edged with something between surprise and disapproval.
Another laughed, softer, more cutting “Were we entertaining guests?”
Baelor felt it then, sharp and immediate. Irritation, not at you, at them. Fools the lot of them.
You spoke quickly “I was merely passing” he nearly smiled a how bad of liar you were.
However he was not going to let the Lords seize upon your small misstep, however unwise. He stepped forward “She was not disturbing anything” he said evenly.
“She stood at the door listening” one councillor pressed.
Baelor did not look at him “She is my guest” That was enough, it always was, no one dare argue with a prince of the blood.m
The lords inclined their heads, one by one, the challenge dissolving as quickly as it had formed, though not without the lingering looks of judgement. Baelor ignored it, his attention was already on you.
You looked as though you wished to disappear “I apologise” you said softly.
“For what?” he asked.
You hesitated, your gaze lowering “For appearing improper.”
Improper. The word sat poorly with him. He studied you for a moment “You were curious” he said.
You nodded.
“And you believe curiosity a crime?” A slight tease in his voice.
“When it is unwelcome” you answered “or causes issue”
There it was again, that careful shaping of yourself to fit within what was permitted. That instinct to retreat, to make yourself smaller before you could be made so by others.
Baelor did not like it, especially not on you.
He stepped aside “Come”
You blinked, clearly not expecting it “Your Grace?”
“If you are to stand at the door” he said, his tone softening just enough to carry something close to dry amusement “you may as well see what is behind it” He did not wait, he knew you would follow.
You hesitated, only briefly, before crossing the threshold. The chamber was quieter now, emptied of voices, the maps still laid out, the markers unmoved, the remnants of decisions not yet settled lingering in the air.
“This is where decisions are made” Baelor said, his voice lower as though the room itself demanded it.
You moved slowly, your attention drawn immediately to the table, to the maps, to the small details most overlooked.
“Not on the throne” you said, already knowing the answer.
He quirked his lips “No”
He stepped closer, he told himself it was to see what you saw, to follow your line of thought as he had in the library, but he knew better now than to pretend it was only that. He wanted to be near you, he wanted to see what drew your attention.
You stopped beside the map of the Narrow Sea, your gaze sweeping over it with that same focused intensity he had come to expect.
“Storms will disrupt these routes by autumn” you said softly.
He did not ask how you knew “And what would you do?” he asked, not testing you but genuinely wanting your answer.
“Diversify shipments. Stagger arrivals. Store more before summer ends” you spoke in confidence.
“You speak as though you have governed a port” he said was the faintest edge of something lighter in his tone now.
“I have governed a household” you replied “Supplies run thin there as well”
Baelor stepped closer again, he could feel the faint warmth of you, the same subtle scent of your perfume. The scent a quiet grounding presence more familiar than it had any right to be “And when supplies did run thin?” he asked, his voice lower as your perfume washed over him.
“People grow resentful long before they grow hungry”
He paused. That was not a lesson easily learned.
When you turned, you nearly collided with him. Your hand caught his arm, his caught yours.
“You think ahead” he said, though his attention had shifted, not to your words, but to the feel of your hand where it rested against him, to the way you had reached without hesitation, as though it were the most natural thing in the world.
“I was raised to” you answer, his eyes following the flush from your cheek down your chest. He did not release you at once, holding just a moment longer like he wanted to remember the feel of you.
“You should not stand outside council doors” he said, the words softer now, a quiet chide rather than a rebuke as he stepped back.
You flushed “I did not mean to”
“I know” He did, he truly did “Curiosity is not a flaw. It is an asset”
The word hung between you
You looked at him then, properly, and something in your expression shifted, something unguarded that caught him off balance in a way he had not anticipated.
“Thank you” you said softly.
Baelor inclined his head, he did not trust himself to say more. This already felt like he had crossed a line that he could not go back on.
—————————————————-
The gardens shimmered in the late afternoon heat. Baelor had expected another measured engagement with your sister, the same easy rhythm that had carried the days before it.
He was prepared for that, what he was not prepared for, was you in that dress.
He saw your sister first, her voice already rising to meet him, bright and eager. Then he saw you and everything else fell away.
It was not the dress alone. He had seen women in lighter silks, in lower cuts, in fabrics designed to draw the eye and hold it. That was nothing new, nothing that would have given him pause.
This did, because it was you in it.
The line of your throat lay bare to the sun, the light catching along your collarbone, drawing his eye without permission. The fabric moved when the breeze touched it soft, following the shape of you rather than hiding it.
A sensation struck him low and sharp, a want.
His jaw tightened, and for a moment brief and unbidden, something in him slipped.He imagined it, not the gown as it was, but beneath his hand, the fabric gathering in his fist as he drew it aside, the warmth of your skin replacing silk, the line of your throat no longer distant but beneath his mouth, lips nipping at your skin, his fingers tracing over you.
The image came fast, dangerous in its clarity and just as quickly he shut it down.
His hand curled once at his side, controlled, grounding, as though he could force the thought back into whatever place it had come from.
“My lady” he said, his voice even, controlled.
You curtsied in response. He watched the movement, the way the fabric shifted with you.
He forced himself to listen as your sister spoke, to answer where required, to remain where he stood, but his attention did not follow his words, it remained fixed.
On you.
———————————————-
That evening, he retreated to his chambers. Undressing methodically, shedding layers until he stood in nothing but his smallclothes, but even that felt constricting.
His body hummed with unresolved tension, every nerve attuned to the memory of you.
He lay on the bed, the sheets cool against his heated skin, staring at the canopy above. Sleep should come, he told himself, exhaustion from the day's facade demanded it. But as his eyes drifted shut, the garden reformed in his mind, not as it was, but as he craved it to be.
In the dream, the witnesses vanished. Your sister was gone, the garden empty save for the two of you. His hands found the ties at your back, pulling them loose. The fabric slid down your shoulders, pooling at your waist, baring your breasts to the warm air, nipples pebbling under his stare. He cupped one, thumb circling the peak, then leaned in to take it between his lips, sucking hard enough to draw a gasp from you.
