First post ever, chronic reblogger but will not comment (im too shy for that and havent gotten that achievement).
I usually reblog +18 works, dni if your a minor/ under age!!!! I will block you! Most have noncon, yandere, smut or dark topics/ triggers warnings so if your not into that then do not explore the following after this post! Do not engage with topics you do not like. Just block me and go on with your day.
Just using this as a get to know me post and general info, will add more when I feel like it and have stuff to add.
warnings: HEAVY yandere themes! cursing, fear, descriptions of physical abuse by a family member
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a.n. - is he yakuza? or is he just rich? idk and reader doesn't know either.
if you can't tell by the end, i basically wanted to do a whole cinderella retelling, but things got out of hand so it's just slightly cinderella-y. enjoy!
words: ~5k
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the grand hall of the most prestigious museum of art in the city quietly hums with murmurs of admiration from a sea of black-tie attire. sparkling jewelery reflects the soft glow of crystal chandeliers as you stand in the midst of the quiet crowd, studying the old, intricate paintings that line the walls.
you breathe in softly, smelling polished wood, aged canvas, and expensive perfume. occasionally, the soft clink of a champagne glass echoes off the walls, blending into the crowd.
every now and then, you glance towards the other side of the event, where a blond-haired man stands, speaking softly with other guests.
your uncle.
anxiety forms a pit in your stomach, and you have to take another breath once you let your gaze drift away.
the air feels like its growing heavier as his presence lingers in the room like a dark shadow. you pretend to adjust the strap of your dress, fingers trembling slightly against the satin.
a waiter passes by with a tray of champagne, and you hesitate before taking a glass. you take a slow sip, the bubbles fizzing against your tongue.
your uncle’s voice rises, something about “the importance of legacy” and “proper appreciation.” the words wrap around you like a noose, and you force yourself to exhale slowly. across the room, his gaze flickers in your direction, just for a second, but it’s enough to make your stomach twist.
you turn away, once again focusing on a painting: a swirling abstract piece, shades of varying blues. it feels almost like a metaphor.
it all started when your parents had died when you were young, leaving you to the only family member you had left: your uncle. you quickly learned after that day how truly dispicable the man is- heart and soul devoid of anything good.
instead, all that occupies him is the desire - the obsession - for money.
here, at events like these, he’d dress you in beautiful, exquisite clothing, parading you before the other elite like a prized possession. it's his self-proclaimed generosity on display, the act of having taken you in.
at home, he just gets worse. you're practically a maid in your own home.
you would leave if it weren’t for the debt.
because from the moment you arrived on his doorstep- you owed him, and he reminded you every chance he got.
new dress to show off to his peers? although it's only for his benefit, you still owe him.
food from his kitchen? you owe him.
a bed to sleep in? you owe him.
everything he's "given" you in order to keep you alive just adds to the debt he holds over your head. to pay it off- you clean, you mop, you cook, and you don't say anything to anyone.
realistically, you know that the debt will never end. but where else would you go? despite his evil nature, his abuse- mental and physical, you're still alive. you have a roof over your head, food in your stomach.
despite the pain, the fights he would get in with you when he's drunk, the bruises he leaves on your skin whenever you let him get too close.
he's the only family you have left.
on especially lonely days, you sometimes take a trip up to the attic of his house, gazing forlornly upon the possessions your family had left behind. picture frames, photo books, small knicknacks.
the rocking chair your mother once held you in, singing you to sleep as you lay in her lap.
you can't imagine running away- leaving all of this behind. honestly, having everything here keeps you sane. reminds you that once upon a time, you were loved.
you feel a single, small tear trail down your cheek as you study the painting you can't seem to move on from. the blue swirls around itself like a furious whirlpool, drawing your eyes to the dark center- a black hole.
will you ever be free?
"this painting has certainly caught your eye, hm? haven't seen you blink once." a gentle, teasing voice draws you out of your heavy thoughts, and you glance up to see an unfamiliar man who's suddenly standing beside you.
you've been dragged to so many of these events, you're surprised by the fact that you don't recognize him. your eyes trail down him, taking in his appearance.
he's wearing nearly all black besides the white color sticking out neatly from his jacket. he's tall, with dark eyes tracing your form as well, mirroring your own actions. the faint scent of an expensive, charming cologne drifts towards you.
you blink at him, realizing that he asked you a question.
"ah, yes," you hastily wipe the tear from your cheek with a quick sniffle.
"it is truly magnificent," you continue, smoothing out a few wrinkles in your dress. he hums, appreciatively, studying the painting that has caught so much of your attention.
"what does it mean to you?"
his question catches you off guard, and you glance up at him again to see soft eyes softening slightly. he's handsome- in a dangerous sort of way. he looks like he knows things.
you think for a moment before answering.
"this painting is so beautiful...but almost claustrophic? i don't know," you glance down.
"really?" he gestures for you to continue.
"i guess it's like all the shades of blue are leading you towards the dark center, and the direction of the swirls is like a riptide. like, once you're in the center, it would be impossible to swim out. so you're just," you take a shaky breath, "stuck."
he makes a small sound of acknowledgment.
"i think i know what you mean," he states. "i felt like that once, too. a long time ago. that is, until i learned how to swim out."
you're not sure what he means by that, so you stay silent.
"what's your name?" you blurt out, before you can stop yourself. he chuckles at you, eyes crinkling softly in the corners.
"suguru. geto suguru."
before you can tell him yours, your name gets called, a harsh hiss of a sound, and you turn to find your uncle gesturing for you to join him in a conversation. no doubt so he can introduce you to his clients, earning their trust by flaunting his "goodwill."
you turn to leave, to obey the command, but a large hand grabs your elbow- stopping you from taking another step. you blink up at the perpetrator in question, meeting his eyes.
and somehow, a thousand words were spoken in a single glance.
"i'll see you soon," he murmurs, giving you a crooked smile.
your lips turn down slightly, confused. "where?" you ask, a bit breathless.
but all he does is trail his hand softly down your arm as he pulls away, eyes softening as his fingertips light against your skin as you turn once again, still lightly confused, and walk towards your impatiently waiting uncle.
your uncle looks past you for the first time, seeing who you were just talking to. the color suddenly drains from his face, eyes widening in horror.
your eyebrows furrow, and you glance back over your shoulder. your new aquaintance gives you a small little wave, a soft smile.
your cheeks heat slightly. he's alarmingly charming.
when you turn back around, suguru's smile shifts into a sharp, wide grin. tall and imposing, he tilts his head at your uncle, eyes holding a dangerous glint.
your uncle shivers slightly, though you don't notice. he gives a few small nods, as if promising something. from there, suguru turns and walks out of the large building.
he accomplished what he came for.
--------
suguru geto is a patient man.
at least, he tries to be. but every so often something will catch his attention in a way that torments him with craving the longer he goes without it.
he first saw you when you were just a little girl, sat in a little room while your parents did business with his own. he was a young boy himself- but he didn't feel little. how could he, when his parents molded him into an adult from the age of eight?
so perhaps his mind was already broken- but he swears a piece of him was left with you when you first spoke to him.
a small, shy hello- and a shard of his soul was ripped away and embedded into your own.
he's felt incomplete since.
when he heard that your parents had lost their lives and you were sent to your uncle's, he felt such sorrow for you. oh, how he wished he could comfort you in your time of need.
but, suguru is a patient man.
and how sad was it when his own parents died themselves years later in a fatal car crash when he finally turned eighteen, leaving him to take over as CEO for the massively successful family corporation. just days before, they denied his request to take over, expressing that he wasn't ready.
claimed that he led his life with too much emotion and not enough intent.
oh, he showed them intention. how very sad, indeed.
imagine his surprise when he was allowed access to the company's private dealings and discovered that his parents had lent money to your uncle, only a few months after he first met little you.
327,600,000* japanese yen. what a stupid, stupid man.
5% interest over 15 years?
poor uncle now owes 681,056,812* yen. he basked in the money he was given, playing as rich man for all these years, spending all of it on a luxerious lifestyle.
suguru warned your uncle that if even a single coin isn't paid back- that he would take everything he has, from his possessions to his reputation.
and then, he would take you.
suguru geto can only be patient for so long, and the clock is ticking.
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it's only the next day when you realize you're being followed.
sent on a small list of errands to get done before noon, you're hustling around town in your old, beat up car.
at first, it just seemed like there were an unusual number of black sedans on the road that day- but it became more personal when there was at least one black sedan trailing behind you everywhere you went.
first at the grocery store, where a black car parked right next to you, then at the dry cleaners with the same phenomenon, and then now, at the bank, where two sit on either side of your car.
you stand there, right outside the bank doors, perplexed as you finally realize what's happening. you wonder if this is like a human trafficking method- are they going to kill you?
but the men dressed in suits and shades behind the dark windows don't show any plans of getting out of their vehicles. they just sit, parked, like they're waiting for whatever errand you decide to go on next.
as you slide back into your car, you pull out your phone and quickly dial your uncle. he won't be happy that you're calling him at "work" (drinking and shmoozing with his friends), but you have to confirm something.
"the fuck you want?" his voice is gruff over the line, and he only picked up when you called him a second time.
"are you having me followed?" your voice is hushed, panicky, as you side-eye the two sedans on either side of you. you notice the two men aren't looking at you- just straight ahead.
they look like robots.
you can practically feel your uncle's eyeroll over the phone.
"what the hell are you even talking about?" he snarls. you hear him reply to someone- maybe a client- in the background, and he hangs up the phone.
so, that's a big fat no.
somehow, you feel even more anxiety about the entire situation. you're not surprised your uncle isn't behind it, he could care less about your safety. but still- if your uncle isn't having you followed, who is?
your last errand is to pick up a package for your uncle from a private courier office. when you arrive, the building is susupiciously empty- not just in terms of people, but also things. its just a square box of a room with a single man behind a desk near the back.
you reluctantly approach the desk, explaining that you have a package for your uncle, giving the employee his name. he slides you a small, unmarked wooden box across the counter without a word.
outside, you notice that the two black sedans have been joined by a third.
and it's only when you actually look at the box that you notice what's engraved onto the wood. it's your name, etched in neat cursive.
you can't help yourself. you open the box.
inside, you find a stack of photographs, small enough to be polaroids or some sort of printed material. pictures of you, from around the age your parents died to now.
every milestone, every birthday, every awkward phase of your life has been neatly placed inside this box. the very last photo catches your eye- because its the only photo in which another person is in the frame.
it's you, at that art museum the night before- talking to that man you met. the one with the long black hair and the soft eyes.
what was his name? geto? suguru geto?
you shiver slightly. could he be behind this? you have to tell your uncle.
you speed to your uncle's favorite bar, hands shaking as you dial his number again. this time, surprisingly, he picks up on the first ring.
"where the hell are you?" his voice is sharp, disturbingly urgent.
before you can tell him what's been going on with you, or to ask what's going on with him to elicit that reaction, the line cuts to static.
you reach the bar a few seconds later, pulling up just in time to see your uncle stumbling out of the bar. drunk, but not so much so that he's oblivious. he's frantic with panic. has something happened to him?
he spots you, and sprints as evenly as he can to your car, but before he can reach you, the multiple sedans drive up to block his path. men in suits step out of the cars, faces calm as they restrain him from taking any more steps. your uncle's eyes widen in terror.
"no, no, you have it wrong, i still have time, i still have-" one of the men grabs him by his collar, dragging him towards one of the black cars.
his eyes meet yours for the last time, choking on hiccuped sobs.
"i'm sorry. i didn't know how much he wanted you back." did he just apologize? you're not sure you've ever heard those two words fall out of his mouth before.
during the whole scene, you've gotten out of your car to stand helplessly in frightened confusion.
"wait! why-" but the cars pull away, leaving you alone in the parking lot.
your phone buzzes in your pocket. you pull it out, hands still shaking as you read the text.
unknown:
i told him what would happen if he didn't pay. i warned him. but he never listened.
your breath comes out in shaky gasps, trying to understand what's happening. another text follows, this time a picture.
the photo flashes on screen: you, asleep in your bed last night.
unknown:
you left your window open, so i came to check on you. you were so peaceful.
a feeling in your stomach comes upon you rapidly, and drop your phone to rush over to a nearby bush to puke up whatever's left in your stomach.
who the fuck is doing this?
you pick up your phone from the ground where you dropped it, and immediately dial 911.
"this is 911, what is your emergen-"
static.
another text.
unknown:
let's not do that, darling. get in the car.
you look around, confused. you're the only car in the small parking lot. but then a rumbled engine sounds behind you, and you turn to see a car being driven into the parking lot. it stops just in front of you, blocking you and your car from leaving.
you think you might run around it instead, but you're still not sure what this mysterious person is capable of. they have access to your phone, and you're pretty sure they just kidnapped your only living relative- abusive or not. he's still family.
so, with extreme hesitance, you slide into the vehicle. black leather seats, modern tech- the car screams of luxury. a small partition separates you and the driver, not that you would've spoken to them anyway.
oh god, you might puke again.
the car drives further into the city, until you're surrounded by high skyscrapers and glass business buildings. the driver parks in front of a building, and you gasp when suddenly the door close to you flies open, and a hand reaches out to pull you out of the car.
it's another one of the henchmen.
you've started calling them that in your head- men who wear the suits and the shades and the emotionless facial expressions. the men in the movies who are always doing the dirty work for the boss.
you're scared to think whomthe boss is in this circumstance.
without a word or even so much of a glance, the man pulls you towards a high-rise building. the interior is opulent, affluent. through the lobby, across a hallway, up the elevator.
the doors open, and he gently pushes you into what looks like a wealthy private residence.
he stays in the elevator, and his eyes- devoid of emotion- lock with your terrified ones as the doors close, leaving you alone in a silent penthouse.
your eyes search around the elevator frantically. no buttons. you can't leave.
with shaking legs and short, petrified gasps that barely reach your ears, you step further into the space.
the penthouse is extraordinary- cold marble floors, floor-to-ceiling windows that look out upon the city, furniture so pristine they look almost untouched.
even the air smells like old money.
your sneakers sink slightly into plush rug as you enter another living space. your eyes glance around, and snag on a door that sits slightly ajar inside a nearby hallway. stepping closer, you push it open.
that's when you see him.
suguru geto sits calmly, casually, in a leather chair near large windows overlooking tokyo's magnificent cityscape. a mahogany desk sits in front of him.
he's dressed like you would expect- like you imagined him to. a tailored black suit, pristine leather shoes, hair pushed back but still halfway down.
his posture is relaxed, almost regal, a glass of amber liquid in his hand. his eyes lift to meet yours, and the smile he gives you isn't cruel.
it's fond.
"you came," he says, voice dark, smooth. as if he gave you a choice.
he sets his glass down on the desk, and gestures with a quick swipe of his fingers towards a chair in front of the desk.
"please, sit. i've been waiting for you to arrive. was the journey here to your liking?" his smile is soft, and you are reminded of how he looked at you in the museum.
you don't move. you can't move- your body feels frozen, mind screaming at you to do something. fight, run, anything. but your legs won't listen.
suguru tilts his head slightly, expression shifting to something almost hurt.
"you're afraid," he murmurs, looking up at you.
he stands, moving with a quiet grace around the desk. he kneels next to where you're sat in the chair, though he's still somehow looking down at you, even at this position.
you flinch when he reaches out a hand, tucking a stray lock of hair behind your ear with a tenderness that makes your stomach twist.
he hums, eyes outline your form. "you've lost wait," he observes, fingers now tracing against your jawline. your lip trembles at the touch, eyes wide and unblinking as your body remains frozen.
"you didn't eat today, did you?" he mutters, talking to himself more than you. "or...yesterday, i think." his thumb grazes your trembling lip, lightly pulling the soft tissue down.
you jerk your head back, but he only sighs, as if disappointed.
"you always forget to take care of yourself when you're upset." with a knowing smile, he gets up and walks back to his chair, throwing back his whiskey with a soft grimace before pouring another glass.
"would you like something to drink? water? tea? or..." he trails off, a grin forming, "...something stronger?"
you don't answer, just continue to stare at him. honestly- your mind feels blank. you feel stuck, trapped. you'd think by now you'd be used to the feeling. but not like this.
your fingers are clenched so tightly that your nails fig into your palms. suguru sips his drink, cunning eyes watching you over the rim of the textured glass.
"you don't have to talk," he says, eventually after a moment of silence. he sets his glass down again, your gaze tracking the movements. "but you do have to listen."
he reaches into his suit jacket and pulls out a small, velvet box. wordlessly, he hands it over, and waits patiently as you get your arm to respond- to grab it from his hands.
inside sits a locket. small, oval shaped. you open it to find a single photo placed gently in the clasps.
its you as a child, holding hands with a little boy close to your age. you were still happy then, you remember. it was before your parents died, that much you can tell by the photo. by your smile.
the boy, though, catches your attention. short black hair that reaches to his shoulders, dark eyes that glance to the side- set on you.
you look up at suguru, and immediately you can tell the resemblance.
"we've met." your voice comes at small, meek. the first words you've spoken. he hums, a low sound of approval.
he moves around the desk once again to grab the box from your hands. he gently pulls the long, delicate chain out, the locket gleaming under the soft lights. he steps closer, reaching for you, unclasping the chain and lifting it towards your neck.
you slap his hand away, and move to get up, but between the chair back and his figure, there's nowhere for you to go.
his eyes darken at your action, and for a second you can see the obsession that lines his expression, hidden beneath his carefully curated appearance.
"i've been patient," he croons, "but patience has it's limits."
he doesn't wait this time, pulling back your hair with slender fingers to clasp the locket around your neck. his breath his cool against your ear, his voice soft.
"it looks good on you."
the locket rests against your chest, cold and heavy.
he steps back, hands falling to rest by his sides. "you'll stay here tonight." something tells you it's not just going to be tonight. but you keep your mouth shut, once again.
"tomorrow, we'll talk properly. don't worry about your uncle. he's been...detained."
the color on your face drains, and you shiver. he continues.
"right, i almost forgot. speaking of your uncle," he chuckles, finger tracing the rim of his glass.
"how many bruises did he give you?"
you blink at his question, not quite understanding. he seems to pick up on your confusion.
"ah, sorry. should have been clearer. how many bruises do you have on, let's say, right now?" his sharp gaze tracks your nervous fidgeting.
"i'm..i'm not sure," you whisper. you are so utterly confused. he hums, shaking his head with faux disappointment, tsking. "i understand."
he sighs, as if it pains him to speak what he plans to next. it's all a lie.
"take off your shirt." you're not sure you heard him right. he waits, patiently, as you mull his words around in your mind. eventually, he smiles, tight lipped.
"do you need help?" he croons, condescendingly. "because i can."
you shake your head, softly at first, then violently. "no. no, no, no."
he laughs, gleefully. "well, i must know, either way. it affects how i'm going to treat your dear old uncle."
he's crazy. oh god he's actually insane. you move to stand up, but stop when he lifts a finger.
"ah, ah. sit. i'll only ask one more time before i help you, okay?" he pouts at you, talking to you like he would a pet.
"take off. your shirt." he enunciates, raising his eyebrow at you. with trembling fingers, you finally do as he asks, raising your shirt up and over your head.
you wince when his gaze finds your tattered skin. the bruises- they're everywhere.
your uncle made sure to not hurt you in places his peers could see, only places that could be covered up by clothes or a dress. but, they're constant. new bruises overline old, faded ones.
blue and yellow patterns tattoo your skin, a ghastly sight to behold.
you remember all the times your uncle would come home late, reeking of alcohol, knuckles splot and your ribs already aching at the sight. the way he'd always say "this is for your own good, you ungrateful little-" before the next strike.
his jaw ticks, and his eyes darken once more. you sit there in silence, minutes passing as he studies your form.
taking count, you realize.
you're not sure what he'll use the numbers for, and you're afraid to ask. you don't want to know.
he steps closer once again, his hand landing on your shoulder, fingers curling gently around the curve of your collarbone. the touch is featherlight, but you still flinch anyway.
he notices, a hint of a smile.
"such a fragile thing," he muses, softly, studying you. "so breakable. and yet, you're still standing. still...breathing." his thumb brushes over a particularly dark spot near your ribs, and you wince, squirming in your seat.
"he kept you so hidden." his voice drops, almost to himself. "but i see you. i've always seen you. all of you."
he steps back abrubtly, eyes burning with feverish intensity, obsession laid bare in the way his gaze devours you.
"tell me," he says, suddenly, "did he ever...apologize?"
you think for a moment. not for this. he seems to catch your answer in your expression.
"of course not," he mutters, almost to himself. "but don't worry, darling. i'll make sure he regrets it."
he turns away from you, pacing the room with restless energy. his fingers tap against his thigh, a sharp rhythm. with a sinking feeling, you realize that he's already decided what to do with your uncle.
why he counted the bruises. a mark for a mark.
eventually, he calms, but there's still tension in his shoulders. "you'll be more comfortable upstairs," he says, attention back on you. "i had your things moved."
you blink, caught off guard. "my..things?"
he doesn't answer. instead, he walks out the door, towards the staircase you hadn't noticed when you first arrived. you hesitate, before pushing yourself off the chair to follow him.
your shirt is still pooled on the floor where you dropped it, but you don't bother picking it up. you know enough about suguru now to know he wouldn't like it very much if you put it back on.
you follow him up the stairs of the penthouse, leading to the second-story of the apartment. he leads you down a hallway, passed a row of closed doors.
finally, he stops in front of a door at the very end of the hall. gesturing for you to enter, you open the door and venture in, eyes scanning the space.
a large bed, a dresser against one wall, a vanity with a mirror, a small desk, and a window that looks out upon the city.
traces of him are everywhere- hairties on the desk, a small stack of books on the dresser, dark clothes hung neatly in the closet.
"do you like it?" he asks. he's bent down slightly, cool air against your cheek as he tries to look at the room from your point of view.
it would have been cute if it wasn't coming from him.
something catches your eye- a crisp envelope, laying neatly on top of one of the pillows.
"open it," suguru says, voice low, once he notices that you've seen it.
you hesitate, grabbing the envelope, tearing it open with your fingers. inside is a single photograph- a picture of your uncle, slumped in a chair in what looks to be some sort of dark, cement basement.
his face is bruised, swollen, eyes closed. something black is written on his forehead, like sharpie messily scrawled onto his skin.
"paid in full."
you look up at him, heart pounding furiously in your chest. you might need to puke again, you're not sure.
he smiles, softly- almost apologetic, for your sake. his eyes are cold.
"sleep well," he murmurs. "i'll leave you alone for tonight. but tomorrow," he trails a finger down your jawline, "we start fresh. hm?"
he turns to leave, but pauses in the doorway, glancing back at you one last time. he just stands there, taking you in, before he finally leaves, closing the door behind him.
you hear a click.
the silence after the door locks behind him isn't empty. it's almost full- full to where your pulse is ringing in your ears, where the air feels like static.
and then you're screaming, all the fight that had forsaken you now coming back in full- fists pounding against the door as you demand to be let out.
eventually, after your short-lived fight-response drifted away, you stare at the photograph in your hands, the edges of the paper cutting into your skin.
your uncle's face stares back at you- a man who once looked so terrifying now looks so broken.
he looks like you, in that way.
the locket on your neck feels like a brand. heavy weight onto your neck. you tried taking it off- but it wouldn't budge. you're not sure how he managed it.
you exhale, slow and shaky, and set the photograph on the nightstand as you lay back on the bed. your body sinks into the mattress, cursing out the comfort of it all. the sheets are cool against your skin, the bruises on your ribs no longer throbbing.
for the first time in years, you're not falling asleep to pain.
and that might be the most terrifying part of it all.
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lmk what you think!
* 327,600,000 yen = ~ $2 million
* 681,056,812 yen = ~ $4 million
not proofread. picture from pinterest, quote isn't mine!
Summary: A noble lady from a disgraced house that supported Blackfyres is married off to Lord Bloodraven as a reward for his loyalty and prowess in battle. But he prefers to occupy his time with duties as the Hand of the King. Comfortable but lonely, she befriends one of his ravens. Warnings: arranged marriage, yearning, angst, fluff, Westeros politics, Shiera.
The raven was a greedy, ungrateful beast, and you loved it dearly.
You had named him Pebble, for no greater reason than the smooth grey of his breast feathers, which reminded you of the stones along the Mander where you had played as a child. He came to your windowsill each morning, croaking his hoarse demands, and you obliged him with crumbs of bread and shreds of cold meat saved from your supper. In return, he permitted you to stroke the ruff of his neck and mutter your foolish secrets into the space between his blinking black eyes. It was a small, pitiful comfort.
The Tower of the Hand was a cold place, despite the braziers that burned in every chamber. You had been given rooms near the top, close enough to the Hand’s own solar that you might, in theory, encounter your husband on the winding stair. In practice, you saw his servants more often: the silent men in their grey wool cloaks, the Raven’s Teeth who guarded his door with bows strung across their backs. They nodded to you when you passed, respectful but distant, as though you were a ghost they had been instructed not to disturb.
You were a ghost, in a way. A shade drifting through the Red Keep in your pale gowns, your House’s green and gold folded away in chests because wearing them felt like a provocation. Oakheart. The name sat heavy on your tongue these days, a fruit gone bitter on the branch. Your father had played his double game during the rebellion and lost, and you were the price of his redemption, a trueborn daughter gifted to a legitimized bastard, a man who had not wanted you, who had asked for another woman’s hand a thousand times and been refused, and who had accepted you as a lord might accept a parcel of land he had no intention of farming.
You tried not to think of Shiera Seastar. It was impossible.
Her name was everywhere in the Red Keep, whispered by serving girls and sung by minstrels, painted in miniature on ivory pendants that his paramours wore at their throats. The most beautiful woman in the Seven Kingdoms, they called her, and when they said it in your hearing, their eyes would dart to you with something between pity and amusement. See the Oakheart girl, their glances said. See how plain she looks beside the memory of Seastar’s shimmer.
Back in the Reach, you had been called beautiful. You had believed it. Here, you were a candle held up against the sun. Back in the Reach, you were praised as a proper lady, and Shiera was called a shameless whore with nothing more than derision. But King's Landing valued influence, the ability to captivate and draw interest, which Shiera had in abundance.
You did not hate her. Hatred required energy you did not possess. But you feared her. You feared the day she would return to court, trailing silk and scandal behind her, and you would have to stand beside your husband and watch his single eye follow her across the hall. You feared the quiet, courteous dismissal that would surely follow. You had married a man who loved another woman. It was a common enough fate for highborn ladies, you knew, but knowing it did not make your marriage bed any warmer.
You spent your days wandering. The gardens, with their rose trellises and marble fountains, their sharp-scented herbs and imported lemon trees shivering in the sea wind. The library, where you read histories of the Seven Kingdoms until the words blurred before your eyes. The sept, where you knelt before the Maiden and asked for guidance that never came. And the stairway that spiraled up to the Hand’s solar, where you would sometimes sit on the cold stone steps with a book open on your lap, close enough to hear the murmur of voices beyond the iron-banded door, the scratch of a quill, the rustle of parchment. You never knocked. You were too afraid of being turned away.
It was on one of those steps, three moons into your marriage, that Brynden Rivers finally spoke to you about the raven.
You had Pebble on your knee, feeding him strips of roasted capon you had wrapped in a napkin and smuggled from the kitchens. The bird was growing stout, you could see it in the way his breast swelled over his claws, the way he waddled rather than hopped when he moved along the windowsill. You had noticed but you had not cared. You had to keep feeding him so he wouldn't leave you as well.
“What am I doing, Pebble?” you whispered. “What am I doing here? My husband does not want me. The court does not see me. My family’s name is a jest and a warning both. I am a wife in name only, and I do not know how to become anything more. I was not taught how to be a wife to a man like him. I was taught how to be a wife to a lord who wanted a gentle lady to manage his household and bear his children. But Lord Bloodraven has a household that manages itself and no desire for children of his body, or so they say.” You paused, your fingers stilling on the raven’s feathers. “Perhaps he would want children if they were Shiera’s.”
The raven croaked.
You stroked the raven’s feathers again, and your voice cracked. “I am even afraid that you will leave me, Pebble. You are the only friend I have in this place. Please do not fly away.”
The door to the solar opened. You scrambled to your feet, the napkin falling from your lap, capon scattering across the stone. Pebble let out an indignant caw and flapped onto the windowsill, his wings laboring under his weight.
Lord Bloodraven stood in the doorway.
His hair, silver-white, fell straight to his shoulders, and his skin was so pale it seemed to drink the light. The red birthmark that crept up his neck and cheek, the source of his name, was vivid as a splash of wine against snow. He wore black, and the eye that fixed on you now was the deep, unsettling red of dying embers.
The other eye was gone. A pale, smooth scar ran from brow to cheekbone, and beneath it, a dark hollow that seemed to see more than any living eye could.
“My lady wife,” he said. His voice was quiet, precise, each word placed as carefully as a stone on a cyvasse board.
“My lord.” You dropped into a curtsy, your heart hammering. You had not expected him to emerge. He rarely did before the hour of the bat. “Forgive me, I did not mean to disturb you. I was only...”
His gaze had moved past you to the raven. Pebble was worrying at a shred of capon, his beak tearing at the meat with smug contentment. Bloodraven’s expression did not change, but the air shifted, a faint tightening like the pause before a thunderclap.
“That is my raven,” he said.
“Yes, my lord. I hope you do not mind. He comes to my window, and I...”
“He is fat.”
The words fell like a stone into still water. You felt heat rise to your cheeks, the familiar burn of mortification. Your fingers twisted in the folds of your skirt, a pale lavender silk, pretty and demure. Here in the grey light of the tower it seemed washed-out and childish. You were a woman grown, a wife, and yet you felt like a girl being scolded by her septa for some minor transgression.
“I have been feeding him,” you admitted in a small voice.
Bloodraven stepped forward. His movements were unsettlingly smooth. He lifted one long-fingered hand, and the raven, your Pebble, your greedy, ungrateful Pebble, fluttered up to perch on his wrist without the slightest hesitation, as though you had never existed.
“A raven of the Tower must be lean,” Bloodraven said, stroking the bird’s breast with one pale thumb. Pebble closed his eyes in bliss. “He must fly swiftly over distances that would exhaust a lesser bird. He must carry messages through weather that would kill a hawk. He must be quick, clever, and sharp as a blade.”
He turned that burning red eye back to you.
“You have made him useless.”
The words struck harder than they should have. You had not thought yourself capable of tears, you had not wept once since leaving the Reach, not at your wedding, not on your wedding night when your husband failed to come to your bed, not in all the lonely days that followed, but now your throat tightened and your vision swam. You blinked rapidly, fighting it down, but a single tear escaped and traced a burning path down your cheek.
You ducked your head, hoping he had not seen. The silence stretched, unbearable.
“I am sorry,” you whispered. “I did not know. He came to me. He seemed friendly. I only offered him kindness.”
“Friendly.” He said the word as if it were a foreign concept. His blood-eye seemed to gleam in the half-light, and for a moment you could have sworn you saw the raven’s reflection in it, a dark bird within a darker pool. “Ravens are tools, my lady. They are not pets. This one has been made useless by your kindness.”
The word useless stung again. You dropped your gaze to the floor again, studying the worn flagstones beneath your slippers. “I apologise. I will not feed it anymore.”
You did not wait for a response. You gathered your skirts and fled down the winding stair, your slippers slapping against the stone, your breath coming in short, hitching gasps. You did not stop until you reached your chambers, where you threw yourself onto the great empty bed and buried your face in the pillows and wept until there was nothing left inside you.
You did not go to the Tower the next day, nor the day after that. You kept to your rooms, claiming a headache when your maids inquired. You took your meals alone, the food tasteless on your tongue. You did not open your shutters, though you heard the scratch of claws on the sill more than once. You could not bear to see Pebble, to see the raven who had abandoned you as easily as breathing, who had flown to his master’s hand without a backward glance.
It was on the third day that a servant knocked at your door and informed you that the Hand of the King required your presence in his solar.
You dressed carefully, your hands trembling on the laces of your gown. You chose a dress of pale green, the color of new leaves, the closest you dared come to the Oakheart colors. You pinned your hair up in a simple coil. You looked, you thought, like a woman preparing for an execution.
The solar was warm, lit by a fire in the great hearth and by candles in iron holders. Books lined the walls, more books than you had ever seen in a private chamber, their spines cracked and worn from use. Maps and charts covered a long table, and in the corner, a perch held three ravens, their heads tucked under their wings.
Bloodraven sat behind a desk of dark oak, a quill in his hand. He did not rise when you entered, but he set the quill down and gestured to a chair across from him.
“Sit,” he said.
You sat. Your hands folded in your lap, the picture of a well-bred lady. You had been trained for this, after all: to be still, to be silent, to be pleasing. It was the only weapon you had ever been given.
Bloodraven regarded you for a long moment. In the firelight, the port-wine stain on his cheek seemed to shift and writhe like something alive. His eye, that terrible red eye, seemed to see straight through you, past the careful composure and the pretty dress and into the hollow ache at your center.
“You have not been to the Tower,” he said.
