camarón de la isla

she/her • 23

[emziess]

The most important things I've ever done in my life have been in this hospital. Nothing will ever matter more than what I've done in this hospital, but it is killing me. You know how they say that a part of you dies when you lose someone you love? I'm not convinced that a part of you doesn't die every time you see a fellow human pass. And I've seen so many people die that I feel like it's leaching something from my soul.

Noah Wyle as Dr. Michael "Robby" Robinavitch The Pitt, S02E15

[sedonasummer]

ᴊᴜꜱᴛ ᴏɴᴇ ɴɪɢʜᴛ | ʙᴀᴇʟᴏʀ ᴛᴀʀɢᴀʀʏᴇɴ, ᴍᴀᴇᴋᴀʀ ᴛᴀʀɢᴀʀʏᴇɴ

— pairing: Baelor Targaryen x Reader, Maekar Targaryen x Wife!Reader (second wife)

— content: 18+ MDNI | smut | yearning | unrequited feelings | angst | pregnancy | implied age gap | filthy smut | voyeurism | someone sees Paris

— summary: Baelor has always wanted you. Maekar's wife. He has wanted you since the first moment he saw you, and he has been very good about it. Until Maekar takes him up on an offer Baelor had made "mostly in jest", and one night turns out to be so much more than he bargained for. Aka, you are between the hammer and the anvil.

— word count: 9k

— a/n: The long-awaited follow-up to The Baby Project. 9k words!!! I am just as baffled as you are. I could not write this any shorter and still tell what I thought was a complete story. Generally, the idea of running that poor old man Maekar ragged is still amusing to me...but now poor Baelor is involved. Thank you as always for all your comments, likes, reblogs, and requests. 🖤

The great hall was a cavern of light and sound, a roaring beast fed by the voices of hundreds and the crackling of the great hearth. The air was thick, a heavy tapestry woven from the scent of spiced meat, the dripping sweetness of melting wax, and the underlying damp, mineral smell of the ancient stone walls. It vibrated with the low, ceaseless hum of a hundred conversations layered over one another. A minstrel in the corner, a man with a straggly beard and nimble fingers, plucked a jaunty, complicated tune on his lute, the notes weaving through the laughter like a silver thread, struggling to be heard over the raucous clatter of wooden plates and the occasional shout of a toast.

To any other observer, it was a scene of robust, unthinking celebration. A display of excess designed to remind the bannermen of House Targaryen's power and generosity.

Baelor could not have told you a single detail about the feast. He did not taste the wine, though his goblet was rarely empty. He did not hear the story the man to his left was telling. The minor lord was recounting a long-winded tale about a hunt that had involved a particularly cunning stag, a beast that had supposedly led three men on a chase through the Kingswood for three days. Baelor nodded at the appropriate intervals, a practiced, polite smile fixed firmly in place, but his mind was entirely elsewhere.

It was on you.

You were seated beside Maekar, as you always were, a position of honor and unassailable right at the high table. Your chair was pulled in close to his, so close that the dark fabric of your gown brushed against the black velvet of his doublet with every small shift you made.

You were laughing at something now, your head tipping back, the sound a clear, bright peal that cut through the din of the hall like a bell. The candlelight loved you. It caught the wild, waist-length halo of your hair, a restless sea that framed your face. It traced the delicate line of your jaw and the soft, vulnerable curve of your throat. And it illuminated the new lushness that three moons of carrying Maekar's child had given you.

Your body had softened, deepened. The change was subtle to those who did not look closely, but to Baelor, it was as stark as the changing of the seasons. Your breasts had grown fuller, heavier, pressing against the fabric of your dress in a way that made it difficult to look away. The bodice, cut in the current fashion, hugged the new curves, emphasizing their swell. Your hips had blossomed, creating a gentle, rounded slope that spoke of life and fertility and a profound, earthy change. Even seated, there was a tiny, barely-there swell of your belly, a subtle rounding of your midsection that was a secret the whole world now knew. You were glowing in the most literal sense of the word. Your skin seemed to hold the light, to radiate a warmth that had nothing to do with the fire roaring in the great hearth. You were extraordinary.

You had been extraordinary since the first moment. Baelor remembered the day. Maekar had brought you before his father at King's Landing, had stood beside you, his hand resting at the small of your back, a gesture of possession and protection that was entirely his. His brother, who had always been carved from granite and stern pronouncements, had looked at you with an expression Baelor had not seen on his face in a long time. It was a look of fierce, tender pride. This is my betrothed, Maekar had said, his voice a low rumble that seemed to vibrate in the floorboards. And Baelor had looked at you, at your warm, playful eyes and the genuine smile that reached them, and felt something shift in his chest. It was a physical sensation, like a heavy stone finding its final resting place at the bottom of a deep, cold river. Heavy. Permanent. Entirely too late.

That was a year ago. A year of watching you belong completely and devastatingly to his brother. In that time, Baelor had become a connoisseur of your intimacy. He saw it in the way Maekar's hands would find you in any room, a steadying touch on your elbow, a possessive caress on the nape of your neck, a brushing of stray hair behind your ear. He saw it in the way you looked at Maekar, as if he had personally hung every star in the sky just for your amusement, your gaze wide and adoring. He saw it in the way his brother had come alive. Maekar smiled more now. He laughed, a rare and startling sound like rocks grinding together, rough but genuine. He moved with a new ease, a lightness that Baelor knew, with a certainty that was a physical ache, was because of you.

He was not the only one looking tonight. The young lord three seats down, a boy with a fresh face and an eager gaze, kept finding reasons to glance toward the high table. He would look at his plate, seemingly fascinated by a piece of parsley, then at his companion, then his eyes would dart to you, lingering a second too long before he remembered himself and blushed. The knight across the table, a broad-shouldered man with a scarred face and a thick neck, was less subtle. His eyes would fix on you whenever you laughed, his gaze heavy and appreciative. He would take a long draught of his ale, his eyes never leaving you, admiring something he knew he could not touch.

Men had always looked at you. Baelor understood it — a visceral, helpless impulse, the particular misery of a man who knew exactly what he could not have. He could have anything he desired, but he could not have you. You were Maekar's. You carried Maekar's child. You looked at Maekar as if he were the center of your world. And in the face of that, all of Baelor's power felt like dust and ashes.

You leaned in toward Maekar now, your body curving into his space, seeking his warmth. Your lips brushed close to his ear, your thick hair falling forward to curtain the moment, creating a private world in the middle of the crowded hall. You were saying something meant only for him, a secret whispered in the language of lovers. Your fingers curled around his forearm. Whatever it was you said, it caused a reaction. Maekar's mouth curved in that rare way it only ever did for you. He turned his head, his platinum blonde hair almost white in the candlelight, catching the glow, and said something back. Your response was immediate. You laughed again. Baelor's eyes shifted from you and found his brother's eyes already on him.

Maekar said nothing. He simply held Baelor's gaze from across the table, his violet eyes steady and knowing. Baelor held his gaze for one beat, two, the air between them thick and charged with things that could not be spoken. The noise of the hall faded to a dull roar. He could feel the muscles in his jaw tighten, a familiar, low-grade ache that had become his constant companion. Then he looked away, his gaze dropping to the dark, swirling surface of the wine in his goblet. He reached for it, his fingers closing around the stem. He needed the solid feel of it, the coolness. He did not lift it to drink.

Maekar looked away too, his attention returning to you as if nothing had happened, as if the silent exchange had been a figment of Baelor's imagination. But Maekar did not forget. He remembered the conversation from days ago with a vividness that made his stomach clench. He had gone to Baelor's solar, seeking company, sympathy. Baelor had made his offer then, his voice calm and even. Are you seeking assistance? He had said. Maekar had been furious. He was frankly lightly offended still. Baelor had seen it in his eyes tonight, a lingering resentment beneath the surface of his composure, a sharpness in his gaze when it landed on Baelor. It was a wound to Maekar's pride, a suggestion that he could not provide for his own wife.

The hour grew late. The energy of the room shifted, winding down like a clockwork mechanism running out of spring. Your head, which had been held high with regal grace throughout the meal, drooped slightly, leaning toward Maekar's shoulder. You caught yourself with a start, sitting up straight and laughing softly at your own tiredness, your hand pressing over your mouth in a gesture of apology. It was a charming, vulnerable display, and it made Baelor's chest ache with a tenderness he had no right to feel.

You turned to Maekar and said something, your voice too low for Baelor to catch. But Maekar understood. He was on his feet before you had finished speaking. His hand found yours, fingers lacing through yours, and he drew you up with great care. He supported your weight as you stood, his other hand hovering near your elbow, ready to catch you if you swayed.

You made your apologies to the table with a smile that could have lit the hall on its own. Several men watched you go: the young lord, the scarred knight, and half a dozen others. Their eyes followed you, a silent testament to your beauty. Maekar's hand settled at the small of your back as he guided you toward the great oak doors. His fingers splayed wide, claiming you, supporting you. You leaned into him as you walked, your head tilting toward his shoulder, your body seeking his support. Just before you passed through the heavy doors, you laughed at something he said, quiet and private, just for him. The sound was like a handful of glittering jewels tossed into the air, bright and beautiful and fleeting, and then it was gone.

The doors swung shut behind you both. Baelor looked down at his wine. The hall felt dimmer somehow, though the candles had not changed. He sat in the dimming light, the ghost of your laughter still ringing in his ears, and waited for the pain to recede into the dull ache he knew so well.

The heavy oak door clicked shut, the latch sliding home with a final, wooden thud that severed the noise of the feast from the sanctuary of your chambers. The roar of the hall, the clinking of goblets, the drunken laughter of the bannermen — it all vanished, replaced instantly by the crackle of the dying fire in the hearth and the heavy, rhythmic breathing of the man beside you.

You had taken only two steps into the room, your hand still resting in the crook of Maekar's elbow, when he turned you. The movement was swift but not rough. His hands came up to cradle your face, palms warm and calloused. He didn't speak. He simply looked at you, his pale violet eyes searching yours with an intensity that stole the breath from your lungs, as if he were reminding himself, in the quiet dark, that you were real. That you were his.

Then his mouth descended on yours.

It was a slow, deep, consuming kiss that started at your lips and pulled at something deep in your belly. His beard brushed against your chin, a rough friction that sent shivers skating down your spine.

You leaned into him, your body molding itself to the hard lines of his. Your hands released his arm and moved instead to the front of his tunic, fingers curling into the rich fabric. You pulled him closer, eliminating the inches of space between you, because any distance at all felt wrong. You needed the solid wall of his chest against yours, the proof of him grounding you.

He made a low sound in his throat, a rumble of approval against your lips, and began to move you towards the  edge of the bed.

The mattress was soft, yielding beneath your weight as he lowered you down, but his eyes never left yours. He followed you down, bracing himself on one arm beside your head, his body a cage of warmth and muscle that blocked out the rest of the world.

"Maekar," you breathed, the name a sigh on your lips.

He didn't answer with words. Instead, his hands moved to the laces of your gown. His fingers were sure, practiced, but there was no rush in his movements. He undid the knots with a patience that felt like reverence. The fabric loosened, and he pushed the heavy material from your shoulders, peeling it away layer by layer until the cool air of the room touched your skin, raising gooseflesh in its wake.

You shivered, not from cold, but from the anticipation of his touch. When you were bared to him, he stilled, his gaze sweeping over you. It was a look of possession, but soft, edged with wonder. His eyes traced the new curves of your body.

His hands came up to cup your breasts, his thumbs brushing over the sensitive peaks. You gasped, your back arching off the bed, pushing yourself deeper into his hands. He groaned, a vibration you felt against your ribs, and dipped his head to take one tight peak into his mouth.

The sensation was electric. He suckled gently, his tongue swirling around the nipple, his teeth grazing the sensitive skin just enough to make you cry out. Your hands tangled in his hair, the silver-gold strands sliding through your fingers as you held him to you. He worshipped you with his mouth, moving from one breast to the other, lavishing attention on the sensitive flesh until you were writhing beneath him, your breath coming in ragged gasps.

But he didn't stop there. His hands smoothed down your ribs, over the soft curve of your stomach, coming to rest on the gentle swell of your belly. The life inside you fluttered beneath his palm. He lifted his head, his eyes locking onto yours, and then he did something that made your heart stutter in your chest. He leaned down and pressed his lips to your belly. It was a tender, almost chaste kiss, filled with a fierce, protective adoration that brought tears pricking at the corners of your eyes.

"Maekar," you whispered again, your voice trembling.

"I know," he murmured against your skin, his breath hot and damp. "I know, my heart."

He moved back up your body, capturing your mouth once more. This kiss was deeper, hungrier, stealing the air from your lungs until you were dizzy with need. You could feel the hard length of him pressing against you. He shifted his weight, settling between your thighs. You opened for him willingly, your legs falling apart to accommodate the breadth of him. He reached between you, his fingers finding the slick heat of your folds.

"You are so wet for me," he rasped, his voice rough with desire. "Always so ready."

You gasped, your hips bucking against his hand. "Please, Maekar. I need you."

He didn't make you wait any longer. He withdrew his fingers and positioned himself at your entrance. With a slow, deliberate thrust, he sank into you.

He knew your body better than he knew his own. He knew exactly how to angle his hips to hit that spot inside you that made your vision blur, knew just how much pressure to apply to drive you higher. He made love to you with a focus that was total and complete, his entire being concentrated on the point where your bodies joined. The room filled with the sounds of your coupling — the wet slap of skin against skin, the creak of the bed frame, the ragged gasps and moans that tore from your throat. You met him thrust for thrust, your legs wrapping around his waist, pulling him deeper, urging him on.

For a long time, the only sound in the room was the crackle of the fire and the slowing rhythm of your breathing. You were sated, warm, and content, your body humming with the lingering echoes of pleasure.

Your arm rested across his chest, fingers tracing idle patterns through the light dusting of hair on his pecs. You could feel the steady thud of his heart beneath your palm, a slow, rhythmic beat that soothed you. But as the minutes ticked by, you began to sense a shift in him. The tension that had left his body during your lovemaking was slowly returning, settling in the set of his shoulders and the tight line of his jaw. He was staring at the ceiling, his eyes fixed on the dark wooden beams above, unseeing.

You tilted your head back so you could see his face. The firelight had died down to embers, casting his face in half-shadow, highlighting the furrow between his brows. You waited, watching him, knowing him well enough to know that rushing him would get you nowhere.

"What troubles you?" you asked softly.

He didn't look at you immediately. His gaze remained fixed on the ceiling, as if the answer to some unspoken question was written there. Then, slowly, he exhaled, a long, heavy breath that seemed to deflate his lungs.

"I have been thinking," he said, his voice low, careful. It was the tone he used when he had been turning something over in his mind for a long time, weighing the words before he let them see the light of day.

"What of?" you prompted gently, your fingers still tracing the hard planes of his chest.

He finally looked down at you, his violet eyes searching yours with an intensity that made your stomach tighten. He reached up, tucking a stray curl behind your ear, his thumb lingering on your cheekbone.

"How would you feel," he began, his voice dropping an octave, "about inviting another to our bed?"

The question hung in the air between you, heavy and shocking. You sat up slowly, the movement dragging the sheet with you until it pooled at your waist, exposing your naked breasts to the cool air. You didn't feel the cold. You felt only a sudden, sharp spike of adrenaline.

Your eyes found his in the dim light, and they were already burning. The room felt suddenly smaller, the air thinner.

"Who?" 

Your mind was already racing, leaping to conclusions with a speed that terrified you — immediately and catastrophically to another woman. Was there someone at the keep? Someone who didn't carry the weight of his child, who wasn't swollen with the evidence of his duty and desire?

You went sharp, your voice dangerously calm in the way that preceded a storm. "What woman has caught your eye?"

Maekar started to speak, to reach for you, but you cut him off, the words pouring out of you in a torrent of hurt and fury.

"While I am carrying your child?" you demanded.

Your chest heaved with the force of your emotion. You felt a hot, searing pain in your chest that had nothing to do with physical injury. His hands found yours, gripping them tight, fingers lacing through yours, anchoring you.

"There is no one else," he said, his voice firm, leaving no room for misinterpretation. "There will never be anyone else."

The conviction in his voice gave you pause. You looked at him, searching for any sign of deceit, but found only a raw, open honesty.

And then he spoke again.

"I am tired," he admitted.

The words hung in the air, simple and devastating.

"Not of you," he added quickly, his thumbs stroking the backs of your hands. "Never of you." He looked away then, his gaze dropping to where your hands were joined. "I would sooner cut off my own hand than disappoint you or leave you wanting for a single thing. But I –"

The fury went out of you slowly, like a fire running out of air. The anger that had been fueling you evaporated, leaving behind a cold wash of realization.

You looked at him and the exhaustion that had been too proud to say plainly until now, buried beneath layers of duty and pride and love. He was a warrior, a prince, a man who carried the weight of the world on his shoulders. And he was terrified that he wasn't enough for you.

It broke your heart.

Before you could speak, to reassure him, to tell him that he was everything, he continued.

"Baelor," he said, the name falling like a stone into a still pond. "Baelor has made his desire for you known to me."

Your eyes widened. You hadn't expected that.

"I suspect he has wanted you for some time." Maekar said, his voice steady, though you could hear the undercurrent of tension in it. 

He looked up at you then, his eyes searching yours for any sign of revulsion or anger.

"If you wished it," he said slowly, carefully. "If it would please you... I would ask Baelor to come to our bed. Just once."

He squeezed your hands tighter. "You are everything to me. More than I can say. I would not have you feel debased or used, nor like anything less than what you are. If I have given offense, I am sorry for it, and I swear to you I will never speak of this again.

You were quiet for a long moment. The silence stretched between you, thick with unspoken emotions. You thought of Baelor — of the way he looked at you, not with the crude hunger of the other men, but with a quiet, aching longing.

And then you looked at Maekar. Your husband. The man who loved you so much he was willing to share you, to set aside his own pride and possessiveness, just to ensure you were satisfied.

You leaned forward, pressing your forehead against his. "You are always enough for me," you whispered fiercely. "I have never wanted anyone else."

"I know it," he said, his voice rough.

You pulled back slightly, searching his face. There was something else there, beneath the sacrifice and the love. A flicker of something you hadn't expected.

"Would it give you pleasure to watch?"

The question hung in the air. It wasn't an accusation. It was a real question, your eyes searching his face, trying to understand the depths of what he was offering.

A muscle tightened in his jaw. His pupils dilated. He made a sound that was very nearly a groan, a low, ragged exhalation of breath.

"Perhaps," he admitted. The word was low and rough, scraping against his throat.

Something gleamed in your eyes. You looked at him for a long moment, this proud, exhausted, beautiful man who had just admitted he wanted to watch his brother take you to bed — and something in your chest loosened. You held his gaze, a small smile playing at the corners of your mouth.

"I think my dutiful husband has earned a single night's respite," you said finally.

Maekar let out a chuckle. He pulled you close, wrapping his arms around you, burying his face in your neck. You could feel the rapid flutter of his heart against your chest, matching the frantic rhythm of your own.

The slip was barely a barrier at all, a wisp of material that ended high on your thighs, leaving your legs bare to the shifting air of the room. Moonlight filtered through the high window, casting you in silver and shadow, defining the arc of your belly and the dark promise of your nipples beneath the thin silk. You looked like a painting of a goddess brought to life, trembling with a latent energy that seemed to vibrate right through your skin. You looked like something a man would burn cities for, or at the very least, lose his mind over.

Maekar was standing by the door, his hand paused on the latch. He had been watching you in silence, but as you turned, the air in the room seemed to thicken, charged with the static that always built between you two. He stopped moving entirely. The latch clicked, forgotten in his grip.

He crossed the room then, his stride eating up the distance between you with an easy grace. When he reached you, he didn't speak. His hand came up to cup the back of your neck, his fingers tangling in the wild curls of your hair, and he pulled you into him. His mouth crushed yours, hard and demanding. He tasted of wine and the dark, metallic tang of sleepless nights. He kissed you with a thoroughness that stole the air from your lungs, his tongue delving deep to stake a claim, to remind you exactly who you belonged to.

Your knees went weak, the silk of the slip doing nothing to stop the heat radiating from him. You melted into him, your hands finding purchase on the hard planes of his chest, feeling the heavy thrum of his heart against your palms.

He pulled back abruptly, leaving you gasping, your lips swollen and wet. His gaze bore into yours, intense and searching. He took your chin between his thumb and forefinger, his grip firm but not bruising, tilting your face up until you had nowhere to look but him.

"You are mine," he rasped, his voice a low vibration that you felt in your bones.

"I would never forget," you breathed, the truth of it settling in your chest like a stone.

He kissed you again, slower this time, but no less possessive. It was a sealing of a vow, a brand pressed against your mouth. The sheer force of his ownership undid you. The thought of Baelor seemed to dissolve in the face of Maekar's overwhelming presence. Why did you need anyone else when this man could undo you with a look?

He pulled away, his hands catching your wrists and gently disentangling them from his clothes. The loss of his heat was a physical shock. Resting his forehead against yours for a moment, he lingered, his eyes closed, as if he were warring with himself, fighting the same urge to stay.

Then he stepped back. The space between you felt like a chasm.

"Wait for me," he murmured, the command soft but absolute.

He turned and walked out the door, leaving you standing in the pool of moonlight, your heart hammering against your ribs like a trapped bird.

You listened to his heavy footsteps receding down the corridor, counting them as they faded. Then silence returned, filled only by the crackle of the dying fire and the rush of your own blood.

Down the hall, the stone floor was cold under Maekar's boots. His blood was still up, heated by the taste of you, by the sight of you standing there like a queen waiting to be worshipped. He felt a strange, chaotic mix of emotions — possessiveness warring with a dark, twisted curiosity.

He reached Baelor's door and didn't bother with politeness. He knocked, three sharp raps that echoed in the quiet hallway.

A moment later, the door opened. Baelor stood there, a book still in one hand. His eyes widened slightly at the sight of his brother standing there at such an hour.

"Maekar?" Baelor's voice was rough. "Is something wrong?"

"I have something you must see immediately." His voice was tight, controlled, but there was an undercurrent of urgency that brooked no argument.

He didn't wait for a response. He turned and walked back down the corridor.

Baelor hesitated for only a fraction of a second. He looked back into his room, then at his brother's retreating back. There was a tone in Maekar's voice he couldn't place, yet he stepped into the hall.

"Maekar," he called, hurrying to catch up. "Brother, what is this?"

Maekar didn't slow down. "Walk."

Baelor fell into step beside him, matching his long stride. The castle was asleep around them, the shadows long and stretching in the flickering torchlight. He studied Maekar's profile, the set of his jaw, the tension in his shoulders. Maekar was impossible to read when he chose to be, a fortress of a man, and tonight he was locked tight.

Baelor's mind raced, spinning through possibilities. He prepared himself for bad news. If there was trouble, he would meet it. But as they turned the corner toward Maekar's chambers, the air seemed to change. It grew heavier, warmer, scented with something sweet and familiar.

Maekar stopped abruptly in front of the door to your chambers. He placed his hand on the wood, his fingers splaying wide. He paused, his back to Baelor, a statue of hesitation. Then, with a sharp exhale, he pushed the door open and stepped aside.

"Look," Maekar said.

Baelor looked.

And there you were.

You were standing by the window, your back to the door, your silhouette etched against the night sky. The silk slip you wore was the color of moonlight itself, clinging to your body with a faithfulness that left absolutely nothing to the imagination.

Baelor stopped breathing. It felt like he had taken a blow to the chest, a physical impact that knocked the air right out of his lungs.

He had thought about this. Gods forgive him, he had spent countless nights in the dark, staring at the ceiling of his own chamber, thinking about this exact thing, imagining what you would look like out of those heavy court gowns, what your skin would feel like under his hands, what sounds you would make when you were lost to pleasure, what secrets lay behind your closed doors.

Now he knew. Or he was beginning to.

You were breathtaking; a vision made flesh, a creature of such intense, terrifying beauty that it made his hands shake. You looked at him, your gaze locking onto his. There was no shyness in it. Only heat, curiosity, and a depth of invitation that nearly undid him right there.

"Baelor," you said.

Just his name, but the way you said it, the soft rasp of your voice, the way your lips formed the syllable, rushed through his veins, heating him from the inside out. He felt his cock twitch, hardening instantly against the rough fabric of his breeches.

He dragged his gaze away from you, forcing himself to look at Maekar. His brother had moved to a seat near the large bed. Maekar sat down, crossing one leg over the other, leaning back with an air of terrifying composure. This was not the furious brother who had nearly come to blows days ago at the mere suggestion of impropriety.

"What is this?" Baelor managed, his voice sounding strange to his own ears.

Maekar's violet eyes were fixed on him, sharp and assessing. "My wife is insatiable," Maekar said, his tone calm. "Assist her as you offered."

The words hung in the air, heavy and shocking. Baelor felt a surge of adrenaline, a mix of incredulity and a fierce, blinding hunger. He looked back at you. You hadn't moved. You were still watching him, your chest rising and falling slightly faster now, your eyes dark and wide.

This was surely a dream born of too many lonely nights. But the heat of your gaze was real.

He stepped further into the room, moving slowly, giving you every chance to step back, to send him away. He was a knight, a man of honor, and even in the face of this temptation, that honor held. This h would not rush.

He stopped in front of you. Up close, you were even more devastating. The scent of you was intoxicating — vanilla and jasmine. He could see the delicate flush on your cheeks, the soft parting of your lips. He slowly raised one hand, letting it hover for a moment before settling it on your waist.

The silk was warm from your body. Your skin was even warmer beneath it. His hand spanned your side, his thumb brushing against the curve of your belly. He looked deep into your eyes, searching for any sign of hesitation, any flicker of reluctance, anything that would tell him this was a mistake.

There was only a burning curiosity, a softness that welcomed him, and a desire that mirrored his own. You leaned into his touch, just slightly, a subtle movement that surrendered to his weight.

"One rule, brother," Maekar's voice cut through the silence like a whip crack. It wasn't loud, but it carried the weight of iron.

Baelor glanced over his shoulder. Maekar hadn't moved, but his eyes were burning, fixed on the point where Baelor's hand rested on your hip.

"You will not spill your seed inside my wife," Maekar said, his voice dropping an octave, low and dangerous. "I will not share that with you."

It was a line drawn in the sand. Baelor understood. This was a gift, but it came with conditions. The ultimate claim belonged to Maekar.

Baelor nodded once, a sharp, jerky motion of assent. He didn't care about the restriction. He would take whatever scraps of paradise you were willing to give him.

He turned back to you, lowered his head and captured your mouth with his.

Baelor kissed you like he was memorizing you, like he was trying to drink in your soul through his lips. His mouth was soft but insistent, moving against yours with a slow, sensual rhythm.

His other hand came up to cup your face, his thumb tracing the line of your jaw. You felt the tremor in his hands, the way his restraint was already beginning to fray, and it made you ache for him. You melted into him, your hands coming up to rest on his chest, feeling the rapid, thudding beat of his heart. The silk of your slip rubbed against him, a sensory friction that sparked fires along your nerve endings. You were caught between the moonlight at your back and the solid heat of him in front, and for the first time that night, the ache inside you began to feel like it might finally be sated.

The weight of Baelor's hands on your waist was deliberate, his fingers spreading wide as if to memorize the topography of your hips before he guided you backward. You moved without resistance, trusting him completely. The bed gave beneath you, the silk of your shift whispering against the heavy furs as you sank into the softness. He followed you down, crawling over you, the heat of him pressing down, solid and overwhelming. His mouth found yours again, and the world narrowed down to the sensation of his lips. Your lips parted without thought, an invitation he accepted instantly. His tongue slid against yours, slow and possessive, savoring you as if you were the last sip of something rare and intoxicating.

You arched into him, your body seeking more contact, more friction. Your fingers curled into the front of his doublet, the rough fabric biting into your palms as you pulled him closer, needing to bridge the gap between you. His hands never stilled. They traced the curve of your waist, drifting down to the inside of your thighs, his calluses catching on the delicate skin there, sending shivers racing up your spine that had nothing to do with the cool night air. The silk of your shift rode higher with every upward stroke of his thumbs, the fabric bunching around your hips.

Then his palms were sliding under the hem, pushing the fabric upward in one fluid, practiced motion, leaving you exposed to the firelight spilling across the room. You gasped into his mouth as the cool air hit your bare skin, the sudden vulnerability making your nipples tighten into hard peaks. Your breath hitched, a mix of anticipation and exposure.

Baelor groaned low in his throat, the sound vibrating against your lips, and for a heartbeat, he simply looked. His mismatched eyes dragged over your naked form. He didn't just see you; he devoured you with his gaze, tracing the lines of your body, committing them to memory.

The distinct creak of leather broke the rhythm of your breathing. Maekar. The knowledge that he was watching, that his violet eyes were fixed on your exposed skin, made the heat inside you flare brighter.

Your need was a living thing, clawing at your insides. You slid your hands between your bodies, fumbling desperately at the laces of Baelor's breeches. Your fingers were clumsy, trembling with urgency, but he helped you, his own movements just as eager. The laces came free, the fabric falling open. You wrapped your hand around him, the heat of his cock a brand against your palm. He was thick, heavy, the vein along the underside pulsing against your fingertips. A drop of pre-cum beaded at the tip, and you smeared it with your thumb, watching his eyelids flutter, his jaw clenching as he fought for control.

"Fuck," he breathed, the word a prayer torn from his chest.

You stroked him once, twice, relishing the weight of him in your hand, and his hips jerked forward, his control fraying. The firelight painted your skin in gold and crimson, glinting off the dampness already gathering between your thighs.

Baelor's gaze darkened. His mouth crashed down on yours again, but just long enough to steal your breath before he broke away. His lips trailed down the column of your throat, his teeth grazing the sensitive skin just below your ear. You whimpered, your back arching off the bed, offering yourself up to him. His hands found your breasts, one cupping the heavy weight, his thumb circling your nipple until it ached with sensitivity. The other lifted, guiding your flesh to his mouth.

The first pull of his lips sent a jolt straight to your core, electric and sharp. You cried out, your fingers tangling in his hair, holding him to you as his tongue swirled, his teeth scraped gently, and his free hand kneaded the other breast with just the right amount of pressure. Pleasure coiled tight and low in your belly, your hips lifting off the bed, seeking friction, seeking him. He gave it to you — his mouth hot and wet, his fingers pinching your nipple just shy of pain, the dual sensations making your vision blur.

"Baelor—" His name tore from your throat..

He released you with a wet pop, his breath coming fast and ragged. "Beautiful," he murmured, his voice rough with desire, his eyes burning into yours. "So fucking beautiful."

From behind, Maekar's voice, laced with possession: "Isn't she?"

The pride in his tone, the absolute certainty of ownership, sent another wave of heat through you. They were both looking at you like you were the only thing in the world worth wanting.

Baelor's hands slid down the length of your body, his touch reverent yet possessive. He hooked your knees over his shoulders, the movement effortless, displaying you to him. The cool air hit the wet heat between your thighs; you could feel his breath there, hot and uneven. Could see the way his shoulders tensed as he leaned in, his lips parting in anticipation.

The first stroke of his tongue was slow. Deliberate. A flat, broad lick from your entrance to your clit, as if he were tasting the finest vintage, savoring the first sip. Your fingers clenched in the sheets, your hips jerking upward, chasing the sensation. He did it again. And again. Long, slow stripes, his tongue firm and wet, learning the shape of you, mapping the folds of your sex. You were already trembling, your thighs quivering around his head, your breath coming in short, sharp gasps.

"Oh — oh gods —"

His fingers joined the assault, two of them pressing inside you in one smooth, fluid thrust. You were so tight, so hot, your inner walls clenching around him immediately, trying to draw him deeper. He groaned against your flesh, the vibration traveling through your bones and making you whimper. "So fucking tight," he growled, his voice muffled against your skin. He curled his fingers upward, finding that spot inside you that made your back bow off the bed, a silent scream tearing at your throat.

Your moan was obscene, broken, your hips bucking wildly as he worked you. He thrust his fingers in and out, his thumb circling your clit in tight, relentless circles, his mouth sealing over you, sucking, licking, devouring. The sounds you made were beyond your control — high, needy cries mingling with the wet slap of his tongue and the lewd squelch of your arousal as his fingers pistoned in and out of you.

"Baelor, please —"

"Go on. Let him taste you." The command from your husband was the final straw. It shattered what little control you had left.

Your orgasm crashed over you like a tidal wave, brutal and beautiful in its intensity. Your back arched, your thighs locking around Baelor's head as you came, your cunt clenching rhythmically around his fingers, your cries filling the chamber. When he finally lifted his head, his lips were glistening, his eyes dark with a hunger that hadn't been abated in the slightest. He crawled up your body, his heavy cock dragging against your thigh. His mouth found yours again, and you could taste yourself on his tongue; sweet, wild,  and feel the way his body trembled with the effort of holding back.

You pulled him down, your arms wrapping around his neck as your legs parted instinctively to cradle his hips. He broke the kiss to look at you and the expression on his face made your chest ache. It was adoration mixed with lust.

Then he was moving, shifting your body with easy strength until your head was at the edge of the bed. Your hair spilled like a dark halo over the furs. He knelt between your thighs, taking his cock in his hand, the tip already weeping with need. You reached for him, your fingers wrapping around his length, stroking him, guiding him to where you needed him most.

The first press of him against your entrance was heaven. You were so wet, so ready, but he was thick, the stretch burning in the best possible way as he pushed inside. Your nails dug into his back, your breath stuttering in your chest.

"Fuck —"

He bottomed out with a groan, his entire body trembling. "You —" His voice was ragged, ruined. "You feel —" He couldn't even finish the sentence. He just moved.

Slow at first. Deep, rolling thrusts that made your vision white at the edges, your moans turning into broken pleas. "More — harder — please —"

He gave you exactly what you begged for.

His hips snapped forward, his cock driving into you with a force that stole the air from your lungs. The bed creaked beneath you, the sound of skin slapping against skin filling the room, your cries mixing with his grunts and the wet, obscene noises of your body taking him. You heard Maekar shifting, his breath audible even over the sounds of your coupling, but you couldn't look, couldn't think because Baelor was fucking you, his fingers digging into your hips, his mouth finding your sensitive spots.

"Such a good girl," he growled, his thrusts punishing, perfect. "Taking me so well — this tight little cunt was made for me, wasn't it?"

"Yes —" The word was a sob torn from your throat. "Yes, yes —"

Your head fell back, dangling over the edge of the bed, and that was when you saw him.

Maekar.

His breeches were undone, cock freed from its confines, his hand wrapped around the thick length. He was stroking himself in slow pulls, his eyes locked on the place where you and Baelor met. His lips were parted, his chest rising and falling with every ragged breath. The sight of him — your husband, so visibly undone, watching you being fucked by another man,  sent a dark and twisted wave of pleasure crashing through you.

Baelor followed your gaze. His grip on your hips tightened, his thrusts growing erratic as he realized what you were looking at. He pulled out of you with a wet, sucking sound, to flip you onto your hands and knees before you could even protest the sudden emptiness. The cool air hit your soaked cunt, making you shiver, your thighs trembling as he positioned himself behind you. His palm came down on your ass,  hard,  and the sharp sting sent a fresh wave of arousal flooding through you. Then Baelor was inside you again, his thrusts immediately brutal, his hips slapping against your ass, the sound lewd and echoing in the quiet room. The sensation was perfect. You cried out, your nails digging into the sheets, your body rocking helplessly with the force of him.

"Look at him," Baelor growled, his fingers tangling in your hair, yanking your head up to force your gaze forward. "Look at your husband while I fuck you."

You obeyed, unable to do anything else.

Maekar's hand stilled on his cock. His violet eyes burned into yours, his expression a mix of possessiveness and dark, hungry approval. "You love this, don't you?" His voice was sharp and precise. "Love being used like a whore."

You nodded, the movement jerky, your inner walls tightening around Baelor's cock at the degradation. "Yes — gods, use me —"

Maekar stood in one fluid motion, his chair scraping loudly against the stone floor. He crossed to you in two quick strides, his cock thick and flushed dark. He was hard as iron, the tip glistening with pre-cum.

He was right there in front of you. His hand cupped your face gently as his thumb brushed your lower lip. "Such a greedy girl," he murmured, his voice a caress and a threat all at once. "Always so hungry."

You moaned, your tongue darting out to lick the pad of his thumb. He groaned, his cock twitching right in front of your face, another bead of pre-cum welling at the slit.

"You've spoilt her, brother."

Maekar chuckled. “So it would appear.”  

The head of his cock brushed against your swollen lips. "Open." You obeyed instantly, parting your lips and flattening your tongue.

The first taste of him was home — salty, musky, the familiar weight of him on your tongue. You hollowed your cheeks, taking him deep, relaxing your throat to accommodate him as Baelor fucked you from behind. The dual sensations were overwhelming. You were full, stuffed to the brim, your mouth occupied by Maekar's thick length while your cunt was stretched tight around Baelor's. Baelor's balls slapped against your clit with every thrust, sending jolts of pleasure racing up your spine.

"Fuck —" Maekar's hand tangled in your hair, guiding your head, his hips rolling slowly as he fed you inch by inch. "Just like that."

Baelor smacked your arse again and you welcomed it. "You feel incredible," he groaned, his voice strained. "So tight — so perfect."

You couldn't speak. You could only take, existing solely for their pleasure in this moment. Your moans vibrated around Maekar's cock, muffled and wet, your body trembling violently as your orgasm built again, coiling tight and low in your belly like a storm about to break.

Maekar's voice was a low growl, directed over your shoulder. "Fuck her harder."

Baelor obeyed without hesitation.

His next thrust was punishing, his hips snapping against you with enough force to drive you forward, taking Maekar deeper into your throat. His cock hit that spot inside you that made your vision whiten, that blinding point of pleasure that obliterated thought. You came with a muffled scream around Maekar's cock, your body clenching violently, your cunt milking Baelor as your orgasm ripped through you. Your throat fluttered around the thick length filling your mouth, tears pricking your eyes from the intensity of it.

Maekar groaned, his fingers tightening in your hair. "Fuck — fuck —" His cock pulsed on your tongue, and then he was coming, his release hitting the back of your throat in thick, hot spurts. You swallowed around him, desperate to take it all, your own climax still rippling through your body, leaving you a trembling, gasping mess between them.

Baelor's rhythm faltered. His breath came in ragged, uneven gasps, his cock swelling inside you, his entire body tensing as he chased his own release. He was right there, hovering on the edge —

A sharp, cold flash in Maekar's eyes.

"Baelor."

One word. A reminder. A command.

Baelor groaned, a sound of pure frustration, his cock twitching inside you where you wanted him most. But he obeyed. With a ragged curse, he pulled out, his release taking him by force. His cock pulsed, painting your thighs and the curve of your ass in thick, white stripes. His mismatched eyes screwed shut as he rode out the waves of his pleasure.

Maekar slowly withdrew from your mouth, giving you a moment to breathe. He stroked your cheek, his thumb brushing your lower lip, wiping away a stray drop of his release. His voice was soft, but the steel beneath it was unmistakable.

"Good."

You collapsed forward, your body giving out entirely, every muscle liquid and spent. For a moment, there was only the sound of three people trying to remember how to breathe.

The mattress shifted, the heavy weight of Baelor's presence leaving your side, and the sudden coolness of the air struck your sweat-dampened skin. You didn't open your eyes. Your body was a vast, unmapped landscape of sensation, trembling in the aftermath, the aftershocks of your release still fluttering through your inner muscles in small, desperate waves. The sound of water splashing, distinct and wet, echoed against the walls. Then Maekar was in front of you.

"Let me," Maekar murmured, his voice a low rumble that vibrated in your chest.

You felt the cloth first against your thigh. It was hot, wrung out just enough to be warm without burning, and the sensation drew a sharp, hissing breath from between your lips. He didn't rush. He wiped away the sticky evidence of Baelor's release, the fabric dragging softly over your sensitive skin.

You forced your eyes open. The room was dim, lit only by the dying orange glow of the hearth and the pale silver spill of moonlight from the high windows. Maekar's face was shadowed, but his eyes were fixed on yours.

"Are you alright?" he asked softly.

You nodded, your throat too tight to speak immediately. Your hand moved slowly, heavily, across the furs until your fingers brushed against his wrist. You felt the steady, rhythmic thump of his pulse beneath your fingertips.

"Yes," you whispered. The word cracked in the quiet room.

"You were perfect," he said, his voice dropping to a register meant only for you, a secret shared in the dark. "So good, my heart."

He leaned in, pressing a kiss to your forehead. The contrast — the roughness of his beard, the softness of the cloth, the hardness of the bed beneath you — threatened to pull you under. It was almost too much.

"You are everything," he whispered against your hair. "Everything. I would have you know that."

He meant it. You heard it in the way his voice broke, just slightly, on the last word. You felt it in the tremor of his hand. You turned your face into his touch, your eyes fluttering shut again, letting yourself drift in the current of his affection. He slid one arm beneath your knees and the other behind your shoulders, lifting you as if you weighed nothing more than a feather.

The sudden change in position made your head spin. You gasped, your hands flying up to grip his shoulders, steadying yourself against the solid wall of his chest. He held you cradled against him, his heartbeat a fast, steady drum against your ear. He didn't carry you far,  just to the other side of the bed, where the pillows were piled high against the headboard.

He lowered you down with excruciating care. Your head sank into the softness of the down pillows, and he immediately reached for the heavy furs that had been kicked to the foot of the bed. Maekar pulled them up, shaking them out so they settled over you like a cloud, burying you in softness. You watched him through heavy-lidded eyes. He sat on the very edge of the mattress, his hip pressing into your thigh.. His fingers pushed back the wild tangle of your hair, smoothing it away from your forehead, tucking it behind your ear. 

"Sleep," he whispered. "I have you."

But your eyes drifted past him, drawn by a movement in the shadows.

Baelor was standing near the foot of the bed, his back partially turned. The moonlight caught the sharp lines of his shoulders as he moved, quiet and methodical. He found his shirt on the floor and pulled it over his head, the fabric sliding down to hide the skin you had only moments ago been raking your nails against. He told himself it was decency. He was giving you privacy, retreating to allow husband and wife their moment. It was the honorable thing to do.

But you could see the tension in the set of his shoulders, the stiffness in his spine. He moved like a man in a trance, his breeches still unlaced and hanging loosely on his hips. He was watching. Even as he dressed, he was watching the way Maekar's hand smoothed your hair, the way your body curled instinctively toward your husband, seeking his heat, the way your fingers twitched against the furs as if reaching for him even in your drowsy state.

His chest rose and fell in one deep, shuddering breath he couldn't quite suppress. The longing that rolled off him was palpable, a thick wave of sadness that seemed to lower the temperature of the room. It wasn't just the night, though, that had been extraordinary, a fever dream made flesh that he would remember for the rest of his days. It was this. This quiet aftermath, the domestic belonging. This was what he was starving for.

He had touched you, tasted you, heard you cry out his name. But he would never have this. He would never be the one to tuck you in, the one whose hand you sought in the dark, the one who got to whisper that he loved you and know that you were safe simply because he was there.

One night was not enough. 

The pain of it was written into the lines of his back, the slump of his shoulders. He was a man who had mastered his emotions, who moved through the world with wisdom and calm, but in this moment, he looked utterly undone.

Your heart ached for him. You saw the raw, open wound of his loneliness, and you couldn't bear it. Not tonight. Not after everything.

You turned your head slightly on the pillow, looking up at Maekar. He was still smoothing your hair, his eyes soft and full of a devotion that made your breath catch.

"Maekar," you whispered.

He stilled immediately, his hand resting warm against your cheek. "Yes, my heart?"

"Come to bed. Lay with me."

He stood, shed his breeches, and slid in beside you. The mattress dipped under his weight, the furs rustling as he settled. You didn't wait — you rolled toward him immediately, your body finding the familiar curve of his, your leg draping over his, your head tucking into the hollow of his shoulder. He wrapped his arm around you and pulled you flush against him.

Baelor had taken two steps toward the door.

"Where are you going?"

The question hung in the air, soft and certain. Baelor froze before turning slowly.

You had raised your head from Maekar's chest, looking at him over the mound of blankets, your eyes clear and steady in the dim light.

Baelor stood in the center of the room, his shirt still unlaced, looking like a man who had forgotten how to speak. He looked between the two of you — his brother, whom he loved, and you, the woman he had somehow impossibly fallen for with a terrifying intensity.

"I —" He started, then stopped. His voice was rough, scraped raw. "I thought —"

"Are you not staying?" you asked.

The question was simple. It shouldn't have undone him as completely as it did.

He looked at Maekar. Something passed between them in the silence, not permission, but an acknowledgment. Maekar's jaw tightened, his eyes narrowing slightly. But he didn't speak, only held you a little tighter.

Baelor couldn't leave. He didn't have the strength to walk away, not when you were looking at him like that, not when the alternative was a cold empty bed and a lifetime of wondering.

You had already closed your eyes, your breathing beginning to slow and deepen.

"Come to bed, Baelor," you murmured, the words slurring slightly with exhaustion. "Just for tonight."

Just for tonight.

The words were a lifeline and a wound all at once. He stood there for one last heartbeat, looking at the two of you tangled together in the vast bed. Then he moved, slowly, carefully around the foot of the bed to the empty side. He looked down at the narrow space between you and the edge and sat on top of the covers. It wasn't much. But it was enough.

"Stop this nonsense, brother," Maekar murmured, "Sleep properly."

Baelor slowly climbed under the furs.

You shifted, rolling so that your back was now against Maekar’s chest. Your hand moved without thought to rest against Baelor's chest, a tether in the dark.

He looked down at your hand and felt the warmth of it seeping through his skin. His eyes locked with Maekar’s over your shoulder. Maekar was watching him, his violet eyes steady and unreadable in the darkness. Then he placed a kiss on your cheek, let out a deep breath, and closed his eyes.

Slowly, Baelor lowered himself down. He lay on his side facing you, careful not to touch you anywhere else, not crossing any line that hadn't been offered. 

He watched your face in the moonlight, listened to the sound of your breathing, and felt his own sync to it without meaning to. The warmth of you radiated into his side, seeping into the cold places he had been carrying for longer than he could name. 

As he lay there in the dark, watching the woman he could never keep, held by the brother he could never replace, Baelor closed his eyes and let himself pretend,  just for tonight,  that this was where he was meant to be.

Taglist: @ghostlybfgf @alexjacobsgoodnight @sconniebelle @dramioneforevertilltheend @moonmaiden1996

[erwinsvow]

and i've been cold without you — b.t.

summary: as battle-hardened as baelor is, he is no match for his alluring young niece.

word count: 14k

pairing: baelor targaryen x niece!reader

tags: canon typical targcest (uncle x niece). reader is the daughter of an unnamed brother (not maekar!). typical aerion shenanigans, baelor is down bad and won't admit it, reader is a menace, smut—oral with f receiving, breeding (because yay! <3), it's all happy by the end. invented ladies in waiting for reader because it's fun and i wanted to talk about house mallister. valarr and kiera mentions <3. maekar knew all along...

original post that inspired this! | ao3 link

you are the worst challenger baelor targaryen has ever faced. 

and unluckily for him, he does not get to meet you bloody and steeled on the battlefield. nor face your tongue in the cunning and wily words of the chambers where the small council gathers. 

it would be easier, he imagines, if you were an adversary in that regard. anything else would be easier. he would rather ride back into war and rebellion than attempt to face your true nature.

as battle-hardened as baelor is, he is no match for his alluring young niece.

a lovelier girl, baelor thinks as he stares at you from across the hall, i have never seen. 

it is hard enough to tear his eyes away from you at any given moment, though he forces himself to as soon as you meet his gaze. 

he had not thought his brother’s death would have hoisted unto him an entirely new set of grievances. he had promised to keep you safe, promised his brother on the death bed that you would want for nothing, that you would always be cared for and watched over.

baelor did not realize when he made that promise that you had intended for him to be the one to fulfill it. 

the responsibility falls solely on his shoulders—trying to honor the last wishes of his kin. you had been beside yourself with grief, he recalls, wearing those dark colors of mourning that did not suit you for months on end. 

perhaps it was a bit selfish of him. he should have been preparing himself for the matter of your betrothal and the alliance it would create for the crown many moons in advance. it was not only his burden as hand but rather his duty as your uncle. 

he had the power to ensure that the match he secured for you would not be one of misery and pain. he knew of several suitable candidates, and had thought he would, when the time was right, ensure that only the most genteel and kind would be introduced to you.

someone that you might wish to begin your new life with, far away from king’s landing.

perhaps it all went astray when he decided to delay the matter further and further. you were in no state to entertain suitors, not when you were grieving the loss of your father. and besides that, you had not expressed any interest in the issue when maekar had brought it up to you. 

instead you had looked at him. and what was he to do once you did that? 

you employed your strongest two soldiers, the most reliable ones standing at the front of the cavalry—your lovely, sad eyes that had all but blinked at him once or twice and that incorrigible pout. he was felled immediately.

you had come close to kiss maekar’s cheek first, as you bid them goodbye and took your leave for the evening. 

and then you had come towards him, and it felt as though time itself had slowed down for mere moments. he watched as your soft hair fell against his shoulder, as the overwhelming scent of your skin turned his thoughts into dust. and then you pressed your soft lips to his cheek, smiled, and left.

black silk swished by your ankles as you left, the dark red stole you often wrapped around your arms covered by the cascade of your hair. he could make out the image of the three-headed dragon you had embroidered on the fabric yourself. 

you had been so proud of your work that you’d come to show him and your father when you’d finished with it. 

moments after he saw ser donnel leave to escort you back to your chambers, he had told maekar that the matter of your betrothal would be readied when baelor deemed it time.

“she must marry, eventually,” maekar had said, running a hand over his beard. “better to prepare her now than to indulge her.”

“i am not indulging,” baelor had quipped back, a little too aggressively. he takes a long drink of his wine.

maekar had stared at him in confusion, raising an eyebrow, perhaps even suspicious, he now thinks.