You arched into him, fingers threading through his hair, urging him on. His free hand roamed lower, bunching the skirt up your thighs, exposing the soft skin there. He traced your slit with his fingers, finding you already wet, slick heat coating his digits as he pushed one inside, then two, curling them to stroke that spot that made your hips buck.
“Baelor” you whispered in the dream, voice husky, pleading. He dropped to his knees, shoving the dress higher and buried his face between your legs.
Baelor woke with a start, the room still dark. His heart hammered, breath ragged, and his cock stood rigid against his stomach. The dream clung to him, fragments replaying: your taste on his tongue, the feel of you gripping him, the way you'd shatter under his touch.
He groaned, hand drifting down instinctively, wrapping around his shaft. His fist tightened, pumping from base to tip, thumb swiping over the sensitive head on each upstroke. He pictured you agaim not the dream's wild abandon, but something more intimate, you in his bed, that dress discarded on the floor.
He imagined spreading your legs wide, settling between them, his cock nudging at your entrance before sliding in inch by inch. Your nails would dig into his shoulders as he bottomed out, then he'd start moving slow at first, grinding deep, then faster, hips snapping as he chased release
His pace quickened, hand flying over his length now, breaths coming in sharp pants. The thought of your moans pushed him closer.
Tension coiled tight in his gut and with a low curse he came His body jerked with each pulse, waves of pleasure crashing over him as your image burned behind his eyelids, face flushed, lips parted in ecstasy.
He lay there afterward, the room silent except for his slowing breaths. Guilt flickered at the edges, a reminder of loyalties and expectations, but it was drowned by satisfaction, by the lingering heat of want.
He should not have dreamed of you like that. Not with such clarity, not with his hands where they had no right to be, where it had no claim.
————————————————
This had become a habit. Baelor did not name it as such, but each night found him seated across from you at the long table, scrolls spread between you, the quiet of the library wrapping around the two of you as though the rest of the Keep had ceased to exist.
You spoke. He listened.
His fingers tapped absently against the wood, a quiet rhythm he did not notice, his attention fixed entirely on the way your mind moved, quick and certain, the way your eyes lit when you followed a thought to its end.
“So without Rhaenys”
Tap. Tap. Tap.
You faltered, just slightly. Your gaze dropped, irritation flickering across your face, and before he could register it, you reached across the table and placed your hand over his.
His world stopped.
Your hand was warm, steady, holding him in place as though it were nothing at all, like it was always meant for you.
“they wouldn’t have even claimed the Stormlands,” you continued, already moving on, already lost again in your thoughts, unaware of what you had just done.
Baelor did not hear the rest, his mind had gone somewhere else entirely. The desk, you against it, under him as he claimed you for the whole Red Keep to hear, consequences be damned. The image struck hard. So vivid it felt like memory rather than thought.
His hand tightened once beneath yours before he forced it still. Forced himself still.
You finished speaking, smiling faintly and only then did you notice. You pulled back at once “My apologies”
“You need not apologise” he said, too quickly, too rough, the words cutting through before you could finish.
Silence settled. The maester returned breaking the moment.
Baelor did not move, his hand remained where yours had been, the imprint of your touch burning through him, his control snapping back into place with effort he had not needed to summon in years.
—————————————
The royal solar was cooler than the rest of the Red Keep, the heavy stone walls keeping the worst of the heat at bay. Baelor stood at ease beside your sister, composed as ever, one hand resting lightly behind his back as the meeting unfolded exactly as it should.
Your sister was radiant beneath the attention. She laughed when prompted, spoke when encouraged, her voice bright and eager as she answered the Queen’s gentle questions, delighting in the attention in a way that was expected, encouraged even.
Queen Myriah listened with a soft, assessing warmth, her dark eyes missing very little, while King Daeron reclined with an ease that was far more deliberate than it appeared, one arm draped across the carved arm of his chair, watching everything.
Baelor knew that look.
“And how do you find the city, my lady?” the King asked, his tone light.
“It is magnificent, Your Grace” your sister replied at once, her smile quick and bright “I have never seen anything like it. The markets, the gardens, the court itself, it is all so alive!”
“A fair description” Daeron hummed, glancing briefly toward Baelor before returning his attention to her “And you have found suitable diversions for your time here?”
“Oh yes” she said eagerly “The gardens are beautiful, and the ladies most welcoming. I am to attend a small gathering tomorrow”
“And the quieter pursuits?” the King continued, almost idly “My son tells me you have taken an interest in the histories of our house. A rare thing, I find, outside of maesters and princes”
Baelor felt the words the moment they left his father’s mouth.
Your sister stilled. Her smile faltered, just slightly, confusion flickering behind it before she recovered, too quickly “Histories?” she echoed lightly “I…… well, I do enjoy a good story, Your Grace”
Daeron’s gaze did not move from her face “Of course” he said easily “Though Baelor spoke of a particular interest. The Conquest, I believe and dragons”
Baelor’s chest suddenly felt very tight. Had he truly talked to his father about the wrong sister.
Your sister’s fingers curled faintly in her skirts, her composure holding, but only just “ I have not yet had the chance to read as much as I would like” she said, her tone still bright, though it rang a touch hollow now “There is so much to see”
Baelor did not move, he not speak, he was aware of his father’s gaze shifting to him. Queen Myriah’s eyes followed a heartbeat later, softer, but no less perceptive, her attention settling on Baelor with a quiet curiosity that had not been there before.
Then Daeron laughed lightly, as though nothing at all had passed between them “King’s Landing does have a way of distracting even the most diligent minds!” he said, waving a hand dismissively, releasing the tension before it could fully take hold “I suspect you will find your interests shift often while you are here”
Your sister smiled again, relieved, the moment passing over her as though it had never been. But it had, Baelor felt it settle, quiet and immovable and not one his father would overlook.
The conversation moved Queen Myriah guiding it toward safer ground, asking after your household, your journey, the inconsequential details that smoothed over what had nearly surfaced.
Baelor answered when required, spoke when necessary, but his attention had shifted inward. To you.
He had spoken of you, without thinking as though it were the most natural thing in the world.
And now his father knew it.
⸻——————————————————
Later, when the formalities had ended and the room had emptied, it was not unexpected when Daeron did not immediately dismiss him.
“Walk with me, my boy” the King said, already rising.