“I did not wish to disturb you, my lord.”
“You have not been to the gardens, either. Nor the library. Nor the sept.” He leaned back in his chair, steepling his long fingers. “My birds tell me things.”
Your heart lurched. The ravens. Of course. You had forgotten, in your misery, the whispers that surrounded your husband like a cloak of shadows. He could see through the eyes of his birds, they said. He could watch the whole of the Seven Kingdoms from his Tower, and nothing escaped his notice. You had thought it a fanciful tale, a legend spun to explain the unerring accuracy of his spy network. But the way he looked at you now made you wonder.
“I have been tired,” you said, which was not entirely a lie.
“You have been crying.”
The words were blunt, without softening. You flinched, your gaze dropping to your hands.
“My lady,” Bloodraven said, his tone had shifted. It was not kind, you did not think kindness was in his nature, but it was less cold than before. “Look at me.”
You raised your eyes.
“The raven,” he said. “You named him.”
It was not a question. You nodded anyway.
“Pebble,” you said, your voice barely above a whisper. “Because of his breast feathers. They reminded me of home.”
Bloodraven was silent for a moment. Then he rose from his chair and crossed to the window, his back to you, his silver hair catching the firelight.
“I have had many ravens,” he said. “Hundreds, over the years. I breed them in the Tower, train them, dispatch them across the realm. They are tools, nothing more. I have never given one a name.”
He turned, his single eye finding you again.
“No one has ever named one of my ravens before.”
You did not know what to say. You sat frozen, your heart beating a nervous rhythm against your ribs.
“He is not useless,” Bloodraven said, and there was something akin to curiosity in his voice. “I examined him this morning. He is plump, yes, but he is healthy. His plumage is glossy. His eyes are bright. He is more docile than the others, more accustomed to human touch. There are uses for such a raven.”
He took a step toward you, then another, until he stood before your chair, looking down at you with an expression you could not read.
“I have been a poor husband,” he said.
Your mouth opened but no sound came out.
“I did not ask for this marriage,” he continued, “and neither did you. We were both bound by the king’s will, and I have not made the binding easier for you. I have been…absent. Preoccupied.” He paused. “Unkind.”
“My lord, you have been...”
“Do not,” he said, lifting a hand to stop your protest, “be polite. I am surrounded by polite people. I find it exhausting.”
You closed your mouth.
Bloodraven lowered his hand. “I loved Shiera,” he said, and the name was a blade between your ribs. “For many years. I asked for her hand more times than I can count. She always refused. Perhaps she was wise.” His jaw tightened, a flicker of old pain crossing his pale features. “But she is not my wife. You are.”
He reached down, and before you could react, his fingers closed around your hand. His skin was cool, dry. But his grip was steady.
“I cannot promise you love,” he said. “I am not a man given to tender feeling. The whispers about me are not all false. I am a sorcerer, of a kind. I do see through the eyes of my ravens. I have done things that would make you flinch to hear, and I will likely do more before I am through. I have little patience for the courtly games that fill the days of most highborn ladies.”
He paused, and his thumb brushed once across your knuckles.
“But I am not cruel without cause. I do not take pleasure in suffering. And I have watched you these three moons, my lady. Through the eyes of my ravens, yes. I have seen you in the gardens, sitting alone on the stone benches. I have seen you in the library, reading the same page over and over because your mind is elsewhere. I have seen you feeding my raven, speaking to him as though he were a friend, because you had no one else to speak to.”
Your face was burning. You wanted to look away, to hide, but his eye held you as surely as a pin holds a butterfly.
“I did not intend to spy,” he said, and there was a note in his voice that might have been regret. “At first, I was merely curious. Then I was...concerned. You are withering, my lady. Like a flower deprived of light. And I am the one who has kept you in the dark.”
He released your hand and stepped back.
“I would like to propose a truce,” he said. “A beginning. I will not pretend to be something I am not. I will always be busy with the affairs of the realm, always be strange, secretive and perhaps a little frightening for your liking. But I will make an effort to be present. To speak with you. To…know you.” He tilted his head, a gesture eerily reminiscent of his ravens. “If you will permit it.”
You stared at him, your heart pounding so loudly you were certain he could hear it. This was not what you had expected. This was not the cold dismissal, the polite abandonment, the quiet return to separate lives. This was an opening, a crack in the armor.
“I would like that,” your voice came out steadier than you had hoped. “My lord.”
“Brynden,” he corrected. “If we are to attempt this, you may as well use my name.”
You swallowed. “Brynden.”
The corners of his mouth twitched, the barest suggestion of a smile. “See? Not so difficult.”
He returned to his desk and picked up his quill, but he did not dismiss you. Instead, he gestured toward a smaller table near the fire, where a tray of fruit and cheese and a pitcher of wine had been laid out.
“Stay,” he said. “Eat. You have been hiding in your rooms for three days, and I suspect you have not been eating properly.”
You rose from your chair, your legs unsteady beneath you. As you crossed to the table, you saw a perch near the window, separate from the others. On it sat Pebble, his head cocked, his black eyes fixed on you with reproach.
“He has been sulking,” Brynden said, not looking up from his parchment. “He does not understand why you stopped coming.”
You reached out a trembling hand and stroked the raven’s breast. Pebble made a soft sound and pressed his head against your fingers.
“I am sorry,” you murmured to him. “I am here now.”
Behind you, you heard the scratch of the quill pause for just a moment, and then resume.
From that day, you took your evening meals in the solar with Brynden, sitting at the small table by the fire while he worked at his desk. He did not speak much, but he answered when you asked questions, and sometimes he would pause in his writing to ask one of his own. Small things at first: how you found the Red Keep, whether the sea air agreed with you, what books you had been reading. You answered honestly, and he listened with a focus that was almost unnerving, his eye fixed on you as though every word you spoke were a piece of intelligence to be filed away.
Then he started inquiring about your life, so you told him. Your father had pledged fealty to both King Daeron and Daemon Blackfyre, sending one gold and the other men. King Daeron had kept his crown, and House Oakheart's reputation had suffered. Instead of emerging unscathed either way, as Lord Oakheart had intended, the King inflicted punishments on him. His eldest son, your older brother, was assigned to become a Kingsguard. He had to refute his title, land and future of marriage and instead serve as a guard to the same King he had fought against. You, the eldest daughter, were given to Hand of the King as a reward he didn't ask for. A legitimate lady to solidify his standing. Your mother had acted as if everything was fine, which you suspected was for your sake, although you didn't want such strained treatment. And you scarcely saw your brother since arriving in King's Landing, even though you both lived at the Red Keep.
You learned things about him in return. He had been born with the birthmark, with hair already white, and his mother had wept when she first saw him. He had been a poor swordsman as a boy, too thin and frail, so he had turned to the bow out of desperation. He loved his Blackwood sisters. He did not sleep well. He never had.
One evening, a fortnight after your conversation in the solar, you gathered your courage and asked the question that had been burning in your throat since the day you arrived.
“Do you wish I were her?”
The quill stopped. The fire crackled in the silence. Pebble, perched on the back of your chair, shifted his weight from one claw to the other.
Brynden set the quill down slowly. “That is a foolish question.”
“I am not afraid of the answer.” You were, of course. You were terrified. But you had spent months living in the shadow of a ghost and you could not do it any longer.
He rose from his desk and came to stand before the fire. The flames cast his face in red and gold, the birthmark nearly invisible against the glow. His back was to you.
“I wished for many things,” he said at last. “I wished for her to love me. I wished for her to choose me, just once, over all the others. I wished for a great many foolish things that a wiser man would have let go long ago.” He turned to look at you. “But I do not wish you were her. You are not her. You are nothing like her, and that is…not a bad thing.”
“I have heard she is the most beautiful woman in the Seven Kingdoms,” you said, and you hated the smallness of your voice, the jealousy that crept in despite your best efforts.
“She is,” Brynden said, and your heart sank. “But beauty is a strange thing. Shiera’s beauty is like wildfire: brilliant, consuming, and utterly indifferent to what it destroys. I spent years burning in it, and I have the scars to show. You are different. Your beauty is like…” He paused, searching for the word. “Like the first green shoots after winter. Blooming. Steady. Something that grows rather than blazes.”
You did not know what to say. Your face felt hot.
“I am not good at this,” Brynden said with a flicker of frustration in his voice. “I am no poet. I do not know how to court my own wife.”
A laugh bubbled up in your throat, unexpected and slightly hysterical. You pressed your hand to your mouth, trying to stifle it, but it escaped anyway, a small, surprised sound that made Brynden’s eye widen a fraction.
“I do not know how to be courted,” you admitted. “I was taught to be a lady, not a wife. No one ever told me what to do with a husband who did not want a wife.”
“I never said I did not want a wife.” He took a step toward you. “I said I did not ask for this marriage. There is a difference.”
“Is there?”
Another step. He was close enough that you could smell the faint scent of ink and old parchment that clung to his clothes. Close enough that you could see the tiredness around his eye.
“I am learning,” he murmured, “that I may have wanted something I did not know I did.”
His hand rose, and this time, he did not stop at your fingers. His cool palm cupped your cheek, his thumb brushing the corner of your mouth with a gentleness that contradicted everything you had heard about him: the cold sorcerer, the ruthless spymaster, the man who had killed Daemon Blackfyre and his sons with arrows guided by dark magic. In this moment, he was only a man, touching his wife’s face for the first time.
“You are trembling,” he said.
“I am afraid.”
“Of me?”
“Of this ending.” Your voice cracked. “Of Shiera returning. Of waking up tomorrow and finding that you have remembered you do not want me after all.”
His eye searched your face. You had the unsettling sensation that he was seeing more than your skin and bone, more than the fear in your eyes. Seeing into you, the way he saw through the eyes of his ravens.
“Shiera is in Lys,” he said. “She left months ago, before our wedding. She may return someday, she always does, but she is not here now, and she has no claim on me. Whatever I felt for her, it is done. I have been a fool for her long enough.”
He leaned closer, his forehead nearly touching yours.
“As for waking up tomorrow,” he murmured, “that is simple. You shall wake up in my bed.”
Your breath caught.
“The bedding ceremony was waived,” he continued, “because I requested it. I did not think it fair to subject you to the court’s crude jests when we were strangers. But we are not strangers now. Not entirely. And I find that I am tired of sleeping alone in my cold solar while my wife sleeps alone in her cold tower.”
His thumb traced the line of your jaw.
“If you are willing,” he added, and the hesitation in his voice, the faint uncertainty, undid you completely.
“I am willing,” you whispered.
He kissed you. His lips were cool, like his hands. The kiss was cautious, almost experimental, as though he were tasting a new wine and trying to decide if he liked the vintage. But it deepened, slowly, his hand slid from your cheek to the back of your neck. You felt a knot of tension loosen in your chest.
When he pulled back, his breathing was slightly unsteady.
“You will not be alone.” He took your hand again, this time, he laced his fingers through yours. “I have a thousand eyes. Some of them will always be watching over you.”
It was perhaps the strangest declaration of affection any woman had ever received. But you found yourself smiling anyway, a real smile, the first you had worn since leaving the Reach.
That night, you did not return to your lonely tower rooms. You slept in the Hand’s bed, in the Hand’s arms, and though he did not sleep, he had told you he rarely did, he held you in the darkness, his fingers tracing idle patterns on your shoulder.
In the morning, you woke to find him already dressed, standing at the window with the pale dawn light on his hair. He turned when he heard you stir.
“Good morning, my lady.”
“Good morning, Brynden.”
He crossed to the bed and sat on its edge. From behind his back, he produced a single winter rose, its petals white as fresh snow, its center a deep, vivid blue.
“There are no winter roses in King’s Landing,” you said, taking it with trembling fingers. “How did you...?”
“I have my ways,” he said, the faint smile on his lips was no longer tentative. It was the smile of a man who had unraveled a mystery and found the answer rather pleasing.
You lifted the rose to your nose and breathed in its sweet, cold scent. Through the window, you saw a raven circling against the pale sky, not Pebble but another, its black wings cutting the air with swift precision. It was returning home, carrying something in its beak.
“What is he bringing?” you asked.
“A letter,” Brynden said. “From the Arbor. Lord Redwyne is plotting something tedious involving wine tariffs.” He paused. “Would you like to watch me unravel it?”
“Yes,” you said. “I would like that very much.”
He offered you his hand, you took it.
Pebble, watching from his perch, let out a satisfied croak and followed you and your husband up the winding stair to the solar.
Part 2: coming soon...
a/n: Please don't let this flop guys, I have an entire series planned out.
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a/n: Comment if you'd like to be added to the series taglist. Rn I'm tagging those who went along with my freaky birdman propaganda.
Warnings☆ミCregan is a creep but he loves you, mentions of beheading infront of reader, stockholm syndrom(?)
Pairing☆ミCregan Stark x Florent!reader
Summary☆ミYou were betrothed to cregan stark when you at your 13th name day and cregan was 15. Despite only meeting twice, first on your nameday, and a year later to confirm the match. But the distance only made cregan crave you even more, viewing you as his. Now 5 years later, you are finally back to winterfell, but as the longer you stay the more you realise just how deep his obsession for you runs.
Cregan stark was a man of honor, a man who held so much responsibilities at such a young age, orphaned and having to be lord of winterfell at 13 years of age will drive anyone mad.
And it would have, not until he saw you, hiding behind your older sisters skirt even though it was your 13th name-day they were celebrating.
But oh how beautiful you looked, he would'nt forget the way you smiled at him, and gave him a wave. It was then he knew you were his, political advantages be damned.
So that's what he did, he demanded to talk to your father. He didn't beat around the bush, always forward and honest. He told your parents parents he wanted you to be his wife, the lady of winterfell.
Anyone would be a fool to not see the advanteges, cregan knew it, and so did your father. However your mother worry you are far too young, barely even a woman.
Whilst he wished to be wed to you sooner, he could be patient. He was a stark, a man of honor.
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5 years had passed since your mother had informed you of your betrothal to cregan stark, and 4 years since you've seen him last.
Nerves jittered across you, barely able to contain your excitement as you finally see the gates of winterfell. In front, waiting for you is none other than your betrothed. Carefully coming off your horse, you finally come face to face with Cregan, “you’ve grown taller” you muttered almost to yourself.
A smile blooms in his handsome face, his hands gently cupping your cheeks as if in a daze. A soft deep rumble escapes his lips, as he stares into your face. Flushing, you fidget on where you stand clearing your throat “apologies for being rude my lord- I was simply caught of guard by how much you’ve changed”
Shaking his head, he finally looks into your eyes. “No need for apologies my lady” he mutters as he gently grabs your gloved hand and presses as kiss on your knuckles, eyes boring straight to you. A promise or an oath you could not tell, as the mere sight takes away any thoughts before it could form.
“You will soon be my lady-wife, you are free to voice whatever it is in that pretty head of yours mhm?”
You could barely contain the joy in your face at the realization that though you have been apart for many years, he is still the same boy who courted you, and named you the queen of love and beauty four years ago.
A grumbling voice interrupts your reunion, a lord of the north based on his attire. “Lord stark, my lady I mean not…get in between yer reunion but we need t’ get back” his thick northern accent almost made words sound garbled.
Grabbing your betroths arm, as you beamed at him “shall we go inside my lord?” A small and gentle smile grazes his lips before turning back to his men and mine, barking orders before escorting me inside the castle.
Inside the bustling castle, cregan still has not let your arm go, along the way you meet a couple servants, all whom you found absolutely perfect and nice. One servant, a young maid a year younger than you greeted you and cregan with much enthusiasm. Endeared by her sweet nature, you could not help but ask Cregan for her name, chuckling as he guides and shows you your new home “her names Meykka the third daughter of the seamstress that works here as well I believe “
You gave a small nod, but Cregan noticed you seemingly hesitate to say something, he stops in his steps and grabs you elbows. Directing you to stare at him. “Tell what is it that troubles you my lady? Please” And how could ignore him when he looks at you such softness.
“I have only brought one maid from my home my lord- if it is not much to ask…may Meykka serve under me as a handmaid?”
Cregan for all his stoic and cold nature could not resist seeing you ask so beautifully, lips bitten raw from worries, he could not help but think how those lips would look around his co-
“Cregan?” He was pushed away from his thoughts, smiling down at you he gave a quick nod. “Of course my lady, I’m certain she would be most delighted to serve the lady of winterfell”
Raising his brows as he stared at you seemingly looking around, seemingly satisfied you reached for his cheeks. Standing on the tips of your feet and place a quick kiss on the side of his cheeks. Cheeks flushed, heart hammering you shuffled away, Cregan despite being caught off guard grabs your wrist. Pulling you close to his chest, thanking the old gods he forgoes his usual armor for more thinner tunics.
Feeling your chest plush against his, had him grinning larger than anyone had seen him before. “My what a brave little wife the gods have given me” his words sent a cold shiver down your spine straight to the pits of your stomach.
“We are yet to be wed my lord” you muttered weakly, as he simply reveled in the tiny reactions you have given him. Oh how he missed you so terribly, but he must correct your little phrase “we WILL be wed soon my love” his voice left no room for arguments.
“And if I decide to run before the wedding? Mayhaps I met some stable boy along the way and have fallen for him”
Cregan simply grins and trails his fingers from your neck, settling gently on your cheeks “then I will have no choice but to behead him in front of you before dragging you to the weirwood tree and marry you”
You laugh, slapping his chest, as if his words were mere jesting, and maybe to you it was. He WAS Cregan stark after all, your betrothed known for honor and just. But as you laugh at his words, you failed to notice the obsession in his eyes.
“Now come on, I cannot have the servants seeing the soon to be lady of winterfell laughing at their lord, let us continue our tour shall we my love?”
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A soft knock breaks the silence in his office, “come in” he orders head tiredly lifting away from the mountains of paper he has to finish only to find a trembling servant girl enter.
“You called for me m’lord?” Her voiced trembling with fear
“Ah Meykka” Cregan ignored the frighten child and placed a coin purse on the table “My beloved is pleased with you, as promised here is the first payment”
In shock, the young girl cautiously approaches her lords table, with trembling hands she clutches the purse. Heavy with money, money that would feed her siblings.
“You will report to me every night once your lady has retired to sleep, understood?” Cregan leans on his chair, tired and back aching from work.
Nodding furiously, the young girl clutches the gold filled purse to her chest “of course m’lord, I will ensure to watch the lady”
Satisfied Cregan dismissed the young orphaned girl from his room, smiling to himself as his plan worked wonderfully. How could he possibly ensure your safety if he had no one watching you when he is occupied with troubles of the north? You his after all, he is simply ensuring you are taken care off.
A soft knock pulls him away from his thoughts, before he could utter a word the door opens and there he sees ypur beautiful eyes peeking through the small crack of the door.
Raising his thick brow "yes wife?" He hums, making no move to go to you, pouting at his dismissive tone, you entered his room, ensuring to close it behind you, only relaxing after hearing a soft click.
"Did she and her mother agree?" I asked, hands fidgeting, cregan for all his honor had no honorable thoughts seeing you so vulnerable and relaxed.
Seeing you in your night gown, with only a shawl that covers your tits from his eyes. "Ofcourse, I told you my love...she and her mother would agree" cregan stood from his chair, mischief in his eyes as he carefully walks to you.
Smiling to yourself, you allow yourself to melt in his arm, not knowing the wolf has sunk his teeth deeper into you.
Hiya gorgeous, I know it's gonna be random. But who's most likely to babytrap reader in fear she's gonna leave them? AKOTSK men.
_🎀
no i LOVE this question!! i haven’t written something like this before so i hope i didn’t do TOO poorly lol but i had so much fun!! guys ask me stuff like this more
( warning! this post contains noncon! )
FROM LEAST TO MOST LIKELY:
── .✦ ( VALARR ) Valarr is the least likely to babytrap you. he views making a child as something with one purpose: to procure an heir. he’s selfless and valiant, and thinks his duty as a son to the great targaryen dynasty is to carry on the legacy. to him, his feelings of desire or want mean nothing. so if you decide against children, or against him, he will respect it and move onwards.
── .✦ ( DUNCAN ) a close second is Duncan. he’s so sweet and lovely, he could never do such a cruel thing!! he, too, views children as something done with purpose, and that purpose is love!! a babe in your belly should mean a life of love and affection that the two of you chose, not something that he did for his own possessive desire.
── .✦ ( BAELOR ) Baelor is old and has children of his own already. he is happy with how things are, and couldn’t see himself with another child, regardless of how devoted he is to you. the thing that he’d trap you with is money, because he has plenty of it to spare. your family’s head is a lord with a gambling problem, and he’d (so kindly) make sure to keep the rest of your sisters and your mother afloat, as long as you stay with him of course.
── .✦ ( MAEKAR ) similar to his brother, Maekar is through with children. we’ve all seen the way his current ones have turned out— he wouldn’t want to burden himself with the possibility of another difficult one. he isn’t as charming as his brother though, and would turn to threats upon your family rather than sweet words and bribery.
── .✦ ( DAERON ) Daeron is a pathetic man that’s desperate to keep you with him. he’d like to put a babe in you, but his excessive drinking has rendered him quite useless in that department. he’s more the kidnapping type; he’d keep you in the dungeons, and maybe even move you to his chambers if you’re on good behaviour! he’s charming but clumsy, and often doesn’t think long-term, so kidnapping is definitely his most likely mode of capture.
── .✦ ( AERION ) Aerion would and will babytrap you. he adores the look on your face when he holds you down and finishes deep inside you, staying sheathed in your cunt to make sure it sticks. he’s keen on using you as a vessel for the ‘seed of the dragon’ as he likes to call it. he loves seeing you pregnant, being able to show you off, to make people aware that yes, he did that to you. he wants control of your body and your mind, and pregnancy is the perfect vehicle for such a thing.
Lately, you’ve been thinking about having a baby.
Or: the fertility clinic au
Part 1
masterlist
It must be the mother of all quarter-life crises for you to be as torn up about this as you are.
(‘Mother of all’—what an apt phrase for a time like this.)
Two of your friends have babies and suddenly it’s all you can think about. Chubby cheeks and wrinkly fingers; diaper bags stuffed to the brim and shrill baby screams piercing through the house.
You try to help them out as best you can in those first few months, coming over with dinner wrapped in foil and snacks in Tupperware for the exhausted parents, offering to help run errands or tidy up the place while they try to catch up on sleep. The picture perfect friend.
You never thought it’d hit you like this until it does. Baby fever à la max. Even the word ‘fever’ undersells it—the feeling that overtakes you is like a blazing inferno, burning away every other want or desire apart from the one currently tearing you asunder.
It’s all you can think about from that point on. Babies, babies, babies. The milky smell of their heads, the flexible cartilage of their noses, their pudgy, wrinkly yawns and soft sighs. You make excuses to visit, offering to babysit whenever they look like they could use a night out, your agenda so transparent that anyone with eyes could see it.
All you can think when you look at them is that your life has been looking a lot like a house of cards these days: all style and no substance.
They get in your head, alright. That ominous they; not a specific person or group, just a nebulous, widespread opinion permeating far too many corners of your world. All that fearmongering about babymaking windows and that talk of rapidly vanishing fecundity—your eyes nearly bulge out of your head when you come across a TikTok of a thirty-six year old calling her eggs geriatric—and by the end of it, you swear you can hear your biological clock booming between your ears, one swinging gong after another.
You’re able to keep the beast at bay for a bit by tricking yourself into thinking that it’s just in your head. Just one of those things. You’re getting older—of course at some point you’d start to worry about the things you never got a chance to do. FOMO. Regrets blooming into full-blown crises. It’s only natural that it would start to get to you eventually.
Trying to convince yourself of that is not enough to shake the damn urgency from your blood though. You’re like a dog with a bone, too many late nights spent scrolling through parenting forums and conception tips, neither of which are of much use to you as a childless, partnerless person not currently trying for a baby. What does it matter to you if smoking reduces your chances of getting pregnant by forty percent? You don’t even smoke.
You might actually want to have a baby though. Mindblowing after all this time, to think that maybe it wasn’t just a fleeting fancy.
Mindblowing, then abruptly terrifying.
Your present situation is a bit dire. It’s been several years since you last had a partner, none you ever would’ve ever considered having a baby with. Absurd—worse than absurd even. And despite everything, despite the self-imposed countdown ticking away in your head and the stress causing your spine to curl in a half-inch more every single day, you are, thankfully, not desperate enough to reach out to any of them.
So you try. For a short period of time, you make a real, concerted effort to find a partner, going on three dates in a week, each more appalling than the last. It’s the last one that breaks you, your date not only unbearably dismissive to the waitstaff but also entirely uninterested in discussing anything about your life, completely preoccupied with recounting the minutiae of his own life story.
A swing and a miss. You made an effort at least, put yourself out there. Tried to do things the old-fashioned way.
It’s the twenty-first century though, for goodness’ sakes; there are more ways to start a family than just the tried-and-true method.
And that’s how you wind up here, at a fertility clinic on a Tuesday afternoon, PTO plugged into your work calendar with a secretive little “Appointment” reason left for being out of office. It’s no office-busybody’s business though. They don’t need to know about the increasingly debilitating need to have a baby that’s been overtaking you these past few months.
It would clear a lot of things up, but it still isn’t anyone’s business.
The waiting room is a simple, unadorned roost of a room, the walls lined with plastic eggshell-like chairs for all the eggs soon to be hatched. An oddly sterile space for the purpose it serves. It would be a little uncomfortable if it weren’t like every other waiting room in existence, minus any snivelling sick people.
There are other people besides you. Or rather, there were people. People that have already come and gone, not quite so anxious as to turn up an hour early for their two o’clock appointment, their stomachs grumbling from skipping lunch.
And so after the third couple goes in for their appointment with the specialist, you’re left on your own for a bit until a new person walks in.
A man this time, all by his lonesome.
And boy is he a specimen so fine that you can’t help but hope that he’s come to make a deposit. If they let you pick your donor based on build and gait alone, you think you’d have your man right here. You can barely drag your eyes away from him, glued to the rounded muscle of his back, gliding over the curve of his shoulders and up the thick of his neck.
After a brief conversation with the receptionist to check in, he drums his fingers across the counter and takes a seat on one of the little egg chairs along the wall facing yours.
Where he then proceeds to lift his head and lock eyes with you.
In retrospect, you wish you could describe it as a magical moment, but in reality, you just freeze in place, embarrassed at being caught staring. He’s a decently handsome enough man to be good fodder for any later self-care. Square-jawed and bearded.
Good hairline for his age, which you don’t want to take a crack at guessing, but if you had to, it would have to be somewhere around his mid-forties. Maybe late. But it touches him in just the right way, evident in the lines on his forehead and the pull of the skin around his eyes, his beard just ever so slightly flecked with the barest hints of grey.
The writing on the threadbare shirt he has on, almost hidden beneath the plaid shirt layered over it, is barely legible after countless washes. You can almost see straight through it. If you pinched the fabric between your fingers, you think your nails would poke right through. You could rip it right off him, get a better look at the dense pecs that you can just barely make out through his shirt.
You swallow, that thought catching you off guard.
Despite your own embarrassment, his gaze holds steady. Some people aren’t born with shame as a built-in foghorn. Some people look out into the world and genuinely believe it is theirs to conquer, raised on a diet of self-confidence and boldness, free-range audacity.
He’s bold enough, in fact, to rise to his feet and cross to the other side of the waiting room, taking a seat right beside you. He sits down beside you like you're old friends, like there's nothing strange about a man sitting beside a veritable stranger in a completely empty room.
It’s such a bold move that you don’t even know what to say at first, head turned towards him in the chair next to you now with some dumb expression on your face, gobsmacked.
“Can I help you?” you hear yourself ask, years of socialization coming to the rescue. Thank god the gears start turning in your head after that brief second of bewilderment.
“Not at all.” And what a voice too, as if his looks weren’t enough. All unintentional deep-chested purr, leonine English rumbling out of the depths of him, Northern accent to top it off. “Just thought I might introduce myself. Be polite, seeing as how we’re both here for the same reason.”
Unless he ran ahead of a wife still on her way up the elevator, you don’t think that’s the case. You glance around him just to double check the door. “Are we?”
“Maybe a pick-up instead of a drop-off in your case,” he concedes, a droll little note curled up in his voice. “But that’s not so different when the end result’s the same.”
You swallow and force an awkward smile, ignoring the way your heart speeds up. “Yeah, I guess so. Anyway, nice to meet you, um, circumstances aside.” You hold out a hand, which he doesn’t hesitate to take.
“Nothing wrong with the circumstances, but pleasure to meet you too, love.”
His palm feels huge around yours, a warm, firm grip that only yields a few moments later when you have to make an effort to pull your hand away, holding on for the fleetingest of seconds, long enough for a spark of anxiety to shoot through your chest.
You hope that’s the end of it when he finally lets go of your hand. Not because you don’t want to chat up an incredibly attractive stranger, but because you couldn’t imagine the timing being worse.
He, however, seems to have no qualms with carrying on. “Has it taken yet or are you shopping for donors today?”
It’s a horribly invasive question, but you answer it anyway, all buttoned-up and ginger. “Um. No, I’m just here for a consultation. There’ll probably be a lot of paperwork before, um…before we get started.”
“A lot of nonsense for something I reckon we could get done a lot easier together.”
It doesn’t register until it does. Then you just have to look at him and blink, confused.
“Excuse me?” you ask.
He cocks an eyebrow. “I haven’t got this wrong, have I? You said you’re here for a baby?”
“Uh, yes, that’s—that’s what I just said.”
“And I’m here to help someone like you have a baby. Seems like we’d be making both of our lives easier if we just skipped all the red tape and saved you the expense.”
“‘Save me the expense’?” you repeat, stunned.
“Won’t cost anything the natural way.”
You know what he’s insinuating, but you can’t believe it. You actually can’t believe that this man—a stranger, handsome as he might be, good-looking as he might be, husband-envy-inspiring as he might be—would openly proposition you in the waiting room of a fertility clinic. Offer to get you pregnant ‘the natural way’, as if it were a cold drink on a hot day. A side of fries with your order.
“I—I’m sorry, but that’s incredibly inappropriate,” you eventually wheeze out.
That gets a laugh out of him, one of those amused huffs that erupts out of him like a bear flicking a bee off its snout. “Can’t be cagey about this sort of thing, love. You have to be direct when you want to get things done.”
“You do know we’re in public, right?”
“I’d be happy to take this somewhere private.”
The heat under your cheeks might actually result in a physical burn. “I…think I’m going to find somewhere else to sit.”
“Ah, don’t worry about that, love, I’m gonna head out anyway.” A satisfied smile tugs at his mouth. “I think I got what I actually came for.”
Your frown deepens. “You haven’t even been called in yet.”
“Not what I meant.”
Before you can ask what he means, he shifts in his seat, leaning closer to you for just a second, but long enough for your heart to suddenly go wild and your pupils to go big as dinner plates.
“Here,” he grunts, lifting a hip to pull his wallet out of his back pocket, flicking it open and plucking out a business card. He flips your hand over and puts it down on your palm. “That’s my number. When you’re done here, give me a call. I’m sure we can come up with something better than this.”
He taps the card in your hand with a finger. It ricochets through you, the tap rippling up your arm and chest, nearly rocking you back in your seat. Everything he does must be punctuated with the same echoing weight.
He nods to you on his way out, a secretive smile on his lips, just the barest hint of a lift that you might’ve missed had you not been staring at his face. All you can do is stare though, still absolutely floored, practically speechless as you watch him leave.
And then you’re alone again, in an entirely different headspace than when you first sat down.
“John Price?” the receptionist calls out from behind the desk suddenly, but with the man gone, there’s no one else in the waiting room apart from you. “Mr. John Price?”
You blink, stun-locked. You can’t have been the reason he decided to back out of his appointment at the last minute. He must’ve decided to bail at the last minute before throwing a Hail Mary in an attempt to get laid.
That has to be it. He wouldn’t leave because of a brief interaction with you.
The waiting room feels a lot emptier without him now that he’s gone, as if by being made aware of his presence, everything has been indelibly altered. Changed. Slightly less interesting somehow.
You hover somewhere between bewilderment and affront until a flicker of giddiness steals in. Tamp that back down. He's gone, and with him the impossible audacity of what just came out of his mouth. You stare at the door that he just disappeared through, lips parting around a reply you'll never get to deliver, then let out a sharp, disbelieving scoff. The gall.
And yet, despite yourself, you can't quite smother the giddiness bubbling low in the pit of your stomach. Your fingers curl around the business card in your hand.
Eventually it’s your turn. You almost miss the sound of your own name until a lady in purple scrubs repeats it, sending you shooting to your feet. You follow her as she leads you down a hall and towards an open office just as clean and spartan as the waiting room. All there is in her office is a desk, a bookshelf, and a mobile ultrasound machine. Practically empty for all intents and purposes.
Ok lady, you think, sitting down across from her, what’s it gonna take to put a baby in me?
“Four thousand dollars,” she says matter-of-factly, the earlier part of your conversation long forgotten after hearing the price.
That just about knocks all the wind out of you. “Oh,” you bleat, the prospect of ever getting pregnant suddenly a sad and distant dream.