“of course not. you would never do such a thing.” 

maekar’s thoughts go unsaid, surely something about you’re lucky the gods did not bless you with a daughter. you would never be able to say no to her. 

he takes another lengthy sip from his cup.

of course he knew the matter of your marriage was important. so important that it had somehow usurped all his other responsibilities, had somehow become the only thing he thought of when his mind was left to wander. 

but the idea of some haughty lannister or cold arryn getting their hands on you while you were still mourning seemed completely out of the question.

yes, he concludes, trying and failing to set the thought aside once and for all. it is more prudent to wait. to allow time for you and for him… to find you the best match he can. 

another selfish thought rears its head inside of him, even when he merely notices you thanking a knight of the kingsguard or making polite conversation with the lords of the court during a feast. 

you are a princess of their house. perhaps only a bargaining chip in the eyes of the small council, but he would not let them waste your chance for happiness on some alliance for soldiers and grain. 

you are a princess of their house and he is a prince, the thought reminds him, traveling through until it has spread from the inside out. it was a tradition of their family to marry princes to princesses. 

even from before the conqueror’s time—young ladies of the house could be wed to brothers and cousins and uncles, if it was so arranged—for honor, for their noble blood.

his father had never much cared for such traditions and nor had he. when it had come time to arrange valarr’s marriage, they had sought out an alliance to strengthen the crown’s relationships.

bloodraven whispers of slighted great houses, mulling over the stolen opportunity to put a noble daughter of the realm in the queen’s chair one day, when he was gone and valarr would rule. 

they sought you as a consolement. for you to sit besides their sons, for their lineage to have royal blood, to establish a relationship that might advance their house for generations to come.

perhaps that is why he is so adamantly opposed to answering questions about the offers for your hand. he’ll not sell you off and send you away, the last piece he has of his brother, to acquiesce a petty lord. 

if only he was, indeed, selfish.

he was not greedy either, though the thought of making you his wife so that he might protect you from all the world lingered in his mind almost daily. it was more potent, even, after two or three cups of wine. it would plague him when he tried to sleep, a tantalizing vision of you resting beside him.

naked and content, perhaps, the voice whispers in the back of his head. clear-headed or drunk, he cannot silence it. or wrapped in silks. sleeping soundly, with no tears or sadness. carrying his child, and thinking of a new life to bring into this world instead of those who have left it…

he has to tear himself away from the thought. it is entirely improper.

it does not leave him, and only comes back stronger when you are seated at the dinner table with your cousins.

baelor does not much like the way aerion has been looking at you as of late. 

at these dinners, with his father at the head and baelor right beside him, you are seated between valarr and aerion on the other side of the table. 

you talk politely with his son, asking no doubt of kiera, who is not present as she recovers from another babe she has lost. you smile gently at valarr, and tell him how you will pray for his wife’s fast recovery.

you ask aemon of the latest book he is reading, no doubt borrowed from the maester’s extensive collections. you ask aegon of his latest qualm with his brothers. you have even been so successful as to elicit a smile from your uncle maekar from time to time. 

but when it comes to aerion, your smiles fade quickly. you try not to look at the boy if you can avoid it, even when he pesters you by touching your hand or interrupting you. 

and baelor is staring again. 

it is hard to look away as it is, even more so when he wishes he might do something to protect you. you avoid aerion’s gaze but baelor sees how lecherous it truly is. 

another thought begins to haunt his mind—that of the day that aerion demands your hand for himself. even baelor could not deny that it would be a perfectly reasonable request—he is only your cousin, both borne of mothers from different houses. you would stay in king’s landing with your family, which would certainly ease your mind, he assumes. 

but despite all of that, even in the face of logic and sense, baelor decides he shall never give aerion your hand. his nephew is entirely unworthy. unlike, perhaps—

the thoughts had been the hardest to bury when he is alone with you. as crown prince, baelor has always possessed a great deal of admirable traits.

immunity to your charm is not one of them.

the way you fixate your lovely eyes on him when he is speaking, as though nothing in this world could be more important than whatever he is saying.

the way he has your full attention whether it is to speak about the courses at dinner or the latest small council meeting and the headache he had after it, or of the new taxes imparted recently on grain in king’s landing and highgarden.

you do not care about grain, he knows, and yet, you reply eloquently, offering him some insight or perspective he has never considered, before awaiting his response as you blink at him.

and he has never been one to fluster and stutter his sentences. not even when he was but a green knight or a newlywed, when there was nothing that seemed so important to focus on as jena and what she was saying.

you must bring it out of him. you seem to be able to take possession of his mind and enter it in a way that he can only name as sorcery. 

when you mention in passing that aerion has been bothering you, the boy is sent to summerhall within a matter of days. when aegon seeks your help convincing his father to allow him to squire, you are the first to bring it up at the dinner table, weaving the thought into conversation until you are sure that it has taken hold in his brother’s mind. 

baelor even finds himself agreeing with you, being convinced easily and quickly, even more so when you smile so sweetly at him that it muddles his mind. you say uncle quietly and rest your hand on his shoulder and he all but runs from your solar, leaving you behind, giggling at him no doubt.

what’s worse is that whatever charm you possess, it is rivaled only by your tenderness. 

he watches you play with rhae and daella, even though you have lady’s maids of your own to keep you company. you entertain your young cousins whenever they ask. you guide them away to the peace and quiet of your solar when his brother is yelling at his nephews, or when some violence has broken out in the training yard. 

when you ask him for things, it is rarely for the purpose of your own satisfaction. 

often it is silks and laces to make new dresses for the girls, some new toy for the children of the ladies at court, a commissioned painting to gift to kiera for her nameday, depicting the scenery of the tyrosh for her personal solar.

and for everything he thinks and knows of you, he should have guessed that he would be unable to deny your request. 

not when you recall the anniversary of jena’s passing each year and try to ease the pain his family still feels so deeply. you have the lemon cakes she so loved made and served with dinner, smiling with his sons, and then at him, and just for a few moments, a day that has always been so terrible is made slightly better.

but marriage has made you into another creature entirely. 

it has been only three moons since baelor had stood with you in the sept and covered your shoulders with the black and red cloak.

you had told him at the feast later in the day that you had been working on your wedding cloak, embroidering glimmering red dragons and the words of the house in high valyrian, for almost the turn of a moon.

“were you pleased with my work, husband?” you had asked, blinking those lovely eyes at him and watching as he lost all train of thought. 

baelor had nodded, picking up his goblet and nearly draining the entire thing empty. he did not realize how quickly you would adjust.

he had gone from uncle to husband in a matter of hours. your father might roll over in his grave if he could see you now, looking like a true targaryen bride, seated beside him at the high table, his father and mother only a few seats away. 

they had simply been pleased that baelor wished to marry again at all. he would assume something else—though perhaps it was obvious to others that you were among their favorite of the grandchildren and their prized eldest granddaughter—but their contentment had seemed genuine. 

they ate and drank and laughed, and the lords and ladies danced, and baelor swallowed hard as he was persuaded to lead you to the floor of the hall. you dance beautifully, you always have, and he recalls a time where you had begged your father for an foreign instructor. he had not listened, and you had come to ask your uncle baelor instead.

needless to say, the new instructor was on their way to king’s landing before the turn of the week—

“husband?” you had quietly asked then, gazing upon him with a sort of expression that he has never seen on your pretty features before. “what are you so lost in thought about?” 

“nothing of importance, niece,” he had replied curtly, before spinning you around the room as was expected of him. 

baelor tried to deny it—he tried to deny all of it. 

how beautiful you looked as you danced in his arms, how warm your skin felt against his, how sweet your scent was. you spoke to him sincerely and he responded in half-sentences and frayed thoughts, the wine taking over his senses, perhaps.

but as he returned you to your seat, breathless and giggling, he had decided then and there. he could not be swayed by your charm when it came to the matter of marriage. 

maekar had come to claim your next dance, and you had glanced at baelor quickly before accepting his hand, your eyes silently asking for permission. he had nodded, watching you then turn to your other uncle with a beaming smile. 

no, baelor had thought, this marriage cannot truly be of your own choosing. he did know the full length of the truth, and he would not ask you, but he knew you well enough to ascertain that some part of this was a farce. 

perhaps you wished to avoid the grim future that awaited you—for there was no doubt in baelor’s mind that aerion would have pestered him for your hand one day. or you wished not to leave the comfort of the red keep and your beloved cousins, abandoning them all to join your husband and your new family. 

of the options presented to you, he knew you misliked both. he had not expected you to some up with another alternative entirely, nor had he thought that he would accept it so easily.

persuasion, it seemed, was your esteemed general. 

you talked your way into and out of most anything you desired, and reflecting back, baelor believes he should have been more prudent. he cannot escape your charm, but he could have left the matter to maekar to sort out. 

perhaps he would have had an easier time convincing you that a marriage in the reach or riverlands would be much more suitable than what you had proposed.

or perhaps, the thought he cannot escape pipes up to remind him, you would have asked for maekar’s hand in marriage instead. then you would have been no longer his niece, not his wife, but rather his goodsister. 

his fist had tightened around the neck of the goblet at the mere thought, his eyes watching maekar dance with you. you were smiling at him, but as soon as baelor’s gaze found you, your eyes locked with his in an instant. 

baelor looked away quickly.

no, he decides in that very moment, he will not torment you by making you fulfill whatever duties you believed you had as his wife. he would allow you your freedom, leave you to do whatever pleased you, and he would not make you suffer because of his own uncontrollable lust and lechery. 

you were his niece before you were his wife. his duty, as he promised your father, was to protect you, not to force you to an early death in the birthing bed by giving you his seed. 

the thought was difficult enough to remember that night—the men of the feast had hoisted you up, carrying you to his chambers while shouting bawdy words of ribald. they had delivered you in just your tattered smallclothes, and you had been waiting for him on the bed.

you had not seemed so nervous as he thought, but perhaps only because you knew he would never harm you. 

at least, he supposes, he can find peace in that thought, that he protected you from a worse fate on your marriage night that many others suffered through.

even drunk on the sweet nectar of your cunt, baelor had forced himself to remember his vow from earlier. it was hard to do so, and perhaps the only thing harder was his cock, but he set aside the thought entirely.

that night, the first night as husband and wife, he had felt you peak against his mouth once, and on his fingers second. and finally once you were completely exhausted and boneless, sunken into the messy, wet sheets and gripping onto his arm as though you might fall away without him steadying you, he had slowly entered your weeping cunt and claimed your maidenhood for himself. 

even that night, he had finished on the soft skin of your belly, refusing to fill you with his seed. 

in your exhaustion, he thinks perhaps you did not even notice. by the time he had helped to clean you and bring you a cup of water, you had drank but a sip and fallen fast asleep against him. 

that night, he had laid awake, staring at the ceiling of his chambers, listening to the slow rustling of the wood burning in the fireplace, and decided this would very well be the first and last time he bedded you.

he had two healthy children and an heir and he had no need for another, especially not when it could be so dangerous for you. 

maekar’s beloved dyanna had perished bringing young rhae into this world, and she had been perfectly healthy during her previous five births. even jena had struggled bringing valarr into this world, and the maesters had told him it was scarcely an easy thing, even worse when it was the lady’s first child.

he looked over you, asleep in his arms, snoring softly with your hair spread out over his pillows. the scent of you might never truly leave these sheets and furs. 

and he vowed that he would fulfill his duty as your uncle and set aside his desires as your husband.

baelor never spells out his decision to you fully. if you are hurt by it, you do not show it.

(or rather, he does not notice.)

baelor keeps your interactions concise when he can. with maekar and his children off at summerhall shortly after the wedding, you had taken to eating meals in the solar with him.

he would arrive shortly before the maids began serving food, removing his cloak and sitting beside you as a serving girl pours him a cup of wine.

“how was the small council today? do you have another headache?” you ask gently, and thank the servant as she pours wine into your goblet next. the girl—who you addressed by name, as willa—smiles brightly at you before resuming her place by the wall.

“no, i am well.” 

the briefer baelor’s words are, the less you have to go off of. he does not wish you keep you engaged in conversation, or make the time longer than it needs to be. surely you wish to retire or partake in one of those activities you loved before your marriage. 

he often sees your latest embroidery project perched on a table by the fire in your solar. there are books there as well, thick volumes of targaryen history and a thinner book he recognizes as daeron the first’s retelling of the conquest of dorne. it is a favorite of his, the first account of dorne, his mother’s homeland, and he has read it cover to cover several times over.

a thought creeps in and he pushes it away—perhaps resting in bed with the fire blazing, since you are certain to get cold without it. you resting in his arms and breathing softly, resting your lovely eyes and keeping them hidden from him as he reads to you. he wonders what it would take to—

baelor blinks.

perhaps you merely wish to fill your time with other company. he often saw you with kiera in her solar when he is searching for valarr or with your lady’s maids in the gardens. it is not surprising to him that you would prefer their company.

“husband?” you ask quietly, and he turns his head. 

he has been so lost in his thoughts that he had not noticed you awaiting another response from him. when he looks at you, his heart begins to beat faster. 

you are always lovely, but perhaps lovelier still when your expression is filled with concern for him. you look as though there is nothing more important than understanding whatever thought is plaguing baelor, and discussing it until his mind is at ease. he thinks of the many ways you might be able to help ease him, and yet—

but he cannot let the thought linger for long. he asks of your day and listens to you recount it—filled with the very same activities and people that he suspected. 

you sound perhaps a touch lonelier without maekar’s children to help fill your day, but the quiet of the keep is enjoyable in its own way. 

once you have finished eating, he kisses your forehead chastely, and tells you that he is returning to his work in his study. 

even there, you continue to plague him. the way the yellow silk of your dress clung to your skin. how your hair fell around your face. the way you held his hand for a mere moment before he moved it away, your skin warm and soft, your breasts heaving with each breath—

he pushes his chair and stands up, taking a turn of the room and ending up breathing in the cool night air on the balcony. he thinks he might be able to relieve the hot tension and desire building in his chest and traveling lower with the distraction, but to no avail. his work sits incomplete on his desk.

it’s not until he takes himself in his hand later that night, in the darkness of his private chambers, thinking of the night of the wedding, stroking his manhood faster and faster as he thinks of how you had mewled under him as he took you—

he finds release, but he feels no relief. only a sense of propriety that seems to be fading the longer he thinks of you. and then, in the sheets that still smell of your skin, he sleeps.

-

“i require but a moment of your time, niece,” baelor says as he enters your solar. 

you are seated in the armchair by the fireplace, but you put down your embroidery—another dragon, he imagines—at the sound of his voice. you do not stand up, but you look towards him.

your maids look wide-eyed with concern, until he waves his hand to dismiss them. the door shuts as they step outside. 

“good morrow, husband,” you reply sweetly as always, smiling. “would you like tea? it is too early for wine but i can request-”

“no, i require nothing but an explanation. what is the meaning of this?” he clutches in his hand a piece of parchment, spelling out a list of your latest expenses, given to him by the master of coin at the small council meeting in the morning

lord penrose had looked at him with an odd sort of expression, a mixture of pity and amusement, when he had handed him the rolled up letter. 

baelor was not an impatient man. he was not prone to anger, either, but he felt his fist tighten around the paper and his jaw clench as he read the scribbled ink.

“the meaning of what, husband?” you ask innocently. you rise from your chair, setting aside your embroidery. you walk closer to him and he feels his resolve beginning to quiver. 

you wear a pretty gown of blue silk, a color that seems familiar to him for some reason, with a low neckline that he cannot remove his eyes from. he would not deem such a dress appropriate, but you are in the peace and quiet of your solar, with no one but maids for company. baelor’s jaw tenses again at the thought of ser donnel watching your skirts swish behind you as you had entered the room today, as he stood guard by the doors. 

usually, you cover your shoulders with that stole he is most familiar with. it does not seem to be found today. he stares at the bare skin there for entirely too long before looking upon your face again. you are standing closer than he realized.

he takes a step backwards, and he notices displeasure flick over your normally warm expression, if only for a moment, before returning to the sweet smile he is so familiar with.

if he had blinked, he would have missed it.

“lord penrose gave me a detailed account of your recent expenses,” he begins, the words coming out sternly. “two hundred gold dragons on white silk and myrish lace? another hefty amount on a seamstress and tailor in king’s landing? my niece, i-”

your face changes at once. the lovely smile melts away, replaced with a mispleased pout of your perfect lips. your eyebrows furrow and your eyes look at his with a mixture of concern and sadness.

baelor begins to regret his words instantly.

“are you cross with me?” you ask quietly, taking another step closer to him. your hands rests by your side but they move slowly, until your palms are pressed flat against the velvet of his doublet. “i did not mean to upset you.”

he can feel the warmth of your skin through the layers of cloth, he thinks. you are so close that the familiar, fragrant scent of your skin has taken hold of all his senses. the last time had been the night of—

he moves his head, trying to shake it slightly before looking back at your doleful eyes. his resolve begins to slip away slowly.

“not… upset, entirely. i-i spoke harshly. i only meant that-” baelor loses track of the thought as he stares at you. you look as though you are a child being scolded. “it is not proper, princess, to spend such an amount on clothes.”

“i understand, husband,” you reply solemnly, your expression unwavering.

“if you desired something, i merely wish you had told me first.”

“i did not wish to bother you with such frivolous requests. i thought that perhaps you would be pleased with my new gowns.”

“i…” baelor trails off. the one you wear now is particularly captivating. how can he be upset, when you had done it for him? 

yes, something in his mind tells him, a princess of the court, wife of the crown prince, no less, should not only be clothed in old dresses. 

it is a small thing to him, but perhaps an entirely different matter for you. there are ladies of the court, perhaps who might be your ladies in waiting one day in the distant future. he supposes you have to have something new to share with them, and take part in influencing some of the fashions of court.

though, he admits plainly, the lords of the court would thank him if their wives began dressing in this fashion. 

he would thank himself, if you began dressing like this—

“husband?” you ask again, your eyes widened while you await another answer.

“forgive me. i was… distracted,” he confesses, and your seize your opportunity.

you press your hands further into his chest, taking another step closer. 

“i did not mean any harm,” you begin, locking eyes with him. “i sought the merchants in king’s landing for a reason. i wanted different silks that i might support a great deal more families than just the ones the steward prefers. and i thought, perhaps, by commissioning new dressmakers, the ladies of court might seek them out too. i only wanted to help…”

well, he had not thought of it in that manner. 

there was no harm in the action. a bit of gold in exchange for the goodwill and support of the crafters and vendors of the city. you were right—the ladies of court would follow in your example, giving work to feed hungry families.   

“i… forgive me. i should not have taken that tone with you.”

“you should not apologize, husband. in fact, i am most grateful for an opportunity to speak with you before we dine. might i show you some of my new dresses? i would like to wear it at supper,” you say, but he swallows uncomfortably.

resisting you when you are fully clothed with your stole is a task he deems difficult enough. listening to you change your dresses behind a partition while you come out to show him the many options, each more revealing than the last is…

near impossible.

“i must return to my study for another meeting, niece. but i will see you at dinner,” he says, and presses another kiss to your forehead, his hands coming up to cup your cheek before departing. 

you bite the skin of the inside of your cheek, deep in thought as he leaves.

-

perhaps a few days later, baelor is seated in the armchair of his study. there is still dozens of documents for him to review, a proposal for the small council that needs to be finished before the afternoon meeting tomorrow, and it is nearing the hour of the owl. 

he has finally been able to rid himself of the image of you and whatever silky smallclothes you might be wearing underneath your new dresses, in order to finish some of his work. 

they must be even smaller than he imagines, though, if your dresses reveal so much soft, flawless skin to him without them making an appearance. 

(rid himself of it, he thinks, by releasing into his hand every night since. you are a haunting vision of blue silk, and he imagines how you might look wearing that very dress while he fucks you over the table in—)

there is a knock on the door. it is late, too late to be anyone but a knight of the kingsguard or his manservant preparing his chambers for sleep.

“enter,” baelor says, not looking up from the parchment spread across the desk. he reads the small words slowly, sleep growing heavy in his body. something about new taxes on imported fabrics and treaties between—

“it is very late, husband.” baelor turns to look at you in an instant.

his shoulders relax as he sinks further into his chair. you look just as he would have imagined at this hour—your hair slightly mussed, your expression sweet yet tired. in the dim candlelight that illuminates his study, you look closer to a goddess paying him a visit.

but he is no praying man.

his eyes travel down from your face, where you bite your lip hesitantly while awaiting his reply, to your nightgown and the soft, pale robe that covers it. with it untied, he can see what waits underneath—pure white silk, the color of stars, with lace around the neck. it stops just before your ankles, and he can see the slippers you wear if he sits up a little taller. 

the fabric feels delicate just from gazing upon it. you would be comfortable to sleep in it, no doubt. this must be one of the new gowns you had commissioned, because he has never seen clothing for sleep look so lovely and enticing.

you make your way closer, stopping beside his desk.

“it is almost the hour of the owl, niece. what are you doing awake?”

“i could not sleep,” you confess, running your fingers across some of the papers that lay cluttered on the surface of the bureau. “it evades me. i am not sufficiently tired.”

you glance up towards him, and the resolve, which has already been battered and beaten to near death by the strength of your forces—namely your bleary, beautiful eyes—begins to shake, as a newly anointed knight facing battle for the first time might.

“you should rest, princess.”

“i do not wish to rest.”

perhaps the silence of the castle and the lull of the night has made you braver and bolder than the young woman he thought he knew so well.

you move quickly, to perch yourself against his lap seamlessly, as though he was a seat made for you only.

your hand comes to stabilize yourself against baelor, fingers wrapping around the thickness of his muscled arm. he moves faster than you, wrapping both of his hands securely around your waist to steady you, taking in, finally, how thin the fabric of your nightgown truly is. he releases a shuddery, painful breath at the thought that follows.

he can feel the heat of your skin and how your flesh yields in his grip.

he has not felt you in so very long. your soft skin in his hands and the aroma of your hair, jasmine and something else he cannot name, make him dizzy with want.

he has tried so hard to make all the interactions chaste and short, and here you are, offering yourself to the predator, a misguided, sleepy creature of prey. 

his prey.

you trace the skin of his cheek with your soft fingers.

“you are not eating enough,” you say quietly. baelor holds back a quiet laugh.

“spoken like a true wife.”

“i am your true wife,” you reply with a tone he cannot quite place. “will you not come to bed with me? i have so missed your company, husband,” you purr.

he very nearly shuts his eyes at the sound. when his eyelids open again, you are staring at him with wide, doe-like eyes, blinking in eager anticipation. 

“niece,” baelor warns in a low voice. “i-”

“wife,” you correct again.

“i have much work to complete before i can retire,” he lies, knowing that the moment you leave him, he will be unable to finish writing even another sentence.

such is the strength of your power over him. even when you are not beside him, his mind can think of nothing else.

“can it not wait until the morning? i should like to sleep beside you,” you whisper, laying your head down on his shoulder. 

he looks down the length of your back, your thin excuse of a robe abandoned on the ground, the silk of your nightgown shining and shimmering in the candlelight. he notices how it stretches across your skin, revealing curves that he should not be looking at, how easily the fabric might be torn into two if he only pulled—

reality floods his veins as though someone had emptied a barrel of ice water on his skin. 

perhaps you are lonely, and truly, that is his mistake—he has tried his best to resist temptation by limiting the tempting interactions entirely.

with maekar and his children gone, you have no one to keep you company. it’s only natural you would seek him out, even in this state, because you wish to speak with someone else besides your maids. you have always been a unifying feature of their family, preferring to spend time with them rather than alone.

yes, that must be it, he concludes as you rest against his body, adjusting your legs to get more comfortable. 

your smooth skin brushes against his manhood—which is only growing harder with each passing moment—and he brings one hand to your thigh to stop you from moving any further. he soaks in the satisfied feeling when he feels your limb still under his touch.

this must all be borne of a loneliness you possess and a desire for company. he can easily remedy that—many of the lords of the court have daughters and wives and sisters who could be brought along to be your companions. 

it does not quite feel as though his idea will work when you are curled up so comfortably against him, fitting together as though you and he are two parts of a whole. 

but he shall have to try, regardless. he will not defile and debase you any further. you shall be allowed at least that much respect.

you make a soft, sweet noise of sleep against him. he feels you nuzzle your head against his shoulder further. you end up burying it into the crook of his neck, sighing softly, and he soaks in how your breath feels against his skin. 

“you should sleep, princess,” baelor says quietly into your ear. 

he cannot help it—everything seems much more intimate under the veil of darkness. all that he has tried so hard to push away in the daylight returns with a tenacity he did not expect.

something speaks up, the part he tries to keep silent. it calls him a fool—reminds him that he has a lovely creature, bound to him before the gods, that seems to desire him, desire his company. and all he has done is push her away time and time again.

the two sides begin to battle it out—his moral thoughts that somehow always travel back to the day he promised your father he would protect you and the perverse ones that tell the others to be quiet and please his wife, to give in and make her every wish come to fruition.

“i will,” you begin softly, the words said into his ear, a lustful shiver rolling over his muscles at the sound. “if you join me.” 

he exhales a deep breath, filled with both guilt and regret, and he knows you can hear it.

“i cannot. come, i shall escort you back to your chambers.” 

you sigh too—one of pure frustration, as he helps you stand up. 

baelor’s fingers barely skim the bare skin of your shoulder, bringing the fallen strap that was hovering on your arm back to its rightful place. then he picks up your robe and wraps it around you gently. 

he offers you his arm to lead you back to your chambers. you have a difficult time letting go.

“husband, i-”

“sleep now, niece. we shall talk during the day tomorrow.” 

“but i-” baelor turns his beautiful, mis-matched eyes towards you and the sentence dies on your tongue. you shall still have the last word, however, and so you hold onto his arm and lean in for a kiss before he can turn away from you.

he makes your knees weak without even trying.

baelor’s mouth is warm and his lips taste of sweet wine, no doubt the cup he was nursing before you entered his study.

in truth, you had slumbered hours ago, falling into sleep after baelor had left your chambers following supper. you wanted to be awake at such a time that you knew he would still be in his study, all alone.

your plan had, for the most part, failed. though you had gotten closer than previous attempts, and though it had been wonderful to feel his hands on your skin once more, he was still being too pious for your liking, too reminiscent of his namesake.

your hands are still wrapped around his arms, digging into the muscles as you feel baelor returning your kiss. you whimper into his mouth, surprised by the rough feel of his beard against your skin and his tongue touching yours. but the kiss itself is still surprisingly gentle, just as the ones on your wedding night had been. 

you had thought your teasing might earn you a glimpse of a different side of your husband, but it seems that you were mistaken.

no matter. you will accept each victory, no matter how small. 

and most unsurprisingly, he pulls away first. 

his lips look swollen and pink, and your own tug into a pleased smile at the image before you. baelor runs a hand over his beard, sighing, looking at you as though he is unsure of what he will do with you.

good, you think. let me be plagued with dreams of my kisses. 

“i bid you goodnight, my husband,” you sing sweetly, leaning your feet forward on your toes so that you can press one of those chaste kisses he so loves to his cheek. 

then you enter your chambers, leaving him in the corridor.

-

baelor thinks of nothing but your startling kiss and how your nightgown looked in the dim light of his study. 

the gown—if it can even be called that, since it was merely a few scraps of thin fabric stitched together—has been the only thing on his mind for days on end.

he tries ardently to distract himself by setting up meetings with lords mallister and santagar and tyrell to have them bring ladies of their family to court to serve as your companions. he speaks with the men for too long, asks questions that are irrelevant, and tries to prolong the encounter just so he is not left alone with this thoughts.

one thought in particular—namely the softness of your lips, a soldier rising through the ranks as he wins battle after battle.

and despite all of that effort, even days later, he finds himself unable to think of anything but the scent of your skin and the ease with which you climbed into his lap.

a lesser man might even think that you wanted him.

he tries, and fails, to cast the thought aside entirely. 

you, on the other hand, have not been thinking of anything else. baelor tells you when he joins you for dinner later in the week that he has arranged for your ladies-in-waiting to come to court earlier than he had planned. 

he tells you their names and their lineages, their relation to his small council and the relationships their families wish to maintain with the crown. 

but you pay little attention.

again, your husband has spurned you. 

you thought you were strong enough to deal with this rationally. that baelor was only being distant because you were newlyweds, because he did not want to seem eager. 

but you’re no fool, either. your little stunt in his study proved what you already knew to be true. your husband desired you, he just wouldn't allow himself to act on his desires. 

now he wishes to keep you complacent with noble ladies that will no doubt ask you questions that you have no answer for—such as when your husband planned on getting you with child and when the court would have another little prince or princess running around.

no matter what else happened, you knew you needed to take the issue into your own hands if you wanted a resolution. 

if you wanted your husband’s seed, you will have to go seek him out and make him give it to you. 

baelor does not meet you for dinner the following evening. he is in his study with his father and maekar, who is visiting from summerhall. 

he left the children behind, much to your displeasure, but brought along daeron and aerion. hardly a fair trade, you think, though the thought feels tainted. you have nothing against the elder, but the second-born is another deal entirely.

the boys had begun their morning sparring with your other cousins—or rather, your step-sons—in the training yard. you had walked by on the way to the gardens with your ladies, the lot of them giggling at the muscles and sweat of the boys below.

it is only aerion and matarys doing the sparring now. 

in the garden, daeron seems to be taking a nap in the sun, perched on one of the benches by the trees. valarr is taking a turn about the gardens with kiera, who is finally feeling well enough to come outside and enjoy the fresh air. 

seeing the way the two of them hold each other, the way their love and admiration for the other was so palpable to all of you, made your heart ache. 

yes, you wanted your husband to please you and give you a child of your own. but you also wanted that. 

love and affection and tenderness. 

the worst of it, perhaps, was that you knew baelor was incredibly capable of it. he was not at all like the lords you feared you would have been married off too—cold and cruel and devoid of kindness. baelor was overflowing with love for his children and his family. 

you were spoiled, perhaps, you think as you sulk in the shade with your new ladies. you were so used to his love and compassion growing up that you had only expected it to further grow as the moons of your marriage passed. 

now your husband seems to have nothing but proper concern for you. everything he does, everything he says, it is apparent that he wishes you to stay safe and well. he will not even touch you, perhaps for fear that he will break you, living up to his nickname after all, you suppose.

you bite into cherry and let the tartness linger on your tongue. lady bethany mallister, the daughter of the lord of ships, picks up a piece of fruit as well. 

you are tired of them, though not because they are not enjoyable company. it is your own situation that feeds your sadness. 

aly tyrell is funny beyond all measure. lady bethany is sweet and gentle and always compliments your dresses. lord santagar’s sister, sarena, is young and excited and reminds you of the innocent hope all girls possess at that age. you feel towards her perhaps that which an elder sister might feel towards the younger.

though your frustrations are targeted to your husband and his lack of action, you do not wish to take it out on them.

“at least,” you begin after taking another bite and chewing your cherry until your lips and tongue are red, “the fruit is sweet and the sun is warm.”

“i wonder if we will have another long spring,” bethany comments, picking up another slice of apple. 

“perhaps,” you mull. “it would bode well for the small folk. i know they dread winter so.”

“bethy, i cannot imagine what winter must be like at seagard. how do you survive the cold?” sarena asks, selecting a slice of blood orange for herself. 

“the same way everyone else does,” aly answers for her, “by staying warm in their husband’s beds.”

you laugh first, though it stings. the others follow.

“you shall be safe then, princess,” sarena says with a wide-eyed smile. “the prince would never let you be cold.”

“right you are, my lady. he would never.” you bite on your cheek, listening as aly begins another tale.

she is interrupted by a pale hand reaching towards the fruit, picking up a cluster of grapes. 

“cousin,” you greet, faking a sweet smile the way you are used to in his company.

“princess. ladies,” aerion says, narrowing his violet eyes towards you. “do your prince a favor, my ladies, and take a turn about the garden. i require a word with my dear aunt.”

the girls look toward you for permission first and you nod your head, something you know aerion did not appreciate, and they each get up and leave. 

sarena turns to look back at him twice, until aly steps to intentionally block her view, making her focus in front of her.

aerion looks a sweaty mess, slumping into bethany’s seat, next to you.

“so,” he starts. “how fares your marriage?”

“perfectly well,” you reply quickly. “baelor is a most thoughtful husband.”

“baelor,” aerion mimics with a scoff. he pops a grape into his mouth, chewing obnoxiously. “four moons ago you called him uncle.”

“a lot can change in four months, aerion. now he is my husband.”

“and some husband he is, i am sure. tell me, has he gotten a child on you yet? given his age, you can never know…”

you head snaps towards him, your fingers twitching as you try your hardest to refrain from slapping him.

“i will not dignify you with an answer. mind your tongue or i will-”

“you will what?” he questions, eating another grape, looking at you with a feigned, innocent expression. 

you cannot think of anything to say.

“you seem to forget that i am no longer your cousin. i am the crown prince’s wife now,” you finally reply, hoping he cannot see through your angry words, the saddened, lonely girl that sits beneath your visage. 

“of course not. i am merely looking out for you. well, if you require me… you know where i shall be.” 

“i do not require-“

“good day, aunt.” he picks up your tightened fist and presses a kiss to the skin of your hand. you pull your hand back instantly.

+

aerion’s words do not leave you for the rest of the day.

your ladies continue to chatter and gossip, but your thoughts are far away. you pick only bits and pieces, speaking when there is a silence meant for your reply.

“prince aerion is so handsome, is he not?” sarena says breathlessly, and bethany looks towards you with a concerned expression. aly rolls her eyes.

“as pretty as he is violent. i beg you to find literally anyone else to fancy. his older brother’s just over there-”

sarena scrunches her freckled nose in disagreement. you’ll warn her about pursuing aerion before he leaves once again for summerhall, but your mind cannot think of anything but your own plight.

it’s not until the sun has almost set and the air is much cooler that you are finally granted the opportunity to be alone with your thoughts.

alone, that you might finally concoct your plan.

you work quickly, before your mind has time to stop and think too much of your actions. your maid is confused when dismiss her after your bath, but you do not need her noticing that you do not plan to spend the evening in your chambers.

you dress yourself in the smallest of the newly-made nightgowns, not tying and lacing it where it ought to be, leaving it hanging off your shoulder and exposing the skin of your neck and chest more than you should.

part of the plan from the other night had worked—baelor had been susceptible to the charm of your new gowns, which seemed now to be worth every penny. perhaps that one was not the true victor, however.

you were confident that the one you donned now would be.

you forgo the robe entirely this time, knowing that baelor is not in his study across the corridor. he’s only in his chambers, only a door away. you step out into the hall and put a finger to your lips when ser donnel of the kingsguard sees you, standing in between the two doors for his watch until morning. 

though his eyes are wide at your clothes—or rather mostly lack of—he does not say anything. 

“no interruptions, ser donnel, if you can manage it. the prince and i have a most urgent matter to discuss.” 

he nods, and you smile, knocking on the door.

baelor’s gentle, deep voice echoes as he tells whomever it is to enter. 

it’s not until you step inside, gently closing the door behind you and padding barefoot to the desk and armchair by the fireplace where he works when he is tired of his study, that he notices you.

he looks up quickly, his gaze returning to the assortment of papers before him, before suddenly returning his eyes towards you, his head almost spinning. you bite back a smile.

“niece. what are you-”

“husband,” you greet, ignoring his use of your former title. “i require a moment of your time.”

his mismatched eyes, deep in a distracted thought, travel from your face, slowly raking downwards. 

he stops to observe your bared shoulder and the sheer silk that reveals the curve of your breasts and hips before making his way to your legs, and then back up when you clear your throat.

“what?” he questions, meeting your eyes once again. “did you say something?”

“no,” you lie, shaking your head innocently, putting one step in front of the other until you are much closer to him and the fire. it provides warmth to your exposed skin but it is not nearly warm enough.

nothing but the heat of your husband on top of you will cure your coldness, you think, thinking back to what aly had said in the garden.

“you should return to bed. and wear something warmer. there is a chill in the air tonight.”

“i do not wish to sleep alone,” you reply, taking yet another step closer. he does not have anywhere to escape to, seated in his chair with the fireplace on one side and you on the other. 

“we have discussed this, princess-”

“not princess,” you say, feeling bolder than ever before. 

you perch yourself against his desk, the silk slipping aside and baring your thighs to him. his eyes are fixated on the skin until you speak again, when he moves to meet your eyes again. you hold back another laugh at his attempts to be stoic and polite, even when you are vexing him so deeply. 

“niece-”

“not niece, either. wife. it is the only name i shall respond to,” you say quietly, hoping he can also feel the sincerity of your words.

you watch as baelor swallows, tension thick in the air between the two of you. he runs a hand over his beard as he does when he is frustrated and trying not to show it.

from so close, you can see all the gray hairs that litter his face. they blend together with the dark hair seamlessly. that, along with the wrinkles by his eyes and the absolute temptation in his eyes, is enough to make butterflies erupt in your chest. 

“you do not know what you are asking for,” baelor says, and you smile. 

“i do know. i have had many moons to think about it.”

“you-” baelor stops himself, releasing a deep breath. “you do not want me. you simply desire company. that is why i arranged-”

“my ladies are lovely. kind and funny and good at conversing.” 

“i am pleased to hear it. perhaps they-”

you move slowly, shifting from your position near his desk until you are settling yourself in his lap, just as the other night. 

and just like then, baelor’s hands come to secure you. always worried about your safety, he holds on tightly, his fingers sinking into the flesh of your waist as yours wrap around his neck. 

“as lovely as they are, they cannot give me what i want.” 

you lean in to kiss the hollow of his cheek again, working your way down until you can nestle your face into his neck, littering a handful of kisses there too. baelor’s hands tighten on your body as you feel him suck in a deep breath. 

you breathe in the scent of his skin, calming and soothing as it is, leather and amber and something else that is uniquely your husband.

“what is it that you want?” he questions quietly, with a soft groan that is music to your ears. you stir against his lap and feel his hardness growing against your thighs, warm and firm.

you must be well and truly deprived, you think, since the thought of his manhood against you is enough to make your mouth water.

“i want you. i have wanted you for as long as i can remember. now i have you but in name only.”

“sweet girl, i am only-”

“tell me, husband, am i so awful that you will not spend time with me? am i not the same niece that you so doted on before our marriage?”

“that is precisely why i cannot-”

you lean in to silence him with a kiss, your lips hot and wet against each other. you moan into his open mouth, gripping onto his shoulder fiercely, not pulling away even as you feel baelor try and resist you. 

he too gives in—his hand weaving into your hair, his huge palm holding your head in place. the other hand stays by your waist, adamantly about not straying, though you can feel the heat of his skin through your silk. 

and beneath you is an entirely different story than whatever baelor claims to be the truth—he grows harder and hotter as you move ever so slightly against him, adjusting yourself until you sit atop his manhood. 

you rock gently, your eyes rolling back at the sensation between your legs, one you have not felt so intensely since the night of your wedding.

you believe you could even find your pleasure like this, drowning in his kisses and moving your hips faster until you both feel that shuddery release that you have so longed for—

and then baelor stops, pulling away. his hand stays on the back of your head, cupping and pulling you gently to look at him. 

breathless, flushed in every way possible, with a familiar yet distant ache growing hot and tight in your belly, your swollen lips turn into a pout as you bat your eyelashes at him.

“why do you deny me, husband? why do you deny yourself? you cannot hide the truth. i know you desire me,” you say, rocking yourself against him once more.

baelor’s lovely eyes are hidden from you as he shuts them tightly, holding back a moan. 

“i am trying to protect you,” he says quietly, his eyes opening again. they are filled with pain, something that you detest. it fills you with an immense sadness. 

you lean forwards, pressing your forehead against his.

“you cannot protect me from everything,” you whisper. “and if you must, let us start with the rumors of the court. it wounds me every time someone questions why i am not yet with child.”

“who has said it? i will-”

“it does not matter who. i know they all think it.”

“let them, sweet girl,” baelor says, bringing his hand to hold your cheek tenderly instead. tears—born mostly of sadness and frustration—begin to well up in your eyes. “i am trying to keep you safe and yet you are attempting to force my hand at every turn.”

all you have ever wanted is before you—baelor as your husband, talking of how he wishes to keep you safe, as you always knew he would. and yet, somehow, it is a terrifying thing altogether to imagine a life such as the one you have been living forever.

far away from him, detached and alone, sharing nothing but a meal on occasion instead of days filled with the love you know he harbors inside.

“keep me safe from what?”

“everything,” he replies, his hand tightening around your waist. a tear runs down your cheek and he wipes it away with his thumb. “the childbed, for one. you are too young to leave this world because of my own selfish desire-”

“baelor,” you whisper, your pout magnifying in intensity, if possible. “there is no telling what the gods have planned for us. i have learned that lesson with enough pain. should we not enjoy our marriage for as long as we are blessed enough to do so?”

you bite your lower lip, blinking slowly at him, wondering if this might be where the tide finally turns. you lean in for another kiss, only getting a soft, hesitant one before he pulls you away with his hand on your face.

baelor turns his head away from you. 

“go to bed, niece. it grows late.”

you feel a selfish sort of anger burning in your chest. you have tried to reason with him—and the gods know your husband a reasonable man, more than most. but you are not content with this life, and you never will be, not until you have your husband the way you want him.

the way you know he wants you.

you do not move. a rational side of you tries to argue that you’ve made more progress than before. perhaps one more plan needs to be made, and you will have convinced him of your own accord to heed you.

however, the irrational side wins, the words spilling out before you can think twice about it. 

“you know, aerion visited me today. he said that i only need find him if my uncle is having too much trouble getting me with child.”

baelor snaps his head towards you in an instant, his dark and light eyes blazing with a hidden fury. even so, he keeps his composure more than you wished he would.

“and what did you tell him, hm?”

“i told him to leave. i should have told him that i would have his tongue cut out if he spoke in that way again. because-” you breathe, your entire body trembling in his grip. “because i know my husband can please me. i know he can give me the child we both desire. please baelor… do not let them win.”

you fiddle with the tied ribbon by the collar of your neck, pulling it until it falls flatly around you. he can make out your heaving breasts under the sheer fabric.

you move your head slowly, just to meet his eyes again, blinking quickly. perhaps it is past your time to admit defeat, that you were simply not armored enough today.

baelor brings both his hands to either side of your face and crashes his mouth onto yours.

you release a squeal in surprise, returning the force of his kiss with an intensity you have never felt before. baelor’s hands hold you tightly in place, with no opportunity to move, his mouth hard against yours. 

and yet, his lips are soft. he kisses you as though he wishes to cherish the memory, trying to learn the curves and divots of your face with his fingers. you moan against him as his hands move down, dragging slowly past your past, tracing down your back until he finally lands at your hips. 

he squeezes, as though he is trying to make certain you are truly there before him. the position is not nearly as comfortable as before, but you have no complaints, allowing him to explore your mouth with his tongue, breathing him in through your every sense. 

baelor does not pull away, even as he reads your mind and hoists you up as he stands from the armchair. he sets you on the edge of his desk, using his other hand to brush papers and books out of the way so there is a clearing for you to lay on. 

you giggle against his mouth at the sound, only wondering what ser donnel may be thinking from his post outside the door.

but then baelor pulls away, and the thought is lost, replaced instead with regret. you let out a greedy whine, your fingers pulling at his doublet, wishing for his lips on yours again.

“patience, sweet girl,” he says, and you feel a shiver work its way through your entire body. 

you are many things. patient is not one of them.

your fingers work deftly at the buttons of his doublet, undoing most of them easily, but before you can get the bloody thing off of his shoulders, baelor brings his hand to your jaw, cupping it and squishing your cheeks together.

“i said to be patient,” he reminds you, and you comply instantly, an eagerness to please him rolling smoothly through your body. 

something aches between your legs at his tone, but you are not stupid enough to be defiant now, when you are finally getting what you want.

you remember the night of your wedding as though it was yesterday—how gentle he’d been and how much pleasure he gave you, as though your pleasure mattered more than his. it had been—

the thought is distracted as you hear the sound of silk being torn. you gasp, looking up at baelor instantly.

“baelor, my gown—!” you cry out, though it is hard to care that much. you are mostly being dramatic because you want to see his reaction. 

“it has served its purpose,” baelor says calmly. 

he does not meet your eyes, rather, he stays focused on your newly exposed skin. the silk falls on either side of your body, revealing your breasts and the skin of your belly and legs to him completely. the air hardens your nipples further, and he stares, stares until you begin to tremble and shake with anticipation.

“husband,” you plead, wondering why he is only looking when he has you like this—a slavish position, bared completely for him while he still has all of his clothes on. 

his eyes wander further down, until he stops to stare at your cunt. you feel yourself burn with hotness at his gaze, wondering why he will not just get on with it. he has you exactly how he might want you—splayed out on his desk, your legs wrapped around him loosely. he need only—

baelor kneels. you almost sit up, wanting to know what he is thinking, but one of his huge hands on your stomach tells you, silently, to stay as you are.

“oh,” you sigh, feeling baelor’s hot breath on the sensitive skin of your thighs. his beard is scratchy, deliciously so, as he lines your inner thighs with kisses. when he takes a piece of the delicate skin between his teeth, you yelp, your hand weaving into his hair.

he looks up at you from the position—your legs almost wrapped around his head, his beautiful eyes—one blue, one brown, both dark with lust—looking up at you.

and you do not need him to speak to understand what he is saying. you lay back, keeping your eyes on him.

he dives in between your legs as though he is a man starved. 

the first lick makes your entire body tremble, and the second makes you moan out as though there is no one else in the castle save for the two of you. you feel his hot tongue work up and down your leaking cunt, focused on that one part that makes you see stars as his tongue teases it over and over again. 

he trails down, prodding against your sensitive hole with his tongue, lapping up your wetness, as your fingers grow tighter in his hair, pulling as you try to move your hips, a silent signal that you need more. 

baelor holds your hips down and his tongue returns to your sensitive pearl, simultaneously thrusting in two fingers. your eyes roll all the way back. you moan wantonly—it is all you have wanted.

no amount of your own fingers or folded pillows or thoughts of your husband could ever replace this. his tongue moves against you, flicking and sucking, the noises obscene as they fill the chamber. you cannot hold yourself back, certain someone can hear you, though it is hard to care. 

your back arches, rising off of his uncomfortable desk, but you know the feeling that grows deep in your belly. it’s tight and hot and wound up, but it loosens and stretches with every lick of your husband’s tongue.

but it’s different than the night of your wedding. this is so much better, not as gentle and sweet as that night.. no, this is rougher and more deliberate and filled with a fervor that you have unknowingly been creating in your husband all these moons.

the thought is enough to make you reach your peak instantly, but you hold back, wanting to bask in the sheer pleasure for a moment longer. baelor wraps his mouth around your pearl and continues thrusting his fingers in and out, the squelch of your soaking cunt making your entire body feel as though a flame has consumed you whole.

how—how could you have ever been satisfied by yourself? nothing could ever replace this feeling, you think dreamily, drunk on your husband’s affection. he enjoys it, you can tell, being the reason for your complete undoing.

baelor’s other hand reaches towards you, groping your exposed breast from his position. his fingers tease your nipple and you cry out, the pleasure close to unbearable.

he says something, his lips vibrating around you, and it makes your mouth gape open. you cannot understand him, but you guess it all the same, crying out his name over and over again. 

“good, sweet girl. perfect girl. let me feel your release on my tongue,” he murmurs against your cunt, and with a final thrust of his fingers and pinch of your nipples, you give in to the pleasure, succumb to your husband. 

the sheer bliss that washes over you is unlike anything you have ever felt before. it scorches through your body, a feeling something like lightening striking you, as the heat deep inside of you unwinds, and then snaps altogether.

the shockwaves continue as you moan out baelor’s name, and he does not let up. your body continues to shake in his grip, his tongue rough and almost painful against you, your sensitive cunt pulsing around his fingers. 

it’s not until you are completely boneless, slack-jawed and exhausted, collapsing against his desk, that you feel him slide his fingers out of you. 

you cannot imagine what a mess he has made of your thighs, though when he stands, groaning, you smile before you can help it. 

your juices linger on his beard, and the very thought makes you feel as though you are on fire.

using your hands on his doublet, you push him closer to your for a kiss, feeling the taste of yourself on his tongue and mouth, not receding until he finally uses his hands on your face to guide you away gently.

“that was incredible,” you whisper, leaning your head against his chest. his broad hands on your back support you, otherwise you are certain you would collapse back down.

“i am glad to hear it,” baelor says, polite as ever. “i shall escort you back to your chambers. let me retrieve my-”

“my chambers?” you question, pulling away to look up at him in confusion. “but we have not-”

“you are tired, sweet girl. i will not-”

you make a low, frustrated sound.

“i am not tired. i do not want to go back to my chambers. i want you, all of you. i want you to claim me, as is your right as my husband.”

“claim you?” baelor repeats slowly, watching you with his intense, consuming gaze. 

“will you not give me your seed, husband? as your wife, am i not entitled to it?” you ask, armed with that alluring pout that he is so mad for. 

it is not even so much your words, but rather how you say them, and how you look at him. as though there is nothing you desire more than him. 

baelor leans in for another kiss, your sweet mouth eager for his. 

and then he picks you up by the waist, your sore legs wrapping around his easily. he carries you over to his bed, placing you down with a gentle thud.

his time, when your hands come to his doublet, he lets you take it off of him. you remove it and the cloth falls somewhere behind him, just as your scraps of silk now lie on the ground by his desk.

his shirt is next, even as you paw at his breeches and their laces. he pulls the cotton from the back and yanks it off over his head, while he stares down at you. you are biting your lip in anticipation to claim the spoils of your victory.

sweet, eager girl. you have no idea what you are truly asking for. but he will give it to you all the same.

as soon as your fingers successfully untie the laces, he pulls them off, taking his hardened, throbbing cock into his hands. he strokes it as you watch wide-eyed, your chest heaving and breasts bouncing as you wait patiently for him to give you what you so desire.

he hovers over you, pressing a quick kiss to your mouth before working across to your jaw and then down the column of your neck. he goes over your collarbone, over where your heart beats under your skin, and onto your breasts.

baelor feels your fingers tighten around his arm and watches as your eyes roll back in your head as he takes your nipple into his hot mouth. he flicks his tongue against the sensitive skin, still stroking himself, his cock pulsing with every sweet sound you make. 

he switches to the other breast, lavishing it with attention while he moves your legs as though you are but a gift for him, positioning you until his cock is lined up against your drenched cunt. 

“husband,” you whimper, and he lets go of your tender nipple with a soft noise. “please… please take me,” you say, hot tears of frustration and overwhelmed pleasure running down the side of your face. 

he abandons your breast and moves, nudging the thick head of his cock so it slowly slips inside of you. your tight cunt sucks him in instantly, pleading for more as your face twists into a gasp, mouth falling open, eyes shutting tightly.

baelor comes close to your face, kissing your tears softly, until those lovely eyes flutter open to meet his. he groans, burying his face into your neck as you smile, teasing and sweet and yet so hungry for him.

“please, husband,” you moan again, a soft question this time. he answers by thrusting his length into you, all in one swift motion.

the sound of the bedframe thudding against the wall fills the chambers, followed by the lewd, wet sound of baelor moving in and out of your cunt. then there is your cries and pleas, your sweet moans that he cannot believe he has denied himself for so long.

“there, sweet girl,” he says, as he moves your pliable legs easily. he feels that soft spot inside of you that makes you lose all train of thought, makes your eyes shut and squeal louder than he has ever heard before. “this is what you wanted, isn’t it?”

“yes, yes, baelor-” you continue, and brings himself all the way out, just to push back in. 

you take him as though you were made for him. and perhaps you were.

“i know, sweet girl. i will give you want you need. i will give you everything-”

but he lets go of the thought, focusing instead on the way your cunt pulses and tenses around him every time you hear his voice. and who is he to deny you, when he has already denied so much?

this overwhelming pleasure, this sensation that lights his very bones aflame. he could have had this every single night since the day he took as you as his wife in the sept, if only he had not been so—

“baelor!” you cry out, whining and panting as he pulls himself out of you, using every last bit of strength he possesses. 

your sweet cunt clenches around nothing, pulsating as he flips you over onto your belly, folding your legs until you’re exactly how he wants you. he keeps his hands on the soft flesh of your ass, digging in his fingers until he’s sure he’s marked you.

and then he slides back in, feeling the grip you have on his cock, his own eyes rolling back for a moment. 

his muscles tense and his bodies shudders, the new position allowing him to feel every last inch of himself buried deep inside of you.

it’s when you turn your head, attempting to look back at him, that he truly loses all sense of control.

this is all your fault—of course. 

how could any red-blooded man, even one as patient as he, resist your charms and temptation? resist your sweet smiles and your devious plans to make him lose his composure? 

it had worked, he thinks, worked too well. there’s only so much a man can take before he must give in, before he has to please his wife—a duty given to him by the gods.

yes, baelor thinks, watching your lovely features tighten up, as your body mimics the very same around his cock, you are a gift from the gods. 

gifts are not meant to be ignored. they are meant to be cherished. 

baelor leans forward, gripping the back of your neck, pushing his body weight on top of you, fucking you harder than before. 

all that he hears is your cries, all that he feels is the sweat and slick of flesh hitting flesh, and all he can focus is on how your cunt swallows him so perfectly. he knows he cannot last much longer, not when you flutter around him as if you are doing it on purpose.

he pulls out once again, flipping you back over easily. his arms come around either side of your head, boxing you in, as your legs end up spread atop his shoulders. baelor folds you in half, his nose brushing yours, leaning in for another hot kiss as he slides back inside. 

it is all he can do not to spill instantly at the very site of your hiccuped moans with each and every thrust. you are so perfect, your body tensing up again, ready for another release, he knows. 

i know because i am your husband. your body speaks only to me. 

his fingers do not tease this time—flicking over your pearl repeatedly as you weep, perhaps wanting more, perhaps wanting him to slow down. he does not listen.

your back attempts to rise off the bed again, arching as he does not give up his ministrations on your most sensitive part. 

baelor feels you begin to peak before your mind has even begun to process it. you clamp around him, the tension increasing and building until it snaps. he leans in for a kiss as he works you through it, not stopping any motion, swallowing your gasps and your damp tears. 

your entire body is limp by the time you have finished your pleasure. 

it feels as though that alone is more than enough for him, baelor thinks. he slows down his thrusts, coming to cup your face gently, pressing a light kiss to you.

“how do you feel, sweet girl? are you well?”

“no,” you say, to his immediate alarm. if he was not already completely pressed against you, he would adjust until he had you in his arms entirely. 