Baelor obeyed, they moved in silence at first, through the cooler corridors away from the solar, the noise of court fading behind them until only the echo of their steps remained.
Daeron did not look at him as he spoke “You are distracted” he said plainly.
Baelor’s expression did not change “I am not, father”
A soft huff of amusement “You forget who taught you to lie”
“I do not lie” he said too quickly, reminding Dearon of his youngest son.
“No” Daeron agreed easily “You omit. It is a subtler failing”
They walked a few steps further before the King stopped, turning just enough to look at him fully now “You spoke of a woman today” he said.
It was not a question. Baelor held his gaze “I spoke of my future bride”
Daeron’s brow lifted slightly “Did you?”
The words settled between them, quiet and deliberate.
Baelor did not answer. He did not need to.
The King watched him for a long moment, something almost fond flickering beneath the sharpness of his gaze.
“I know you, my son” Daeron said at last, more softly now “Better than any man living. You do not speak idly, and you do not misplace your attention” His gaze sharpened again, just slightly “So I will ask you once, and only once, as your father, not your king. Are you certain you certain the younger girl is who you want?”
His jaw tightened, just faintly “The match is suitable”
“I did not ask if it was suitable” Dearon replied, then exhaled quietly, something like understanding settling into his expression.
“Duty is a fine thing” he said, turning away again, his voice quieter now as they resumed walking “It builds kingdoms. Holds them together when lesser men would see them fall apart, but it is a poor companion in a marriage bed” he added, almost idly.
Baelor’s steps did not falter, but something in him shifted “You think me ruled by impulse” he said evenly.
Daeron smiled, faint and knowing “No” he said “If anything, I think you too practiced at denying it”
They reached the end of the corridor, The King paused once more, glancing back at him “Just be certain Baelor” he said, not unkindly “That what you choose is something you can live with” He reaches out pat his cheek “You are not a man who forgets his choices”
And then, as easily as that, he was gone. Leaving Baelor alone with the weight of it, the unmistakable, unwelcome truth that his father had seen something he himself had not yet named.
—————————————————-
Baelor had not intended to bring you here. That was the truth of it.
The request had been small, almost insignificant when you first made it, a passing mention, easily lost among the many conversations that had followed. He had not forgotten it, he found he could not forget anything you had said.
“Come” he said, taking your arm knowing you would follow.
He did not speak as he led you down into the depths of the Red Keep, through corridors that grew cooler, darker, the noise of court fading behind you both until there was only the echo of your footsteps and the low burn of torchlight against ancient stone.
He was aware of you behind him, the soft sound of your skirts the presence of you at his back in a way that had become both familiar and entirely too necessary.
When the chamber opened, he stepped aside and watched you see it. Balerion. Even in death, the Black Dread commanded the room.
You moved forward without hesitation, drawn by something instinctive, something reverent, your gaze widening, your attention wholly captured.
He did not look at the skull, he looked at you. The way your hand lifted, slow, careful, as though the creature might still feel the touch of you even now.
“He was larger in the stories” you murmured.
Baelor’s gaze did not leave you “He was larger in life”
You circled, slow, thoughtful, your fingers brushing bone as though committing it to memory “You remembered that I wished to see this” you said quietly.
“I remember most things you say” he answered far too honestly before he could stop himself.
You laughed softly, teasing, unaware of the way his attention had sharpened, fixed, the sound of it settling somewhere deeper than it should have “A great pity for you” you said.
He did not answer, because it was not a pity, not to him.
“Thank you” you said softly.
“For what?” he asked, though he knew.
“For showing me this” you replied “I will not have many more chances to see such things”
He furrowed his brow at the faint tightening low in his chest “Why would you not?” he asked.
“My sister will be wed” you said lightly, as though it required no further thought “And I shall return home. I imagine the Red Keep will not miss me haunting its corridors” You smiled, unbothered like you had not just said something that struck him harder than any blow he had taken in battle.
Baelor stilled ‘Return home’ The words echoed, wrong in a way he could not immediately explain
“I had not considered that” he said, ,t was the truth, not because it had not been obvious. Because he had not allowed himself to think it.
You laughed embarrassed, dismissing it with a softness that only made it worse “It was never my visit, you did not even know I existed”
Something in him tightened at that, he had not known, not a first, but he knew you now and that was all that mattered “You speak as though you are already gone” he said, his voice lower now, something restrained threading through it.
“I was never meant to stay” you replied simply. There was no bitterness in it, just certainty that unsettled him more than anything.
You spoke of leaving as though it changed nothing. As though what had been building between you, quiet and unspoken and undeniable, did not exist at all. As though he did not feel it every time you stood too close, every time you spoke, every time you looked and undone him piece by piece.
His jaw tightened, the torchlight shifted, catching in your hair, along your skin, and for a brief, reckless moment, the same thought rose again. Of stopping you, closing the distance between you, of taking your hand before you could turn away, of pulling you back into him and forcing you to see, to feel, what he had not yet spoken. Of not letting you go at all.
The thought came fast and just as quickly, he forced it down. His hands curled at his sides “It is time for us to leave” he said sharply.
He turned before you could answer, before you could see the shift, before you could question it, already moving toward the exit with a purpose that had nothing to do with the path ahead and everything to do with putting distance between himself and something that had come far too close to the surface.
He did not look back.
Because he knew, with a certainty that unsettled him more than anything else had thus far, that if he did, he might not let you leave that chamber at all.
——————————————-
Baelor did not seek you out the next day. Not because he did not wish to, but because he did and that was precisely the problem.
He had crossed a line and Baelor knew himself well enough to understand what followed such things if left unchecked. So he gave himself distance, time to think. To understand what, exactly, he had already set in motion.
He buried himself in work, as he always did when something required discipline and yet, beneath it all, you remained.
By the time the carriage was prepared for the visit to the Great Sept, his composure had settled once more into something outwardly unshakable, or so he liked to believe.
Your sister greeted him with the same brightness she always did, speaking eagerly of the day ahead, her voice light with anticipation.
He answered where required, playing his part. Then you approached.
He felt it before he saw you. A subtle shift in his awareness, his attention sharpening without his permission, his body recognising you before his eyes did. He did not look, when he did, it was brief. This should not have been difficult but it was.