“Per cycle,” she further clarifies, much to your dismay, sliding a couple pamphlets your way. “We’re always hopeful that it’ll take on the first cycle, but we typically see about three to four cycles of IUI before conception occurs.”
IUI—intrauterine insemination. The sperm they have to shove up inside you to try and knock you up. At four thousand dollars a pop.
“There’s no…first time discount?”
“Excuse me?”
“Like the, um…like the home buyer’s loan.”
She seems vaguely apologetic when she shakes her head at least, though that doesn’t really ease the sting. “No, unfortunately. Most of our customers are first time parents, so—”
It wouldn’t make much business sense. “Yeah, no, I get it.”
You do your best to pay attention to the rest of the conversation and ask the right questions, but the sticker shock makes it hard to focus. At some point, the consultation must end because she sends you off with a folder full of pamphlets and QR codes to scan, and a follow-up appointment booked two weeks out for a blood test and a pelvic ultrasound.
No music on the drive home, just silence to let the events of the day marinate.
You know it’s likely just this clinic. It’s not like there aren’t other, probably cheaper clinics. But it’s the principle of the matter, the one factor that you hadn’t considered in this whole endeavour—you’d assumed, obviously, that raising a child in and of itself wouldn’t be cheap, but you hadn't even contemplated that the run-up to actually getting pregnant might be so cost prohibitive.
If you even get pregnant. You exhale in a rush, the thought hitting you like a sledgehammer. God, you might not even get pregnant. You might go through the whole treatment, waste thousands of dollars, and go half-crazy begging the universe to let you get knocked up, and it might not even take.
Dinner is a glass of white wine and burrito straight from the freezer, in no mood to cook or clean even a single dish. You should be cutting down on your alcohol consumption in anticipation of fertility treatments, but that’ll be a task for a later, less devastated you. You’ll rinse the hot sauce off your plate when you’re done eating and leave it in the sink for tomorrow morning.
It’s not how you wanted the day to end. You were hoping to come home invigorated and inspired, already prepping for the next steps in the process. Instead it feels like you’ve taken a massive step back.
Occasionally you like to look up flights to other countries just to imagine what it might be like to get away from your life for a bit, but the ticket price always brings you back down to reality.
This isn’t like that though; this isn’t some temporary flight of fancy or some pie in the sky that you’ll spend decades chasing down in your dreams, hoping for just a single bite or even just a whiff. This is something you actually, genuinely want. A baby. Something you can take with you into the future, something you can build your life around.
There’s got to be another way.
It’s a physical weight in your front pocket. You can feel it now, burning a hole in your hip. When you pull it out, the name John Price is printed on the card in a crisp, typewriter font, his phone number and occupation printed in the same sized font just beneath it.
You stare at the card long enough for your eyes to go dry. Blink. Breathe out, reluctance giving way to acceptance, as tentative as it might be. It certainly wouldn’t be the strangest thing to ever happen. A fun night with a good-looking man, with the added benefit of getting a baby out of it, no strings attached. Not the most irresponsible decision anyone has ever made. Some people join the army, after all.
A shiver runs up your spine when you remember the way he worded it though. Sweat on your upper lip that you have to lick off, the salt sinking into the ridges of your tongue. You don’t think he meant turkey basters and plastic cups by getting it done ‘the natural way’. You saw the way he looked at you.
You could do it for a baby. Let him—and here, you have to squeeze your eyes shut and cover them with your fists—let him do what he has to do to get you pregnant. Cut out the middle man and just let him fit the heavy weight of his body over yours and pry your legs apart to let him sink between your—
Part Three || Dark!Valarr Targaryen X Blackfyre!Reader | Dark!Baelor Targaryen X Blackfyre!Reader
Summary: Your Good Father finally shows his real intentions
Content Warning: marital rape, sexual assault, rape, coercive sexual relationships, emotional abuse, manipulation, misogyny, threats.
Comments are appreciated❤️
WC: 15K
The sept was empty, as it always was at this hour. Seven walls of cold stone rose around you, each one bearing the image of a god who had never answered a single prayer you'd offered. The Father, stern and judgmental, his stone eyes gazing down with the same disappointment you'd seen in every face since the day you arrived at the Red Keep. The Mother, merciful and kind, who had apparently decided you were unworthy of her mercy. The Warrior, the Smith, the Maid, the Crone. And the Stranger, whose altar stood in shadow, neither male nor female, its face half-hidden beneath a hood of carved stone.
The Stranger was your favorite. You understood the Stranger. The Stranger did not pretend to care.
You knelt before the altar of the Mother, because that was what you were supposed to do. Your hands were clasped, your head bowed, the pose was perfect. Penitent. Pious. The image of a devoted wife offering thanks for her blessings. Anyone who saw you would think you were praying for a child, for your husband's health, for the peace of the realm.
They would be wrong.
Let him die, you prayed. Let him choke on his wine at supper tonight. Let him fall from his horse in the tiltyard. Let him slip on the stairs and crack his skull on the stone. Let a fever take him. Let an assassin find him. Let anything, anything at all, take him from this world so I never have to feel his hands on me again.
The words poured through your mind like poison, bitter and black and strangely soothing. You had never been religious. In Tyrosh, your mother had kept to the old gods of Valyria, and your father had worshipped nothing but his own ambition. The Seven were foreign to you, their rituals strange, their demands incomprehensible. But the sept was quiet. The sept was cold. And most importantly, the sept was the one place Valarr did not follow you.
Let the Stranger take him, you prayed now, your lips moving in silent, fervent supplication. Let the Stranger take them all. Lady Jeyne, with her cold smiles and her crueler whispers. Ser Alan, who watches me with pity and does nothing. Every guard who looks through me like I'm made of glass. Every servant who lets my fire die. Every lord who sat at that table and decided I was worth more as a broodmare than a corpse.
Let them burn. Let them all burn. Let the dragons come back and burn this wretched castle to ash with everyone inside it. I don't care if I burn with them. I don't care if there's nothing left of me but bones and ash and the memory of what they did. Just let it end. Please. Let it end.
The words were not kind. They were not pious. They were not the prayers of a good woman, a dutiful wife, a grateful survivor of a rebellion that could have seen her executed. But they were honest. They were the only honest thing you had left.
You had tried, once, to pray for better things. For your brothers at the Wall, that they might find some measure of peace in their frozen exile. For your sisters in the Silent Sisters, that their silence might not be too heavy a burden to bear. For your mother in Tyrosh, alone now, all her children scattered to the winds. But those prayers had felt hollow, empty, words spoken to stone ears by a woman who no longer believed in anything but suffering.
So now you prayed for death. It was more satisfying. It gave you something to hold onto in the long, cold hours when you were not required to be anywhere else.
Your knees ached against the stone floor. The chill seeped through the thin silk of your gown, raising gooseflesh on your thighs. You had not bothered with a heavy cloak. The walk from Valarr's chambers to the sept was short, and the cold was a familiar companion now. You had grown almost fond of it. The cold was clean. The cold did not touch you with hands you could not refuse.
The silence of the sept wrapped around you like a shroud. The candles flickered in their iron sconces, their flames reflected in the polished stone of the altars. The air smelled of incense and old wax and the faint, dusty scent of disuse. The royal sept was seldom used by anyone but you. The King preferred the Great Sept of Baelor for public worship, and the rest of the court followed his example. The castle's sept was too small, too humble, too easily forgotten.
Which made it perfect.
You heard the footsteps behind you and felt your heart seize in your chest.
No. Not here. Not in the one place that was yours. Your eyes remained closed, your hands clasped, your face a perfect mask of devotional calm. But inside, your thoughts had turned from murderous prayer to desperate, animal fear. If it was Valarr, if he had decided to violate this last sanctuary, you did not know what you would do. Scream, perhaps. Weep. Strike him. Something terrible and irreversible that would shatter the fragile pretense of your existence.
The footsteps drew closer. Measured. Confident. Not the quick, nervous steps of a servant. Not the heavy tread of a guard in armor. This was someone who walked as if they had every right to be here, someone who did not fear interruption or discovery.
You opened your eyes. He stood a few paces away, his head tilted slightly as he regarded you. Baelor Targaryen. The Prince of Dragonstone. The heir to the Iron Throne. Your husband's father.
Your good father. You had spoken to him perhaps a dozen times since your wedding. He had been present at the ceremony, of course, standing beside the King with his hands clasped behind his back and his expression unreadable. He had offered you the traditional words of welcome, stiff and formal, the same words he might have offered a visiting dignitary from a foreign land. He had not sought you out since then, and you had not sought him. You had assumed, insofar as you thought of him at all, that he shared his son's assessment of you: a prize to be used, a vessel to be filled, a Blackfyre to be broken.
But the way he looked at you now was not the way Valarr looked at you. There was something in his gaze that you could not quite name. You rose from your knees. The motion was graceful, practiced, the product of years of training in the courts of Tyrosh. You smoothed your skirts and inclined your head with the precise degree of deference owed to a Prince of the realm.
"My prince. Forgive me, I did not hear you enter."
His mouth curved into a small smile. It was a controlled expression, the smile of a man who had learned long ago to reveal nothing he did not wish to reveal. "There is nothing to forgive. I should be the one asking pardon. I did not mean to interrupt your prayers."
"You did not interrupt. I was finished." The lie came easily. You had become skilled at lies over the past moon. Lies of omission, lies of politeness, lies of the body that pretended pleasure while the mind screamed in protest. One more lie, offered to a man you barely knew, was hardly worth noticing.
Baelor nodded, but his eyes lingered on your face. They were too perceptive, those eyes. Too knowing. You had the uncomfortable sensation that he could see through your carefully constructed mask, that he knew exactly what kind of prayers you had been offering to the Mother's stone ears.
"You come here often, I think," he said. It was not quite a question.
"When my duties permit." Another lie. Your duties consisted of being available for Valarr's pleasure and looking beautiful at meals. You had nothing but time, and everyone knew it. "The sept is peaceful. I find it… calming."
"Yes. I have always thought so myself." He moved past you, his footsteps echoing softly in the silence, and stopped before the altar of the Stranger. His back was to you now, and you watched him study the hooded figure with an expression you could not see. "When I was a boy, I used to hide here. From my tutors, from my father, from the endless demands of being the heir. No one ever thought to look for me in the sept. It was the one place I could be alone."
You said nothing. You did not know what to say. This was not the conversation you had expected, the stiff, formal exchange of pleasantries that usually passed between you and the members of the royal family. He turned back to you, and his smile had shifted into something gentler. Almost apologetic.
"But I have not come here to burden you with my childhood memories. I came to see how you were faring." He paused, and his mismatched eyes searched your face with that unsettling perceptiveness. "You have been married for over three moons now. I know that such transitions can be… difficult."
Difficult. The word was so inadequate it was almost laughable. You had been stripped of your name, your family, your freedom, your dignity. You had been turned into a vessel for your husband's pleasure and his heirs. You had been fucked on the council table like a common whore while the lords of the realm had decided your fate on that very spot. And this man, this polite, unassuming man, asked if the transition had been difficult.
But you did not laugh. You did not scream. You simply inclined your head and offered him the same empty words you offered everyone. "You are kind to ask, my prince. I am well. His Grace is a most considerate husband."
Something flickered in Baelor's eyes. Something that might have been amusement. "I am glad to hear it." His voice was dry, carefully neutral. "Valarr has always been… devoted to the things he values."
Devoted. Another inadequate word. Valarr was devoted to you the way a dragon was devoted to its hoard. He would guard you, cherish you, and devour anyone who tried to take you from him. But he would never see you as anything more than a possession. A beautiful, coveted possession that proved his worth as a Targaryen.
You realized, with a start, that Baelor was still watching you. Waiting for a response. "His devotion is an honor," you said. "One I do not take for granted."
"No," Baelor agreed. "I do not imagine you do."
The silence stretched between you, heavy with unspoken things and then, quite suddenly, his expression shifted. The intensity faded, replaced by something milder, more casual. The change was so seamless that you almost doubted you had seen anything else.
"You and Valarr should join us tonight," he said. "For supper. In my chambers. A small gathering, just family. My wife Jena and myself." He paused, and that small, controlled smile returned. "He used to dine with us often, before the wedding. Now he barely even joins us for meals. You have thoroughly bewitched him, it seems."
The words were pleasant. Complimentary, even. But there was something beneath them, something that made your stomach tighten with unease. You could not tell if he was mocking you, or testing you, or simply making conversation. His face revealed nothing but polite, paternal interest.
"I would be honored to attend," you said carefully. "If it pleases His Grace."
Baelor's smile widened, just slightly. "It will be good to have you at our table. Truly. You are part of this family now, whatever… circumstances brought you here. It is time we treated you as such."
The words were kind. They were the kindest words anyone in the Red Keep had spoken to you since your wedding. And yet, as you met Baelor's mismatched eyes, so like his son's and yet so different, you could not shake the feeling that you were being offered something that would come with a price.
"Thank you, my prince," you said.
He inclined his head, a small, graceful acknowledgment. Then he turned and walked toward the door, his footsteps echoing in the silence of the sept. At the threshold, he paused.
"I hope you find what you're praying for," he said, without turning around.
—
The night had settled over the Red Keep like a shroud, heavy and dark and suffocating. Outside the windows of the Prince's chambers, the moon hung low over Blackwater Bay, its silver light painting a shimmering path across the black water. The fire had burned down to embers, casting long shadows that danced across the walls like specters at a feast.
Valarr had taken you from behind. It was the first thing you had noticed when he pulled you into the bed, the first sign that something was different tonight. He usually preferred to see your face. He was obsessed with it, with watching your eyes as he moved inside you, cataloguing every flutter of your lashes, every parting of your lips, every flicker of pleasure you could not suppress. He needed to see you. He needed to know that you felt him, that you responded to him, that your body belonged to him even when your mind resisted.
But tonight, he had turned you onto your stomach without a word. His hands had gripped your hips with a roughness that bordered on punishing, his fingers digging into the soft flesh hard enough to leave bruises. He had entered you without the usual reverent preparation, without the slow, teasing foreplay he normally employed to make your body ready for him. He had simply taken what he wanted, his thrusts deep and hard and almost angry, his breath harsh against the back of your neck.
You had known, then, that something was wrong. Valarr was many things but he was not cruel in his bed. Not truly. The control he exerted over you was always tempered by that devastating gentleness, those whispered endearments, that desperate need to see your pleasure even as he claimed it for himself. Tonight, the gentleness was absent. Tonight, he fucked you like a man trying to exorcise a demon, or perhaps to summon one.
You had lain there, your face pressed into the silk pillows, your fingers gripping the furs, and you had let him take what he needed. Because that was what you did now. That was what you were for. And when he finally spent himself inside you with a low, almost wounded groan, when he collapsed against your back with his heart hammering against your spine, you had waited in silence for the storm to pass.
It did not pass. He withdrew from you and rolled onto his back, one arm flung over his eyes, his chest still heaving. The silence stretched between you like a chasm, filled only by the crackle of the dying fire and the distant crash of waves against the cliffs below the castle. You turned onto your side, pulling the furs up over your body, and watched him in the dim light.
His jaw was tight. His free hand was clenched into a fist on the mattress, the knuckles white. Even in the darkness, you could see the tension radiating from him, the rigid set of his shoulders, the way his eyes stared up at the canopy with a fury he was clearly struggling to contain.
Something had happened. Something at court, perhaps. Something that had wounded him in a way he did not want to show you.
You should have let it lie. You should have closed your eyes and pretended to sleep and let him stew in whatever dark mood had taken hold of him. His troubles were not your troubles. His pain was not your pain. You owed him nothing, not comfort, not concern, not even the pretense of wifely devotion.
But the silence was unbearable. And some part of you, some weak, traitorous part that you despised, wanted to know what had put that look on his face. Wanted to understand him, even now. Even after everything.
"The council meeting did not go well."
It was not a question. You had learned to read him well enough to know the signs. The roughness in bed. The silence afterward. The tension in his jaw that looked like it might crack his teeth. Something had happened in the Tower of the Hand, something that had left him feeling powerless, and he had come to you to reclaim his sense of control.
He let out a sharp breath that was almost a laugh. Almost. "No," he said, his voice flat and bitter. "It did not."
He did not elaborate. You had not expected him to. Valarr rarely shared the details of his political struggles with you. You were his wife, his possession, you were not his confidante. And yet, tonight, something was different. Tonight, the silence felt less like a wall and more like a wound.
You shifted closer to him beneath the furs. The movement was small, almost involuntary, but his arm moved in response, lifting from his eyes so he could look at you. His mismatched gaze was tired, the blue eye shadowed, the brown one dark with frustration. His dark hair was disheveled, clinging to his forehead with sweat.
"What happened?" you asked softly. He stared at you for a long moment, as if trying to decide whether you were genuinely asking or simply performing the role of concerned wife. You were not entirely sure yourself.
"I presented a proposal," he said finally. "Weeks of work. I consulted with the Master of Ships. I reviewed every harbor tariff from the past decade. I drafted a plan that would increase Crown revenues by fifteen percent without raising taxes on the smallfolk." His voice grew sharper with each word, the bitterness bleeding through. "It was thorough. It was sound. It was better than anything those greybeards could have cobbled together in a hundred years of warming their arses on those council chairs."
He turned his gaze back to the canopy, his jaw tightening again. "They listened politely. Lord Butterwell nodded along like a fucking toy soldier. The Grand Maester made notes he'll never read. And then my father said—" He pitched his voice lower, a mocking approximation of Baelor's measured tone. "'A thoughtful proposal, Valarr. We will certainly give it the consideration it deserves.' And then he moved on to the next item. As if I had said nothing at all. As if I were still a boy playing at governance with wooden soldiers."
You watched him in the darkness. His profile was sharp against the pillows, his features carved from shadow and firelight. He looked, in that moment, less like the man who had methodically stripped away every piece of your independence and more like a son who had tried his best and been told it was not good enough by the one man whose approval he craved.
"The proposal sounds like it had merit," you said carefully.
"It did." His voice was bitter. "But merit does not matter. Experience matters. Age matters. Being a man of one and twenty in a room full of men twice my age matters. They look at me and they see my father's son and nothing else. Nothing I have earned. Nothing I have built. Just the son, playing at statecraft while the real men make the decisions."
He fell silent, and the words hung in the air between you. The heir's heir. You had never thought of him that way before. To you, he had always seemed so powerful, so in control, the man who held your entire existence in his hands. But in the broader hierarchy of the realm, he was merely the son of the heir. Important, yes. Privileged, certainly. But not yet a man of real power. Not yet someone whose voice carried weight in the council chamber. It made him seem, for the first time, almost human.
Your hand moved before you could stop it. Your fingers found his arm beneath the furs, tracing the line of muscle from his wrist to his elbow. The touch was light, tentative, a gesture of comfort you had never offered him before. "Your father should have listened," you said quietly. "Truly listened. Not just nodded and moved on."
Valarr turned his head on the pillow to look at you. His mismatched eyes were unreadable, but something in them had shifted. The anger was still there, simmering beneath the surface, but it was tempered now by something else. Surprise, perhaps. Or gratitude.
"You think so?" His voice was softer than it had been.
"I am not a member of the council," you said. "I do not know the intricacies of harbor tariffs or Crown revenues. But I know what it is to prepare something carefully, to pour your effort into a task, only to be dismissed by those who should have valued your contribution." You paused, holding his gaze. "It is a particular kind of wound. One that festers if left unacknowledged."
He was silent for a long moment. Then his hand found yours beneath the furs, his fingers interlacing with your own. His palm was warm, his grip firm but not demanding. It was the first time he had held your hand without it feeling like an act of possession.
"Sometimes," he said slowly, "you surprise me."
"Is that a good thing?"
His lips curved into a small, tired smile. "I have not decided yet."
He lifted your joined hands and pressed a kiss to your knuckles. It was a gentle gesture, almost chaste, and it made your chest tighten with something you refused to name. You did not want him to be gentle. You did not want him to be vulnerable. You wanted him to be the monster you could hate cleanly, not this complicated, wounded man who held your hand like you were the only solid thing in a world that had stopped making sense.
"I needed this," he murmured against your skin. "I needed you."
You always need me, you thought. But only when it suits you. Only when I can serve a purpose. Only when your pride has been wounded and you need something beautiful to remind you of your power.
But you did not say that. Instead, you said, "I saw your father today. In the sept."
Valarr's head lifted. His eyes sharpened with something that might have been wariness. "Did you?" His voice was carefully neutral, but his fingers tightened around yours. "My father is not a particularly pious man."
"He came to see how I was faring." You paused, choosing your next words with care. "He was… kind. He asked after you. He said that you used to dine with them often, before the wedding. That they miss your presence at their table."
Valarr was silent for a long moment. When he spoke, his voice was dry, almost amused, but there was an edge beneath it that you could not quite identify, something that felt almost like satisfaction.
"Did he now."
"He asked us to join them for supper. A small gathering. Just family, he said."
Valarr released your hand and rolled onto his back again, staring up at the canopy. But his arm found your waist, pulling you closer against his side, his thumb tracing idle circles on the curve of your hip.
"Funny," he said. "Since my father was the main opposition to our marriage."
The words hung in the air between you, heavy with implication. You felt your stomach tighten, a cold thread of unease winding through your chest.
"He opposed the marriage?"
"He did." Valarr's mismatched eyes were fixed on the canopy above, but his arm tightened around your waist, pulling you closer still. "When the council debated what to do with you, there were many voices. Lord Darklyn wanted you sent to the Silent Sisters. Lord Celtigar suggested a strategic marriage to some minor house that could be trusted to keep you quiet and out of sight. And Lord Bracken—well, Lord Bracken wanted your head on a spike. He lost two sons at the Battle of the Redgrass Field. He was not feeling merciful."
His thumb continued its lazy circles on your hip, a strange counterpoint to the gravity of his words. "And my father," he continued, "argued against the marriage. Not against sparing your life—he is not a cruel man, my father. But against bringing you into the heart of the royal family. He said it was unwise to bind a Blackfyre so close to the throne. He said it would be seen as a sign of weakness, that the realm would think we were rewarding rebellion. He said…" Valarr paused, and something dark flickered in his expression. "He said I was letting my desires cloud my judgment. That I wanted you for the wrong reasons. That I was not thinking clearly."
He was right, you thought. He was right about all of it.
But you did not say that. You could not say that. Instead, you studied Valarr's profile in the dying firelight and asked, "Then how did the marriage happen? If the Prince of Dragonstone opposed it?"
"The King overruled him." Valarr's voice was quiet, but there was a fierce pride in it now. "My grandfather saw the wisdom of binding your bloodline to ours. He understood that marriage was a stronger chain than execution. That you would be more valuable as a Targaryen wife than as a Blackfyre corpse." He turned his head to look at you, and his mismatched eyes gleamed in the darkness. "I won. Despite my father's objections. Despite everyone who thought I was making a mistake. I won."
You did not point out that you were the one who had lost. That your family was dead or exiled or imprisoned. That your body was no longer your own. That you prayed every day in the cold stone sept for death to take everyone who had done this to you. You did not point out any of that, because it would not have mattered. He would not have understood. Instead, you said, "Perhaps your father has come to terms with it, then. Perhaps his invitation is an olive branch. A gesture of reconciliation."
Valarr was quiet for a long moment. His hand had moved from your hip to the small of your back, his fingers tracing the bumps of your spine with idle, proprietary tenderness.
"My father is a practical man," he said finally. "He knows when a battle is lost. He accepted his own limitations. He has accepted every disappointment the gods have seen fit to hand him with that same dignity." There was something in his voice now, not quite admiration, not quite resentment, but a complicated mixture of both. "Perhaps he has decided to accept you as well."
"Or perhaps he wants something." The words left your mouth before you could stop them. You remembered Baelor's mismatched eyes watching you in the sept, his patient, assessing gaze, the way he had said I hope you find what you're praying for as if he knew exactly what darkness lived in your heart. "Your father seems like a man who always wants something."
Valarr turned his head to look at you, and his smile was thin and knowing. "Now you are learning," he said. "My father always wants something. The trick is determining what it is before he takes it."
The words lingered in the darkness, heavy with unspoken warning. You thought of Baelor's calm, measured voice in the sept. His careful questions about your wellbeing. His invitation to supper, delivered with the casual ease of a man who was accustomed to getting what he wanted.
"Will we go?" you asked. "To the supper?"
Valarr shifted onto his side, facing you. His hand slid from your back to your waist, pulling you against the warmth of his body. His face was close to yours now, close enough that you could count the flecks of amber in his brown eye, the flecks of storm grey in his blue one. His father's eyes. His father's coloring. The Dornish look that marked him as more Martell than Targaryen, despite the single streak of silver gold that ran through his dark hair like a brand.
"Of course," he murmured. His lips brushed your forehead, then the bridge of your nose, then the corner of your mouth. "We would not want to disappoint my dear father. And besides…" His voice dropped, low and dark and almost hungry. "Let him see what he tried to prevent. Let him see you on my arm, in my colors, wearing my name. Let him sit across the table from the most beautiful woman in the Seven Kingdoms and know that I claimed you despite his objections."
His mouth found yours then, soft and searching, and you kissed him back because it was easier than resisting. Because his body was warm against yours, and his hands were gentle now, and some traitorous part of you was grateful that the anger had drained from him. Grateful that the man who held you now was not the same man who had taken you from behind with punishing, wordless fury.
When he pulled back, his mismatched eyes were dark with something that looked almost like tenderness. "Sleep," he murmured. "Tomorrow, we will dine with my father. And you will see what it means to sit at a table where every word is a move in a game you did not agree to play."
—
The next evening, your ladies in waiting descended upon you like vultures to a carcass.
They had been unusually eager when you informed them of the supper with Baelor and Jena. Usually, they performed their duties with the bare minimum of effort, a few quick tugs of your laces, cold water in the basin and colder stares in the mirror. They did their work and left as quickly as propriety allowed, retreating to their own chambers where they could whisper about you without the inconvenience of your presence.
But tonight was different. Tonight, there was an event. A royal supper. A chance to dress you up like a doll and send you out into the world with their fingerprints all over your appearance. A chance to claim credit if you looked beautiful and to whisper about your inadequacies if you did not.
Lady Jeyne was the worst of them. "Hold still, my lady," she said now, her fingers working the laces of your bodice with unnecessary force. "We cannot have you looking disheveled for the Prince of Dragonstone. First impressions are so important—though I suppose it is rather late for that, isn't it?"
You said nothing. You had learned that lesson within your first week in the Red Keep. Silence was safer than words. Words could be twisted, weaponized, turned back upon you with those sweet, poisonous smiles. Silence, at least, was your own.
Lady Alia giggled from her perch on the window seat. She was the youngest of your attendants, and the cruelest in her own careless way. She did not hate you the way Jeyne did, she simply found you amusing, a plaything, a source of entertainment in a court that could be dreadfully dull.
"I hear the Prince could barely keep his hands off you in the gardens last week," Alia said, her voice light and musical. "One of the guards told my maid, who told me—apparently His Grace is quite… enthusiastic in his affections."
Your jaw tightened. The memory of that afternoon in the gardens, the cherry blossoms, the stone bench, the rough press of Valarr's body against yours while the guards pretended not to hear, flashed through your mind like a brand.
"It must be so flattering," Lady Mariene added from her position by the wardrobe, where she was selecting your jewelry with the air of someone choosing funeral ornaments. She was the quietest of your three ladies, but her silences were somehow worse than the others' words. She watched. She remembered. She reported everything to someone, though you had never been able to determine who. "To be so desired. Most wives can barely get their husbands to look at them after the first month, and here you are—the Prince cannot seem to let you out of his sight."
"I heard he took her against the wall in the east corridor," Jeyne said, her voice dropping to a conspiratorial murmur that was perfectly pitched to carry through the entire chamber. She tugged viciously at your laces, and you felt your breath constrict. "One of the servants saw them. Said Her Grace was making the most indecent sounds. Like a common camp follower."
The mirror showed you your own face, you watched yourself the way you might watch a stranger, noting the almost imperceptible tightening of your jaw. You would not give them the satisfaction of a reaction. You would not.
"Perhaps the Prince will bend her over the dining table tonight," Alia said, clapping her hands together with mock delight. "Right there in front of the Prince and Lady Jena. A bit of entertainment between the fish course and the roast. I'm sure the musicians could provide appropriate accompaniment."
The three of them laughed. The sound was bright and tinkling and utterly venomous, like bells dipped in poison.
"The Blackfyre whore becomes the Targaryen spectacle," Jeyne said, meeting your eyes in the mirror with that cold, triumphant smile. "Your mother must be so proud."
Something hot and sharp rose in your chest rage, pure and undiluted, the same rage that fueled your prayers in the sept. You wanted to turn around and slap the smile from Jeyne's face. You wanted to grab Alia by her perfect honey colored hair and drag her across the floor. You wanted to scream at them until your voice gave out, to tell them that you had not chosen this, that you had not wanted any of this, that you were a prisoner in all but name and they were the jailers' mocking chorus.
But you could not. Speaking back meant punishment. Not directly, Valarr would never raise a hand against you, would never lock you in a dungeon or have you beaten. But Lady Jeyne's cousin was a captain in the City Watch. Lady Alia's father sat on the King's council. Lady Mariene's uncle was the Lord Commander of the Kingsguard. Their families were powerful, respected, loyal. Your family was dead or exiled or imprisoned. You had no allies. You had no power. You had only the thin protection of Valarr's obsession, and even that was a fickle thing, a fire that could warm you or consume you depending on his mood.
So you said nothing. You sat perfectly still as Jeyne finished lacing your bodice with punishing tightness, as Mariene draped a necklace of rubies around your throat, as Alia powdered your cheeks and painted your lips with rose scented salve. You let them transform you into the image of a perfect Targaryen wife, beautiful and silent and utterly hollow.
"There," Jeyne said, stepping back to admire her work with the critical eye of a sculptor examining a statue. "You look almost presentable. Perhaps the Prince will not regret inviting you to his table after all."
"Though I'm sure His Grace Valarr will find some way to muss her before the evening is through," Alia added with a wink. "He does so hate to see her looking tidy."
More laughter. More poison. You rose from the dressing table without a word and walked to the door. Your heart was pounding in your chest, your hands trembling slightly at your sides. But your face remained calm. Your posture remained perfect. You had learned to walk as if you were made of glass and steel, fragile enough to be beautiful, strong enough to survive.
Ser Alan was waiting for you in the corridor, his white armor gleaming in the torchlight, his weathered face as unreadable as ever. He did not comment on your appearance. He did not ask if you were well. He simply fell into step behind you as you walked toward the Prince of Dragonstone's chambers, where your husband was waiting to escort you to supper.
Let them choke on their own venom, you prayed silently. Let the Stranger take them all—Jeyne and Alia and Mariene and every poison tongued snake in this wretched castle.
—
The supper was, against all expectations, perfectly pleasant. You had braced yourself for disaster. For veiled insults wrapped in courtesies. For Jena's cold stares and Baelor's measured silences. For Valarr's possessiveness manifesting in some humiliating display of ownership across the table. You had prepared yourself for every possible horror, every conceivable cruelty, every way the evening might become another weapon in the slow, grinding war of attrition that was your life in the Red Keep.
None of it happened. The private dining chamber was smaller than you had expected, intimate rather than imposing, with tapestries depicting Dornish landscapes on the walls and a fire that crackled warmly in the hearth. The table was set for four, simple but elegant, with silver candlesticks and fresh flowers arranged in a crystal vase. It felt less like a royal audience and more like a family gathering. A real one. The kind you had not experienced since before the war.
Jena Dondarrion rose to greet you with a genuine smile. She was handsome rather than beautiful, her face lined with age and laughter, her hair a deep auburn threaded with grey. Her eyes were kind and she took your hands in hers and squeezed them gently.
"At last," she said. "I have been asking my son to bring you to us for weeks. But he keeps you all to himself, the selfish boy."
Valarr made a sound of protest, but there was no real irritation in it. He kissed his mother's cheek with an ease that surprised you, you had never seen him so relaxed, so unguarded. Here, in his parents' chambers, he seemed almost like a different man.
"He is rather possessive," you said, before you could stop yourself.
Jena laughed, a warm, rolling sound that filled the chamber. "He gets that from his father. Baelor was insufferable when we first married. I could not sneeze without him appearing at my elbow with a handkerchief and a look of grave concern."
"Lies," Baelor said from his seat at the head of the table, but his eyes were warm with amusement. "I was the very model of restraint."
"You were a menace," Jena said fondly. "But a charming one. I suppose that is why I forgave you."
The supper proceeded in much the same manner. Easy. Utterly ordinary. The food was excellent roasted duck with orange glaze, buttered parsnips, fresh bread still steaming from the ovens but the conversation was better. Baelor asked you about Tyrosh, about the architecture and the sea and the dye markets that had made your mother's family wealthy. He listened to your answers with genuine interest, asking follow up questions that proved he was paying attention rather than simply performing politeness.
Jena asked about your childhood, your tutors, the books you had read. When you mentioned a fondness for history her eyes lit up.