“no?” he repeats. “what can i-”

“you have not given me your seed yet,” you say, blinking those pretty, bleary eyes at him.

you look ruined in every sense of the word—your face sparkling with tears, lips bruised and swollen, your entire body marked by him in some way or another.  

“please,” you continue, and baelor begins thrusting back into you, almost without even thinking of it. it must feel incredibly sensitive for you, as you shiver and tremble under him, but you do not give up on your goal. “i want it, husband. i want your seed. please, will you not give it to me?”

it does not take much.

baelor moans loudly against the skin of your neck, the brunt of his release hitting him squarely in the chest. his hips begin to stutter, losing his control as he feels the hot spend fill your pulsating cunt. even that does not stop, not until you have milked his cock completely dry.

you are maddening. a creature sent to torment him in the world of the living and in the land of dreams. 

you giggle at the sensation, likely pleased with your victory. you pull on baelor’s neck until he gives you another kiss—this one long and lingering, your tongues playing together until finally baelor’s muscles give out from sheer exhaustion. 

he collapses next to you, an arm sprawled across your body.

you end up curled against his chest, mewling like a satisfied kitten might after receiving a fair serving of milk. he can feel the heat of your body radiating onto him, the sweat that coated both of your skin and your soft, tired breaths as your body melts into his. 

finally satisfied, he thinks, a smug feeling rolling over him lazily. 

this is what you needed, he knows, and now the sedition has slowly seeped out of you, as his seed is seeping out of your cunt. 

“now, wife,” he says, the words a steady whisper into your ear. “sleep. we shall talk in the morning.”

“mmh,” you make a sweet, pleasant noise and he feels your body still as you enter your slumber.

hopefully a peaceful one, such as that after a fiercely fought battle has been won he thinks, his own eyes beginning to shut. 

it could only be moments later—he has not even felt himself descend into sleep—that you stir in his grip. your soft lips begin littering kisses up the column of his neck, over the hair of his beard that grows there, all the way up until you find the lobe of his ear. 

you kiss there too, teasing the skin between your teeth until you finally release it, his eyes almost fluttering open again. 

“husband,” you whisper into his ear, “can we go again?”

“seven hells-”

♡ thanks for reading! if you enjoyed this, please consider reblogging from me (op) lol because i love to see everyone's comments! okay that's it ♡

[ethrlst]

silk lace ribbons

⌞synopsis⌝ - oftentimes than not, one’s wishes are set aside in order to exist in the moment of opportunities presented to those who wait. but blessed are those who carve their own risks to claim owed glory.

⌞tags⌝ - 18+!, modern!au, bf!valarr x reader x bfsfather!baelor, taboo themes!, cheating!, smut!, slight angst!, fluff!, established relationship!, corruption!

⌞wordcount⌝ - 6.9k

⌌⊱⊶⊷⊶⊷⊶⊷⊶⊷⊶⊷⊶⊷⊶⊷⊶⊷⊶⊷⊶⊷⊶⊷⊶⊷⊶⊷⊶⊷⊶⊷⊰⌍

felt tip pen scratching in ink of a sketch to the surface of your black notebook— or perhaps half-journal would be a preferred word to call it since it’s written with lecture notes and mostly sketches of a man you’ve never met, but was the basis of every creation when your mind goes astray caused by the redundant tone of your professor reading through slides.

kingslanding university was an establishment you’ve associated in both light of negativity from the amount of tears shed from frustration over group projects, unjust professors and fatigue of studying. positive for the friendships you’ve created along the semesters, the high grades and praises of hardwork and of course.. because it was how you met your current boyfriend— valarr targaryen.

at times you often wonder how fate had brought an arts and science student like yourself cross path with a finance student like him. such opposite ends of the thread fused in a rather complex but eccentric link of quality stitches. odd, but it works.. beautifully at that.

it’s rare for a young man to be academically inclined with his own ambitions unaffected of other’s presuming judgement while he balances life off of campus. valarr is so: ingenuity running in his veins as much as high honor blood of his ancestors who had created such a name for themselves— yet even then, your boyfriend is a gentle and kind partner, not once has neglect pass through your mind in the entire five nearly half a year of dating. he was an altruistic soul, truly that others envied you for captivating him just as much in equal.

fret not in doubt, you were in scale in terms of beauty and brains as others had described you in the wings of campus— an it couple if you may. with your own achievements through owning the title of president in your program’s department, a TA to a major subject as well as your high notes all rounded you into a shape of an ideal student— fascinating in scopes of effortless looks and gifted intellectuality. valarr is deserving of you as much as you of him.

a particularly taxing week has passed from attempting to organized in alignment not just a crucial part of your research paper, grading quizzes for your professor’s stead, answering responsibilities as a dept. president but also managing your actual life outside of these demands. safe to say, you were once more sketching the same faced-man’s beard while zoning out during your lecture. pen shading in ink a darker shade of color in the other iris, a detail you’ve not once added but the lower and flatter professor mooton’s tone of teaching reach— the distance of your attention grows.

phone stuffed to the back pocket of your bag, arms carrying three books from different subjects while your shoulder slopes down from the weight of your bag. valarr spots you instantly from where he stood waiting, leaned against his car’s hood with a soft smile painted at the sight of his dear girlfriend. easily taking the bother into his own hold before a kiss is pressed into your lips with a greeting:

‘’hey baby.. good lecture today?’’

his voice soothes the fatigue away, taking another second to kiss him before nodding.

‘’i suppose.. professor lannister’s drilling me about my research draft. the deadline isn’t until three more months and she’s asking me about the bibliography part already.’’

the door to the passenger seat opens upon his chivalry, buckling you in himself before pressing a peck to your cheek— rounding to his own seat before starting the car.

‘’well… you can always take a small break, it’s the weekend. besides— i want you to meet my father.’’

your eyes blink in surprise upon hearing the words that exits your boyfriend’s lips, turning to him with a look of both unwillingness and giddy. fingers brushing strands of hair behind the curve of your ear followed by a disbelieving chuckle.

‘’your father?’’

valarr glances at you momentarily, the road taking his focus entirely but not enough to not have one of his hands entwined with yours— lips displaying an eased smile.

‘’my father.’’

‘’well then i have to go pick out a proper outfit..’’

‘’you look fine, baby— we’ll head straight to my house. he’s waiting.’’

‘’but i thought you said he was in a business trip to dorne?’’

‘’he was— just returned today.’’

‘’valarr, i don’t think—‘’

‘’hey.. you’ll be fine. he’ll like you— everyone does, you’re lovely.’’ he reassures, thumb caressing the shape of your knuckles before they’re pulled towards his lips for a final act of caring.

the grand but modest two-floored mansion greets your eyes over the tall guarded gates and the long entrance driveway full of green grass— you’ve been made aware of their well capabilities in standard but, this.. the image of their generational standing nearly caused you to vomit. the car halts by the car port where branded cars you do not wish to know were parked, valarr instantly ushering to have your hand in his with a reassuring kiss on the cheek while your eyes gazed over every detail of the entrance.

it is not to assume you were from a family to overlook, the blood you carried was respectable and had been known by other’s within the realm— targaryens were simply known to be an achieving of ladders.

your bag and books were all carried by valarr while he held your hand in his free one, guiding into the door he unlocks before politely nodding to the maid in regards to both your belongings and his.

‘’where’s my father?’’

‘’he is by his study, sir. taking a call.’’

‘’would you please announce our presence after? we’ll be in the kitchen.’’

the woman nods first and heads up the stairs to possibly follow instructions. in the while, you remained in hold of his hand with eyes wandering around the interior. valarr is quick to notice, a fond smile painting his lips, taking in note to tour you around the floor for a first glance at each room and crooks the ground level of their mansion offered.

the maids in the kitchen were occupied with preparing for dinner until one offers both you and valarr glasses of freshly pressed green juice with cubes of ice— too focused on giggling to your boyfriends pondering face of reaction in taste to have your ears piqued merely at the sound of a low voice.

‘’my son.’’

‘’father—‘’ valarr straightens with a smile before an arm instantly places itself to your waist, eyes glancing to the man before you— breath hitching for a second, gaining the composure with a painted polite smile and small fidgeting fingers just at the hem of your pleated black skirt.

valarr holds you even closer in features of humble pride, glancing at your rosy cheeks until he introduces both:

‘’father.. this is her, my girlfriend. this is my father baelor, my love.’’

‘’mr. targaryen. nice to meet you, sir.’’ an extended hand now over the glossed look of diffidence in those eyes of to his direction.

baelor takes it with a court grip, taking in your demeanor with an inner approval— to what one may ask?

‘’baelor will do. likewise.’’ his answer given in polite tone.

the second-half of the tour taken in order to replace void in waiting for dinner completely rends you much gigglier with valarr— kissing your forehead in adoration as he showcases the second floor and it’s rooms, excluding the chamber and study of baelor.. to which you’d not needed explanation for, you were a smart girl. mayhaps… far too wise for discernment.

standing before the mirror to one of their shared bathrooms for an excuse of a passing in solitary. eyes crossing over the very reflection of your form in an outfit described as befitting for such occasion— lips curling into a quiet laugh exhaled in utter frisson. eyes on your own now at the glass, shaded iris of color and tint to not the polite sweet girl act you’ve put on in terms of proprieties, but a sort of washing clarity in true state of sudden. hands flatting the skirt halted just until your thighs, fingers smoothing the unbuttoned cardigan in grey over your white sleeve and legs displayed in sheer black tights over mary janes— valarr’s got an eye for style… hushed prayer of quick that he’s inherited it from his father.

dinner is quite pleasant even when the choice taken to listen and observe how their relationship as father-and-son overshadowed the need, or lack there of, to speak. a detail baelor raises his brow to in yet another inner approval. the two conversed over baelor’s business trip from dorne, valarr’s midterm notes as well as his summer internship in casterly rock and even to his younger brother’s return after the weekend to their mother’s house.

‘’valarr’s told me you met in university. tell me about it.’’

a question sent your way causing sealed lips to chew in slow, eyes catching baelor’s own bi-colored ones in patience of response.

‘’well… we’ve known each other for quite a while from a shared friend. it was only fall semester last year when valarr and i were paired to host by the supreme student council event for the inauguration of the half-term.‘’

lips finding the glass of water to sip in soothe after your short polite— which baelor hums to nod.

‘’and you’re in finance like my son, i presume?’’

‘’arts and science, sir.’’

‘’which branch?’’

‘’social.’’

‘’sociology. that’s interesting.’’

‘’no.. psychology actually.’’

baelor’s regard lifts to yours for a split moment of viewing, returning to his meal after you’ve broken contact first.

‘’and your plans after you graduate?’’

‘’i.. am just trying to get through this semester at the moment and proceed with my internship in the summer.’’

‘’internship where?’’

‘’in dorne, sir.’’

he hums at the response, lifting the glass of wine to wash the taste of seared veal and charred sweet potatoes down for balance. fine luxury of dining a certain reputation of centuries built worth is to serve in silver spoons to indulge— one must upkeep such tradition with high honor, a cutting edge baelor is not already sharpened with.

you stood by the car port as valarr quicks up the stairs to grab your items. eyes still cascading to each hefty brands of car they owned until the same low tone voice takes your attention.

‘’dorne is welcoming and propose plenty of opportunities for hard-working such as yourself.’’

‘’i hope so, sir.’’

‘’baelor. just baelor.’’ he corrects benevolently lacking of usual superiority once much like a man himself bestows upon those seemingly below in tier of existence— eyes on the other’s while your head nods slowly with blushed pink cheeks.

‘’and you’re welcomed here, in our home as much as you wish to be. the doors are opened for you now.’’

valarr smiles at the scene he arrives to, sharing a certain look with his father before he whisks you towards the car and drive off onto the direction of your apartment in the city.

arriving before the modest brick building, your lips instantly finds your boyfriend’s for a kiss— perhaps longer once the seatbelt clicks off and your upper body looms over the center console on slow but heated in sync need of one another. hand crawling up to the muscly thigh of his with paired low moans.

‘’..i love you too, baby. i’ll text you when i get home, alright?’’

‘’you better. drive safe for me.’’

‘’yes ma’am.’’

a final kiss to seal the perfect night off, sending a tiny wave before entering the apartment entrance— to which valarr had been certain of your security first before driving off.

the warm water of bath had helped ease you into a silk nightgown in soft smooth skin atop of the cordial blanket. face in a sheet of care mask while the warm tea by your bedside table awaits for taste— bottom lip in between teeth for a second of tearing border in ethics, laptop splitting open in light of typing a name into the search bar.

baelor targaryen.

a lawyer who inherited his father’s firm: Silver Vlyria Capital. first born of prosecutor daeron targaryen, finished undergrad in kingslanding university with summa cum laude before moving to a law school in storm’s end, holds ownership over other private family equity within both east and west— divorced father of two for five years.

‘’hello, mr. baelor.’’ a sick whisper leaving the wicked curl of your lips as you digest further into what the internet holds information over the man whose face is littered over the pages of that black notebook of yours.

how amusing it is to have talent in drawing what your mind conjures of be brushed away as valueless, unknowingly using said skill to bring into life the very subject of your aspiration. the green tea’s heat pushes moreover any remaining consternation in the crevices of aching soul. he’s real— as true in flesh as the desire for vile bleeds.

valarr is perfect, truly ideal for a young woman such as yourself to embark the foundations of a possible curated life in harmony to the near future. not once has neglect been a feeling with him, but often times than not, an opportunity seemingly from the gods entices those bold enough to bite— and your teeth happens to be sharp in shape of risk formed by years of a particular certainty threaded burrowed debauchery.

older men do it better.

and so the following weeks, four to exact, had not been so wearing as they should have been with each demand to plenty of life expectations— how could it be? the pages of your black journal were mostly filled with sketches again, less and less of lecture notes and scribbled with scheduled events and perhaps.. little hearts surrounding a certain name. the very exact notebook hidden in your bag to each visit in their home; whether it be for dinner, the weekend over, studying with valarr of even just to spend time together— you weren’t one to complain, not when gaining the pros of said predicament manifests in ease of baelor in your presence.

stupid neither naïve would be a suitable word to describe you, you weren’t in the dean’s list for voided causes— but it wouldn’t hurt to be tooth achingly sweet and shy when a man oozing of masculinity without fragility is within one’s proximity.. if anything, any woman in your position would revel. it just happens to be the gods favoring, you suppose. lucky girl, even luckier if you play your cards right.

one sunny saturday afternoon in the near summer shines over the mansion, finding baelor in the backyard by the grill in a pair of white denim shorts and a sheer white longsleeve with a lace bra beneath.. in white— angel if not without wings, your smile should suffice for the lack of feathers.

‘’those look great. how long until they’re ready?’’

you stand beside him to offer a glass of cold water after insisting the maids that you’d do it instead. eyes on the smoky grill where the metal tongs held by baelor flip the seasoned steak cuts— sipping to remove his parched.

‘’probably by an hour or so, i’ve taken out most of the coal to have it in low heat.’’

‘’ah.. plenty time for pomegranate juice then!’’

you say first and head back inside to the kitchen where valarr stood with his car keys— the maids still occupied with preparing the rest of lunch.

‘’where are you heading, baby?’’ steps into your boyfriend’s direction whose hands merely wrap around your waist with a smile— lips in a court kiss.

‘’a quick run to the store— slipped my mind i’m out of board markers and i’ll pick up matarys after.’’

‘’will you take long?’’

‘’no.. maybe an hour or less.’’

one more kiss just for measure, he makes his way into the car port while you take out the pomegranates to cut— shaking your head with a smile when aid is offered by one of the maids. hair tucked behind ears while you stood in the kitchen island with bottom lip bit down in focus as the knife slices through the thick skin.. attempts to. sighing at the inconvenience, fingers pulling the white sleeves up to peel the fruit by hand and picking the red pulps in gather for the clear bowl beside.

much too focused in work, baelor’s sudden grabbing in the other fruit catches you in surprised— skillfully cutting through outer layer with what it seemed to be a smug smirk.

‘’can’t make juice if you’re slow.’’

a scoff of complete stunned exits your lips upon the audacity he’s uttered, shaking your head with an eyeroll and own smile displayed.

‘’slow progress is progress, mr.’’

‘’not when demands are high and offers are low, miss.’’

‘’well pay is minimum to low..’’

‘’then what is the worker’s ideal wage?’’

a shrug for baelor in answer to the question, lips pretty in smile until the bowl fills with arils— juicing it the classic way by grinding said seeds in a mortar and pestle. baelor holds the strainer while you pour red into the glass pitcher. mirrored smiles in both yours and baelor’s lip as the taste of finished product envelops the tastebuds in freshly bitter-almost but organic drink.

‘’good enough— would be better if production wasn’t so.. lethargic.’’

‘’your glass is half-finished for ‘good enough.’’’ eyes roll in childlike play, grinning to yourself before gasping when the maid collides to your back in accident— red staining not just your skin but also seeping through the thin fabric of sheer white.

profusely apologizing in genuine, you only shook your head with a small laugh in comfort to the flushed woman.

‘’it’s alright! it can be washed anyway.’’

baelor watches the manner of how one’s owing of anger be in placed with kindness instead, inhaling sharply before gesturing for you to follow as he ascends the stairs and into his room— which you obeyingly followed while secretly taking on the intimacy of entering what used to be forbidden.

a small paper bag is handed to you with a look you can not discern, almost waiting for what seemed to be reaction. inside was a white dress in thin fabric of almost lace, ribbon by the under chest with thin straps and short skirt— admiring the piece with flushing cheeks.

‘’..bought it a while back. thought maybe you could… use it in dorne when you go for your internship considering it’s hot—‘’ he rambles in an seemingly thread of un wanting seem to be taken as anything but innocent gesture, you cut him off with a glossed look and beguiling timid smile for a whisper.

‘’thank you. it’s beautiful.’’ feet in the same mary janes as when you’d first met him leans up to have your juice stained red lips kiss his cheek— a hand on his chest to steady yourself before offering another smile.. and perhaps fanning lashes too.

and so it begins.

almost each time you visited the mansion, baelor’s with some kind of paper bag, a box or wrapped gift to give. it’s not like he’d been planning them or what not— it’s just quite the challenge not to scan his card or send his assistant in purchase of a trinket, a dress, a book, a pair of doll shoes or even a necklace that reminds him entirely of your doll self. it is, really— baelor tells himself that intentions baring those purchases were reminders of a family accepting your presence for being valarr’s girlfriend, that it was almost grace for allowing him a sliver to feel what it would have been like having a daughter. innocent, he swears, nothing at all with curling weight in his chest or at ephemeral moments.. a warmth within his sternum.

the circumstances rends it so much easier to dig your claws deeper into baelor’s inkling perception of anything but supposed cajole of yours. you’re witty, you know so— it’s an upper hand of seeming advantage further with a pretty face in a sweetheart costume. evil would not be the right adjective, neither would wicked suffice.. determined maybe, with a sprinkle of perversion and filthy corruption for the cherry on top.

the sudden closeness is not a worry for valarr, he admires your lovelier self even more for you’ve charmed his family into considering you always had been a piece to the targaryen puzzle.

valarr was such an easy young man to love, perfect even for someone like you; but you never aimed for ideal in a man, in fact, it was the least and in the bottom tier of your standards. troubled minds and shaken souls were the exact concoction of preferred taste— just happens that older men had been the red mark for as long as memory rolls.

baelor is all three of mentioned criteria.

‘’i’ve read every classic book you could possibly think of.’’ baelor smirks to himself, playful response as he finds sitting at the other end of the couch just before your extended feet in white socks covering calves.

‘’..well you’re an old man so.. i wouldn’t be surprised.’’ smile hidden behind the pages of your book— another gift, refusing to meet his eyes. baelor chuckles to that, sipping the dark liquor in his glass before eyeing you with a look of amusement.

‘’is that right? an old man?’’

you merely hummed back insouciantly, turning the page before the feeling of tender massages to your sole hitches the air in taking.

‘’you’re a joy to have around.. have i told you that? you make the place.. much more alive.’’ an honest confession from baelor whose hands take turn in careful presses.

page pressed onto your bottom lip while gaze lit by the dim light of the lamp regard him in a restrained leveled planning. baelor sips the liquor again before you lean close and deliberately place his touch up to calf.

‘’here… i want it here.’’

it’s a nod you see before your teeth sink further into the flesh of your bottom lip upon feeling his touch in skin now— over the cotton.

the color in those gaze of yours darkens in shade the longer the moment passes, chaining the rattling drags of vile debauchery in reminder of playing your cards right. so in place of setting a full house, a long game would be more thrilling.

leaning closer to press yet another sweet kiss to his cheek, a growing habit he’s taken in notice. eyes hazed in both timidity and conviction, same lips parting in a whisper before you take leave.

‘’good night, mr. baelor… sweet dreams.’’

mr. baelor.

an absolute joke to him is what it should have been, yet instead, here he was a week later— still rattled by the fucking nickname. he was pathetic, baelor thinks as he drives home late after a particularly taxing day in the firm.

the cold shower and lighter clothes instantly eases him almost out of carried vexation, the clock in his bedside table reading a quarter past midnight. ideal time for a troubled man to have a drink of choice, so into the kitchen he directs in search of ice and a glass.

but there you were, sat over the island with a glass of milk; legs dangling in the edge in raw depiction of a true living angel in silk he’d gifted.

‘’you’re awake.’’

head turning to him in slow blinks, nodding courtly, a whisper following to match his tone.

‘’ditto.’’

quick and sharp; attributes of yours baelor had grown fond of the passing seven weeks you’d woven yourself into their lives— his life. he finds himself beside you in the counter after fixing a drink, not sitting, just close enough to see each rise and fall of breath.

‘’how come you didn’t tell me you were president of your department? or a consistent dean’s lister?’’ questions murmured followed by a sip of cognac.

the grin threatening to curl in display was repressed into tranquility, mirroring him by sipping your own drink as well. your plan had been checked off closer and nearer into the bullseye, haste will only bring it to ruin— and the thought brings unpleasant bile in your tongue. prevailing will be linear. so, you act your part, sweet sweetheart of diffidence, a costume caching the sick obscenity of true polluted supposed garden of eve.

‘’..i didn’t think it was worth mentioning.’’

‘’gods, you’re— i like when you speak true to me. i like when you’re honest. it helps me.. know you beyond the surface.’’ he whispers again, eyes on the same window in slight open for early summer breeze.

‘’there’s nothing to know.’’

‘’i don’t believe that. come on… speak to me.’’

the choir of red commences in bells of near victory, the end in checkered flag is within eye— speak to me, baelor says to you, and speak you will. a beautiful truth altered in form simpler to digest, but not lacking of transgression in meaning.

‘’i was happier before all this… knowledge i carry now.’’

‘’what makes you say that?’’

‘’i was dumb before… but happier.’’

‘’…why aren’t you now?’’

‘’well… because knowing gives you awareness and awareness compells you to morality and morality demands control and control… rends you lonely.’’

‘’ignorance is bliss they say— what say those who know?’’ you whisper, turning your head to meet the gaze he’s already watched you with a glint of what you may not verbalize.

he stares, baelor always does despite how it brings uneasiness to most of those subjected but it brought warmth to your chest instead. welcomed— not forced. then for a moment, almost encapsulated in the little light the moon offered for both in the forbidden intimacy, he feels the weight, almost incapable of cluelessness until the press of your finger drags him back to conscience.

your eyes cast at the manner his own pinky settled beside, a second for it to gradually caress the skin of yours until it rests in an almost curl atop. you allowed it, perhaps even embraced the inappropriate touch of the supposed guarded innocence. of course you did, he was playing exactly how you knew he would be from calculations.

‘’you’re a smart girl. wise even than most your age—‘’

‘’is that what i am to you?’’

baelor inhales sharply to your question, eyes still boring into the crevices of your own waiting pair enlighten in a tender shadow— hair swaying softly from the small breeze sneaking to offer aid for the unknowingly reciprocated aching crave.

‘’does it matter what i think?’’ he whispers in response, finger deliberately pressing yours to his— as if demanding an answer. yet, your lips remained sealed, gaze meeting his in a certain look baelor quickly grasps onto. so with a slow exhale, he murmurs in concealed meaning:

‘’..you should go to bed.’’

‘’is that what you want?’’ the words almost a faint challenge provoking him of murky desires.

it’s a second, a moment in excruciating question of morality— far longer than a man beyond his supposed prime years carrying grown virtue should have prolonged.

‘’..go.’’

the word causes a small nod from you, hopping off the counter before heading straight back upstairs without so much as a last glance. baelor exhales an unknowingly brewing oddness in his chest, hand squeezing and releasing from a fist in a sort of mannerism for hope in attaining composure.

‘’fuck.’’

he does not sleep that night, not when his mind’s plagued with recounting each syllable to the questions you’ve whispered to him. baelor does not have the answer, a lie to comfort the bubbling ache within him for lips he owns no right in wanting. valarr is precious to him, as much as matarys and he plans not on losing them but you were, are, a shearing provocation deliberately allowing threads to part for your wish. and he permitted it, each cut, each slit and slash to the honor baelor’s born with.

enough of it, no more: the very phrase baelor mimics into shoves of memoire into his head for the following days after— and yet, it would be a lie if he’s to say the reason why he stood before valarr’s room had not been the cause of threatening ruin.

‘’..you leave tomorrow for your internship. a dinner is necessary, i believe, my son.’’

your boyfriend laughs at his father’s proposal, organizing the suitcase filled with clothing and belongings for the month long trip.

‘’you think dinner is necessary for everything, dad.’’ valarr replies, still stacking his oxford shoes into the space.

‘’well, certainly now.’’ baelor responds with a pending bile in the column of his throat.

‘’you should… pick her up to join us. it’d be nice.. all four of us to eat with your brother.’’

that catches valarr’s attention in light of amusement, only nodding his head with a smile before laughing again.

‘’i will, dad.. she wants to sleepover anyway.’’

an opportunity may present itself to those uncertain of footing; but when one is more than sure of themself, the do not wait for the former, but create a path of glory to take.

dinner was presented in valarr’s favorite meal: utensils in porcelains, light conversation between the three while you mostly remained sweet beside your boyfriend, occasionally laughing along. baelor’s in disbelief as to what could possible reason your behavior of insouciance, tempted to scoff when your eyes wouldn’t even properly meet his over the table.

he drinks instead. downing yet another glass of dark liquor, stronger and more pungent than cognac while his feet pace in rounds of lined wounds to scratch. the low faint light of his study’s bulb curates an exact copy of current harrowing waves within his head. a man of honor and integrity— other’s speak of him, it was enough in the while, but now, it was your perception gnawing away to a concerning level he no longer concerns himself with.

because was it not baelor who’d welcomed you into their home? was it not baelor who’d offered a place other than your own to stay? was it not baelor who’d showered you in gifts without demand? was it not baelor who deliberately allowed your presence to affect him? was it not baelor who’d regarded you as equal value to those close to his heart? was it not himself who had act upon the carnal craving he’d grown since he does not remember when— an almost primordial corruption ticking in slow yet an ultimatum all the same.

the opening of the door strips him clear off the fog, eyes meeting with your own. permission was not asked but taken nonetheless, with the length of certitude from this furtive scheme of yours— no doubt he would have asked you to stay regardless.

quarter past twelve the grandfather clock in the room signs, legs clad in the same white socks while the pale pink silk nightgown sways along with your steps into his desk— setting a cup of tea, green in mix with hibiscus, the same he’d always drink when both of you were occupied with reading books in the library. bottom lip slightly bit before released as an inhale of air fills your lungs in return back to that angel skin.

‘’…do you hate me?’’

baelor stills for an owed second, disbelief and irritation flashing through the folds of his mind before he sets the glass of liquor down.

‘’do you think i do?’’

he questions in return to which you merely blinked slowly to, a cat in show of trust as your fingers drag across the framed picture of him and his sons— humming, then letting it fall face forward with a whisper.

‘’you wouldn’t want to know what i think, mr. baelor.’’

‘’why is that?’’ he watches you round your steps to the curve of his mahogany desk, silk gown in nearing proximity. not enough to touch, but enough to warrant the clawing of acknowledgement from the carnal need he secrets.

the back of your thighs press into the wood, hands holding onto the sides, eyes lifting to his in an achingly haunting innocence— not at all the dire perversion and degenerate essence of your being.

‘’..come closer and i’ll tell you.’’

and he does, unknowingly already stepping into your front, in between your legs with hefty space for boundaries but you were beyond it. fingers lifting to curl into the loop of slacks, tugging him closer, much closer than a supposed honorable man like himself would consider appropriate. nothing in the threads of his desire and your clandestine debauchery possessed even a wink of the word. a reciprocated truth none dare to utter.

you could see the effect you had on baelor, and it feeds this demonic entity of corruption beneath your sweet sinless front. his breathing heightening, eyes dilated in two colors but one subject and hands too still in lefts of dignity and fear— you move for him instead.

‘’i think… you’re a man of difference, odd in your particular demeanor.’’ whispering to him while your fingers slowly raise to undo the buttons of his dress shirt. slow, to read if he’d push away or halt your movements. so when baelor remained in watch, frozen almost in between your legs— you continued in an even more mellow tone.

‘’i see why valarr looks up to you.. everything a man should be falls easy into your very being. it doesn’t really help that you’re so pleasant to look at, no?’’

another button, pad of your pointer dragging in time to his warm skin— peeling away to the remnants of the fabric.

‘’and it’s unfair, mr. baelor.. so unfair because i love your son. i really do..’’

two more buttons until he’s bare on top, yet, baelor only pants now with a look of near defeat.

‘’he’s so sweet to me.. but how could i not compare when you’re so much more than he ever was?’’

one more. just one more.

‘’i want to be sorry and guilty and ashamed.. but how could i feel remorseful when you’re everything i’ve ever wanted.’’

he closes his eyes in final, wishing for proper breathing, only for the gods to bless him with the feel of your hand guiding his into the supple smooth skin of your thighs. you don’t speak, holding your tongue with only a saccharine moan for him to hear when your fingers eventually graze the pads of his into the lace of undergarment wet with essence of shared longing.

other hand tugging onto his arm until the space in between was nothing but a mere concept. your lips kissing from his chest, up to his neck with gentle nips until they ascend into his cheek and to his lips with enticement whispered with glaze— pecking him slowly first.

‘’it’s okay…. he doesn’t have to know. it’ll be our secret, i promise.’’

baelor surrenders with a nod, allowing himself tainted with dark corruption as he succumbs into the carnal ache now in the highest authority of his morals. lips falling into yours for the kiss he’s thought of more than he could count, fingers in slow circular motions over the bead of your flower— earning him a guaranteed moan, swallowed almost instantly with his own groan.

you push him into his knees, slipping off the barrier in between your core and his mouth— soles of your feet in his shoulders. eyes as dark as your soul watching him finally taste the feeling of your cunt.

baelor grunts to the feeling of your flesh in him and the hairs on his head tugged with a heavenly moan from your lips when his tongue enters your middle, thumb still circling on your clit because of course, exactly as you had known: older men do it better.

you allowed him to eat your cunt for however long he liked, eyes up to yours for reassurance you’d respond to in pretty moans and nods. fueling baelor further to trigger the descend of your first high. his beard glistens with your wetness, chest panting for air before they’re stolen into a kiss you pull him into— fingers fumbling to take his belt open and slacks off.

‘’we can’t. i can’t—‘’

‘’just the tip, please. don’t i deserve to feel you?’’

‘’okay… okay. just the tip.’’ he gives in instantly with in an almost whine, watching as you remove any remaining barrier to his cock.

a low groan escapes his lips when your frail fingers wrap around the base to jerk him in a few strokes. catching his attention with a sly smile before murmuring:

‘’spit in my mouth.’’

his eyes widens in puzzlement, blinking back with stuttered breathing.

‘’what—‘’

‘’i said spit in my mouth.’’

baelor moves close enough to do as you demanded, tongue out for his saliva— thinking you’d swallow it, only to do an even more perverted act: spitting it onto your hand for lube, stroking his cock to glisten before lining the pretty tip onto the entrance of your cunt.

the sound of your moan and his groan mirrored a particular sin written in the book of the seven— a blasphemous act of pleasure overwhelming both of forgetting ethics and principles. eyes at his in a provoking plead in your pretty face, hand entwined with his before mewling.

‘’more.. please.’’

‘’i shouldn’t—‘’

‘’he won’t know.. i promise, valarr won’t know.’’

‘’we can’t—‘’

‘’please?’’ such sweet pleading baelor is unable to refuse, nodding his head in full resignation. hips thrusting into your wet cunt further in small inches, both eyes watching the connection until he’s filled you completely.

forehead on yours in need of closeness in intimacy, thrusting into your sopping flesh in lewd strokes that warrants a melodic chain of wet slicks and curled moans from you and low grunts from baelor.

his lips finds yours halfway, messy but passionate while your nails carve crescents onto the skin of his shoulders— your own now nipped with his marks blooming into small love bites. his cock fills you entirely as you’d dreamed it to be, cunt pulsing from each thrust that grows in pace due to baelor’s own pleasure heightening.

the thin straps of your nightgown falls from his touch revealing the supple curves of your chest, mouth instantly onto your areolas in sucklings for more pleasure because baelor’s main subjective was for your own anyway.

‘’you’re so big.. you make me feel so good.’’

little pushes for him to hear, sweet reminders of how much better he was than your boyfriend— his own son.

‘’love it! feel so full of you!’’

and you did, entirely so that baelor groans from nearing high— lips onto yours again before pulling away to hear how much prettier they could sound at the growing pace he’s now set.

cock rimmed in white from the pleasure of quicker thrusts, his thumb finds your bead again causing a rather high pitch moan to exit hour lips with spine curling into the flat of his desk. he kisses you momentarily to swallow the sounds.

’’shh.. i know, sweetheart. i’m near too— where do you want it?’’

baelor fucks himself into your cunt faster now as the high looms over in warnings. your pretty pretty eyes glossed with ecstasy and a hint of something he could not read were on his own satisfied pair. your lips remained parted in mewls, fingers finding his own to intertwine but no response— only your legs wrapping around his waist.

he shakes his head, panting from panic and pleasure upon the motive of your action— but he doesn’t let up the pace, if anything, it spurred him hotter.

‘’i can’t, sweetheart. please— i’m so close!’’

‘’i want it, please! cum inside me.’’

baelor nods, unneeded of further pleading. a few more strokes to savor the feel, he buries his cock entirely into your sopping cunt— both highs painting each other’s flesh in white ribbons of promised devotion.

his panting and yours were in sync, but so were the beating of hearts. forehead pressed onto your sweaty one, baelor pulls away to brush the strands of hair sticking onto your skin in utter benevolence; as if his cock still wasn’t inside of you pulsing. you smiled up to him with a wink of exhaustion, baelor kisses you again in a tender show of his intentions.

‘’..you’ve ruined me, sweetheart.’’ he murmurs into your lips, smiling to lick him playfully with a giggle.

‘’i know.’’

‘’do we.. will i— i don’t want to lose you.’’ a true confession of his vulnerability uttered in hush for you, hand cradling his cheek with a hum.

‘’you won’t.’’

‘’but valarr—‘’

‘’is not here tomorrow.. and i leave for dorne in a week.’’

‘’a week is not enough, sweetheart. you’re killing me.’’

another giggle emitted from his words greets his ears. your eyes roaming his face of already in longing state, thumb caressing his cheek and beard in affection— kissing his lips again after your reassurance in soft.

‘’you can come with me.. we’ll spend a summer together and i’ll wear that pretty dress you gifted.’’

baelor nods to the suggestion, not allowing even a moment to pass where doubt enters your mind in perception of his sentiment.

‘’okay. yeah— i’d like that.’’

‘’okay.’’ lips in a smile while you whispered back to him.

baelor peppers your cheek in soft and light pecks with content humming, so so incredibly infatuated with you now— exactly how you had planned him to be.

fin.

⌎⊰⊶⊷⊶⊷⊶⊷⊶⊷⊶⊷⊶⊷⊶⊷⊶⊷⊶⊷⊶⊷⊶⊷⊶⊷⊶⊷⊶⊷⊶⊷⊱⌏

⌞a/n⌝ - reupload bc tumblr is such a pissy pussy rn. i knowwww i said i was going to post much earlier but, life happens! here i am regardless as promised to upload said fic. this was so so fun to write! especially sweetheart drawing her dream man into reality— manifesting queen. they did say don’t let a boyfriend stop you from finding your husband. lol! s.s iv next to be published and my other requests. slow but… slow progress is progress! mwa mwaaaa <3

[frankels]

BORN OF FIRE AND FLAME (BLOOD CALLS TO BLOOD)

Pairing: Baelor Targaryen x niece!Reader

Synopsis: Some fires are born in dragon blood; others burn slow between duty and desire. In a legacy built on fire and flames, a restless Princess keeps chasing freedom, and the Prince—heir to the throne—who keeps watching her begins to forget where loyalty ends.

Smut Warnings: making out, slightly inexperienced reader, vaginal fingering, unprotected piv, dirty talk, cunnilingus, handjob, breeding kink, pregnancy kink, marriage kink, size difference, emotional sex, multiple orgasms (female receiving), overstimulation, creampie, brief aftercare.

Fic Warnings: incest (uncle/niece relationship), age gap (reader is 20, Baelor is canonically 36), canon typical misogyny, arranged marriage themes (mentioned), blood and violence, possessive behaviour, minor OC character deaths (mentioned), angst, Targaryen’s being Targaryen’s—if you know you know. (this is a slow as heck burn, as in they don’t even kiss until roughly the 12,000 word mark. you have been warned.)

Word Count: 20.8k

AN: the reader is of Targaryen blood, but I have not given any physical descriptions into hair, skin or eyes colour, or even body size, except that the reader is shorter than Baelor.

please note that this fic is set in 206 AC which is three years prior to AKOTSK so there is no show spoilers. any background world building/events takes place pre-show canon, and is specified to be book/history canon instead. the reader was born 196 AC, making her twenty in this fic.

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The castle breathes at night.

You feel it in the stone—the slow exhale of heat gathered through the day, the whisper of wind slipping through arrow slits, the distant murmur of King’s Landing below like a beast that never truly sleeps. The Red Keep is quieter after midnight, but never still. Somewhere, armour shifts; somewhere, a servant crosses a corridor with slippers that sigh against old tile. Even the torches crackle with a patience that feels watchful.

You stand at the balcony of your chambers with your hands braced against cold stone, staring down at the city. Lanterns glitter along the streets like fallen stars. The stench of the city does not reach this height, only salt and smoke and something sharp that smells like freedom—or perhaps merely the idea of it.

Behind you, your rooms stretch wide and pale in the moonlight. Silk drapes stir with every draft that slips through the cracks in old stone; tapestries whisper against the walls, heavy with stories of conquest and flame. A carved screen shields the bathing alcove, and the great bed—too large, too soft, too perfect—waits untouched, its embroidered blankets smoothed by hands that are not your own. Everything is arranged for comfort, for display, for a princess meant to remain still and beautiful within gilded walls.

And yet the balcony stone beneath your palms is rough, unyielding. Cold seeps into your skin until your fingers ache.

You think of dirt roads instead—the give of earth beneath a horse’s hooves, the jolting rhythm of a gallop that rattles through your bones and feels more alive than any courtly dance. You think of your boots in stirrups, the leather worn soft where it meets your ankles, wind tearing at your hair as fields stretch wide and open without walls or watchful eyes. Out there, the ground warms quickly beneath the sun; here, the castle never quite loses its chill.

You imagine riding until the city is nothing but smoke behind you. Riding until no one calls your name like a command.

A princess should not dream of running.

Yet you do.

The lock at your chamber door turns—not to open, but to test. A Kingsguard, likely. They rotate shifts every few hours. Your father insists on five stationed outside, as though you are a prisoner rather than his daughter.

A daughter who shames him.

You can still hear Maekar’s voice from earlier that evening, sharp as drawn steel.

“You are not a hedge knight to wander the roads! You are blood of the dragon, and you will remember it!”

You remember it all too well. That is the problem.

You glance over your shoulder. The room is dim; only one candle burns now. The bed looks untouched, though its sheets have changed twice today. The servants mutter at that—“the princess with restless sleep, the princess with strange requests”—yet none of them know how your hands shook as you folded the old linens instead of letting them be taken away.

None of them know what hides behind the bookcase.

It stands like any other piece of furniture meant to impress rather than to comfort—dark wood polished to a deep sheen, carved with curling dragons and coiling vines that catch the light when candles burn low. The lower shelves are neat, arranged by careful servant hands, scroll cases lined beside bound volumes of court histories and treatises no one truly reads. But the upper shelves gather dust. Few bother climbing high enough to disturb them; even fewer would notice the way the books are arranged just slightly wrong.

You did, many years ago.

You rise onto your toes, fingertips brushing along cracked leather spines until they find the familiar ones, histories of Valyria stacked side by side. Before the Doom texts bound in fading crimson, heavy with pride and certainty; After the Doom volumes darker, thinner, written by survivors and scholars trying to stitch meaning from ash; before and after the Dance is held by just one book, its spine too thick, a crack forming down the centre at the weight of it, and yet the leather is hardly touched. The contrast has always struck you. One shelf speaks of conquest, of dragons blotting out the sun, while the others read like mourning.

Your fingers slip between them.

Dust coats your skin as you nudge the books aside, revealing the hidden iron catch tucked behind them. The metal is cold and slightly sticky with age. You press—once, firmly—and hear the faint click that still sends a thrill of relief through you every time.

You move quietly. The stone floor is cold beneath your bare feet; your heartbeat thunders louder than the city below. Fingers press against the carved edge of the shelf—the same pressure as always, a secret learned years ago while exploring corridors your septa thought forgotten.

The shelf resists at first. It always does. The weight of it drags against the floor with a dull scrape, wood groaning softly as dust stirs into the air. You strain, shoulder pressing hard, muscles shaking with effort. Beneath it, the grooves in the stone have grown paler with time, carved by repetition—thin crescent lines catching the moonlight now, betraying your secret more each night you use it.

One day someone will notice. One day a servant’s curious eye will linger too long.

But not tonight.

The gap widens enough for you to slip through.

Behind it lies darkness, narrow and cool, smelling of dust and age. You close the passage behind you and the sound of the chamber disappears entirely, swallowed as though it never existed. Here, the air is thick with stillness. Dust clings to your skin; cobwebs brush your cheek like ghostly fingers. The corridor bends sharply, stones slick with age, mortar crumbling when you press your palm against it for balance.

No one walks here, you are certain of it. The place feels abandoned by time itself, as if the last footsteps echoed here a century ago and never returned. Every breath stirs the silence. Every movement feels like an intrusion.

Your hidden rope waits where you left it: sheets twisted and knotted with careful precision, cotton wound tight until it resembles something stronger than its beginnings, each knot tested again and again and again. Your hands knows their pattern by heart.

It hangs from a balcony cut into the wall opposite a narrow doorway—a forgotten exit used long ago by people whose names have been lost. You wonder if they felt the same thrill, the same fear.

You tug once, twice, reassuring yourself it will hold.

Outside, the moon hides behind thick cloud.

Perfect.

You ease yourself over the edge.

The cotton wraps around your hands as you descend, rough where the knots tighten, softer in the stretches between—a startling contrast to the stone wall scraping against your forearm as you lean back. Fibres bite into your palms, warming quickly beneath your grip. Your boots search for footing and sometimes catch unexpectedly, the soles tangling in loose twists so you must pause, breath held, to free yourself without sending the rope swaying too wildly.

The wind chooses that moment to rise.

It slams you sideways into the wall. Stone bites your shoulder; a sharp scrape burns along your forearm. The wall is unforgiving, cold enough to numb. You gasp, cheek pressed against cold rock that smells faintly of salt and rain, the sheets twisting beneath your weight, creaking softly. For a heartbeat you simply cling there, breathing hard, feeling the tremor in your arms.

The breeze is merciless—a sharp, cold bite like teeth against every strip of exposed skin, slipping beneath your sleeves, stinging your throat when you inhale, dragging at your robes. Your hair lashes your face; your gown snaps against your legs. The wall steals warmth from you, leeching heat until your fingers ache.

You keep going—slowly, carefully; every knot is a marker, ever breath is a measure.

Below, the castle dissolves into shadow. Above, the moon appears only in fragments, silver caught between racing clouds. Its light is thin, uncertain, enough to deepen the darkness rather than banish it. Shadows pool along the walls and spill across the ground, thick and waiting. You slip into them instinctively, as though they know you, as though you belong more to night than to firelight.

An ember would glow too bright here.

You are swallowed instead.

Your boots touch ground with the softest thud. Knees bending, you sink immediately into shadow, the damp scent of earth and stone rising around you. For a moment you remain still, crouched in shadow, simply listening. No shout follows, no alarm rings. There is only the distant roar of the city carried upward on the breeze—laughter from taverns, a dog barking, the endless restless hum of lives moving without you.

A breath escapes you, almost soundless, half-laugh and half-prayer. Your fingers curl into your palms as if to contain the sudden rush of triumph; your pulse still hammers from the climb, but now it beats with something brighter. You tilt your head back just enough to glimpse the dark silhouette of the Red Keep above, all towers and stone and watchful windows, and for the first time tonight it feels smaller.

You press your back to the wall, eyes closing briefly, letting the thrill pass through you—the giddy, reckless relief of knowing you are no longer trapped behind locked doors and guarded halls. No king’s command. No watching eyes. Just you, the darkness, and the fragile miracle of freedom stolen one quiet moment at a time.

The castle looms overhead, unaware that its captive has slipped free yet again. The silent night wraps itself around your shoulders like a cloak. It feels like an accomplice, like a friend that asks no questions.

The wind cuts across the courtyard again, but now it feels less like a threat and more like applause. Still, you do not linger.

Victory in the Keep is always temporary.

And then you slip away, unseen and unheard, swallowed by the dark as though you were never there at all.

The stables smell of hay, sweat, and warm animal breath. Horses shift in their stalls, hooves striking soft rhythms against packed earth; leather creaks; somewhere a horse exhales in a low rumble that vibrates through the quiet like a familiar greeting. The scent is grounding, honest—nothing like the perfumed corridors of the Keep. Here, life is simple: breath, muscle, movement.

You reach them the way you always do: circling wide, avoiding torchlight, slipping through the gap behind stacked barrels where you once dug at the earth with bleeding fingers until there was room enough to crawl.

You remember that night.

You had been younger then—furious, reckless, more angry than afraid—scratching at the soil with a broken piece of wood stolen from the yard. At first it had only been meant as a place to hide, somewhere to vanish when the walls pressed too close. Escapes were smaller then, just leaving the Keep for an hour, breathing air that did not feel watched.

But when you turned three-and-ten, something in you shifted. The city walls began to feel like the bars of a cage rather than protection. You wanted sky, endless and merciless and wide. You imagined trees like skeletal fingers clawing into the night, imagined sleeping beneath them with no roof above you, only stars and cold wind and freedom. You dug until your nails split and your palms blistered, widening the tunnel just enough to squeeze through, dirt filling your mouth and hair, heart pounding with the thrill of imagining the day you would crawl out and ride one of your father’s horses far beyond the reach of King’s Landing.

You never stopped widening it after that—a little more each escape, a little closer to freedom.

Dirt clings to your knees as you pull yourself through. You rise, brushing soil from your trousers, pushing your hood back, and freeze.

Someone stands inside, ten feet away, still as a shadow cast by lantern light.

Baelor, your Uncle, watches you.

His arms are folded loosely across his chest, robes half-unbuttoned as though he had risen from bed to follow suspicion rather than certainty. The lantern glow catches the salt and pepper strands of his hair, turning them almost silver-white. He looks completely at ease, which somehow makes the trap feel worse. The faintest grin touches his mouth.

You curse under your breath.

“Princess,” he says quietly.

His gaze drifts over you—the commoner’s shirt, the worn boots, the hooded robe hanging loose from your shoulders. Recognition flares in his eyes.

“That robe,” he murmurs, amused. “I remember lending it to you.”

Two years ago, after a rainstorm, when he had found you soaked and laughing in the training yard and wrapped it around your shoulders with a conspiratorial smile.

You straighten. “Uncle.”

“You dig holes in royal stables now?” His tone is soft, almost impressed.

You flash him a wry smile. “I do what I must.”

He steps closer, lantern light catching silver in his hair. Baelor has always carried himself like a knight even when dressed as the Hand—calm, measured, a quiet strength that contrasts your father’s iron severity.

“You grow bold,” he says.

“I grow caged.”

The words slip free before you can stop them.

Something shifts in his expression. The faint amusement fades, replaced by something quieter, heavier. You take a half-step toward him instinctively, and he turns just slightly away, a reflex so small you almost miss it, as though closeness is dangerous. As though he already knows how easily the line between duty and something else could blur.

But his eyes stay locked on yours.

You feel restless under that gaze, suddenly aware that he could seize you now, drag you straight to his father King Daeron’s chambers. He could hand you over for punishment, for lectures about duty and blood and wildness that must be tamed. The possibility tightens your chest.

“You mean to ride tonight,” he says softly.

You do not deny it. It is plain what you meant to do.

“I mean to ride for more than a night, uncle.”

He sighs softly, glancing toward the stable doors. Outside, distant footsteps echo, guards passing somewhere beyond.

“They will search for you before dawn,” he says.

“They always do.”

“And your father…”

You lift your chin. “Will rage regardless.”

Silence stretches between you.

Then, to your surprise, Baelor laughs under his breath, a quiet and almost nostalgic sound. “You remind me of myself at your age.”

You pause your wandering eyes that had searched the stables for a way to run, flitting back to Baelor for a moment. “I thought you were always dutiful.”

“No one is born dutiful,” he replies.

His gaze shifts toward the stalls. Your sigil-less horse stamps softly, ears flicking forward, sensing you. He notices the tack already hidden, the preparations made long before tonight, and shakes his head.

“You planned well,” he murmurs. “I suppose I should sound the alarm.”

Your hand tightens at your side.

He looks back at you, the lantern light catching across the shadows dancing across his skin. “But I will not.”

Relief floods you so quickly you nearly stagger. “Why?”

“Because cages break what they hold,” he says quietly. “And I would rather you return of your own will than learn to hate these walls.”

He steps aside.

“Go, before someone else comes, dear niece.”

You hesitate. “If my father learns you helped—”

“He will not. And if he suspects, let him blame my sentimentality.” A faint smile returns. “Ride fast.”

You step forward without thought. Your hand lifts, hesitant, brushing the back of his. He bristles at first—a sharp intake of breath, shoulders stiffening, nostrils flaring—but then, almost imperceptibly if you were not his favourite niece, he softens. His fingers relax beneath yours, the tension easing just enough to feel like permission.

Your other hand slides over the fabric of the robe draped around your shoulders, fingers tracing the worn edge. His eyes follow the movement, watching the way you touch something that once belonged to him, something that smells faintly of smoke and leather and memory.

You swallow, unsurprised by the warmth blooming in your chest. “Thank you.”

Baelor inclines his head, almost formal. You lean in further, raising high up on your tiptoes, your neck arched up to press a soft kiss to his jawline.

He goes still. When you pull away, his expression is unreadable and his voice is quieter when he speaks.

“Be safe, ñuha byka jēdar.” It is more a whisper than anything, and the name feels like a secret only he knows.

You turn and move to your horse. The saddle creaks softly as you mount. You pull your hood low again, gathering reins in your gloved hands.

When you glance back, Baelor still watches, half-hidden by shadow.

“Be back before dawn,” he mutters. Your brows furrow when you feel yourself nod without thinking.

And then you ride.

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King’s Landing falls away behind you.

At first it clings—the distant glow of torches along the walls, the faint smudge of smoke hanging over the city like a veil—but the farther you ride, the smaller it becomes, until it is only a low shimmer against the horizon. The Red Keep fades into silhouette, just another jagged shape swallowed by distance, its towers no longer watching.

The road opens wide and empty before you, a ribbon of pale dirt winding through darkness. The earth is uneven beneath your horse’s hooves; stones shift and crunch, sending small sprays of dust into the air. Wind bites at your cheeks, sharp and clean; your cloak snaps behind you like a banner unseen, and your breath leaves you in pale bursts that vanish almost as quickly as they appear. The rhythm of hooves becomes a heartbeat, steady and alive.

It settles into you until your own pulse follows its pace, until the world narrows to movement and breath and the familiar sway of the saddle. Every ride feels like this — like peeling away layers of expectation until something raw and true remains.