The truth of it had already settled somewhere deep inside him. He did not want distance from you, he wanted the opposite.
When he arrived at the sept on horseback he jumped down and offered his hand to your sister, steady and composed, his role executed without fault. He did not offer the same to you, because he knew exactly what would happen if he did. The memory of your hand over his rose unbidden, the warmth of it, the instinct that had followed, sharp and immediate.
He did not trust that moment again. Not yet.
You stepped down on your own. His hand flexed once at his side restraining himself from reaching out to you.
Inside the Sept, the world expanded again, space returning, air cooling, voices echoing through marble and stone as discussions began. It should have made it easier, but it did not as his body seemed to know you were there.
He listened to the septon, to your sister, to the arrangements laid out before him, each detail noted, considered, answered in turn.
When the meeting concluded, Baelor stepped away, keen to mount his horse and leave, putting enough distance between you both before his restraint finally snapped.
Baelor had one foot in the stirrup when it happened. His gaze moved of its own accord as it had been all day, to where you should have been, wanting one last self indulgent look.
But when he turned, he found nothing. You were not there.
His gaze sharpened, sweeping the space once, twice, the same way he would assess a battlefield “Where is she?” The question came out before he could temper it, sharper than intended, already carrying something beneath it that had no place in a public square.
The nearest Kingsguard straightened at once “Your Grace?”
“The ladies” Baelor said correcting himself, turning fully now scanning the crowd again “Where are they?”
The knight glanced toward the carriage, toward the small cluster of attendants “They were just here, Your Grace”
Were. The word struck wrong.
“Find them” Baelor said, the command immediate “Now”
The Kingsguard moved at once, splitting without question, white cloaks cutting through the crowd.
Baelor did not wait. He stepped forward, his eyes moving constantly, tracking movement, faces, colour, anything that might mark where you had gone.
A maid stumbled forward then, pale and breathless. “Your Grace, The young lady” she stammered, wringing her hands “The younger one, she said she wished to see the market, just beyond the square, and she went that way”
Her hand lifted, pointing toward a narrow street already thick with bodies. Baelor’s chest tightened, something sharp and immediate “And the elder?” he demanded.
The maid hesitated “She followed, Your Grace. She was calling after her, trying to bring her back”
For a single, suspended moment, everything went very still.
Then it snapped.
“Clear the streets” Baelor ordered his men, already moving, his voice cutting through the noise with a force that turned heads “Find them. Check every alley, every stall if you must”
Baelor did not wait for his command to settle, he was already moving.
The crowd swallowed him almost immediately, bodies pressing in, noise crashing around him, but he cut through it without slowing, his focus narrowing to a single, unyielding point.
You.
It had been building all day, all week, every moment he had spent in your presence, every moment he had forced himself to step back instead of forward.
And now you were gone.
A cold, precise fury settled into his chest,, but sharp enough to cut through anything in his path. You should not have been here. You should not have been unguarded.
You should have been with him.
His eyes scanning, searching, calculating. Every possible path, every turn, where you would have gone, where you would have been pulled.
The market opened ahead, wider, louder, more chaotic, bodies pressed too close, voices overlapping, movement constant and disordered.
Perfect for losing someone. Perfect for taking someone.
His jaw tightened, he would not allow himself to think it. He went deeper into the markets, passing shipworkers moving around him.
He heard you before he saw you.
A yell, not quite a scream, but wrong enough that it cut through the noise of the market like a blade.
Baelor turned toward it instantly, he saw you pressed back against the stone of an alley, your dress torn open beneath a stranger’s hand, your body twisting as you fought him.
He did not remember crossing the distance, only that one moment they had their hands on you, and the next they did not.
His hand closed around the man’s wrist, hard enough that the bones shifted beneath his grip, the force of it ripping him away from you with a strangled cry. Baelor stepped between you and them, placing himself fully in front of you, cutting you off from their reach entirely “You will not touch her” His voice was quiet, but he felt the rage building inside him.
He twisted the hand in his grasp, the man screamed, dropping to his knees as his arm bent in a direction it was never meant to go. The second man moved, attempting to draw his dagger, Bealor had seen his intention before he even moved. His sword left its sheath, striking the man cleanly across his throat before he even had time to lunge.
Blood hit the stones before the dagger did, the man’s body following shortly after.
Baelor did not look at him again, his attention had already returned to the first. The man wheezed on the ground, clutching his ruined arm, eyes wide with terror.
Baelor stepped forward “You laid hands upon a lady under my protection” he said, voice carrying low and even. The man tried to speak, beg, perhaps. Baelor would not listen, these men had touched you and that crime would not go unpunished.
His sword rose, cutting down cleanly against the man’s wrist. The scream tore through the market as the man’s hand hit the ground beside him.
Baelor watched it for only a fraction of a second to ensure the man was disarmed, in all sense of the word.
Then he turned back to you were still there, shaking, holding your dress closed with trembling hands. He stepped toward you slowly now, as though approaching something fragile, something that might break if he moved too quickly
“Are you hurt?” He tried to keep his voice even, despite his heart thundering in his chest. His hands came to your arms, grounding you. His gaze moved over you with sharp precision, searching for injury, for blood, for anything that would try and take you from him.
His jaw tightened at the torn fabric at your bodice, fighting the urge to remove the man’s head and not just his hand.
Instead, he reached for his cloak, pulling it free in one swift motion and wrapping it around you, closing it firmly at your shoulders, shielding you completely from every watching eye “There” he murmured, quieter now, more to himself than to you, his hands lingering a moment longer than necessary as he ensured you were covered.
Your voice came, unsteady “My sister”
“My Kingsguard have her” he said immediately, cutting through the panic before it could take hold “She is safe”
His hand shifted from your arm to your shoulder, guiding, not asking “Come” He did not give you time to argue nor give himself time to think, he just knew you where safe in his arms and he needed to get you out of here.
He moved you through the crowd, his body positioned between you and the world, one hand firm at your back, the other never straying far. The carriage came into view. He opened the door himself, his grip tightening slightly as he helped you inside, his movements careful despite the tension still coiled through him.
