pairing: romantic aerion targaryen x targaryen cousin reader / father baelor targaryen x daughter reader / brother valarr targaryen x sister reader / uncle maekar x niece reader
summary: Baelor is in every fathers nightmare and unfortunetly the only thing that can wake him is in a deeper sleep than him
warning: english is not my first languaage, arrange marriage, violence, injury, targaryen family
The maesters came running at Baelor’s roar.
Chains clattered against their chests as they fell to their knees in the trampled grass, hands already slick with blood before they had even begun. The smallfolk still wept openly at the edges of the field, some pressing hands to their mouths in horror, others calling her name as though she could hear them.
“Clear space!” one maester barked, voice trembling despite the authority in it. “Give her air!”
But Baelor would not release her.
“My girl,” he whispered hoarsely, cradling her head against his chest. “Stay with me. Stay.”
“Your Grace,” the eldest maester urged, “we must see the wound.”
It took Valarr’s shaking hands on his father’s shoulder to move him.
Baelor loosened his grip only enough for the maesters to work. When they lifted her torn helm and peeled away what remained of it, a collective hiss passed through those close enough to see. The steel had split inward. Blood matted her silver-white hair, dark and thick against her temple. One eye was already swelling shut, her lashes clotted red. Her shoulder lay at an unnatural angle. Every breath came wet and shallow.
“She lives,” a maester murmured urgently after pressing trembling fingers to her throat. “But barely.”
That word nearly unmanned Baelor more than the blood had.
“Stabilize her,” he demanded, voice breaking into something raw. “If she dies—” His gaze snapped to his brother, standing pale and stricken. “—if she dies—”
Maekar did not answer. His mace lay abandoned in the grass.
He knelt a short distance away, staring at his blood-stained gauntlets as though they belonged to someone else. His lips parted, but no words came. The fire that had once burned so arrogantly in him flickered now with something far more fragile—terror.
They bore her into Ashford Castle on a hastily summoned litter. The smallfolk parted before them like a tide, many falling to their knees as she passed. Some reached out, brushing the edge of the litter with trembling fingers as if seeking reassurance that she still existed.
Inside the castle, the corridors filled with echoes—boots striking stone, shouted orders, doors thrown open.
“Hot water!”
“Bandages!”
“Clear the solar!”
They laid her upon a bed in a chamber near the maesters’ rooms. The air quickly thickened with the scent of blood and vinegar and crushed herbs.
Baelor stood at her head, refusing to leave.
Valarr stood at her side, his hands red to the wrists, refusing to wash them.
“Out,” the maester urged gently. “We must work.”
“I am not leaving her,” Baelor said, and there was no prince in that voice only a father.
The maesters worked around him.
They cut away her armor piece by piece. Each removal revealed another horror. Her ribs were bruised deep purple and black along her right side; one had punctured the skin. Her shoulder was indeed dislocated. A jagged tear marked her scalp where metal had split flesh.
When they began to clean the head wound, she convulsed faintly even in unconsciousness.
Baelor flinched as if struck.
“Easy,” he whispered, though she could not hear. “Easy, my beautiful girl.”
The chamber was dim despite the many candles burning low in their sconces. Wax dripped like pale tears down iron holders. The air was thick with crushed herbs, boiled wine, and blood that no amount of washing could quite erase.
She lay unnaturally still beneath linen sheets, her body mapped in bandages.
The maesters had done what they could. Her shoulder had been set with a sickening crack that still echoed in Valarr’s ears. Three ribs bound tight. Deep bruising bloomed along her side where a lance had struck. And her head—Seven save them—her head was wrapped in careful white cloth, already faintly stained where Maekar’s mace had crushed her helm and split her scalp.
“She breathes,” the eldest maester said quietly. “The bleeding is stopped. But the swelling within the skull is our greatest concern. She may wake within hours… or not at all.”
Baelor did not look at the maester. His world had narrowed to the pale hand he held in both of his.
His voice, when it came, was hoarse beyond recognition. “Leave us.”
The maesters withdrew, murmuring assurances that rang hollow.
Valarr stood on one side of the bed, rigid as drawn steel. Egg lingered near the hearth, eyes red and wide, too young for what he had seen.