This is why you come back to it again and again.

Not rebellion—not truly.

Breathing.

Fields roll out on either side, dark shapes stitched together by moonless night. Sleeping farms pass in silence—low cottages crouched against the cold, shutters barred, roofs silvered faintly with dew. Occasionally a watchfire burns low, little more than glowing embers beside a fence or gate, proof that someone somewhere is awake even now, keeping quiet vigil over their small piece of the world.

You ride past them unseen.

The land stretches endlessly, and for once it feels as though it belongs to you more than any throne room ever could. You are a rider beneath the expanse of open sky, under darkness unbroken by stars, guided only by instinct and memory. Far off, distant firelights flicker—villages tucked into valleys, lonely campfires dotting the edges of the road—small reminders that life goes on beyond the walls that define your own.

You think of marriage proposals.

They arrive like trade agreements, wrapped in courtesy and expectation. Lords from fertile valleys, from storm battered coasts, from cold northern holdings you have never seen. Their names blur together: sons inheriting castles, men twice your age seeking alliances, polite smiles offered across banquet tables while eyes measure what you are worth.

None of them mean anything to you.

Their titles feel hollow. Their promises sound rehearsed. You imagine riding beside them and feel nothing—no spark, no curiosity, only the dull sense of a future narrowing into obligation.

Your father grows more impatient with every refusal. You can hear it in the clipped way he speaks your name, in the way conversations fall silent when you enter the room. You know that a princess cannot remain unpromised forever.

You think of your brothers—Aemon, quiet and brilliant, forever buried in thought as if the world exists as a puzzle only he can solve; Aerion, burning bright and dangerous, a wildfire contained only by the thinnest thread of control; Aegon, inquisitive and bold, brighter than any sun that has shone.

And then, your thoughts drift back, unbidden, to the stables. To Baelor—firstborn son of King Daeron the Good, Prince of Dragonstone, Hand of the King, Baelor Breakspear Targaryen, heir to the Iron Throne, brother to your father Maekar and your Uncle.

You think of Baelor’s knowing smile in the stables.

The road stretches on beneath you, and your thoughts turn inward again, toward bloodlines and history, toward the stories whispered like warnings in candlelit halls.

The Targaryens’ were once a house set apart by fire and custom alike. The old histories speak openly of marriages between brother and sister, of blood preserved like a flame kept carefully sheltered from the wind. In Valyria it had been tradition, almost necessity; here in Westeros it had always been something else—tolerated when dragons filled the sky, feared when they did not.

Since the Dance of the Dragons, everything changed.

The realm remembered the ruin too clearly: dragons turning on dragons, kin slaying kin, the sky itself burning. The small-folk spoke of it as punishment, a curse born from a bloodline that loved itself too fiercely. Since then, the marriages grew fewer, the old ways softened or abandoned entirely in the face of murmuring lords and wary eyes. Lords preach caution now, alliances instead of purity.

And yet the whispers remain.

You have heard them in markets, disguised as jokes. Heard servants fall silent when your family passes. The common-folk bow, but their devotion is thinner than it once was. Some fear you; others simply do not understand how a house can cling to itself so tightly and not fracture.

Perhaps they are right.

The thought unsettles you as much as it comforts.

The wind sharpens as you ride, stinging your cheeks. Your horse’s breath mists in the air, each stride steady and sure. The sound of hooves beats like a second heart beneath you, grounding you even as your thoughts drift.

You think of Baelor.

There was a time when he never turned away from you, when you ran through the halls and he was always there, patient and amused, indulging questions no one else had time to answer. You had been his only niece then, bright and loud and unafraid, forever shadowing his steps with childish certainty that he belonged partly to you.

But something shifted.

When you reached eight-and-ten—when your laughter changed, when your body grew one last time into itself, when eyes lingered a moment longer than before—he began to step back. It was subtle at first—a pause where once there would have been easy closeness, a careful distance placed between you like an unseen wall—but you noticed, even if he thought you did not.

And now there is Daella—younger, sweet-faced, untouched by the sharp edges of adulthood. You wonder if she has taken your place in his affections; if she receives the smiles that once belonged to you alone. The thought twists unexpectedly inside your chest. Heat flares there, sudden and fierce. It catches you off guard, bright as wildfire licking at dry brush. Jealousy. Not the small, passing irritation you know from courtly rivalries, but something deeper and hotter, an emotion that feels almost foreign in its intensity.

You press your heels gently to your horse’s sides, riding faster, as if motion might burn it away, but the feeling lingers. You tell yourself it is not about him. It is about change, about growing older and watching the world rearrange itself without asking your permission, about losing a certainty you once relied on.

And still, that low-lit fire burns.

The road ahead stretches like a wound across the earth—dark, quiet, and seemingly endless, vanishing into a horizon marked only by the faintest flicker of distant villages. Their lights tremble like dying stars, fragile against the weight of the night. The wind cuts across the open plains in restless gusts, tearing at your uncle’s cloak and tugging at loose strands of hair, its cold fingers finding every gap in your armour and cloth alike. You ride through it without slowing, letting the chill bite at your skin until the fire inside you dims—until the sharp, consuming heat becomes something quieter, heavier, settling low in your chest as an ache instead of a blaze.

Behind you, King’s Landing has long since dissolved into memory. No towers clawing at the sky, no golden windows glowing with excess, no distant roar of crowds or clatter of courtly life. Only darkness now, and the rhythmic thud of hooves against packed earth. Ahead lies nothing certain — only the open road and the uneasy sense that each mile carries you farther from who you were, toward something unfamiliar, unnamed. You wonder whether you are fleeing or transforming; whether there is even a difference anymore.

The villages you pass are small enough to miss if you blink—four or five squat buildings huddled close as though for warmth, smoke curling thinly from crooked chimneys. Rough wooden fences penned in tired cattle and restless sheep, their shapes pale in the dark moonless night. A single lantern burns in a window here and there, casting soft gold onto dirt paths worn by bare feet and labour. These places are scarcely large enough to be called homes, yet they are full of life—a quiet, stubborn, enduring life.

You watch figures moving even at this late hour: a woman carrying water, shoulders hunched against the cold; a man mending something by lamplight; children asleep in spaces too small for dreams to stretch. These are the people your grandparents speak of as small-folk, spoken of in dismissive tones, numbers to be taxed or managed from a distance. Yet as you ride past, you see only people surviving. People who work until their bodies bend, who measure their days by harvests and weather, not feasts or titles. They scrape a living from unforgiving land while you were born into silk sheets and tables heavy with roasted meats, exotic fruits offered at the slightest whim.

The contrast settles uncomfortably beneath your ribs.

You wonder, not for the first time, if you could survive like this, if the softness bred into you by privilege would crack under a life where comfort must be earned each day. Could your hands harden? Could your hunger be patient? Could you live without servants, without certainty, without the invisible net that catches you every time you fall?

Hours pass unnoticed, marked only by the shifting weight of exhaustion and the slow lightening of the sky. The darkness softens first to grey, then to pale blue that spills across the horizon. Shapes emerge where shadows once ruled. When you finally turn your horse toward home, dawn is breaking, and the world feels newly exposed, as if it has seen too much of you in the night and now refuses to look away.

When you return, the sky has begun to pale.

The night has thinned into that strange hour between secrecy and morning, when the world feels caught holding its breath. Your fingers ache as you grip the cotton rope again; the climb burns through your arms and shoulders, muscles trembling with the effort. Dust clings to your skin, sweat dampens your brow, and your lungs pull air in sharp, quiet breaths as you drag yourself back toward the hidden doorway.

The stones scrape your palms as you crawl inside. The passage smells of cold mortar and age; your heartbeat echoes loud enough to feel dangerous. You shove the bookcase shut behind you with a muted thud and straighten—

—and freeze.

Baelor turns at the sound of the hidden door closing.

For a moment, neither of you speaks. His gaze flicks to your clothes—dirt-streaked, wind-tossed—then to your flushed face.

“You climb out of your chambers,” he says evenly, “like a thief.”

You straighten, caught but unwilling to appear ashamed. “And you enter without invitation, kēpus.”

His mouth twitches slightly, almost a smile. “The Kingsguard believed you sleeping.”

“They believe many things.” The words come out breathless; you are suddenly aware of how close the air feels, how warm the room has grown despite the lingering chill from outside.

He steps nearer.

Not enough to touch, but close enough that you feel the shift in the space between you. His presence fills the room, steady and controlled, the scent of leather and cool morning air clinging to him. You have dreamed of moments like this, waking from restless sleep with your pulse racing, your skin overheated, the memory of his voice lingering in your ears like a secret you cannot shake. Dreams you never name aloud, that leave you disoriented in the half-light.

He steps even closer, lowering his voice. “Do you know how dangerous it is out there?”

You scoff softly, leaning back to rest against your chest if drawers. “Everyone always says that.”

“And they are correct.”

“I am more alive out there than in here.”

The words fall between you like a confession.

Baelor studies you in silence, long enough that you feel suddenly aware of the dirt on your hands, the loose strands of hair sticking to your face, the racing beat of your pulse.

“You should change before anyone sees,” he says at last.

“You will not tell?”

“No.”

Relief flickers, though smaller this time, edged with curiosity.

“Why?” You enquire.

Baelor pauses, struck frozen by your question, before he states: “Because I understand wanting the sky.”

You blink.

For a breathless moment, neither of you moves. The air itself seems to hold its breath, the world narrowing to the space where his voice lingers, warm and low, like the first hint of a storm building on the horizon. You feel it in your chest, a slow, insistent tug, as if his words have reached inside you and pulled something taut. Something that has been waiting, coiled and restless, for far too long.

Byka jēdar… you remember him calling you little sky earlier this eve in the stables. Surely you are not the sky he speaks of—he must be speaking about wanting to ride like your ancestors in the sky upon dragons and flames.

He takes a step closer, and this time, it’s deliberate. Not the cautious, measured approach of an heir, of an uncle, but something else entirely. His presence fills the room, solid and unyielding, yet his eyes are soft, almost tender, as they sweep over your face. You can see the conflict there—duty warring with something deeper, something raw and unchecked. It mirrors the battle raging inside you, the push and pull of propriety and desire, of who you are supposed to be and who you ache to become.

The shift is subtle, almost imperceptible, but you feel it like a sudden chill in the air. His body stiffens; the tension in his shoulders pulls taut as if he’s wrestled something back into place. His hand, which had hung in the space between you, stills and then slowly retreats, returning to his side as if it had never dared to reach out at all. His jaw tightens, his eyes hardening into the disciplined mask of the knight he is—the heir he must be.

You can see the struggle in him, the way his breath catches and steadies, the way his gaze flickers away from yours for the briefest of moments before returning, steady but distant. There’s a conflict there, raw and unspoken, and it mirrors the one raging inside you. Closer, your heart whispers, even as your mind screams no further. The air between you feels charged, heavy with everything unsaid, everything that could have been.

For a moment, neither of you moves. You’re caught in the gravity of that suspended moment, the world narrowing to the space where his presence lingers like a promise he won’t allow himself to make. His eyes bore into yours, searching, asking questions you don’t dare answer. You wonder if he can feel it too, this pull, this ache that seems to grow stronger every time you’re near him. But then he exhales, a slow, deliberate breath, and the spell breaks.

He takes a step back, the movement precise and controlled, as if he’s drawing a line neither of you can cross. The warmth of his presence recedes, leaving you feeling strangely hollow in its absence. His voice, when he speaks next, is measured, deliberate—a shield, you think, to keep the words safe from the truths they might reveal.

“Get some rest, tala. Dawn has passed, and your father expects you soon.”

As he leaves, you catch a faint trace of cold air and steel, the scent of training yards, of open spaces.

The door closes softly behind him.

You stand alone in the quiet room, heart still racing.

Outside, King’s Landing wakes, and the castle breathes again.

For the first time in many weeks, your restlessness feels less like a prison and more like the beginning of something you cannot yet name.

━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━

The days that follow are different.

You notice Baelor watching sometimes—from across a hall, from the edge of a council gathering, from the training yard where sparks fly from clashing steel. His gaze is never intrusive; it lingers only long enough to remind you that he knows your secret.

And he keeps it.

You ride again—not every night, but often enough that the walls begin to feel less suffocating. The rope of linens grows worn from use. Each time you descend, you half-expect to find him waiting.

Sometimes you almost wish he would be.

The Red Keep looms beautiful and terrible around you, towers catching sunlight like flame, banners snapping above stone that has outlived kings. From the highest balconies, the view of King’s Landing stretches endless: the winding Blackwater, ships like toys upon the water, smoke rising from thousands of hearths.

You wonder what it would feel like to never return. And yet you always do, because somewhere within its walls walks a man who looks at you not as duty, not as problem, but as something wild yet worthy of understanding.

One evening, as twilight stains the sky purple and gold, you find him waiting near the balcony.

“You will leave again tonight,” Baelor says without greeting.

You lean against the stone, smiling faintly. “Perhaps.”

“You are predictable.”

“Then why do you keep watching?”

He considers the question.

“Because,” he says quietly, “I would rather know where you fly than wonder if you have fallen.”

The words settle between you like a vow unspoken.

Below, King’s Landing glitters as the sun sinks—restless, alive, endless—and you feel the pull again: the road, the wind, the freedom waiting beyond the walls.

But, for the first time, you do not feel entirely alone within them.

━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━

You sit through a meeting with your father, Maekar, his voice a low, relentless drumbeat. Proposals. Alliances. The necessity of a match. He does not look at you when he speaks of it, but you feel the weight of each word settle on your shoulders, pressing down like the heavy stone walls of the Red Keep itself. The room is too warm, the air thick with the scent of parchment, ink, and the faint tang of wine. You imagine lords around the table murmuring their agreements, their eyes darting to you only briefly before shifting away, as if you are a ghost already, not a living person to be heard. You imagine them as the lords they are: men beyond your years that stare and gawk at you as you grow more, as you grew into the woman you are now; you see their beaded eyes delight in the idea of your hand and the alliance with House Targaryen, not even a thought of your own wishes and prayers to the Mother to be considered.

Your father’s tone is methodical, almost detached, as he outlines the potential alliances. “House Baratheon’s fleet is unmatched,” he says, his fingers tapping idly on the polished wood of the table. “A union would strengthen our position in the Narrow Sea. Their son is young, yes, but well-mannered and… tractable.” The word hangs in the air like a sentence. Tractable. Easily controlled. Easily managed. You clench your hands beneath the table, your nails digging into your palms, as the image of Lord Baratheon’s nephew flashes in your mind—his soft hands, his hesitant laugh, the way he always seems to be searching for someone else’s approval. The thought of sharing a life with him, of lying beside him in a cold marriage bed, makes your stomach churn.

“The Tyrells are too ambitious to consider,” your father interrupts your thoughts sharply, his voice cutting through the murmurs like a blade. “They would seek to influence rather than align. The Baratheon boy is the safer choice.” His tone brooks no argument, and the room falls silent again. You feel the weight of his gaze flicker to you once more, brief and assessing, before he turns back to his papers.

A princess is not a person—she is a tool, a pawn, a thing to be traded.

Your father remains seated, his gaze fixed on the ledger before him. The silence stretches, heavy and suffocating, until he finally speaks.

“You cannot climb walls forever,” he says, his voice quieter now but no less firm. “A princess is a piece on a board. A valuable one. You will be moved where you are needed.” He looks up then, his grey eyes unyielding, and you feel the sting of those words like a slap. His gaze is not unkind, but it is weary, carved from years of compromise.

“I am not a piece to be played, kepa,” you hiss, though the defiance sounds hollow even to your ears. Your throat feels tight, your chest aching with the pressure of unshed tears.

He exhales slowly, leaning back in his chair. “You are my daughter,” he says finally. “That is both a privilege and a chain. You have until the moon’s turn to consider Lord Baratheon’s nephew. After that, I will consider the matter for you.”

The dismissal is clear, his tone leaving no room for further discussion. You rise from your seat, your legs trembling slightly beneath your skirts, and leave the chamber without another word. The stone corridors feel narrower than before, the walls closing in as you walk, your footsteps echoing like a dirge in the silence.

The Baratheon boy is two years your junior, with a laugh that sounds like a hiccup and hands that are always slightly damp. The thought of his touch makes your skin prickle unpleasantly.

Your steps carry you instinctively toward the outer walls, toward the place where the air is clean and the world feels vast, but you stop yourself. The memory of Baelor’s quiet presence in your room is a brand on your thoughts. Instead, you retreat to the library, a vast, dusty cavern of knowledge that offers a different kind of escape. You lose yourself in maps of distant lands, in accounts of dragons that once darkened the skies. For a few hours, you can almost forget the pressure building inside your chest.

It is there that he finds you again.

You do not hear him approach. You’re bent over a massive tome detailing the flight patterns of raptors in the Dornish Marches, your finger tracing a line on the vellum when a shadow falls across the page.

You know it is him before you look up. The air in the library shifts; the dust motes seem to slow in their dance.

“Ñuha dōna jēdar.”

You lift your head. Baelor stands a respectful distance away, his black velvet cloak melting against the dark wood of the shelves. His expression is neutral, the perfect picture of an heir to the throne, but his eyes hold a faint, questioning light.

“Kēpus.” You close the book softly. “Have I summoned you without knowing?”

“Your father requested an escort for your evening walk in the godswood. He is… concerned for your safety after yesterday’s… fatigue.”

The pause is slight, but you hear it. Fatigue. A polite fiction for whatever he suspects, for whatever he has not reported.

“I see.” You stand, smoothing the skirts of your dress. The gown is a layered black silk, heavy and rich, the fabric catching the light like smoke. Gold threaded dragons wind their way subtly along the cuffs and bodice, their scales glinting with each movement, and the high collar frames your throat like armour fit for a Princess if old Valyria, high-necked and modest, yet under his observant gaze you feel strangely exposed. “And are you to be my jailer, or my escort?”

“Here I am a merely your kēpus. I am only here to protect you.”

“From what, Prince Baelor?” You gasp mockingly, placing a hand upon your breasts. “The falling leaves?”

“From anything that would harm you.” His tone is even, but there’s an edge to it, a seriousness that makes your stomach tighten. “Including your own impulses.”

The challenge hangs between you. You want to argue, to tell him your impulses are the only things that make you feel real. But you don’t. You simply nod and move past him toward the library’s great doors.

He falls into step beside you, a half-pace behind. You are acutely aware of the rhythm of his footsteps, the soft clink of his sword belt, the solid, quiet bulk of him at your periphery.

The godswood is quiet in the dusk. The heart tree’s carved face seems to weep crimson tears in the fading light. You walk the winding paths in silence for a time, the only sounds the crunch of gravel underfoot and the distant call of a night bird.

The tension from the morning is still there, a live wire humming just beneath the surface of the quiet. It gathers in the spaces between your words, in the glances you don’t quite allow yourself to take.

“Why did you cover for me, kēpus?” You ask finally, the question bursting out of you. You stop walking, turning to face him beside a small, dark pool.

He stops as well, his profile etched against the deep green of the dark oak leaves. “I gave you my reason.”

“Wanting the sky is not a reason. It is a feeling. Heirs to the throne do not act on feeling.”

He turns his head, his pale eyes meeting yours. In the dim light, they look almost grey. “No,” he agrees. “They do not.”

“So?”

“So perhaps I am tired of watching cages.” The words are so soft they are almost lost in the rustle of the leaves. “Even gilded ones.”

Your breath catches in your throat. It feels like a confession far greater than your own. You think of his life: firstborn son son of the King, heir to the Iron Throne, a boy with his life carved out for him long before his birth, every moment since belonging to someone else. Does he, too, stare at the stars and feel a hunger that has no name?

“Se nyke daor gryves urnēbagon ñuha byka jēdar sagon ruarza.” The words fall from his lips like poetry, not spoken so much as breathed, shaped carefully in the space between you.

Baelor does not speak as other men do. There is no blunt edge to his words, no careless weight. Each syllable leaves his mouth with deliberate care—as though he has measured it first, turned it over in thought, and only then allowed it into the air. The cadence catches you before the meaning ever does; a slow, lilting rhythm that feels less like conversation and more like something recited from memory.

High Valyrian was meant to be elegant—every tutor ever told you so—but hearing it from Baelor is something else entirely. It is not the clipped instruction of lessons half-ignored, nor the stern repetition of grammar you used to slip away from as a girl. In his voice it becomes music.

You are ashamed, suddenly, of all the hours you shirked; all the afternoons spent climbing towers or fleeing your tutors instead of learning the tongue properly. The words brush past your understanding like wings, familiar yet unreachable. You chase them instinctively, trying to grasp meaning from fragments alone.

Cannot bear. The word lands clearly, sharp enough to catch your breath.

Then softer, almost fond: little sky.

Your heart stumbles at that, though you cannot say why. The phrase feels impossibly gentle, something meant to be held close rather than spoken aloud.

And another, nearly lost in the hush between syllables.

Hidden.

The rest slips away from you; beautiful, frustrating, and entirely beyond reach. For a fleeting instant you imagine finding the words written in some ancient book tucked away in the Red Keep’s library; ink faded with time, a love sonnet penned by a long-dead poet who understood longing too well. That same hush lives in Baelor’s voice now—an ache disguised as gentleness, restraint wrapped around something brighter and far more dangerous beneath.

You feel a slickness between your thighs, emanating from your petals, your bud alight with a heat you have hardly experienced. Only one boy has ever touched you, from when you were six-and-ten until nearly two springs ago—a stable boy from an inn far from here, one who did not know your name or your reason for staying there for near a week. That boy had passed of sickness nearly two springs before, but you remember the last time he had touched you: you had whispered kēpus when he inserted a finger inside of you, moaned my Prince when his cock bullied its way into you, and when your body shook and vision became clean as snow, you called out Bae— before you choked back your words.

This memory rises unbidden, and you take a step closer without meaning to. The space between you dwindles again. This time, you notice the fine lines at the corners of his eyes, the faint scar that bisects his left eyebrow, the way his lower lip is slightly fuller than the upper. Details you have seen a thousand times and never truly seen.

“My father will force a marriage,” you whisper, the truth of it sharp and bitter on your tongue. “Before the moon’s turn. To some lordling whose only merit is his uncle’s fleet.”

Baelor’s jaw tightens. A muscle feathers along its edge. He says nothing, but his silence is louder than any objection.

“I cannot breathe when I think of it,” you continue, the words pouring out in a rush now that the dam has broken. “I feel it here.” You press a hand to your chest, just below your collarbone, a contrast to the mocking you used before. A strange, swollen ache has been growing there all day, a tightness that has nothing to do with the fabric of your dress. “It feels like… like I am being stuffed into a box that is too small.”

His gaze drops to your hand, then swiftly back to your face. But not before you see something flicker in his eyes—not pity, but a sharp, sudden recognition.

“I know that feeling all too well, byka jēdar,” he says, his own voice low.

“Do you?”

He doesn’t answer with words. He simply looks at you, and in that look, you see a reflection of your own trapped spirit. It is a mirror, a understanding so profound it steals the air from your lungs.

The ache in your chest pulses, a warm, heavy sensation that spreads outward. You become hyper aware of your body in a new way—the gentle weight of your breasts against the silk of your dress feels more pronounced, the bodice seeming to fit more snugly than it did this morning. It is not pain, but a deep, visceral fullness, as if the frustration and yearning inside you is manifesting physically, pushing against its confines.

You drop your hand, suddenly self-conscious. The sensation is confusing, intimate. You wonder if he can see it, this strange swelling of your own flesh.

“What do you do?” Your voice is barely audible. “When you feel the walls closing in?”

For a long moment, he doesn’t move. Then, slowly, he lifts his own hand, holding it in the space between you, palm up, as if offering you something invisible. “I remember the sky,” he says simply. “I remember that it is still there, even when I cannot see it.”

You stare at his open hand. You imagine placing yours in it, the heat that would bloom from that contact, the sheer, shocking reality of it. The thought sends a jolt through you, straight to your core, and the heavy warmth in your chest tightens again, a sweet, insistent pressure.

You want to. Gods, you want to.

Your fingers twitch at your side.

A loud crack of a branch echoes from the other side of the grove, a guard on his rounds.

The moment shatters.

Baelor’s hand closes into a fist and falls back to his side. The shutters come down over his expression, the Prince's mask settling back into place. “It grows dark, Princess. We should return.”

The dismissal is a physical blow. The warmth in your body cools rapidly, leaving you feeling hollow and shaken. The strange, full sensation in your chest remains, a lingering, tender echo of the moment passed.

You nod, unable to speak, and turn back toward the castle. He walks beside you, the silence now a chasm filled with everything unsaid, everything almost done.

At the door to your chambers, he stops. You hesitate, your hand on the iron ring of the door.

“Will you be there?” You ask, not looking at him. “Tomorrow morning, when I wake to the same walls?”

You hear the soft intake of his breath. When he speaks, his voice is rough, scraped raw by something you dare not name. “I am always here, ñuha jorrāelagon. You may always come to me when you need.”

You push the door open and slip inside without another word.

Alone, you lean back against the cold wood. Your heart hammers against your ribs. You bring your hands up, pressing them against the swell of your breasts beneath your dress. They feel fuller, heavier, sensitive in a way that makes your breath shorten. It is a secret, physical testament to the tension that coils between you and the knight in the white cloak. A slow, aching burn that has found a home in your very flesh.

You know, with a certainty that terrifies and exhilarates you, that this is only the beginning. The walls are the same. The cage is the same. But you are not. And neither, you suspect, is he.

━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━

The days grow louder after that, as though the Red Keep senses change before you do. Servants hurry with purpose; banners are unfurled; the training yards ring from dawn until dusk with steel and shouted orders. Even the air tastes sharper, filled with the scent of oiled armour and anticipation.

Your father moves through the castle like a storm given shape.

A tourney, your grandfather announces. A grand one—knights summoned from across the realm; lords invited to witness strength and loyalty alike. The halls fill with rumours, and you need not ask why.

Marriage.

It clings to every conversation you overhear. Every glance cast your way feels weighted; measured. You are Maekar Targaryen’s daughter—too long unwed, too restless, too wild for comfort.

A tourney gives him opportunity.

From your chambers windows, the world beyond the walls changes by degrees. At first there are only wagons—small dots crawling across the dusty fields outside the city, then stakes driven into earth, lines marked in chalk, men shouting measurements to one another. Day by day the shape grows clearer. Pavilions rise like bright mushrooms after rain; long lists of coloured canvas stretching toward the horizon. Wooden stands climb higher each morning, skeletons of beams becoming grand galleries draped in cloth the colour of noble houses.

You watch the lists take form as though they are building a cage around you.

By afternoon, the wind carries the clang of hammers all the way to your balcony; by evening you can hear laughter drifting faintly upward, the sound of merchants already selling sweet wine and roasted meats to early arrivals. Fires prick the dark like fallen stars. The tourney swells—alive, hungry, and inevitable.

The city hums with excitement. You feel nothing but tension tightening beneath your skin.

Footsteps sound behind you.

“You have been avoiding the court,” Baelor says softly.

You do not turn immediately. “It has been avoiding me first.”

He comes to stand beside you, hands resting lightly on the stone. His presence is steady — grounding in a way you dislike admitting.

“Your father means well,” he says after a moment.

You laugh quietly. “That is a dangerous phrase.”

His mouth twitches, though his gaze remains on the city below. “He fears for your future.”

“I fear being traded like a horse.”

The words slip out sharper than intended.

Baelor falls silent. When you finally glance at him, something tight moves across his features—sympathy, perhaps; perhaps something more complicated.

“Not all matches are prisons,” he says quietly.

“No,” you murmur. “Only most.”

The silence stretches, heavy with things unsaid.

You have grown accustomed to this, the quiet understanding between you. Stolen moments in corridors; conversations that skirt edges neither of you name. Sometimes his gaze lingers too long. Sometimes yours does the same.

Neither of you speaks of it, yet it lives there, a spark beneath ash.

As the days pass, the view from your window becomes unbearable—too bright, too alive. You begin to linger there at night instead, watching torchlight move through the tents like veins of fire. Music reaches you sometimes; the low thrum of drums, the shrill rise of pipes. The small-folk laugh freely in a way the court never allows itself.

One night, when the Keep settles into silence and the corridors grow soft with sleep, you wrap yourself in a plain cloak, silver hair tucked neatly into a hat, and slip through servant passages you learned as a child. The night air tastes different beyond the gates—thicker, freer, heavy with smoke and spilled ale.

The tourney grounds are nothing like the orderly spectacle seen from above. Up close they are chaos—mud churned by boots, children darting between tables, dogs barking beneath benches. Lantern light paints everything gold. You are jostled immediately; no one looks twice at you. It thrills you more than it should.

Someone presses a cup into your hand. Strong wine burns your throat; laughter catches in your chest. You dance because someone pulls you into it, spinning in circles to the rhythm of fiddles and clapping hands. The earth beneath your feet is uneven, the air warm with bodies and breath. For a few precious hours you are nameless—just another girl laughing beneath the lanterns.

You drink more than you intend.

Music swells while skirts whirl around you. The world blurs pleasantly at the edges. Dawn feels impossibly far away.

Then, mid-turn, you pause.

Across the tent, half-lost in shadow near one of the support poles, stands a figure. Cloaked, hood drawn low; plain wool where silk should be. The posture is familiar nevertheless—too still amid the revelry, watching rather than joining.

Your breath catches. For one heartbeat you are certain it is him.

Baelor.

You stumble, missing a step. Your dance partner laughs, steadying you by the elbow. The moment breaks. You blink, heart hammering, and look back toward the corner to see nothing there. There is only shadows and shifting bodies, a wine barrel where the figure had stood. The space is empty, as though it had never held anyone at all.

You tell yourself it was the wine or the music, perhaps just wishful imagining. Still, a strange heat lingers at the back of your neck.

You dance again, but your gaze keeps drifting toward that corner, half-expecting the hooded stranger to reappear. He never does.

━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━

The morning of the tourney dawns bright.

Trumpets sound across the grounds; banners snap in the wind—red dragons, crowned stags, sigils painted so vividly they seem almost alive against the pale sky. From the royal approach, the tourney field spreads wide and gleaming, the lists carved clean into packed earth, rails polished smooth by careful hands. Everything smells of trampled grass, leather, and anticipation. The stands are filled with nobles draped in silk, their voices rising in eager chatter, and below the common-folk and entertainers (some you recognise, some you do not) cheer and chant.

You sit beside your family in the royal box.

The structure rises high above the field, built to impress. Thick wooden beams frame the pavilion, each one carved with twisting dragons whose bodies coil around tongues of flame; the craftsmanship is so intricate the scales catch the sunlight, shadows settling deep within the grooves so it looks as though the creatures truly move. Red silk hangs between the pillars, shifting in the breeze like living fire. Beneath your fingers, the railing is warm from the sun—smooth where countless hands have sanded it down, rough where the engravings bite into the grain.

Maekar’s expression is carved from stone, pride and purpose radiating from him. On your other side sit your brothers — Aerion restless, Aegon grinning with careless delight. Daeron is absent, drinking himself into a stupor, most likely. Baelor sits at the right-hand side if your grandfather, his cloak stirring in the breeze. His own sons are absent, with Valarr with his betrothed and Matarys at training.

You feel his presence before you look.

Your hands rest still in your lap, posture flawless; a proper Princess placed on display like a jewel meant to catch the light.

The first knights ride forth, armour gleaming, horses stamping and snorting as names echo across the field. The crowd answers in waves—cheers cresting and breaking, laughter rising from the stands. Lances shatter; the sound cracks through the air like thunder, vibrating through your ribs.

And then you hear it—the nephew of Lord Baratheon.

The roar that follows is louder than the others, a tide of approval rolling through nobles and small-folk alike. He rides forward—broad-shouldered, steady beneath heavy armour, the stag crest gleaming gold upon his breastplate. There is nothing flamboyant about him. He sits his horse like a man born to discipline; no flourish, no grin for the crowd—solid and predictable.

The thought makes something cold settle in your stomach.

You study him in this daylight, the sun shining and cutting sharp shadows below his brows and cheekbones. He is not ugly, and not unkind looking either. He is simply… contained. A man more comfortable with sword than speech.

Your father leans slightly toward you. “A strong match,” he murmurs.

You keep your expression smooth, though distaste curls quietly beneath it. The Baratheon looks every inch the sort of man a father would choose—reliable, practical, unquestioning. A man who would place you carefully into a life already arranged, where duty comes first and desire is politely ignored. You imagine years of measured conversation, steady silence; a life built on obligation.

You feel suffocated just thinking of it.

The Baratheon rider turns his horse toward the royal box, reins tightening as the animal tosses its head and stamps its hooves below you.

His dark, steady eyes find yours.

“My lady,” he calls, voice deep and steady, “would you grant me a favour?”

The crowd hushes, eager and watching. Your smile forms slowly, practised and polite, though it feels brittle beneath the weight of expectation.

In your peripheral vision, you sense movement.

Baelor.

You glance, only briefly, and the breath catches in your throat.

His jaw is clenched so tightly that the muscles jump. Nostrils flare once, controlled; his hands curl into the engraved wood arms of his seat. Nothing else gives him away. To anyone else he appears composed, princely. But you know him well by now—you know the simmering anger barely leashed, the stillness of a man restraining himself. Possessive.

The realisation sends a heat racing unexpectedly through you.

You turn back to the knight below before anyone notices. Without speaking, you untie a narrow ribbon from the sleeve of your dress—gold threaded with black and red—and toss it down. The fabric catches the sunlight as it falls.

The Baratheon man catches it neatly.

“I pray you ride safely,” you call.

Nothing more.

The crowd applauds; your father nods approvingly. The Baratheon bows his head before fastening your ribbon to his arm before riding away.

You lean back slowly, and when you do, you meet Baelor’s eyes.

Everything else fades.

The lists continue; lances crash, shields splinter with sharp metallic crunches, horses scream and men shout. Steel rings against steel again and again. The air grows thick with dust and sunlight; heat gathers beneath your collar, turning every breath warm.

You do not watch the tourney—you watch him.

His gaze does not leave yours.

There is something fierce there—restrained, smouldering. Not open anger; something deeper, quieter, more dangerous. The air between you tightens like a drawn bowstring, invisible and taut. The noise around you becomes distant, muffled, as though you sit inside a world separated from everyone else.

Another knight falls. The crowd erupts.

You do not blink. Neither does he.

The Baratheon nephew rides well; you hear the cheers grow louder each time he unhorses another opponent with relentless precision. Your father’s satisfaction becomes increasingly visible. The trap closes, thread by thread, yet all you feel is the heat building between you and Baelor. There is an inferno that grows each time his eyes darken, each time his expression tightens when your ribbon flashes on another man’s arm. You feel it like fire licking at your skin. Even the roar of the crowd cannot drown the silence stretching between you.

The Baratheon nephew rides well.

At one point Aerion leans toward you, whispering something mocking about the knight’s stiff posture; the biting words stem from a jealousy at the man’s skills, no doubt. You barely hear him. Aegon laughs at something else entirely. The world has narrowed to a single point.

Baelor’s eyes. His gaze holds frustration, hunger, something almost protective—something that feels dangerously close to ownership.

It should frighten you. Instead, your pulse quickens.

The sun dips lower as the final tilt begins. Your ribbon flashes on the Baratheon’s arm as he charges, dust rising in a plume as his lance strikes true. His opponent falls; the crowd erupts.

The knight is declared victor.

Cheers thunder across the grounds. Your father stands, applauding. Nobles follow suit in a rustle of silk and approval.

You choose to remain seated, gaze still locked with Baelor’s.

He does not clap. His expression is carefully neutral again, but his two-times eyes betray him, dark and burning.

When the Baratheon man rides toward the royal box for acknowledgement, you barely notice. He lifts his helm, breathing hard, sweat darkening his hair.

Your grandfather gestures for him to approach closer.

“This is the princess,” Daeron speaks loud enough for those nearby to clasp at their ears, and for the common-folk in the stands to hear. “Her favour brought you luck.”

The knight looks up at you, respectful and almost shy. “My thanks for your protection, my lady.”

You incline your head.

The words stick in your throat.

Behind you, Baelor’s presence feels almost tangible — like heat against your back.

The knight lingers a moment too long, as if hoping for something more. You give him nothing beyond a distant smile.

“I am glad you ride unhurt.”

You offer nothing else.

His gaze lingers a moment, then he bows and withdraws.

The crowd begins to disperse, excitement spilling into talk of feasts and celebration. You rise with the others, skirts whispering across the wooden floor. As you turn, your shoulder brushes Baelor’s.

The contact is fleeting, accidental to anyone watching, yet you know this was by design.

He leans slightly closer, voice low enough that only you hear but sharp enough to cut through the noise.

“You should not have given him your ribbon.” The words come almost as a hiss, stripped of his usual gentleness. You pause, surprised by the raw edge of it.

“He asked,” you whisper.

“He is being presented for your hand.”

“I know.”

You turn to him fully.

His eyes hold yours—curious, burning, threaded with something that looks dangerously like rage; not loud, not wild, but contained, focused. The sort of jealousy that does not shout because it does not need to.

“And you dislike it,” he says quietly.

“Do you?” The question escapes before you can stop yourself.

For a moment something unguarded flashes across his face—something hungry, aching, fiercely possessive.

“Yes,” he says. “Iksā ñuha vēzos se jēdar. Ñuhon mērī, dōna run.”

Heat flares between you again, sudden and consuming. You do not need to know these words to understand it is a claiming. For one breath you imagine what it would feel like if he stopped holding himself back—if that restrained fire finally burned free.

Your father calls your name.

The moment shatters.

Baelor steps away at once, expression smoothing into princely calm as though nothing passed between you at all. But as you walk from the royal box, the carved dragons twisting above your head, you feel his gaze on you still—steady, consuming, like a flame that refuses to go out.

━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━

The corridors near his chambers are quieter than the rest of the Keep; most of the court has drifted down toward the great hall, drawn by food, wine, and retellings of the day’s victories. Laughter echoes faintly upward through the stone like something distant and hollow.

You slip from your own apartments with your cloak pulled close, heart hammering so loudly you are certain it will betray you. The passageways twist narrower here—older stone, less adorned. Torchlight gutters in iron sconces, casting restless shadows that stretch and recoil as you pass. Every footstep feels thunderous against the worn floor; every turning corner sends a spike of heat through your veins.

You know these corridors well enough. You learned them as a child, racing your brothers, hiding from tutors. Tonight they feel different—charged. Dangerous.

A pair of servants pass at the far end of a hall; you press yourself into an alcove until they disappear, breath shallow, pulse racing not from fear of discovery but from the anger still blazing beneath your ribs. The Baratheon’s ribbon. Your father’s satisfied nod. Baelor’s eyes.

By the time you reach his door, your restraint is threadbare.

It stands slightly ajar. You push it open without knocking.

He is near the window, half-turned toward the dying light, as though he sensed you long before he heard you. The sunset paints him in gold and shadow; the line of his shoulders rigid beneath dark robes. His armour rests on a stand nearby, the faint smell of freshly oiled leather and steel thick in the room.

“You should not be here,” he says quietly.

“And yet here I am, kēpus.”

The door shuts behind you with a soft, final sound.

For a moment neither of you moves. The air feels heavier here; warmer. The noise of the feast below does not reach this high. There is only the soft crackle of the hearth and the faint whisper of wind against the glass.

“You heard him,” you say. “He means to bind me.”

Baelor exhales slowly, exhibiting a control you wish to break. “Your father believes it best, as does the King himself.”

“You do not.”

His gaze flicks sharply to yours, not quick enough to hide. “That is not for me to decide.”

The calm in his voice makes your anger flare hotter.

“You watched him barter me like a prize!”

His jaw tightens. “Do not think it easy for me.”

“Then why say nothing?”

Silence stretches, tight and unbearable. You step closer; he does not retreat. The space between you grows charged, humming like a drawn blade.

“If you hate this match,” you whisper, voice trembling now with something more than mere frustration, “then do something.”

His eyes darken—one shade lighter than the other, both burning. You can see the war in him; duty strangling desire, loyalty battling something far more dangerous.

You barely think before the words spill out, reckless and raw.

“Take my hand yourself, ñuha dārilaros.”

The Valyrian falls from your tongue imperfectly but unmistakably.

Shock flashes across his features—true, unguarded surprise. It softens him for half a heartbeat, strips him of princely composure. Beneath it something else rises—something fierce and deeply wanted. His breath catches; his gaze drops briefly to your mouth, then returns to your eyes with new intensity.

Hidden want.

You do not wait for reason to reclaim him.

You close the distance.

The first press of your lips is charged with everything unsaid—anger, longing, years of stolen glances and swallowed words. It is not gentle. It is desperate.

For a single heartbeat he is still, then the restraint shatters.

His hand finds your waist, fingers tightening, drawing you flush against him. The kiss deepens—hungry, urgent; the taste of him warm and unfamiliar and dizzying. Your fingers tangle into the folds of his robe, clutching as though the ground might vanish beneath you. Heat surges between you, swift and consuming. All the tension from the lists, from the royal box, from the carved dragons and cheering crowds, burns away in this single reckless act.

His other hand rises, threading into your braided hair, fingers spreading along your scalp as though to anchor you there. The touch sends a shiver through you; sharp, electric. You tilt into him instinctively, mouths moving together with a wildness that feels long restrained.

The world narrows to breath and warmth and the faint sound of your own pulse roaring in your ears.

You taste wine and salt and something entirely his. The kiss turns deeper still—less anger now, more want; something molten and aching that has lived too long beneath silence. Your hands slide higher, gripping at his shoulders beneath the heavy fabric, feeling the strength coiled there.

The kiss breaks only because you need air, and even then you refuse to part more than a breath. You clutch at his tunic, the taste of him unfamiliar and overwhelming. It feels like fire, like stepping off a cliff and refusing to fall back. His hands remain at your waist and in your hair, as though he fears you might disappear if he lets go. His forehead rests against yours; his exhale is a ragged, warm thing against your damp lips. The hand at your waist moves, splaying wide across the small of your back, pressing you closer until you feel the solid, unyielding length of him—the undeniable proof that his control is as fractured as yours.

“This is madness,” he murmurs, the words a rough vibration against your skin.

“I do not care.”

His eyes—one a shifting blend of blue and green like shallow sea over stone, the other a steady, burnished brown—search yours, striking in their quiet, mismatched intensity. You see the war—duty, honour, the ghost of your grandfather’s command. But beneath it, a current of raw need runs darker, deeper. It’s the same current that has pulled his gaze to you over the years, after his late wife Jena passed, all the way to today in the lists, that tightened his jaw when the Baratheon ribbon was offered.

He moves without another word.

A sudden, fluid shift of his body turns you, his arm a firm band around your waist as he guides you back. Your shoulder blades meet cold, rough-hewn stone beside the tall, arched window. The shock of the chill against your overheated skin makes you gasp. Moonlight, pale and silver, spills through the leaded glass, painting a stark, luminous stripe across the floor and up the wall, bathing you both in its ghostly glow.

From far below, a distant roar of laughter rises from the tourney grounds—a world away, a life away. Here, there is only his scent—leather, clean sweat, the faint, smoky trace of the hearth—and the overwhelming heat of him caging you against the wall.

His mouth finds yours again.

This kiss is different. The initial desperate hunger is still there, but it’s been joined by a fierce, focused intensity. It’s a claiming. His lips are insistent, demanding your surrender. You give it willingly, opening for him with a soft, yielding sound that is swallowed by his kiss. His tongue slides against yours—a slick, hot glide that steals the strength from your knees. Your whimper is muffled, lost in the wet, consuming rhythm he sets. One of his hands comes up, fingers tangling once more in the intricate braids at your temple, holding you still for his exploration. He tastes of the deep, dry Dornish red served at the high table and something inherently, uniquely him—a flavour you realize you have yearned for without name.

You break for air, panting, your lips tingling and swollen. “Baelor,” you breathe, the name a plea and a prayer.

“You should not be here,” he repeats, but his voice is a low, guttural thing that belies the words. His mouth leaves yours to trail fire down the line of your jaw. “You should be in your chambers. You should be thinking of your future lord husband.”

The words are a goad, meant to punish you or himself, you cannot tell. But you will not have it.

“I am thinking of my prince,” you whisper into the dark silk of his hair. Your own hands find the firm planes of his back, clutching at the fabric of his tunic. “My kēpus. Take me as yours!” You hiss. “Claim me!”

A sound rips from his throat—not a groan, but something deeper, more visceral. A growl. It vibrates against the sensitive skin of your neck as his teeth find the arch of your throat. He doesn’t bite, not truly, but the sharp pressure of his teeth grazing that frantic pulse point sends a jolt of pure, undiluted sensation straight to your core. Your head falls back against the stone with a soft thud, offering him more.

His free hand slides down your side, over the curve of your hip. He grips your thigh, his fingers strong and sure, and lifts. You feel the cool air against your calf as he hooks your left leg over his hip, settling you more firmly against him. The new angle presses the hard ridge of his arousal against the juncture of your thighs, even through the layers of your skirt and his robes. A startled, delicious friction sparks there, and you cry out, a short, sharp sound.

His hand doesn’t stop. It smooths up the outside of your lifted thigh, pushing the heavy fabric of your gown and underskirts up as it goes. The cool night air from the window kisses your bared skin, raising gooseflesh. You tremble, not from cold, but from an anticipation so acute it borders on pain.

His fingers find the edge of your underclothing—simple linen drawers. He pauses there, his breath hot against your neck. “Do you know what you ask for, byka jēdar?”

“Yes.”

“Do you truly?” His voice is taut, strained. His fingertips brush the damp linen where it clings to you. A shockwave of sensation rolls through you, making your entire body jolt. You are wet. The evidence of your desire is a soaked patch against the fabric, and his touch ghosts over it, a maddening, feather-light pass.

“I know,” you insist, your voice trembling. “I want you, ñuha dārilaros.”

His thumb finds the shape of you through the cloth, a firm, circling pressure over the aching bud hidden beneath. You arch off the wall with a choked gasp. The sensation is too much and not enough—a brilliant, focused point of pleasure that threatens to unravel you before he’s even truly begun.

“Please,” you beg, your fingers digging into the muscles of his shoulders. “Baelor, please.”

He ignores your plea, his thumb continuing its lazy, torturous circles. The rough pad of it rubs against the sensitive bundle of nerves through the damp linen, building a coil of tension low in your belly that tightens with every rotation. Your hips try to roll against his hand, seeking more pressure, deeper friction, but he holds you pinned, controlling the pace, the intensity.

“Please what?” He demands, his voice a dark rasp in your ear. His other hand still anchors your head, his fingers threaded tightly in your hair.

“Inside,” you whimper, the word barely audible. “Your fingers… inside me.”

He stills. The sudden absence of motion is its own exquisite torment. He pulls back just enough to look at you. In the moonlight, his face is all sharp angles and shadowed hollows, his eyes like chips of flint. “Ask properly.”

You blink, dazed, your body screaming for the relief he’s withholding. “What?”

“You know how.” His gaze burns into you, unyielding. “Ask me as my niece should.”

Understanding dawns, hot and humiliating and thrilling. It is a test. A claiming, just like you pleaded.

“Kēpus,” you breathe, the High Valyrian title feeling different now—intimate, dirty, a secret between you. “Please. Your fingers.”

“Louder.”

“Kēpus!” You wail it, the sound torn from your throat, raw and desperate. It echoes softly in the high ceiling room, swallowed by the distant revelry.

A faint smile touches his lips. “Better.”

His hand moves. He pushes the damp linen aside, the fabric scraping softly against your oversensitive flesh. Then his bare skin meets yours.

The first touch of his fingers against your bare, slick folds is an electric shock. You cry out, your back bowing. His touch is not tentative. He parts you with a confident stroke of his middle finger, sliding through the drenched heat, gathering your wetness. The chill of the signet ring on his little finger presses against your outer lips, a stark, metallic contrast to the feverish warmth of your skin.

He finds your entrance, the tip of his finger resting there, applying the barest pressure. You are panting, every muscle in your body tensed, waiting. He looks into your eyes, holding your gaze captive as he finally, slowly, sinks his finger inside you.

The sensation is overwhelming. A fullness, a stretch, a shocking intimacy. You are tight, unaccustomed to any intrusion, and your inner muscles clamp around him instinctively, a silken, clutching grip. His breath catches audibly. He curls his finger, a deliberate, searching motion. The pad of his finger brushes a spot deep inside you that makes stars burst behind your eyelids. Your vision whites out for a second. A ragged, broken moan tears from your throat, and your nails, without conscious thought, drag down the nape of his neck, scraping over the short hairs there.

He hisses, a sharp intake of breath, and his own hips jerk forward, grinding his hard length against your thigh. The pain-pleasure on his face is intoxicating.

“Another,” you beg, the words slurred with need. “I can take you, ñuha kēpus. Give me another.”

His eyes flash with something wild. He withdraws his finger almost completely, making you gasp at the loss, then returns with two.

The stretch is more pronounced, a burning, exquisite fullness that steals the air from your lungs. You hear it then—the obscene, wet sound of your own arousal as he pushes his fingers deep, as your body accepts him. The noise is loud in the intimate silence of the room, lewd and undeniable. A hot flush of shame washes over you, followed immediately by a wave of even hotter arousal. You try to tuck your face into the hollow of his shoulder, into the fine wool of his robes, to hide from his penetrating gaze.

“No.” His voice is a command, low and absolute. The hand in your hair tightens, not painfully, but with undeniable force, pulling your head back. “Look at me.”

You obey, your eyes fluttering open to meet his.

What he sees makes the last vestige of princely composure vanish from his face. His lips part. His eyes, wide and dark with pupil, rake over your features with a kind of savage hunger. You know what he sees: your hair coming loose from its braids in wild tendrils, your breasts heaving as you gasp for air, your lips swollen and glistening from his kisses. Your eyes, wide and pleading, dark with a wantonness you never knew you possessed.

“Gods,” he snarls, the word half-reverence, half-curse. “Look at you.”

You watch him watching you fall apart. You see the awe in his gaze, the fierce possessiveness, the sheer, staggering want. It fuels you, amplifies every sensation. The coarse rub of his tunic against your cheek, the cold stone at your back, the relentless, curling thrust of his fingers inside you—it all coalesces into a single, rising wave of tension.

He changes the angle of his wrist, his fingers driving deeper, crooking just so. His thumb finds your exposed nub again, circling it in firm, rhythmic passes that are perfectly synchronized with the thrust of his fingers.

The coil inside you, wound so tight you think you might break, suddenly snaps.

Pleasure does not crest—it erupts. It is not a gentle wave but a firestorm, blazing out from that central, molten point where his touch resides. It consumes you, racing along every nerve, turning your bones to liquid heat. Your body arches violently, held to the wall only by his solid strength. A wordless, choking cry is torn from you, then his name mixed with ragged, sobbing gasps of “ñuha dārilaros!”

Your inner muscles clutch and flutter around his fingers in frantic, pulsing waves. The pleasure is so intense it borders on unbearable, a radiant, shuddering release that seems to go on and on, draining the strength from your limbs, leaving you boneless and trembling. Your head lolls forward, your forehead coming to rest against his collarbone as you gasp for air, each breath a shaky, shuddering thing.

For a long moment, the only sounds are your ragged breathing, the distant murmur of the feast, and the soft, wet sound as he slowly, gently, withdraws his fingers, raising them to his lips as his tongue darts out to taste your wetness on them.

As your pulse begins to slow and you breathing starts to even out, you feel Baelor still.

It is subtle at first; a tightening beneath your palms where they rest against him. The warmth does not vanish, but it pulls inward, as though he is drawing himself back behind walls you cannot see. His breath, which had been uneven and mingled with yours, begins to steady—too quickly, too deliberately.

You do not realise he is pulling away until the absence begins.

His hand at your waist loosens. The other, which had tangled possessively in your braided hair, slips free strand by strand. The space between your bodies widens by inches, though you remain leaning against him, too dazed to understand the shift.

Then, footsteps—distant at first, echoing faintly down the corridor outside his chambers.

The sound of skirts brush against stone. Your name echoes faintly down the corridor.

“My lady? Princess?”

Your maid.

Baelor breaks away sharply, as though burned. The last trace of warmth vanishes from his hands. He steps back, running one hand over his face as if to erase what just transpired, breath uneven once more—but now with restraint, not desire.

