BANE OF DUTY ✧ duke!baelor targaryen x bene gesserit!reader
synopsis: when you are sent off to become the concubine of house targaryen, your first exchange with your future duke goes nowhere near expected.
warnings: reader is essentially young lady jessica and baelor is leto, slightly anxious reader, technically legal human trafficking ?? canon bene gesserit and dune philosophy lol
word count: 1.2k (was supposed to be a longer fic but it just ended up being a very short oneshot so whatever)
a/n: my dunerotted brain needed this fic so bad omg, this has been sitting in my draft for ages because i thought it would be more elaborate but here we are !! anyway i’d be very glad to discuss this little au in my inbox if anyone wants to <3
You are husband and wife in everything but title and law.
The first time you meet him, you are trembling to the very marrow of your bones. Your muscles are pulled taut, and your spine is a sharp, rigid, immobile line. The dark veil obscuring your vision had been more than mere silk that day, it had been your armor, your only protection against the piercing gaze of the Duke— your Duke now.
You could feel the stutter in your pulse, the betrayal in the air. Your Bene Gesserit sisters standing in a half-moon formation behind you, communicating in the silent language of their fingers.
"… one of our finest pupils." Those were the last words you registered, spoken by the Reverened Mother in that casual detached manner. She was standing a few paces ahead of you, describing you like cattle, handing you off like some prized broodmare. A vessel trained for obedience and breeding.
You should have been feeling honored. You should have felt grateful for having been chosen as an asset in the Missionaria Protectiva— the Great Weave. For the opportunity to be a part of something far greater than yourself. For helping bring about an enlightened mind, one capable of breeching the very bridge between time and space, the Kwisatzch Haderach.
Instead all you felt was a dull, sharp throb blooming behind your eyes, and a cold dread seeping into your bones.
The air you were inhaling felt more burnt than one would have anticipated; the volcanic core of the planet manifesting into an everpresent smell of char and smog in the oxygen. Tiny droplets of sea sprinkles still clung to your black shroud from when you stepped into the open air of Dragonstone, offering a strange form of saline baptism.
The Reverened Mother’s hawk-like gaze turned to you quietly, awaiting the pleasantries and greetings you were supposed to exchange with the Duke. Her gaze was so burning it should have willed you into obedience without a single word uttered. But in that moment something in you simply refused to yield.
You could feel your amygdala being excessively active, meanwhile you were desperately trying to will your nerves into a false sense of calm. I must not fear. Her neck shifted ever so slightly, a bird like movement, as if silently questioning you on why you were not following protocol. Fear is the mind killer, fear is the litte death that brings—
"Lady Y/N." His words cut off any train of thought you might have had, the litany fading somewhere into the background of your mind. His voice was gentler than you had expected, he sounded much less a commanding leader than a diplomat.
The three headed dragons caught the light from where it was engraved into the cool metal of the sigil ring sitting on his finger. A Targaryen heirloom, passed down all the way from Old Valyria to the Conqueror and now to him. The Red Duke.
You dared to raise your eyes, catching a glimpse of the curiosity in his mismatched gaze. He was assessing you, you could tell that much, mentally peeling away the layers of fabric covering your form, as if by sheer willpower he could dismantle you and bend you to his whim.
You wondered what he wished to find beneath the dark shroud.
A truthsayer? An advisor? A wife?
Your lip had trembled then, falling open but shutting closed just as quickly. You were struck with the harrowing realization that you had no idea what to speak. Foolish. You could practically hear the better half of your Sisters sniggering beneath their veils while the other half gave you pitying looks.
Suddenly one of our finest pupils rang falls in your ears. Bitter. What good was years of relentless prana-bindu training when you turned into a flustered, simpering girl in front of a Duke of the Great House?
"If it pleases the Lady so," he began, clasping his hands behind his dark doublet and inclining his head forward. "would she be so kind as to remove her veil?"
The words lingered in the air for a moment; and once again you were caught off guard by the sheer invitation in them. Not command— but compromise.
Perhaps in all your misfortune, at least you weren't being wed off to some brutish barbarian.
And how could you have refused your future Duke anyway?
You nodded faintly, failing to notice the measured breath of air he inhaled, as if willing himself for whatever lies beneath.
A strange insecurity, violently began to unfurl within your chest, rapidly spreading through your limbs like an ugly beast, to the very tips of your fingers, threatening to paralyze them. But it was all too late. The charred air of the Acceptance Hall was already hitting your face, the veil lifting from your head, fully exposing the tissue of your skin to the outside world.
You had swallowed softly, assesing all the men standing before you: the Duke and his men; mentats, soldiers, swordmasters. All of them piercing you with their eyes. And beside them, what you could only assume was the Duke’s youngest brother, Maekar, a rigid pillar of duty, scowling with that characteristic snow-white Targaryen hair.
Though ever inch of your body— save for your face, had been covered that day, you felt as naked as the day you were born.
"My Duke." Your voice emerged quieter than intended, and you suddenly realized how girlish you must have sounded. The Duke needs a concubine not a protege. You pressed your lips into a thine line before anchoring yourself to the fabric of your skirts.
Before you could register what was happening— he had taken the entire audience by surprise when he stepped forward. Perhaps if your gaze hadn't been so fixated on the crimson and black of his doublet you might have noticed how his men reached towards their weapon-clad belts, his brother making a noise of disapproval in the back of his throat.
You instinctively straightened, freezing into place. Somewhere beside you, the Reverened Mother watched the entirety of your interaction with predatory attentiveness.
His presence was overwhelming, consuming your senses all at once. You noted the unmistakable scent of ozone and old parchment clinging to him. And before your brain could asses the threat of his position— he reached out. His warm, calloused hand, closing over your own. The electricity of the touch had been secondary to the sheer, terrifying heat of him
It radiated from his palm, soaking through your skin, travelling up your arm and settling somewhere in the pit of your stomach.
Blood of the Dragon.
He had offered you the faintest smile, something only the two of you could see. A shared secret, a forbidden union. It had been void of pity or any performative joy expected of political contracts.
It had simply been reassuring. As if he wished to assure you that this unfamiliar new world— his home—would endeavor to do its very best to look after you.
You should have pulled back, retracted your hand and did something… anything else but just stood there… but speech had decided to abandon you entirely.
You could feel the thrum of your sisters' fingertips, silently pulsing against their thighs and signalling to you. Break the bond. Remember the objective.
Yet all you managed to do was tighten your hold around his fingers, anchoring yourself.
He squeezed once.
And from that moment onward, you no longer belonged solely to the Sisterhood, not by law anyway. Somewhere in your heart, you knew, that had been the first step towards the fracturing of your loyalty.
The composition of the second panel was heavily inspired by a scene from the film Fifty Shades Darker.
While drawing the baby bottle for this piece, I got curious and ended up researching what feeding bottles looked like back then.
It was fascinating to learn about how different they were from modern ones—especially the thin tube-shaped “murder bottles.” I found it all really interesting and educational!
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