Baelor Targaryen x Princess! reader
Authors note: a short one, but I just had to write something soft for him. The entire time i was writing this, all i could hear and see in my head was that one tiktok edit ive seen of baelor with ‘father figure’ playing over it. I’m unwell omg.
. ✦ ݁ ˖ 18+ ONLY, AGE GAP, nothing too yk YET! . ✦ ݁ ˖
The first thing you learn about Baelor Targaryen is that he never rushes.
He is older than you by many years and the court whispers about it in corridors of red stone and gold banners, but he carries his age not as weariness, but as steadiness. A gravity. A certainty.
Where other men burn hot and careless, Baelor is controlled flame behind stained glass.
You are a princess, raised among silk and expectation. And yet when you stand beside him in the sept, beneath the soft glow of candlelight, you feel smaller. Not diminished.
His hands are large when they close over yours during prayer. Warm. Firm. Completely still.
“Do you trust me?” he asks one evening, voice low, almost reverent.
He watches you for a long moment, as though weighing the truth of your soul. Baelor does not take affection lightly. To him, love is sacred, almost terrifying in its depth.
When he finally allows himself to touch you beyond ceremony, it is slow. Devotional.
His fingers brush your cheek first. Not possessive. Not greedy. Just… certain.
“You are precious to me.” he murmurs, thumb tracing the curve of your jaw. “More than you know.”
There is something about the way he says it, like a vow instead of a compliment.
He does not devour you the way other targaryen princes might. He studies you. Learns the quiet hitch of your breath when he leans closer. Notices the way your hands tremble before resting against his chest.
And when he pulls you into him, it is not urgent, it is encompassing.
His embrace feels like a wall around you. Like safety.
When he kisses you, it is deep but measured. Slow enough to make you melt rather than gasp. His hand settles at your waist, fingers flexing once, as if reminding himself of restraint.
He whispers prayers against your skin before he touches you more intimately, as though asking forgiveness for wanting you so much.
The control makes it worse, makes it hotter, because every movement feels chosen. Intentional. Like he has thought about this moment in solitude and tried to deny it… and failed.
When he finally presses his forehead to yours, breathing heavier now, his composure cracking just slightly, you see it, that deep, almost dangerous devotion.
“You are my wife.” he says quietly. “And I will honor you. In every way.”
There is strength in him. Not wildness but dominance through certainty. He guides you gently, firmly, never cruel, never rushed. Every touch is reverent, every kiss purposeful.
Later, when you rest against his chest, his hand spreads protectively over your back, thumb stroking slow patterns. He speaks softly about faith, about legacy, about building something sacred together.
Baelor does not love halfway.
When he chooses you, he chooses forever.
And though he carries the weight of piety and prophecy, when he looks at you in the dark with eyes softer than any prayer, you realize something dangerous.
For all his devotion to the gods…
He may begin to worship you too.
dailybridgerton
turnnoffyourmind
andulkaphoto
areudirty
vaporwave
titsay
kaledo-art
tangentwithtanner
pixelskylines