The absence feels cold.

You lift your head slowly, blinking up at him—flushed, shaken, hair loosened from its careful braids. Your lips still tingle; your skin still burns with the memory of his touch. The room seems smaller now, tighter.

“Go,” his voice rough, but not with want this time.

“… Pardon?”

“They will find you here.”

You wait, expecting him to say more.

Your maid calls again, closer, and still he says nothing.

You see the return of the prince: guarded, controlled, jaw set hard enough to ache. His hands are fisted at his sides, knuckles pale.

The silence cuts deeper than any refusal.

Anger floods back, hot and sharp.

“You tasted me,” you whisper bitterly, voice trembling despite your effort to steady it, “and still you hide.”

His expression twists—pain flashing across his features, something raw and strangled beneath it. For a moment he looks as though he might reach for you again.

He does not.

“This is folly,” he says, quieter now. “Dangerous folly. For you most of all.”

“For me?” You almost laugh. “We are dragons, kēpus, no matter what people may say! We do not have to bend to the will of these politics!”

Your name echoes again, closer this time.

He steps further back, putting deliberate distance between you. The space feels like a blade driven into your chest.

“Go,” he repeats, softer but no less firm. “Before I forget myself again.”

You straighten slowly, smoothing your skirts with hands that still tremble. The heat between your thighs has faded to a dull, aching warmth; your heart still pounds, but now with fury as much as longing.

You turn sharply, crossing the room in swift strides. When you open the door, the cooler air of the corridor rushes in, carrying with it your maid’s hurried steps. The corridor swallows you; your maid rounds the corner moments later, relief flooding her face. You barely hear her excuses as she escorts you away.

Behind you, Baelor’s door closes softly.

He does not follow.

You do not look back.

━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━

Two long, burning days since you last saw Baelor alone in his chambers—since heat and want and reckless words shattered whatever fragile balance had existed between you. Two full days of this tourney stretching on beneath banners and cheers; two endless nights lying awake in your bed, staring at the canopy overhead, replaying every look, every touch, every word he did not say.

He avoids you completely.

In corridors he bows with impeccable courtesy and moves past without lingering. At meals he speaks to your brothers, to your father, to visiting lords—never to you. His gaze slides over you in public as though you are no more than any other courtly presence. No stolen glances. No quiet murmurs in shadowed alcoves.

The absence is deliberate.

It feels like punishment.

You endure two whole days of spectacle—of splintering lances and roaring crowds—while something tight and wounded coils inside your chest. Two whole nights without him, even though he hurt you so; even though he pushed you away when you were still trembling in his arms. Anger wars with longing until you no longer know which burns hotter.

By the dawn of the second great day of tilting, you are raw with it.

The morning rises bright and deceptively cheerful. Frost clings lightly to the grass beyond the walls, turning the fields silver beneath the early sun. The air is brisk, sharp in your lungs. From the royal box, the world seems carved from colour and noise—banners snapping crimson and gold, the carved dragons along the beams casting twisting shadows in the pale light.

You sit once more beside your father.

Maekar’s pride is evident; he leans forward slightly as the lists fill, satisfaction radiating from him like heat from a forge. Aegon laughs at some private jest, unconcerned. Aerion watches everything with sharp, assessing eyes.

But Baelor is missing.

Your gaze drifts again and again to the entrance lanes where the riders gather. Nothing. No sign of black armour; no sign of the man who has haunted every breath of yours for forty-eight hours.

Restlessness coils through you.

The Baratheon nephew rides out to thunderous applause. He looks every bit the victor of two days past—armour polished, the stag crest gleaming, your ribbon still tied firmly around his arm. The sight of it makes your stomach twist.

He guides his horse toward the royal box, lifting his visor.

“My lady,” he calls, voice steady.

The crowd hushes in anticipation.

You summon a polite smile that feels carved from wax.

And then—

A thunder of hooves splits the air.

It is not the measured trot of a knight awaiting announcement but a hard, deliberate gallop. Heads turn. Gasps ripple through the stands as another rider breaks into the lists without ceremony, horse powerful and dark as night.

The steed’s breath fogs in the cold air, plumes of steam curling from its nostrils as it slows sharply before the royal box. The animal is pitch black, muscled and restless, stamping at the earth as though eager for blood.

The rider sits tall.

Your breath leaves you in a single, stunned exhale.

Even before he lifts his visor, you know him.

The armour is unmistakable.

It is not gilded or overly adorned like the suits worn by lords eager for admiration. It is forged for war. Pitch black from helm to greaves, the metal drinks the sunlight rather than reflecting it. The chest piece is ribbed and hand-carved with the three-headed dragon of House Targaryen—not in bright enamel, but etched deeply into the steel itself, as though the sigil has been claimed by fire and hammered into permanence.

This is not parade armour.

Cuts mar the surface—old scars gouged into the breastplate and along the pauldrons. Not decorative etching but the marks of blades that have struck true and failed to fell him. You have heard the stories whispered in halls and sung in quieter corners: battles fought in the marches, skirmishes on distant shores, duels settled in mud and blood. Too many to count.

He wears them all.

His gauntlets are plain but solid; his sword hangs at his side, well-used, the hilt wrapped in dark leather worn smooth by his grip.

When he lifts his visor, the world narrows to the line of his face.

Baelor.

Though the visor shields his eyes when lowered, you know—instinctively, fiercely—that they are on you alone.

He turns his horse slightly, so that he faces not only the Baratheon but the royal box.

“Before I ask anything,” Baelor calls, his voice carrying across the suddenly silent grounds, “I issue challenge.”

A murmur ripples through the crowd.

He turns his helm toward the Baratheon knight. “To you.”

The Baratheon stiffens.

“Fight me,” Baelor continues, “until death or until one yields. If I win, you will withdraw your request for the princess’s hand and speak no further of it.”

The words strike like thrown steel.

A collective intake of breath.

Your father’s sharp gasp is audible beside you. Aerion and Aegon fall stunned into silence.

Baelor turns his gaze upward—to the King, your grandfather.

“And if I win,” he declares, voice steady as drawn iron, “I claim her hand myself.”

The world stops.

For a heartbeat there is only wind snapping banners and the distant shifting of horses.

Your father half-rises from his seat. “This is fucking madness—”

But the challenge has been spoken. It cannot be unsaid.

All eyes turn to the King.

Your grandfather’s expression is unreadable, carved from old stone. He knows as well as anyone that a public challenge cannot be withdrawn without dishonour. The crowd waits, suspended between outrage and exhilaration.

At last, the King inclines his head.

“So be it.”

The words fall heavy.

A roar breaks from the stands.

Baelor turns back to you.

For the first time since he rode in, the edge of his composure falters. Even at this distance you see it—the flicker of vulnerability beneath the steel.

“Ñuha jēdar,” he calls, voice no longer for spectacle but for you alone, “your favour.”

Your cheeks burn.

Your heartbeat pounds so violently you fear it will burst from your chest. Your fingers tremble as you reach beneath your skirts, seeking the ribbon tied at your stocking. You feel your pulse pounding everywhere at once. The movement is hidden from all but you—and perhaps him, with how he is watching so closely.

The knot loosens. You draw the ribbon free.

Leaning forward over the carved railing, you stretch and lower yourself as far as you dare. The cold air bites your skin. The distance between you closes; your fingers brush the metal of his gauntlet.

He takes the ribbon from your shaking hand.

He takes the ribbon carefully, then he lifts it to his lips and kisses it with reverence.

The crowd erupts into cheers, but you can hear only your own heartbeat.

“I pray you ride safely,” you say softly, voice trembling just enough for him alone to notice. “Return to me.”

His gaze darkens at the words.

His helm lowers and he turns his horse.

The Baratheon knight draws his sword. So does Baelor.

The clash is immediate.

Steel rings against steel with a shriek that scrapes along your bones. The first blow lands hard enough to jar both men in their saddles. Horses rear and wheel; dust kicks up in sharp clouds beneath pounding hooves.

Your chest tightens.

They fight not with lances but with swords—close, brutal. The Baratheon is strong, disciplined; his strikes are precise, calculated. But Baelor fights like a man with something to lose.

Like a man with something to win.

The sound of blade on armour cracks through the air again and again—sharp metallic shrieks, dull thuds where steel meets ribbed breastplate. Sparks flash when swords glance off one another.

Your head swims with each collision.

They dismount almost simultaneously, abandoning horses for footing on earth. The fight grows more vicious. Boots grind into dirt; shoulders slam. The Baratheon swings hard, forcing Baelor back a step—another. The crowd roars approval.

You cannot breathe.

You press your hands together, knuckles white, whispering frantic prayer to the Mother: Bring him back to me. Protect my jorrāelagon.

Steel crashes again. Baelor pivots, parrying with swift efficiency. He fights differently now—no flourish, no wasted motion. Each movement is purposeful, measured, honed by real war rather than tourney sport.

The Baratheon lunges. Their blades lock. For a heartbeat they strain against each other, faces inches apart behind steel.

Then Baelor shifts.

A twist of his wrist; a sharp kick to destabilise. The Baratheon stumbles. Baelor presses forward, relentless. Sword strikes armour with brutal force—once, twice. The sound is deafening.

Dust clings to black steel. Sweat darkens the edges of Baelor’s helm.

The Baratheon rallies, slamming shoulder-first into him. They crash to the ground in a tangle of limbs and metal. Gasps ripple through the stands.

You rise to your feet without realising.

They roll; blades scrape against earth. The Baratheon attempts to pin him—but Baelor surges upward with startling ferocity. He shoves the other man back, brings his sword down in a controlled arc that stops a breath from the Baratheon’s throat.

Pinned.

The black blade rests at the vulnerable seam beneath the stag’s helm.

Silence falls.

“Yield,” Baelor commands.

For a heartbeat you think the Baratheon will refuse.

Then, hoarse and defeated: “I yield.”

The roar that follows is thunderous—it shakes the very beams of the royal box.

Baelor rises slowly, chest heaving beneath scarred black armour. He pulls off his helm. His shoulders rise and fall with each drag of air. Sweat traces down his temples, along the sharp line of his jaw, slipping to disappear beneath the collar of his breastplate.

His eyes find you immediately.

Everything inside you snaps.

You do not think; you run.

You run down the steps of the royal box, past stunned nobles and shouting small-folk. Skirts gathered in your fists, heart pounding wildly. The crowd parts and presses around you in equal measure, pushing you closer to the entrance of the lists.

He sees you coming. His armour is already off, thrown carelessly to the earth beside him.

Baelor moves toward you before anyone can stop him. When you reach him, breathless and trembling, he does not hesitate. He catches you by the waist and lifts you effortlessly, settling you behind him onto his black steed. The horse snorts, steam curling into the cold air.

You cling to him—armoured and solid and alive.

The crowd roars again as he wheels the horse toward the gates.

And then he is galloping.

Away from the lists. Away from the roar of nobles and small-folk alike. Back toward the Keep, wind tearing at your hair, your cheek pressed against scarred black steel.

━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━

The cobblestones blur beneath the stallion’s pounding hooves, a thunderous rhythm that matches the frantic beat of your heart where you cling to Baelor’s back. The wind steals your breath, whipping stray strands of hair across your face. His scent envelops you—sweat, leather, the metallic tang of dried blood from the skirmish at the tourney grounds, and beneath it all, the clean, warm smell of him. Your arms are locked around the hard muscle of his abdomen, your cheek pressed against the damp linen of his tunic, feeling the powerful flex of his body as he guides the beast with a fierce, single-minded urgency.

He rides not like a lord, but like a man possessed. Every shouted command to the steed is a guttural promise. Every sharp turn that makes you clutch him tighter is a step closer to a destination only he sees. The world streaks past in a smear of stone and shadow, the late afternoon sun casting long, desperate fingers across the city. You feel a wild, unbridled joy surge through you, a laugh bubbling in your throat at the sheer madness of it—the Hand of the King, still in his fighting leathers, cutting through the capital like a comet, with you as his only passenger.

The castle gates loom. He does not slow. Guards scramble aside, their faces a mix of shock and deference. The stables are reached in a final, breathtaking gallop across the inner yard. He pulls the great horse up so sharply its front hooves skid on the gravel. Before the animal has fully stilled, Baelor is swinging down, his boots hitting the ground with a solid thump. He turns, his hands finding your waist before you can move, and lifts you from the saddle as if you weigh nothing. Your body slides down the length of his, a slow, friction rich descent that leaves you breathless. Your feet touch earth, but his hands don’t leave you. They slide to your back, holding you steady, holding you close.

His face is a map of the day’s violence—a fresh, shallow cut gleaming on the sharp plane of his cheek, his silver-gold hair darkened with sweat and dust, his violet eyes blazing with an intensity that has nothing to do with battle. He looks at you, really looks, as if checking for cracks. Then his mouth finds yours.

It’s not a gentle reunion kiss. It’s a claiming. A punctuation mark on the frantic ride. His lips are firm, insistent, tasting of salt and urgency. One of his hands cups the back of your head, fingers tangling in your hair, angling you to deepen the contact. It’s over almost as soon as it begins, but the heat of it lingers, sparking on your lips, simmering in your veins. He pulls back just enough to rest his forehead against yours, his breathing ragged.

“Soon,” he murmurs, the word a vow. Then his hand swallows yours, fingers lacing through yours with a possessive tightness, and he turns, pulling you into a near run.

You are a comet’s tail in his wake. He storms through the Red Keep, a force of nature in bloodied leather. Servants and courtiers alike part before him like wheat before a scythe, their eyes wide, their bows hurried. No one dares speak. The message is in his grip on your hand, in the savage purpose in his stride. Staircases spiral upward, one after another, your legs burning with the effort to keep pace. Halls stretch, tapestries fluttering in the wind of your passage. Your laughter finally breaks free, not a delicate giggle but a full, throaty sound of pure, undiluted exhilaration. It echoes off the stone, a bright counterpoint to his silent, driven fury. You throw your head back, the world a dizzying whirl of vaulted ceilings and torchlight, and you laugh. You laugh for the sheer, stupid joy of being alive, of being wanted, of being his in this wild, stolen moment.

He glances back once, at the sound, and something in his fierce expression softens for a fraction of a second, a flicker of sun through storm clouds. Then he’s moving again, faster, dragging you up one final, private staircase.

His apartments. The heavy oak door bears the three-headed dragon, carved and painted a deep, bloody crimson. He shoves it open, pulls you inside, and slams it shut with a sound that feels final. The clack of the iron lock sliding home is deafening in the sudden quiet. You have a half-second to register the familiar room—the hearth cold, the Myrish rugs, the large bed with its dark hangings—before he spins you, your back coming to rest against the carved door. The dragon’s scales press into your shoulder blades.

He cages you there with his body, his hands planted on the wood on either side of your head. He is all heat and solid weight and panting breath. His eyes roam your face, devouring every detail. The scent of him—exertion, iron, man—fills your lungs. You lift a trembling hand to the cut on his cheek, your thumb brushing the edge of the dried blood. The gesture makes his eyes flutter closed for a heartbeat.

You tilt your face up, your lips a breath from his. “Ñuha dārilaros,” you whisper into the scant space between you.

A low sound, almost a growl, vibrates in his chest. His mouth descends, but not to yours. He bypasses your lips to press a hot, open-mouthed kiss to the corner of your jaw. Then another, lower, on the sensitive spot just beneath your ear. His lips are a brand, moving with a desperate hunger across your skin. He kisses a trail along your cheekbone, down the line of your throat, his teeth grazing the tendon there, making you gasp. He moves lower, his mouth finding the hollow of your collarbone, his tongue flicking out to taste the salt on your skin. Each kiss is a wordless sentence, a confession written in fire.

You can taste his blood from his cut lip upon your tongue. It is copper and heat and something achingly, terrifyingly intimate.

Your hand rises between you almost without thought. Your thumb brushes the split in his lower lip, gentle at first, then pressing just enough to draw another bead of red to the surface. He inhales sharply at the touch, dark eyes flaring, but he does not pull away. Instead he watches you, something reverent and unguarded flickering there.

The blood stains your skin.

Slowly, deliberately, you drag your thumb upward, leaving a thin crimson line in its wake between his brows—a trembling mimicry of the old Valyrian marriage rite, whispered of in histories and half-burned scrolls. A mark of binding, of blood answering blood.

For a heartbeat the world stills.

His breath turns unsteady. His hand comes up to cover yours where it lingers at his forehead, and for a moment you feel the shudder that runs through him.

Then he moves.

He wipes the blood from his own mouth with two fingers, gathering what remains. His gaze never leaves yours as he lifts his hand.

He draws a line between your brows. The touch is slow and careful, intimate beyond any kiss. His fingers tremble slightly as they fall away, leaving the warmth of him behind. The air between you feels charged, sacred, dangerous. Your pulse thunders in your ears. He rests his hands on the door on either side of your head, catching his breath, as you stare at each other, wholly aware that you will spend the rest of your lives together.

His hands leave the door, coming to frame your face, his thumbs stroking your temples as his mouth works its way back up your throat. He pauses, his breath fanning over your damp skin. “Ñuha dōna jēdar,” he murmurs, the Valyrian syllables rough with emotion. “Ñuha ābrazȳrys. Eman mērī mirre jorrāelatan ao.”

You whimper, the ancient words weaving a spell around your heart. You want to reply, but coherent thought is scattering under the onslaught of his mouth. You push gently at his chest, and he allows you to create a sliver of space, his eyes questioning, dark with need.

“The dirt,” you manage, your voice unsteady. “The blood…”

His gaze drops to his own tunic, then to your travel stained dress. Understanding clears some of the wildness from his eyes, replacing it with a tender focus. He nods, a slow, deliberate motion. His hands, which moments before held you with bruising intensity, now come to the laces at the back of your gown. His fingers, long and deft despite their callouses, work the knots with infinite patience. There is no tearing, no rushed urgency. This is a sacrament.

The fabric loosens. He guides the sleeves down your arms, the bodice falling forward. The cool air of the room kisses your shoulders, your upper back. He turns you gently, his hands smoothing the dress down over your hips, letting it pool around your ankles on the rug. You step out of it, feeling profoundly exposed in just your thin shift. You hear his sharp intake of breath behind you.

You turn back to face him. He is staring, his eyes drinking in the sight of you through the semi-sheer linen. Your own hands rise, shaking slightly, to the fastenings of his own tunic. You mimic his slowness, undoing the leather ties, pushing the heavy, blood smudged fabric from his shoulders. The scent of sweat, steel, and a faint trace of smoke clings to the heavy fabric. It falls with a soft thud.

His chest is revealed—broad and powerfully built, the kind shaped not in vanity but in battle. Muscle lies thick and defined beneath sun-kissed skin, each line and curve earned through years of swordplay and tourney lists. His collarbones are strong, sweeping outward into shoulders built to bear armour without complaint. Dark hair dusts his chest, thicker at the centre and trailing in a deliberate path down his sternum, tapering along the hard planes of his abdomen.

He is warm beneath your palms when you lay them against him—solid, unyielding. The slow expansion of his lungs presses into your touch. Beneath your fingertips you can feel the quiet tension coiled in him, a warrior’s readiness that never truly fades.

Scars map him like constellations.

There are pale ones first—thin white lines that catch the light when he shifts. Clean, precise marks where blades bit and were swiftly stitched. One curves just beneath his ribs, another slices diagonally across his side. They are old enough to have softened, the skin smooth though faintly raised, evidence of wounds that were sharp and decisive.

Then there is the one that draws your breath.

It mars his left shoulder, cutting from the crest of it down toward his collarbone in an angry sweep. Unlike the others, it is not pale. It is red still, a deeper hue against his skin, as though the memory of the injury lingers there. The flesh is uneven beneath it, slightly ridged—a wound that had not been clean, not easy to mend.

You trace the edge of it lightly, and he exhales through his teeth. The scar pulls subtly when he rolls that shoulder back, the movement making the muscle beneath flex and shift. It only emphasizes the strength there—the thickness of his arms, corded and powerful, veins faintly visible beneath the surface when he tightens his grip on your waist.

He is magnificent—not unmarred but marked; not pristine marble, but living stone shaped by fire and steel. The moonlight through the window paints him in silver, catching along the planes of his chest and the hard line of his abdomen, gilding the scars instead of diminishing them.

You reach for the lacings of his breeches, but he catches your wrists, bringing your palms to his lips for a soft kiss. “My turn,” he says, his voice a velvet rumble.

He guides you backward, away from the door, toward the vast canopied bed. When your legs hit the edge of the mattress, he presses down on your shoulders, urging you to sit, then to lie back. You sink into the featherbed, the dark silks cool against your bare arms. He stands at the foot of the bed, just looking. His gaze is a physical touch, travelling from your flushed face, down the column of your throat, over the peaks of your breasts pressing against the shift, down the flat plane of your stomach, to the junction of your thighs where the linen is already shadowed with your arousal.

A wave of self-consciousness washes over you. The sheer intensity of his scrutiny is overwhelming. Instinctively, you squeeze your thighs together, turning slightly on your side.

He makes a soft, chiding tut of a sound. He climbs onto the bed, kneeling between your legs. His hands are warm and firm as they settle on your knees.

“Look at me,” he commands, gently.

You force your eyes to his. The love you see there, mixed with a blazing hunger, steals the air from your lungs.

“I will one day know every curve, every freckle, every secret sigh of this body,” he says, his voice low and sure. “Why shy away from me now, when I am finally here to worship it?”

His words melt the last of your hesitation. He coaxes your legs apart, his hands sliding up from your ankles with a mesmerizing slowness. His touch is reverence itself. He pushes the hem of your shift up, over your knees, your thighs, bunching it at your waist. The cool air touches your most intimate skin, and you flinch, but his hands soothe you, stroking the inside of your thighs.

He sees you then, fully. Your sex is laid bare to him, to the fading light from the high windows. You watch his face as he looks his fill. His lips part, his eyes darken to the shade of a deep twilight storm. Your petals are already slick, glistening with your own wetness, the inner lips a shade deeper than the surrounding skin, swollen and parted slightly, revealing the glistening pink within. The neat thatch of curls at the apex is the same colour as the hair on your head. You are utterly open, utterly vulnerable.

“Gods,” he breathes, the word filled with awe. “You are a vision.”

He doesn’t wait. He lowers his head.

The first touch of his tongue is a lightning strike. It’s not a tentative flick, but a broad, languid stroke from the very bottom of your entrance, all the way up through your soaked folds to circle the tight, aching bud of your clitoris.

You cry out, a sharp, shocked sound. Your hips jerk off the bed. “Baelor!”

He hums against you, the vibration travelling straight to your core. The sensation is so intensely foreign, so shockingly intimate, a bolt of pure and undiluted pleasure mixed with a flare of embarrassment. Your hands fly to his head—not to push him away, but to clutch at his salt and peppered hair, your fingers twisting in the short strands.

He ignores your startled squeal. He moans, a low, ragged sound of pure pleasure, as if he’s tasting the finest wine. His hands slide under your thighs, then around to grip your hips, pinning you to the mattress. There is no escaping the decadent assault of his mouth. He licks you with a focused greed, exploring every fold, every hidden crevice. He laps at your entrance, tasting the essence of you, then swirls his tongue around your bud before sucking it gently into the heat of his mouth.

You arch, a broken sob tearing from your throat. The embarrassment is burned away in the forge of the pleasure he’s stoking. It builds, a coil tightening low in your belly, a pressure gathering with each expert flick and suck. He varies his rhythm—long, slow strokes that make you writhe, then quick, fluttering flicks that make you whimper. He inserts the very tip of his tongue inside you, just a shallow penetration that has you clenching around nothing.

“Please, I can’t—it’s too much…” You babble, but your body is screaming the opposite, your thighs trembling around his head.

He releases your bud with a soft pop, blowing cool air on the wet, sensitised flesh. You gasp at the contrast. “You can,” he murmurs against your skin, his breath hot. “Give it to me. Let me have it.”

He descends again, and this time, he sucks. He draws your bud into his mouth and sucks with a firm, relentless pressure, his tongue working over the tip.

It shatters you.

Your peak rips through you with a violence that is utterly new. Your back bows off the bed, your spine a tense arc. A raw, guttural wail is punched from your lips, a sound you don’t recognize as your own. Inside, your sex convulses, a series of rapid, clutching contractions that seem to originate from your very core and radiate outward. Your vision whites out at the edges. You feel a sudden, hot gush of wetness, more than you’ve ever produced, and his mouth is there to drink it, his moan of satisfaction vibrating through your entire being.

The pulses go on and on, each one a little less intense than the last, until you are a boneless, trembling wreck on the silks. You are aware of him releasing you, of him sliding up your body, but you can’t open your eyes. You float in a haze of spent sensation, your breathing ragged, your skin humming.

You feel his weight settle beside you, then over you. His breeches have been removed while you quivered in the aftermath, but doesn’t enter you, not yet. He lays his body alongside yours, one of his hands finding yours on the mattress. He interlaces your fingers, palm to palm, a connection that feels more intimate than anything that just happened. His other hand strokes your hair back from your damp forehead, his touch infinitely gentle.

Slowly, you drift back to yourself. The frantic pounding of your heart settles into a heavy, satisfied thrum. You crack open your eyes.

He is propped on an elbow, looking down at you. There is no triumph in his gaze, only a profound, awestruck love. A soft adoration that makes your newly sated body stir all over again. He smiles, a small, private thing that lights his whole face. He leans down and kisses you, softly, on your swollen lips. You can taste yourself on him, a musky, sweet flavour, and the intimacy of it sends a fresh shiver through you.

“Welcome back, ñuha dōna jēdar,” he whispers.

You lift your free hand to trace his jaw, your fingers raking through his now soaked beard.

“That was…” Your words fail you.

“The first of thousands,” he promises, his voice thick. His hips shift, and you feel the hard, hot length of him pressed against your thigh, a blatant reminder of his own unslaked need.

The sight of him, the feel of him, rekindles the fire in your blood. The fullness you felt during your peak was internal, a ghost of a sensation, and now you crave the real thing. You need him inside; the emptiness is suddenly an ache.

You turn onto your side to face him fully, your hand sliding down his chest, over the taut muscles of his stomach, to wrap your fingers around his shaft. He hisses, his eyes closing. You explore him, this part of him that is now yours. He is thick, the skin like heated velvet over solid steel. A bead of moisture glistens at the broad, flushed tip. You smear it with your thumb, feeling him jump in your grasp.

You look into his eyes, trying to find the Valyrian words he has showered upon you. “Ñuha valzȳrys,” you breathe, the accent clumsy but earnest. You kiss his chest, over his heart. “Kostilus, nyke jorrāelagon ao in…”

A shudder runs through him. “Ābrazȳrys,” he groans. He rolls you onto your back once more, coming to rest between your thighs. He looks down at where your bodies are about to join, his expression one of solemn reverence. He takes himself in hand, guiding the broad, plump head of his cock through your slickness. The sensation of him gliding through your soaked folds, gathering your wetness, makes you moan. He does it again, and again, coating himself thoroughly, the sound wet and obscene in the quiet room. Each pass teases your swollen entrance, making you clench in anticipation.

Finally, he notches himself there. The pressure is immediate, immense. You feel yourself stretching around the very tip. You gasp, your eyes flying to his.

“Slowly,” he murmurs, more to himself than to you. “Slowly, my love.”

He leans down, bracing his weight on his forearms on either side of your head, his body covering yours. He kisses you, deeply, his tongue sweeping into your mouth as he begins to push forward with his hips.

It is a gradual, inexorable invasion. The pressure builds, a sweet, burning stretch as your body yields to him. You feel every ridge, every inch of him as he sinks deeper. He pulls back slightly, just enough for your stretched opening to try to close, then presses forward again, going deeper this time. The wet, sucking sound of your body accepting him is loud in your ears. Your own juices, stirred by his earlier attentions, ease his way, but the sheer size of him is breathtaking.

“Kēpus,” you whimper against his lips, the Valyrian word for lord falling from you like a prayer.

He stills, fully seated at last. You feel impossibly full, stretched to your limit, the root of him pressed firmly against your entrance. There is no space left inside you. He is everywhere. You look up at him, your eyes wide, and see his own struggle for control. A fine sheen of sweat coats his brow, his jaw is clenched, the muscles in his neck cording with strain.

“Are you…” He starts, his voice gravelled.

“Yes,” you breathe, shifting your hips experimentally. The movement sends sparks through your nerves. “Yes. More. Please.”

He begins to move. The first thrusts are tender, measured, a slow withdrawal until just the head remains within your clutching heat, then a slow, deep return. It’s a dance, a conversation held with bodies. Each stroke touches a place deep inside you that makes you see stars. He watches your face, reading every flicker of pleasure, adjusting his angle until he finds the spot that makes you cry out. He kisses you through it, swallowing your gasps, his breath mingling with yours.

The tenderness builds its own kind of heat. The slow, loving rhythm stokes a different fire, one that burns in your chest as much as between your legs. You wrap your legs around his waist, pulling him deeper, meeting his thrusts. The sound of skin meeting skin is a soft, rhythmic slap, underscored by the wet sounds of your joining.

“Ñuha dōna ābrazȳrys,” he chants into your skin, between kisses to your throat, your shoulders. “Ñuha byka jēdar.” He speeds up, infinitesimally, the control starting to fray. “Finally. I have you. I have all of you.”

The change is subtle at first. The loving, deep strokes become more urgent. His hips snap forward with a little more force, a little less finesse. The slide of him inside you is a slick, perfect friction. Your own need coils tight again, spurred by the sheer physicality of him, by the love in his eyes, by the primal need to be claimed. You feel his stones, drawn up tight, slap against the curve of your backside with each forward drive.

You claw at his back, your mind splintering. The words spill from you, a desperate, heartfelt plea. “Fill me, kēpus, please. I want it—I want your child.” You beg, your head thrown back into the pillows. “Fill me with your seed, make me round with your babe every spring until I can carry no more…”

Your plea undoes him. A ragged groan tears from his throat. His rhythm fractures completely, devolving into a hard, desperate rutting. His thrusts become shorter, faster, a heavy rut driving into your welcoming heat. His face buries in the crook of your neck, his breath scalding hot against your skin. You feel the exact moment he loses the battle. His whole body seizes, a tremor wracking his frame. He drives deep—as deep as he can go—and holds there, buried to the hilt.

Inside you, he erupts.

The warmth is sudden. You feel the first thick, pulsing spurt deep in your womb, then another and another to follow. His release floods you, a claiming more absolute than any word. It fills you so completely that a small, wet sound escapes as a little spills out around the base of his shaft where you are still joined, trickling onto the bedsheets beneath you. His hips jerk through the last of his spend, a series of shallow, helpless spasms against you.

For a long moment, there is only the sound of your combined, ragged breathing. He collapses atop you, his full weight a welcome anchor. You wrap your arms around him, holding him as his tremors subside. He shifts slightly—just enough to keep from crushing you, but doesn’t withdraw. He stays inside, softening, a constant, warm presence.

His lips find your shoulder, then your neck, placing soft, reverent kisses on your sweat-slicked skin. His hand, which had been gripping the sheet near your head, relaxes and comes up to cradle your cheek. He turns your face toward his.

Your eyes meet in the dimming light. Mismatched into your own. No masks, no titles, no Hands or courtesies. Just Baelor and you.

“I love you,” he whispers, the Common Tongue words simple, direct, and more powerful than any High Valyrian poetry. “With everything I am. With every scar, every duty, every breath.”

Tears well in your eyes, not of sadness, but of a joy so fierce it aches. You stroke his hair, your fingers tracing the line of his ear. “And I love you, my prince. My husband. You are my home.”

He kisses you again, a slow, deep, languid kiss that tastes of salt and completion. He finally slips from your body, a slow, wet separation that makes you both sigh. He gathers you immediately, turning on his side and pulling you against him, your back to his chest. His arm snakes around your waist, his large hand splaying possessively over your lower stomach. You feel the sticky evidence of your union between your thighs, on your skin, and you have never felt more cherished.

He nuzzles the back of your neck, his breath stirring your hair.

“Will it take, do you think?” He murmurs, his voice drowsy with spent passion.

You place your hand over his, lacing your fingers together over your belly. “I hope so,” you whisper, a smile in your voice. “But if not this time, we have all the time we need to try.”

He tightens his arm around you, a wordless promise. Outside, the last of the sun dips below the walls of King’s Landing, plunging the room into soft twilight. You lie together in the quiet dark, wrapped in each other, in the new, unbreakable bond forged of sweat, blood, whispered vows, and shared, blinding pleasure. The world with its dangers and duties waits beyond the locked door. But here, in this moment, there is only this: the steady beat of his heart against your back, the warmth of his skin, and the profound, echoing peace of being exactly where you are meant to be.

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TRANSLATIONS

Ñuha byka jēdar - My little sky

Kēpus - Uncle (for a direct address)

Tala - Niece (more specifically it translates to brother’s daughter, as their is no direct word for "niece" in HV)

Kepa - Father

Ñuha dōna jēdar - My sweet sky

Se nyke daor gryves urnēbagon ñuha byka jēdar sagon ruarza - And I cannot bear to watch my little sky be hidden

Iksā ñuha vēzos se jēdar. Ñuhon mērī, dōna run - You are my sun and sky. Mine alone, sweet thing

Eman va moriot issare aōhon, ñuha jorrāelagon - I have always been yours, my love

Ñuha dārilaros - My prince (also translates to "heir" or "crown prince/princess", as this HV word is gender neutral)

Ñuha dōna jēdar. Ñuha ābrazȳrys. Eman mērī mirre jorrāelatan ao - My sweet sky. My wife. I have only ever loved you

Ñuha valzȳrys - My husband

Ñuha dōna ābrazȳrys - My sweet wife

Kostilus, nyke jorrāelagon ao in - Please, I need you inside

please let me know if I have missed out on any translations!

[fluttervoid]

✦ — JOIN ME IN DEATH ..!

summary: haunted by the memories of his dead wife who died centuries ago, the new maid was the last thing baelor targaryen expected. so was the fact that you wore her face. (9k+)

pairing: baelor targaryen x fem!reader

content: vampire!au, vampire!baelor, maid!reader, reader looks exactly like his dead wife and he is not okay about it, so much yearning, gothic horror romance, slowburn, baelors deceased wife has no name nor any looks described, feeding, blood, smut 18+ (MDNI). it's a heavy fic but i promise its worthy at the end!

You almost didn't take the job.

Not because of the rumours, though there were enough of those floating around the village to give anyone pause. Old money, they said. Strange hours. A lord who nobody had seen in years, maybe longer. A house that went through staff the way other houses went through candles. You had sat with the letter of acceptance in your hands for two full days before you packed your bag, and even then you had told yourself it was only until something better came along.

Something better hadn't come along in eight months, and you needed to eat, so here you were.

The coach broke a wheel three miles out and you walked the rest of it, which meant you arrived at the Targaryen keep with aching feet and a fine coating of road dust and absolutely no patience left for being intimidated by architecture. You looked at it coming up the drive, the towers, the iron-spiked walls, the yew trees grown so tall and dense overhead that the light inside their canopy had gone green and strange.

You lifted the iron knocker, which was shaped like a dragon's head and heavier than it had any right to be, and let it fall.

The sound it made went somewhere deep into the house and kept going.

The woman who opened the door was perhaps sixty, with a face that had aged from gracefulness into something considerably more formidable, dark eyes that missed nothing, and a ring of iron keys at her hip. She opened the door slightly and looked at you and stopped.

Not her feet. She was still standing, still holding the door. But something in her simply stopped, her expression, which had been arranged in the careful neutral of professional appraisal, went through something she couldn't quite contain, a flinch that wasn't quite a flinch, there for two seconds and then locked down behind her eyes and gone.

She looked at your collar. Then your hands. She looked anywhere but your face.

"You're the new girl," she said. Her voice gave nothing at all away.

"Yes, ma'am." You say softly, as she opens the door wider to let you inside.

"Come in. Mind the step."

The entrance hall was vast and dim, the ceiling swallowed in shadow, the walls hung with tapestries so old their colours had bled into a single dark richness. Between two of the torches on the far wall hung a portrait of a dark-haired man painted with the careful attention of someone who expected the portrait to outlast everything around it. He was looking slightly past the viewer, and there was something about the stillness of his expression, the weight behind his eyes, that made it difficult to look at directly.

Every torch in the entrance hall bent sideways at once.

All of them, the same direction, the same moment the flames nearly went out and the shadows went wild across the walls and the tapestries rippled like something had moved through the room very fast. Then the flames straightened once more and the light resettled. Everything was exactly as it had been.

You stood very still.

"The draught," said the woman behind you, not looking up from the small ledger she'd produced. "When the doors open. You'll get used to it."

The doors were closed. You had heard them close behind you.

"Yes, ma'am," you said.

Her name, she told you as she walked you through the house, was Mrs. Calla. She walked through the corridors with her chin held up, her back rigorously straight, and hands clasped in front of her. She walked purposefully, as she showed you the west quarters, where staff slept, the kitchens which were enormous, smelling of that evening’s stew. The laundry, the linen rooms, the great hall under its Holland cloth. She offered nothing the whole time, didn’t ask if you had any questions about the place, the history of its owners, or why people cursed this keep, and the history it came with it.

As she brought you to the east corridor, your footsteps slowed as she slowed her own ahead of you. She stopped at its mouth without entering. The torches were left unlit. The cold coming from it was several degrees below the rest of the house it seemed, and at the far end the darkness was very complete.

"The eastern wing is not for you," she said.

You looked down it. You couldn't see where it ended.

"Not for any of the staff. His Grace keeps his own hours and requires nothing from the household." The keys at her hip went perfectly still. "You will do your work in the rooms I've shown you. You will not come to this side of the house. You will not linger here when you're passing. Is that understood."

"Yes, ma'am." And then, because you had never quite learned to leave things alone: "Does His Grace come through the main house often?"

The pause this time was different from the others.

"His Grace is always in the house," she said. "You will likely never see him. That is how things are meant to be." She turned from the corridor. "Come. I'll show you to your room."

You turned to follow her. And from the far dark end of that passage, something happened to the silence– it changed. It was as though something at the other end of that long dark hall, in some way you couldn't name, become aware that you were there. You walked quickly after Mrs. Calla and didn't look back, ignoring the feeling of being watched.

“Why am I never to see him?” you asked, hurrying to keep pace with her brisk steps.

She did not answer. Whether she had not heard or simply did not care to respond, you could not tell. Her silence felt deliberate.

Your chamber was small and clean with a narrow bed and a window overlooking the kitchen garden. The other bed belonged to a girl named Myrtle, who you met properly the next morning over the basin.

She was pretty in a sharp-featured way, and she smiled readily and showed you the things Mrs. Calla hadn’t covered– which cupboards held the extra cleaning cloths, how Mrs. Calla liked her tea, where the back passage was which would cut ten minutes off the upstairs rounds. SHe was generous with all of it, and you thanked her for it, and she smiled wider, and the whole time something in the back of your mind sat quietly and watched the particular brightness of her attention whenever she asked you a question.

The other maids were much the same, in their different ways. Bessa kept to herself with a bluntness that wasn't quite rude but left no room for warmth either. Ellen watched you from across the room at mealtimes with the flat curiosity of someone waiting to see what you'd do wrong. The rest acknowledged you when courtesy required it and otherwise moved around you doing they're own chores. It wasn't hostile, exactly, just utterly indifferent.

You had been in worse places. You kept your head down and did your work well and told yourself it would ease in time.

Though it didn't ease. But you stopped expecting it to, which amounted to the same thing.

“What’s he like,” you asked Myrtle one evening, when you’d been there long enough that asking didn’t feel too strange. You were both in the chamber, end of the day, and the question came out lighter than it felt, as if you hadn’t been turning it over since your first night. “His Grace. Nobody ever mentions him.” 

Myrtle was brushing out her hair. She met your eyes in the small mirror above the basin, and for a moment something moved in her expression, though once it was there it was gone in an instant.

"He keeps to himself," she said.

"Yes, but what's he—"

"There's nothing to tell." Her voice had flattened in a way it hadn't before, the easy brightness gone out of it. "He's the lord of the house and he keeps to his wing and that's that." She looked back at her own reflection. "I wouldn't go asking the others either. Nobody likes questions about him."

You looked at the back of her head for a moment.

"All right, sorry," you said, not exactly knowing what you even were apologising for, but it felt awkward not too. So you dropped it. But that night you lay awake in the dark and listened to the house settle and thought about the look that had moved through Myrtle's face, quick and unguarded, before she'd shut it away. Not the expression of someone who found the question boring.

The expression of someone who found the question dangerous.

The footsteps started the third night.

You woke for no reason, the way you sometimes did, snapping up out of sleep as though your name had been called, though you would only wake up to find the room dark and quiet and Myrtle a still shape in the other bed.

Then, from directly overhead, footsteps.

Slow and perfectly even, moving from one end of the upper corridor to the other. They had the wrong quality for a person's footsteps. Too light, for one thing, they made no sound on the boards, no creak, no shift of weight. They moved the way sound moves through water, constant and unhurried, and they went to the far end of the corridor and came back, and went again, and came back again, back and forth in their tireless circuit, and you lay in the dark and listened to them with your eyes open and your heart doing something quiet and strange.

You fell asleep to the footsteps eventually. You didn't tell anyone in the morning, you hadn't had a reason to.

A week later you saw him coincidentally.

You were up in the small hours for water, and the corridor outside your room was dark, and at the far end of it near the main staircase there was a figure. Tall, dressed in dark that made him almost part of the shadow behind him. Dark hair, his jaw was unshaven, flecks of grey brushing along the sides like soft scars from time itself. He stood with a quiet strength, not the rigid stillness of someone frozen in place, but the deep calm of a man who had walked long and carried far too much for far too long.

He wasn't looking at you. His face was turned toward the stairs, or toward something above it, or toward nothing at all. He gave no sign that he knew you were there, and yet some part of you was absolutely certain that he did.

Then he moved sideways, unhurried, toward the east corridor, and rounded the corner and was gone.

You stood in the dark with your cup in your hand and your heart doing whatever it was doing, and then you got your water and went back to bed.

You didn't sleep for a long time after.

It was Myrtle who found you the following week, cheerful, arms full of fresh linen, smile already in place.

"Mrs. Calla wants the library in His Grace's wing seen to," she said. "She asked me to pass it on– only I've got my hands full this morning." A small, practised shift of the linens. "You don't mind, do you? East corridor, last door on the left. It'll be unlocked."

You looked at her. The smile. The ready, bright eyes.

You thought about the quality of her face the evening you'd asked about him. The flatness that had come down over it.

"Mrs. Calla asked specifically for me?" you said, your brows drawn together in confusion.

"She said whoever was free." A slight tilt of the head. "You're free, aren't you?"

You stood there for a moment and turned the situation over once in your mind.

Then you thought: you have no proof of anything, only a feeling, and feelings aren't grounds for refusing work.

"All right," you said.

Myrtle's smile got wider. "You're a love."

She went. You watched her go. Then you picked up your cleaning things and turned toward the east corridor and reminded yourself firmly that it was just a library, and went.

You found that the corridor was different when you were walking into it with purpose. It felt less oppressive, or so you told yourself. The darkness at the far end was just a wall and a door, the cold was just a passage that got no sun. You moved through it steadily and didn’t let yourself hesitate.

You passed the portraits on the walls without looking closely. Figures in the clothing of other centuries, some figures with pale blonde-like hair, very few had dark coloured hair. They were the same strong bones repeated across numerous different faces and different eras. Generations of them.

The library door opened easily under your hand.

You stopped in the doorway for a moment because you couldn't help it.

The room was enormous, the walls lined floor to ceiling with books whose spines had cracked and faded into something richer than their original colours. The smell of old paper and leather was thick enough to be almost a taste. Two tall windows let the pale morning light in, though it were still dark as the curtains were drawn slightly closed. There was a wingback chair angled toward the cold fireplace with a book left open on the arm, not placed there carefully, just abandoned, as though whoever had been reading it had stood up mid-thought and hadn't come back.

You stepped inside and got to work.

You were careful with everything. The books you only dusted at their edges, barely touching them. The table you cleared and wiped slowly. The rug you swept with long, gentle strokes. The room had a quality that made you want to move quietly in it, not the imposed quiet of formal rooms but something else, the specific hush of a place that has held a great deal of feeling over a very long time. You moved through it and the work was almost peaceful, and the pale light shifted and the dust moved in it, and you were bent over the far side of the table working at a watermark near the edge when the room changed.

Not a sound. Not anything you could point to. Only that the room had been empty and then it wasn't, a shift in the air or the light or something beneath both, and you straightened and turned.

He was in the doorway.

You hadn't heard anything. Not the door, not footsteps in the corridor, nothing. He was simply there, and the stillness of him had a physical weight to it, like the stillness of things that have been still for a very long time. Tall, dark-haired, unshaven, dressed in clothing that seemed to take the light from around it rather than give any back. His nose had been broken, you noticed, the bridge of it slightly off-true. His hands, loose at his sides, were large and scarred in the particular way of a man who had spent his life in armour. 

His eyes were mismatched. One a dark, earthly brown, the other a blue, and they were looking at you. They had something in them that made the breath go out of you very quietly. He looked the same from when you had saw him coincidentally days ago, though this time it didn't stop the flutter in your chest when you looked at him properly, only to find him looking directly at you.

It was the look of a man confronted with something impossible. He wasn't frightened, it was something much larger than frightened, something that had too much in it to fit into any single expression. His gaze moved over your face, following the lines of it the way you follow something known by memory so long that the memory has worn grooves, and the rawness in it, the private and completely unguarded rawness, was the most unsettling thing you’d seen since you arrived.

He didn’t breathe, at least it seemed like he didn’t. 

The silence of the library made it very clear that he didn’t breathe, and you noticed this, and the noticing of it moved through you cold and slow and you didn’t look at it too directly.

"What are you doing here."

Not a question. The shape of one, gutted out.

"I was told–"

He moved.

You didn't see it. He was in the doorway and then the next second the distance between you had halved and you were looking up at him and your mind was still trying to find the steps that had crossed that distance and couldn't. He was close enough that you had to tilt your chin to hold his eyes, and the quality of his looking had changed– had become something that pressed, that had several hundred years behind it pushing forward all at once.

"Are you her?"

The words barely had sound in them.

"Did the gods send you back."

Your mouth had gone dry. Your heart was in your throat doing something undignified. You opened your mouth to answer and found the beginning of no sentence at all, confusion swarming your head.

"Your Grace, I—"

"Answer me."

His hand came up. It wasn't a decision– you could see that it wasn't, could see the motion happening without his permission, his body acting on something older and more insistent than intention. His fingers stopped just short of your jaw. Close enough that you felt the cold coming off them, the specific cold of things that haven't been warm in a very long time.

"You—" he started, something breaking open at the back of his voice.

"Your Grace." Mrs. Calla's voice from the doorway cut through everything clean.

His hand dropped. Something moved behind his face– not a flinch, he was far too composed for flinching, but a shift inside the composure, like watching something huge quietly absorb a blow. His eyes went carefully, deliberately still.

You turned. Mrs. Calla stood in the doorway with her keys motionless at her hip, looking at you with the expression of someone whose worst suspicion has just been confirmed.

She didn't look at him. Only at you.

"She isn't permitted in this wing," she said. Perfectly even. "I'll see to it that it doesn't happen again."

She crossed the room and took your arm and steered you toward the door, and you went, because there was nothing else to do but get dragged away from him. Your cleaning equipment were still on the table, it stayed completely forgotten.

“I was sent,” you said, the words tumbling out too quickly. “One of the girls told me you asked for the library to be clean, I was merely just doing what I was told.”

Mrs. Calla turned then, slowly. Her eyes moved over you with the same measured distance she gave dirt or to hard to get rid of stains in the walls of the ancient castle. But when her gaze reached your face, it lingered too long.

"You will not come to this side of the castle again," she said. "Under any instruction, from any person in this household other than me. No reason is good enough. Do you hear me girl?"

"Yes, ma'am."

"Go."

You went.

You were thirty feet down the corridor when his voice came through the closed door, low and barely carrying, rougher than it had been in the library.

"She looks like–"

Mrs. Calla's voice over it immediately, flat and final as a door swung shut.

"It is mere coincidence, Your Grace. She is nothing but a maid."

Silence then followed, and you can just imagine him creasing his eyebrows together in thought.

You kept walking and did not stop, because stopping meant standing in the corridor with those words settling around you, nothing but a maid, mere coincidence, and thinking about the look on his face. About the way his hand had risen without him deciding to raise it. About the rawness in his voice when he'd said did the gods send you back, like a question he had stopped letting himself ask a long time ago and had asked anyway.

You walked back to the west quarters and you didn't think about any of it.

You were mostly successful.

You were still awake when the scream came.

It tore through the house without warning– high, full, with all the breath behind it a person had, and was swallowed by the walls before it could finish itself, cut off in the specific way sounds are cut off when something stops them rather than when they simply end.

You were sitting up before you'd finished being asleep.

The room came together around you. Ceiling, walls, curtain, the candelabra on the table between the beds.

Though oddly enough you found that Myrtle's bed was empty, which was unusual, as the girl loved sleep, and followed a strict bed-time routine.

Her blanket seemed to have been shoved back sharply, the pillow still dented. Her nightgown still on the chair beside the bed, which meant she hadn't just gone down the corridor. The window was dark. The house was silent.

Your stomach said what it said and you didn't argue with it.

You lit the candelabra with hands that weren't quite steady, pulled your shawl around your shoulders, and went to the door.

You stood there with your hand on the latch and you thought about Mrs. Calla's voice. You will not come to this side of the house. No reason is good enough.

Then you thought about Myrtle's nightgown on the chair and the sound that had come through the walls. Even though she had tried getting you in trouble with Mrs. Calla, you still were quite fond of her.

The keep at half past two was a different house.

Not only darker, nut the corridors also felt longer, the distances between doors stretched somehow, the shadows in the corners heavier than shadows had any right to be, as though they had been there long enough to acquire substance. You moved through the main hall with your candelabra making its small warm circle and your footsteps too loud on the stone, and you stood in the centre of it and listened.

From upstairs, on the east side, a sound followed the dead of the night again.

It wasn't a scream, it was worse than a scream. Lower, wetter, the sound a body makes past the point of screaming, when screaming has been used up and something more fundamental takes over. It hit you in the stomach and lodged there.

Then it stopped.

The silence after it was enormous.

You stood at the bottom of the staircase and you were afraid in the plain, physical way that operates below thought, in the stomach and the knees and the back of the throat. You stood in it and let it be what it was.

You climbed up the stairs without thinking straight of what you would even do when you find the source of the sound. You noticed that the upper east corridor was cold enough at night that your breath showed. You silently confirmed to yourself that you preferred being in the east corridors in the morning.

Portraits lined the walls, the same figures that all had similar features, from downstairs’ portraits, the same bones repeated across generations, the same set of the jaw in different arrangements. Your candelabra made them shift and live as you passed, and you moved through them without slowing.

Aerion, read one brass plate. The face beneath it was beautiful and wrong around the eyes, the kind of wrongness that sits in the arrangement rather than any single feature. Maekar, it looked like they were somehow related, he had a scar along his jaw, something locked-down in his expression that made him look like a man perpetually expecting the worst. And as you walked down the hall you passed others you didn't know, names that meant nothing to you, faces that shared their architecture across centuries.

You moved through them and didn't linger, following the corridor to its slight bend, and turned the corner.

Though your how body turned to cold, the candelabra nearly left your hand.

She was looking back at you.

Not at you– the painted gaze went past you, fixed on some middle distance that no longer existed. But her face. The line of her jaw. The particular shape of her mouth, the way her brows sat, the specific arrangement of features that you had looked at in the glass every single day of your life and knew the way you knew your own handwriting, the way you knew the backs of your own hands.

It was your face.

Your face. In oil paint. In a frame aged dark at the corners, on a woman dressed in clothing of another century, in a portrait that had been hanging on this wall for far longer than your grandmother's grandmother had been alive.

You stood there and your mind did something strange– it simply refused, at first. You stood there and looked and your mind said no very quietly and then said it again, and then the painting kept being what it was and the brass plate beneath it kept reading the date it read, centuries ago, so far back the number looked abstract, and your mind ran out of no's and had to let the thoughts in.