For a brief moment, he stood there, looking at you, his gaze catching on the edge of his cloak wrapped around you, on the way your fingers still clutched it closed.
Then, without hesitation, he followed you in. Only then, in the enclosed space, with you within arm’s reach, did he allow himself a single, controlled breath.
You were safe, your where alive, he had found you.
————————————————
He sat opposite you, your knees nearly touching and still it did not feel close enough.
His gaze moved over you again, slower this time, more deliberate “They touched you” The words left him before he could temper them, quieter now, but carrying something far more dangerous beneath.
His hands curled slightly against his thighs as you flinched from the memory
“Are you hurt?” he asked again, forcing the words into something steadier, something that did not betray the violence still coiled beneath his skin. He wanted them dead, heads on spikes.
“No” you said softly, though the word caught, your fingers tightening in his cloak. A lie, judging by the way you winced.
He held out his hand, silently asking you to trust him.
You hesitated, only for a moment, before slipping your fingers free of the cloak just enough to place your hand in his. His grip closed around your wrist, the touch of your skin settling the beast inside him that demanded blood.
His breath slowed “They touched you ” he said quietly, almost to himself, his thumb brushing once over the marked skin, the sight of it proof of his own failure to protect you.
You shook your head faintly “It was my fault. I should not have followed”
He lifted his gaze to yours, something hard settling behind it “You followed because your sister is a careless child” he said, sharper now, the anger slipping through despite his control, he could not stop himself. You had placed your self in danger because your sister did not think and because he was too busy thinking of duty he had taken his attention off the one person he cared for most.
It would not happen again, he would not allow it to “You will not do so again without escort” he ordered, his tone even but fear slipping into it before he could stop it.
You looked at him then, startled by the force of it “I was trying to protect her. I did not think”
“That is precisely the problem” he cut you off. You nearly vanished, he nearly lost you and he did not know what he would have done.
Silence fell between you, the heat your skin beneath his the only thing that was keeping him contained, his fingers still soothing the bruises as through he could erase them. Your pulse beat beneath his thumb reminding him that you are here, you are alive.
His voice lowered when he spoke again, but it did not soften “You are not to place yourself in danger”
Your gaze dropped. “I did not mean to” you said quietly. “But she is my sister, my responsibility, if something happens to her it will be my fault” You drew in a breath “I am of no consequence”
His hand stilled completely around your wrist, for a moment, he said nothing. That sentence striking deep in his chest.
Slowly, deliberately, he lifted his eyes to yours “What did you say?”
Your brows drew together slightly, uncertain now “I meant my sister is the one who matters. This is her future. Her marriage. If she were harmed”
“And you?” The question came sharper than before.
You hesitated “I would manage”
His jaw tightened. He repeated it, quieter, more dangerous “You would manage” the words sending outrage through him. He wanted your father dragged before the king for ever letting you think so little of yourself “You place yourself between danger and your sister” he said, his voice dropping, each word deliberate “Without hesitation”
“That is my duty” you answer simply.
He almost laughed with disbelief “And who” he asked, leaning closer now without quite realising it, closing what little space remained between you “stands between danger and you?”
You did not answer, because there was no answer.
That was something he could not accept. He would stand between you and danger, against the whole damned realm is he must.
His pulled your wrist gently closer, so your knees knocked his “You are not inconsequential” he said. “You have been responsible your entire life” he continued, his voice quieter now, but no less intense “That does not make you expendable”
The words settled between you, he watched how it shifted something in your expression. Something no one had ever challenged before, the belief that you were not special or wanted.
His gaze held yours, he would force you to understand it if he had to, he would make the world understand it.
The carriage slowed, voices rose faintly outside, reality pressing back in.
When the carriage finally came to a stop, Baelor did not move immediately, because for the first time since you had entered his life, he understood something with absolute clarity.
You were his and he was yours, and he would spend the rest of days proving that to you if he must.
—————————————-
Baelor did not wait to be summoned, he would not. A Crown Prince would not wait upon the word of some jumped up lordling. He sent word and summoned the man to him.
He received your father in the chamber of the Hand, wanting the man to feel ill at ease.
The man bowed, as he should “Your Grace”
Baelor inclined his head in acknowledgment, nothing more. His hands clasped loosely behind his back, posture at ease, expression composed, but there was something in the stillness of him that made the room feel smaller “Your daughter was attacked in the city today” Baelor said.
Your father stiffened “I have been informed”
“Have you?” Baelor cut in, his gaze settling fully on the man now “Then you are aware that she was left unescorted, due to the careless actions of your youngest”
Your father hesitated, only for a fraction of a moment, but Baelor saw it.
“And when she ran off like a careless child” Baelor continued, his tone even “it was not your younger daughter who suffered for the mistake. It was your elder”
Your father drew himself up slightly “She has always been dependable and has done her duty to look after her sister”
Baelor’s gaze sharpened, something colder slipping into it now “She placed herself between danger and your daughter without hesitation” he went on, each word measured, controlled “She was the one who followed. The one who intervened. The one who was taken hold of”
Your father said nothing.
“Have you nothing to say” Baelor added, tilting his head just slightly, his voice lowering “for the actions of your youngest”
Your father’s composure cracked “My younger daughter is the one intended for this match, your grace. She has much to learn and perhaps some maturing to do but she will still make a fine bride”
Baelor’s gaze did not leave the man’s face “And your eldest?” he asked.
Your father paused, not considering you part of the equation at all “She will remain with me” your father said carefully “To manage my household. To ensure”
“To ensure you were not inconvenienced by your own responsibilities” Bealor cut him off cleanly. The words were precise, unforgiving.
Your father’s mouth tightened “She has been useful”
Something in Baelor went very still “Useful” he echoed “You brought one daughter to be admired” he said, his voice quiet, steady, each word deliberate “And concealed the other, as if she were an afterthought, something to be overlooked”
Your father opened his mouth, perhaps to defend himself, perhaps to explain.
Baelor did not allow it.
“However” he continued, his gaze hard now “it was not the one you presented who understood the danger and the one who suffered for it” his gaze cold pinning your father to where he stood “She is not inconsequential” he said “She is not expendable. She is not a convenience to be used and dismissed when it suits you”
Your father’s composure slipped further “You overstep, Your Grace.”