"You must speak with Baelor about that," she said, gesturing toward her husband with her wine glass. "He is a dreadful bore when it comes to history. He will talk your ear off about King Jaehearys if given half a chance."
"I prefer Aegon the conqueror," Baelor said, his eyes meeting yours across the table. "But my wife is right. I am a bore on the subject. You must forgive me if I become tedious."
"You could never be tedious, my prince," you said, because it was the polite thing to say.
Valarr's hand found your knee beneath the table. His thumb traced small circles on the silk of your gown, a proprietary touch that was becoming as familiar as your own heartbeat. But it was gentler than usual, less demanding. He was relaxed, you realized. Happy, even.
"You mentioned that your younger son is fostering in the Stormlands," you said to Jena, partly to fill the silence and partly out of genuine curiosity.
Something flickered across Jena's face, pride mixed with the particular melancholy of a mother missing her child.
"Matarys," she said, and her voice softened around the name like velvet wrapping a blade. "He is squiring with my brother, Lord Dondarrion. The boy has always been wild—too much Stormlands blood in him, my husband says. We thought some time in the marches might temper him." She smiled, but there was a wistfulness to it. "I miss him terribly. But he writes often. He has his father's gift for words, if not his father's restraint."
"He has his mother's recklessness," Baelor said dryly. "Which is why he needs the discipline of a proper knight. My good brother will make a warrior of him, or die trying."
"Matarys is a good lad," Valarr said. He had leaned back in his chair, his posture easy, his wine glass dangling from his fingers. "A bit too fond of brawling and drinking and chasing servant girls, but his heart is in the right place. Usually."
"When he can find it," Baelor added, and the table shared a quiet laugh.
You listened to them talk about Matarys and felt something strange settle in your chest. It took you a moment to recognize it. Longing.
This was a family. A real family, with inside jokes and shared memories and the easy affection of people who had known each other for decades and loved each other anyway. They teased and laughed and argued about trivial things and through it all, there was no cruelty and then you remembered: you were not a Targaryen. You were a Blackfyre. This family had destroyed yours. This warmth was not for you. This belonging was an illusion, a pretty lie told over roast duck and Dornish wine.
But it was such a pretty lie. And for one evening, you let yourself believe it.
When the supper ended, Valarr escorted you back to his chambers with his hand resting lightly on the small of your back. He was in good spirits, humming a tune you did not recognize, his earlier frustration with the council seemingly forgotten.
"That was not terrible," he said as he closed the door behind you. "My mother likes you. I can always tell."
"How?"
"She asked about your reading habits. My mother only asks about books when she approves of someone. If she disliked you, she would have spent the entire evening discussing embroidery."
You thought of Jena's warm hands, her genuine smile, the way she had squeezed your fingers and said at last. It had felt real. It had felt like acceptance. And you did not know what to do with that.
"Your parents are… not what I expected," you said carefully.
Valarr turned to look at you, his mismatched eyes glinting in the firelight. "What did you expect?"
Coldness. Cruelty. The same poison that drips from every other soul in this wretched castle. But you could not say that. Not to him. Not when he was looking at you with that soft, almost tender expression.
"I do not know," you said instead. "Something different."
He crossed the room and took your face in his hands, his thumbs brushing your cheekbones with that reverent tenderness that always made your heart ache with confusion. His touch was gentle. It was always gentle, even when it was demanding.
"My father may have opposed the marriage," he said quietly, "but he is not a fool. He can see your worth. Everyone can see your worth." He pressed a kiss to your forehead. "You are beautiful and clever and full of grace. How could they not love you?"
They do not love me, you thought. They tolerated me at a supper. That is not the same thing.
But you said nothing. You simply closed your eyes and let him hold you, and tried not to think about how much you had wanted that supper to be real.
—
It started three days later. You were in the gardens, enduring another afternoon of Lady Jeyne's poison-sweet company. The cherry blossoms had long since fallen, replaced by the first blooms of summer, roses in shades of crimson and gold, lavender that scented the air with its clean, sharp perfume. It should have been pleasant. It was not.
"I noticed His Grace was rather… attentive during supper last night night," Jeyne was saying, her voice pitched to carry to the guards who flanked the garden path. "One could hardly blame him, of course. You were practically spilling out of that bodice."
"You have such a keen eye for fashion," Alia added with a tinkling laugh. "Perhaps Her Grace can offer you some advice. Tyroshi styles are so… revealing, are they not? One can only imagine what the ladies of the Free Cities consider appropriate dinner attire."
You kept your eyes fixed on the roses. Your hands were clasped in front of you, your posture perfect, your face as blank as polished marble. You had learned to retreat into yourself during these moments, to find a small, quiet place deep inside where their words could not reach you. It was not always effective. But it was better than the alternative.
"You are too kind," you said, your voice flat and distant. "I am certain the ladies of Tyrosh would find Westerosi fashions equally fascinating."
Jeyne opened her mouth to deliver what was surely another perfectly aimed barb, but the words died on her lips. Her eyes fixed on something over your shoulder, and her expression shifted, surprise, then wariness, then the careful, calculated deference of a courtier who had spotted someone more powerful than herself.
"Prince Baelor," she said, dipping into a curtsy.
You turned. He was walking toward you along the garden path, his hands clasped behind his back, his stride unhurried and easy. He looked harmless. That was the first thought that crossed your mind. He looked like a man who had come to the gardens for a quiet stroll and happened upon you by accident.
"Lady Jeyne," he said, inclining his head. "Lady Alia. I trust you are enjoying the gardens?"
"Very much, my prince," Jeyne said. Her voice had lost all its venom, replaced by cloying deference. "Her Grace was just admiring the roses."
"Was she?" Baelor's gaze shifted to you, and his smile was warm and conspiratorial. "Then I must apologize for the interruption. But I find myself in need of Her Grace's company. A matter of some urgency, I am afraid."
Jeyne's eyes flickered between you and the Prince. You could see her mind working, trying to determine whether this was a genuine summons or something else. But Baelor's face revealed nothing but pleasant expectation.
"A matter of urgency?" Alia asked, her curiosity getting the better of her.
"Books," Baelor said gravely. "I have recently acquired a new history of the Rhoynish migration, and I am told Her Grace has an interest in such things. I was hoping she might offer her opinion on the author's treatment of Nymeria's conquest."
The silence that followed was almost comical. Jeyne and Alia stared at Baelor with the blank incomprehension of women who had never read a book that was not forced upon them by their septas. Mariene, hovering in the background as always, looked equally perplexed.
"I would be honored, my prince," you said, before your ladies could recover their wits. "Please, lead the way."
Baelor offered you his arm with the easy gallantry of a man who had been doing such things for decades. You took it, feeling the solid warmth of him through the fabric of his doublet, and let him guide you away from your ladies and their poison tongues.
"I hope you will forgive the deception," he said quietly, once you were out of earshot. "There is no new history of the Rhoynish migration. I simply observed that you seemed in need of rescue."
"I am certain I do not know what you mean, my prince."
"Of course you do not." His mismatched eyes sparkled with something that might have been amusement. "You were the picture of serene contentment. The roses could learn a thing or two from your composure."
You did not know how to respond to that. You settled for a small, noncommittal sound. Baelor led you along the garden path, past the rose bushes and the lavender beds, past a fountain that burbled cheerfully in the afternoon sun. The guards had fallen back to a respectful distance, and for the first time in what felt like weeks, you were not being watched by hostile eyes. You were not being prodded and pinched and picked apart. You were simply walking, the sun warm on your face, the air fragrant with the scent of flowers.
"I meant what I said about the book," Baelor said after a moment. "Not the Rhoynish history—I am afraid that was purely fictional. But I do have a rather extensive library, and I recall you mentioned an interest in reading during our supper. If you would like, I could lend you some volumes."
You hesitated. The library had been denied to you since your arrival. You had asked, once, if you might be permitted to borrow some books. The request had been passed to Valarr, who had said something. You could not remember the exact words. Only that the answer had been no.
"I would not wish to impose," you said carefully.
"It is no imposition. I have more books than I could possibly read in a lifetime. They sit on their shelves gathering dust, waiting for someone to appreciate them." He paused, and his voice softened. "And I think, perhaps, you might appreciate them."
There was something in his tone that made your throat tighten. It was not the possessive hunger you heard in Valarr's voice when he spoke to you. It was not the cold contempt of your ladies. It was something gentler. Something that felt almost like kindness.
"Thank you," you said. "I would like that."
Baelor smiled. It was a quiet smile, controlled and careful, but there was a warmth in it that seemed genuine. "Excellent. I will have some volumes sent to your chambers. Or…" He paused, as if considering something. "Perhaps you would prefer to select them yourself? The library can be overwhelming if you do not know where to look. I would be happy to guide you."
"Valarr said the library was not—" You stopped yourself. You had not meant to say that. The words had slipped out before you could catch them.
Baelor's expression did not change, but something flickered in his eyes. Something patient. Something knowing.
"My son can be protective," he said. "It is one of his less endearing qualities. But I am the Prince of Dragonstone, and the library is my domain. If I invite you to borrow some books, there is no one in this castle who would dare object." His arm tightened slightly under your hand. "Not even Valarr."
After that, Baelor Targaryen seemed to be everywhere. He would find you in the gardens when your ladies were being particularly cruel, and offer you his arm and a stroll among the flowers. He would appear in the corridor outside the sept when your prayers were finished, as if he had business nearby and had merely happened to cross your path. He would send a servant with a book and a note in his precise, elegant hand: I thought this might interest you. This chapter is particularly illuminating.
The books were always exactly what you wanted to read. Histories of Old Valyria. Chronicles of the conquest. They were the books you would have chosen for yourself, if you had been permitted to choose. It was as if he had reached into your mind and plucked out your interests one by one.
When Valarr was busy—which was often, now that the council had taken an interest in his harbor tariff proposal after all—Baelor was there. He did not crowd you. He did not demand your attention. He simply… waited. Available. Present. A steady, calming presence in a castle full of enemies.
You began to look forward to his company. It was a small thing at first, a flicker of relief when you saw him walking toward you along a corridor. Then it grew. You found yourself thinking of questions you might ask him, observations you might share, books you might discuss. You found yourself wondering what he would think of this or that, a passage you had read, a thought you had, a story you had heard.
He was so easy to talk to. He listened when you spoke. He remembered things you had told him days or weeks before. He asked after your comfort, your health, your peace of mind. He seemed genuinely interested in your thoughts and opinions. He treated you like a person rather than a possession.
One afternoon, you found yourself in the library with him. It had become a regular occurrence, an hour here, an hour there, whenever Valarr's duties took him away and your ladies could be safely evaded. Baelor had shown you the sections he thought you would enjoy, had pointed out rare volumes and first editions, had even pulled a heavy tome from a locked case and let you hold it in your hands. Septon Bareth's Unnatural History. A book so rare and so controversial that most copies had been burned centuries ago.
You were sitting by the window now, the afternoon light slanting across the pages of a history of the Rhoynish migration. Baelor sat across from you at the reading table, a stack of documents at his elbow that he had been neglecting in favor of a worn volume of Dornish poetry. The silence between you was comfortable, the kind of silence that did not demand to be filled.
"You were right about the chapter on Nymeria's landing," you said, not looking up from your book. "The author is unfairly dismissive of her tactics. He calls them desperate when they were clearly calculated."
"I told you." Baelor's voice was dry with satisfaction. "Mekon has never met a female leader he could not diminish. It is his great failing as a historian. His great failing as a man, perhaps."
"Perhaps I should write a rebuttal. 'A Lady's Defense of the Warrior Queen.' I am certain the Citadel would welcome it with open arms."
"They would burn it in the courtyard."
"Then I shall have to publish anonymously. Some masculine pseudonym. Archmaester… Gwayne."
Baelor chuckled. It was an undignified sound for a Prince of the realm, and it made the corner of your mouth twitch upward despite yourself. "Archmaester Gwayne. A fine choice. Very authoritative. No one would ever suspect a woman."
"Precisely." You turned a page, though you had not finished reading it. "I will dedicate it to my patron, the Prince of Dragonstone, without whom I would never have had access to the texts necessary to prove Mekon wrong."
"Your patron. I like that." He leaned back in his chair, his mismatched eyes gleaming with amusement. "Does that make you my protégée?"
"I believe it does. I hope you take your responsibilities seriously. I am told the education of a Blackfyre is a delicate undertaking."
"Exceedingly delicate. One wrong book and you might develop opinions. We cannot have that."
You laughed. It was a small sound, barely more than a breath, but it was real. You could not remember the last time you had laughed in this castle. The last time you had felt light enough to try. Baelor did not remark on it. He simply smiled and returned his attention to his poetry, giving you space to recover yourself without comment or scrutiny. That was something you had come to appreciate about him, he knew when to push and when to withdraw, when to speak and when to let silence do its work. He did not demand your emotions the way Valarr did, dissecting every reaction, claiming every pleasure. He simply let you be.
"You know," he said after a while, "my son is going to notice that you spend more time in my library than his chambers."
"He is busy with the council. His harbor proposal has been approved for further review. Apparently Lord Celtigar was impressed."
"I heard." Baelor's voice was carefully neutral. "I was the one who suggested Celtigar take a second look. He can be stubborn, but he respects thorough work. Valarr's proposal was thorough."
You looked up from your book. "You did that?"
"I mentioned it in passing. Nothing more." He turned a page of his poetry with studied casualness. "My son and I do not always agree. But I have never doubted his intelligence. It seemed a waste for his work to be dismissed without proper consideration."
"Why?" you asked.
"Because he is my son." Baelor met your eyes, and there was something steady in his gaze. "Because I could not give him the Valyrian coloring he prayed for as a boy, or the place at the council table he wants now. But I could do this. So I did."
"You could tell him. He would want to know."
"No." Baelor shook his head. "He would resent it. He wants to succeed on his own merits, not because his father smoothed the path. And he did succeed on his own merits. The proposal was his. I simply… ensured it was seen by the right eyes." He paused, and his mouth quirked into a wry smile. "Parenting is a thankless occupation. You will understand one day, when you have children of your own."
The mention of children made something twist in your stomach. You thought of Valarr's nightly attentions, his insistence on spilling his seed inside you, his muttered hopes for an heir. You thought of what it would mean to carry his child. To be bound to him not just by marriage vows but by blood.
You pushed the thought aside.
"Same time tomorrow?" he asked.
"You assume I have nothing better to do."
"Do you?"
You thought of your ladies and their poison tongues. Of the cold stares in the corridors. Of the suffocating emptiness of Valarr's chambers when he was not there to fill them with his presence.
"Not particularly," you admitted.
"Then I shall see you tomorrow." He opened the door for you with a small, almost paternal gesture. "Bring your rebuttal to Mekon. I expect at least three pages of scathing critique."
"I shall endeavor not to disappoint my patron."
"I have every confidence in you, Archmaester Gwayne."
You were still smiling when you reached Valarr's chambers. It was only later, lying in bed with his arm wrapped around your waist and his breath warm on your neck, that you realized how easy it had become. How natural. How much you looked forward to those hours in the library, those walks in the gardens, those moments of respite from the grinding weight of your existence.
Baelor Targaryen had become your refuge. And you did not stop to wonder why a man who had opposed your marriage so vehemently was now so eager for your company. You did not stop to wonder at all.
—
The sept was empty, as it always was at this hour. You knelt before the Stranger's altar, your knees aching against the cold stone, your hands clasped in a posture of devotion you no longer felt. The hooded figure gazed down at you with its carved, impassive face, offering neither judgment nor comfort. The Stranger did not pretend to care. That was why you preferred it.
Your prayers had grown less bloody in recent weeks. You still wished death upon Lady Jeyne and her poison tongue, upon the guards who looked through you like glass, upon the servants who let your fire die. But the prayers came less frequently now, and with less heat behind them. You had other things to occupy your mind. Books to read. Conversations to anticipate. A quiet library where the afternoon light fell golden across the pages and no one demanded anything of you.
You did not pray for Baelor's death anymore. You had stopped that weeks ago.
The footsteps behind you were familiar now. You did not flinch at the sound. You did not feel your heart seize with the fear that it might be Valarr, come to violate this last sanctuary. You simply remained where you were, your head bowed, your eyes closed, and waited for him to speak.
"I thought I might find you here."
Baelor's voice was quiet, respectful of the space. You heard him settle onto the kneeling bench beside you, his movements slow and careful. The scent of him reached you, parchment and ink and the faint, clean smell of soap. It was a familiar scent now. A comforting one.
"Your ladies are looking for you," he added. "Lady Jeyne seems particularly determined. I believe she has prepared a new gown for you to try on. Something in Targaryen red."
"She can wait." You opened your eyes but did not rise. "Let her search the entire castle. It will give her something to do besides sharpen her tongue."
"That was uncharitable."
"I am not feeling charitable."
"Good." There was a smile in his voice. "Charity is wasted on women like Jeyne. She would not recognize it if it bit her."
You turned your head to look at him. He was close, closer than he usually sat in the sept, his shoulder nearly brushing yours as he knelt beside you. His mismatched eyes met yours, and something in his expression made your stomach tighten. You could not name it. It was not the patient warmth you had grown accustomed to.
"Have you been praying?" he asked.
"After a fashion."
"To which god?"
"The Stranger." You nodded toward the hooded figure before you. "The only one who does not pretend to answer."
Baelor followed your gaze, studying the altar with an expression you could not read. "Most people find the Stranger unsettling. They prefer the Mother, or the Maiden. Gods who offer comfort rather than silence."
"I have had enough of false comfort."
"Have you?" He turned back to you, and the sharp thing in his expression had softened into something that looked almost like concern. "I had hoped you might say otherwise. I had hoped you were finding some measure of peace here. In the castle. In your marriage."
The mention of your marriage made you look away. You fixed your eyes on the Stranger's hooded face, on the carved shadows that hid its features from view.
"Peace is not the same as survival," you said quietly. "I am surviving. That will have to be enough."
"It should not have to be enough." His voice was low, almost gentle. "You deserve more than survival. You deserve to be seen. To be valued. To be…"
He trailed off. The silence stretched, heavy with something unspoken.
"To be what?" you asked.
When he did not answer, you turned to look at him again. He was closer than before. Much closer. His mismatched eyes were fixed on your face with an intensity that made your breath catch. His hand was on the altar rail, inches from your own.
"To be wanted," he said softly. "By someone who understands what you are. What you could be." And then he leaned in and kissed you.
It was not a gentle kiss. It was not the reverent, worshipful press of lips that Valarr gave you when he was feeling tender. It was firm and deliberate and utterly assured, the kiss of a man who had been waiting a long time and had decided the wait was over. His hand came up to cup your jaw, his fingers warm against your skin, and for one frozen, terrible moment, you could not move.
Then the shock broke, and you wrenched yourself backward. Your spine hit the edge of the kneeling bench behind you. Your hand flew to your mouth, your fingers pressing against your lips as if you could erase the sensation of his touch. Your heart was pounding so hard you could feel it in your throat, in your temples, in the tips of your fingers.
"What—" Your voice came out as a croak. You swallowed and tried again. "What are you doing?"
Baelor had not moved. He remained kneeling before the Stranger's altar, his hand still raised where your face had been, his expression unreadable. But there was something in his eyes now, a flicker of surprise, quickly suppressed. As if he had expected a different reaction. As if he had been certain of it.
"I thought you might like it," he said. His voice was calm. Reasonable. The voice of a man discussing the weather. "I thought you might… want to."
"Want to?" You were on your feet now, backing away from him, your hands shaking at your sides. The cold stone of the sept floor bit into your feet, grounding you, reminding you that this was real. This was happening. "You thought I wanted—why would you think that? Why would you ever think that?"
"You have been spending a great deal of time with me." He rose slowly, his movements unhurried, his hands raised slightly as if to calm a spooked horse. "You sought my company. You confided in me. I thought…"
"You thought what?" Your voice was rising, echoing off the stone walls. The Seven looked down at you with their carved, impassive faces—the Father, the Mother, the Warrior, the Smith, the Maid, the Crone, the Stranger. All of them silent. All of them useless. "You thought that meant I wanted you to—that I would—"
"I thought we understood each other." His eyes narrowed slightly, the calm facade cracking just enough to reveal something harder beneath. "You are not happy in your marriage. Anyone can see that. My son does not see you as a person—he sees you as a prize. A possession. I thought you might welcome an alternative."
"An alternative?" The word tasted like bile in your mouth. "You are his father. You are my good father. There is no alternative. There is nothing—" Your voice broke. "There is nothing I want from you. Nothing like that. I never—I never gave you any indication—"
"Didn't you?"
The two words fell into the silence like stones into still water. Baelor's expression had changed now. The pleasant mask was gone. The patient warmth was gone. What remained was something cold and calculating, the face of a man who had been playing a game and had just realized his opponent had not been playing at all.
"I see," he said quietly. "I misjudged the situation."
"Misjudged—" You could not finish the sentence. Your whole body was trembling. You had trusted him. You had laughed with him. You had let him into the small, fragile space you had carved for yourself in this wretched castle, and he had—
"I will take my leave." Baelor straightened his doublet with a calm, unhurried motion. His composure had returned as quickly as it had slipped, the mask settling back into place. "I apologize for any… misunderstanding. It will not happen again."
He turned toward the door. His footsteps echoed on the stone, measured and unhurried, as if nothing had happened. As if he had not just shattered the only sanctuary you had left.
You opened your mouth to speak—to shout, to curse, to say something, anything—
And then you were being pushed. A hand slammed into your shoulder, spinning you around. You caught a glimpse of Baelor's face—his expression no longer calm or calculating but something else entirely, something raw and furious and utterly without restraint—before your back hit the small prayer table with a crack that drove the air from your lungs.
Pain lanced through your spine. The edge of the table bit into your hips. The candles on the Stranger's altar flickered wildly, casting long, twisting shadows across the stone walls. Baelor's hands were on your shoulders, pinning you against the table, his weight bearing down on you.
"You think you can refuse me?" His voice was a low, dangerous whisper, his face inches from yours, his mismatched eyes blazing with a fury you had never seen before. "You think you can spend weeks accepting my gifts, my company, my protection, and then play the scandalized innocent when I ask for something in return?"
"Get off me." The words came out hoarse and trembling. "Get off me now."
"You are a Blackfyre." His grip tightened on your shoulders, his fingers digging into the fabric of your gown. "You are nothing in this castle without my goodwill. Nothing. My son will tire of you eventually—he tires of everything—and when he does, who do you think will protect you? Who do you think will keep you from the Silent Sisters, or a cell beneath the keep?"
"Let go of me." Your voice was steadier now, but your heart was hammering against your ribs, your blood roaring in your ears. "Let go of me, or I will scream."
"You will not scream." His lips curved into a thin, humorless smile. "If you scream, who will come? The guards? They despise you. Your ladies? They would love to see you humiliated. My son?" He leaned closer, his breath hot against your ear. "My son will believe whatever I tell him. And I will tell him you threw yourself at me. That you begged me to take you from him. That you are exactly what everyone always said you were—a Blackfyre whore, faithless and grasping and always, always reaching for more than you deserve."
Your blood went cold. He was right. He was right, and you both knew it. If you screamed, if you told anyone what had happened, it would be your word against his. The Prince of Dragonstone against the Blackfyre bride. A man renowned for his calm wisdom against a woman everyone already believed was a traitor's daughter and a whore.
No one would believe you. No one had ever believed you.
"There." Baelor's grip loosened slightly. His voice softened, losing its fury and settling back into that calm, reasonable tone you had come to trust. "Now we understand each other."
He looked down at you, his eyes scanning your face with a mixture of hunger and absolute contempt. There was no warmth in his gaze, only the cold calculation of a man who knew exactly how much power he held over you. "You will not scream."
Before you could find your voice, Baelor reached down and grabbed the fabric of your skirts, ripping them upward with a violent jerk. The sound of tearing silk echoed through the silent sanctuary of the Seven. You struggled, your hands pushing against his chest, but he was far stronger, pinning your wrists above your head with a single hand, locking them against the stone.
He didn't bother with foreplay. He didn't care for your pleasure or your consent. With his free hand, he fumbled with his breeches, freeing his thick, rigid cock. It was heavy and pulsing, smelling of musk and aggression. He didn't use any lubrication; he didn't care if it hurt.
Baelor stepped between your thighs, forcing them wide apart. He gripped your hips, his fingers bruising your flesh, and drove himself forward. He slammed into you in one brutal, singular motion, his cock tearing through you and burying itself deep inside your pussy.
You let out a choked gasp, your back arching as the sudden, violent intrusion stretched you to the limit. It wasn't the practiced, rhythmic sex you had with Valarr; this was an invasion. Baelor groaned, a guttural sound of triumph, as he felt the tight heat of your walls clamping around him.
"Look at me," he commanded, his voice harsh.
You tried to turn your head away, but he squeezed your wrists tighter, forcing you to stare into those mismatched eyes so much like his sons. He began to fuck you with a savage intensity, his hips slamming against yours with a rhythmic, wet thud. Each thrust was deep and punishing, driving you further back against the wall, the rough stone scraping against your skin.
He wasn't looking for intimacy; he was marking you. He wanted you to feel every inch of him, to know that while you belonged to his son by law, you belonged to him by force. He grunted with every shove, his breath coming in ragged bursts against your neck.
"My son… is a boy," Baelor growled, his pace increasing, becoming more frantic and violent. "He doesn't know how to break a woman like you. But I do."
You sobbed, the sound muffled against the silence of the sept, your body shaking under the onslaught. You weren't a virgin, but the sheer brutality of his movements made you feel raw and exposed, Valarr never fucked you this way, not even when he was mad. He shifted his grip, hooking one of your legs over his hip to drive even deeper, his cock hitting your cervix with a jarring force that made your vision swim.
The friction grew intense, the heat between your bodies building into a fever pitch. Baelor’s movements became erratic, his thrusts shorter and harder, hammering into you as he neared his peak. He leaned in, his teeth sinking into your flesh as he let out a low, animalistic roar.
With one final, crushing thrust, Baelor stiffened. He buried himself as deep as he could go, his entire body shaking as he erupted inside you. You felt the hot, thick gush of his cum filling your pussy, flooding you with the evidence of his conquest.
He stayed there for a moment, panting, his forehead resting against yours, his mismatched eyes wide and glazed with lust. Then, as quickly as the storm had come, he pulled out. The wet sound of his cock sliding out of you felt like a final insult.
He stepped back, adjusting his clothes with a calm, methodical precision, leaving you slumped against the wall, your legs shaking and your ruined clothes clinging to your damp skin. He looked down at you, broken and leaking his seed, and a thin, cruel smile touched his lips.
"Now," he whispered. “Consider this a lesson in your place within this family.”
—
You did not remember walking back to your chamber. The corridors stretched and blurred around you, torchlight smearing into gold streaks against the stone. Your legs moved without your permission, carrying you past guards who did not look at you, past servants who pressed themselves against the walls to let you pass. You must have looked like a ghost. You felt like one. A ghost drifting through the Red Keep, still wearing the body of a woman who had been destroyed in a sept.
The door to Valarr's chambers was heavy beneath your hands. You pushed it open and stepped inside, and the warmth of the room hit you like a blow. The fire was burning high in the hearth. Someone had been tending it. Someone had been waiting for you.
You did not care."Bath," you said.
The word came out wrong. Hoarse. Brittle. The two servants who had been arranging the bed linens turned to look at you, their faces carefully blank, their eyes flickering over your disheveled appearance. Your hair was tangled. Your gown was wrinkled and torn at the hem.
They saw. They had to have seen. But they said nothing. "My lady?" one of them ventured.
"Hot water. Boiling. Now." Your voice cracked on the last word. You swallowed hard, trying to steady yourself. "Fill the tub. All of it. Hurry."
They moved, but not fast enough. Never fast enough. They shuffled toward the door with the unhurried pace of servants who had long ago learned that rushing only earned them more work, and something inside you snapped.
"FASTER!" The word tore from your throat like a blade. Both servants flinched. The younger one actually stumbled backward into the doorframe.
"I said boiling," you heard yourself say, and your voice was not your own. It was high and sharp and trembling with something that felt like hysteria. "If it is not scalding, I will have you both dismissed. I will have you thrown out of the castle. Do you understand me? Do you understand?"
They fled. The door closed behind them with a soft click, and you were alone.
Your hands were shaking. You looked down at them, at the fingers that had gripped Baelor's shoulders, that had pushed against his chest, that had clawed at the stone wall while he—while he— Your fingers found the laces of your gown. They were still tight from Jeyne's attentions, knotted and stubborn, and your trembling hands could not work them free. A sob rose in your throat. You choked it down. You pulled harder, and the laces snapped, and you tore the gown from your body with a violence that made the stitches groan.
The silk pooled at your feet. Your shift followed. Your smallclothes, torn and stained. You gathered them all in your arms, every scrap of fabric that had touched your skin while he was inside you, and you hurled them into the fire.
The flames leapt and crackled. The silk curled and blackened. The smell of burning fabric filled the chamber, acrid and sharp and strangely cleansing. You stood naked before the hearth, your skin prickling with the heat, and watched your clothes turn to ash.
It was not enough. It would never be enough. You could still feel him. Between your legs. On your skin. Inside you. His seed was drying on your thighs, sticky and warm, and you wanted to claw it out of you. You wanted to reach inside your own body and scrape away every place he had touched, every cell he had violated, every trace of his presence.
The servants returned with buckets of steaming water. They did not look at you. They kept their eyes fixed on the floor as they filled the copper tub, bucket after bucket, until the water rose nearly to the brim. Steam curled from the surface, thick and white, fogging the mirrors and softening the edges of the room.
"Get out," you said.
They left without a word. You climbed into the tub. The water was scalding, hot enough to make you gasp. You did not care. You lowered yourself into it inch by inch, letting the heat swallow you, letting it burn away the cold that had settled into your bones. Your legs. Your hips. Your stomach. Your breasts. Your shoulders. You sank until only your head remained above the surface.
And then you began to shake. It started in your hands, a fine tremor that spread up your arms and into your chest. Your teeth chattered despite the heat. Your breath came in short, ragged gasps. You wrapped your arms around yourself, clutching your shoulders, your nails digging into your own flesh, and you rocked forward and back in the scalding water like a child comforting herself in the dark.
He was kind to me.
The thought rose unbidden, and it broke something inside you.
He was kind to me. He gave me books. He walked with me in the gardens. He rescued me from Jeyne and Alia and their poison tongues. He remembered what I said. He listened when I spoke. He made me laugh. He made me feel safe. He was the only person in this wretched castle who treated me like a person, and I trusted him, I trusted him, I trusted him—
A sob tore from your throat, raw and ugly. You pressed your hand to your mouth, trying to stifle it, but another followed, and another, until you were weeping with your whole body, your shoulders heaving, your chest burning with the force of your grief.
Baelor had been different. Baelor had been kind. Baelor had made you believe that there was one person in this castle who did not want to use you, who did not want to break you, who simply wanted to sit with you in a quiet library and talk about books and history and the absurdities of Archmaester Mekun.
And it had all been a lie.
Every conversation. Every borrowed book. Every stroll through the gardens. Every gentle question and patient smile and carefully timed rescue. It had all been a performance to make you weak and vulnerable and ripe for the taking.
And you had fallen for it. You had fallen for it completely.
"Stupid," you whispered into the steam. Your voice was a wreck, hoarse and broken. "Stupid, stupid, stupid—"
You had thought you were so clever. You had thought you could navigate this court, survive this marriage, endure this life. You had thought you could tell friend from enemy, predator from protector. But you could not. You had let a wolf into your sanctuary dressed in sheep's clothing, and now—now there was nothing left.
Your body was still shaking. The water was growing cooler, the heat leaching away into the evening air. You should get out. You should dress. Valarr would be returning from the council soon, and he would expect to find you composed and waiting. He could not see you like this. He could not know what had happened. If he knew—if anyone knew—
If you scream, who will come? My son will believe whatever I tell him. And I will tell him you threw yourself at me.
Baelor's voice echoed in your mind, calm and reasonable and utterly without mercy. You pressed your hands over your ears, but it did not help. The voice was inside you now. It would always be inside you.
You stayed in the bath until the water went cold and your skin was wrinkled and raw. You stayed until your tears ran dry and your breathing steadied and the shaking subsided into a dull, hollow numbness that felt almost like peace.
And then you rose from the tub, dried yourself with slow, mechanical movements, and began to dress for your husband's return.
Because that was what you did now. That was what you were for.
—
That night, you dined alone.
The servants brought food to the chambers but you could not eat. You moved the food around your plate with your fork, rearranging the slices of meat into patterns that meant nothing, while the candles burned down and the fire crackled in the hearth and the silence pressed in on you from all sides.
Valarr had sent word. A servant had appeared at the door an hour before supper, a nervous boy who had delivered his message in a breathless rush: the council session had run late, there were matters that required his attention, he would not be able to join you for the evening meal. He would return as soon as he was able.
You had nodded and dismissed the boy and said nothing. What was there to say? Your husband was busy. Your husband was important. Your husband had a place at the council table now, thanks to his father's quiet intervention—the same father who had cornered you in the sept and forced himself inside you and threatened to destroy what little remained of your life if you dared to speak of it.