Your hand came up. You didn't decide to raise it. Your fingers moved toward the canvas as though they already knew the way, toward the painted jaw that was your jaw, the painted mouth that was your mouth, and you were thinking– if thinking was even the word for the static hum taking up residence behind your eyes, that you were losing your mind. That this was what losing your mind felt like, this specific and terrible clarity, this moment of standing in a corridor in the dark and recognising yourself in a painting made before anyone you had ever known had been born. You though to yourself that you should leave. That you should turn around right now and go back down the corridor and down the stairs and out of this house and never come back, position or no position, because whatever this was it was not something you were equipped for, it was not something any person was equipped for—

Beside her in the portrait, a man. Dark hair, dark eyes, one hand resting near hers with the care of someone who has learned not to take that nearness for granted. His expression in paint was the quietest thing in the whole corridor– not the locked-down grimness of Maekar, not the beautiful wrongness of Aerion. Just a man looking at something he loved, captured at the exact moment he forgot anyone was watching.

Your fingers nearly reached the canvas.

"I wouldn't touch that."

You spun so fast the flames nearly went out.

He was at the bend of the corridor, and the candlelight found him almost immediately. His hair was slightly disheveled, he seemed the same as when you had saw him in the library, though much different in ways you couldn't name.

His hands were at his sides. His hands, which seemed dark in the shadow, but not shadow-dark, the reddish-brown dark of something dried into the creases of his knuckles, worked into the lines of his fingers, under his nails. At the corner of his mouth, the same stain, smeared like an attempt had been made at wiping it away.

You knew what it was. The knowledge settled into your body before your mind had finished finding words for it, heavy and certain and cold, and everything in you that had any sense at all took a very large step backward inside your own chest.

"Those sounds," you said. Your voice was someone else's, thin and unsteady. "Earlier. The yelling. What–"

"It's done." Quiet. The deliberate, careful quiet of someone managing something. "It has nothing to do with you."

"Where is Myrtle." The question came straight out of you, no preamble. "Her bed is empty. I heard a woman–"

"She's alive."

The flatness of it. The indifference threaded through it, not cruelty exactly but the absence of any particular concern, and the absence was worse than cruelty would have been.

"That isn't—"

"That's all I'm going to tell you."

He stepped toward you.

One step, slow and deliberate, and you stepped back without deciding to, and then again when he took another, until your back found the wall of the corridor and your hand tightened on the candelabra until your knuckles ached. He stopped. He was close enough now that you could see his chest wasn't moving, not the stillness of a man holding his breath, the stillness of a man who had simply stopped needing to. You watched for it and it didn't come and the cold moved through you slow and deep.

"You're frightened," he said. Observing it. Not apologising for it.

"You have blood on your hands." Your voice shook on the last word and you hated it. "On your mouth. I don't know what happened in this castle tonight and you won't tell me and yes, I am frightened, I think that's a reasonable—"

"Look at me."

You looked at him instantly. You couldn't stop looking at him, that was half the problem.

"I mean really look." Something shifted in his voice, underneath the quiet of it. "Not at my hands. At me."

You looked. The mismatched eyes, the grey specks across his beard, the face of a man who had been a soldier once and carried it still in the way he stood, in the particular way his grief sat in his expression, not worn on the surface the way fresh grief is worn, but settled deep, the grief of something that has had a very long time to become part of the bone.

He reached up, slowly, and you went rigid, and he stopped. His hand suspended in the air between you, not touching you, giving you every opportunity to move or speak or refuse.

You didn't move.

He reached out slowly and pushed a loose strand of hair from your face, one careful motion, and his fingers didn't linger and his eyes didn't leave yours.

"I have been in this house," he said quietly, "since before anyone alive can remember. I have watched every person I knew and loved so dearly become dust.” His eyes were very steady as his voice calmly said it. "I stopped wanting things a long time ago. I stopped letting myself. It was the only way to get through the years without–" He stopped. Something worked in his jaw. "And then you walked through my door."

"Don't," you said softly.

"You bent every flame in this house toward you when you crossed the threshold." His voice had dropped lower, something private in it now, something that had not been said to anyone before this corridor, this dark, this moment. "I felt you arrive. In three hundred years I have never felt a person arrive, nor did i care that someone had arrived."

"Your Grace." Your voice was barely above a whisper.

"She used to stand exactly the way you were standing in the library." The words came out like they cost him something. "Her head at that angle. The way you turned when you heard me." You watched his adams apple bobble, as he fought to say the words. "I have not seen that in three hundred years and you did it without knowing, and I—" He stopped himself. Breathed in slowly. "I know you're not her. I am not a fool and I am not so far gone that I cannot tell the difference between a ghost and a living woman." His eyes moved across your face, that slow and aching attention. "But you are something. And I find I cannot make myself believe that it is nothing."

You were pressed against the wall and your heart was doing something unreasonable and you were still terrified, the blood on his hands still dark at the edges of your vision, and underneath the terror was something else entirely that you had absolutely no intention of examining.

"I'm afraid of you," you said. Plain and quiet. The only honest thing you had left was said.

Something in his face changed when you said it. Not surprise, something more like pain, the private kind, the kind a person absorbs and doesn't show except in the split second before they manage to hide it.

"I know," he said. "I know you are."

He moved closer.

You pressed harder into the wall. "Don't—"

"I am not going to hurt you." He said almost instantly, his voice dropping to almost nothing. "I need you to understand that the way you understand that you are breathing. Whatever you have heard. Whatever you think you have seen tonight." His jaw tightened. "I would sooner end three hundred more years in this house than put a single bruise on you. Do you hear me."

Not a question.

"I have hurt the only person I—" He stopped. Started again, quieter. "I could not keep her. Whatever happened, I could not keep her, and there is not a night in three centuries I haven't stood somewhere in this house and known that." His voice was the quietest thing in the corridor. "I would not survive doing it twice."

The silence was enormous.

Your heart was very loud in it.

His head bent.

Slowly, with the full awareness of what he was doing, he pressed his lips to the side of your throat. Barely any pressure– just the cool fact of his mouth against your skin, cool the way stone is cool in winter, cool the way things are that have not been warm in a very long time. You felt it land and you felt your own pulse jump against it and you heard the smallest sound leave him.

"You're here," he said against your skin. The words barely words at all. "You're here and I can hear your heart."

His jaw dragged slowly upward, the grey-stubbled roughness of it catching the soft skin beneath your ear, and the sound you made was very quiet and deeply, entirely honest.

"Please." Your voice had nothing left to steady it. "Please, you have to stop." Though you didn't want him to stop.

His teeth grazed your pulse. Gentle. So gentle. A question, not a demand, the most careful thing in the world.

You made a sound that answered it completely against your will.

He went still.

Absolutely still, his mouth resting against your pulse, and the corridor was silent and you were breathless and your hands were flat against the wall behind you and you were not pulling away, you were not pulling away, and you hated yourself for it in the most breathless and unconvincing way.

He lifted his head.

He stepped back. Letting the cold in.

He looked at you and you looked back at him and his face was barely contained- the grief and the three hundred years of it and something else pressing right up against the surface, his mismatched eyes very bright in the candlelight.

"Go," he said. Low and rough, stripped bare.

He turned toward the portrait. Toward her face. Toward your face.

"Go back to your room." His hands at his sides, very still, the dried blood dark against his skin. "Before I do something that I won't be sorry for. And you will."

And so you went.

Down the corridor and down the stairs and through the main hall and back to your room, and you didn't look back once, though you felt his gaze on you the entire length of it– unblinking, steady, like light that has been traveling so long it no longer remembers what it left behind, only that it was always meant to find you.

Myrtle's bed was still empty when you returned to your chambers, though you couldn't bring yourself to care, if she hadn't disappeared then you wouldn't have had the interaction with Baelor in the hall. But you wouldn't let yourself admit that. Gods forgive you.

You sat on the edge of yours and let your fingers graze the side of your throat. To the place where his lips had been, still feeling the scratch of his beard against your neck. Your pulse was still going too fast, still loud, still embarrassingly honest.

You told yourself what you felt was relief.

The almost was the problem.

The almost was going to be the problem for a very long time you thought to yourself.

Two weeks passed and Myrtle did not come back.

Nobody said anything about it. That was the part that sat strangest, not the absence itself but the silence around it, the way the other maids moved around the empty bed in your chamber like it was something they all privately agreed not to see.

When you had asked Mrs. Calla, and said that Myrtle appeared to be missing, she looked at you for a long moment and said that she had left to attend to a family matter and would not be returning, and the way she said it left absolutely no room for a follow-up.

So you let it close. You went back to your work. You kept your head down and did your rounds and ate your meals in the kitchen with the other girls who did not speak to you, and every night you lay in the room that was now entirely yours and stared at the ceiling and tried not to think about the east corridor.

You mostly failed.

The dreams were the worst of it. They came every few nights, never quite the same but always connected to each other somehow. It started with the corridor, the candlelight, his lips against your throat. Though in the dreams it didn’t stop where it had stopped. In the dreams his teeth found your pulse point and broke it open, and the feeling of it was not what you expected, it was not pain, it was something else entirely. You woke from those dreams with your hand pressed to the side of your neck and your heart going too fast and a feeling in your chest you refused to name. 

You thought about the way he had pushed the hair from your face. One careful motion. Like he already knew the weight of it.

You thought about I would sooner end three hundred more years in this house than put a single bruise on you, said in a voice so quiet it barely existed.

You thought about the sound he had made when his lips touched your throat– barely anything, barely a sound, the sound of a man setting something down that he had been holding for three hundred years.

You thought about all of it more than you should, and you stayed well away from the east corridor, and you told yourself that was the end of it, that it was for the best.

But it wasn't the end of it. You knew it wasn't the end of it. But you could pretend, in the daylight, while you worked, and pretending was something you were good at.

The curiosity was what undid you.

It had been building since the night you’d seen the portrait. Who was she? Not what she was to him, you knew what she was to him, it was written plainly in every line of his face in that painting. But who? What had she been like before she became a grief that had lasted three centuries and showed no sign of ending. 

You wanted to see the portrait again. You told yourself that firmly, several times over the course of the evening. Just the portrait. You were not going to the east wing because of him. You were going in spite of him, because you had a right to understand whose face you were carrying through someone else's history.

The portrait corridor received you the same way it always did– cold, still, the unlit torches casting nothing, the painted faces watching you pass. You moved through them steadily. You were getting used to them, which felt like its own kind of warning that you were spending too much time here.

You stood infront of her for a long while. Long enough that the candles burned lower. You looked at the differences this time, all the small ones. From the particular fall of her hair, the way her hands were folded, whether the line of her jaw was truly identical or only close. You still didn’t find what you were looking for. 

You looked at him beside her. The man he had been before he knew what was coming.

Then, from somewhere further down the wing, further than you had ever gone– a sound.

You went still, deja-vu haunting you.

It was low. Almost nothing. The kind of sound that a house makes settling, or pipes, or wind finding its way through old stone. You told yourself all of those things in quick succession and stood very still and listened and the sound came again, and it was not the house settling. It was a voice. Two voices, maybe, though one of them had a quality that made it difficult to be certain. The voice were low and rhythmic, almost soothing, the way you'd talk to a frightened animal. The other was a girl's voice, high and soft and fading.

You should have gone back to bed, though you followed the sound.

You walked further in the corridor than you'd ever had before, past the portraits, past the library door, into a part of the wing that had no light at all except yours. The doors here were heavy and dark and closed, and the sound was coming from behind one of them, the third on the left, a thin line of dim light at its base.

You stood outside it.

The girl's voice had stopped.

You put your hand on the door and opened it, not thinking twice of it.

The room beyond was a sitting room, or had been once. Heavy furniture pushed to the walls. A low fire in the grate throwing red light across the floor, across the dark shape of a man kneeling, across the still white arm of a girl lying beneath him, her hair fanned out across the floorboards, her face turned to the side and very, very pale.

He had his mouth at her throat.

You understood what you were looking at and what you were looking at did not stop being what it was no matter how long you stood in the doorway. The firelight caught the dark of his hair, the breadth of his shoulders, the way his hand was braced on the floor beside her, and the sound he made was very quiet and very complete, the sound of something entirely focused on what it was doing.

Your hand opened.

The candelabra hit the floor.

The sound it made was enormous in the silence, brass on stone, the clatter of it ricocheting off the walls, and the flames went out and the room was nothing but firelight, and he stopped.

He went completely still, crouched over her, and the stillness had a different quality than his usual stillness. This was the stillness of something interrupted. Of something that had been very far inside itself and had been pulled out suddenly.

He already knew it was you. You understood that even before he moved. He had known the moment the candelabra left your hand, maybe before, he had known the particular sound of your heartbeat in the corridor, had felt you standing outside the door.

He rose.

Slowly and unhurried, with the complete and terrible composure, unfolding to his full height with his back still to you, and you instinctively took a step backward into the doorframe and your hand found the wood of it and held on it. The girl on the floor did not move. Her chest rose barely, she was alive, you told yourself, her chest was moving, but she had not moved.

He turned then. The firelight hit his face and you made a sound, small and involuntary, and pressed yourself back further.

The blood was not like the night with Myrtle, not dried, not old. It was fresh, dark at his mouth, a streak along his throat where it had run. His mismatched eyes found you immediately, across the room, and the expression in them was not guilt, not shame. It was something far more complicated than either of those things, something that had you in it, specifically you, the way his expressions always had you in them now, like you had become the fixed point everything else organised itself around.

You ran.

You turned and you ran, down the dark corridor the way you'd come, your hands out in front of you because the candelabra was behind you and there was nothing but the thin far light of the portrait corridor ahead, and your feet were loud on the stone and your breath was loud and your heart was—

His hand closed around your wrist.

He hadn't made a sound. He was simply suddenly there, at the bend of the corridor, and his hand was around your wrist and your momentum swung you almost into him and you wrenched back and he let you, he let you try to pull back as if his touch burned you, but he did not let go of your wrist.

"Stop," he said.

It wasn’t a command exactly, it was something more careful than a command, something that was asking as much as it was telling. 

You pulled against his grip again. It didn't move. It was not painful, not tight, just utterly immovable, the grip of something that was not going to be dislodged by anything you could do and knew it, and was choosing, regardless, to be gentle about it.

"Look at me."

"Let go of me," you said. Your voice was barely a voice. "Let go, please, I won't — I'm not going to say anything, I swear to you I'm not going to say a word to anyone, just let me—"

"I'm not holding you because I think you'll speak." Still that quiet. Still that careful, deliberate calm. "I'm holding you because you're frightened and I need you to hear me before you go."

"I saw—" Your voice cracked. "That girl, she was—"

"Alive." Firm. "She is alive. She will wake in the morning and remember very little and she will be unharmed." A pause. "I do not kill them. I have not killed anyone in a very long time. What you saw tonight was not— I would not have you think it was what happened to Myrtle."

You stopped pulling. Not because you believed him, or not entirely, because something in the specific plainness of the way he said it landed differently than a reassurance would have.

"Then what happened to Myrtle," you said eyes squinting at him.

"Myrtle," he said carefully, "made a choice to come to that part of the house alone in the middle of the night having been told very clearly not to, and she did so because she had been paid to do so by someone who wished you harm. She encountered something in this wing that was not me and was not gentle." His voice stayed level. "I did not touch Myrtle."

You stood in the dark corridor and looked at him and your wrist was still in his hand and the firelight from the room behind you caught the blood on his face, and you felt very many things simultaneously and could not sort them into any useful order. You didn't understand what he said to you mere seconds ago, it was as if he spoke the words in a riddle.

He moved.

Slowly, giving you every opportunity to understand what was happening, he walked you backward until your back met the wall of the corridor, and he stopped there, close, one hand still around your wrist and the other braced on the stone beside your head. Not trapping you, or not only that. Something else in it. The same quality as every time he had been close to you, the specific focused quality of his attention, like the rest of the world had gone slightly out of his consideration and there was only this.

"I need this to survive." The words came out very quietly, and there was nothing performative in them, no attempt to make them easier to hear than they were. "That is the plain truth of it. I need it the way you need food and water and sleep– not as a want, as a requirement. I did not choose what I am. I have done my best to do it without causing lasting harm." His mismatched eyes were steady on yours. "I need you to understand that before you decide what I am."

You looked at his face. The blood at his jaw. The grey threading through the dark of his beard. The eyes, one darker than the other, both entirely fixed on you.

"I'm afraid of you," you said. It came out smaller than the last time you'd said it.

"I know." His thumb moved, once, across the inside of your wrist. Not quite a caress. Something more like a reflex, like his hands had their own ideas about what to do in proximity to you. "I know you are. You are also still here."

You were. You were still here, back against the wall, heart going at a pace he could certainly hear, and you were not screaming and you were not clawing at his hand and the honest reason for that, the one you were least proud of, was standing approximately twelve inches from your face looking at you like you were the only fixed point in three hundred years of motion.

"Don't,"' you said quietly.

"Don't what."

"Look at me like that."

Something shifted at the corner of his mouth. The barest thing. "I'm not certain I know how to stop."

The silence held.

Then suddenly breaking the moment of solace, "Did she send you?"

His voice had changed, dropped into a tone which was more lower and more private, the careful evenness giving way to something rawer underneath. His eyes moved over your face, aching attention that never seemed to be able to get enough of what it found there.

"Did she send you to haunt me." Not accusatory. Something far more broken than accusatory. A question asked into the dark by a man who had been asking versions of it for three hundred years and had never gotten an answer. "Because if she did, I would like to know. I would like to understand if this is a punishment or a mercy. I cannot tell, from where I am standing."

"Your Grace—" you started.

"Baelor."

The word came out quietly but with a weight behind it, a firmness. His eyes had not moved from yours.

"Call me Baelor. I have not heard my own name said by a voice that—" He stopped. "Please."

You looked at him. The blood drying at his jaw. The grey at his beard. The ruined, patient, ancient expression on his face.

"Baelor," you said softly.

Something happened in his face when you had said it. Something that had been held very tightly for a very long time loosened, just slightly, it was painful to witness, not because it was ugly but because it was so clearly involuntary, so clearly a thing that had happened to him rather than something he had chosen.

"I don't know what you're talking about," you said. "I don't know anything about why I look the way I look or what it means. I'm sorry for coming into this part of the house. I'm sorry for opening that door. I wasn't– I was going to the portrait, that was all, and I heard something and I–" You stopped. "I'm sorry. I should not have come. I won't tell anyone. I swear to you I won't tell a living soul."

He was quiet for a moment.

"You think I'm angry about the snooping."

The word snooping, in his voice, with the faintest possible inflection, not quite amusement, though it was something drier than amusement, and was unexpected that it punctured something in the tension between you.

"Aren't you?"

"No." He said it simply. "You could take up residence in this wing and I find I would not manage to mind it very much." His eyes moved over your face again, that slow and helpless inventory. "That is the problem, if you want to know. That is the thing I have been standing in this house with for two weeks. You are not supposed to be here and every time you are I find that I cannot make myself want you to leave."

Your heart was doing something your ribs felt inadequate to contain.

"Baelor–"

"You look exactly like her." He said it very quietly, like a confession. "Every angle of you. Every—" He lifted his free hand and his fingers brushed your jaw, just barely, the backs of them, a touch so light it barely registered except that it registered everywhere. "I have spent years with her face in my memory and you are standing in front of me and I cannot– my memory and my eyes cannot be reconciled and it is–" He stopped. His jaw was tight. "It is a very specific kind of madness."

You were not breathing correctly.

His thumb was still on the inside of your wrist, over your pulse, and the touch was so light and so still and so entirely focused that it felt like the loudest thing in the room.

"I look at you," he said, lower, "and I wonder."

"Wonder what," you said, barely sound.

His eyes dropped to your mouth.

"She looked the same as you." His voice was the quietest thing in the corridor. "Every feature, every—" His gaze came back up to yours slowly. 

“Yet I wonder if you taste the same.”

The words landed and stayed.

You should have said something sensible. You were aware, distantly, that a sensible thing existed to be said– some response that involved the girl in the other room, or the blood still drying at his jaw, or the very reasonable fear that had driven you out of that room and down this corridor not ten minutes ago.

You didn't find it in time.

His head bent and his mouth found yours and the first thing you tasted was the blood. Copper-dark, faint but unmistakable, spreading across your tongue before you could decide what to do about it. You made a sound against his mouth that was not dignified. He went still, pulling back a fraction, giving you every opportunity to use the space.

You closed it again.

He made a sound low in his chest when you did, something that had been held in for a very long time coming loose at a single point, and then his hand was at your jaw, tilting your face up, and he kissed you the way a man kisses something he has been trying not to want– with the full weight of the trying in it, three hundred years of restraint collapsed into this, messy and graceless and real. All tongue and the faint scrape of his teeth and his beard rough against your mouth and the copper taste of him that you could not stop chasing.

His other hand found your waist pressing you in, and you felt the full weight of him and pulled at the front of his shirt because your hands needed something to do with themselves. He let you. He let you pull and he came willingly and his thigh pressed between yours against the wall and you gasped into his mouth and he swallowed it.

"Baelor—"

"I know." His lips dragged to your jaw. "I know."

He was not rushing. That was the thing– the absolute, devastating patience of him, like he had all the time there was and intended to use it. His mouth moved down the side of your throat and you let your head fall back against the stone because there was nothing else to do with it, because the alternative was watching his face and you were not certain you could survive that right now.

His teeth grazed your pulse point.

Not breaking the skin. A question. The same question he had asked before, in this same corridor, against this same pulse, and the answer you gave now was the same one you had given then, the sharp catch of your breath, the way your fingers twisted in his shirt, your hips pressing forward against the thigh he had put between yours without entirely meaning to.

He groaned against your throat. A quiet thing, rough, and it unmade you completely.

"You don't taste the same," he said, into your neck. The words dragged warm against your skin. "You taste like yourself." His hands were at your waist, your ribs, deliberate and slow, learning the shape of you through the thin fabric of your nightgown. "I have been trying to decide if that is worse or better."

"And?" you managed, though your voice had lost any pretence of composure.

He lifted his head, and looked at you.

The firelight from the open room behind you caught the blood on his mouth, on yours, smeared now and shared, and his mismatched eyes were dark and entirely certain and fixed on your face with an attention that felt like pressure, like standing too close to a fire.

"Better," he said. Simply. "Considerably."

He kissed you again and this time it was different,  less careful, something under the patience finally surfacing, his hands moving with more intent and yours in his hair and your back arching off the wall toward him. His mouth was at your throat again and you said his name in a way that was not a sentence and he answered it, mouth open against your pulse, the faint graze of his teeth and the warmth of his breath and the specific focused quality of his attention that made you feel like the only thing in the world that existed.

"Tell me to stop," he said against your throat.

You didn't.

His hands moved and you made a sound that echoed in the corridor, a sound that had no pretence in it whatsoever, and he pressed his forehead to your temple and breathed you in and you felt the three hundred years of him in how still he went, like he was committing this to a memory that had been keeping things for centuries.

"Tell me to stop," he said again, quieter. More ragged.

"I don't want you to stop," you said. Honest. No qualifier, no apology for the honesty.

Something moved through his face that was almost painful to witness.

He pressed one long, deliberate kiss to the side of your throat, open-mouthed, his teeth just grazing the skin without breaking it, and the sound that left you was embarrassingly frank about what it was. His hands were still, suddenly, firmly, holding you rather than exploring, and he lifted his head and looked at you and his jaw was tight with the effort of something.

"Not here," he said. Low, rough, the composure in pieces. "Not in this corridor with her—" He stopped. His eyes moved briefly to the portrait behind you. Back to your face. "Not like this. Not the first time."

You looked at him. Breathing hard. The blood on both your mouths. His hands at your waist, not releasing you.

"The first time?" You repeated softly, cheekily almost.

Something in his expression shifted, the tightness giving way, fractionally, to something that was almost wry if wry could coexist with three centuries of grief.

"I am attempting," he said carefully, "to be honourable."

"How is it going?"

"Poorly," he said. "But I am attempting it."

You laughed. Small and unsteady, and he went still when you did it in that way he always went still, the ghost of her moving through the space between you, and you felt it and you let it be there and you held his gaze anyway.

You reached up and wiped the blood from the corner of his mouth with your thumb. He watched you do it, very still, his eyes on your face.

"First time," you said quietly. "So there's a second."

It was not a question.

He turned his face slightly into your hand, just barely, his jaw against your palm.

"If you'll have it," he said.

And have it you did.

[aliasares]

Kin, Ch. 2

Summerhall has always had a history of not being able to keep things contained. This was no different.

Pairing: Baelor Targaryen/Reader

Rating: Explicit (18+)

Other chapters: Ch. 1

Word Count: 5.4K (you can also read this on AO3)

CW: 18+ ONLY, dark content, explicit sexual content, afab reader, not entirely canon compliant, canon-typical violence, targcest, uncle/niece incest, implied emotional incest, second person pov, emotional/psychological abuse, power imbalance, age difference, unresolved emotional tension, introspection, isolation, scars, past child abuse, dysfunctional family dynamics, body dysmorphia, self-esteem issues, self-hatred, dissociation, trauma, shame, guilt, finger sucking, oral fixation, hand & finger kink, self-lubrication, masturb4tion, dubious morality, bodily fluids, implied orgasm denial, flashbacks, light angst

A/N: i cannot thank you guys enough for the immense love kin has received over the past two weeks <3 i hope you enjoy!

TAGS: @sacha1slytherin ; @lov3blond777 <333

Say your fortune.

The voice which rang in your ears the previous evening appeared to have embedded itself in your mind. The gravel with which it rolled against your side had been accompanied by a putrid smell, which made sense once you saw the mouth it belonged to. Most of what could be seen inside of it was black, and whatever hadn’t blackened yet was a yellow that reminded you, to your dismay, of the field outside of your chambers in Summerhall. Though, the scent was vastly different.

The woman on your left was hooded, near your height, but far from your age. A soft tan glazed her skin, visible even in the dark. You hadn’t heard her approach, likely because you had a hood drawn over your head as well. Or more so—over your face.

Don’t linger now, you are the same as I.

The words snapped you out of it.

It was not like you hadn’t seen rotten teeth in your life, but there was something else there that glued your eyes still. An anomaly beyond what could be seen on her face. Or anywhere, for that matter. Your eyes drifted up to hers, or where you figured they’d be, but the black of her hood had long preceded you. Her fingers reached towards your hair. Your feet kicked up dust behind your cloak in an attempt to evade all touch. The sole implication of what she’d said made you recoil further, turning away so not even a little could be seen from your maiming. The gesture earned you a crooked smile in return.

Many a man would pay fortunes for these silvery locks you hide away. Makes one wonder why.

A pause. You could see her gesture to the people around in your peripheral.

Others certainly do.

Your eyes had begun scanning the line above the tents, a particular shakiness in your pupils. You could walk away from this; it wasn’t like you had agreed to being her client. But it was your sixth time making a full circle around the meadow, where you had spent the entire day, engaging, as you’d call it. Or more so, evading. And there were just some things you couldn’t hide from in a crowd of people, beneath a cloak and a tight face. So your feet had planted you next to her, and something in you figured that less eye contact meant less… fortune being thrown your way.

A soft exhale left her, something close to a chuckle. Not the good kind.

Then again, you have always been… careful. Immaculate.

That seemed to land. And she didn’t need to see the queer look on your face to know it. Besides, what better timing to strike an opponent than when you’ve already worn them down? Her step shifted closer to yours, which, on the contrary, couldn’t move for the life of you. A finger flicked back a blonde strip dripping out of your hood.

Seemed quite painful, the way you got that. Does it still hurt?

A brief flash of her teeth seemed to be the only response to the way your eyes had widened. An array of screams a few tents down snapped your neck a moment later, your company gone with it. Whatever had just happened concluded in the most convenient of ways, and not for you, anyway.

What you’d seen after that made your reminiscing end abruptly, your eyes shutting close. A confinement to all—you, Aerion, and the newly-found little Aegon—had been mandatory the following day. Your father had been out for most of the day, Daeron still unaccounted for. It was clear why all of this was enforced, but it didn’t bother you any less. Aerion could do fuck all and you still had to bear some part of the consequences, despite not participating in it. Despite bearing a consequence at all times as is.

The sun had begun setting now. Your feet had acquired an ache and a callus or two after the rounds you’d made yesterday. And if Ashford Castle hadn’t seen your face much the day before, it had become sick of it now. An entire day spent within four stone walls.

A breeding ground for thoughts you did not dare revisit. A tight proximity to someone you hadn’t seen since—that being a very conscious effort on your end. The dullness in your ankles was a small price to pay for a full day outside, while he had been, to your knowledge, inside. A brief jousting event had taken place midday and the thought of him on the dais had made you terribly interested in spices—a booth on the opposite side of the jousting grounds. That was all before the atrocity of that evening.

It concerned you now how easily you grew tired. How comfortably immobile Summerhall had rendered you. Yesterday had been the most movement you’d had in years.

And it once again all came down to hiding, even here.

——

Yesterday’s cloak that had graced your chair all day now hung bent over your left forearm. It smelled of smoke mostly, and the hem of it was adorned with crusted mud droplets.

Stone echoed flat beneath you down the dim halls of Lord Ashford’s keep. Torches kept the walls from closing in on you, but the place still felt suffocating. It had already seen too much.

There wasn’t any particular spot for the maids to gather, but despite the hour, you hoped you’d run into one who could rid you of the cloak. The sensation of the muddy rim bouncing off your lower leg as you walked made your jaw lock.

“As you will, Your Grace.”

Soft footsteps neared a closed door on your left. You halted before your frame could come into it, Egg slipping through the small crack in it before closing it shut. A sense of relief washed over you both when you registered one another—you needed to see his little face more than he would ever know. Your head inched ahead towards a crevice and he followed along as you both rounded the corner.

An advantage your little brother had at his age was that he could fit in almost all elements of architecture that were not intended for little kids, or any other size man. He had found a block of stone, moved the candles on it off to the side and lifted himself to sit there, while you leaned on the opposite wall, cloak sandwiched between your crossed arms. “How’s it going in there?”

His eyes would melt the stone beneath your feet if they could. “Ser Duncan did not do any wrong,” Aegon’s voice was quiet, strained with something close to sorrow, “I don’t think uncle sees it that way.” You didn’t bother asking him where he had gone off to with this Ser Duncan. Not with a face like that on him. He had learned to hold back his tears and you didn’t like the idea of that.

Your mouth thinned out, eyes dropping to where his feet were dangling above the floor.

“I think you need to trust that he will try to make the best decision possible, even if the situation is difficult.”

“What if he doesn’t?” Aegon had replied almost immediately, eyes lifting up to meet yours, big and glossy.

Your heartbeat stuttered, a breathy “What?” leaving you.

“If uncle makes a mistake?” A sob seemed to clog his throat, and whether that sob ever made it out into the open largely depended on what you said next.

What you could do was look back at him and pray he doesn’t see in his sister a worse evil than Aerion had been to you both. A fraud who pretended to know all the answers, and still, at that moment, gave her little brother none of the ones he sought.

Wood creaked to the left, a door opening again. Aegon perked up physically, though his face continued to carry the same concern, one too heavy for his age. His feet touched the ground instantly and he walked off to where you’d both come from.

You, however, remained for a couple moments longer. At least until any and all voices ceased to carry down to you—one tiny, one bigger. Only then did you move, cloak slung over your right arm now. The door from which Aegon had come out was fully open when you reached it. A salty swipe of your tongue across your bottom lip held the confirmation you never gave your little brother moments ago. The sole proof of your fraudulent nature. How it stank of dirt and rot where you stood, and how little the grimy cloak in your arms had to do with it.

One step. Two.

A third one would be asking for a whipping.

You planted yourself right inside the frame of the door and let your eyes roam inside just enough to find him. His back loomed on the side of the desk, broad and black and pressed forward by thought and bother. What little you could see of his face all soon turned to you in a flash. His head promptly twitched away again, but that only appeared to show the slow speed of the brain when it dealt with unexpected appearances. A double take made him fully look at you.

You looked right back.

His tongue pressed lightly beneath his bottom teeth, his eyes tearing themselves away from you again with several hurried blinks.

Your cheeks hollowed out at that and whatever emotional self-preservation you had left in you made you look away to the large book spread on his desk. Not that you could see anything within. But it was less bothersome than looking at him while he actively looked where you were not.

The inside of your head boomed with possibilities of what to say, each worse than the previous. When nothing felt good enough, surrender creased your eyebrows together. A frustrated sigh marked the first sound inside this room in the last several minutes.

“Aegon’s very upset.”

His chin tipped downwards at the sound of your voice. His gaze remained there, a curtain for the rendering and reshaping that went on in his mind at all times. All the responsibility he had and how much of himself he needed to shave off to live up to it.

“He has no right to be,” Baelor replied, voice soft, despite. There was no malice. There could never be malice. “He lied to the man,” he raised himself off the edge of the desk gently, “brought him into this instead of coming to me.” A slight raise in his brows was visible even from where you stood. He didn’t near you. The least he could do was offer you his front and not his side, and that was precisely what he did.

Your insides twisted at the sole sight of him—the sensation a mixture of what had occurred yesterday, and what had occurred the day before it. If you didn’t feel bad for avoiding him the previous day, you did now. Because even if you had done your best not to see him, there was nothing else on your mind the whole time you circled the pavilions. What had happened clung onto your back like a malicious spirit, one that occasionally sneaked a long, bony hand down your underclothes, tainting you with its sinful fingers.

By the time your revelations had ordered themselves in your head, Baelor had crossed over and closed the door behind you. He didn’t stop near, didn’t look your way. His desk was where he was headed after, where duty awaited him between sandy pages. Still, you were inside the same space as all of it. All that weighed on him like stones in a satchel.

You weren’t sure if he had said anything while you had spaced out.

It made you all the more unsettled.

Standing by the door, staring at him like he owed you something. A guarantee that he didn’t hate you half as much as he hated himself. A sign that even in this mess of a tourney, he could discern between his professional frustration and what you had made him feel.

Your teeth bit into a raised patch of skin on your bottom lip and lifted it off. The taste of blood coated the tip of your tongue seconds after, but your teeth didn’t let up. Always more to dig in a wound.

“Aerion said you were there,” Baelor’s eyes were on the cloak in your hands, his head lightly tilted. He spoke like a glass overfilled, the liquid shaking at the brim.

“I heard screaming and rushed there with everyone else. He had already done all the damage by then.” The cloak in your hands rustled lightly as you put it down on an empty chair nearby.

“And the hedge knight?”

“He came shortly after.”

His nostrils flared from where he sat, fingers rubbing at his temples. They dropped to his lap promptly. “You’re telling me that you were there before Aegon.” The words were more a statement than a question. And from the way he spoke, your uncle seemed displeased—with you. Uncertainty made your feet grow cold. The ache in them threatened to return.

“I was—”

He blinked away your attempt. Rapidly.

“And you did not think to come to me.” His voice was firm, quiet as can be, but firm. You had never heard him talk like this before. “Aegon, I can understand, he is but a child,” a pause, his eyes dropping to his desk, “It doesn’t excuse him, but I can see why he didn’t know better. You, on the other hand—” Baelor looked at you then. It took you all the strength in the realm to not look away.

His chest heaved, almost imperceptibly so, but it made all the difference on a man so calm.

“You should’ve come to me.”

“I would’ve never made it in time—”

“It could’ve been prevented.” This marked the first time you had heard your uncle’s voice more elevated than the whispery thread he usually weaved. It was in no way shouting, but with the way he had inclined forward on his chair, this was no casual conversation either.

The bottom eyelid on your right twitched lightly.

Your tongue flattened against the roof of your mouth, eyes finally looking away from him. A short huff escaped you before you could think any better. The left side of your face quirked up. “I don’t think it’s fair, blaming me for this.”

Baelor’s gaze followed the turn of your face to the side.

“I’m not blaming you.” Your brows shot up at his words, half amusement, half an attempt to mask the same look you had seen on Aegon’s face minutes ago.

“Right,” you breathed out, looking at him again. Maekar had left the castle hours ago to look for Daeron, but you made sure he never stopped seeing his brother around, whether you were aware of it or not. Your brows had furrowed the same way his had done when he was cross. “Where’s Aerion?”

The slight rasp in your throat hit your uncle right where he was sat. Your voice wasn’t as quiet as his.

“I already spoke to him.”

You nodded at that, a smile appearing, one of bewilderment rather than any positive emotion. It was gone as soon as it appeared.

Something about that made his jaw flex beneath the beard. His eyes squinted your way in response. “You were out the entire day,” the emphasis on entire made it feel more personal than it should’ve. “You ought to carry some sense of responsibility, do you not?”

“Responsibility for what, exactly?” The pitch of your voice tipped so high, he swore at least one person in the vicinity of the room awoke. It was beyond late.

He glanced to the closed door behind you, his mouth parting, the sharp of his canines peeking below his upper lip, visible even from where you stood. For those who looked there, that is.

Baelor leaned back in his seat, a heavy exhale leaving him. His eyes dropped to your hands, one spread across your stomach as if you’d split in two otherwise. A ringed hand moved atop the desk, tapping softly on the surface several times, before he slowly got up. His feet swished along the wooden flooring, coming to stand on the side of the desk again.

Any movement in your direction made you seize up all over again.

“You must understand that this is part of what I do,” your uncle’s voice had quieted down again, “I need to know all perspectives on what went down.”

“You think that’s not clear to me?” It became clear, to him, however, that by the tone of your voice, he had likely wounded you without meaning to. Beyond what he had worried about and spun over in his mind again and again over the last two days.

However, what he said next was counterintuitive to his otherwise very correct assessment of the current situation. It was self-preservation at its best. He knew what all this meant, at least for him. And more than that, he knew it would’ve taken him a lot more to say it in any other scenario. You were the least likely to earn it from him.

“I advise you to keep your voice down.”

You were good. He knew that. So what he said made no sense other than self-servitude. Your father wasn’t here to hear you and if anyone else did, what business was it of theirs to question what the Hand of the King was discussing at this hour. In the solar of all places.

You were so good. You weren’t in the wrong to be angry with him. For what he’d accused you of and for what he’d done to you in your chambers that made you walk the same place like a lunatic just to avoid him.

You were good.

In that moment, in his own eyes, Baelor wasn’t. Beneath the skirt of his robe, he was straining the same way he had that night when you’d touched him. Only, this time, you hadn’t. All you did was stand up to him. Point a mirror in his face so he could look at how honorable he was being.

That was your only offense. Your only fault.

He was grateful that you couldn’t hear any of this in his head. That the only thing he could read on your face was the anger you were clutching at, to no avail.

“Did you say the same thing to Aerion? I’m sure he made a whole mess of your quiet,” you glanced around, dismissively mapping the room with your hand, “ideal.”

His words had no effect on how loud you were being.

Baelor’s feet shifted. His eyes drifted to the door behind you again, worry written all over his face. He blinked it away at the ground.

“The castle is sleeping.” A second warning.

“Fuck the castle.”

Your words made his eyes shoot right up at you. The way they had widened only came afterwards.

I said “fuck me”, not “fuck him.”

His brother’s words from days ago swam up in his mind. You were his little girl. In nature and nurture.

Two strides were all it took for him to get to you. Well, not exactly. Baelor passed you and reached for the cloak you had draped over the chair by the door. He dropped it and kicked at it until it had covered the small gap between the door and the stone floor, where shadows and light could dance for anyone on the other side.

It was only then that he got to you.

A momentum that only his frame and height could give him. A quickness you had seconds to brace yourself for, unsuccessfully.

Two fingers tapped your chin, an urging. A tap to your lower lip followed when you hadn’t given the correct response. His fingers stilled there, stretching the gummy feel of it out until your mouth parted for him. The rest of your uncle’s fingers moved to support your chin from below, or more so, keep it as he had forced it. Open for him.

One of the digits pulling at your lower lip flicked up and went inside your mouth, stopping at the roof of it. He pressed upwards with his nail, parting you wider, even though your lower lip had loosened a bit. He did it until your head tipped back enough for you to be able to see his face and hardly anything below it, unless he allowed it.

“That’s it.”

It seemed as though your form was perfect, because his finger turned with its soft part up against your palate, maintaining your mouth tipped up and open.

His eyes drifted between yours like they were the last threshold for him to cross. You stared back, breathing out against his intrusive touch. Your jaw only dropped lower. It was sign enough.

What you could not see beneath the line of vision he had enforced on you was a hand. One with several rings on it that moved swiftly beneath his robe and undid the safety of his pants. If your eyes dared drop, and they did, his finger only pushed your head backwards more, so you could see his face and only his face.

Baelor had wrapped a large, adorned hand around himself inside his underthings.

The realization only settled when your downward peripheral registered a back-and-forth motion. Nothing quick or obscene, not yet. A slow pull and sheath. A pace in its beginning stages. His eyes were on yours the entire time, and yours had nowhere else to be but on his—right back. A miniature twitch in your brows gave you away, and it made his breath hitch, but not without a slight increase in the speed of his hand.

It seemed as though your gaze was equally as intrusive as his was to you, because the twitch in his neck kept returning. He was trying not to look away from you. Baelor was wrong. Whatever shame he saw in your eyes, it was all his. Pumping himself in front of his niece, in front of her perfect little face. Maekar’s face.

And he had the nerve to lecture you about responsibility.

His eyes dropped to the raised line splitting your right cheek and you didn’t quite know what it was about the way his jaw had slackened then, but you knew that you liked it and if it were any other moment, you would have joined him with your own hand between your legs.

Now, all you could think about was the shine your cunt was accumulating by the second as you bore witness to your uncle with a fist around his cock just at the sight of you. Selfishly trying to indulge your own senses now would ruin it. He was showing himself to you—as much as his consciousness allowed him at that particular moment.

And you were keen on meeting him right where he wanted you.

Aside from the stickiness between your legs, your mouth had begun to drool on and around his finger, which had maintained its deliberate position.

Baelor’s eyes followed one particular string of saliva as it spread down the corner of your open mouth. He didn’t reach for it, only added a second finger in, tilting your head up again so you opened wider. “That’s a quiet girl.”

His voice was all breathy now, merely above a whisper. Worked up more than he had been that night, all of which you had replayed in your mind over the course of the past two days.

When you’d let something close to a whine out just after, one from him followed as he glanced down to where his hand was and stilled. A vein popped on his temple and you could only guess he was squeezing himself as not to come. Or you hoped he was doing it, more like. You reveled in it.

Using his distracted state, you made an attempt to look below what was allowed, but Baelor shot it down quick by pushing up against your palate once more. His hand had begun stroking him again, and something about seeing him in his regal attire, all done up and proper, with not even the sleeves rolled back, doing what he was doing beneath the skirt, made your head spin.

He came closer. His shoulder, or what you could catch of it, was moving rhythmically again. The expression on his face was a delicious mixture of arousal, concern, and a third thing, close to frustration. With what you’d almost made him do just now.

Baelor came to stand in front of you, face to face. You could feel the motion of his hand near your navel, but his eyes were up and on your face. On your eyes and where they might steer again, and what he would need to do to correct that. Despite your curiosity, you had kept your mouth dutifully open in the meantime. Made his cock twitch, how good you were at following along, despite him barely uttering a word of instruction.

While his index and middle fingers propped your mouth as he wanted it, his thumb and ring fingers attached to each of the two corners of your mouth and pulled them wider. When you had made a sound in response, his slick hand rounded his tip, running a finger along the slit. The two fingers attached to your mouth’s roof slid further and felt up more of the ridges along the palate. It was his way of transmitting your mouth to other places, of imagining what it would be like to feel you there, but never allowing himself more than his own hand.

His gaze flickered to your cheek then. The scar pulled across your skin, the right side of your face much tighter than the other. Your right eye didn’t close half as much as your left one, likely because of the diameter of the scar and how it had healed. It was only then that he remembered—the possibility that he might be causing you pain, even years down the line.

Baelor lined his cock against his belly, still pumping himself as he got even closer to you. His mouth aligned with your cheek, and your eyes fluttered shut. You swore your feet would betray you any moment, both from excitement and the pain you had acquired the day before. He didn’t kiss you there this time. Just breathed you in with his mouth open, his eyes on yours from the side. Watching the way your lashes trembled, the way you stood so still while he did the unforgivable.

His fingers had relaxed lightly. You took the liberty of licking up into them, before closing your lips around them fully, sucking them in.

All you heard, and felt, was a rough exhale against your face before he pulled them out of your mouth and kissed you.

It was feverish.

The pool of saliva that had almost tipped over the edge of your mouth moments ago now flowed right into his own. He tried engulfing the entirety of you in one go, his lips dragging atop yours before you felt his tongue going in. It was sloppy and slow. And impossibly sensual. You wanted to believe your uncle hadn’t kissed anyone since your aunt’s passing. It made you all the more worked up, the idea that he had lost training in a way.

Your own tongue met Baelor’s and you enclosed his bottom lip, reveling in the sensation of how soft it was, while he had begun licking up into your mouth. He didn’t hold you. His hand continued to slide up and down the length of him, pausing here and there when it got too much. The position he had assumed reminded you of the one you had when he’d first hugged you that day. It was near endearing. His back was bent forward like he could not bear to part his mouth from yours. But he also wanted to keep touching himself and as much as you had seen him do, he likely still had some sense of bashfulness that made him not want to make you feel every move of his hand.

It was also incredibly hot to have him chase your mouth despite neither one of you really evading the other.

Baelor parted from your mouth for a bit, eyes dropping to where his hand was protruding beneath the skirt of his robe. This time around, your eyes dropped as well. He was close, evidently, from the way he was stilling every few pumps, but he still went on. It was better than any show you could see out there. Your pupils were wide and dark, full of want and something close to marvel. It was your first time witnessing male pleasure, let alone it being your dear uncle Baelor showing it to you.

“…out of his fucking mind.”

Your father’s voice echoed down the passage outside, along with that of one of the stewards, both likely returning after locating Daeron.

Baelor’s eyes shot up from his cock, as wide as you’d ever seen them, and in yours, he found an equal amount of shock. Your mouth parted, eyes falling back down below his waist again. He registered all of that, brows furrowing like he couldn’t believe what either of you were doing in the face of danger, despite the simultaneous quickening of his hand.

“He must be straightened out for tomorrow.”

You looked back up to him when Maekar’s voice rang again, just outside the door, before he disappeared down the corridor, and his voice with him.

Perhaps it was the combination of adrenaline, and the risk of being found with his hand down his pants and his niece along with him. Perhaps it was the sound of his brother’s voice and your face, Maekar's face, combined. Maybe it was just too much constraint for a man his age to take any longer.

But Baelor spilled just moments later, thick, white liquid covering his long fingers and the rings with them. Or so you imagined. You could not see any of it. Your knowledge of the subject extended as far as to the books in Summerhall’s library and what they spoke of. How men who didn’t engage in intercourse for a while tended to ejaculate in greater amounts. Though, you could never be sure if that were the case with him.

You wanted to see his hand. His cock, likely still hard against him. Wanted to know how he did it to himself and what he liked.

Alas, all that was visible to you was the shine on his forehead and the way he didn’t blink once while the orgasm tore through him. The way he had to keep looking you in the eyes the entire time or else, jaw tight and mouth shut, nostrils working overtime to restore his ragged breathing. He had made no sound, and you could tell it was deliberate.

Chest still heaving, his hand came from beneath his robe and rounded his back before you could see anything. His other one reached up, hesitating before caressing both of your cheeks with his knuckles, one after the other.

He could do no more than that. The way his fingers stuck together now was evidence enough that he had overindulged.

The matter of your own pleasure remained at what he had given you tonight—a glimpse of him, the reality of seeing him pleasure himself in front of you—a man you otherwise would’ve never expected to do anything of the sort. He likely didn’t plan on it either.

Your cunt remained drenched long after you had walked out of the solar. Under the covers, you could feel it for the next hour each time you moved around.

And you didn’t let yourself anywhere near it. There was something in denying yourself what Baelor hadn’t, that felt more gratifying than any orgasm could right now. You wanted to feel the proof of what you’d seen and felt as long as you could. A reward of sorts. The occasional thought of almost being caught would reignite you twice before you dozed off, still slick between the legs.

But certainly, that wasn’t the end of it.

No amount of sleep could undo what had been done and no amount of shame could thrust you back into a before that no longer existed. Family was meant to grow together. See one another develop.

And what better person to see you through it all than your own kin?

[sem-ra]

Professional Boundaries (ModernAU!Baelor Targaryen x Reader)

Masterlist

Summary: You work remotely for a high-performing consultancy firm, and you absolutely do not have a crush on your infuriatingly charming manager. Baelor Targaryen does not flirt with employees. But he does welcome challenges. And unfortunately, you keep giving him one.

Corporate, Teams messages, even late at night, and the kind of eye contact that should come with its own HR disclaimer.

Word count: 12K (damn, i really went overboard with this haha)

Tags: 18+/MINORS DO NOT INTERACT, EXPLICIT SEXUAL CONTENT, Modern AU, power dynamics, age gap(reader is in her late 20s, or early 30, Baelor in his mid-40s)  explicit smut, masturbation (f), unprotected sex (p in v), oral sex (m and f receiving), vaginal fingering, she/her pronouns, AFAB reader, corporate lingo, flirting through Teams chat, best friend Lyonel, English is my second language

Please let me know if I’ve missed anything!

Disclaimer: I do not own the characters, setting, or story of A Knight of the Seven Kingdoms. This work is a fanfiction created for enjoyment and non-commercial purposes only.

Author’s note: Did anyone ask for this? Nope, but I just had to write it hahaha Did I go overboard? Absolutely! This started out as a drabble while I was outlining and drafting the next chapters of my other two stories, after I saw this pic of Bertie Carvel. And then whenever I tried to write the second chapters for ‘The Lady of Summerhall’ and ‘In the Shadows of the Red Keep’, my mind kept going to this, because in this house we cope with modern AUs and smut! And apologies for the corporate lingo in some places!

So, yeah, here you have it! I hope you enjoy reading this story as much as I did writing it :)

From a young age, you had always been exceptionally good at managing your crushes.

Not avoiding them, that was never realistic, but containing them. Filing them neatly into the corners of your mind where they could not and would not interfere with productivity, judgement or even dignity. You believed that such feelings could be controlled. And you were always successful in that endeavour.

Until the manager at your new job turned out to be the infuriatingly charming Baelor Targaryen.

Now, let's be clear, you did not develop a crush on him. What you felt for him was professional admiration, entirely reasonable and appropriate. Baelor was composed, precise and unnervingly competent at his job, and anyone would respect that. So what if your stomach performed an inconvenient somersault every time he said your name during a meeting? That was a perfectly normal reaction, a biological response to authority and competence. It had absolutely nothing to do with the measured cadence of his speech, or the confidence in his voice, or the way his mouth sometimes curved when you challenged him, or the fact that he was a very, very handsome man, objectively speaking.

Truly, none of this would have been an issue if Lyonel Baratheon had not insisted you apply for the job in the first place.

⚬ ⚬ ○ ⚬ ⚬

It had been a Sunday, both of you enjoying the remnants of your brunch, and you were complaining to Lyonel for what felt like the hundredth time about your current job. 

“I think you are just bored.” Lyonel said, stirring his coffee with an exaggerated calm.

“I am not bored.” You retorted, sipping your own coffee.

“Oh please!” He said. “You reorganised your team’s work process for fun.”

“Not for fun! It was inefficient.” But he didn’t hear you, continuing on.

“You built a performance tracker no one asked for.”

“Well, they use it now.”

“You are just proving my point.” He laughed. “You have been complaining about this position for months now. I think you just need a change of pace.”

At that, he opened his phone and after finding what he was looking for, he slid it across the table to you. 

“You know I am not looking for a new job.” You said.

“Just read it!” He said, exasperated. “I think that it’s just what you need! And you get to work with yours truly.”

You took the phone, ignoring how he wiggled his brows, and skimmed through the job listing: Senior Strategy Associate in a competitive consultancy, high pressure, high visibility, remote work.

“Who would I report to?”

Lyonel hesitated, just slightly. “Baelor.”

You narrowed your eyes immediately, leaning on the table. “As in Targaryen?”

“As in Targaryen.”