Baelor sat beside her, one hand wrapped carefully around her fingers as if afraid she might slip away if he loosened his hold. His broad shoulders, so often squared in princely composure, were bent.
She is my only daughter,” he said again, voice hollow but fierce.
The words had already been spoken but they did not lose their weight.
And weight of these words hit Maekar like a hammer in the moment he and his son arrived to the chamber.
“She rode into battle,” Maekar replied, though more quietly than normal. “You cannot blame—”
Baelor rose so suddenly the chair behind him scraped harshly against stone.
“Cannot blame?” His voice cracked with disbelief. “Cannot blame?”
Valarr stiffened at once, stepping closer to his father’s side. Egg clung tighter to the bedside, wide eyes darting between uncles.
Baelor advanced toward Maekar, grief igniting into something brighter and more dangerous.
“She adored you,” Baelor said, voice shaking not with weakness but with fury sharpened by memory. “Do you remember that?”
“She followed you through the gardens when she was small,” Baelor pressed on. “She would not let you train without her watching. When she was five, she sat on the steps of the yard and sang to you because she thought you frowned too much.”
A flicker passed over Maekar’s face.
Baelor did not stop, sorrow poisoning his words.
“When you returned from Dorne bloodied and half-dead, she was the one who sat beside your bed and read to you. Do you recall that? She sang you old Valyrian lullabies until her voice gave out.”
Silence crushed the room.
Even Aerion’s sharp posture softened, if only slightly.
“She loved you,” Baelor said, the words breaking apart as they left him. “She loved her uncle. And today—” His voice rose, raw and terrible. “Today you struck her down like she was nothing more than another armored foe!”
Maekar’s jaw clenched painfully. “I did not know it was her.”
“You did not look!” Baelor thundered. “You did not see her seat in the saddle? Her posture? The way she carries a lance? You know her. You have watched her ride since she could walk!”
Maekar’s voice grew strained. “It was a trial. Helmets conceal faces. I struck at a knight who joined the side that wronged my son.”
“Your son wasn´t wronged he was the one that caused wrong doing to innocent puppeteer!” Baelor shot back.
Aerion’s temper sparked immediately. “That bitch mocked the blood of the dragon—”
“She performed for coin,” Valarr snapped. “You shattered her hand!”
Aerion rounded on him, violet eyes blazing. “And she would have done it again. They all would.”
“You are not feared,” Valarr spat. “You are pitied.”
Aerion stepped forward sharply, but Baelor’s voice cut across the chamber again, louder than all of them.
He faced Aerion fully now.
“If she lives,” he said, each word deliberate, “I will break the betrothal.”
The room went utterly still.
“I would,” Baelor said. “By the Seven and by the blood of the dragon, I would. I will not bind her memory—or her life—to the man whose recklessness brought her to this bed.”
Aerion stepped forward, color draining from his face.
“You cannot mean that.” fury and fear twisting together. “You speak as though I wished her harm.”
Baelor stepped closer, eyes burning.
“You demanded blood,” he said. “You demanded a trial knowing she would stand against injustice. You know her heart as well as I do.”
Aerion’s jaw tightened. “She defied me.”
“She believed in you,” Baelor corrected. “She believed you could be better than cruelty.”
For a heartbeat, the arrogant edge slipped, revealing something raw beneath.
Maekar’s voice entered again, colder now. “You cannot undo this betrothal over emotion.”
Baelor turned slowly back to his brother.
“Emotion?” he repeated, disbelief hollowing the word. “You think this is emotion?”
He gestured toward the bed.
“She lies there between life and death. My child. The girl who sang to you. Who rode beside your sons. Who shared her sweets with them when they quarreled.”
Egg nodded tearfully. “She did.”
Baelor’s voice broke entirely.
“She is my only daughter,” he whispered, and now it sounded less like a statement and more like a plea to the gods. “When she was born, I thought the realm had given me a star.”
He took a shuddering breath.
“And you extinguished it.”
Maekar’s composure faltered at last.
“But you did,” Baelor interrupted harshly. “Your mace struck her helm. Your blow crushed her to the earth.”