The servants cleared the dishes. The fire was stoked. The candles were replaced. And still Valarr did not come. You changed into your nightgown and you had not looked at yourself in the mirror as you put it on. You did not want to see your own face. You did not want to see the woman who had been so easily deceived.
Then you climbed into the bed and sat against the headboard, your knees drawn up to your chest, and you watched the door.
The hours crept by. The fire burned down to embers. The candles guttered and smoked. Outside the windows, the moon traced its slow path across the sky, and the Blackwater murmured its endless song against the cliffs below, and still you watched the door.
You were afraid. You watched the door and imagined it opening. Imagined him stepping through—not Valarr, but Baelor, with his calm eyes and his quiet smile and his hands that had held you down while he—
You closed your eyes. You opened them again. You kept watching the door.
If he came back, what would you do? Scream? Fight? There was no one to hear you. No one who would believe you. You had learned that lesson in the sept, carved into your body with bruising force. You were a Blackfyre. You were nothing. Your word meant less than the ashes of your burned gown.
So you sat in the darkness and watched the door and waited for something terrible to happen.
When the latch finally clicked, your heart stopped. The door swung open. A figure stepped through, silhouetted against the torchlight from the corridor. Broad shoulders. Dark hair. A familiar outline that made your stomach clench with equal parts relief and dread.
But it was Valarr. Only Valarr.
He closed the door behind him and stood there for a moment, his eyes adjusting to the dim light. He looked tired. His dark hair was disheveled, his doublet unbuttoned at the collar, his shoulders slumped with exhaustion. The council session had clearly been grueling. His mismatched eyes found you sitting upright in the bed, and his brow furrowed with confusion.
"You are still awake." He crossed to the bed, unfastening his doublet as he walked. "It is late. The hour of the wolf has come and gone."
"I know."
He stopped at the edge of the bed, looking down at you with an expression you could not quite read. His gaze flickered over your face, your posture, the way your fingers were gripping your knees. He was perceptive, your husband. More perceptive than you sometimes gave him credit for.
"Why are you still awake?" he asked.
"I was waiting for you."
The words came out before you could stop them. They hung in the air between you, fragile and honest, and you saw something shift in Valarr's expression. Surprise, perhaps. Or something softer.
"Why?" His voice was gentler now. He sat on the edge of the bed and began to pull off his boots. "You did not need to wait. I told you the council would run late."
"I could not sleep."
"You should have sent for a maester," he said. "A sleeping draught, at least."
"I did not want to trouble anyone."
"Trouble them. That is what they are for."
"I had a nightmare," you said. "Earlier. It was… unpleasant. I did not want to go back to sleep."
Valarr set his boots aside and turned to look at you. In the dim light of the dying fire, his mismatched eyes were soft with something that looked almost like concern. He reached out and brushed a strand of silver gold hair from your face, his fingers lingering on your cheek.
"What kind of nightmare?"
"A bad one." Your voice was barely a whisper. "I do not wish to speak of it."
He studied your face for a long moment. His thumb traced the line of your cheekbone, gentle and unhurried, and you leaned into the touch without meaning to. His hand was warm. Solid. Familiar. It was the hand of a man who had hurt you in his own ways, yes, but never like that. Never with the brutality that his father had shown you.
"Lie down," he said. "I will join you in a moment."
He finished undressing with the efficient movements of a man who was too tired to stand on ceremony. His doublet was draped over a chair. His breeches followed. He crossed to the washbasin and splashed water on his face, then dried himself with a cloth before climbing into the bed beside you.
The mattress shifted under his weight. The furs rustled as he settled against the pillows. And then his arm found your waist, pulling you against his side with that familiar, possessive grip that had once made you feel trapped and now—now—made you feel something closer to anchored.
You lay there in the darkness, your head resting on his chest, listening to the steady beat of his heart. He was warm. He was solid. He was here. And Baelor was not.
"Valarr?"
"Mm." His voice was drowsy. He was already half-asleep.
"Can you hold me?"
He went still for a moment. Then his arm tightened around your waist, pulling you closer against his body. His other hand came up to stroke your hair, slow and rhythmic, his fingers carding through the silver-gold strands with a tenderness that made your throat ache.
"Of course," he murmured against your hair. "I will always hold you when you ask."
You closed your eyes. The tears came then, silent and hot, sliding down your cheeks to soak into the fabric of his undershirt. You did not make a sound. You had learned long ago to cry without noise, to swallow your grief and your fear and your rage until they became a hard, cold knot in your chest. But you could not stop the tears. They flowed from you like water from a broken dam, and Valarr held you through all of it.
He did not ask why you were crying. He did not demand explanations or details. He simply held you, his arms wrapped around you like iron bands, his lips pressing occasional kisses to the crown of your head.
"Whatever it was," he said quietly, "it was only a dream. You are safe here. You are with me."
You are safe here.
The words were a lie. You knew they were a lie. You had never been safe in this castle, not from the moment you arrived. And the man who held you now was part of the reason why—his obsession, his possession, his slow, methodical erosion of everything you had been before the war.
But he was not his father. He was not his father, and that mattered more than you had ever imagined it could.
"Thank you," you whispered.
He pressed a kiss to your forehead. "Sleep, sweet wife. I will be here when you wake."
You closed your eyes. The tears were still falling, but they were slower now, softer. The knot in your chest was still there, hard and cold and unyielding. But wrapped in Valarr's arms, held against the steady rhythm of his heart, you felt something you had not felt in weeks.
tw: angst, heavy themes of insecurity and anxiety, jealousy… brian calling reader ‘baby’ a lot, brian learning that his actions mean nothing if he won’t back it up with his words.
from the beginning, you were unsure of your place within the toretto family. an okay driver, an even more okay mechanic. jesse was the one to make everyone laugh, and no one could quite resist the twinkle in mia’s eyes whenever she asked for a favor. everyone had their niche— except you. even when you were a kid, it felt like you were just a placeholder in the clique. a back-up of a back-up, someone with no real purpose. you know it isn’t fair to be so critical of yourself, yet you do it anyway. ramble, realize, retreat, repeat.
it worsens once brian comes into town. he’s the kind of handsome that makes old ladies swoon; a teenage girl’s airport crush. what sucks the most? brian is… nice. he helps wash up after family dinner, and has no issue taking any kind of shit from vince or dom. brian blends in perfectly within the group, and you’re jealous.
why? why couldn’t you be like him? leon seems to be your only solace. ‘everyone has their own thing, kid. who else could hold down the fort like you?’ you know that’s supposed to cheer you up, but it doesn’t do the trick. who wants to be known as the bystander anyway? stuck between a rock and a hard place, you don’t know how to move forward, or if you should even move forward at all.
it’s another family dinner. you’re stuck with the dishes, while everyone else settles in the living room for some beat cop movie. you’d gone quiet during mealtime, out of the ordinary for everyone yet no one mentioned it. if they even noticed. lost in a sea of your thoughts, you don’t notice how long you’ve been scrubbing at a dish, or how brian creeps into the kitchen. “damn, i think it’s clean, baby. here, why don’t you wash and i’ll dry, deal?” he laughs, and you can feel your heart stutter. sure, you’re friends with brian, but if you can avoid it, you don’t let yourself be alone with him. it’ll either end with you hopelessly in love, or so envious of his effortless existence that you want to stab someone.
you nod, passing off him the dish and continuing to scour at the dinner plates like they personally offended you. it’s not much, but it’s honest work. brian, who is trained to notice every display of body language, takes note. you always seemed to act like this when he’s around. it’s as if you’re performing for everyone, but especially him. his shoulder nudges at yours, “hey. you okay? you seem… off.”
there’s a brief pause. you didn’t expect anyone to call you out, certainly not brian. your lips turn upward in a slight smile, then you shake your head. “yeah, ‘m fine. just tired.” your voice doesn’t carry how it normally would— the lack of excitement is palpable. brian might not be your best friend, but he does know you. you’re always up to move the conversation forward if no one’s making the effort, and you have this kind of confidence that allows you to keep a joke going for far too long. brian shifted, gently taking the plate away from your wet hands and placing it to the side.
his eyes are magnetic, a feat you can’t ignore or pull yourself apart from. “c’mon, baby. i’m pretty but i’m not dumb. what’s goin’ on?” brian asked. you want to give in; to slump against the sink and let your hidden insecurities overflow into reality. it’s not a bad idea, considering that brian seems genuinely concerned. but, what would that make you? you’re already the kind of person who can’t shut up, so why would you add anxiety and jealousy into an officially fucked-up equation? you smile again, and it looks slightly more authentic this time around. you jab at his chest with your finger, “b, don’t worry about it. i promise that i’m fine.” the pair of you relapse into washing and drying again, conversation falling flat. still, brian doesn’t buy your reassurance, even if he doesn’t say anything else.
from that point forward, brian made it his mission to seek you out any chance he had. whether it was crowding beside you on the already full couch, or keeping by your side whenever the group attended a car show. his hands linger even after he’s moved away from you, and he’s the first one to be on his feet if you break away from the group. ‘i think bri’s got a little crush on you! seriously, he doesn’t take his eyes off of you.’ you want to reprimand mia when she mentions it to you, her voice hushed as brian and dom move around the kitchen. it isn’t true, you know it can’t be.
you can’t exactly shake brian off. and before you know it, you find yourself leaning into it. it’s a bad decision, yet you can’t find anything in you that will help you stop. every car show, you pull up in his car— shuffling out of the passenger seat like you really shouldn’t even be sitting there. brian doesn’t care, because he will round the car and immediately sling an arm around your torso; practically gluing you to his side. more often than not, brian crashes at your place when he’s ’too tired’ to drive back to harry’s shop. he lounges on your bed like he’s meant to be in it, and you stay up even later because you’re too invested in the conversation to stop. ‘alright, i’m goin’ to bed. g’night, baby. come and get me if you can’t sleep.’ brian whispered, pecking your cheek swiftly and exiting before you can even react.
this weird, almost domestic limbo lasts for months. everyone thinks that you’re secretly dating, to which dom will make the comment of how you’re not very good at hiding it. it’s not dating, or really anything, if you’re honest with yourself. brian just… gravitates towards you, for some odd reason. this confounds you, and brian seems like he doesn’t even notice. maybe he just doesn’t care.
you remember when the limbo broke. some house party that one of dom’s high school buddies had— bodies packed in tight like sardines. the loud music overwhelms you, and it’s the same for the ménage of empty solo cups and various little baggies of white residue. when you step out on the back porch for some air, flirty giggles cloud your hearing. “you’re not taken, are you? because everyone thinks you and that friend of yours are, like, a thing.” the voice slurs, obviously feminine and potently drunk. there’s a twinge of empathy for her, you wouldn’t want someone to traipse into a trap of someone who’s taken.
you don’t expect to hear brian’s voice. he stuttered a bit, “can’t a guy be touchy anymore? nah, we’re not together. why? you wanna be like a thing with me?”
stupid. so fuckin’ stupid. you knew it was too good to be real. you let this happen. digging your nails into your palms, you inhale sharply. all that work you’d done with brian over the past few months vanished. every time he saw you, he’d make you repeat affirmations to yourself. ‘i belong here.’ ‘i have friends who love me.’ ‘i am not a burden.’ it was never romantic, you know that now. sure, you thought it wouldn’t happen, but there always was this spark of hope that kept you going. that maybe, maybe it would. you were wrong.
brian can’t remember what happened at the house party. all he knows is that he found someone who looks a lot like you, and then it blurs. but, brian notices the distance you’ve created between the two of you. your apartment is no longer a free invitation, and you shut him down each time he asks to stay the night. instead of piling in next to him on the couch, you sprawl out on the floor next to leon. he’s brushed off whenever he offers to help with the dishes. brian just doesn’t know why.
it was late. brian offered to take you home again, and you relent. you’ll have to erase the tallies on a whiteboard in your kitchen— promptly titled ‘days without giving in.’ so much for that! there just seemed to be a glint of hopelessness in his blue eyes that struck at your heart, like he was one rejection away from giving up entirely. to put it plain, you felt bad.
the car ride was silent, save for the low humming of the engine and the radio playing softly. you don’t expect brian to walk you to your door, yet he does. just as you’re about to unlock the front door, brian latched onto your wrist. you can’t look at him, not now. he’s almost breathless, “baby… what’s goin’ on? you don’t let me sleep over anymore and you barely even talk to me. is your anxiety still bothering you? because we can work on it like we used to.” you keep quiet, working with your non-dominant hand to unlock the door and finally escape him. brian huffed, why weren’t you saying something? saying anything?
after fumbling with your keys, you enter the apartment and brian is quick on your heels to find out what the fuck is going on. “y/n. ‘m serious, baby. what’s goin’ on in that head of yours? something’s killing you and i can fuckin’ see it.” his voice is rougher now, less patient and more determined to figure you out. the thing is? you don’t even really know what’s up with you. were you upset about what he did at the party because you liked him? or was it jealousy that he was able to connect with someone like that and you couldn’t? maybe an uneven mix of both— probably 60/40 instead of 50/50.
it takes a moment or two before you break. shoulders start to tremble, and you can feel your grip on reality slip. “i don’t know, brian. i don’t know! this is just the way i am, okay? ‘m self-conscious and awkward, a-and i can’t keep up with you.” you cry, palming at your eyes as if they weren’t welling with tears. brian immediately pulled you close to his chest, murmuring sweet nothings that you can’t decipher. it’s not like it matters. brian o’conner wouldn’t be yours. that’s what matters most.
once your shoulders aren’t so unsteady and the sobs aren’t so strong, brian pulls back to study you. you have this look in your eyes, like you’re torn between two different places. “baby, you don’t have to keep up with anyone. it doesn’t matter if you don’t know how to act. you’re you, and that’s what i want to see.” there it is. ‘if you don’t know how to act.’ how does he not see it? how can he not understand that you’re not trying to keep up with anyone except for him?
you inch away from him slowly, arms crossed over your chest like a defense mechanism. “being me isn’t enough. clearly not for you. cause you seem to want everyone else. and… i don’t know how to be the one you take home.” your voice carries through the silence of your apartment. it’s deafening. brian freezes.
sure, he did all those things for you because you’re a friend, but… brian didn’t know that it felt different for you. it’s not like he didn’t sometimes picture what a relationship would look like. brian just isn’t cut out for romance, and he thought you weren’t either. when he doesn’t say anything, you scoff. “you know what? go home, brian. this whole thing was stupid and i don’t why i even bothered. just lock the door on your way out.” you snapped at him. brian can’t remember if you’ve done that before. you’ve never done it to him, at least.
watching as brian sulks out of your apartment, you slam the door and throw your head back. why’d you let yourself do this in the first place? his skyline revs, and you can hear it speed away. once brian is for sure gone, you pat into the kitchen and stare at the whiteboard on your fridge. the tallies return it, taunting you for failing. and you? you just wipe it away.
. . • ☆ . ° .• °:. *₊ ° . ☆
ac speaks!
okay so i love f&f so i had to do this🫣 but i love it so let me know what you think!! also thank yall so much for all of the love and support!! it means the absolute world to me🫶🏼
Synopsis: In which the reader is a veterinary surgeon who helps an injured man one night.
Context: Modern!AU
Tags: Modern!AU, veterinarian!Reader, fem!Reader, reference to crime and mafia, description of wounds, patching up injuries, tension, slightly dark!Baelor, slightly dark!Targaryens, medical inaccuracies, age gap
Synopsis: In which the reader is a veterinary surgeon who helps an injured man one night.
Tags: Modern!AU, veterinarian!Reader, fem!Reader, reference to crime and mafia, description of wounds, patching up injuries, tension, slightly dark!Baelor, medical inaccuracies, age gap
Media: Some of the posts discovered by the Vet!Reader during her late night Targaryen stalking in Part II of moon song
Series Masterlist
It started like all deepdives often did, mindlessly clicking through Wikipedia pages and news articles, various accolades and achievements beaming at you from the screen while a video recapping a random dating show you had never watched droned on in the background.
[...]
Fingertips brushing against the fractured surface of your screen protector, you pressed on link after link, until you reached the ugly part of the research. Forums of questionably reliable sources detailing conspiracy from deleted accounts, whispers of rumours and nicknames bestowed upon these individuals like titles, warnings.
when dadkuna gets the call that his son’s suspended for fighting at school
the call hits at 3:17 pm. the school number on the cracked screen of your phone. you swipe to answer before it can ring twice.
“hello?"
“mrs. ryomen? we need either you or your husband to come down to the office. your son was involved in a physical altercation. he’s suspended for three days pending further review. he’s waiting here now.”
you press two fingers to the bridge of your nose, already feeling the headache bloom. “wha—okay. we’ll be there in twenty.”
sukuna’s in the garage, hunched over the old harley he’s been rebuilding for months. black tank clinging to his back from the heat, grease streaked across his forearms where his tattoos peek out. he doesn’t look up when you step into the open bay.
“hey kuna?” you softly call, “school called.”
he keeps wiping the carburetor with a shop rag. “what now.”
“he got into a fight and they’re suspending him. we have to go pick him up.”
the rag stops mid-motion. his jaw flexes once, visible even from the side. “he start it?”
“they didn’t say over the phone.”
“figures.” he tosses the rag onto the cluttered workbench. his tools scattered, half-empty beer can sweating beside a crumpled pack of cigarettes. “let’s go.”
the drive is quiet except for the sound of the truck and sukuna's knuckles white on the wheel. you know better than to fill the silence with platitudes. he hates that shit.
ren, your son, is slouched in one of the orange plastic chairs bolted to the wall outside the principal’s door. his split lip already swelling, fresh bruise blooming purple under his left eye, knuckles split and crusted. blood’s dried in a thin line down the front of his gray hoodie. he looks up when the door swings open, meets sukuna’s stare straight on. no ounce of apology in his eyes. just the same stubborn set to his mouth you’ve seen a thousand times in the mirror.
he was looking exactly like sukuna at that age in the old photos you've seen.
not only does he look like his dad, he for sure got his temper too.
"you better have a damn good reason." sukuna stops in the doorway, boots planted. “what the fuck happened.”
“some kid wouldn’t shut up about mom,” ren says, “said shit i wasn’t about to let stand, so i handled it.”
ahhh fortunately for him, that's enough of an excuse to sukuna.
you feel sukuna’s temper rise and you just sigh knowing he’ll most likely tolerate this behavior again. you move first, moving pass them into the principal’s office ready to get this over with so you can have a talk with your son properly.
the principal’s a nervous-looking guy in a polyester suit two sizes too big. he looks ridiculous, you and sukuna once had a good laugh talking about him. he stands when you enter. sukuna follows, shoulders filling the narrow doorway. he doesn’t sit. just crosses his arms and leans against the wall, tattoos catching the harsh overhead light.
he clears his throat twice. “mr. and mrs. ryomen thank you for coming so quickly.”
sukuna stays silent as the principal fidgets with a pen.
“your son initiated the physical contact,” he starts. “the other student sustained a mild concussion. we’re recommending–”
“he said something about my wife,” sukuna interrupts. "that true or what?"
the principal lets out a nervous chuckle. “be that as it may, we maintain a zero-tolerance policy toward violence–”
sukuna’s voice cuts in again, “say that part again. what exactly did the other kid say about her?”
the room goes still, you don’t know whether to feel embarrassed or proud that both your husband and son are standing up for you like this. ren shifts his weight, sneakers squeaking on the linoleum.
“called her a gold digger,” ren says. “said she only married you for the cash and that you’re just some ex-con tattoo artist who knocked her up... that pissed me off."
sukuna’s gaze flicks to you for half a heartbeat. you shake your head the smallest amount—no. he exhales loudly, the frustration in him growing more.
“so my kid put his hands on a loudmouth who was talking shit about his mother,” sukuna says. “and you’re punishing him for it.”
“school policy is clear—”
“your policy’s obviously shit.” sukuna pushes off the wall. “you let these kids talk whatever trash they want all day, but the minute someone actually responds, you clutch your pearls?”
“mr. ryomen, i’m going to have to ask you to—”
you can't stand this.
“me and my husband understand the suspension. we’ll take him home. do we need to sign anything?”
the principal hesitates, then slides the forms across the desk. you sign quick while sukuna keeps staring at the motivational poster on the wall like he’s imagining putting a fist through it.
the parking lot’s baking under the late-afternoon sun, shadows stretch long and jagged from the chain-link fence and the row of staff cars, a couple seagulls wheel overhead, crying once before banking toward the football field. the truck chirps twice when sukuna thumbs the fob, the doors unlock with that familiar pop.
sukuna's ready to hear whatever lecture you have to give this time.
“backseat, ren,” you say flatly.
he doesn’t argue. he ducks his head and slides into the back without a sound. the leather creaks under your guys weight as sukuna fires the engine.
“you don’t get to decide what’s worth fighting over at school,” you start. “i don’t care what he said about me. you don’t put your hands on someone because words hurt your feelings. that’s not how this works.”
ren stares down at the rubber floor mat.
“you’re grounded. two weeks. no phone, no going out, no friends over. you come straight home after school when the suspension’s up. you do your work, you help around the house, and you think about why throwing punches isn’t a solution. clear?”
ren nods once, slow. “yeah.”
“say it.”
he lifts his eyes just enough to meet yours in the rearview. “it’s clear. i’m grounded two weeks. no phone, no nothing.”
you hold his gaze another second, then turn back forward. “good.”
the rest of the drive unspools in thick silence. traffic thins as you leave the school zone, the sun dipping low enough that the dashboard glows faintly orange. you keep your eyes on the road, fingers laced loosely in your lap, while sukuna’s grip on the wheel stays steady but no longer bone-white.
when the truck finally rolls into the driveway, sukuna kills the engine with a twist of the key. the sudden quiet is awkward.
you unbuckle first, turning halfway in your seat. “i’m starting dinner. kuna,” you pause facing your husband, “talk to him.”
sukuna exhales through his nose when you enter the house. he reaches over and twists the key back just enough to kill the accessory power, plunging the cabin into near-darkness except for the faint streetlight spilling through the windshield.
ren’s voice comes out low, a little nervous now that it's just his dad with him, “you mad at me?”
sukuna laughs in response. “mad?” he echoes. “nah, not mad. you did what you had to do.”
"wait really??"
“kid talked shit about your mom,” sukuna continues, “you handled it. part of me gets that—hell, most of me does. but your mother just laid it out plain, she's right, you don’t swing first at school. not because defending family is wrong. because getting caught makes it useless. next time you decide something’s worth handling, make sure no one sees. or better yet, walk away and deal with it where cameras don’t reach and mouths don’t run to teachers.”
ren nods slowly, throat working like he’s swallowing everything he wants to say. “she’s pissed.”
“she’s pissed because she doesn’t want you turning into me at sixteen.” sukuna finally flicks his eyes to the rearview mirror, meeting ren’s gaze head-on. “look just take the grounding, do the time, don’t argue with her. she’ll cool off faster that way.”
ren rubs his jaw, careful around the swelling bruise. “yeah… okay. i get it, thanks dad.”
sukuna pops his door open, the dome light flooding the cab with weak yellow. “come on. go help her with whatever she’s doing in there and ice that face before it swells completely shut.”
ren climbs out first, shoulders hunched a little like the weight of the day is still sitting on them. sukuna follows a second later, pocketing the keys as he exhales once more.
later that night when the house quiets down, ren’s already shut himself in his room, lights off early for once.
you and sukuna are both in bed too.
sukuna’s sprawled face-down on the mattress, shirt gone, the wide map of his back exposed.
he groans low when you climb onto the bed behind him, knees bracketing his hips. your hands settle between his shoulder blades first, thumbs digging slow circles into the knots that live there permanently.
“fuck—right there,” he mutters into the pillow.
massaging him is one of the routines you guys do before sleeping, sukuna claims it completes his day no matter how shitty it went.
you keep the pressure steady, working down the length of his spine. the room smells faintly of his soap and the arnica gel you rubbed into ren’s face earlier.
after a minute you lean forward, hair brushing his shoulder.
“sooo you two talk in the truck?”
“yeah.”
your palms slide up to his traps, kneading deeper. “and???”
“told him he did good putting the kid in his place.” sukuna shifts his head to the side so he can talk properly. “but that he can’t be dumb about it next time. school cameras, witnesses, snitches—whole system’s built to catch the guy who actually swings. told him if he’s gonna handle shit, handle it clean. or don’t handle it at all.”
you pause for half a second, glaring at him. “so you basically told him it’s fine to fight… just don’t get caught.”
he snorts. “i told him reality ain’t the same as the lecture you gave. sweetheart, you want him safe and i want him smart. both can be true.”
your hands start moving again, tracing the ridges of muscle along his ribs. “you’re enabling him.”
“i’m not telling him to start fights.” sukuna turns his head the other way, cheek pressed flat to the pillow so he can see you out of the corner of his eye. “i’m telling him the world doesn’t run on zero-tolerance posters. kid talks about you like that again? someone’s gonna feel it. might as well be someone who knows how to throw properly. i just don’t want him suspended every other week or expelled before he graduates.”
you press your thumbs into the base of his skull, he hisses softly, sounding pleased.
“he looks so much like you in those old pictures now,” you say quieter.
“he’s got your eyes though. softer when he’s not pissed. he’ll figure it out.”
you lean down, lips touching the warm skin behind his ear. “you really not mad at him?”
“nah.” his voice drops lower. “‘m feeling proud. some punk runs his mouth about my wife and my kid lays him out without blinking? that’s blood. that’s mine.” he exhales again. “but i hate seeing his face fucked up. hate even more that he’s gonna carry my reputation around like a target. they already look at him sideways because of me.”
your hands slide down his arms now, working the tension out of his forearms, the same ones that were covered in grease earlier. “he’s not you at sixteen. he’s got us. both of us.”
sukuna turns over suddenly. quick enough that you have to brace on his chest to keep balance. he catches your wrists and tugs you down until you’re half sprawled across him. his eyes flick over your face, looking tired.
“c’mere,” he mutters, already reaching. "didn't i just get lucky?"
his hand slides to the back of your neck, fingers curling into your hair just enough to guide you down. he pulls you in like it’s the most natural thing after a day like this.
the kiss lands soft, lips pressing slow against yours. you taste the faint mint from the gum he was chewing earlier, mixed with whatever’s left of the day on his breath. his other arm loops around your lower back, palm flat and heavy, dragging you closer until there’s no space left.
your chest against his, heartbeat thumping steady under your hand.
he angles his head to deepen the kiss. tongue brushes yours lazily like he’s savoring it, you feel his fingers tighten slightly in your hair before loosening again.
you pull back after a minute, just enough to breathe. noses still touching, foreheads pressed.
he doesn’t open his eyes right away. just stays close, breathing you in.
“better?” you whisper.
“mm yeah.”
his thumb strokes along your jaw then he leans up and kisses you again. it's shorter this time like he’s saying shut up and stay here. lips linger a second longer before he drops his head back to the pillow with a tired exhale.
arms stay wrapped around you, one hand settling low on your back, the other still loosely in your hair.
“stop thinking about it, kay? he’ll be alright,” he says eventually. “yer a great mom and 'm trying not to screw up too. he got time to fuck up and figure it out. more than i ever did.”
A/N: genuinely. what is this. art by _avecot on x. also vote
Pairings: Aerion Targaryen x f!reader, Maekar Targaryen x f!reader, Daeron Targaryen x f!reader
Summary: A brothel opens in the small town on the road to Summerhall, offering a unique freedom to its workers to draw them in: they can come and go as they please and don't have to make whoring their profession. You, like many other commoners, decide to give it a try when you run low on coin. But as fate wills it, you keep encountering princes while on the job. Warnings: SMUT, Targaryen princes being messy, working in a brothel obviously, trust the process pls.
The dust of the King’s Road still clung to the hem of your dress, a fine red-brown powder that you would have to beat out before your husband saw it. Not that Merrett would mind. He might even smile, that slow, tired smile that deepened the lines around his eyes, and ask if the silks were comfortable. He had always been a curious man, more interested in the workings of things than in passing judgment on them.
As a seamstress in a town whose name the maps barely deigned to acknowledge, tucked into the sun-bleached folds of the Dornish Marches, your life was stitched as tightly and predictably as the hems you set. Your husband was a man of ledgers and accounts, a keeper of numbers for the local grain merchants. He was older, his beard more grey than brown, with a quiet, pragmatic affection for you that had less to do with fiery passion and more to do with a profound, settled contentment. He had given you a good life, a safe one, and when the whispers of a strange new establishment rippled through the town, it was with his weary, logical blessing that you first considered it.
The place called itself the Moonblooms, a name of a flower and an innuendo. It had been a dying chandler’s shop before two enterprising brothers from Planky Town bought it for a song. Their proposition was peculiar, and the talk of the market square for a solid week. They couldn’t afford a stable of proper, kept whores, not with the slow trickle of travelers on the Summerhall road. Their idea, scrawled on a placard outside their freshly painted, garish red door, was simple: any woman could come, use their beds and their silks and their cheap, sweet wine, and they would take only a modest cut of whatever she earned.
They provided the seductive scene: the candlelight, the music, the platters of olives and hard cheese, and the women provided the company. It was a business proposition, nothing more. The town, being closer in spirit and geography to the warm, live-and-let-live sands of Dorne than the rigid pieties of the Stormlands, merely shrugged and found it a curiosity.
You paid it little mind at first. You had your husband’s doublet to mend, the gray wool one he insisted on wearing even when the seams gave way at both elbows, and three orders for summer-weight gowns from the factor’s wife that would keep your needle busy well past sundown.
But coin was coin, and in a town this small, perched halfway between the Stormlands and Dorne and the Reach and belonging properly to none, the coin did not exactly flow. Your husband Merrett kept the ledgers for the grain merchants and the customs officers who rarely bothered to visit, and he kept them honestly, which was perhaps why you never had quite enough. He was a good man. When he looked at you across the supper table, there was still a kind of wonder in his eyes, as if he could not quite believe a woman with your looks had agreed to marry a man who spent his days bent over columns of numbers.
“I hear they let any woman walk in,” your neighbor Bethany said one afternoon, leaning over the low stone wall that separated your garden plots. She was kneading bread dough on a wooden board, her forearms dusted with flour. “The Moonblooms. They take a cut of whatever the man pays.”
You had laughed at that, shaking your head. “I am no whore, Beth.”
“Neither am I. But I went twice last month. My Tom doesn’t mind. We bought a new plow blade and a suckling pig for the harvest feast.” She had shrugged, utterly unashamed, and you remembered that she was Dornish on her mother’s side. “The men who come through don’t know you, and you don’t know them. It’s cleaner than rolling in a haystack behind the tavern, which is what the stable boys expect for nothing.”
The winter had been lean, and Merrett’s cough, a dry, rattling thing that came with the cold winds, needed more than just herbal teas. A little extra coin. That was all.
That night, you spoke of it to Merrett. You expected him to frown, to furrow his brow and shake his head and remind you that you were a respectable woman, a wife. Instead, he set down his quill, rubbed at the bridge of his nose where his spectacles pinched, and considered you for a long moment.
“You are beautiful,” he said simply. “Far too beautiful for a man like me, and I’ve always known that. If you wanted to run off with some young knight from the prince’s household, you could have done it a dozen times over. But you’re here, mending my shirts and cooking my meals.” He reached across the table and took your hand. “If you want to earn a few extra coppers, or even silver, I won’t stop you. We could use a new oven. The bread’s been burning on the left side since winter.”
So it was that you found yourself, three evenings later, standing at the back door of the Moonblooms with your heart hammering against your ribs. The establishment was finer than you expected. Someone had spent money on it, even if the business was struggling. The windows were shuttered with carved cedar screens that let the lamplight spill out in honey-colored patterns. Inside, the air was thick with incense: sandalwood and jasmine, and the floors were covered in Myrish carpets in deep crimson and gold. A woman named Margot ran the place for the owners, a stout, efficient creature with henna-stained hair and a merchant’s eye for value. She looked you over, assessed the curve of your hip beneath your plain wool dress, your hair, the clarity of your skin.
“You’ll do,” she said, and pressed a bundle of fabric into your arms. “Wear this. The blue rooms are empty tonight. If a man comes, smile at him. If he asks your price, tell him a silver for an hour, three for the night. We take three coppers from every silver. Don’t drink more than two cups of the wine, and don’t let anyone strike you. Those are my only rules.”
The fabric turned out to be a gown of Dornish silk, cut low at the bodice and slit high at the thigh, the color of a twilight sky. When you put it on in the little curtained alcove, you barely recognized yourself. The woman in the polished bronze mirror was not a seamstress with calloused fingertips and a perpetual ache in her lower back. She was someone else entirely, dangerous and luminous, someone who might bring a prince to his knees.
The irony was not lost on you later.
Your first hour in the common room was quiet. A few men drifted in, local merchants mostly, men you recognized from the market square but who did not recognize you beneath the paint Margot had applied to your eyes. They chose other women, younger girls with practiced giggles and experienced hands. You sat on a cushioned bench near the back, sipping a cup of watered wine, and wondered if you would simply go home empty-handed and a little humiliated.