Baelor held his gaze “No” he said quietly “You misunderstand your position. I am not questioning you” he continued, his voice low, carrying the full weight of who he was now, not just a man, but heir, prince, authority made flesh “I am informing you that things have changed”
Your father straightened “The match”
“Will change” Bealor cut in, with no room for argument or negation “I will not have her returned to a life where she is overlooked” he said, each word deliberate, unyielding “Nor will I have her placed again in a position where no one stands between her and harm”
Your father stared at him now, understanding dawning, resistance rising with it “You were to wed my younger daughter”
“Your younger daughter will not suffer for it. Her position will be secured elsewhere” he added already arranged in his mind.
Your father searched his face, perhaps looking for uncertainty, for hesitation, for anything that might suggest this could be argued.
There was none.
“Very well, the match will be changed. My eldest daughter will be your bride” your father said at last.
Baelor inclined his head once, a clear dismissal.
However just as your father turned to leave, Bealor spoke “You would do well to reconsider how you value your daughters”
Your father said nothing.
He let the man go, the door closed behind him with a finality that echoed long after he was gone.
Bealor had made his choice long ago it seemed, from the day he first met you. It had simply taken his heart time to understand what his mind already knew.
Hii, dear 💞 saw you're reading "The other Bennet sister" and wanted to ask if you've watched the first 5eps that are out of the new show? I loved it, Dónal Finn is so fine(as usual, he's great in Young Sherlock too)🤌🏻
Hiiiii! I have not watched any of it yet but saw it advertised on the BBC. I’ve saved the first few episodes as I wanted to finish off the book first.
I never know which way is better book or show/film first. The book is often better so I suppose I should do that first. But the shows/films have the phenomenal actors I can picture whilst reading the book (thank you AKOTSK 🧎♀️)
It looks great, and with your rec I know I will enjoy it - young Sherlock is on my TBW list too 🙈
just popping by to tell you that the Spinster series has helped heal the "responsible older sister" complex that has plagued me quite a bit and I will most definitely be rereading weekly ✨
Thank you so much! Honestly same! It has been such fun writing - even if I am manifesting at this point 😂
Don’t worry the muses have not left me yet, there is plenty more on the way ✍️😏
So, like, how am I supposed to live a normal life with the Spinster series? Like, the sheer yearning — the constant insecurity beaten back by two sentences from Maekar/Baelor/Lyonel’s pov at a time. I am dying. Literally dying, heart falling out of my chest for this entire series.
I am also hungery waiting for the times the father gets commupence. He is such a detestable piece of work in the best way. He knows exactly what he is getting away with and Maekar’s threat and Daeron II’s shaming was delicious.
Thank you so much! It’s honestly been so fun to write and who doesn’t want to fantasise about yearning men - especially men such as these 🫦
Oh the father is my number one OP! I need him CRUSHED but just thinking about the best way to do it 🤭✍️ Don’t worry he’s getting his comeuppance soon!
You may also be seeing more of King Daeron in an upcoming (pre marriage) request, because maybe Baelor is talking about the wrong woman, not the one he is supposed to be courting 👀👀👀
You can all say thanks to @jujutsover and @clarixpeople for this emotionally devastating piece 😭 In all seriousness thank you so much for the love and requests, it really makes my day when I see your comments 🫶 (Even if you send me hate mail after this)
What If: He could not save her in time?
Spinster Series Masterlist
Main Masterlist
Warnings: Reader death, blood, smoke inhalation, drowning - be warned guys this is a sad one - never proof read
The cold hit him like a blow, but he forced himself downward, eyes open against the sting of salt.
Your dress billowed like a pale ghost, signalling him down. You were sinking. He swam to you in powerful strokes, grabbing for you as your movements slowed.
Your eyes were closed, your body unmoving. He hooked an arm around your waist and kicked hard for the surface.
He reached the surface, breaking through with a violent gasp, as you remained unmoving in his arms. He shifted his grip, sliding one arm under your thighs to lift you higher against his chest so your face would remain above water.
Above, your sister sobbed helplessly.
He found purchase, against a jagged outcrop when he found one and began maneuvering you toward the narrow shallows carved into the cliffside.
By the time he hauled you from the water, you were frighteningly still.
Sea water spilled from your mouth as he laid you on the stone.
He dropped to his knees beside you and, for the first time in his life, did not know what to do “Breathe” he orders, voice breaking.
Nothing
Your gown clung to your chest, bodice laced tight. He dragged out his dagger, slicing through the laces in one sharp movement, cutting through wet ribbon and fabric so your lungs could expand.
“Breathe” he growls again, more a plea than command now “Breathe!” he roars, the sound tearing from him, raw and broken.
Nothing.
He tries again. And again. Hands shaking now, movements losing all precision “Don’t you dare” he growls, voice breaking, leaning over you, his forehead nearly knocking against yours “Don’t you dare do this to me”
The waves crash. The wind howls.
But you do not move, you do not stir. Your body lay still and cold.
Something inside him fractures. He gathers you up, dragging you into his arms, holding you as though he can force life back into you by refusing to let go.
“Stay” he says, quieter now, desperate “Stay with me” His hand comes to your face, thumb brushing over your cheek, wiping away seawater.
“I never got the chance to tell you” he says, voice breaking completely now, the words tumbling out without thought, without restraint.
His breath shudders.
“Don’t go where I cannot follow” he whispers, pressing his forehead to yours “Do you hear me? Don’t you dare go where I cannot” His voice cracks.
Because you already have.
Above them, the battlements are chaos. Shouting. Movement. Your sister’s sobs echoing into the night.
Lyonel hears none of it.
He rocks slightly where he sits, your body held tight against his chest, as though the motion alone might wake you.
“Please, do not leave me” he whispers.
There is no answer. There never will be.
———————————————
They tried to take you from him.
Servants. Knights. Voices speaking too softly, too carefully, as though that would make it less real “My lord” they said, approaching as one would a lion.
“Do not touch her” The words were low. Not shouted.
He did not look at them. Did not acknowledge them. His arms remained locked around you, your body held against his chest as though you had only fallen asleep.