Maekar’s voice dropped, strained. “I faced a knight who rode with deadly skill. I would have dishonored myself by hesitating.”
“And what is honor worth,” Baelor demanded, “if it costs me my daughter?”
Egg moved then, small and determined. He climbed carefully onto the edge of the bed, ignoring the tension in the room. He took her hand in both of his.
“She would hate this,” he said softly. “All of you shouting.”
The words hung in the air like smoke.
Her breathing hitched faintly.
All heads turned at once.
Baelor rushed back to her side, dropping to his knees again as if pulled by invisible chains.
“My girl,” he whispered urgently. “Stay with me.”
Valarr leaned close on the other side, pressing trembling lips to her knuckles.
“You are not allowed to leave me,” he said fiercely. “We have not yet outridden Father together.”
Egg buried his face against her arm, whispering small prayers to the Seven in a child’s earnest voice.
Aerion stood frozen at the foot of the bed, hands clenched so tightly his knuckles blanched.
“You foolish dragon,” he muttered under his breath, but it lacked its usual bite. “You should have let him ride.”
“She rode because she loves,” he said without turning. “Something you would do well to learn.”
Maekar looked older suddenly, the rigid strength he wore like armor cracking under the weight of memory.
Outside, the murmur of the smallfolk had not faded. Candles still burned beneath the castle walls. They waited for news, for hope, for the princess who had given them bread from her own hands.
Inside, House Targaryen stood divided and powerless.
Baelor bent low over his daughter, tears falling freely now onto the linen sheets.
“Come back to me,” he begged. “Come back, my beautiful girl.”
And for the first time since he had been a boy, Baelor Targaryen—knight, prince, dragon felt utterly helpless.
At first, there was nothing but darkness.
Not the soft darkness of sleep, but something heavy and endless, like sinking beneath deep water. She floated there without weight, without pain, without memory.
It did not return all at once. It seeped into her slowly first as a dull pressure at her temple, then a sharp, splintering ache along her ribs. Her shoulder burned as if someone had poured molten metal into the joint. Every breath scraped against her chest like broken glass.
She tried to breathe deeper.
A faint, broken sound escaped her throat.
Somewhere close—very close—there was warmth. A steady warmth wrapped around her fingers. Something large and still.
The thought came slowly, as though dragged through mud.
She tried to open her eyes.
The left responded weakly. The right refused entirely, swollen and heavy. Light stabbed into her vision—dim, golden, flickering. Firelight. Shadows on stone.
The room swam into view in fragments—the canopy above her bed, the outline of a brazier, and then—
Her father sat slumped in the chair beside her, head bowed awkwardly forward, one large hand wrapped entirely around hers. He looked older than she had ever seen him. Older than he had any right to be.
On the other side little bundle of warmth wrapped against her arm.
The little prince had somehow crawled onto the bed beside her. His cheek was pressed into the crook of her elbow, small fingers tangled carefully in the linen near her shoulder, as though afraid to grip her too tightly.
She tried to move her fingers.
Pain shot up her arm, white-hot and blinding. Her breath hitched sharply. Her ribs screamed in protest.
The movement, slight as it was, tugged against her father’s hand.
“Mmm…” His voice was rough with exhaustion. “My girl…”
He did not open his eyes.
She tried to swallow. Her throat was dry and raw, as though she had swallowed sand.
“F… father…” The word scraped out of her like a wounded thing.
His eyes opened but they were unfocused. Clouded by sleep and something deeper. Something haunted.
He stared at her face as though looking through a veil.
“Ah,” he murmured faintly, voice soft and broken. “You’ve come again.”
He shook his head slightly, as if to clear it, but his expression did not change. His thumb brushed over her knuckles in the same slow, absent motion it must have made for hours.
“It’s cruel,” he said gently, voice thick with grief. “Cruel that my dreams give you back to me only to take you again.”
Tears burned suddenly behind her one open eye.
“I’m… not…” she tried, but the effort made her ribs spasm.
A sob caught in her chest—painful, desperate.
“I’m not a dream,” she forced out, barely audible.
Baelor smiled faintly—tragically.
“Yes,” he murmured. “You are. You always are. You open your eyes in my sleep and call me father, and then I wake and you are still…”
She gathered what little strength she had left and squeezed his hand.