Then the door banged open.
Three men in the white cloaks of the Kingsguard entered first, their armor gleaming even in the dim lamplight, their hands resting on the pommels of their swords with the easy readiness of men who had drawn them many times before. Behind them came a fourth man, younger, slighter, with silver-gold hair and eyes the color of violet glass. He wore no crown, no circlet, but he did not need to. The arrogance in the set of his jaw, the casual way he surveyed the room as if it were a livestock auction and he was the only buyer worth considering, that was royalty enough.
Prince Aerion Targaryen.
Even here, in a town that saw more Dornish traders than Stormland lords, word of the princes at Summerhall had spread. They were the sons of prince Maekar, grandsons of the old king, and their reputation preceded them. Prince Daeron the drunkard, prince Aerion Brightflame, prince Aemon the scholar, and the youngest, who went by Egg. The town was close enough to Summerhall that everyone knew the stories. Everyone knew to tread carefully.
The prince’s gaze swept the room as his companions started to wander around the room, lingering here and there on a bare shoulder, a painted mouth, a curve of breast. The whores preened and posed, sensing coin, sensing the kind of patron who might toss a gold dragon as carelessly as another man might toss a copper. But Aerion did not seem impressed. He looked bored, that particular brand of noble boredom that was more dangerous than outright anger, because it demanded to be alleviated.
One of the Kingsguard, a broad-shouldered man with a handsome, weathered face and short hair, crossed the room and lifted you bodily from your bench. You let out a startled gasp as he settled you on his lap, his armored thighs hard beneath you, his gauntleted hands closing around your waist.
“This one’s pretty,” he said. “Quiet, too. I like them quiet.”
You knew his face from the occasional processions through town. Ser Ronald Crakehall, a knight of some renown. He was handsome enough, not old, perhaps forty, with laugh lines around his eyes that suggested he was not entirely humorless. His fingers found the curve of your hip and squeezed, not painfully, but with a proprietary confidence that made your stomach tighten.
“How long have you been here?” he asked, his breath warm against your ear. “And what’s your rate, sweetling?”
You swallowed hard, acutely aware of the prince’s gaze on you. Aerion had turned from his survey of the room and was watching the two of you with an expression you could not quite read. Appraisal, certainly.
“It’s my first night,” you said, and your voice came out steadier than you expected. “My first time here.”
Ser Ronald’s eyebrows rose. He looked at you more closely, taking in the slight tension in your shoulders, the way your hands had instinctively clasped together rather than reaching for him. He was not an unobservant man, it seemed.
“Truly?” he said. “A virgin to the trade. How novel.”
But before he could say more, prince Aerion was there, standing over the two of you with his arms crossed, his violet eyes bright with sudden interest. Up close, he was even more beautiful than the stories suggested, with the sharp, delicate features of old Valyria, high cheekbones and a mouth that looked made for cruelty. There was something feverish in his gaze, something hungry and not entirely sane.
“I’m bored, Ronald,” he announced, as if the knight’s name were an inconvenience. “These painted slatterns have nothing I haven’t seen a hundred times. But a new one…” His gaze dropped to you, lingering on the exposed curve of your breast above the silk gown. “I have always preferred to break things in myself. It’s the only part that’s any fun.”
Ser Ronald’s hands loosened on your waist immediately. He did not argue, did not even protest. You saw something flicker in his eyes, resignation, perhaps, or a long-practiced survival instinct, and then he was lifting you off his lap as easily as he had placed you there.
“She’s yours, my prince.”
Aerion’s hand closed around your wrist, his grip much tighter than Ser Ronald’s had been, and he hauled you to your feet. His fingers were long and elegant, but the strength in them was surprising. He did not speak to you as he dragged you through the common room, past the curious stares of the other whores and the careful blankness of the Kingsguard. He simply walked, and you stumbled after him, your heart pounding so hard you could feel it in your throat.
The room he chose was one of the larger ones, with a bed draped in amber silk and a brazier burning low in the corner. The air smelled of roses. He released your wrist only when the door was bolted behind you, and then he turned to face you, his head tilted slightly to one side like a hawk examining a mouse.
“How many men have you really had?” he asked. His voice was soft, almost conversational, but there was an edge to it that made the hair on your arms stand up.
“One,” you said. “My husband.”
Something shifted in his expression. Amusement, maybe, or disbelief. “Your husband lets you whore?”
“He lets me earn coin however I see fit.” You lifted your chin slightly, meeting his gaze. “We’re not starving, but we’re not rich. And you’d be surprised what a new oven costs.”
For a long moment, he simply stared at you. Then he laughed, a short, sharp sound like a blade being drawn. “You’re not lying. How refreshing. Every woman in this place has been trying to convince me she’s the most experienced courtesan from here to Lys, and you stand there and tell me about your oven.” He stepped closer, close enough that you could smell the wine on his breath and the faint, clean scent of some expensive soap. “What’s your name?”
You told him. Your real name, not the false one Margot had suggested. You did not know why. Perhaps because he seemed like the kind of man who would know if you lied.
“I am prince Aerion Targaryen,” he said, as if you might not have known. “And since you’ve been honest with me, I’ll be honest with you. I am not about to be gentle with you.” His hand came up, and one finger traced the line of your jaw, feather-light, a startling contrast to his words. “But I pay well, and I don’t leave marks where they can be seen. Will that do for you, little seamstress?”
You should have been afraid. Part of you was afraid. But another part, a part you had not known existed until that moment, was curious, thrilled.
“Yes,” you said. “That will do.”
He did not waste time after that. There was no more conversation, no more teasing. He took what he wanted, and he wanted everything. The silk gown was torn, he would later toss three gold dragons at Margot to pay for it, more than the dress was worth by a factor of ten, and you were bent over the bed, pressed against the wall, pulled onto his lap on the single velvet-covered chair. He was rougher than Merrett had ever been, rougher than you had imagined a man could be, but there was a precision to it, a control. He wanted to see you gasp, wanted to see your fingers clench in the sheets, wanted to hear the sounds you made when pleasure and pain blurred together until you could not tell one from the other.
It was a siege. He fucked with a detached, methodical cruelty, his every touch was a calculated experiment. He’d pinch the soft skin of your inner thigh until you gasped, then soothe the sting with a lazy, swirling tongue. He’d take you right to the trembling edge of a pleasure you’d never known existed and then stop, holding perfectly still inside you, his smile a slash of white in the gloom, while he watched the frustration bloom in your face. He wanted your reactions, your raw, unpracticed honesty, and he took them, one by one, until you were a shuddering, overwrought mess of nerve endings and confused ecstasy. When he was finally spent, he didn’t collapse. He simply withdrew, stood, and adjusted his clothing as if he were alone in his private chambers. Then dropped a small leather purse on the table by the door.
“That’s for the hour,” he said. “I’ll be back. Teach yourself something new before then.”
The purse contained five gold dragons. More than your husband earned in a season.
You did not tell Merrett the details. You told him only that a wealthy patron had taken a liking to you, and that you would be returning when the opportunity arose. He looked at the gold dragons, looked at you, and asked only if you were all right. When you said yes, and meant it, he kissed your forehead and said he would speak to the baker about the oven.
Aerion returned four nights later, and then again the week after that. Each time, he paid more, stayed longer. And each time, you learned a little more about what he liked.
He liked resistance, so you gave it to him, arching away from his hands so he would have to pull you back. He liked begging, so you learned to plead, not for mercy but for more, words tumbling from your lips in a desperate litany that made his violet eyes blaze. He liked to talk, sometimes, in the aftermath, lying in the tangled sheets while the candles burned low. He talked about dragons, mostly. The ones that were gone, the ones that might return. He talked about fire and blood and the way the world had been before the Dance, when his ancestors were gods among men. He never talked about himself, not really, but you learned to read between the lines. You that his older brother Daeron was a disappointment, that his younger brother Aemon was weak, that the youngest, Egg, was a nuisance. You learned that his father prince Maekar was a hard man to please, and that Aerion had stopped trying long ago.
You learned that he was cruel, but you also learned that cruelty was a kind of armor. He expected the world to hurt him, so he hurt it first. It did not excuse anything he did, but it explained it, and understanding was its own kind of power.
The third time he came, he brought a small velvet box. Inside was a pendant, a silver dragon with ruby eyes, delicate and beautiful and worth more than everything you owned.
“Don’t read into it,” he said, his voice clipped. “I simply don’t like my whores to look cheap.”
You wore it anyway, and when he saw it against your throat, something in his expression softened for just a moment before the mask slid back into place.
Aerion kept returning. Each time, he taught you something new, how to use your mouth in ways you had never imagined, how to position your body to drive him to the edge and keep him there, how to read his moods and respond to his unspoken demands. He was a demanding lover, capricious and intense, but there was a strange intimacy in it, a knowledge of each other that went beyond the physical.
“You are the only woman who does not lie to me,” he said once, in a rare moment of something almost like tenderness, his head resting on your shoulder, a finger tracing down your spine. “Do you know how exhausting it is to be surrounded by liars? Everyone wants something from me. Everyone simpers and flatters and tells me what they think I want to hear. But you, you just tell me the truth. An oddity. An honest whore with an honest cunt.”
You did not tell him that you were lying, too, in your way. That you were playing a role just as much as any courtesan. That the truth was simply another strategy, one that happened to work on him. Some truths were too dangerous to speak aloud.
It was perhaps two moons into this arrangement when prince Daeron found you.
When he stumbled in one evening with a retinue of laughing friends and a decidedly unsteady gait, you recognized him immediately. Daeron was softer, his features blurred by drink, his eyes holding a sorrow that even the wine could not entirely drown.
He did not choose you at first. He chose two other girls, giggling things who fawned over him and called him “my prince” in breathy voices. But you watched him throughout the evening, and you saw how he flinched at their simpering, how he drank to drown out their empty flattery rather than to enhance his pleasure. He was a man who was running from something, though you did not know what.
The third time he came, Aerion had been gone for a fortnight, off to some tourney or other, and the brothel was quiet. Daeron arrived alone, which was unusual, and he sat in the corner with a flagon of Dornish red and a face like a man attending his own funeral. The other whores gave him a wide berth. A drunk prince was unpredictable, and unpredictable patrons were bad for business.
You approached him anyway.
“My prince,” you said, sitting down beside him on the bench. “You look like a man who could use a kind word more than a warm body.”
He looked at you, and for a moment, something flickered in his bloodshot eyes. Surprise, maybe. Suspicion.
“And what would a whore know of kind words?” he asked, but there was no venom in it. Only weariness.
“I’m not a whore,” you said. “I’m a seamstress. I mend things.”
He stared at you for a long moment. Then he laughed, a bitter, choking sound. “A seamstress. Of course. Why not? The world is absurd enough already.” He took a long drink from his flagon. “Do you know what it’s like to have dreams that don’t stop? Dreams that feel more real than waking?”
“No,” you said honestly.
“Lucky you.” He set the flagon down with a thump. “I dream of dragons. Every night. They’re calling to me, but I can’t understand what they’re saying. It’s like a word on the tip of my tongue, but I can never quite reach it.” He rubbed a hand over his face, and when he looked at you again, his eyes were wet. “My father thinks I’m a disgrace. My brother Aerion thinks I’m a joke. And the dragons won’t stop screaming.”
You did not know what to say to that. So you did not say anything. You simply reached out and took his hand, holding it in both of yours, and you sat with him in silence while the candles guttered and the other patrons came and went.
Eventually, he led you to a room. It was not like it was with Aerion. Daeron was gentle to the point of apology, his touches hesitant, his movements slow. He kept asking if you were all right, if he was hurting you, if you wanted him to stop. He was not a bad lover, exactly, but he was a sad one, and when it was over he wept silently into your shoulder while you stroked his hair.
He came back the next week, and the week after that. He never talked about dragons again, but sometimes, when he was lying beside you in the dark, you could feel him trembling.
He liked to be held. He liked it when you ran your fingers through his hair. He liked to fall asleep with his head on your chest, and he always left a pile of coins on the nightstand when he woke, far more than the hour was worth, and never counted.
“You’re kind to me,” he said once, his voice slurred and sleepy. “Do you know how rare that is? People are always bowing and scraping and wanting things. But you’re just..kind.”
You did not tell him that kindness was part of the service. You did not tell him that you pitied him, this sad, drowning prince who was trying so hard to destroy himself. You just held him a little tighter and let him sleep.
The gifts from Daeron were different from Aerion’s payments. Aerion’s gold was a transaction. Daeron’s was careless, extravagant, almost an afterthought. He would empty his purse onto your dresser without counting, wave off your attempts to give him change, press jewels into your palm with a vague, “Here, this matches your eyes,” even when it didn’t.
You never told Aerion that his brother visited you. And Daeron never asked if others from Summerhall came to the Moonblooms. It was an unspoken agreement, a delicate balance that you maintained with the same care you used when stitching fine silk.
Then prince Maekar came.
That was a shock. The prince of Summerhall, the King’s own son, a man who could have summoned any woman in the Seven Kingdoms to his bed with a snap of his fingers, walked into the brothel on a rainy evening with his shoulders hunched and his jaw tight and a fury simmering behind his eyes that made the air itself feel charged. He was not as beautiful as his sons: his jaw was heavier, his brow more prominent, his hair a lighter shade of silver, but he had a presence that filled the room, a weight of authority that made even Margot’s practiced composure falter.
He did not want the simpering girls. He did not want the ones who draped themselves over him and whispered empty compliments. He wanted silence, and he wanted release, and when his gaze landed on you sitting quietly in the corner with your sewing, you had taken to bringing small mending projects to work on during slow nights, his eyes narrowed.
“You,” he said, pointing. “Come here.”
You set aside the tunic you had been hemming and rose, approaching him with the same calm you had learned to project with Aerion, with Daeron, with all the men who passed through looking for something they could not name.
“My prince,” you said, curtsying.
“Do not simper,” he snapped. “I’ve had enough simpering to last a lifetime. What is your name?”
You told him. Your real name. It felt important, somehow, to be honest with these silver-haired men who could have you killed with a word.
“I am prince Maekar,” he said, though you already knew. “I have spent the day listening to my sons disappoint me in increasingly creative ways, and I have a headache that could fell an ox, and I do not want to talk. Can you manage that? Can you just be silent and let me fuck you without pretending you’re enjoying it?”
“Yes,” you said. “I can.”
He blinked, clearly not expecting such a straightforward answer. Then he nodded and led you to the room.
It was different with him. Not rough like Aerion, not sad like Daeron. It was desperate, almost frantic, as if he were trying to outrun something inside his own head. He did not speak, and he did not want you to speak, but when it was over he did not leave immediately. He lay beside you, breathing hard, staring at the ceiling. Then he reached for the pitcher.
He drank the wine in one long swallow and set the cup aside. Then he looked at you again, his gaze more assessing than it had been before. “How long have you been doing this?”
“A few moons. I was a seamstress before. I still am, during the day.”
“A seamstress.” He seemed to find this amusing. “And what does your husband think of your…second profession?”
“He doesn’t mind. He trusts me.”
Maekar’s eyebrows rose, the same expression of surprise his son had worn. “A remarkable man.”
“He is,” you agreed.
Something in him seemed to crack. He lay beside you, his breathing harsh, and you saw his hands were trembling. Without thinking, you reached out and covered one of them with your own.
He flinched, but he did not pull away.
“Are you all right, my prince?” you asked softly.
“No,” he said, and his voice was raw. “I am not all right. I have not been all right for a very long time.”
He turned his head to look at you, and for a moment, he was not a prince. He was just a man, tired and weighed down by responsibilities and disappointments he could not escape.
“My sons are a trial,” he said quietly. “Daeron drinks because he dreams of things he cannot understand. Aerion burns because he feels things too deeply and has no outlet for them. Aemon hides because the world is too sharp for him. And Egg…” He trailed off, shaking his head. “Egg is too young to be a disappointment yet. But he’ll get there. They all do.”
You did not know what to say, so you said nothing. You kept your hand there. He did not pull away.
Maekar came back. Not as often as Aerion, not as regularly as Daeron, but every few weeks, when the pressures of Summerhall became too much, he would appear with a face like a thundercloud and seek you out. He never wanted conversation, but sometimes, afterward, he would talk. About his father the king, about the weight of a crown that would never be his, about the sons he loved and did not understand. He brought you gifts: a bolt of Myrish lace so fine it looked like seafoam, a pair of silver hairpins set with sapphires, a small enameled box filled with Dornish spices that must have cost more than your house.
“For your husband,” he said gruffly when he gave you the spices, as if that explained anything.
You never told him about Aerion. You never told him about Daeron. And they never told him about you. It was a dance, a delicate, dangerous dance, and you were the only one who knew all the steps.
The Moonblooms prospered. Word had spread, somehow, that the establishment was favored by the princes of Summerhall, and custom increased tenfold. Margot hired more girls, expanded into the building next door, started serving food in the common room. She never asked you about your patrons because you had warned her that the princes would stop coming if she advertised you as their favorite, but she gave you the best room, the one with the feather mattress, and she never took more than her agreed-upon cut.
Your husband got his oven, his medicine, a new roof, a set of copper pots that gleamed like sunset. He never asked questions, and you never offered answers, and somehow, improbably, your marriage remained intact. Merrett still looked at you with wonder across the supper table, still reached for you in the night with a gentleness that none of your patrons possessed, still made you laugh with his dry observations about the townsfolk and their creative approach to accounting.
“You seem happy,” he said one evening, as you sat together in your small garden, watching the stars come out.
“I am,” you said, and you were surprised to realize it was true. “Are you?”
He considered the question with the same careful attention he gave his ledgers. “I am. We have good food, a sound roof, and each other. What more could a man want?”
A dragon, perhaps, you thought but did not say. A crown. A kingdom.
You had learned that princes were not happier than commoners. They were richer, certainly, more powerful, more dangerous. But happiness was a currency which did not care about bloodlines.
The summer stretched on, golden and hot, and the princes of Summerhall continued to visit.
You kept their secrets. You took their coin. And in your own way, you cared for them, each in their turn, each in the way they needed.
Part 2: pending...
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out of everywhere you've woken up after a night out drinking, wakin' up in your sullen, vaguely scary neighbors apartment after too many drinks might be the worst one.
tw questionable morality
You reached towards the clipped metal of an unfamiliar bed frame, not quite registering the scene. The edges of your vision are blurry, memories past your third margarita simply flashes of movement, a firm touch guiding you, hands fumbling with keys, a chill spreading up your arms.
Everything was upside down, you were peaking through spaces between the curved metal and trying to identify what you saw within them: green cabinets, a table that looked shaky with hanging pots and utensils in the background.
Too minimalistic, too clean to be your own apartment. You were half to an explanation, almost there, groggy, still waking up and slow to register that this was your neighbors apartment. Something you only faintly recognized from when he had first moved in and you, being endlessly and abundantly curious about everything that didn’t concern you, leaned to the side to peak past him while your hands were full of sliced, carefully wrapped fruit for him.
Really, you just wanted to see what your neighbors were talking about. How mean could he be? You found he wasn’t really mean at all. He just had that sort of stern, solemn look to him—perpetually anticipating the worst. He was off-putting, definitely, a little awkward and he greeted you quietly, eyes always averted.
Your head was pounding, a consistent and aggressive force not dissimilar to the one threatening to split from your chest. You want to stand, wanted to communicate this to your legs that definitely should be, at minimum, working to stand. Then came the realization you were on your back—everything wasn’t upside, this wasn’t some demented tilt-a-whirl, you had been comfortably on your back, now you felt the bile begin to rise. You clamped your lips tightly shut, the mortification of potentially throwing up all over your too handsome neighbor’s apartment enough to make you feel the need to skip out on your lease.
You couldn’t fathom why you were here. Your stomach was clenching, the weighted blanket draped half-over your lower half was too warm, almost burning. Who used a heated blanket in the summertime? You lowered your hand, searching for the fabric to toss it off but brushed against something very, very soft and too much like hair. Your hair stiffened, the weighted blanket moved, the weighed blanket let out a soft hum then looked up at you with eyes that were horrifically clear, aware.
The scene in front of you snapped into place. You were on your back, in a shirt that was too big, too soft, most definitely not the tiny minidress that you had left in. You were unbearably sore, and this was your neighbor laying on you—whose name you still didn’t know, something, something with a ’T’? Or was it a ‘D’? A ‘B’? though Mrs. Smithers had introduced the two of twice. You had once received mail for a ‘Benjamin’ that matched his address and he had taken it, though you swore you had heard another man call him something with a ‘D’’??
You hadn’t been sure when a good time to casually ask for his name was before and now, with him situated between your spread thighs wearing only his boxers and, your eye twitched, his socks, with his arms wrapped under your legs as he used your stomach as a pillow for his head you didn’t think that casual scenario would ever appear.
You swore his muscles rippling with just his breathing.
Even in your most depraved, filthiest imagining he had never been this built. You also hadn’t anticipated the excessive scars that covered him, especially the long, jagged surgical scar that went up the length of his spine. Your face heated at the sheer extent of the reddened marks from nails you assumed to be yours, immediately looking away. You needed to focus on the task at hand: find your underwear, find any article of clothes that belonged to you.
You didn’t get a chance to, as he began to gently push the shirt that was most definitely his up, slowly, until if he had pushed up just slightly more, your pussy would’ve been exposed. “W-wa-wait!” Your hands went beside his, pushing down at the fabric.
“We’re neighbors.” You reminded.
He tilted his head, a movement too innocent for the devious quirk of his mouth—a man satisfied, smug and still annoyingly endearing.
You couldn’t remember stumbling home, you couldn’t remember running into him and more importantly, couldn’t remember why you were so sore, but in that moment, you would’ve given anything to relieve it.
“I— Make me breakfast first, at least.” His chest rumbled with laughter, the sensation vibrating against your stomach,
His studio was cast in the warmth of gentle sunlight, this was the type of moment that existed only in cheesy romcoms where your neighbor should’ve been looking up with a twinkle in his eyes, excitement should’ve been coursing through you--this should’ve been the beginning of the rest of your life.
This should’ve been a whirlwind romance waiting to happen, this was how they began, after all: the startling attractive neighbor, the one-night stand, him draped over her with a lazy smile. It was something so casual, so perfect, something so cliche, something you innately felt to be practiced.
None of that was happening. This wasn’t a romcom. You found the stillness in his eyes to be deeply unsettling. You felt yourself waiting for his mouth to split open, to stretch unnaturally into a gaping, toothy maw and for him to swallow your head whole, then bite it clean off your body.
In this moment, your neighbor was less man and more unpredictable monster. This was the man who always looked like he was having the worst day of his life, this was the stern man you waved at and watched the three second delay as he tried to remember how to be a person and move his hand in a weak wave back after your cheery ‘good morning’s.
He more thousands of red flags bundled together in the shape of a man so attractive that despite every ounce of reason within you telling you otherwise, you found your hands snaking through his short, messy blonde hair, “I like my eggs over easy, with both salt and pepper please.”
Marriage was often used as a tool of convenience - be it to upgrade one's own social status, get some much needed silver and gold, or to just get one leg up over your enemies, it really did not matter in the end.
Like it or not, you were tied to that person till death did you part.
That was a chant that has been sung to you ever since you came out of your weeping mother's womb. As the daughter of the household, it was natural for you to wed one day. However, the family was one of average standing, it had no special titles tacked onto it nor did it have any grotesque reputation which could sully it to the darkness and back. In its own way, it was oddly blissful, being invisible like that. No one expected you to act like a stuck up lady who would be locked away deep in a tower and you were also safe from becoming a measley wench who would be forced to spend the rest of her miserable days stuck rolling around in the mud, selling her body to all sorts of horrific strangers just in order to eat for a day.
You had the privilege of being born into a happy life. Perhaps a slightly dull one sometimes but regardless, a good one at that. You were content with everything which was given to you, perhaps even happy.
However, all things come to an end, and your end came in the form of a man riding on horseback.
He was strong, capable, handsome... But you kept that thought to yourself as you helped the wounded stranger get back on his feet, his midnight black steed happily trotting away somewhere as it accidentally shook the rider off its back once it locked eyes on you, a stranger in the woods.
"And who might you be?" asked the dark haired man, his curly hair framing his pale face so wonderfully that it took the breath from your lungs away.
You held onto him tightly and pressed him close to your body, the odor of blood and sweat covering him from top to bottom but you couldn't be bothered to care. He wore simple clothing which made you think that he was in a similar position like yourself in terms of finance, which gave you a slight glimmer of hope.
It was embarrassing how much you were swooning over the stranger.
Taking him back to your hut took longer than expected but all was well in the end. The handsome stranger had a name, Robb he said it was, and you couldn't hide the adoration in your voice whenever he would speak to you. The night flew by like a summer breeze - too fast and too sweet. Come first daylight he had to leave, which you understood.
That didn't stop you from feeling a little blue.
He mounted his horse like a knight in shining armor, its mane tussling proudly in the bitter north wind as Robb looked down at you, his warm blue eyes desperate to tell you many stories and secrets, but time was cruel and scarce.
He would come back to you, he promised.
And you gave him a smile sweeter than any juicy fruit, telling him that you would gladly wait for him.
He rode away all the while looking back at you, sending you a heart stopping smile which could make anyone weak in the knees. The horse left large hoofprints in the snow and you focused your attention on that, rather than the bitter stabs of pain in your heart.
There would never be a day when you'd see Robb ever again.
You were due to leave for the South in a few weeks time, in order to finally be wed off. The fantasy of Robb was saccharine and enchanting, many hours of sleep were lost due to him. Even if you barely knew him, the matters of the heart were reckless and stupid.
The heart wants what it wants and your heart ached for Robb.
All the while, you hadn't a clue of him and his plans. The men in Winterfell grew tired of his constant ramblings of this lovely woman he met, this sweet little thing which made his heart sing like no one else. He would walk in the corridors with a pep in his step as he thought of all the ways he could take you back to his home and give you the life you deserved.
His candied tirade quickly came to an abrupt halt once his mother had informed him of the grave news, that you had been promised to another man.
Robb was furious.
Who was this man?! Who did he think he is?! Ever the meticulous man, he got to work immediately. In less than a few days he had managed to gather all the information he could on this mystery fiance of yours, all the papers sprawled across his massive table. The candles in his chambers glimmered gently, the shimmering light a stark contrast to the raging flames in his heart.
If he could have his way, he'd be out for blood. Robb was too much of a jealous man for his own good but he needed to think, he needed to prepare if he wanted to do this right.
In less than a day, he had everything set up. If the man wasn't willing to take the gold he was offering him, he was not above using any scare tactics. His anger ended up getting the better of him though, so a bizarre combination of both was used.
The way in which your fiance left you made your heart sink. How were you going to break the news to your parents? Whatever could you have done so wrong to earn the ire of this lord whom you haven't even met yet...
You weep in your room, staining the mattress with your salty tears, completely oblivious to the small cavalry with House Stark banners raging on your front door.
Robb Stark had come for his bride. And she had no idea what sort of future awaited her...
Pairings: Baelor Targaryen x wife!Reader, Maekar Targaryen x sister-in-law!Reader
Synopsis: A shattered Prince, a broken crown, a heavy shadow on the town. The guilty brother bends his knee, bound to a desperate tragedy. They flee the whispers and the rain, to heal the flesh and hold the chain. She claims his touch amidst the storm, while Iron stands to keep them warm.
Warnings: SMUT 18+, Nudity, Unprotected Vaginal Sex, Baelor survived AU, Graphic Descriptions of Head Trauma, Descriptions of Physical Disability/Paralysis, Severe Guilt & Self-Loathing, Forbidden Desire, Heavy Themes of Mortality, Death Threat
Word Count: 10.2k
A/N: It will have another part
The wheelhouse did not turn; it dragged. It moved up the steep, winding cobbles of Aegon’s High Hill with the leaden, funeral pace of a siege engine being hauled through mud.
There were no clarions to split the heavy, salt-damp air of King’s Landing. There were no heralds clad in the brilliant scarlet and black of House Targaryen to clear the gutters of the smallfolk who usually choked the paths just to touch the stirrup of the Breakspear.
There was only the low, metallic groan of the axle and the wet, rhythmic plod of six dray horses, their hocks lathered in a thick, yellow foam that smelled of the road and old grease.
She watched it from the narrow slits of the solar window, her hand resting against the cold, unyielding red stone of the sill. The stone was sweating. In the late-summer heat of the Blackwater, the entire castle seemed to weep a fine, greasy film that tasted of sea salt and wood-smoke.
Below, the outer yard was a sea of upturned faces—lords in silks that had begun to sour under the armpits, Septons with their silver stars tucked into their sashes, and the ubiquitous, pale-faced scribes of the Grand Maester’s guild, their long chains clinking like dry bone against their robes.
They were waiting for a corpse. She knew it by the way they stood—not grouped in the easy, loud configurations of a court preparing for a triumph, but scattered, distinct, their eyes darting toward the empty gallery where King Daeron the Good usually sat when his joints allowed him the sun.
They were already calculating the distance between the Prince of Dragonstone and the black dirt of the Great Sept of Baelor.
She did not go down. When the heavy iron gates thudded shut behind the rearguard, the sound vibrating up through the soles of her bare feet, she remained exactly where she was.
She had stripped herself of her court stays and the heavy, wire-framed kirtle of Targaryen crimson three days ago, when the first raven had flown from the Kingsroad.
Now, she wore only a loose shift of unbleached linen, its hem frayed from the floorboards, her hair bound up in a rough, tight wool knot that pulled at the skin of her temples.
The doors of the outer solar did not open; the weight of a heavy shoulder slammed them back.
Maekar Targaryen stepped across the threshold, and with him came the stench of the Reach. It was the smell of horses ridden to the point of lung-burst, vinegar used to rinse old bandages, and the sharp, metallic tang of rusted iron.
Behind him came the bearers—four silent, iron-hatted guards from Summerhall whose faces were grey with dust. They carried a long, ash-wood litter draped in grey wool.
She did not look at Maekar. She did not give him the satisfaction of her eyes, though she could feel the heat radiating from his massive frame, a thick, suffocating wave of sweat and iron that filled the small room. She only looked down at the litter.
Baelor’s dark hair—the thick, coarse curls that always marked him as his mother’s son, the Martell Prince who looked more like the salt-shore than the Valyrian sand—had been shorn away entirely on the backside of his skull.
The bare skin was a mottled, greenish-purple, stitched together with black silk threads that looked like fat black ants crawling toward his ear. A mountain of greying linen was wrapped about his brow, damp at the center with a clear, amber fluid that smelled faintly of old beer and rot.
His right arm, the arm that had broken the vanguard at the Redgrass Field, was curled tightly against his ribs, his fingers rigid and hooked like the talons of a dead falcon.
”Set him upon the low bed,“ she said.
Her voice was not loud, but it possessed a flat, crystalline clarity that made the guards freeze before they looked to their Prince.
Maekar did not speak. He merely jerked his chin—a single, violent movement. The guards moved with a tiptoeing, fearful caution, sliding the linen-draped mattress off the ash-poles and onto the thick goose-down frame she had prepared in the alcove.
When they were done, they backed out of the chamber like men leaving a Sept, their eyes fixed on the floorboards until the oak doors clicked shut behind them.
Maekar remained standing by the door. He had not removed his gloves. His great, leather-lined fists were clenched at his sides. He stared at the small space of stone between his boots, his chest heaving under the velvet of his clothing like a blacksmith’s bellows.
He was waiting for her to break. He was waiting for the screaming, or the weeping, or the long, legalistic accusations that a woman of the court was supposed to hurl at the man who had broken her life.
He wanted the punishment; she could see it in the way his thick neck was bowed, his jaw set so hard that a small white line of tension ran from the corner of his mouth down into his beard. He wanted her to give him a reason to turn and ride back into the dark.
She walked toward him, her bare feet silent against the rushes. With every step she took, the rage inside her grew colder, turning from a wild, screaming thing into a smooth, heavy bar of iron that settled behind her teeth.
”You are smaller than I remembered, Maekar,“ she said, stopping when the toes of her bare feet were an inch from the thick, square leather of his riding boots.
The Prince did not lift his head. The shadow of his silver hair fell across his eyes, leaving only his mouth visible—a bitter, downward curve that looked as though it had never known a smile.
”He lives,“ Maekar growled, his voice a low, gravelly rasp that sounded as though he had spent the last three days swallowing gravel.
”The Maesters at Ashford said he would die before the Mander. The Maesters at Bronzegate said he would die before the forest. I brought him to your gates. My work is done.“
”Your work?“ She let out a short, sharp sound that was less a laugh and more a striking of flint.
She reached out, her fingers locking into the cold, mud-crusted edge of his coat. She did not use the gentle touch of a Princess; she twisted her hand into the leather straps, forcing his massive head up until his violet eyes were locked into hers.
”You call this work? You break his skull like a walnut at some petty hedge-knight’s tourney, you haul his half-dead meat across three hundred leagues of dirt, and you think you can simply drop him at my feet and ride back to Summerhall to nurse your little pride?“
Maekar’s breath caught, a hot, sour gust of wine and onions that brushed her cheeks. His eyes, bloodshot and ringed with black circles of exhaustion, flared with a sudden, violent heat.