“My lord, she must be laid to rest” the maester tired
“I said do not touch her!” Something in his voice made them stop.
He sat there long after the shouting had faded. Long after the torches burned low.
Rocking you. Waiting. Waiting for you to come back to him.
⸻——————————————-
His men stayed with him, the guards changing shifts as the sun rose in the east.
He was still there. Still holding you. His eyes were open, fixed somewhere far beyond the horizon.
“My lord” the septa said carefully “We must lay her to rest, she will not be a peace till we do”
His eyes still fixed on the horizon, the light reflecting in the water.
When they finally took you from him, it took three men. Something in him went with you.
⸻——————————————
Your sister could not meet his gaze.
She stood before him, trembling, hands twisting in her skirts, tears spilling down her face as your father remained stone-faced beside her.
“It should have been you” he said quietly before walking away.
The words struck harder than any shout.
The betrothal was ended before the sun set.
⸻
Storm’s End had once been loud. Full of cheer. Of life. It always had been. But not anymore.
Not since he stopped laughing.
Men still told stories of him. Of the way he once filled a room, voice booming, grin wide, life spilling from him.
But now they lowered their voices when he entered. Watched him from the corners of their eyes.
The Laughing Storm was gone. In his place stood something colder.
A week passed in silence before he summoned a maid to pack his things
He did not make an announcement. Did not call his banners. Did not say goodbye.
He simply handed Storm’s End and the lordship to his younger cousin.
“I have no use for it” was all he said.
He could not bear to look at the castle. Not when it had taken you from him. Not when every stone of it held your ghost.
⸻
They began to whisper of him. Not as the Laughing Storm. But as something else.
They called him the Raging Storm now. Not with fondness, but with caution.
He entered tourneys up and down the realm. Often not even invited. He would simply appear and demand to be put on the lists.
He rode like a man who did not care if he lived or died. Lances shattered against his shield. Blades glanced from his armour.
He did not slow. Did not yield. Did not stop.
Men said he fought like he was searching for something. Others said he fought like he was trying to end something.
No one could say for certain which.
————————————————-
Years later when the spring sickness spread through the realm. It took others first.
Then finally him
He lay in a bed he did not care for, in a place that was not home.
A maester spoke somewhere. Voices moved around him.
He did not listen.
Because he saw you. Standing at the edge of his vision, just beyond reach.
Just as you had been that night
But this time, you were not falling. You were smiling at him.
He let out a breath, something softer than anything he had made in years.
And for the first time since that night Lyonel smiled “About time” he murmured.
And this time he could follow you.
Your vision swam. Your lungs refused to draw in air. The world tilted as you leaned against the wall.
Then, something crashed through the smoke.
Wood splintered. Flame bent. A shape forced its way through like it would sooner tear the building down than be stopped by it.
He reached you in three strides.
His hand closed around your arm, dragging you upright.
“I have you” he said, voice rough with smoke and something else. Something tight. Something already fraying.
“She’s out” you managed, the words tearing from your throat.
“I know” His arm locked around your waist, hauling you against him as he turned, forcing his way back through flame and falling debris without hesitation.
You barely felt the shift when he broke into the courtyard. Only the cold air hitting your face. Only the way your body no longer seemed to belong to you.
Your hands clutched weakly at his doublet “Maekar……..” you tried.
He did not slow.
“Stay with me” he ordered, sharper now “Stay awake”
You tried. You truly did. But the world dimmed at the edges, your limbs heavy, your chest tight. Each breath smaller than the last.
“Maekar” Your fingers slipped, your head fell against his shoulder.
He did not notice at first. Not truly.
He was still moving. Still shouting. Still forcing space around him like the world itself might try to take you if he slowed.
“Maester!” he barked “Now!”
No answer came fast enough. Then he noticed, the weight of your, how still you were in his arms, He dropped to his knees, pulling you into his lap, one hand coming to your face “Breathe”
Nothing.
His hand tightened “Breathe” he repeated, lower now, mouth coming forcing air into your lungs.
Nothing.
He tried again, and again, and again, until his own breath turned ragged, until his thoughts blurred, until the world itself seemed to tilt.
The world narrowed. There was no courtyard. No fire. No people.
Only you. Only the terrible stillness of you.
Something inside him snapped “NO!” The word tore from him. Raw and violent. Not a command, not even a plea. Just sound, like agony given voice.
His hands shook as they came to your face again, rough, desperate. “No! No! You do not” His breath broke “You do not get to leave me” he said, the words fractured, barely held together “Do you hear me?”
Nothing.
His forehead crashed against yours, his grip tightening as if he could force you back through sheer will alone.
“I should have had more time” he said, voice breaking open completely now “I was owed more time”
Still nothing. Around him, the world had gone silent.
“You do not get to leave me like this” he whispered, shaking now.
But you already had.
⸻
The knight did not even try to run.
He was dragged forward. Thrown to his knees before Maekar where he still sat, your body in his arms.
“My prince, I” the knight begged.
Maekar did not look at him. Not at first. His eyes remained fixed on your still face.
Slowly, he lifted his head.
His eyes were not human. There was nothing of restraint left in them. Nothing of court. Nothing of prince or duty or reason.
Only something ancient. Something violent “You lit the fire”
“My prince, it was an accident” the knight begged on his knees
Maekar rose, he did not say a word, simply drew his sword.
“No” the man started, fear in his eyes.
Maekar did not speak. The blade fell once and the knights body hit the stone.
Maekar did not look at it again.
⸻——————————————————
The betrothal was ended after Maekar threatened to behead your father for an ill timed remark.
Your father and sister left before the day was done.
———————————————
Summerhall never felt the same.
He did not stay, Not really.
He came when he must. For his children, for duty, for appearances that demanded his name.
But he never lingered. Never slept long within its walls.
Because every corridor held you. Every doorway. Every quiet corner where you should have been, challenging him, teasing him.
Your voice an echo he could not quite remember, and could not bear to forget.
⸻—————————————
His children learned quickly.
Their father was still there, but not as he had been.
He spoke less. Looked at them less.
Held himself apart in a way that could not be crossed.
Daella watched him most closely. Said nothing. Understood too much, taking the burdens of the world on her shoulders.