Baelor Targaryen was a legend in his field. Not in the loud, self-promotional way some senior executives tried to be. He did not post LinkedIn essays about leadership philosophies or speak in rehearsed soundbites. He just… won. Campaign pivots, that other firms had declared unrecoverable? He turned them around in a quarter. Clients that were impossible? He retained them. He had built a reputation on precision, strategic recalibrations so clean they felt surgical. People did not describe him as creative, they described him as dangerous.

“I think you’d like him.” Lyonel said casually.

“If I apply, I will apply for the job Lyonel. Not to date him.” 

He rolls his eyes. “That is not what I meant.”

“That is exactly what you meant.”

Lyonel grins, ignoring her remark. “Do you want to know more about him?”

“Fine.” You folded your arms, leaning on the chair. “What is he like?”

“Composed.” Lyonel mused, scratching his beard in thought. “Irritatingly controlled. Intense. He listens more than he talks, but he likes to challenge people. Push them to their maximum potential.”

He took a large sip of his coffee. “He is very much a ‘I have a five-year strategic vision with a colour coded spreadsheet’.”

“That just sounds like he is very competent.” You remarked. “He is, after all, one of the best in his field.” 

“Understatement of the year.” He smiled wide. “He also hates mediocrity. And he detests yes-men.” 

Your brow lifted. “So that made you think of me?”

“Immediately.”

You kicked him under the table, ignoring his yelp.

“Look…” He added, rubbing his hurt leg. “You need someone who pushes back. And he needs someone who won’t fold. It’s like the perfect alignment.”

You sighed, changing the topic before he could push you more. But later that night, you applied. Mostly because you refused to let Lyonel be right about you being bored. And partly because you wanted something new.

⚬ ⚬ ○ ⚬ ⚬

The first couple of weeks at your new job were spent completing the onboarding and training courses. Your first one-on-one meeting with Baelor was scheduled for a Thursday morning, for thirty minutes, the calendar invite simply reading ’Introductory alignment’. It was perfectly timed with when you completed the onboarding process, and just before the team meeting in the afternoon.

You joined the meeting a minute earlier, wanting to make a good first impression. And also to make sure that the background was blurred, and that you looked good on camera.

Baelor joined exactly at 9am sharp. You told yourself you only noticed out of habit, assessing punctuality, presentation, authority, which was normal, professional.

The crisp grey shirt fit him too well to ignore, structured and intentional, the kind of detail that suggested control rather than vanity. His hair was styled with the kind of precision that looked effortless, and his beard, neatly trimmed, threaded faintly with grey, only made him more handsome in a way that felt unfairly deliberate.

You mind catalogued all of it automatically. You reasoned with yourself that it was all because it was your first impression of him, an assessment of his leadership presence. That was all.

But then, he looked directly into the camera. The heterochromia was subtle at first, very easy to miss unless the light caught it the right way. But when it did, the difference became unmistakable, one shade deeper than the other. Not dramatic enough to feel mystic or theatrical, just enough to feel arresting. You felt your attention linger a second too long on them.

It was just nerves, you told yourself. Anyone would be a little hyperaware of a new manager, or new expectations, or new dynamics.

It had nothing to do with the way he held himself, or the steadiness of his gaze, or the small smile he gave you, or the quiet confidence in the simple act of saying: “Good morning.”

Yeah, nothing at all.

“Hello.” You smiled back at him, ignoring how clammy your hands felt.

“Welcome to the team.” He said, as if you had always been expected. “I am happy that you decided to join us. We are very much looking forward to your perspective.” 

You ignored the way your stomach involuntarily flipped the more you listened to his voice. It was just nerves, you told yourself again.

“Happy to be here.” You said to him instead.

He spent the first few minutes talking about the company, the team he led and that you would be a part of, before turning the conversation back to you.

“I would like to understand your long-term objectives.” He said, looking at his notes before returning to look at you through the camera lens. “Where do you see your skill set expanding and where do you expect friction?”

You blinked. “Friction?”

“I believe that if you are not encountering resistance…” He explained calmly. “You are not operating at your edge.”

You felt yourself lean forward slightly. “I do not mind going against the resistance if I believe, and I know, that my position is correct.”

“I assumed you wouldn’t.” There was a small pause, and the faintest shift in his expression. Approval perhaps? Or at least, you hoped it was that.

He continued by asking you about your previous projects, challenging a few of your conclusions here and there. He was neither aggressive or dismissive in his line of questioning, everything felt deliberate. When you explained why you had pushed back against a former team lead at your old job on a campaign positioning, Baelor listened without interrupting.

“And did you win?” He asked, his voice melodic, with an almost teasing lilt.

“I wasn’t trying to win.” You replied.

“That wasn’t my question.”

You held his gaze through the camera, feeling goosebumps trailing from your neck to your spine.

“Yes.” You answered.

The silence that came over you was measured, not awkward at all.

“Good.” He finally said, making a note of something. “You will not find much tolerance for mediocrity here.” 

“I do not do mediocre work.” You replied evenly, not feeling the need to diplomatically dress it as something else.

There was another pause, and his eyes found yours again.

“Good.” He repeated, quieter this time.

The call ended after precisely thirty minutes, and you sat there a moment longer than necessary. There had been nothing inappropriate, flirtatious or personal. It was just a manager meeting and assessing a new hire. And yet, the way he had said ’Good’ the second time, something lingered.

Before you could give it some more thought, your Teams chat pinged with a new message.

Lyonel: So?

You stared at the message before replying back.

You: He seems competent at his job Lyonel: That’s not what I meant

You ignored him.

Your first proper team meeting began at exactly 1:00 pm later that day. Baelor appeared on the screen without much fanfare, sharply on time again with the same crisp grey shirt, dark hair perfectly in place.

“Good afternoon all.” He said, voice even, measured. “Before we begin, I’d like to introduce our new team member.”

Your name sounded different in his voice, a faint blush covering your cheeks.

“She joins with a competitive strategy background. I expect she will challenge us in useful ways.”

There was that word, challenge. And he didn’t look at his notes when he said it. He looked directly into the camera, at you. There was something… assessing in his gaze. You straightened instinctively, smiling.

“Welcome!” A few voices chimed in and you recognised Lyonel’s voice easily, your eyes naturally searching for him in the grid.

The meeting moved on after, the team going through updates efficiently. When there was silence, it was always intentional, when someone rambled or went off course, Baelor redirected them with surgical politeness.

During the entire meeting, you remained aware of him. You could not deny it, you thought, he was a handsome man. Not in the effortless or careless way of someone who relied on it. His attractiveness and charm were precise, composed posture and controlled expressions combined. He was the kind of man who was aware of the space he occupied and how he chose to fill it carefully.

You pushed these thoughts to the back of your mind, focusing on the meeting. They were irrelevant, you told yourself, entirely irrelevant.

⚬ ⚬ ○ ⚬ ⚬

By the fifth week, you understood the rhythm of the team. What Baelor expected from the team was structure, clear outcomes, arguments backed by numbers and not just instinct. He also preferred to give his opinion last, which usually meant that everyone adjusted to his opinions. 

The meeting that morning was about repositioning a major client campaign. You listened to everyone’s thoughts, took notes. The keywords being thrown out were risk mitigation, conservative rollout, with at least two team members echoed variations of the same caution.

You felt everything was played safe. Too safe actually.

Baelor hummed, before summarising. “So, we’re talking about phased release and controlled messaging. No deviation from the tested framework at all?”

A chorus of yeses followed. Pursing your lips, you decided you had to speak up. And just before you did, there was a small tightening in your chest. The friction he had asked about in your first one-on-one came to mind.

“If we do that…” You said evenly. “We will lose momentum by Q4.”

The silence that followed your statement was heavy. Baelor’s eyes shifted to yours immediately, no hint of annoyance, just curiosity.

“Explain.”

Inhaling deeply, you noted how he did not move on the defensive, or dismissive stance. He took your opinion as a challenge, not defiance, just as Lyonel had told you.

And speak of the devil, a Teams message flitted at the top right corner from him.

Lyonel:  Go get them :)

Pulling your presentation slides, because of course you had prepared one just in case, you shared your screen. 

“As you can see from the data gathered from the last two quarters, it shows response spikes during higher-variance content cycles.” You explained. “Instead of adapting, we are proposing to react to this volatility by ignoring it.”

A few people shifted in their chairs. One of the analysts frowned slightly. Baelor didn’t interrupt you and leaned back on his chair.

“If we slow the release…” You continued. “We signal uncertainty. And our competitors will exploit that.”

After that, you canceled your share screen, letting the argument stand. Baelor tilted his head, looking at her directly. You noticed Lyonel’s eye brows had shot up, and you knew it was not because of your words. But you decided not to focus on that, waiting for Baelor to say something.

“So, you are suggesting an accelerated rollout?” He asked, his eyes intensely on you.

“Yes.” Your pulse echoed in your ears. You convinced yourself it was the nerves that you went against Baelor and the team. And not because he was looking at you like… that. Well maybe it was both. Thank God your voice was steady at least.

“What you propose comes with higher exposure risk.”

“But with higher engagement probability.” You were quick to reply.

“Are you comfortable carrying that risk?” He asked after a moment.

Your eyes narrowed. The phrasing was deliberate. You knew what was coming.

“Yes.” You finally answered.

The room suddenly felt warmer. Heat spread through your neck.

“It’s a substantial gamble.” Baelor said calmly.

“It’s a strategic decision.” You replied, just as calm.

His captivating eyes did not leave your gaze. He studied you in that same assessing way from your first one-on-one, except this time there was something sharper behind it.

Your phone started vibrating with messages, but your focus was solely on him.

“You are proposing deviation from established protocol in your fifth week.” He said.

“I am proposing growth.”

A ripple moved through the team, subtle, but there. 

After a fraction of a second, his mouth curved. Not in a smile, not quite that. Approval maybe?

Baelor looked around the virtual room. “Any thoughts?”

There were a few cautious ones, a few predictable ones. He listened, nodded and took notes, deliberating. Then he looked back at the camera, at you.

“We will pilot y/n’s model,” he said, his word final. “Limited segment, full metrics tracking. If performance dips below baseline, we revert immediately.” 

He did not break eye contact as he added: “You’ll lead it.”

Your pulse jumped again, and you felt light headed. “Understood.” 

The meeting moved on from that, but something had shifted. It was not just that he had sided with you, but it was the way he had done so. Public and deliberate, trusting you with something high-visibility instead of barring you from it.

After the call ended, you stood up to go to the kitchen, to grab some water. You finally checked your phone, not surprised that it was Lyonel who spammed you with messages.

Lyonel: Didnt take you too long to challenge him in a full team meeting Oh my god! He did the thing!! The posture!!! You: What are you talking about?!

His replies came in very quick succession.

Lyonel: The posture The lean The head tilt That is his I am intrigued pose I’ve not seen him do that in more than a year You telling me you did not notice that??

Of course you had noticed, but you did not think it was a big deal at first. But now…

You: You are making this bigger than it is. He was just being a competent leader Lyonel: Yeah just… a competent leader

You were about to reply to him when you heard Outlook ping with a meeting invite from your manager.

Follow-up: Campaign Acceleration Pilot in 15 minutes. When you joined, he was already there.

“You anticipated resistance.” He said without preamble. “You came prepared.”

“Yes.”

“You enjoyed causing friction.” It wasn’t an accusation, instead Baelor said it more as a conclusion.

You held his gaze. “I enjoy showing my competence.”

He had that almost-smile again. “Be careful.” He said.

“Of what?” You asked, slightly confused. Wasn’t he the one who always pushed for this?

“Of winning too quickly.”

Your stomach dropped. “And why is that?” 

“Because,” He said, before taking a deep breath. “It changes the way people look at you.”

The silence that followed was different from the others. It was thicker, no longer just professional, no longer safe, no longer hidden behind corporate talk.

“And how do you look at me?” You asked before you could stop yourself.

He did not answer immediately, but he didn’t deflect, didn’t change the topic.

“With interest.” He said at last.

That could be a professional answer. After all, he could just be interested in your career progression, as a manager would and should be. But it was ambiguous enough, for the voice inside your head to go that dark and dangerous route, to that dark corner of your mind.

Truly, you thought, it was undeniably intentional.

“Execute the pilot. Send projections by Thursday.” He said abruptly and the call ended.

Leaning back in your chair, you just sat there, your heart steady, but your mind not. Because that had not been flirting. But it also was.

⚬ ⚬ ○ ⚬ ⚬

The second time you contradicted him, it wasn’t planned.

The discussion was about reallocating the budget after early pilot results, your pilot results, and Baelor proposes tightening the expansion until the next quarterly review. You impulsively challenged his cautious and controlled plan to delay the expansion, interrupting him and arguing that hesitation would kill momentum. He methodically dissected your argument, asking you to outline worst case scenarios and reputational risks. In the end, he did not concede to your answers, did not endorse them. He set a condition, send him with a full risk breakdown by the end of the week, making approval contingent on proof. 

You were searching for some reports for his ask, when a private Teams message came in nine minutes later after the call. Your eyes widened, as you opened the chat window. He had never reached out by direct message before, he preferred emails and meeting invites to chats.

Baelor: Well argued. But you should not have interrupted me.

Your ears thrummed, still staring at the screen, longer than necessary. You started typing a reply, deleted it, then typed it again.

You: Thank you. And I am sorry for doing that  But was I wrong?

You would not let it go so easily. Three dots appeared immediately, disappeared and then reappeared.

Baelor: No. But you challenged me in front of the room.

And there it was, the line that wasn’t quite a reprimand, but it was something sharper than just feedback. You pursed your lips as you wrote your reply, hitting enter before you could regret it.

You: The numbers needed to be clarified. Baelor: You could have waited.

Your jaw tightened as you typed your reply.

You: And just let the assumption stand?

A longer pause from him this time. The three dots appeared almost instantly, stopped, reappeared…

Baelor: You assume I would not have corrected it. You: Respectfully, I wasn’t trying to undermine you

The typing bubble appeared almost instantly, stopped and returned.

Baelor: I know. If you were, I would have handled it differently.

Your stomach flipped at that. It was not a threat, but a simple fact. You typed before you lost your nerve.

You: I just don’t wait when I’m certain Baelor: I’ve noticed.

Your pulse stuttered, but you did not get a chance to compose yourself when the next messages hit the chat.

Baelor: It is one of the reasons I keep you in the room. Next time, let me finish the sentence. And then challenge me.

No don’t, just later.

And that was it. You closed the chat window, pushing yourself to forget what he wrote and focus on the reports. He did not reach out to you for the rest of the day, no emails or meeting invites. But the boundary felt less like a wall now, and more like a line drawn in chalk.

⚬ ⚬ ○ ⚬ ⚬

It was close to midnight, and you were still up finishing that risk breakdown he asked for. You still had a day before the deadline was up, but you had gotten so honed in on it that you just had to finish it. You emailed it to Baelor and went to take a shower.

When you came back to your home office to grab something, you saw a notification on Teams.

Baelor: I expected you to send that tomorrow.

You stared at the timestamp, 11:47 p.m., and he was still online.

You: You asked for it at the end of the week

A pause, then:

Baelor: Most people interpret that differently. You: Well, I am not most people

The reply came faster than it should at that hour.

Baelor: No. You are not.

The three dots appeared again, lingering longer this time. Your breath was caught in your throat. What was he writing?

Baelor: Your downside modeling is thorough. In section 3, you assumed a 12% volatility ceiling. Why not 15?

You exhaled slowly. Of course he read the report already, and of course the message was going to be about that. And not something else, something that would make your stomach flutter.

You: At 15% the narrative collapses regardless of pacing

It took him three seconds to reply.

Baelor: Good. You think ahead.

It was not praise exactly, but it was recognition. You closed your laptop five minutes later, your mind still very much awake.

⚬ ⚬ ○ ⚬ ⚬

The observation came up casually. You were halfway through your brunch, at your usual table, Lyonel watching you with an expression that meant that he had already decided on something and was waiting for you to catch up to it.

“Do you know what’s worse than the posture?” He asked.

You groaned, embarrassed. Every time Baelor did the posture during a call, which lately it had been every time you spoke, Lyonel would ping your phone.

“Do you have to mention it every time we hang out?” You complained. “And there is nothing worse than the posture.” 

“Oh there is.” He leans over the table. “He lowers his voice when he talks to you.”

You look at him for a second, before laughing loudly. “No, he doesn’t!"

“Yes, he does!” Lyonel leaned back in his chair, folding his arms. “Everytime he addresses the team, it’s one tone, controlled. The standard issue.” He tilts his head a bit. “When he talks to you though? It drops.”

“You are just teasing me now.” You tried to deflect.

“I am not.” He retorted, offended at the insinuation. 

“You are projecting.”

“I am observing.”

You shook your head, taking a sip of your coffee. 

“You really didn’t notice?”

“No.” You hated how you sounded, so uncertain.

Lyonel did not push you further. He just smiled, his eyes teasing. “Oh you’ll hear it now.”

Rolling your eyes, you replied. “I will not.”

But when you had to review a recorded meeting, a routine procedure for you, you remembered his words when Baelor’s voice filled your headset. Even through them, his voice carried that steady, measured tone: composed, deliberate, never rushed. Then, you reached the segment where you had challenged his position about reallocating the expansion metrics. He had been mid-sentence when you interjected. You noted how he turned towards his camera, his mismatched eyes serious.

“Explain.”

Your stomach tightened, rewinding the recording a bit, playing it again. When he was addressing the team, his voice was firm and with clear authority. When you interjected and he spoke to you… It was definitely lower.

You straightened in your chair, skipping ahead and finding another moment, later in the meeting, when you clarified a data point.

“I understand your position.”

There it was again, lower, quieter. Intimate was not the right word, but it was closer than anything else.

Your pulse drummed in your ears. You skipped ahead again, this time to a moment where he addressed another analyst.

“Duncan, walk us through the variance.”

Baelor’s voice was a higher register, firmer. But when he addressed you?

“Y/n, what would you adjust?”

There it was again, the subtle drop, as if the air changed when he spoke to you. You paused the video, staring at the frozen frame of his face.

You are imagining this, you told yourself. You just want to hear it, because you are walking that tight rope between professional admiration and unrelenting crush. It’s nothing! You’d never notice it if it wasn’t for Lyonel. 

Blushing furiously, you shot the culprit a text.

You: I hate you Lyonel: ?? Oh you heard it, didn’t you?

When you left him on read, he texts again.

Oh my god. You did hear it!!!

You typed back slowly, biting your lip.

It’s probably unintentional.

Immediate reply.

You know that’s worse, right?

You sighed sharply. That was the problem, because if it was intentional, it would be a choice. But if it’s unconscious…

You played one last segment, not knowing what you were hoping to achieve.

“Good…” Baelor said in response to your analysis. Again lower, measured.

Stopping the recording, you pressed your hands to your eyes, trying to ignore the warmth that spread below your stomach. There was no denying it, when Baelor spoke to you, the room disappeared from his voice. 

This moved beyond theoretical now, as voice was harder to control, harder to fake, harder to justify. And when the next meeting came, you knew exactly what you were going to listen for.

⚬ ⚬ ○ ⚬ ⚬

You were in bed, phone dimmed, doom scrolling mindlessly before sleep when the notification appeared.

Baelor: Are you awake?

There was absolutely no reason why he should be asking that. And you really should not reply, it was after work afterall. But your fingers did not listen, as they opened the chat and replied.

You: Yes

The typing indicator appeared immediately.

Baelor: Revising the expansion deck. Quick question. If we reframe the pilot as controlled disruption, does that weaken your original argument?

You propped yourself up against your pillows.

You: Only if you position disruption as instability. Call it evolution instead?

Three dots appeared, disappeared and reappeared.

Baelor: You are good at this.

Honestly, his compliments were starting to feel addictive. But this one settled differently. Maybe it was the hour, the quiet, suspended feeling of being awake when the rest of the world was not. Or maybe it was the way the conversation had narrowed, stripped of meetings and agendas and witnesses. The chat window felt smaller somehow, more intimate, like the world outside it did not exist, leaving only the two of you and the glow of the screen.

You: That’s why you hired me

This time the pause stretched, long enough that you wondered if you overstepped.

Then:

Baelor: I hired you because you are capable.

Followed by:

I keep you because you are exceptional.

Your pulse quickened in a way that has nothing to do with career validation. There was pride there, sharp and bright, but threaded through it is something more dangerous. Because the “I hired you” was business, the “I keep you” was not.

Baelor: And because I like watching you work.

Heat climbed up your neck before you could stop it. Because liking your work was one thing, liking watching you do it was something else entirely.

The chat went still after that, and you sighed softly. You set your phone down on your stomach, the quiet pressing in around you.

His last three messages replayed in your mind, not as text, but in his voice. Especially the way it dipped when he spoke to you, subtle, controlled, as it always happened.

You closed your eyes and saw him, his expressions, immediately. The steady eye contact through the camera, the slight tilt of his head when you made a point he had not anticipated, the almost-smile he gave you whenever you challenged him and refused to back down.

You turned onto your side in a huff. This… crush was getting ridiculous. He was your manager, your boss. You had prided yourself on the way you managed your crushes, on your ability to control your emotions, on never blurring the lines.

But…

I keep you because you are exceptional.

You shifted under the sheets, restless, annoyed at yourself, annoyed at him. At the way his last messages burrowed in your mind, under your skin, making your blood sing. Your thought about his gaze, the way lately lingered a second too long in meetings. The way his voice lowered whenever he spoke to you, the way he said your name.

You really should not think about that, you should not imagine how your name would sound like on his lips if you were alone in a room. But your body did not care, heat pooling down between your legs, heavy and impossible to ignore.

You breathed slowly, deeply, trying to think about anything else. And failed spectacularly at it, because your mind betrayed you immediately, conjuring an image of Baelor leaning closer than necessary, one hand braced on the desk beside you, close enough that you would feel his warm breath upon your neck, close enough that his voice would not need to carry, close enough that his quiet, measure control would slip, just slightly.

This moved beyond professional admiration, or seeking to impress him, or earning his approval, or enjoying the intellectual sparring. This was about want. And you wanted him, plain and simple. Not just hypothetically, not just intellectually, but physically as well. That thought alone sent another wave of heat through you, and you pressed your thighs together instinctively. 

“Fucking unbelievable…” You whispered into the dark. But you did not stop thinking about him. 

You imagined the way he would look if that composure fractured, if he stopped choosing restraint, giving way to raw need. Your breath quickened, your hand sliding down the covers, past the waistband of your panties, fingers ghosting over your swollen clit.

You moved slowly at first, testing the edges of your fantasy, dipping into the wetness between your thighs before pressing two fingers firmly against your clit. You imagined his strong hand gripping your waist, thumb tracing your lower lip. You envisioned the way he would say your name when no one else was there to hear it, the way his lips would feel on yours, crashing against yours in a hungry kiss. The way his fingers would feel in you, stretching you, filling you.

Your back arched slightly before you could stop it, a curse falling from your lips. You slid one finger inside your tight heat, pretending that it was his claiming you. 

You bit your lip to stifle any sound threatening to escape, as if Baelor could somehow hear you through the silence of the night, sense your secret through the darkness. As if he would know exactly what he had done by ending the conversation the way he did.

You imagined him being there in the room with you, eyes locked on you, guiding you through your pleasure, voice low with approval, praising you. 

“That’s it…” His voice echoed in your mind. “Just like that…”

The thought of his controlled gaze snapping, hunger flaring, as he saw the power he had over you, how completely you yielded to him, sent a sharp pulse through your body.

You did not take long to reach your peak after that, your hips bucking into your palm, your fingers moving faster, your soft whines and gasps filling the room, as waves of your orgasm crashed over you, your body shuddering in release.

Spent, you laid there, chest heaving and breath uneven, staring at the ceiling, reality slowly seeping in.

This obsession was going to be a problem, you thought. Because tomorrow, during the calls, you knew exactly what your body would remember, how it would react, when Baelor says your name.

⚬ ⚬ ○ ⚬ ⚬

You could not pinpoint exactly when it started. Or perhaps you could, but you did not want to admit it. After that night, after lying in the dark with his voice in your head and your body still warm from it, something switched.

Sweatshirts and simple blouses disappeared from the rotation, substituted with tailored blouses and shirts that fit just a little too well. Your hair was styled every morning now, nice and neat. A subtle, but deliberate lip colour was on you before any meeting, not bold enough to invite comment, just deliberate enough to matter.

This is normal, you told yourself, you had always been polished. Baelor set a standard for the team, in work and presentation so you had to reflect that. That was professionalism.

It had nothing to do with how aware you were of the exact moment he joined a call. Nothing to do with the way his eyes lingered on you a second longer than necessary whenever you spoke. Nothing to do with the quiet drop in his voice whenever he said your name. And it certainly had nothing to do with the memory of how easily your body responded to the thought of him.

It was just about standards, you told yourself, about presence. You were allowed to look good. 

Adjusting the collar of your shirt, you clicked on the one-on-one meeting link. Today, you had decided to wear a dark red shirt, the fabric having a subtle sheen, and the open collar framing your neck and collarbones. A delicate gold necklace rested lightly against your skin.

You felt good, you knew you looked good. And you tried, very hard, to ignore the somersaults your stomach did while you waited for Baelor to join the call.

By the time he did, you had composed yourself somewhat, greeting him with a smile. He returned it, greeting you in a polite and professional manner. Then his gaze shifted, first to the shirt, then the curve of your neck, lingering just enough to make you conscious of every detail, that smile tugging at the corner of his mouth.

Your breath hitched, and you barely heard him for the first moments of the call. But still, you told yourself that it was not anything more than him noticing your shirt.

You wore it again the following week. It was an ordinary Tuesday, and it was the usual team during the call. Yet, there was no reason for your pulse to spike but it did. You told yourself it was because the quarter was intensifying, and leadership visibility was increasing. Of course it was not about Baelor, not him.

When the meeting began, it was the usual routine, team updates, forecast adjustments. You tried your best to focus. Lyonel pinged you on Teams instead of your phone, because he knew you would ignore his texts. 

Lyonel:  Why are you dressed like ur about to negotiate a merger?

You still ignored him, keeping your attention on the meeting. Midway through the meeting, someone asked you to walk through the revised projections. As you spoke, you noticed Baelor’s eyes dip, from your face, to your collar, and then back again. Subtle, barely noticeable if you had not been watching him. Your mind screamed: You imagined it, it was nothing, you are projecting…

When you shifted slightly, he looked away. He had stopped, it had been a conscious decision.

When the meeting ended, your Teams pinged. You assumed it was Lyonel again, but your breath caught when you saw the sender.

Baelor:  Your revised projections were well structured.

You were about to reply, fingers hovering over the keyboard, when another message followed.

Baelor:  The dark red suits you.

Your heart lept. For a second you stared at the screen, re-read the message. The words seemed harmless, casual even. But your body reacted before your brain could compose something rational.

You had told yourself it was not about him, you had told yourself you just liked looking put together. But he had noticed. Not the updates, not the projection, not the work. You. And he wanted you to know that he had noticed.

You swallowed and forced your fingers to move.

You: Thank you

A perfectly simple and neutral response, but your heart was anything but. Now, it’s no longer just the posture, or just the tone of his voice when he addressed you directly. It was a pattern.

The late night messages, lingering eye contact, compliments that stepped half an inch beyond necessary. 

Patterns were harder to deny, harder to dismiss as coincidence, harder to explain away as nerves, harder to pretend you were not participating. You leaned back in your chair slowly, heat spreading low and steady.

You could not lie to yourself anymore. He was watching… And you did not mind, because you wanted him to.

⚬ ⚬ ○ ⚬ ⚬

It was 12:03am when your phone lit up. You knew who it was, who had texted, before you even looked.

Baelor: You were right about scaling.

Your stomach flipped, that quiet, familiar drop that had nothing to do with work or analytics. You stared at the phone screen for a moment, before quickly replying.

You: Metrics came in? Baelor: Yes.

A moment passed.

Baelor: You were confident before the numbers justified it.

Your throat tightened slightly. You could almost hear the way he would say it, calm, measured, faintly impressed.

You: That is part of the job sometimes

A longer pause this time, you watched the typing indicator appear, disappear, return.

Baelor: No. That is instinct. And you trust yours.

The words settled low and warm in your chest. He was not just validating the outcome, he was validating you. Silence stretched between you, charged and deliberate.

You: And you? Do you trust yours, always?

After a long pause, the three dots flickered, then vanished.

Baelor: I trust my instinct most of the time. But sometimes it is influenced… by certain details.

Your pulse jumped and your fingers twitched.

You: Details? Baelor: The kind that are not on a slide deck. The kind that cannot be measured.

You bit the inside of your cheek, as you replied. The screen suddenly felt closer, more intimate.

You: I am not sure what you mean Baelor: You do.

Your chest tightened, your mind flailing. He’s joking, you thought. He is being professional, just joking. Keep it clean. Be calm. Focus on slides.

You: Care to clarify? Baelor: I could. But… I think you like discovering some things on your own.

You did not know whether to type or just stare at the words, letting them sink in. Instead you replied:

You: And here I thought we were talking about work Baelor: We are. Mostly. But… work is not just what happens on a slide deck. You have noticed, have you not?

This whole conversation had nothing to do with the pilot, nothing to do with projections or ceilings or controlled disruption anymore. It was unmistakable now, and you both knew it.

You: I am not sure what to say… Baelor: Say nothing. Just think.

You blinked at the screen, his words lingering, teasing, deliberate.

Baelor: Confidence is rare. But restraint is rarer.

The digital glow of the screen felt like the only light in the world. Your pulse was racing now, the heat in your chest warm and insistent. This was about him, and you, and the way a single line of text could make your heart trip over itself.

You: It is late, you should sleep Baelor: I could say the same to you. But I suspect neither of us will.

You forced your fingers to move.

You: Goodnight, Baelor. The reply came less than a minute later. Baelor: Goodnight, Y/n.

The next morning, Lyonel did not even bother to greet you when he sent over two images by text. It was a screenshot of your Teams’ status from last night. And another one of Baelor’s.

You: You tracking my status?  His too?! Lyonel: I’m observing patterns You: It was about work Lyonel: At midnight? You: YES Lyonel: Mhmm, midnight chats with your manager

You did not respond. Because that was the problem, it was about work, and slides, and projections and risk ceilings. But it was also:

I hired you because you are capable.

I keep you because you are exceptional.

And because I like watching you work.

And those were not comments about slides, they never were.

You: It was not like that

You did not immediately send it, because you are not sure what part you were defending. The content of the conversation from the night before, or the way you felt breathless every time when his typing bubble appeared. Or the way your body reacted before the rational part of your mind could. Or the way midnight had started to feel like something to anticipate.

But you knew one thing with uncomfortable clarity, that if tonight your screen lights up again, you would look, and you would respond.

⚬ ⚬ ○ ⚬ ⚬

This meeting was not part of the routine Baelor and you had. It was sudden, adhoc, framed as performance alignment but not you knew it was not just that. He had been acting very strict in the previous two meetings, brows furrowed. He had been short with other team members, and definitely had acted differently towards you.

You joined first this time, and he entered a minute later.

“I’ve reviewed your revised projections.” Baelor jumped straight into the main topic of the call, no pleasantries. “You expanded the risk ceiling again.”

“I refined it.” You retorted.

“You escalated it.”

“Because the data supported it.”

His jaw shifted slightly. “You are comfortable increasing exposure without full predictive modeling.”

“I am comfortable recognizing momentum.” Your voice had risen an octave, and you were breathing hard. 

Baelor leaned forward, forearms resting on his desk. “You interrupt me in meetings.”

“I thought you liked a challenge.”

“You assume I would allow it every single time.”

“And here I assumed you respected competence.”

His mismatched eyes sharpened, the air tight. “You enjoy testing me.” He concluded.

“And you enjoy it when I do.” You were not going to let him forget it.

That stopped him in his tracks. Not because your assessment was wrong, but because you said it outloud. He studied you, not anymore as a manager evaluating an employee, but as something else, something more deliberate.

“You are very confident in everything you do.” He tilted his head when he said that.

“Of course.” You all but huffed. “I have to be.”

“And you think that gives you liberty to do as you please?”

“I think my results so far do.”

He looked long and hard at you, before saying quietly. “You think this is about results?”

“What is it about then?” You ask, ignoring the way your hands got clammy and your voice trembled at the end.

Baelor’s nose flared, as he leaned towards the camera more. 

“You push me in public.” His voice was dangerously low, sending goosebumps down your spine. “You challenge every controlled decision I make.”

“And you respond every time.” You said.

His gaze to your lips, lingering. The silence that enveloped you was no longer part of the corporate world, it was charged, dense, warm. 

“If the circumstances were different-” He began, his mismatched eyes back to yours.

Your heart slammed against your ribs. But he stopped, he did not continue. Yet you did not let him get away with that.

“Different how?”

Baelor exhaled slowly, like a man choosing restraint by force. 

“You are ambitious.” He said instead. “And ambition can blur lines.”

“That is not what you were going to say.” You almost whined.

His jaw tightened. “You are pushing it. You are testing boundaries now.”

“I was not aware you set them!”

Your room felt smaller, as if he was in there with you.

“Careful…” He murmured.

“Or what?”

He held your gaze steady now, another deep and slow exhale coming from him.

“Or I stop being patient.”

“You think I want you to be patient?” The words left you before you could stop them.

He inhaled sharply at that, something raw flickering in his expression. “No, I think you do not.”

And that was the closest either of you had come to naming it. His eyes softened for a fraction of a second, and you could see it clearly, the confession forming. The line neither of you would be unable to uncross.

But then the steel returned, and he stepped back, the distance rebuilt.

“Send me the finalised projections by six.” He said, voice restored to the executive calm. The shift was surgical.

When the call ended moments later, your hands were not steady at all. Because you finally had the confirmation that both of you were in the same boat. And that he wanted to say it. But he was choosing not to, for now.

⚬ ⚬ ○ ⚬ ⚬

The following Monday, an HR email went out, inviting everyone for the yearly party, to celebrate the company achieving excellence in the past year. It was mandatory attendance for leadership and selected teams to attend in person, one of them being yours.

You had no chance to digest the fact that you had to be there in person, when Lyonel called you immediately.

“No.” He said.

“Hello to you too.” You sighed. “It’s just a company event.“

“It is not just a company event.” He corrected you. “It’s weeks of unresolved tension, in a physical location.”

You tried to sound unaffected. “Everything will be professional.”

“Oh really?” He asked dryly.

Before you could reply, you heard the Teams notification sound. “I have to go.” You told him, opening the chat.

Baelor: You will be attending.

Not a question, but not an order either. Just confirmation.

You: Of course Baelor: Good.

It landed differently now, because the both of you knew that remote made it manageable, remote made it abstract. The party was going to be anything but that.

Lyonel texted you, because he knew why you had ended the call.

Lyonel: If he lowers his voice in person, I am going to file a report to HR

His message almost made you laugh, almost. But something electric hummed under your skin.

For the first time since this what you had considered to be a harmless crush, there will be no screen, no digital barrier.

You would share the air. And the unfinished sentence would hang between you.

⚬ ⚬ ○ ⚬ ⚬

The party was louder than you expected. It had been organised in the restaurant on the highest floor of a glitzy hotel a town over, with rooms paid for you and anyone who travelled to attend.

It felt weird seeing people in close proximity, no screens to buffer anything, no one frame in small rectangles.

You were wearing a silk dress in your favourite colour, a cocktail in your hand as you spoke to Duncan. You told yourself you would not look for him. But you still noticed when he appeared.

You saw him before he saw you. He was across the room, wearing a black suit, tailored to perfection, a black turtleneck beneath it. His hair was styled masterfully, and his beard trimmed.

He was real, so very real, real height, real presence. Not framed in a rectangle, not compressed by speakers.

Your stomach flipped in ways it had never done before, your throat seizing.

You looked away, telling yourself that you will not seek him out, even if it meant fighting against every fiber of your being. You continued to talk to Duncan, or at least tried to.

But you did not have to wait long, because within fifteen minutes you felt it. The subtle gravitational pull of someone entering your orbit. And when you turned, he was there, close. Not touching, not close to cause any scandal, but close enough.

He greeted everyone, saying your name last, his voice lower, sending shivers across your spine.

“Baelor.” You said in return, trying to keep yourself under control.

“You made it.”

“So did you.” 

Something akin to amusement crossed his features. Before any of you could speak, colleagues passed around you, someone clapping Baelor on the shoulder, someone complimenting you on your pilot results.

When your eyes returned to him, a blush crept in when you saw that he had been looking at you. You stood like that for a long moment, the space between you felt separate from the rest of the room.

“So this is you outside of Teams?” He said, sipping his whiskey.

You laughed, a little breathless. “Disappointed?”

“Not even a little.”

The words settled between you, heavier than they should’ve been. He held your gaze, unflinching, like he was curious how long you would let him.

“I did not realize you were this tall.” You said before you could stop yourself.

His eyebrows lifted slightly. “You did not realize a lot of things.” His voice had a teasing lilt.

You took a sip of your drink, trying to be calm. 

“Hmm.” He made a sound after noticing your drink.

“What?”

“That’s unexpected.” He replied.

“What is?”

“That.” He pointed at your drink with his. You took a long sip, not moving your eyes from his.

“You disapprove?” You smiled a little.

His gaze drifted slowly from your eyes, to the glass and back. The corner of his mouth lifted into that almost smile.

“Not at all.”

It didn't feel like you were talking about the drink anymore.

Across the room, Lyonel was openly staring at you like he was watching a live disaster unfold. You ignored him, or at least tried to. 

You were pulled into different conversations, separated. But the pattern from remote work and calls continued here too.

Every time you moved across the room, you became aware of him again. Every time he laughed at something someone else said, his eyes found yours afterward.

After a while, you slipped out to the terrace for air. Your body felt warm, your pulse unsteady, your mind hazy from being in his presence, from having to be in control. Exhaling, you press yourself against the railing, staring at the city skyline. 

You heard soft footsteps trailing behind you, stopping just a little away.

“You have been avoiding me.” Baelor said softly.

You did not turn to face him, cheeks ablaze. “I was networking." 

He stepped beside you, not touching, but close enough to feel the heat emanating from him.

“Is that what you are calling it?” He asked, amused. “Well, you have been networking in the opposite direction of wherever I was.”

You fully turned towards him, a small smile on your lips. “You are imagining patterns.”

“Am I now?” He asked, voice husky.

The city lights flickered in the silence that came over you. There was no audience here, no grid of face, no corporate pretense to hide behind. Baelor stepped closer, his mismatched eyes gleaming under the light, his expression unreadable.

“I think I’ve been patient long enough, don’t you think?” He asked quietly, his gaze dropping to your mouth.

Your breath faltered, realising what he was saying. You realized that he was close, close enough that if you leaned forward just slightly more…

Baelor said your name, his voice sounding like a plea and a warning.

You did not give yourself time to think. You stepped forward, closed the distance and pressed your lips firmly upon his.

The kiss was not chaste, nor careful, nor tentative, weeks of restraint collapsed into it. Baelor’s hand slid behind your neck, pulling you closer, groaning in your mouth. Your hands grabbed onto the lapel of his suit, whimpering when his mouth pressed harder against yours.

His other hand gripped your waist, anchoring you there as if he had already decided you were not going anywhere. The kiss deepened, his tongue prodding your mouth, and your thoughts scattered, your knees threatening to follow.

You felt the shift in him, how his control thinned at the edges, his composure gone, replaced by hunger. He pulled back, his forehead resting against yours, his hand resting at the base of your neck, as if letting you go required a decision he did not want to make. 

“This…” He said, his breath ghosting against your lips, voice rougher than you had ever heard it. “This is exactly what I was trying to prevent.”

“Do you regret it?” You hated how your voice trembled, scared at his answer.

“No…” He groaned. “And I am done pretending I do not want it.”

He captured your lips in another kiss, which was slower, deeper than before. When he pulled away again, his eyes were almost black with hunger. His thumb brushed along your jaw, your lips tingling and swollen.

“Come with me.” He said, the words hovering between a plea and a command. Your heart was pounding so hard, so loud, that you were sure he could feel it, hear it. You looked at him, feeling the restraint that was barely holding, the choice sitting between you.

“Yes…” 

He studied you for one final moment, making sure he heard you right. Then nodded.

You left separately. He went out first, smoothing his hair and suit as he walked away. You followed five minutes later, ignoring the way Lyonel’s eyes widened from across the room, ignoring your phone vibrating as you neared the elevators.

You were certain your heart was about to leap from its cage as the elevator doors closed, his hand wrapping around yours. The air was tense, and thick, but he did not kiss you, he did not touch you otherwise. 

When you reached his floor, he all but dragged you across the corridors. And the moment the hotel room door was shut, he was on you.

This kiss was nothing like the ones before. It was deeper, hungrier, stripped of any restraints. Weeks of charged glances, sharp exchanges unravelled in seconds. He backed you against the door with a soft thud, his hands on your waist. You pushed the jacket off of his shoulders, moaning as his tongue touched yours,before he dove it deeper into your mouth.

He bit your lower lip, spurring you to grab his shoulders, pushing him towards the bed. And he let you.

“Off…” You mewled into the kiss, breaking it so you could remove his turtleneck before diving for his lips again, like a drowned man would dive for air.

His hand cupped your breast, squeezing it firmly, sending a jolt straight to your core.  You moaned low, trailing hot, open-mouth kisses along his jaw and neck, tasting the salt of his skin. With a gentle shove, you pushed him to sit on the bed. He watched you with a dark, measured focus as you stepped between his knees. You continued kissing him, lips brushing against his collarbone, continuing your descent until you reached his belt, nipping at the skin above it.

“You do not have to do this.” He said, his voice in a gravely rumble. One hand rose, cupping your face as your fingers worked his belt. His thumb dragged across your lip in a slow and deliberate stroke that made your pulse race. You parted your lips and captured the thumb between them, giving it a soft, teasing, lick before sucking it. He hissed sharply at that.

“I want to…” You said, releasing his thumb with a soft pop. “I really do…”

With his help, you pulled his pants and boxers down, shoving them aside. His cock sprang up, standing proud against his stomach, precum leaking at the tip. The sight of it, the size of it, made your mouth water. 

Wrapping your fingers around the base, you dragged your tongue along him before guiding him past your lips, his taste blooming on your tongue. The effect you had on him was immediate. His composure frayed just enough to show you the edge of it. His hand moved to your hair, not forcing, not controlling, just holding, steady and warm against the back of your head. His thumb stroked in silent encouragement.

You continued, taking your time with him, savouring every inch, your head bobbing in a steady rhythm. Heat spread through you like wildfire at his sounds, thighs clenching instinctively instinctively. 

“That’s it…” He moaned, his head tipping back in a groan. “Take me deeper…”

You obeyed without hesitation, took him deeper until the head bumped the back of your throat, your jaw stretched. A muffled moan escaped, the sound humming along his length. He made a sound that was something between a moan and a sigh, fingers curling in your hair as he pushed you down, jaw tightening, hips shifting instinctively before he reins himself in. You felt the shift in him, the way control becomes effort.

“You look very good on your knees…” He murmurs, voice rougher now. “Have you been thinking about this?”

You did not answer directly, letting the swirl of your tongue and the hollow of your cheeks do the talking instead. The sound he made this time is lower, less controlled, his fingers flexing in your hair, not pushing, just grounding himself. Just before he lost the last of his restraint, he stopped you, tugging you off with a firm pull, his cock slipping free from your lips with a slick pop.

A glistening strand of saliva stretched between your swollen mouth and his cock. You looked up at him, eyes hazy, utterly drunk on him, his voice, his taste, his presence consuming every sense.

Using the grip on your hair as leverage, Baelor pulled you up into a kiss that was almost punishing in its intensity, his mouth claiming, his breath uneven, all teeth and tongue as he devoured you. He broke away to pull your dress off, a satisfied sigh escaping him at the sight of your dark red lingerie.

His hands cupped your breasts possessively, thumbs brushing over the lace. He dipped his head, pressing hot kisses at the top of your breasts, before he shoved the fabric down, freeing on to the cool air. You back arched as he captured your nipple between his fingers, pinching with just enough pressure to draw a gasp from your throat, rolling the hardened peak until it ached deliciously.

One of your hands slid against his hair, tugging him closer, a silent demand for more. Baelor chuckled against your skin, kissing up your neck before slotting his lips against yours.

His other hand slid down your body, deliberate and unhurried, tracing the dip of your waist, the flare of your hips, until it found the heat between your thighs. His palm pressed flat against you, moaning as he felt the damp fabric. With a swift motion, he hooked his fingers into the waistband and dragged them down, you kicked them off eagerly. His middle finger delved between your thighs, parting you slowly. You moaned into his mouth as his finger coated itself in your arousal. He exhaled slowly against you, his finger circling your entrance teasingly, clearly pleased by what he felt.

Looking at you through heavy-lidded eyes, he said. “Sit on my face.”

That was not a request. It was an invitation laced with command.

Your breath got caught in your throat, not from shock, but from the certainty in his tone. He was not asking out of impulse, he was testing whether you would yield the way you had been daring him all this time. You whined softly as he removed his finger and hand from you, and he leaned back on the bed, mismatched eyes never leaving yours. Desire burned in them, tempered by a deliberate patience.

“Come here.” He adds, softer now, but still having that authoritative edge. You hesitated just long enough to let him see the effect he had on you.

Then you moved. 

His hands found your hips, guiding you with a firm grip. His thumbs dug into your skin, as if etching the texture of it into his memory. The shift in power is immediate, you were above him, but he was the one in control.

“Trust me.” He murmured against your skin, his breath warm as he pressed a kiss on your inner thigh.

You did.

When he pulled you down toward him, his focus was absolute. His hands splayed across your thighs, holding you in place,  while his tongue delved between your folds, parting them with a slow, deliberate stroke. A loud moan escaped your throat, your hand moving to his head, your fingers threading into his hair for support. You had thought about his tongue on you so many times over sleepless nights, but you were never prepared for it to be this divine. His lips sealed around your clit, sucking gently before his tongue flicked against it, making you see stars. 

“Oh fuck, Baelor…” Your cries filled the room, your hips grinding instinctively against his mouth.

“That’s it.” His voice was muffled, the words vibrating against your slick skin. “You don't have to hold back with me.”

With one hand he grabbed your hip ferociously, pinning you in place, exactly where he wanted, while his other hand explored and teased your folds. As his tongue circled your clit with relentless precision, his fingers prodded your entrance, one finger slipping in easily at your wetness, the second following soon after. He crooked them upward, syncing the motion with the pressure of his tongue, hitting that sensitive spot deep within. You could not help but moan brazenly. Every reaction you gave him, each gasp, each shudder, drew a quiet, satisfied sound from his chest, low, approving.

And when your fingers tightened in his hair, when your breathing turned uneven and broken, he tightened his grip more, ensuring you stayed locked against his mouth.

“That is it…” He said again, moaning. “Let me feel you…”

The control in his voice is what undid you. Your hips jerked wildly, chasing your release, his name chanted like a fervent prayer, your walls clamping hard around his thrusting fingers. He did not relent, lapping and sucking through your release, his own groans mingling with yours.

Finally, you clutched his hair, tugging him away from your throbbing core, your hips lifting away from his glistening mouth. He allowed you to move, but not before dragging his tongue along your folds one final time, pressing one last deliberate kiss to your inner thigh, slow and possessive.

Baelor sat up immediately after, pulling you into his lap. Your bodies pressed together seamlessly, skin to skin, heat to heat, his hard cock pressing insistently between your thighs. His hands trailed up your spine, then back down again, deliberate and claiming. Your eyes met his, heavy, with lingering heat, before capturing his mouth in a hungry kiss, tasting yourself on his tongue.

“You did so well.” He whispered. 

“I need more Baelor… please…” You begged, rolling your hips, seeking his length.

“Tell me what you need.” He ordered gently, his lips grazing your neck, tongue tracing the junction where it met your shoulder, sucking it gently.

“I… fuck me… Baelor, please…” You moaned, pressing your lips on his forehead in desperation.

He shifted, rolling you onto your back beneath him, reclaiming the upper hand without breaking eye contact. He settled between your thighs, his hard cock nudging against your entrance, coating itself in your wetness.

“Still confident?” He asked, trailing his mouth along your jawline.

You nodded, breathless.

“Say it.”

“Yes.”

His control finally fractured, and he claimed your mouth in a fierce kiss, like he was done waiting. Like every restrained meeting, every late-night message, every almost-confession had been building to this exact moment. And when he entered you, it was deliberate and unhurried at first, inch by inch until he buried himself fully inside you. He watched the way your face contorted in pleasure, a low groan escaping him as your walls stretched around his length.

His forehead rested against yours as he began to thrust, one arm braced beside your head. He set the rhythm, deliberate, unyielding strokes that built gradually, his hips snapping against yours with increasing force. You could not help but arch up to meet his thrusts, cries spilling out as you clutched his shoulders, the pace intensifying with each collision.

The sound of his hips meeting yours filled the room, his grunts accompanying your moans and whimpers like a raw harmony. His fingers dug into your hip hard and tight, and you were sure it would bruise.

“You are doing so well…” Baelor praised you, his breath fanning your lips. “You are taking me so well… like you were made for me…”

Words failed you, your mind blanking as the thick drag of him filled and withdrew from your core. Baelor chuckled lightly, very pleased with your reaction, your surrender, moaning deeply when your walls clenched tight and warm around him in response. He angled his hips sharper, driving deeper to strike that hidden spot. His free hand slipped down to rub your clit in firm, circling motions that matched his deep thrusts.

Heat built steadily through you, coiling tighter with every deliberate movement, every whisper, every brush of his touch. Your breath hitched and your heart raced, a rhythm that seemed to echo his own. 

“Baelor…” You gasped his name, teetering on the edge of desperation and release.

Climax ripped through you, intense and all-consuming, your body quaking as you clenched around him, leaving you trembling and breathless. 

“You are so perfect…” Baelor said, riding the wave of your release with you. “So flawless…”

His composure frayed as he pursued his own peak, his control slipping. He moaned at the tightness around him, his breath turning uneven, his rhythm faltering into erratic thrusts.

A few more powerful strokes and he came, spilling deep inside of you, your name a ragged chant on his lips. You stayed like that for a while, his body heavy and comforting atop yours, trying to catch your breath. He kissed you tenderly then, his thumb brushing your cheek, murmuring and praising you.He pulled back just enough to brush his fingers lightly over your skin, tracing the heat still lingering along your arms and shoulders. 

His voice was low, grounding you when he asked. “Are you okay?” 

When you nodded, he let a small, almost imperceptible smile touch his lips and pressed a gentle kiss to your temple. The two of you drew in sharp breaths, and you moaned lowly when he eased his cock out from you, the sudden emptiness making your inner walls flutter desperately around nothing.

His fingers combed through your hair soothingly, before going to the bathroom to fetch a towel and run it under warm water. Returning, Baelor knelt beside you, dabbing the towel gently against your sensitive folds, every movement filled with deliberate care, a contrast to the fire and intensity you had just shared. He finally joined you under the covers, his heat enveloping you, your bodies shifting together, limbs entwining, tangled in sheets that would not stay in place. 

He kept you close, hand resting possessively at your hip, thumb tracing absent patterns against your skin.

“You are,” He said quietly into your hair. “Exceptionally dangerous.”

You smiled against his chest, pressing a kiss just above his heart. “You started it.”

A low hum of disagreement passed through him.

“No.” He replied. “You did.”

The sheets are half twisted around your legs, the air thick and warm and still humming with what you had just done. Baelor stayed exactly where he was, not rolling away, or reaching for his phone. You lifted your head slightly to look at him. His hair was a mess, his beard still slick with your release, his breathing finally steadying. But his eyes, when they met yours, are clear, focused.

“You are being very quiet.” You whispered.

“I’m thinking.”

“Hmm… dangerous.” You snuggled close to him.

A faint chuckle escaped him. “Yes.”

There was no awkwardness, no embarrassment between you. Just a charged stillness that felt almost more intimate than what came before.

He moved slightly, rolling you more fully against him. His palm slid up your back, slow and deliberate, like he’s mapping you by touch alone.

“You surprised me…” He said quietly.

“Well, that was the intention.”

His gaze sharpened, his fingers grasping your chin, making you look at him. “No. Not that.” His thumb traced your lower lip. “You trusted me.”

The weight of that landed heavier than anything else tonight.

You did not joke this time. “I would not have come upstairs if I did not.”