He was a man who lived on the edge of his own skin, always waiting for a slight, always expecting to be passed over for his brother.
Yet, as he looked into her face—pale, fierce, stripped of courtly artifice and framed by the sharp, undone linen shift—the heat in his chest shifted, twisting into a sudden, leaden ache that knocked the breath from his lungs. It was not anger. It was a terrifying, unbidden awe at her sheer, unyielding clarity. He had never looked at her—truly looked at her—away from Baelor’s shadow.
”I did not see him,“ Maekar hissed, his hands twitching at his sides, though he did not lift them to break her grip. His eyes dropped from her mouth to the white linen over her collarbones, his knuckles tightening in his gloves.
”The sun was behind his crest. I thought... I had to protect my son. I struck to parry, and the ash split–“
”I do not care about your sun, and I do not care about your son,“ she said, her voice dropping into a low, lethal whisper.
”Look at him, Maekar. Look at what your parry did.“
She twisted her hand harder, forcing him to turn his head toward the alcove. Maekar resisted for a fraction of a second, his great neck muscles stiffening like oak roots, before he gave way with a low, strangled groan.
Baelor lay perfectly still beneath the grey wool. His left eye was closed, the skin around it white and translucent as lard, while his right eye was partially open, a thin, glassy sliver of white showing beneath the lid.
He looked like an effigy carved from old river-silt, waiting for the rain to melt him back into the mud.
”He is the Prince of Dragonstone,“ she said, her lips so close to Maekar’s ear that he could feel the cool drift of her breath against the rough hair of his beard, a sensation that made his skin prickle with a strange, defensive dread.
”He is the only man who stands between this Realm and the madness of his brothers. Aerys is in his books, Rhaegel is dancing through the halls in his shift, and you... you are a murderer who lacks the courage to stand by the corpse.“
”I am no murderer!“ Maekar roared, his hands finally flying up to grip her wrists.
His fingers were like iron pincers, his leather gloves rough against her bare skin, but he did not pull her away. He held her there, his chest heaving, his face so close to hers that she could see the small gold flecks in his violet eyes.
He looked down at the pale, narrow bones of her forearms in his grasp—so fragile compared to the heavy steel he spent his life wielding—and a sudden, sickening dread went through him.
He was terrified of his own density, terrified that he might break her, too, simply by holding her.
”If I were a murderer, I would have put the mace through his throat while he lay in the mud! I would have taken the Crown for myself! I love him... I worshiped him... he was the only one who ever looked at me and did not see the fourth son.“
”Then show me that love,“ she said, her voice unyielding, her eyes boring into his until the anger in his face began to fracture, leaving only a vast, dark sea of remorse.
”Do not run to Summerhall. Do not let the lords see you skulk away like a whipped dog. You will stay in this palace, Maekar. You will sit by his bed, you will lift his meat when he cannot move, and you will be the iron wall that sits between his chair and the vultures of the Small Council. You will swear it to me. Now.“
Her voice cracked.
Maekar stared at her. The silence in the solar was so thick that the only sound was the distant, oily hiss of a tallow candle burning down into its cup.
He felt the coldness of his steel breastplate—in his mind he had not taken it off—the softness of her linen shift, and the heavy, terrifying gravity of her presence. She was offering him a purpose that belonged to him alone—even if it meant standing guard over the ruin he had made.
Slowly, his grip on her wrists relaxed. His great hands did not fall back to his sides; they lingered on her bare forearms, his rough leather fingers sliding down to her wrists, feeling the quick, frantic beat of her pulse beneath the skin before he tore them away, dropping them to his sides as if he had been burned.
”I will stay,“ he whispered, his voice losing its gravel, leaving only a low, solemn weight.
”I will be his right hand. And I will be your shield. Until the fire goes out.“
The door to the private chambers did not creak; it swung open with the heavy, urgent stride of young men who still wore their spurs.
Valarr entered first. The Young Prince, the eldest son, looked so much like his father that for a terrible, heart-stopping instant she thought the Breakspear had risen from his mattress.
He had Baelor’s dark eyes, his straight, proud nose, and the easy grace of a knight who had won his first tourney garland at seventeen. But today, his handsome face was drained of its gold; his silver-trimmed doublet was undone at the throat, and his hands were trembling as he rushed toward the alcove.
Behind him came Matarys, his younger brother, whose hair—which resembled his mother’s—was a stark contrast to Valarr’s dark locks. Matarys was still small enough to look fragile in his heavy velvet robes, his wide purple eyes darting between his mother and the looming, silent shadow of his uncle Maekar by the hearth.
”Mother,“ Valarr breathed, dropping to his knees beside the low bed. His hand hovered over his father’s grey, stitched skull, not daring to touch the raw skin.
”The yard is full of crows. Lord Ambrose is already talking about summoning the Great Council. They speak as if he is dead.“
”He breathes, Valarr,“ she said, her voice softened to that tone only a mother used for her children. She stepped between her sons and the light of the tallow candles.
”And while he breathes, the succession does not shift by a single inch. You are the heir to Dragonstone, and your brother is behind you.“
Matarys shrank back slightly, his hip bumping against Maekar’s blackened greaves. He looked up at his uncle with a mixture of terror and awe.
”Did you... did you truly do this, Uncle? They say your mace split his helm.“
Maekar did not move an inch out of the chimney-shadow, his eyes fixed resolutely on the floorboards, though his mind remained helplessly pinned to the white shape of her shift.
His voice was a heavy stone dropped into a shallow well.
”The ash split, boy. The Gods held the parry, not I. Go to your brother.“
Valarr rose from his knees, his dark eyes flashing with a sudden, volatile heat that belonged to his father’s blood. He turned on Maekar, his young chest heaving beneath his silk doublet.
”You should have stayed in Summerhall, Uncle. If the King sees him like this–“
”The King is already here,“ a low, rasping voice called from the doorway.
King Daeron stood between his two white-cloaked Kingsguards, looking less like a monarch and more like a bundle of dry sticks wrapped in purple velvet. The years of his long peace had grown heavy upon him; his white hair was thin and wispy, and his eyes were cloudy with the grey cataracts that had begun to steal his sight.
”Grandfather,“ Valarr said, stepping back instantly, his royal pride dissolving into the duty of a grandson.
Daeron did not look at Valarr, nor at Matarys. His cloudy eyes drifted across the small solar until they found the alcove where his eldest son lay under the grey wool.
When he reached the edge of the mattress, he lowered his head, his thin shoulders trembling under his heavy velvet mantle.
”Baelor,“ the King whispered, his voice cracking like a dry reed. He reached out with a pale, blue-veined hand, his fingers tracing the edge of the grey wool sheet.
”My right hand... my strength. The Gods are cruel to leave an old man his breath while the vanguard falls.“
He turned slowly, his dim sight fixing upon Maekar where he stood in the shadows. There was no fury in Daeron’s face—only a vast, ancient weariness that was harder to bear than an executioner’s axe.
”You were always the Anvil, Maekar. But the Anvil should not break the Hammer.“
Maekar bowed his head so low his beard touched his collarbone.
”I am here to be his shield, Your Grace. Until he rises.“
”He must rise soon,“ Daeron muttered, looking to her, his hand reaching out to touch her forearm with a dry, papery grip.
”The Small Council is souring. Aerys will not leave his books, and Rhaegel... Rhaegel is weeping in the gardens. If Baelor does not speak to the lords, the Realm will look to the sons.“
He glanced at Valarr and Matarys, his old eyes heavy with premonition.
”Keep them close. The air in this city is changing.“
The privacy of the bedchamber was a different kind of battlefield. Here, the grand rhetoric of the Great Hall died in the sour smell of vinegar and the cloying, suffocating sweetness of milk of the poppy.
The sun had gone down behind the hills of the Reach, leaving the room in a thick, amber twilight that was lit only by a single tallow candle on the wash-stand.
She had stripped Baelor of his traveling linen, her hands moving with a slow, meticulous caution that had taken her days to learn. He was a massive man, built for the tilt-yard, and when his right side went dead, he became as heavy as an oak log.
Before she called for Maekar, she sat on the edge of the mattress alone. Baelor’s left eye was open, hazy but deeply fixed on her face. He could not lift his hand, but his fingers twitched against the down quilt, trying to find her thigh.
”You smell of... the solar,“ Baelor whispered, his voice a broken thing, yet his dark eye shone with the remnants of the fierce, boyish charm that had won her years ago.
”The ink... and old wax. You have been... ruling in my stead, my sweet?“
”Someone must keep the scribes from stealing the silver while you rest,“ she murmured, leaning down until her lips rested against his temple, just inches above the raw, black stitches.
The skin there was burning, a dry, papery heat.
She shifted her weight, sliding her hand into his left one, intertwining their fingers. He squeezed back—not with the bone-crushing strength of the Hammer, but with a lingering, soft insistence that made her throat close with tears.
”I remember... the first tourney,“ Baelor slurred, a ghost of a smile touching the good side of his mouth.
”You wore... blue wool. You told me... if I fell to a Frey... you would marry... a stable-boy.“
”And you stayed in your saddle,“ she whispered, her voice cracking as she pressed a soft, desperate kiss into his palm, her tears wetting his rough skin.
”You always stayed in your saddle, Baelor. You must stay in it now.“
He looked at her, his gaze filled with a profound, bitter tenderness. He knew what he was now—a shattered giant, a heavy burden—and she could see the agony of that realization in the way his dark brow furrowed.
”I am trying,“ he murmured.
”But the ground... it keeps... rising to meet me.“
She pulled his left hand up to her cheek, holding it there, letting the dry warmth of his skin anchor her against the darkness of the castle.
For a long, silent moment, they were simply a husband and wife clinging to each other on the edge of a precipice, the bitter reality of his broken body balanced against the sweet, enduring memory of their youth.
Then, the darkness deepened, and she knew she could not lift him alone.
”Help me lift him, Maekar,“ she called out.
The Prince stepped out of the shadows by the hearth. He had taken off his coat, wearing now only a loose shirt of grey wool that was unbuttoned at the throat, revealing the thick, silver hair of his chest.
He kept his eyes fixed strictly on Baelor’s shoulder, his great, calloused hands sliding under his brother’s armpits with a strange, trembling gentleness.
He was intensely aware of her posture across the mattress, the way her linen shift pulled tight against her shoulder-blades as she leaned down, but he clamped his jaw shut and looked only at the dark hair of his brother’s crown.
”On three,“ she murmured, ”one. Two. Three.“
They lifted together. She caught Baelor’s hips, her muscles straining against the weight until her breath came in a short, sharp gasp. Maekar bore the brunt of it, his face flushing a dark crimson as he pulled his brother’s torso up against his own chest, holding him there like a child while she slid the soiled linen sheets from beneath him.
Baelor’s head fell back against Maekar’s shoulder. His left eye fluttered open, the pupil vast and black under the candlelight.
”Mae... kar,“ he slurred, a small trickle of grey saliva running from the dead corner of his mouth down into his dark beard.
”Good... lad. You... always... were... strong.“
Maekar did not answer. His face was a foot from his brother’s, and she could see the terrible, agonizing spasm of grief that twisted his mouth.
He held his tongue, his great arms locking around Baelor’s back to steady him while she dipped a fresh linen cloth into the basin of warm water.
”Hold him so,“ she commanded.
She began to wash him. It was a slow, sacred labor. She started with his face, avoiding the black stitches around his head, her fingers moving with a light, rhythmic stroke. She wiped the road-dust from his neck, the salt-crust from his collarbones, and the sour grease of the ointment from beneath his arms.
Every time her hand passed near Maekar’s fingers, the air between them seemed to tighten.
She could feel the heat of Maekar’s skin, the frantic, heavy thudding of his heart beneath his grey wool shirt.
He was staring at her hands—not with the casual lust of a courtier, but with a dark, horrified reverence. He watched the way she loved the man he had broken; he watched the way her fingers smoothed over the blue bruises and the green yellowing skin of Baelor’s ribs, and she could see that every stroke of her cloth was a stroke of the whip across Maekar’s conscience.
Maekar kept his gaze fixed on those fingers, his throat dry, swallowed by a deep, solitary shame because a part of him—the black, hidden depth he refused to name—wished those small, cool hands were tending to his own unbroken skin.
”He is cold,“ Maekar whispered, his voice a low vibration that made the water in the basin ripple.
”The blood does not move well on his right side,“ she said, not looking up from her work.
She rinsed the cloth in the basin, the water turning a pale, milky grey.
”We must rub his legs with mustard oil before the poppy takes him again. If the meat goes cold, it rots.“
She reached for the clay jar of oil, pouring a thick pool of the yellow liquid into her palms before rubbing them together until the scent of mustard filled the alcove, sharp and stinging to the eyes.
She began to work on Baelor’s right leg—the great, muscular thigh that had once held him firm against the charge of the rebel knights.
The muscle was soft now, loose and unresponsive beneath her palms like wet clay.
Maekar watched her. His breath was coming shorter now, his eyes tracking the way her linen shift clung to her back as she leaned over the bed, the dampness of the room pasting the dark hair to the nape of her neck.
He felt a terrible, forbidden weight settling in his gut, a solitary misery that made him want to turn his back on the room, yet he remained locked in place, his chest heaving like a blacksmith’s bellows.
”Let me,“ he growled, stepping forward until his boots clicked against the frame of the bed.
”No,“ she said, her voice sharp as a needle as she kept her back to him.
”Your hands are too rough, Maekar. You would tear the skin. Stay where you are and hold his head.“
Maekar froze, his great hands twitching at his sides, his face darkening with a mixture of anger and shame that made him look like an iron furnace about to burst.
But he did not move. He stood there in the twilight, the proxy King and the guard, while she rubbed the life back into his brother’s dead flesh.
The middle of the night was the worst hour. The tallow candles had burned down into greasy puddles of fat, leaving the solar in a dark, velvet blackness that was broken only by the pale grey light of the moon through the high windows.
Baelor had fallen into the deep, heavy sleep of the poppy, his breathing a slow, snoring rattle that sounded like a dog scratching at a door. He lay at the center of the great bed, his left hand tucked beneath his cheek, his right arm stiff and cold against the linen sheet.
She lay beside him. She had crawled into the space between his good side and the wall, her linen shift thin against her skin, her body curled into the small shape of a nesting bird.
She had spent all her life sleeping in the crook of his right arm—the big, warm arm that used to smell of leather and fresh grass, the arm that had always held her firm against the nightmares of her youth.
Now, that arm was on the wrong side of him. It lay across his chest like a dead branch, cold to the touch and rigid as stone.
She reached out in the dark, her fingers smoothing over Baelor’s chest until they found his heart. It was beating—slow, heavy, a steady thud-thud-thud that told her he was still there, trapped inside the cage of his own bone—but there was no heat in it.
The fever had left him, and with it had gone the vibrant, furnace-warmth that used to fill the bed when they had lain together as husband and wife.
She felt small. She felt cold.
Beside her, Baelor’s left eye fluttered open. The moonlight caught the wetness of his dark pupil, remarkably clear through the haze of the milk of the poppy.
”You are... awake, my sweet,“ he slurred.
The deadness on his right cheek made the words heavy, sliding out of his mouth like dry pebbles.
”I am here, Baelor,“ she whispered, shifting closer, her fingers tracing the silver threads of his lineage in his dark beard.
”I am always here.“
Baelor tried to turn his head toward her, but the heavy bandages around his skull caught against the goose-down pillow, and he let out a low, whistling gasp of pain.
”The bed... is too big,“ he murmured.
”I cannot... find your hip. My right side... it is like an old log... left in the rain.“
”Then let me be the sun,“ she said, her voice breaking slightly as she leaned over him, pressing her forehead against his good cheek.
”I will warm the wood, Baelor. We will go back to Dragonstone. The sea air will clear the rot.“
Baelor lay quiet for three slow, heavy thuds of his heart. His left hand, the only part of his upper body that still answered his mind, dragged itself across the linen sheet until his fingers hooked into the hem of her shift. His grip was weak, lacking the solid, easy confidence that had turned her ankles in the grass when they were young, but he held her with a desperate, small persistence.
”Maekar,“ Baelor whispered into the dark space between their lips.
”He is... outside the door?“
”He stands guard,“ she said, her voice turning hard and flat.
”He will stand there until you tell him to move.“
”He... he looks at me... and he sees... a ghost,“ Baelor said, a single, fat tear sliding from his left eye down into his dark hair, leaving a wet, silver track in the moonlight.
”He was always... the fourth son... my sweet. He wanted... to parry my weight... not break my crown. Do not... let the crows... eat him... while I sleep.“
”The crows will not touch him,“ she whispered, her lips brushing his forehead, tasting the salt-crust of his sweat and the bitter tang of the vinegar rinse.
”I have his chain, Baelor. I will hold him until you can lift the Hammer yourself.“
Baelor let out a low, dry sigh, his fingers slipping from her shift as the poppy took him once more, dragging him down into the grey silt where she could not follow.
She lay there against his good side, her heart hammering against her ribs, feeling the terrible, cold space that separated her from the husband she had known.
A low rustle of rushes came from the outer solar.
She sat up instantly, her hand flying to the small dagger she kept beneath her pillow, her heart hammering against her ribs like a bird in a cage.
”Who is there?“ she whispered into the dark.
The shadow that stepped into the alcove was too large to be a guard.
Maekar stood in the moonlight, his grey wool shirt unbuttoned to the waist, his silver-gold hair wild about his brow. He carried no weapon, but his fists were clenched, his violet eyes glowing like hot coals in the grey light.
He stopped at the foot of the bed, his chest heaving as if he had just run up the steps of the tower.
”He groaned,“ Maekar whispered, his voice a low, rough rasp that sounded like dry leaves scraping across stone.
”I heard him from the hall. I thought... I thought his breath had failed.“
”He is sleeping,“ she said, her voice dropping to a sharp whisper as she let her dagger fall back against the sheets.
She did not lie back down; she remained sitting on the edge of the mattress, the linen of her shift translucent in the moonlight, her bare knees visible beneath the hem.
”The poppy holds him fast. Go back to your guard, Maekar.“
Maekar did not move. He stood there at the foot of the bed, his eyes locked onto her form with a sudden, agonizing pain that made her own breath catch in her throat.
He looked at her bare knees, at the pale curve of her throat in the silver light, and the solitary misery that had been curdling in his chest for weeks finally split wide open. He did not see his brother’s queen; he saw the only living thing left in this tomb, and the hunger that gripped him was so sharp it felt like an arrow between his ribs.
”I cannot sleep,“ Maekar said, his voice dropping into a low, intimate growl that vibrated through the floorboards.
He took a step around the bedframe, moving with a heavy, deliberate slowness until he was standing a foot from her knees.
”Every time I close my eyes, I see the mace. I see his helm split like an egg. And then... then I see you, sitting in the gallery, wearing that crimson gown, looking down at me as if I were a dog that had bit its master.“
”You were a dog,“ she said, her voice cold, though her fingers tensed into the linen sheets.
”You were a brutal, clumsy beast who did not know the value of the thing he struck.“
”Then whip me,“ Maekar hissed, taking another step until his shins were pressing against the wood of the bed.
He reached out, his great, calloused hand finally coming down to lock around her bare ankle. His grip was firm, his fingers hot as irons against her cold skin, but he did not pull her. He held her there, his violet eyes burning into hers with a terrifying, absolute devotion.
”Whip me until the blood runs into my boots. But do not look at me with that coldness. Do not treat me like I am a ghost.“
She looked down at his hand on her ankle. A strange, terrifying heat flared in her gut—a sudden, violent awareness of his mass, of the sheer, primitive strength of the man who had broken her life.
She did not pull her foot away; she let his hand bide there, feeling the rough texture of his skin against hers, her anger turning from a cold bar into a hot, liquid current that ran straight up her leg.
”You are no ghost, Maekar,“ she whispered, her voice cracking with the first sign of vulnerability he had heard since he reached King’s Landing.
”A ghost would be easier to bear. You are the iron that remains in my House, and I am cursed to use you until you are blunt.“
Maekar let out a low, defeated sound—a growl that was half a sob—and dropped to his knees at the side of the bed. He did not let go of her ankle; he pressed his forehead against her bare knee, his great shoulders shaking under his linen shirt as the guilt finally broke through his iron walls.
She watched him weep at her feet and reached down, her small hand moving with a slow, deliberate caution until her fingers locked into the thick, wild curls of his hair, pulling his head closer to her shift.
Below them, Baelor snored on, his breathing a steady, safe rhythm in the dark, entirely protected by the two who feared for his life and bonded through that shared pain.
The rain came on the fourth week—a sudden, violent deluge that turned the red clay of Aegon’s Hill into a thick, bleeding mire and washed the accumulated filth of the lower city down into the Blackwater in great, stinking torrents. The heat did not leave; it simply turned into a heavy, suffocating steam that hung over the Red Keep like a wet shroud, making the candles spit and the salt in the cellars turn to grease.
She sat at the long table in Baelor’s solar, a mountain of wax-sealed parchments spread before her.
She had spent the morning reviewing the harbor dues from Oldtown and the timber reports from the Kingswood, her quill scratching a steady, relentless path through the numbers.
The doors of the solar were opened by a guard, and Brynden Rivers walked into the room.
Bloodraven had not changed his clothes since riding through the mud of the Kingsroad from the North. His long, smoky-grey cloak was stained with dark red clay around the hem, and his high leather boots left wet, grey tracks across the polished stone of the floor. His pale skin looked translucent in the grey light of the window, and the dark red birthmark that crawled up his throat looked like a fresh splash of blood against his neck.
His single red eye fixed upon her with a cold, calculating intensity that made her quill hand pause.
He did not bow. He walked to the edge of the table, his long, thin fingers resting on the back of Baelor’s empty chair.
”My Lady,“ he said, his voice a low, melodic whistle that sounded like wind through a keyhole.
”The road from the North was... long. I had heard that the court was under new management.“
”The court is under the management of the Prince of Dragonstone, Lord Brynden,“ she said, her voice cool and unyielding as she set her quill down.
”Though he is currently indisposed, his commands remain the law of the land.“
Bloodraven let out a soft, dry sound that might have been a chuckle. He looked at the parchment spread before her, his single eye taking in the numbers with a single glance.
”The commands of a man who cannot lift his chin from his chest are... difficult to interpret, My Lady. I have seen the guards at the gates. They say the Breakspear is a prisoner in his own chambers. They say the Iron Prince has taken his brother’s place—not just in the Council, but in the bed.“
The insult was a cold blade in the room.
She stood up from her chair, her movement so sudden the silver inkwell rattled against the wood. Her face went white with a blinding, lethal fury, her hands clenching into the fabric of her skirt.
„You dare speak such treason in this room, Bloodraven? I will have your tongue torn out and fed to the crows before the sun sets.“
”He will not have to wait for the sun,“ a voice roared from the entrance.
Maekar Targaryen stepped into the solar, his boots dripping with rainwater, his great sword drawn and gleaming in the grey light. His face was a mask of pure, murderous rage, his violet eyes flashing like a lightning storm.
He did not hesitate; he lunged across the room, the tip of his blade stopping a mere inch from Bloodraven’s throat.
”Say it again, sorcerer,“ Maekar hissed, his breath coming in short, violent gasps, his knuckles white around the hilt of his sword.
”Say one more word about my brother’s wife and I will see if your white skin can hold its blood.“
Bloodraven did not move. He did not flinch from the steel at his throat. His single red eye remained fixed on Maekar’s face, a cold, mocking amusement in its depths.
”Prince Maekar... you always were too quick with the iron. It is a family trait, it seems. But iron does not stop whispers. It only makes them louder.“
”I can make them quiet enough,“ Maekar growled, his blade twitching forward until a small drop of crimson blood appeared on Bloodraven’s pale neck.
”I have five thousand men in this city who answer to my name. I can clear your nest of crows before the tide turns.“
”Enough,“ she commanded.
Her voice was not loud, but it possessed a terrifying, absolute authority that made both men freeze.
She stepped around the table, her silk skirts trailing through the wet mud Bloodraven had left on the floor. She walked straight to the white-haired lord, her eyes locking onto his red eye with an icy, unblinking clarity.
”Lord Brynden,“ she said, her voice dropping to a whisper that was colder than the rain outside.
”You are the Master of Whispers because Baelor and the King chose to trust your eyes. But do not mistake his mercy for weakness. The Iron Prince stands at my right hand, and his sword answers to my voice. If I hear one more whisper of treason from your birds—if I find one single crow nesting where it does not belong—I will let Prince Maekar have his way with your throat. Do we understand each other?“
Bloodraven looked at her for a long, silent moment. The mockery left his face, replaced by a cold, calculating respect. He saw the alignment of the forces in the room—the brutal, unyielding strength of the Prince and the icy, absolute intellect of the woman who held his chain. It was a dangerous, lethal combination, one that even his magic could not easily break.
Slowly, with a stiff, formal grace, Bloodraven bowed his head.
”We understand each other, My Lady. The birds will sing only the songs you wish to hear.“
”Then get out of my sight,“ Maekar growled, his sword remaining level until Bloodraven had backed out of the solar and the doors had thudded shut behind them.
When they were alone, the silence returned to the room, heavy and thick with the scent of rain and anger. Maekar lowered his sword, his breath still coming in short, ragged gasps. He stood completely still, his jaw locked, his eyes tracking a single drop of rainwater as it slid down his blackened breastplate.
He did not say a word, but the raw tension in his wide shoulders spoke of a man suffocating under a weight he could never confess.
”Let him whisper. Let the whole world whisper for it is not true,“ she said, walking toward him until she was standing within the heat of his shadow. She reached up, her small hand resting against the wet linen of his shirt, her fingers feeling the frantic, violent hammering of his heart.
”As long as your sword remains in my hand, they cannot touch us.“
Maekar looked down at her face, his violet eyes dark, entirely silent, yet burning with a terrifying, buried hunger. He felt the pull of her presence like a madness in his veins—the forbidden, beautiful agony of being so close to the woman he worshiped, the woman that belonged to his brother.
He reached out, his great hand hovering for a second over her shoulder, completely mute, before he let it fall, his fingers locking into the fabric of her shift with a desperate, silent force.
”I am yours,“ he whispered, his voice thick with a passion that tasted of ash.
”I am yours until the world ends.“
”I know,“ she said softly, her fingers tightening around his wrist, anchoring him to her as the rain continued to lash against the high stone windows of the keep.
The fourth week brought a brief, deceptive cool spell from the bay, but inside the high towers of the Red Keep, the air remained thick with the scent of boiled herbs and the sharp tang of clean well-water.
It was the day she had chosen to bathe him. For twenty days, Baelor had known only the damp, grey misery of sponge-washings and the dry itch of the linen sheets. His skull-wound had finally sealed itself into an ugly, puckered ridge of white flesh, and the Grand Maester had given his permission for the Prince to enter the tub.
It took the strength of both of them to bring him there.
The copper tub sat at the center of the alcove, steam rising from its depths in great, twisting ribbons that smelled of pine needles and dried chamomile. Maekar stood on the right side of the bed, his great wool shirt soaked through with sweat before they had even begun, his face set like a stone wall as he slid his arms beneath Baelor’s thighs and shoulder-blades.
”Easy, brother,“ Maekar growled, his voice a low, rhythmic grunt as he lifted Baelor’s torso from the down mattress
”I have you. Do not struggle.“
Baelor did not struggle. He could not. His right side hung limp and pale against Maekar’s chest, his left hand clutching weakly at his brother’s shoulder for balance.
Something that Maekar could never have imagined happening—his strong, golden brother relying on help like a small child.
”Strong... lad,“ Baelor slurred, his dark eye blinking heavily against the steam.
”Always... the Anvil... Maekar.“
She stood at the side of the tub, her skirts tucked up into her sash, her arms bare to the elbow.
When Maekar lowered Baelor into the warm water, she was there to catch his head, her small hands supporting the shorn, scarred backside as his body settled into the copper depths with a great, sighing splash.
”You may leave us, Maekar,“ she said, not looking up from her work as she dipped a sponge into the steaming water.
Maekar did not leave. He stepped back against the stone wall, his chest heaving under his wet shirt, his violet eyes fixed on the scene before him with an intensity that felt like a physical weight in the room. He watched the way her hands moved over his brother’s flesh.
It was a slow, deliberate ritual that held no shame, only the raw, sacred intimacy of a wife reclaiming her husband from the dirt of the road. She used a cake of soft tallow soap that smelled of lavender, rubbing it into a thick, white lather between her palms before smoothing it over Baelor’s broad, scarred shoulders.
She washed his chest—the massive, hair-darkened expanse that had once turned the swords of the rebel lords. She washed his left arm, the muscles still hard and defined under the skin, and then she moved to his right side.
The contrast was small, barely visible yet terrible. The right arm was slightly smaller now, the skin pale and thin, the muscles beginning their withering from disuse like a branch that had been girdled by wire.
”It... lacks... the sun,“ Baelor whispered, his dark eye tracking her hand as she gently massaged the dead fingers, trying to force the blood back into the rigid joints.
”The sun will find it again on Dragonstone, my love,“ she murmured, her voice sweet and steady as she rinsed the lather away with a silver pitcher of warm water.
”The sea air is clean there. Not like the grease of this city.“
As she leaned over the copper rim, the thin linen of her shift became wet from the splashing, the cloth sticking to her skin until the pale curve of her ribs and the dark shadow of her spine were visible in the grey light of the window.
Maekar let out a short, sharp catch of his breath from the shadows.
She heard it. She did not turn her head, but her hand paused for a fraction of a heartbeat on Baelor’s shoulder, her own skin flushing a sudden, hot crimson beneath the damp linen.
The chemistry between her and Maekar was a living thing in the small alcove—a thick, suffocating current of yearning and guilt that seemed to rise with the steam from the water.
Maekar was watching her loving his brother, and she knew that every touch she gave Baelor was a knife she was twisting in Maekar’s heart. He wanted to be the one she washed; he wanted to be the one who lay helpless beneath her hands, yet he would rather die than betray the man who slept in the tub.
”Maekar,“ Baelor slurred, his left hand reaching out through the water until his fingers brushed the copper rim.
”The... gold cloaks... are they... firm?“
Maekar took a step out of the shadows, his face pale beneath his white beard, his eyes avoiding her wet shift with a desperate, iron effort. He forced his gaze to stick to Baelor’s face, his heart knocking violently against his ribs like a trapped beast.
”They are firm, brother,“ he said, his voice dropping into a deep, solemn register that was his only shield against the madness of his own thoughts.
”The gates are guarded by my own men from Summerhall. Lord Ambrose tried to send a courier to Oldtown this morning, but I had the rider turned back at the river gate. The Council will do nothing without our leave.“
”Good,“ Baelor breathed, his eye closing as the warmth of the water began to soothe the long, aching pain in his skull.
”Listen... to him, my sweet. He is... the iron... of our House.“
”I am listening,“ she said softly, her hand moving back to Baelor’s hair, rinsing the soap from the dark curls with a gentle, rhythmic motion that never varied. But as she did, her eyes lifted, locking onto Maekar’s face through the ribbons of steam.
There was no anger in her gaze now—the fury had burned itself down. She saw the raw, absolute devotion in his violet eyes, the way he stood like an iron pillar at the foot of his brother’s bath, ready to break the world if she gave the word.
She had bound him to her wheel, and as she watched the muscle in his jaw twitch in response to her gaze, she knew that the Iron of Summerhall would never run from her again.
The fifth week brought a heavy, suffocating stillness over the city, the air thick with a premonition that made the horses in the stables kick at their stalls. The wind from the south tasted of sulfur, and the ravens coming from the Reach carried whispers of an unnatural blight creeping through the border towns.
She stood in Baelor’s solar, watching her sons.
Valarr was polishing the crossguard of his sword, his jaw tight, while Matarys sat at the small side table, nervously rolling a dragon piece between his fingers.
They were young, but they were not blind. They could feel the invisible threads tightening around the castle.
”We are leaving,“ she said, her voice cutting through the silence of the room like a cold blade.
Valarr looked up, his brow furrowed.
”Leaving, Mother? Grandfather has just called for the autumn ledgers. He expects us at the morning court. And Matarys was to ride with the Gold Cloaks on the morrow.“
”Matarys will ride nowhere but to the docks,“ she said, turning her gaze upon her youngest, whose purple eyes went wide.
”The fogs in the lower town are thickening, and the air in this keep has turned sour. I will not have my sons waiting in the shadow of this Throne until the Council determines how to carve up your father’s inheritance.“
The door opened, and Maekar entered. He was dressed for travel, his dark charcoal doublet buttoned to the chin, a long leather riding cloak over his shoulders. His face was gaunt, but his eyes were hard and fixed on her.
”The Black Betha has taken her water,“ Maekar said, his voice a low vibration that made Matarys rise from his chair.