“Father,” she whispered again—and this time her voice cracked completely. “It’s me.”
He looked at her—really looked at her—and something shifted in his face. His breathing changed. The tremor in his hands deepened.
“You…” His voice faltered. “Say it again.”
“I’m here,” she whispered.
Tears spilled down her temple, sliding into her hair. The movement stung the stitches along her scalp, but she did not care.
Baelor’s breath hitched violently.
His free hand came up, hovering near her face as though afraid to touch her and have her vanish.
“No,” he whispered. “No, this is—”
Not loudly. She had no strength for that.
But the tears came, unstoppable, sliding down her cheek in thin, trembling lines.
“Father,” she sobbed weakly. “It hurts.”
That was what shattered him.
The rawness of it. The child in her voice.
He made a broken sound—half laugh, half sob—and suddenly he was more awake than he had ever been in his life.
“It hurts,” he echoed, almost laughing through tears. “Of course it hurts. That means you are alive.”
He surged to his feet so quickly the chair toppled backward against the stone.
“Maester!” he roared, voice exploding through the chamber like thunder. “Maester! She is awake! She is awake!”
Egg jolted upright at the shout, eyes wide and wild.
“What—?” he gasped, looking from Baelor to her face.
She turned her head slightly toward him.
That small movement sent a bolt of agony through her skull. A cry escaped her before she could stop it.
“You’re awake,” he breathed, and then he burst into tears outright, scrambling closer but stopping himself at the last second, afraid to hurt her. “You’re really awake!”
The door flew open. Maesters rushed inside, robes flaring, hands already reaching.
Baelor leaned over her again, one hand cupping her uninjured cheek so gently it barely brushed her skin.
“My girl,” he whispered fiercely. “My brave, stubborn girl.”
She tried to lift her hand toward him.
It trembled halfway there before falling back against the blankets.
“I thought…” she choked, tears slipping freely now. “I thought I’d see you ride.”
His face crumpled completely.
“Oh,” he breathed. “Oh, my heart.”
He pressed his forehead to hers, careful of the bandages, careful of the swelling.
“I would have,” he admitted softly. “I would have. And you knew it.”
“I couldn’t…” She swallowed against the pain. “I couldn’t let you.”
He shook his head rapidly, tears falling onto the linen near her shoulder.
“You should never have had to,” he said. “Never.”
The maesters began their careful examination—cool hands against her brow, fingers checking her pulse, murmured instructions to keep her still.
She flinched when they touched her shoulder.
Baelor’s head snapped up immediately.
“Careful!” he barked. “Careful with her!”
“We must examine the joint, Your Grace,” the maester insisted gently.
“She is not armor,” Baelor growled. “She is my daughter.”
Egg reached carefully for her hand again, pressing his small palm against her fingers.
“I stayed,” he whispered tearfully. “I told them I would stay until you woke.”
She managed the faintest smile through her tears.
The room blurred again for a moment, exhaustion dragging at her vision.
“Stay with me,” Baelor said urgently, seeing her eyelid droop. “No drifting now. Not yet.”
“I’m tired,” she admitted.
“I know,” he whispered. “But you must not slip away again.”
“I won’t,” she murmured weakly. “I promise.”
Her chest hitched as another sob escaped her. “I was afraid,” she confessed, voice barely audible.
Baelor gathered her hand against his chest, holding it over his heart.
“I was more afraid,” he admitted, voice breaking completely. “Do you hear me? There has never been a battle in this world that frightened me as much as watching you lie still.”
She cried harder at that, though it hurt.
“Don’t cry,” he whispered desperately, brushing tears from her cheek with shaking fingers. “You will tear your stitches.”
She almost laughed, though it came out as a pained breath.
He closed his eyes briefly, overcome.
“No,” he said softly. “You are not.”
And this time, when he looked at her, there was no haze in his gaze—only overwhelming, fierce relief.
Outside the chamber, word began to spread in hushed, disbelieving tones.
The princess had opened her eye.
I was truly suprised by all the love received from all of you I truly did not anticipate this and thank you all I hope you all like this chapter and please let me know if you have any ideas for this series or any other ideas.
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