Rhae asked for you, once, after a nightmare.
Maekar left the room before she finished speaking.
⸻—————————————
You were buried in the gardens of your family home.
The sun shining down on you. He knew you would have liked that. To be surrounded by sunlight and flowers.
He visited only once, his knees buckling at the sight of your grave marking.
He left blue roses. The same ones Rhae had woven into your hair the night you were taken from him.
The septa tried to pray with him at your grave side. He told her to that the gods could go and fuck themselves.
Because what gods would let him slowly forget the sound of your voice.
—————————————————————————————-
War suited him.
It required nothing of him that he did not already have. Violence, endurance and silence.
He rode not as a prince, but as something closer to a weapon.
He did not seek command. Did not seek glory. Only the fight.
Only the moment where something might finally be enough to end what still remained of him.
Men whispered about him. Not in admiration, in unease.
Because he did not fight to win. He fought like a man who did not care if he returned.
⸻————————————————-
It was in the Dornish marshes that it finally happened.
No great battle. No grand moment.
Just mud, heat, blood and a rock tumbling down on his head.
It struck hard. He staggered once, then dropped down to his knees.
The sounds of battle dimmed, faded all around him.
And then, he heard you “Meakar” Clearer than anything had been in years.
He lifted his head slightly. There you were, no smoke, not a memory.
You. As you had been. Waiting for him
His breath left him slowly.
You held your hand out to him.
For the first time in years he did not fight “You waited for me” he murmured, voice rough, but almost calm.
A faint, broken thing, almost like peace touched his face.
You looked for your sister and could no longer see her colourful dress.
You called her name, but there was no answer.
A prickle of unease crept up your spine, your steps slowing as you turned down the quieter passage, the sounds of the market dulling behind you.
Then, a voice, far too close “Oh what a pretty one” A hand caught your wrist, strong and unyielding.
You twisted immediately “Release me!” you demanded, but his grip only tightened, bruising.
Another man stepped closer, wine thick on his breath, his grin uneven and wrong “Lost, are you?”
“I am not alone” you said, your voice steady despite the panic beginning to claw at your chest.
They laughed.
You were forced back against the wall, stone biting into your spine as your cry echoed down the narrow passage.
One of them leaned in, his hand dragging over your cheek before slipping lower, fingers catching at the neckline of your gown as you fought against him.
“Let me go!” you snapped, fury and fear tangled together as fabric tore beneath his hand.
You shoved, kicked, struggled with everything you had, but there were too many of them, too close, their hands everywhere at once.
“Hold her still,” one muttered, irritation creeping in.
“I said let me” The blade was quick, cutting off whatever words you had left.
You barely felt it. A sharp, hot line across your throat, and then nothing.
⸻————————————————
By the time he found you, it was already over.
Baelor had moved the moment he realised you were gone, following your foolish sister into the market without hesitation.
The market had parted for him without question, his Kingsguard at his back, his eyes already searching, already knowing something was wrong in a way he could not name.
He turned the corner and stopped.
For a moment, he did not understand what he was seeing.
You lay where you had fallen, your dress torn, your body too still, the stone beneath you darkened with blood.
His breath left him. He crossed the distance to you in two steps that did not feel like his own. Reaching for you, as though you might simply be asleep.
He gathered you into his arms, careful, so careful, as though you might wake if he startled you.
Your head fell back against his arm. Your eyes did not open.
His hand came to your throat without thinking, fingers pressing against skin already cooling, finding nothing but blood. coating your skin.
A sound left him then, something raw and broken.
He pulled you closer, pressing you against him, his hand cradling the back of your head as though he could shield you from something that had already happened.
“I am here” he whispered, voice unsteady, unraveling at the edges. “You are safe. I am here”
The words meant nothing. He knew it, and yet, he said them.
His forehead came to rest against yours, his breath shaking now “I am sorry” he said, the words slipping out before he could stop them.
His grip tightened “I should have been there” he continued, quieter now, the composure he had always carried failing him piece by piece. “I should not have let you walk alone. I should have” His voice broke.
He swallowed, but it did not steady him “I should have told you” he said, barely more than a breath now “I should have told you that I love you”
The words hung between you. Too late.
“I love you” he repeated, his voice trembling despite every effort to control it “Do you hear me? I love you”
You did not answer. You never would.
And for the first time in his life Baelor wept.
It tore from him, raw and unguarded, his shoulders shaking as he held you, as though refusing to let the world take you even now.
That is how his Kingsguard found him.
⸻———————————
Your father did not argue when the order came. The order that he and your sister where to be exhiled from the city. Never to be in the Prince’s presence again.
They were gone from court before the sun had set.
⸻————————————
They said the realm changed in the years that followed.
That the prince who had once listened so patiently, who had weighed every word and softened every edge, had simply disappeared.
In his place stood a man who no longer hesitated. Who no longer sought understanding. Who did not offer second chances.
He had the gold cloaks tear the city apart for the men who harmed you. The men who took you from him.
They did not search long.
The men were dragged from wherever they hid and thrown into the black cells. They did not remain there for long, only a matter of hours before they were executed.
Bealor swung the sword himself.
He did not speak to them. Did not look at them as men. Only as something that had taken you from him.
There was something in him now that had not been there before.
Something colder. Something final.
⸻——————————————————
He never spoke of you. He could not.
Not to his sons.
Not to his family.
Not even to himself.
But sometimes, in quiet moments, those closest to him would see it.
The way his gaze lingered just a moment too long on something that was not there.
The way his hand would still, as though remembering the weight of something lost.
The days he would be found alone in the chamber with Balerion’s skull, his gaze unfixed, as though caught in a memory he could not escape
⸻———————————————-
At Ashford Meadow, they would later call it a mercy.
The blow that broke The Hammer.
He felt the strike, felt the weakness that followed. He made it all the way back to his tent before he felt the ground give way beneath him.
The voices called out around him all at once. But it did not matter.
Because he saw you.
Standing there, just beyond it all. As beautiful as the day he lost you. Smiling at him as though no time had passed at all.
Relief softened something in his face that had been hard for far too long.
“You found me” you said.
His breath left him slowly, something almost like peace settling in its wake.