”The captain has set the watch. If we are to move him, it must be before the evening guard changes at the sally-port. Bloodraven’s men have been sniffing around the lower wharves since noon.“
Valarr stood, his hand resting on his pommel. He looked from his mother to his uncle, a sudden, sharp understanding dawning in his dark eyes. He saw the alignment between them—the raw, physical weight of the Prince and the absolute, icy clarity of his mother.
”You are taking him to Dragonstone. Without the King’s leave.“
”Your grandfather is old, Valarr, and his eyes see only the peace of yesterday,“ she said, walking over to press her hands against her eldest son’s shoulders.
”Dragonstone is your father’s seat. It is the only place where the stone is thick enough to keep out the vipers of this court.“
She paused, looking down at the heavy gold signet ring on Baelor’s desk.
”But you two must remain. For now.“
Valarr’s jaw tightened, his hand dropping from his pommel.
”Remain? Mother, if the city is souring, our place is by his litter.“
”No,“ she said, her voice dropping into a whisper.
”The court expects you both to take your places at the Council table on the morrow. If all of us vanish into the bay before the sun sets, Bloodraven will have the city gates closed before our hull clears the harbor. You and your brother carry the full face of the succession. By staying, you draw their eyes away from the sally-port. You protect him by letting them see you.“
Valarr stared at his mother, searching for a jest in her features—but there was none. The fierce, dark pride of the Breakspear flared in his eyes, but he bowed his head.
”I understand, Mother. We will hold the yard until the tide turns. Matarys, polish your greaves.“
”And you?“ Maekar whispered, his voice dropping into a low, intimate rasp that was meant for her ears alone. He stepped closer, his presence a dark, suffocating force that filled the space between them.
”If I take the tiller... if I carry your House across the water... will you bide by my side when the King’s grace demands our return?“
”The King will not demand it, Maekar,“ she whispered back, her fingers reaching out to lock around his bare wrist, feeling the frantic, heavy pulse beneath his skin.
”He is too old to chase Dragons. We are the iron that remains. Let them stay in their palace until the winter takes them.“
The sally-port was a narrow, dripping cleft in the red stone of the cliff face, leading down to the private wharves beneath the King’s steps. The rain was falling in great, silent sheets that turned the Blackwater into a grey, churning soup, the air thick with the smell of old salt and the rising fog from the bay.
They moved in perfect silence. Maekar walked at the head of the line, his great shield slung across his back, his drawn sword gleaming in the pale lantern light.
Behind him came the four guards from Summerhall, their boots wrapped in rags to deaden the sound of their steps against the wet stone, bearing Baelor’s litter between them.
She walked beside the mattress, her long crimson cloak wrapped tight around her shift, her hand resting on Baelor’s left shoulder to steady him against the rocking of the path. Her heart ached with the weight of the two sons she had left behind to hold the court’s attention.
Baelor was conscious, his dark eye blinking heavily against the rain that drifted through the archway, his left hand clutching weakly at the fur of her collar.
”Clean... air,“ he slurred, his voice a thick whisper that was nearly lost in the rushing of the tide below.
”My... sweet. We... are going... to the sea?“
”Yes, my love,“ she murmured, leaning low over the litter until her wet hair brushed his forehead.
”We are going to Dragonstone. The stone is old there, and the wind is clean.“
Baelor let out a low, satisfied sound, his eye closing as the salt breeze began to clear his lungs of the heavy grease of the Capital.
”Good,“ he breathed.
”Maekar... is he... with us?“
”I am here, brother,“ Maekar said from the front of the line, not turning his head as his eyes scanned the dark mouth of the wharf below. His voice was a solid bar of iron in the night, a reassuring shield that broke the terror of the dark.
”The ship is ready. The lines are cast.“
The Black Betha lay against the stone pier like a long, black water-beetle, her single mast stepping into the grey sky, her sails furled tight against the rain. The captain stood at the gangway, his face hidden beneath a wet leather hood, his hand resting on the rail as he watched the Prince’s guard approach.
”Quickly,“ she commanded, her voice a low, sharp whistle that made the bearers quicken their pace.
They transferred the litter across the narrow wood of the gangway, Maekar standing at the center of the rail to steady the ash-poles with his own massive hands. Once the mattress was safely settled in the small deck cabin, she stepped inside, leaving Maekar to guard the deck.
The cabin was cramped, smelling faintly of old tallow and sea salt. Baelor lay beneath a mountain of dry wool, the rocking of the swell rolling him gently against the wooden partition.
He looked up as she entered, his dark eye remarkably clear in the amber glow of the small whale-oil lamp swinging from the rafter.
”Come... closer,“ Baelor whispered. The slurring was lighter now, smoothed out by the sharp, clean scent of the saltwater.
She did not hesitate. She shed her heavy, wet crimson cloak, letting it drop to the floorboards, and stripped away the damp, salt-filmed shift until she stood bare in the amber twilight of the cabin.
When she crawled onto the narrow berth beside him, the space was so tiny that her skin pressed flush against his good left side. She tucked her head beneath his chin, but she did not remain still.
She needed the heat of him; she needed to drown out the memory of Maekar’s iron grip and Bloodraven’s pale, mocking eye.
Baelor let out a long, shuddering sigh, his left arm coming up to wrap tightly around her shoulders, pulling her so close she could feel the steady, heavy thudding of his heart beneath his wool shirt.
”You are... cold,“ he murmured, his lips brushing the crown of her damp hair.
”I have been cold since you returned from Ashford, Baelor,“ she whispered against his collarbone, her fingers working the laces of his tunic. She pulled the linen apart, exposing the broad, sun-darkened expanse of his chest. She wanted him bare, stripped of the Prince and the tragedy, down to the raw, heavy mass of the husband she knew.
”I know,“ he said, his voice dropping into a soft, aching register that made her eyes burn. He turned his face into her hair, inhaling deeply.
”I know what... I have given you. A broken knight... a half-dead Prince to drag across the Kingdoms. It is a... bitter gift, my sweet.“
”It is the only gift I want,“ she said fiercely, lifting her head to look into his dark eyes.
She shifted her weight, sliding her thigh over his left hip. Because his right side lay dead and unresponsive under the wool, she took the full burden of their mass, straddling him with a slow, deliberate caution.
Baelor’s left hand—the big, scarred hand that had held shields and broken vanguards—slid down the curve of her spine, his fingers heavy and warm as they dug into the flesh of her hip, pulling her down against him.
”I cannot... lift you,“ he whispered, a sudden, dark frustration flashing in his good eye as his rigid right arm trapped him against the bedding.
”I cannot... hold your waist, my sweet.“
”You do not have to lift me,“ she murmured, her lips brushing his jaw, tasting the salt-crust of his sweat.
”I am here. I have you.“
She guided his left hand between them, her own fingers locking with his as she pressed his palm against the warm, damp junction of her thighs.
She was already slick, her body responding to the desperate, terrifying proximity of him, the sheer relief of his living skin after weeks of stone and silence.
Baelor let out a low, thick groan, his thumb catching the small, sensitive bud of her flesh, stroking with a clumsy, heavy insistence that sent a sharp, liquid ache straight up into her belly.
She lifted her hips, her dark hair falling forward to veil their faces as she positioned herself over him. Slowly, with a steady, unyielding downward pressure, she took him inside her.
The fullness of him was a sudden, breathless shock—the familiar, furnace-warmth of his body stretching her, filling the cold void that had settled behind her ribs since Ashford. Baelor’s breath caught, a hot, ragged gasp against her neck as his left hand gripped her thigh so hard his knuckles turned white.
”Baelor,“ she gasped, her hands planting flat against his chest for balance as she began to move.
The rocking of the Black Betha dictated their rhythm, the heavy creak of the hull beneath them matching the slow, deep slide of her hips.
She set the pace, shifting her weight to accommodate his ruined side, her skin slicking with sweat as the heat in the small cabin turned suffocating and thick. Every downward stroke brought a low rumble from Baelor’s throat, his chest heaving under her palms, his left leg flexing against the mattress to meet her thrusts.
It was a beautiful, heartbreaking coupling—lacking the easy, sweeping vigor of their youth in the grass of the Reach, but weighted with a fierce, territorial hunger. With every heavy, sliding friction of their skin, she was clawing him back from the grave, asserting her right over his flesh against the Gods who had tried to split his skull.
Baelor’s dark eye remained locked onto hers, wide and burning through the amber haze of the whale-oil lamp. He watched her mouth, his lips parting as the friction mounted, his left hand sliding up from her thigh to lock into her hair, pulling her down for a deep, desperate kiss that tasted of salt and old devotion.
The end came with a sudden, rolling swell of the bay. She drove down hard against him, her internal muscles clamping tight around his length as a violent, shivering release shattered through her lower belly. She let out a sharp, crying gasp against his mouth, her forehead dropping to his shoulder as Baelor stiffened beneath her, his left hand wrenching her hair as he spent himself deep within her with a low, defeated growl that shook his entire frame.
They lay tangled together in the aftermath, the rhythmic thudding of their hearts slowing to match the roll of the sea. She did not move off him, remaining curled against his good left side, her skin cooling in the draft from the deck.
Baelor’s left arm wrapped tight around her waist, holding her to his chest as if the world outside the cabin door did not exist.
Outside, Maekar stood on the open deck, the rain plastering his hair to his brow, his wool shirt soaked through until it looked like a second skin across his chest.
He carried no shield now; his hand rested on the rail, his knuckles white against the dark oak, his eyes fixed resolutely on the black, empty mouth of the bay.
He could hear the low, muffled murmur of their voices through the thin timbers of the cabin below—the soft, intimate sounds of a husband and wife finding each other in the dark.
He did not speak. He did not let out a single groan. He simply stood there like an iron pillar in the storm, his violet eyes burning with a solitary, absolute devotion that required no words, a shield that would break the world before it let the night touch them.
The Black Betha began to drift away from the stone pier, out into the deep, grey waters of the bay, while behind them, the red towers of the Keep faded into the silent grey horizon, leaving the sons to navigate the storm while the Anvil slipped out to sea to protect the weakened Hammer from the oncoming storm that was knocking on the gates of King’s Landing in the form of a sickness.
A/N: god bless the people of tumblr for letting my freak brain work! (Also thank you to @vhagars-dementia and @myladyship for their exchange bc this would not have existed without that)
Edit: Here is a part 2!
Summary: Dunk meets what looks like Egg’s sister for the first time. Key words: looks like.
Note: This is a perfectly happy world where nothing bad ever happens and Dunk just finds out that Egg is the prince and that’s that.
Word count: ~2.5k
Tags: 18+/MDNI, she/her pronouns, AFAB reader, (significant) age gap, younger!reader (20s), never proofread, (please let me know if I missed any)
Disclaimer: I do not own any ‘A Knight of the Seven Kingdoms’ characters. I do not claim to own any of the ‘A Knight of the Seven Kingdoms’ characters. I do not own any pictures used nor do I claim to do so.
Always appreciate comments, likes, and reblogs :)
Dunk didn’t really meet you when he first met you. It was in a tent full of revelers at the Ashford Tourney, celebrating a successful event despite the bumps along the way. He had discovered Egg’s parentage now, was far too aware of what that meant, and was suddenly attempting to mind his P’s and Q’s in the company of the royal family (though Egg much preferred exploring without their involvement anyway…).
The tent was immensely large, perhaps Lyonel Baratheon’s again, or some other lord that he could not remember the name of, and Egg was finally enjoying being a boy for once while Dunk indulged in the food and drink. Men and women of every station were dotted around, some beginning to dance with the music, while others sat at tables or simply milled about with their wines and ales.
“Egg!” Came a high-pitched call across the space, a young woman appearing from the crowd and beaming at the little boy. Dunk watched you quickly bend to hug Egg, petting his head a little and pinching his cheek as he huffed and whined and tried to pull out of your grip. You did not relent until he allowed you to press an obnoxious kiss to his little cheek (which he promptly wiped away despite the big smile stretching his lips) and then stood back up to continue speaking to him.
You were dressed in the signature Targaryen red and black, a beautiful dress to be sure, but Dunk stayed back while keeping an eye on the boy. You were surely someone from his family, someone he knew well, and Dunk had had enough of making bad impressions on royalty for a lifetime. But you did have a very pretty smile, so easy and gleaming, and immensely kind. It was a kind smile to be sure. And your hair was beautiful, falling as it did as you bent down to laugh with Egg.
It was clear that Egg was fond of you, the way he fidgeted in front of you and talked animatedly, how comfortable he seemed to grab your arms and hands or to jump about or even just to grip at your skirts for your attention. And you seemed so sweet the way your attention never wavered from the boy, allowing him to speak as much as he wanted.
Dunk felt his cheeks turning pink and he forced himself to look away, taking a long gulp from his pint of ale and shoving more food into his mouth. Then you were looking in his direction as Egg pointed, your pretty eyes a little wide as your mouth opened and you nodded at whatever Egg was saying to you. Dunk turned fully red then, pointing at himself as both you and Egg smiled in his direction, his cheeks puffed out and full of pastry. Both of you laughed a little and shook your heads, but you did raise your hand to wave at him, a small motion, before refocusing on Egg.
Dunk swallowed, his heart racing, and he wanted to vomit everything he had eaten in the corner. Instead he chugged more ale. What could Egg possibly be saying about him to you? You, with your beautiful face and your beautiful smile… A little sigh whooshed from Dunk.
Dunk watched you bend down and press a kiss to the top of Egg’s head, rubbing your thumb over his cheek then waving goodbye. You turned back to smile in his own direction, giggling a little as he could only offer you another wide-eyed look, before disappearing into the crowd once more.
Egg returned to Dunk’s side, grimacing as he sipped from his own glass of ale, letting out a little ‘ugh’ noise but not putting it down either. Dunk didn’t say anything about the interaction he had witnessed, not wanting to seem too interested in you. Heaven forbid he somehow indirectly insults a princess. Because surely you were one of the sisters Egg had mentioned before, whose names he could unfortunately never manage to keep track of… But you were definitely his sister, all signs pointed to it. You were young, blessedly pretty, extremely comfortable with the boy, and he with you, and did Dunk mention how gorgeous you were? Yes, you must be a sister.
Dunk, his head far above others, was at an advantage when it came to people watching. He was able to spot heads in the crowd, simply because he was above it, and now that he knew what yours looked like, it was easy to find with his eyes. You had not gone very far, stopped in conversation with some noblewoman, and Dunk’s eyes remained fixed on you, watching the movement of your dress, your face, your hands as you spoke.
“What are you looking at, Ser?” Egg asked when Dunk remained silent, his eyes fixed on some distant point.
“What?” Dunk asked dazedly, glancing down to Egg for a second before returning his gaze to you. ‘
“I asked what you were looking at, Ser,” Egg repeated, climbing up to sit on the tabletop that Dunk was leaned back against. He followed Dunk’s gaze to you, and then looked back to Dunk who, despite drinking from his cup, was still watching you. Egg sighed, long and low and shook his head. “Do not even think about it, Ser.”
Dunk jumped at that, snapping his head to face Egg, then furrowing his brow at the young boy.
“Think about what?” He asked defensively, shifting a little uncomfortably and shoving the last bit of his handpie into his mouth.
“Do not even think about it,” Egg repeated simply, shaking his head and giving Dunk a warning glare. The knight just scoffed, shaking his head and averting his gaze to the people beginning to dance, but Egg knew better. He didn’t say anything else and allowed Dunk to be distracted.
Prince Maekar paced slowly to the window, then back along the front of the room, sighing a little. Baelor sat behind the table, occasionally flitting his eyes up to his brother before suppressing his smile and looking back down to the book laid out in front of him. Maekar grunted with annoyance then set himself down in the chair to the side of the table he had previously occupied, groaning loudly as if he was a man much older in age.
You entered first, smiling at Maekar as his gaze flicked to your face and his expression smoothed out a little. You were wearing a pretty red dress, the fabric moving and shifting with each step, and your hair was beautifully done as it always was. You bowed your head in Baelor’s direction, the man nodding in return, and made your way straight over to Maekar’s chair. Before the man could open his mouth to greet you, Egg came rushing in, the giant hedge knight hesitantly lumbering in behind him.
“Father, Y/n,” Egg greeted quickly, before bowing to Baelor. Behind him Dunk did the same, bowing low at the waist with a quiet ‘your highnesses’. Maekar grimaced a little but said nothing else. He did not understand why his son chose a hedge knight as his companion, but after some choice words you had aimed his way he allowed it.
“How have you spent your day, Egg?” You asked, leaning casually against Maekar’s chair.
Baelor and Maekar were waiting for other lords to come join them, and Egg had thought it was a good time to show his face to his father and you, a condition his father had implemented after his disappearing act.
“We have perused the market and looked after the horses,” Egg told you succinctly, but there was a glint of pride in his eyes that made your smile turn tender.
Dunk found it immensely difficult to keep his eyes off you. Each time he forced them back to the floor or to Egg, they somehow strayed their way back to you. He watched you smile at the boy, watched you drop a hand onto Maekar’s shoulder, and he almost smiled. You must be close with your father and your family, perhaps the only one based on what he had heard of the Targaryens.
Maekar watched the hedge knight watch you, and his face began descending into a scowl. What the fuck was the man so interested in? He sat straighter in his seat as Egg hummed, yappering on to you about something else you had asked about.
“...we had fun though, didn’t we Ser Duncan?” The boy asked, turning to look up at Dunk with his big blue eyes. Dunk froze a little, feeling unfairly exposed.
“Huh? Oh, yes, yes, we surely did,” he answered, offering you and Maekar a pursed lip smile, and you just giggled.
“Alright, we’ll be off then,” Egg finally chirped, wanting to have a go on the horse the way Dunk had promised.
“Do not fucking disappear again,” Maekar said sternly, glaring a little at the sheepish boy as he nodded. You cleared your throat, whacking the prince on the shoulder a little before turning to the pair.
“Stay close to Ser Duncan, alright? And if you need absolutely anything, come find one of us. And do not bother Ser Duncan too much.” You smiled fondly at the boy before turning your eyes to Dunk. “Take care of our boy, Ser Duncan, please. And the same sentiment goes for you as well, if you need aid for whatever reason, we will gladly help.” Maekar grunted at that, scowling at the table, but Dunk was undeterred, beamingly shyly at you as he nodded his head.
“Thank you, my lady, that is far too kind for me. If I can ever be of service-”
“Yes, yes, we all know how long your thanks can go, be off now,” Maekar interjected, leaning back in his seat again and waiting patiently for them to leave so he could place his attention on you once again.
“Of course, my prince,” Dunk said hurriedly, bowing his head before he glanced between you and then said, “and might I add, your daughter is very beautiful.”
Everyone froze at that. Egg paused, his mouth dropping open and eyes widening as he tilted up to stare at Dunk. Baelor lifted his head from the book, and though his expression remained unchanged, he looked at Ser Duncan with eyes that shined with mirth. A sharp giggling sound left your mouth and you smacked your palm over your lips, your eyes bright and wide as your breath quickened.
Maekar tilted his head, leaning forward in his seat as his expression morphed from one of shock to incredulous anger. His brows furrowed and there was the power of a thousand dragons in the fire of his glare.
“She is my fucking wife, you oaf,” Maekar spat, readying to stand up and knock the giant knight down before your soft laughs reached his ears. You had moved forward to lean your hip against his shoulder, but you were bent over now, draping your arms over his shoulders and holding him there.
Dunk turned bright red, the shame and mortification burning in his face. He stared at the two of you wide-eyed, you trying to control your insensible laughter and your husband at the same time. The prince looked ready to stick his sword through Dunk. One glance at Prince Baelor told the knight that he too was holding in his laughter, a look of sympathetic knowing offered to Dunk. Egg had his hands slapped to his mouth, his little childish giggles falling through despite his attempts to hide.
Dunk was frozen for a moment more before he threw himself down onto one knee in front of you both, eyes clenched shut and one hand wrapped tightly around the hilt of his sword, his head bowed toward the floor.
“I am so so sorry, your graces. My deepest and sincerest apologies. I have never mastered the skill of keeping my foot from my mouth. I cannot apologise enough.”
Maekar had settled back into the chair now (only because your weight was keeping him there and he did not want to disturb you). You had perched yourself precariously on the armrest of his chair, draping your legs over his knees and one arm on his shoulders. Your face was bright with your laughter and you still trembled a little with it.
“It is alright, Ser Duncan, an honest mistake, of course,” you answered, waving your hand in the air.
“Of course,” he repeated vehemently, nodding his head harshly.
“Rise, and get the fuck out of my sight,” Maekar spat angrily then, waving one hand at Ser Duncan as the other threaded around your back to wrap his arm around your waist and tug you into his lap.
Dunk needed no more invitation and turned swiftly on his heel, practically running out with Egg in tow. He caught the tail end of your squeal as you fell into Maekar’s lap and your renewed fit of giggles.
You shifted to sit at an angle on Maekar’s lap, looking into his face as your smile stretched your lips wide and your giggles shook you. Even Baelor began to chuckle quietly, ignoring the glare his younger brother shot at him at the sound. Maekar tightened his arm around your waist and leaned back, his countenance thunderous.
“‘And might I add, your daughter is very beautiful,’” you imitated, deepening your voice and then laughing uncontrollably. “Shall I take that as a compliment that I look beautiful and youthful, or should you take it as an insult that you look old?” You squealed out between laughs, dissolving into another fit as Maekar glared and pinched you on the arse over your dress. You jumped but could not stop laughing. Baelor turned his face away though his own amusement had not abated.
“Yes, yes, continue laughing, wife,” Maekar grumbled threateningly, but you just leaned back a little and cupped his cheek, beaming mischievously at him as you petted his beard.
“‘Tis no secret that I am both much younger than you and your second wife,” you told him knowingly, a little breathless. He huffed, pulling you a little closer. “You can forgive the hedge knight for being a bit airheaded.”
“Come now brother, the man did not know,” Baelor placated, smiling at you as well.
“Yes, that was very fucking clear,” Maekar responded angrily, grinding his jaw a little. It went quiet for a few moments, and you could practically see the smoke still coming out of his ears. “My fucking daughter…” he grumbled, a fist tightening into the pile of your skirts on your legs.
“Hush now,” you finally admonished, having caught your breath. “Do not be so sour, you know I hate to see you this way,” and you gave him that soft smile of yours that made him melt in your hands before cupping his cheek and leaning down to press a lingering kiss on his mouth. Baelor grimaced and turned away from the two of you.
A/N: I am absolutely in love with @idksmtms's fics of Maekar having a young wife whom Dunk confuses with his daughter, and I just kept thinking about how Baelor would react if it happened to him 😭 so I wrote this. Special thanks to @vhagars-dementia for constantly blessing this fandom with her ideas!!! I dedicate this to you <3 And to all my Baelor enthusiasts.
— summary: ser duncan the tall thinks you're just a beautiful girl close to his own age, but his innocence is his undoing when he mistakes you for just another targaryen cousin. the only problem? you are actually the lady of dragonstone and baelor’s wife.
— pairing: baelor targaryen x wife!reader
— word count: 2k
— content: controversial young wife!reader, age gap, humor, mentions of reader's hair length, jealous!baelor, implicit sexual references, pda.
⋆ . ۰˚ ౨ৎ ── series masterlist with different characters’ versions: here!
The hedge knight spends more time than ever with the family, forever trailing after Aegon like a loyal hound, laughing, jesting, and, above all, eating.
It was only to be expected that the prince would invite his dear friend to the feast held at Dragonstone for the celebration of your name day. Your husband, Baelor, had prepared a banquet worthy of you, with an enormous cake and hundreds of servants rushing frantically through the castle, adorning the halls with flowers and colors chosen to your liking. He knew you exceptionally well, so it had been easy for him to decorate precisely how you'd like.
You had told him, of course, that such splendor was unnecessary, that a small supper with the family would have more than sufficed. Yet Baelor delighted in spoiling you, for you were the finest blessing he had been granted in a lot of time.
Whenever Ser Duncan the Tall found himself in your presence, he devoted most of his time to watch you from afar—seeing you laugh beside Baelor, play with Egg, or even speak comfortably with Prince Aerion. Your presence was nothing short of glorious, a magnet for eyes and devotion wherever you went. Your nature was exquisite—kind, gentle, and so unbearably sweet that at times Dunk thought you could scarce be of the same blood as the rest of them.
And your beauty… that was another matter entirely. You were the loveliest sight the humble eyes of a hedge knight had ever beheld. Your form was wondrous, your face celestial, your long hair falling over your shoulders like a silken cascade, and your smile... it stole the very breath from his chest every time. Each time you entered his sight, a sigh would just escape out of him, soft and helpless, like a boy hopelessly in love.
“Do not even think it, Dunk,” Egg warns him, as he had more than once before, quick to notice the besotted look upon his big friend’s face as they sat together at the table. “That's out of your power to reach, Ser.”
But Dunk does not answer. He is far too intent upon you as you appear in the great hall’s doorway.
Today you wear a gown of red, dazzling, adorned with pearls and white embroidery that spreads across your bodice, climbs your shoulders, and trails down the length of your spine, where darker crimson stitching forms the likeness of dragon scales. Your hair lies loose down your back, softly waved, gleaming in the candlelight.
All rise at your entrance.
Dunk is the last. He nearly stumbles over his chair in his haste, its legs scraping loudly against the stone floor as he shoves it back. That alone—and you—turn him red as a summer apple.
Valarr, seated at his other side, watches his brutish motion with poorly hidden amusement.
“My love,” Baelor calls first, his face gentle as drifting clouds, fondness curving his lips as he comes to greet you properly. “Happy name day.”
You accept his embrace, smiling as he presses a tender kiss to your hair.
After him, the others come in turn, forming a line to offer their wishes, their thanks, their gifts—small tokens and letters placed into your hands.
Egg flings himself into your arms, making you laugh and sway back a step beneath the force of him. Baelor, standing close at your side, smiles at the sight. Ever tender are you with the younglings, and for that, he loves you all the more. You shower his children with a devotion so maternal and steadfast that one would never guess they did not spring from your own womb.
“Thank you, my sweet Aegon,” you tell him, stroking the fine, pale silver-gold hair already sprouting upon his head. The boy had even brought you a flower—one of those you cherished most, a silent token of his affection.
Duncan feels painfully out of place when his turn comes. Standing empty-handed while his stomach twists into a tight, miserable knot.
He is already flushed when you lift your gaze to him, your eyes sparkling with amusement at the familiar effect you have upon him—his trembling hands, his stammer, his shy smiles. He's so cute!
“Ser Duncan. I hope you would be here,” you greet him warmly, you know well the bond he shares with Aegon; to have him present is a comfort to your heart. “Aegon speaks wonders of you. It does not surprise me to see you have become each other's shadow.”
“My lady,” Dunk answers you, his voice no louder than a mouse’s squeak. His gaze, much against his better judgment, betrays him, making a swift, helpless journey over the length of your body.
And Baelor notices, of course; his smile fades, slow and certain, as he watches the knight’s every movement like a hawk perched upon your shoulder. A single brow lifts slightly, and a deep, thoughtful furrow begins to cloud his brow.
Duncan clears his throat and casts your husband an apologetic glance before daring to look at you again. “I— I beg your pardon. I would not wish to be an intrusion upon your name day. Your father was kind enough to grant me to attend.”
The hall falls into sepulchral silence. The small conversations that bloom among the Targaryens die at once when Dunk’s words echo through the great chamber, their meaning plain, their offense unmistakable and unashamed. Even the youngest cease their play, and the servants stand frozen right where they are.
All turn to stare at Duncan now, and they look upon him with mortified eyes, as though none dare breathe.
Somewhere, someone fails to smother a laugh—most likely Aerion.
Egg’s mouth falls open in mortification. He looks up at his friend, his expression stricken, willing him to understand—to see—that what he has just said is wrong. Very wrong.
Duncan looks down at him when his small squire gives his shin a furtive kick, meant to draw his notice without the others seeing. He frowns, bewildered, not understanding what offense he has given now to deserve such a blow.
And when he looks back to the grown folk, he finds you watching him with an expression poised in perfect balance between horror and amusement. There is even the faintest hint of a smile at the corner of your lips, one you must press away when you turn your head toward your prince.
Baelor does not look pleased as you do.
His face is uncommonly stern, his brow drawn tight, his lips pressed into a hard, unforgiving line, he is trying to gather every shred of his restraint to keep from striking the foolish knight upon your name day.
“She is my wife, Ser Duncan,” he clarifies, his patience stretched thin, drawn so taut it borders upon offense. His hand comes to curl around your waist as you lean into him, lifting one hand to his chest in quiet reassurance.
You are still trying to hide that treacherous, amused smile.
“Oh—Seven—” Dunk breathes, realization striking him at last. He drops at once to his knees, bowing his head in reverence and shame. “I beg your forgiveness, Your Grace. I—I did not know. My manners are poor—you must understand, I never m–meant offense.”
“Of course not, Ser,” you reply kindly, looking down at him, still leaning against your husband’s chest. He lets out a soft sigh beneath your touch, your hand rising and falling with the steady motion of his breath.
Baelor makes a sharp, dismissive gesture for him to rise. “See that it does not happen again.”
“Of course!” Dunk scrambles to his feet at once, his face burning red with shame. “I only meant that she is so young and beautiful, and you—”
His frantic blue eyes fall upon Valarr, standing just behind his father. The prince shakes his head swiftly, his mismatched eyes widening in urgent warning, bidding him to hold his tongue.
Dunk obeys at once and his jaw snaps shut so hard it almost snaps apart.
“You witless boy,” Maekar rebukes him, his face twisted with disgust and disdain when the hedge knight dares glance his way, standing at your side like some old, ill-tempered hound. “That should cost you your fucking tongue.”
Your soft laughter breaks through the tension of the moment, and all turn to look at you, the heavy air easing when they all realize this offends you not half so deeply as it does them.
“I am certain Ser Duncan meant no malice, Maekar,” you say, seeking to soothe them—most of all your husband. “And I should not like to see any tongues torn out upon my name day, please.”
Baelor’s gaze remains fixed upon the mortified knight, his hand coming to rest upon the pommel of his sword—a blade he carries in quiet defiance of your pleas to remain unarmed this day. He thinks, perhaps, that he shall have a use for it against Ser Duncan.
“... shall we eat at last, then?” Comes Daeron’s unmistakable voice from somewhere within the hall. “I am hungry. And thirsty.”
“Of that, none have any doubt,” Maekar mutters, rolling his eyes as he returns to the table.
The others follow in his wake, granting you and your husband a moment alone.
Ser Duncan gives you another quick, apologetic bow before hastening out from beneath your husband’s gaze.
You cannot hold it any longer.
A breath of laughter escapes you, soft and bright, and you turn in Baelor’s arms to face him fully.
He is still watching the place where Duncan stood, his jaw tight, his shoulders rigid beneath your touch, as if the insult lingers in the air like a foul smell.
Your fingers curl more firmly into the front of his doublet to call for his attention.
“My prince,” you whisper with a smile when his two-toned eyes finally meet yours. “My heart...”
You rise onto your toes and press a gentle kiss to his cheek, his beard tickling against your skin. His body noticeably softens beneath your warm affection.
Another kiss follows, softer still, at the corner of his mouth.
And one more, sweet and lingering, upon his lips.
“Peace,” you plead humorously against his mouth, your fingers toying idly with the Hand of the King’s badge on his chest. “You look as though you mean to challenge the poor knight to single combat over a slip of the tongue, my love.”
“I am not amused,” he manifests, his tone remarkably sullen, yet you press another loving kiss to his lips to chase away his pettish little pout.
“No?” You lean closer, your voice drops into something more playful and teasing, “is it because he thinks you're old, husband?”
His lips tremble at your words, holding back an ironic smile, and his hands tighten at your waist, pulling you closer against him.
Baelor clicks his tongue, and your gaze falls to his lips as he does. “I am not old.”
“Well, considering my own age... truthfully, you are a bit older,” you continue to tease him, biting back a small laugh at his startled reaction. “Should I begin calling you father now, hm?”
His beautiful eyes narrow.
You grin—and steal another quick kiss before he can protest.
“Do not push your luck, wife,” he warns all the same, a playful little smile curving his lips. His hand slides down to the small of your back before he delivers a sharp, scolding swat to your backside, making you jolt lightly against him.
His brow arches slightly. “You are the only one left breathless and trembling like some frail, ancient little thing. Or must I remind you how you clung to me the other night and begged me to—?”
Your hand flies to his mouth, covering it before he can utter another word.
“My prince,” you hiss under your breath, though laughter trembles in your voice, your eyes wide with scandalized amusement. “You grow bold. We are in a hall full of eyes, and your sons sit but a stone's throw away.”
His lips move against your palm, pressing a lingering, heated kiss there that sends a shiver down your spine. Baelor gently pulls your hand away, though he does not let go of your fingers, his thumb stroking your knuckles with a slow, possessive rhythm, grazing your betrothal ring.
“Let them look,” he dismisses, leaning into you to kiss your lips properly, claiming them. And claiming you.
The heated kiss, at last, forces Duncan’s eyes away from you, and Baelor smiles against your mouth as he watches him behind you, finally closing his own eyes to savor the honeyed sweetness of your kiss.