Something changed in his expression then, almost imperceptible. His dominance softened, not disappearing, just settling into something steadier. He brushed his nose lightly against your temple.

“You should know…” He said, voice low, “If we continue this… I will not be casual about it.”

Your pulse jumped, eyes widening a little. “That sounds suspiciously like a warning.”

“It is.”

He leaned back just enough to look at you fully.

“I do not divide my attention easily. And I don’t compete.”

“Are you staking a claim?” You asked, raising an eyebrow. 

“Yes.”

The honesty in which he said it stole your breath. He kissed you then, slower, less urgent, like a seal pressed onto something neither of you intended to undo.

You slid your hand slowly up his chest, feeling the steady beat of his heart under your palm.

“So you are not going to pretend this did not happen on Monday, are you?” You asked quietly.

A soft, amused exhale escaped him, his eyes warm. “Absolutely not.”

Your blood sang at that, at that confirmation, not knowing how much you needed it. 

“You do realize…” You said lightly, though your voice was not entirely steady. “This makes work infinitely more complicated.”

“I am aware.”

“And?”

“And I have decided it is worth it.”

The certainty in that answer was almost more dangerous than his touch had been. Then his hand tightened slightly at your waist.

“Come here.” He murmured.

You were already pressed against him, but he pulled you closer anyway, tucking you beneath his chin. His fingers threaded lazily through your hair now.

For a long moment, neither of you speaks.

Outside, somewhere below, the city moves on like nothing monumental just shifted. But it had, because this was not just physical. This was weeks of tension turned real.

“You should sleep.” He said softly.

“Is that an order?”

“It is care.”

You huffed indignant, but did not stop the wide smile that spread on your lips.

And when the lights finally dimmed and the room fell quiet, he kept one hand anchored at your waist like he expected you to stay.

You had already decided that you would.

⚬ ⚬ ○ ⚬ ⚬

Come Monday morning, you were back in neat squares, screens aligned, everything professional and composed.

Baelor’s voice cut through the grid, low as he called your name. “Your thoughts?”

You held his gaze through the camera, long enough to feel the pull. You smiled at the subtle shift that came in as he leaned in and tilted his head.

“I think we should be bold.”

A faint smirk flickered at the corner of his mouth. “I agree.”

As the meeting moved on to other topics, a notification blinked in the corner of your screen. Your stomach fluttered, every nerve alert, you could not ignore the way he seemed to unravel you with just a message.

Baelor: We need to discuss boundaries at work. You: We do

Three dots lingered, before the message came.

Baelor: Dinner tonight? You: Yes, I’d love that

You stared at the chat, smiling widely. Across the grid, you did not notice Lyonel’s camera had fully turned on, and he was watching you like he could read everything before you even typed it, a big grin on his face.

You did not need to pretend it was professional anymore.

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[lovebugism]

✶ — START OVER AGAIN !

summary: baelor loses his memory after the trial of seven. you help him remember everything he forgot, and he falls in love with you again everyday. (2.2k)

pairing: baelor targaryen / fem!reader

contents: fix it fic because i'm a widow in mourning, established relationship, implied age gap, angst, hurt/comfort, a bunch of fluff, canon divergence cw for spoilers for s1ep5, mentions of blood and gore

“Have I told you that I love you today?”

You think you’ve heard that question uttered more in the span of a year than any other — save for, maybe, “How is Valarr?” and “Any word from my brother?” The Trial of Seven had not been kind to any of the knights on that field that day, but least of all to yours. Baelor had suffered a blow to the back of the helm from Maeker’s mace that had not killed him, but had perhaps made him wish that he were dead.

He spent nearly thirty days in a coma, surviving only on honey and water, which had turned him skin and bone. And then, when he finally woke, he spent several more days caught in a cycle of excruciating pain and deep sleep from the milk of the poppy he was prescribed. It took him a week thereafter to make sense of his surroundings in the Ashford Infirmary, and then another to put a name to your face — the woman who had not left his bedside since he woke, whose beauty he could only vaguely recognize.

His head injury had stripped him of his memories, the maesters said, and had prevented him from making any new ones. When the wound finally healed and the medicine no longer clouded his awareness, Baelor could remember only this: the birth of his son, the childhood he shared with his younger brother, and the love he had for you.

He could hardly use his limbs for a time, let alone rule the Seven Kingdoms, so Maeker relieved his brother of his duties. You did not return to your home in King’s Landing when you left Ashford. Instead, you made a new one in Sunspear, on a piece of far-off farmland, not far from where his mother grew up in Dorne. The warmth and the golden yellow sun brought the color back to his face, and made Baelor nostalgic for a time he can no longer remember now.

“Tell me again,” the man says with his head tipped back. He looks up at you as you stand beside his chair, raking the thin blade down the length of his neck. Heavy soap cakes onto the white cloth around his neck, along with the fine scruff you shave off his pale skin.

“I’ve already told you a thousand times,” you laugh. “I think I could recite the Dance of the Dragons better than most maesters at this point.”

The sound of your pretty giggling mixes with that of the rolling waves from the bright blue sea about a furlong away from the porch, and the distant bleating of goats being shooed away from the grape vineyard a mile or so up the hill. Everything smells like sea salt and citrus and soap and you.

Baelor knows he has a hard time remembering his home back in King’s Landing, but he can’t understand why he should care about anything other than the one he shares with you now.

“I should know it, I know…” Baelor hums in a soft voice that borders on melancholic.

He smiles softly to himself as his mismatched eyes dart over your face — memorizing the shape of your eyes, the curve of your nose, and the dip in your cupid’s bow — lest the merciless Gods take that memory away from him, too. He fights back a shiver while you sculpt his greying beard with a blade in your expert hand, taking care of him like you were made to do it, though he struggles to recall why.

“I just… I don’t understand why I don’t remember…” he confesses quietly.

You smile through the pang of grief in your chest and repeat the reminder you have to tell him most days. “Because you got hurt, my love. And the maester said it affected your memory.”

“I got hurt…” Baelor echoes, not quite a question, but not quite a firm statement either.

“Yes,” you nod, smoothing the edge of the blade down the milky white tendons of his neck. “You were defending Ser Duncan’s honor at the trial of seven—”

“Trial of seven?” the older man repeats with a furrow to his dark brows. “There hasn’t been one of those in over a century.”

The statement of fact makes you perk.

“Do you remember the last one?” you press gently, parting from his side to wash the blade off in the basin of warm water beside you.

Baelor thinks for a moment, blue-brown irises tracing the fluffy white clouds overhead as he fights to recall a deeply held memory. “It was… Maegor the Cruel,” he mumbles some moments later. “And Ser Damon from House Morrigen— They called him Damon the Devout…”

He turns his head to the side to flash you a soft smile, full of a quiet pride, as if he himself were shocked at having remembered. You meet his sheepish grin with a wider beam, “Aye, my love,” you nod as you return to his side, brushing the blade gently over his jaw. “That’s right.”

“Pity…” he hums in a monotone, folding his weathered hands across his stomach. “I can remember every battle recorded in the citadel, but not my own…”

“Ser Duncan was accused of hurting Aerion, your nephew, who opted for a trial of seven rather than trial by combat,” you explain, soft eyes flitting from Baelor’s attentive gaze to where you shape the edges of his grey beard. “And when Ser Duncan couldn’t find seven fighters, you stood up for him — like a true knight. And you fought gallantly—”

Baelor makes a noise of protest in the back of his throat.

“A gallant knight would remember fighting gallantly,” he protests. “And I can hardly remember what happened to me.”

“Perhaps it’s best you don’t,” you murmur warmly and turn away. “It was a brutal fight.”

Baelor’s soft voice follows you the short distance to the basin, where you drop the blade and rinse your hands. “Tell me,” he says with an audible, sad sort of smile in his voice. “Of how gallantly I fought, I mean.”

Even with your back facing him, he can see the way your shoulders tense, as if his simple plea were enough to take your breath away.

You swallow hard and fight back the distant nausea that always accompanies the bitter memories. You blink, and suddenly the basin of soapy water becomes bright crimson blood — and the white suds turn into the shards of Baelor’s bone and brain, from where you’d cradled his wound to keep his skull from falling apart. Even now, the scent of a salty sea and dewy grass washes away to the stench of copper you’d smelled in the barracks that day — when the blood was so thick in the air you could taste it.

You shake your head to physically remove the memory from your brain. Your answer is the repeated monotone you find yourself reciting most days. “You protected your men. All of them.” You clear your throat when your voice cracks. “It wasn’t until after it was over, when Aerion yielded from his injuries, that Maeker hit you with his mace whilst trying to get to his son. Hard enough to put you in a coma for a moon’s turn.”

“Of course he did,” Baelor hums with a strange fondness in his voice as he plucks the towel from around his neck, wiping the remnants of shaving cream from his skin. “My brother was always stronger than he realized… Even when we were boys…”

Baelor smiles at you and waits for you to look back at him. You never do.

You just keep dipping your hands into the water, like you’re trying to wipe something from your already clean skin. You’d gained a habit of that since the day you nearly lost Baelor — when you rubbed your hands raw in scalding water because you felt like his blood was still clinging to your skin there, long after it had washed away.

“Forgive me,” he says. “If my words pain you— I mean no offense.”

“Stop that,” you scold, features twisting in offense as your head snaps in the man’s direction. You close the brief distance between you to snatch the towel from his fingers, drying off your hands with a quiet smile. “I know you don’t, Baelor. You’re too kind for any of that.”

You sit gingerly across his thighs and dab diligently at the soapy spots he’d missed on his neck. Your soft lavender scent mixes with the spiced oils he’d bathed in that morning.

Baelor’s mismatched eyes soften with affection as he cradles your waist in a pair of wide, sturdy hands. “If only I could remember… Then you wouldn’t have to carry it all… And I wouldn’t be such a burden to you.”

You flinch, as if his words have found you like a physical blow to the stomach.

“You’re the furthest thing from a burden, my love,” you tell him, stern but no less soft with him. “I wouldn’t want you to remember any of it, anyway. I’ll happily hold the memories for the two of us…”

“You were there, yes?” he wonders then.

You nod wordlessly, not trusting yourself to speak.

“And you saw it?”

“I saw all of it,” you answer, slightly strangled by the burning tears you fight hard to blink away. Your glassy eyes remain on the towel in your grasp, lacking the strength to meet Baelor’s gaze. “I ran to you in the barracks when it was over… I didn’t let go of you for two days— they had to transport both of us to the infirmary together…”

You exhale a sharp exhale through your nose, as if you mean to laugh, though the smile doesn’t quite match the sadness in your eyes.

“Eventually, my body gave out from exhaustion, and Maeker carried me out,” you sigh. “I’m pretty sure I slapped him for it when I woke up, but… That might’ve just been a dream— I’m not sure.”

Baelor’s lip twitches in a faint smile, half-hidden beneath the cloth you press to his cheek. “I’m sorry,” he murmurs beneath it.

“For what?”

“You shouldn’t have had to see that— You shouldn’t have had to see me like that.”

“Perhaps not,” you shrug. “But you’re here now. And you’re getting better every day. And that’s all I really care about now.”

You drop the towel into your lap and cup Baelor’s bearded jaw in your soft palms, brushing the trimmed edges with your thumb. There’s a distinct sort of tenderness in the way you hold him, like you’re savoring the way he feels against you — his coarse scruff in your delicate palms, the warmth beneath his pale skin, the way his chest rises and falls beneath you with even breaths. Alive.

“Any word from my brother?” he asks, the third time that morning.

“Not yet,” you smile. “He was here three days ago to check in on you, remember?”

Baelor’s brown-blue eyes dart back and forth between yours, going glassy as he struggles to recollect the not-so-distant memory. He swallows hard, half-embarrassed, and shakes his head. “I… I think I’m having some trouble remembering…”

“That’s okay,” you tell him, scratching gently at his scruff. “That’s why I’m here. To help you remember.”

“And we’re…” he trails off, brows lowered in curiosity. “We’re married, yes?”

Your smile widens. You nod once, proud and visibly giddy. “We are.”

“You poor thing,” he scoffs a quiet laugh that mixes with your lighter giggling. “What did you do to the Gods to end up cursed with an old man like me?”

“Must’ve been something nice, I’m sure,” you lilt and curl your arms around his shoulders. Your fingers rake through his short grey hair, tracing lightly over the healed wound at the top of his neck, where the base of his skull dips in. “Considering they saved you for me… I wouldn’t exactly call that cursed…”

Your words trail off as the tip of your nose traces the bridge of his. You close the minimal space between you to press a chaste kiss to his mouth. When you pull away, you catch a flicker of something flashing across his face — like he’s seeing you for the very first time.

That was, perhaps, the only good thing to come out of all this, watching Baelor fall in love with you again every day.

“Why are you looking at me like that?” you giggle.

“Have I told you that I love you today?” Baelor wonders, for the hundredth or so time that day.

“You tell me every day, Baelor,” you grin. “But I wouldn’t mind hearing it a few more times…”

You lean in to kiss him again — a longer and more languid thing this time. Baelor exhales a heavy sigh against you that fans across your cupid’s bow. He prays your kiss leaves a mark on him, like hot sealing wax on a love letter. He wants you to mark him with your touch — to burn him, to stamp him, to brand him — so that he’ll have something to remember this moment by, before it’s gone again forever.

[aliasares]

Kin

Summerhall has always had a history of not being able to keep things contained. This was no different.

Pairing: Baelor Targaryen/Reader

Rating: Explicit (18+)

Word Count: 7K (you can also read this on AO3)

CW: 18+ ONLY, dark content, explicit sexual content, afab reader, not entirely canon compliant, canon-typical violence, targcest, uncle/niece incest, implied emotional incest, mild dubcon, second person pov, emotional/psychological abuse, power imbalance, age difference, unresolved emotional tension, introspection, isolation, scars, past child abuse, dysfunctional family dynamics, body dysmorphia, self-esteem issues, self-hatred, dissociation, trauma, shame, guilt, finger sucking, oral fixation, hand & finger kink, self-lubrication, masturb4tion, v4ginal fingering, dubious morality, bodily fluids, implied orgasm denial, flashbacks, light angst

A/N: i love creepy depraved widower uncle!baelor. enjoy!

It was a misfortune.

Being born into this family.

You had thought of it many times over the years. During dinners, during conversations with your father. How much you had wanted to be part of a lesser house. Even with the Targaryen name plastered all over you, it didn’t come with nearly as much power as it had become renowned for. Much less so, because you weren’t firstborn. Even less so, because you were a woman.

And surely, women had almost ruled over House Targaryen and the Seven Kingdoms in the past, though never fully and never for long. In fact, the innate powerlessness that had overcome the ruling family of Westeros at present had been the result of a long string of events, originating in a woman’s throne being stolen. There was no one to blame, you had realized, for you could recognize your ancestors in the face of your family, in the closest of your kin.

It had even slipped past your tongue once, your own dissatisfaction that is, in front of Aerion, when you both had been about fourteen or so. He thought it his duty, as he thought many other things over the years, to show you otherwise. House Targaryen, even dragonless, even with a rebellion stinking away every corner of the Seven Kingdoms with rot and ruin, was still a dynasty to be admired and spoken of with respect.

And he figured that a cut along your tongue would teach you just fine. You would certainly mind your words for a while, he’d said. But Aerion was never one to understand the fire that soared through his veins, even in moments like these, where all he had wanted was to show you the blood of the dragon. He always sought his fire out elsewhere. So his aim was off, wrist trembling with rage. Your right cheek took the fall for your tongue, a good split between the corner of your mouth and your cheekbone, a slight upward curve at the end where his hand had trembled.

At the time, it had almost caught the corner of your eye, but Aerion’s swing had been swift and clumsy, so the last bit of it had landed across your eyebrow.

That particular bit had long since healed, a couple of years to it now, but a tight, red scar remained across your cheek. It had quickly become clear that it would stay there for the rest of your life.

Your father had been furious when you’d been delivered to the Maester’s quarters with blood seeping from your face, but he never particularly consoled you that day. It was more about Aerion’s aggression than it was ever about the mutilation it left you with. Even now, sometimes, you could see it in his eyes when he looked at you—an odd mixture of pity and discomfort, that his oldest daughter had looked so battered from a young age. And it had only happened because one of his sons was as much frustrated with it all as he himself was. Perhaps even more so.

It had begun then. A rift. Between you and your father, whose hair you had inherited, but whose temperament was so vastly different from yours.

He would order maids to talk to you in time, about marriages, about how things worked for the women of noble houses. What was expected of you and what he certainly expected himself to have to pay for. For your father didn’t admit it to himself, and yet, deep down, he feared no one would want to marry a marred face, even if it carried his name and whatever little power came with it.

Your reluctance in such matters didn’t help either. When he had brought up potential suitors, which he had done only twice, through slight aversion and a grit in his teeth, you hadn’t particularly opposed him, but you didn’t care to discuss it either. Perhaps it was because when he did it the first time, you had been but a child of twelve and far too uninterested. The second time, it had been nearly a year since your incident and even if you had wanted to engage in conversation with him, which you hadn’t, Maester Melaquin had advised to keep facial movement to a minimum. And quite frankly, it had taken you a while to function normally with an altered face.

So there was that. But there was also the fact that you felt no particular call to the opposite sex. Or any sex for that matter.

It had become a concern so internal to you, that even thinking about it felt like treason. To whom, though, you weren’t sure. The possibility of being deficient in some way. The reality of feeling almost like a spectator in your own body.

All of that became amplified by the presence of the defacement your brother had inflicted upon you. It appeared in mirrors, in the dusted windows at Summerhall, in the eyes of the court at the Red Keep. You had visited Dragonstone a few times after the incident, and you could swear the castle thought you more grotesque with each visit.

Or were those just your own thoughts reflecting in it?

Either way, what had happened at fourteen had subconsciously confined you to Summerhall for the most of your adolescence. You had certainly made the most of what being a noble offered, all the activities you could excel in, all the knowledge you could harbor. It had become almost a joke among servants, how much you had to show and how little you went anywhere to do it. Aemon should have taken you with him to Oldtown, your septa had remarked jokingly once.

Oh, and it certainly felt good. In an ideal world, you could forget about what you looked like. Have more to show for yourself than a pretty face slashed in two.

In the current world, your dignity was more torn than any scar and your disconnect to the world kept growing the more time you spent hiding from it.

But Maekar Targaryen was one of King Daeron’s sons. And you were his daughter. So hiding was optional, until it wasn’t.

“Fuck else would you rather do?” Your father’s usual tone of voice echoed around the solar. He was picking at something on the table, his back turned deliberately. He did that quite a lot, even during minor confrontations. You stood at the other end of it, face tight, tighter than usual, your eyes following him like he might just pounce at any moment, pick you up and throw you over his shoulder. No more objections allowed.

“So you’d be pleased with me there, for all to see?” You countered, gaze still on him as he turned to look at you, not fully around.

He knew what you were referring to. His gaze dropped there almost imperceptibly so.

“You are grown,” he began after a while, fully turning to face you then. His eyes dropped to his own feet as they carried him towards you.

“Aerion made a mistake you never would’ve. I don’t particularly entertain the idea of you paying for it twice over by sulking away in here.”

Perhaps, that had been the most you got from him in the last couple of years. Either way, it had given you the proximity to properly look at your own father. His face wasn’t much different than yours, you reckoned, but you saw no ugliness in it. His cheeks were adorned with scars, much like your right cheek was, but from pox, not his brother’s dagger. You never cared for them enough to look before. They made no difference to you. He was the father you loved.

Your monstrosity was yours alone. He was a man. A son to a king.

“I do not wish to have to explain why my only daughter of age does not escort her brothers to Ashford.” His voice snapped you out of it, and it only made your stomach turn in on itself more.

“Daella is but ten,” you countered immediately, “You would be fine leaving her alone with Rhae, but you would rather not explain why I’m not there? I’m giving you a good enough explanation as it is. Just let me stay here with them.” Your voice echoed his when you became argumentative. It pulled at your scar in a way that didn’t hurt anymore.

“They have septas, maids, a whole fucking castle looking after them,” he stepped away, clearly getting worked up over your continuous denial. “Your mother did not give birth to you so you can hide away like some—” He stopped himself before he could say more, his back once again turning itself to you. A heavy exhale left him. Your feet grew colder each minute.

“I’m not expecting you to joust, or marry anyone there. I don’t plan on leaving you in Ashford, if that’s what you’re afraid of,” your father continued after a beat, his voice as calm as he could manage. It was clear your refusal to marry weighed on him at all times. You didn’t say anything back.

Not for a while.

And if you had wanted to, the moment got interrupted soon after by a steward and your conversation culminated unfinished, or unproductive, more so.

So when you had shown up dressed in appropriate attire, with Aegon jumping up and down behind you, sing-songy, your father had just glanced at him, and it had been enough to understand that you were coming along.

What had changed, he didn’t dare to contemplate. Even asking you about it felt risky to him. All that mattered right now was that you were coming along, somewhere, anywhere, with the rest of your family.

Something you hadn’t done since you were little.

——

The sound of pebbles along the road never eased for the near-ten-day journey to Ashford Meadow.

It looked much closer on maps. You couldn’t imagine travelling to it from anywhere else in Westeros.

The noise of the road did little to dull the one in your head, and how rampant it grew the closer you got to seeing more of the world you’d sworn a silent oath to turn away from. It had been only in proper sunlight and days in and out of tents that Maekar had seen his daughter’s face properly. How hollowed out its sides had become, like the wound was caving in on itself just as much as you had.

There was a slight ease to your father over the course of the trip. The rarest glimpse of a smile had been thrown your way when you’d abandoned the carriage for a bit and agreed to ride on horseback next to him somewhere down the line. It had mostly been a silent ride. Half a day, not more. He had dismounted first, but not before tapping the mane of your horse. It was gentle, as gentle as he could be. But more than anything, Maekar was pleased to have you around.

Though he’d never tell.

——

The smell of charred meat penetrated your nose before any horn could blow your eardrum off. Of course, that followed soon after.

House Targaryen had arrived at Ashford.

If only your stomach wasn’t completely done for, just from the eyes of villagers across the bridge you were riding across. They were far away. Aerion would not stop repeating how they could never touch him, or you. Not to soothe you, never. Just to revel in the truth of it.

You weren’t alone.

For better or for worse.

The detour to Bitterbridge had made the journey far longer than it could have been, but it had been the meeting spot for House Targaryen to come as one. It was safer to be together and arriving as a whole was a non-negotiable.

The black of your mount moved past ready-made tents just after several guards until you had caught a glimpse of your father dismounting in front of a set of other horses. You’d loosened the cape that pulled at your neck when you’d followed after him. Suddenly, it felt like you could use all the space you could get.

“I trust you travelled with ease, brother.”

A large hand patted your father’s back softly, and it didn’t take a genius hermit to recognize their own kin’s voice.

Your uncle, as much as you remembered of him, had always starkly contrasted your side of the family. It was difficult to think of a more accomplished man, and you had read about men a great deal. The last piece of memory you had of him was when you were no more than twelve? Or eleven, perhaps? He had long since resided in the Red Keep as Hand of the King to your grandfather and during one of your, at the time, frequent visits, he had been more than eager to show you around the cellars and the Tower of the Hand. You remembered little detail of it, but the sentiment remained.

Baelor had also been present during one of your father’s marriage talks, or rather, instigations, which inconveniently had occurred near the Kitchen Keep. He had attempted to talk him out of it, considering the onlookers, but Maekar had insisted. Your interest in the food nearby seemed to be more present than any thought of marriage. Word of the encounter had carried amongst servants, and Baelor’s attempt to intervene hadn’t gone unnoticed. His name echoed all the same. Kind. Honorable.

Two fingers clicked in front of your face, snapping you out of whatever trance this reunion had briefly put you under. Your father’s brows were lightly furrowed your way, clearly annoyed, and next to him, looking directly at you, stood your uncle. What you could only assume were Valarr and Matarys stood behind him, shifting in one place with a similar unease to yours.

A greeting had likely been missed from where your mind had gone.

Your gaze moved between the two and settled on Baelor, after which you’d greeted him back. He had naturally grown older, but the dark in his hair gave him the advantage of looking younger than your father did. There was some grey throughout his hair and beard now, and when you’d spoken in return, a set of wrinkles around his eyes had emerged, along with a close-lipped smile.

His wife, Jena, had passed years back and though you knew of it, her lack of presence next to him was a light blow to your already alienated presence within the family. It felt odd, but not unfamiliar, your own mother not being present for the same reason.

That had been the general extent of the reunion and somewhere in your heart, you could not fathom why you imagined anything worse from him or his sons.

When you’d entered the courtyard at Ashford, all had begun to dismount and you followed shortly after. The brief moment of ease your father had on the road was once again gone, particularly because of the abrupt vanishing of Daeron, and Aegon with him. One likely drunk somewhere, the other, hopefully, in his vicinity.

You had heard him curse at one of the guards on a brief stop near Ashford, and the reality of it had quickly added up. It’d be a lie if you said you weren’t worried yourself, but Maekar had made it clear that he wouldn’t ride out yet, and so wouldn’t you, despite offering. Insisting, even.

Your father and uncle entered Ashford Castle while the rest of the family dispersed along tourney grounds. Lord Ashford’s daughter, you couldn’t quite catch the name, certainly made it obvious that she found you interesting. Or more so, the right side of you. It had been common knowledge that kids tended to stare unabashedly at things they found either beautiful, or in most cases, inexplicably ugly. You had glanced between her and her father, who stood almost a head below you, and entered the castle subsequently.

Your feet found their own way around to your assigned quarters, for you didn’t feel welcome enough joining anyone yet. The inside was rather small, but well-adorned and full of light. Fresh fruits awaited your arrival in a round bowl. The bed was neatly made, not too crowded, considering the weather.

A good while passed in stale air. Minutes were lost between staring out the left window to your bed and attempting to open it. The edges had crusted from seeming lack of use and when you had finally managed to pull it ajar, a sharp sound echoed down the corridor. Your eyes shut briefly, your hand still on the handle before you turned around to close the door, which you regretted not having done when you’d first entered.

“I could’ve helped with that, but you didn’t seem to hear me for minutes.” You winced twice the amount when your uncle’s frame suddenly materialized in front of you, to which he only lowered his gaze briefly, a compassionate variant of a smile lining the lower half of his face, “Didn’t mean to startle you.”

Baelor stood right beneath the doorcase to your quarters, his hands clasped in front of him. His chin, or more so, his beard, was tilted just slightly downwards, which meant only that he regarded you, likely just as much as you were looking at him right back. The only difference was the level of surprise.

Your feet had planted you immovable, your hands coming to rest together in front of you, mirroring his own subconsciously. “My apologies, Your Grace.” The breathlessness with which the words came out was near equal to that of a freshly jousted knight, and yet, you were not here for that, as your father had assured you days before. It was difficult knowing how to address a relative that was also possibly your future king. The fact that you hadn’t seen him in years didn’t make it easier.

The tips of his brows furrowed almost imperceptibly at the distance your politeness created. His hands tightened, “Uncle,” he corrected you softly, his eyes dropping somewhere along you, not wanton in any way. Taking you in.

After a breath or two, he straightened up, “May I come in?”

“Of course,” you’d replied almost instantly, stepping aside to reveal, well, not much space behind you. Baelor glanced at the second window, still unopened, down to the wooden planks that made up the floor, and briefly to your bed, before turning around and closing the door shut gently.

It was safe to say you felt even more restless now.

When he’d turned around again, the room felt smaller than ever.

“I wanted to know how you’re feeling,” he began again, “Seemed a whole lot quieter than I remember, but I suppose it’s only natural as you grow.” His voice was soft, even softer here where he only needed to be heard by you. So you quickly discovered that he wasn’t much different, he hadn’t randomly become cocky or insufferable. He didn’t feel like a threat, even with just the two of you alone. Your uncle felt equal parts familiar and new to you now.

“I, um,” you started, before stepping around him suddenly, perhaps too sharply for comfort, and moving to unlock the other window in the room, “I’m good. I’ve just lost the hang of it, I think.” A small cracking sound signalled that you’d managed to open the window. Baelor’s hand had lifted after you’d passed him but he ultimately let it drop. “Makes sense though, and it’s my own doing anyway.” You turned back around but didn’t exactly return next to him. He was on one side of the bed, you—on the other.

He didn’t speak right away. “I did wonder if you were alright, when I heard about…” It didn’t take finishing the sentence for you to know what he was referring to. Only then did your brain reengage with the reality of what you still looked like. What other people saw. What he saw right now.

Baelor seemed to take notice of whatever imperceptible bit passed through your face at his words. He took two steps around the bed, a hesitance in his step, bordering on reverence. “After that as well, I—”

“I’m sorry I didn’t attend the funeral,” your voice interrupted suddenly, brows furrowing. He swore in his mind he’d seen Maekar’s face with a wig just then. The tone which carried across to him was simultaneously impulsive, but also incredibly thought-out. Your absence had clearly bothered you in silence.

“There’s no need to apologize for that.” Baelor countered almost immediately, and took another step close, standing on the same side of the bed as you now, but without crowding you.

“There is.” A crack in your voice bounced inside the space you shared. His eyes hadn’t parted from yours, even when you had been looking at the floor for minutes on end. So when you finally met them again, the feeling was that of a whip across the face. You had no real grasp of the grimace you were making, the eyes he was seeing. You looked back down quickly. There was a new byproduct of mutilation to discover every day. “I have been selfish in such ways that even showing my face here feels wrong. Summerhall has been more a refuge than a home and I’ve given it so many years, I can’t even blame it. I’m really, so sorry.” The words that left your mouth were merely a whisper, and yet, the weight of them could crack the floorboards beneath you both.

Baelor’s mouth suddenly felt too dry for comfort.

If looking at someone alone could comfort them without the need for more, he’d be masterful at that. As he was at all else he undertook. But the notion of that was impossible.

Wood creaked in front of you. “Look at me.” He certainly had a way of being firm and soft simultaneously. A great king would come out of him.

A hand dropped near where yours were, hesitating briefly, before taking your left palm in his own. Anyone who was around him long enough knew that he always slouched a little, despite or because of his height. Your father did as well. But right now, he had slouched even further, enough so that you felt the unbearable responsibility to do as he told you.

His hand over yours reminded you of the times in which Aegon would sneak into your quarters at night, so you could have little sleepovers. Or whenever he had bad dreams. He was so small that your blankets, thick and wide as they were, engulfed him completely. And so did Baelor’s hand on top of yours. He placed your palm on top of one of his, and sandwiched it gently with his other one on top. He stared down at the motion of it with the same softness he’d always had behind his two-toned eyes. They made him look more Valyrian than most who claimed to be. But there was also hesitation. Cautiousness. Like your hand was a gamble. The exhale that left his mouth subsequently was a shaky one, and yet, his hands remained on either side of yours.

You had already looked at him by then. “I would’ve never brought it up,” his brows jumped softly, “Ever.” It was his attempt at reassuring you and he was hoping, somewhere in his mind, that you would see it as such.

“Aegon mentioned that day that you’d been ill.”

Your eyes shut tight briefly. “He lied to you. I told him n—”

“Did he?” An eyebrow cocked itself your way, and your lips thinned out. “What about that?” His eyes flicked to your right cheek, where Aerion’s mark lay.

“It’s been years since that,” your fingers gestured dismissively towards your own face, eyes elsewhere. The exchange between you was tense and the topic of it had made the pitch of your voice rise. The “that” rolled off your tongue sharp enough for your uncle to feel some sort of diffidence behind it.

Baelor’s eyes didn’t part from the scar despite it, and that had been partly the reason why you had averted your gaze elsewhere. “If by sick…” You paused, gritting your teeth, “…Aegon meant absolutely socially decrepit by the year, then he might’ve not lied to you after all.” A rough chuckle escaped you, your hand shifting between his. “All my doing, of course.” You inhaled sharply, the feeling of overexplaining yourself prickling. “Nevermind, it’s—”

Your uncle had a way of cutting people off in the politest of ways. Less an interruption and more a sign of engagement. Words were his weapon of choice, and he wielded it well. But a man of his experience knew how to meet just about anyone where they were. Even if it meant a violation of a different kind.

His right hand dropped from atop yours and reached for your cheek. A brief sweep of his thumb, almost imperceptible, soothed you enough for him to step closer. The feel of his palm spread down the line of your cicatrix to the back of your neck, your hair spilling in between his fingers. You felt the scent of him before the fabric of his doublet met your face.

Your other hand, still in one of his, was softly released and replaced by a firm touch just below your ribs, the hand that had sprawled across your father’s back a day ago now felt the same on yours. Big and steady.

It was at that moment when for the first time in a long time, you simultaneously felt the strong effect of your isolation, but also the desire to correct it. And seemingly, so did Baelor. His chin came to rest atop your head. An inhale expanded his chest. He was on the brink of speaking, but ultimately, angled himself so that your face didn’t get scraped by the pin on his left shoulder. It had taken you being this close to him to properly notice it. He had it customized.

The hand on your nape tightened slightly. You felt it more exaggerated than he probably meant it to be. At that moment, you swore that you would rather get speared through the thigh than begin to contemplate how obvious it was that touching and being touched was something you did not partake in. In any way. That, and the fact that your lower back was stuck far out behind the rest of you. Aerion had pointed it out to you once and according to him, that was a clear sign “someone wasn’t getting fucked”. The memory of that couldn’t have been more displaced.

“It concerns me that you feel the need to explain yourself,” Baelor finally spoke. He exhaled before continuing, “I also don’t know what to think of you being seized up solid right now.”

It would take a miracle for someone not to notice the abnormality you live with every day. That alone was clear to you.

At the words, you tightened up more and that was clue enough to Baelor that he likely didn’t say the right thing, which was a rarity. Your hands never reached to wrap around him equally and only seemed to twitch on either side of you. It didn’t go unnoticed by him.

His hands loosened their grip, but remained around you, “Does this feel odd?”

You breathed out for what seemed like the first time since he’d entered. Perhaps, even since you arrived at Ashford.

“No,” you spoke, voice muffled by his clothing next to your mouth, “I’m odd, that’s more like it.”

Baelor huffed something close to a laugh above you. Aerion’s words still echoed in your mind and you straightened up in his arms, your pelvis joining the rest of you against him. He felt it and maybe, that was the moment when it hit something in your uncle. Your own preoccupation with the unfamiliarity of the situation didn’t give you enough room to be fully attuned to him. He counted on that. As much as you thought of your own brother, Baelor did too. And in that particular moment, Maekar’s face was all he could see.

Five fingers withdrew from your back and reallocated themselves on your upper arm, the other set of five followed. His face remained kind, and when he’d pulled away enough to look at you again, the same thin-lipped smile from before had returned. The remainder of what you could see in his expression mirrored your own. What else you felt had been yours alone.

Right.

All touch seized along your body and you couldn’t be more conflicted about it.

“Supper’s at nine. Great Hall, Lord Ashford said.”

Baelor was nearly at the door as he spoke.

“Can’t wait.” Your face twisted with surprise at what came out of your mouth and across from you, a brief look of amusement played on your uncle’s face, before his eyes gave you a once-over. The door closed after him soon after.

——

“I never did quite get that, Your Grace,” Lord Ashford’s voice echoed across the table as he went on to explain something that no one actively listened to.

Aerion had long since withdrawn from the occasion, and the look your father had given you when he’d walked out had all but cemented you to your chair. Let at least one of his children act properly tonight. A plea only you could recognize.

The fork in your plate had made several rounds by then, picking at and separating peas by size and color. You weren’t particularly fond of them.

When you’d looked up again, what met you was a gaze you hadn’t particularly expected in front of anyone else. Baelor glanced down at the organization that had ensued on your plate. The twitch on his mouth was a smile through and through, before he looked down to his own dish, and stuck his fork in three of the peas he had left. It all happened within seconds.

Something about that made your feet grow cold.

“…Though, I must say, she is the spitting image of you.” When your uncle looked at you again, it soon appeared that the rest of the table was too. Lord Ashford, in particular, had remarked your likeness to your father in a way that made your skin crawl. And not because of the remark holding true.

The grimace on your face must’ve been something, considering the twitch in your father’s eyebrows.

“Thank you, my lord,” you replied almost too quickly. “I can only hope to reach him.”

Maekar’s eyes had rolled at that, but the right side of his mouth had quirked up nonetheless. Lord Ashford found the comment toast-worthy and all cups rose in unison, along with several laughs, yours included. Whatever was in your cup more than accounted for how easily your mouth kept opening all evening.

Much different than the tight-lipped princess hours ago.

And someone else had noticed that too.

——

When crickets had started their song outside your window, the headache with which you returned to your quarters several hours ago slowly began easing up. You were never going to go seek out a maester for a headache and like all else, you attributed it to your own negligence with the two cups of Dornish red you were served at supper.

Daeron would laugh if he were here to see you. Barely sobered up after flatlining on two cups.

Nothing but a candle lit up the stony ceiling you were staring up at, and you could feel sleep threaten to overtake you the less your temples pulsed with pain.

It had been a long day, but the end of it wasn’t nearly as bad. Nothing like the catastrophes your brain had conjured up the night before you left Summerhall. All the possibilities for embarrassment, if your face wasn't contributing enough. But that hadn’t been the case. There was an ease to you tonight, and it had flushed the table several times throughout. No one really cared to see you for more than what you spoke of. What bothered you for years had briefly become a mere afterthought.

The hinges of your door rattled when two knocks came through. One of the wooden planks had come loose, causing a slight recoil which sounded down the corridor.

Your neck lifted up off the pillow instantly, and your body with it.

It was late.

You lifted the latch. It creaked in your hands, before you gently pulled the door wide enough to glance out.

Perhaps it had been the cautiousness with which you looked outside, the small bit of your face that was visible from the crack in the door, or simply, the memory of you at the table, the way you’d laughed. Perhaps it had been a culmination of all.

But Baelor stood on the other side and certainly, he wouldn’t let show, none of it, not in the halls of the castle, not until you let him in.

And yet, there was something. The walls of Lord Ashford’s quarters were wide. Nothing like the ones in the Red Keep, but he had freed them up as courtesy and Baelor appreciated it enough. But those same walls now bore witness to the amount of times your uncle had removed and reinstalled his pin in the last thirty minutes, before finally leaving it and the quarters altogether.

It was late.

And he was awfully aware of it.

You didn’t really wait for him to speak and just moved aside, opening the door wide enough for him to enter before closing it shut. The latch did not creak this time.

When you’d turned to look at him, his back was to you and the ease with which he had entered through the same door earlier today seemed to be nowhere near now. His eyes were switching between the floor and your bed. It looked so terribly tiny to him. He was certain you had no problem fitting on it. Made him feel ill just for thinking about it.

You had remained at the door, looking. Sobriety had slowly cleansed your bloodstream, thankfully. You were never brazen enough, even drunk. Even knowing. Even willing.

But your stomach did the worrying for you.

No words really seemed to fit right now. All too careless or too careful.

When you’d shifted, his face turned your way almost instantly. One hand was at his waist while the other looked as if it were restraining his mouth from speaking, the knuckles of it pressed flat there, his thumb lingering somewhere on his chin. When you’d just stared back, his palm turned and rubbed across his lips in a way that made you feel like the less anxious one in the room. And that was rarely the case.

Your chest was pounding at double speed. And the physical distance, even in the small of your quarters, only made it worse.

Feet moved across the floor, quietly, like a dance not for show. You stood nearer now, so open for it, it felt almost funny.

Baelor’s eyes were on you the whole time and as wide as they’d always been, right now they were blown wide. All in your direction.

The hand on his face twitched, once, twice, before he let it roam. His brows furrowed the minute his thumb landed across your cheek again. It pained him to touch you. His hand was hot and slightly clammy.

But he did not remove it. He kept it there and if anything, it grabbed more of you and sprawled all over your jaw, feeling the entirety of your shame up and down. His fingers kept running over where your scar was raised and when you’d shown no sign of discomfort, something in him had loosened further. As far as a man like him could.

It took getting used to, being touched.

He hadn’t preemptively thought it out, but there was no better place to get you started.

Once his hand had been there long enough, your lips parted slightly. His chest flattened against yours seconds after. His height made it necessary to angle up your face so he could roam around.

You could feel the scent of him with no oils to mask it. Made you tremble head to toe all the more. Pathetic.

Baelor could feel it too. His forehead leaned against yours, his eyes searching all over your face for a sign of something. Anything. Reluctance. Disgust. You’d only inched up at him, and his head shook sideways. Not out of refusal, not even close. He was like a bow pulled back for too long.

“Does it still hurt?” His breath spread across the right side of your face where his thumb gently felt up the mark. All that had kept you away.

“Sometimes,” you whispered back. “When I use my face too much. Maester Melaquin did his best but he reckons it’s healed poorly.”

A barely-there kiss landed at the highest part of it. Another one followed down your cheek. He was charting it out. You felt his body shift so he could angle himself better and it completely washed away whatever bit of doubt you had about where this was going.

His other hand had come up to cup the opposite side of your face. It drove you mad how much space it took up.

Soon enough, there was hardly any spot left unkissed on and around the scar. A raspy “you’re so beautiful, I can’t believe you’ve—” left his mouth unfinished in a hurry somewhere in between, swallowed up by more kisses down your jaw and the fold of your ear. His lips went as far as behind it, just remaining there for a while, breathing against it while his hand threaded your hair. You could hear every breath.

“It’s okay.” Your words earned a sharp exhale from him and the sensation sent shivers down the whole of you.

“It’s not,” he whispered back, forehead rubbing into the side of your head. The gravity of this moment proved difficult even to someone like him. You could never imagine him allowing this to happen. Minutes ago, at least. What you could perfectly imagine, however, was your father’s face. The situation between your legs responded to the imagery like clockwork.

“You do look like him,” Baelor snapped you out. “You always have, but it’s disturbing now.” He sounded nearly disgusted by it, if it weren’t for how shaky his breathing was. Both his hands had moved to the back of your gown, pretending not to know how to undo it. It was his way of stopping himself.

You weren’t touching him yet. You didn’t want to do it wrong. Somehow, that made it worse for him and you could feel it all, feel him all, against your right hip.

It felt imperative to make up for your inexperience somehow. He had to know that you were not a child. As if it would make this any less filthy.

Your hand went straight between his legs, feeling him up until it settled right along where he had hardened. His reaction was instantaneous. He straightened and caught your wrist, removing it from himself in one go, all while muttering little no’s under his nose. Made sure to look at you as he raised it up to your face, folded all but two of your fingers and stuck them right in your own mouth, his other hand pushing down on your lips so they closed around them.

You looked up, mouth full, and it took about three seconds for him to drag them free and replace them. His own invaded your mouth, eliciting something close to a moan from you, followed by a slight gag at the sudden intrusion. His fingers were much longer and wider, and he was nearly reaching the back of your throat without having inserted them to the knuckle.

His eyes kept shifting between yours and your mouth, while all you did was let him explore and watch his face for it. He retracted his wrist back, making your lips drag across his fingers and then inserted them back in, twisting his wrist sideways before picking up a slight pace, slowly fucking your mouth in. His free hand moved to cradle the back of your head for leverage. Only a few times did he allow himself to push them fully in, and when he’d felt you gag enough, he’d retract them quickly and soothe the corners of your lips with his thumb.

He had done the same when drool began to seep out, picking it up with his thumb gently and letting you reclaim what had left you by making you suck on it.

It was an abomination.

You had a lot of what Maekar had when he had been your age, but your eyes were the most identical part. It went against everything in him to put you in this position. To feel his cock twitch at the sight of his brother’s daughter stretching her mouth around his hand.

He knew you felt it too.

And perhaps, in that moment, both of you saw your father in one another. It riled you up more than anything and the shared knowledge of it only made it worse. And perhaps, tomorrow, he’d know when he sees you. He’d be so attuned to the two of you that somewhere in him, he’ll know what you did.

Did you want him to know?

His fingers soaked all of the things you could’ve said to him from your mouth and when he’d figured you’d had enough, he found it best to take himself back to his quarters now, or he never would’ve.

Before leaving, Baelor mentioned your father and what he’d seen on your face was enough for him to imagine what swirled your mind the whole time. And where your fingers went when you remained alone that night.

He never did help himself the same way.

A punishment of his own making.

The images that filled your mind after did whatever flagellation you could seek for what you’d done. Your hand filled and stretched what hadn’t been stretched and filled, and the more you allowed your mind to corrode, the more you tightened against yourself.

You awoke the next morning incapable of any deep contemplation. What had come clean—after you had several times—required no further thought. Your scar was the least of your problems.

For where it had healed badly, much more rot lay buried beneath it.

[robbyology]

YOUR NEEDS, MY NEEDS

michael ‘robby’ robinavitch x f!reader

Summary: In an attempt to get over your ex-partners, you and Robby decide that hooking up with each other could potentially alleviate some of the heartache that’s been plaguing both of you.

To no one’s surprise, things don’t go as planned.

Warnings: f!reader, explicit sexual content (a lot of it), swearing, age gap (early 30s, early 50s), boss-employee dynamics, tension in the workplace, hurt/comfort, jealousy, co-workers to fwb to idiots in love, typical trauma center gore, past Robby/Heather, past Langdon/Reader, pet names (sweetheart, honey, pretty girl), other ships mentioned, *reader is a lil sassy, described as tying her hair up, being shorter than Robby, easy for him to manhandle her

wc: 47k [complete]

Note: watched the pitt, fell in love with him, cried a lot, haven’t been able to think of anything else, so here we are.

MASTERLIST

i. spiral out, try and float

ii. see a friend, see a ghost

iii. bitter-brained, always drunk

iv. rail-thin, zoloft

v. subtle change, shorter days

vi. dead-eyed, dead weight

vii. your life, your dreams, your mind

viii. your needs, my needs (part 1)

ix. your needs, my needs (part 2)

[uroko]

Rainy day in Kyoto

[noahwhyle]

Carter + beard (requested by anonymous)

[flofaiiry]

it's a garden life // michael robinavitch x reader

part two · myrtle ( wc. 1.2k )

↞ prev // next ↠ · [ series masterlist ]

The date went well. She liked the flowers, though she didn’t say anything other than pretty, thank you. Robby started trying to explain what you had told him, but she didn’t seem charmed in the way he expected. After her face twists in confusion for the umpteenth time he just gives up on trying to rationalize the choice.

They made good conversation- even had a few laughs. Something about her dog destroying a couch cushion while she was at work— or was it her cat? He's not entirely sure. His mind was admittedly elsewhere for the duration of the dinner.

All Robby could think about the whole time he was sitting across from a perfectly nice and pretty woman was the kind eyed, crossword-doing florist he promised to go back and see afterwards.

He knew he was in trouble when the first thing he did this morning wasn't texting his date to set up a second, but silently praying he hadn't cancelled his subscription to the New York Times.

Sure enough, he hadn't, and there was a copy rolled up and sitting on his front step. The outer pages were a little damp from last night's rain but the crossword was still doable- thank God.

Robby also had the day off today, he'd traded the shift with the other dayshift attending who wanted a day off later in the month for his daughter's birthday. He went back into his Google search history to find your shop again, scrolling until he found your opening hours. 10am, so he still had to wait a while.

In the meantime he filled in what he could of the crossword and took a shower to get himself presentable. It was stupid- he didn't put half this much effort into getting ready for his actual date. He literally went after work, still covered in antiseptic smell and hospital air. But for you, he thought, this would be worth it.

He heads out around 10:30, not wanting to seem too eager and get there right when you open. When he walks in you're helping a customer, something about a 5th wedding anniversary dinner tonight. You still acknowledge him though, shooting him a quick smile and millisecond of eye contact when he walks in. He returns the informal greeting then moves to linger in the back of the shop while you wrap up their flowers and cash them out, and pretends to look through your selection.

"Hey!" You turn your attention to him as soon as the customer has left the store. “You’re not gonna believe this,” he says, finally stepping up to the counter you’re behind. You quirk an eyebrow, beckoning him to continue.

“She didn’t know about the birth flower thing apparently. Looked like I was speaking a foreign language when I tried to explain.” A little amused look comes on his face when your jaw drops in response. “You’re kidding! Damn, I’m sorry, I thought that would’ve blown her away- maybe even gotten you laid," you wink.

"That's not really my type," he mumbles, trying his hardest to fight off a blush from overtaking his face. "Ah it’s okay," he shrugs, "must not have been that into the Romans.” A smile pulls at your lips hearing that he remembers your little fun fact. "Speaking of the Romans," he continues, reaching around to his back pocket. He pulls out a folded New York Times paper and opens it to the crossword, half of the squares filled with chicken-scratch handwriting the others empty or chock full of eraser marks.

"You wouldn't happen to know what goes in today's 16 down would you?" He turns the paper over to you. The curves and edges of his writing catch your eye first, before your gaze drifts over to the clues. "A senators deputy, as in Ancient Rome," you flick up to look at him, "you think I'm just chock full of facts about Rome?"

He raises his shoulders to his ears in an over emotive shrug, "ohh I don't know. Thought I'd take a chance at you maybe harbouring a few more up there," he raises his eyebrows towards you.

You try— and fail— to fight off a smile before relenting and revealing that you do in fact know many more facts about Ancient Rome. "Equites," you say, "the class below senators in Roman civilization."

"How about this one,” you ask, taking out your own half filled copy of the Times, “Immaculate Steelers play," you read, passing it, "whatever the fuck that means." Robby fishes a pair of reading glasses from his pants pocket and slides them over his ears.

You take a deep breath.

He takes the paper from you and scans his eyes down it, mumbling the clue to himself once more before humming. "It's reception. Immaculate Reception. Some iconic play from '72."

"You that old?" You tease, taking the newspaper back. He scoffs, "sometimes I feel like I am." You laugh at his self deprecating joke before turning to scribble the answer into the boxes.

Robby's too enthralled in the way a few strands of your hair have fallen into your face. He eyes over the texture and the way the sun flows through the shop window and bounces against it just right and- wait, did you say something? Shit. He was too occupied to notice.

"What's that sorry?" He asks, shaking his head quickly like it'll make you forget that you just caught him staring. You smile, "the date," you clarify. "Flowers aside... did it go well?"

"Yeah, it was good." He breathes, stuffing his hands into his pockets with a quick nod. Robby doesn't offer anything else, and you widen your eyes in anticipation. "That's it?" You shake your head slowly, "are you gonna see her again?" He just shrugs, "maybe! Maybe, I- to be honest, I hadn't thought that far ahead."

"Well, when you're ready to think that far ahead, you let me know and we'll get you another bouquet." You smile knowingly. "I'll definitely let you know," he returns your smile and nods his head. You two hold eye contact for a moment- not saying anything just... looking.

Then an all too familiar vibration in his pocket takes him out of it.

His pager.

"Fuck, he mutters, reaching around to pull it out and check the notification. "Duty calls?" You ask, though you already know the answer. He nods- regrettably. "Yup. Classic emergency room. Day off can't even stay a day off." Robby shoves the pager back into his pocket and takes his copy of the Times off your desk and puts that back too.

"Well, if I need any flowers going forward this'll definitely be my place." He says, taking a step back in preparation to leave. "Some may say I'm also good for crossword help- particularly when it's related to the Romans." You add, cheeky grin tugging at your lips.

"Right," he smiles, "that too. I'll keep you in mind-" his natural progression would be to say your name but then he realizes- he doesn't know it.

"Wait, I uh- your name," he says quickly, "I don't know your name." You smile, then tell him. He nods like he's committing it to memory. "I'm Michael. Robinavitch. Michael Robinavitch. Everyone calls me Robby."

You smile, "well then, Robby. I'll see you soon."

thank you for reading!!! plsplspls leave a comment/reblog with your thoughts it means more than you know!!! <3 <3 <3

taglist (comment if you'd like to be added/removed!!) ; @robbyrosierobinavitch @dreamamubarak @disassociation-daydreams @twiddledeedumsworld @pope-codys @beebeechaos @memoriesat30 @vystasea @antisocialfiore @thedamnqueenofhell @blackwidownat2814 @peggyofoz @sabi127 @sanchann @bookoffracturedescapes @jazzimac1967

[emziess]

Shawn Hatosy as Dr. Jack Abbot The Pitt, 9:00 P.M

[emziess]

Noah Wyle as Dr. Michael "Robby" Robinavitch The Pitt, 9:00 P.M

[funeral]

Maria Denise Dessimoz, The Inevitable Anguish of Desire