this is @missusnora reborn. kidding, it's my new acc because got shadowbanned. i will keep the previous blog for some time but will be posting my works here once again, so please bear with me for a bit. thank you and welcome.
hello there,
you may call me nora or whatever you want. it's very nice to have you here on my blog.
i am not new around here but relatively new as a writer and english is not my mother tongue. therefore i am kindly asking you to be considerate.
as long as you are kind and doing good, feel free to contact me. i enjoy connecting people over interests and my works.
i am a working woman with a master's going on and a lot of domestic busyness so i might not be quick to reply but i will.
thanks for visiting. enjoy 💙
Baelor Targaryen was supposed to be the perfect king—the hero of Ashford, the shield of the innocent. But forty years of carrying the realm on his shoulders, combined with a mind shattered by a mace, have birthed something terrifying: a man who no longer believes he is mortal.
To the Seven Kingdoms, he is a living saint. To you, he is a gilded nightmare.
Baelor’s hero complex have morphed into a suffocating, dark possessiveness. He doesn't just want your loyalty; he wants your worship. In the shadow of his holy madness, the line between a blessing and a sin has vanished. You are the chosen vessel for his darkest desires.
Beneath the silver hair and the saintly smile lies a hunger that could burn the world down.
A/N: just... pure dark!king!baelor smut. kinda crazy but i love him, your honour.
Content: canon divergence, Baelor lives, dark!Baelor, religious fanaticism, power imbalance, devotion, protectiveness, violence, blood, sacrilege, explicit smut, no use of y/n.
The air in the Maidenvault was thick with the scent of melting beeswax and old incense, a heavy, cloying sweetness that felt like a physical weight. Outside, the bells of the Great Sept tolled for evening vespers, but inside this stone sanctuary, time had seemingly curdled.
Baelor stood by the narrow window, his frame gaunt against the dying sun light over King’s Landing. He looked every bit the ascetic king, his simple white linen robes hanging loose on his shoulders. He had been fasting again, his skin pulled tight over his cheekbones, eyes bright with an unholy light. But as you moved to adjust the heavy silks of your gown—a dress he had told you was a "distraction from his sobriety"—his shadow moved across the floor, reaching for you.
Every time you moved, his gaze followed you—not with the kindness of a brother or the grace of a King, but with the shivering, jagged intensity of a starving man watching a feast he had sworn never to touch. The silence between you wasn't peaceful; it was a taut wire, vibrating with the weight of everything he was refusing to say.
"You look at me as if I am made of glass," he finally said, his voice a dry, papery rasp that made the hair on your arms stand up. He turned away from the window. "But glass does not burn, does it? It only shatters."
"Then you speak of mercy," he rasped. "You speak of it as if it were a commodity I have in surplus. As if I have not already spent every ounce of my soul keeping the demons of this blood... my blood... at bay."
You took a step toward him, perhaps too bold, driven by a desperate need to find the man beneath the martyr. Your hand reached out, fingers hovering near his sleeve. "Baelor, you are starving yourself. You are not a god; you are a man of flesh. Have mercy for yourself... Let me help you—"
He turned with a speed that defied his frail appearance. His hand clamped around your wrist in an iron-clad grip. He pulled you flush against him. His scent was different now like the sharp, metallic tang of repressed fever.
His eyes, usually clouded with prayer, were startlingly clear and predatory. They roamed over your face with a terrifying, clinical intensity.
“Careful,” he murmured, his face inches from yours. He was quieter now, his voice dropping to a register that vibrated against your skin, more dangerous for the lack of volume. “You are very close to discovering just how little of my restraint is left.”
"Is that a threat, Your Grace?" you whispered sadly, your heart hammering a frantic rhythm against his chest. Your trembling voice did not seem to affect him. He was no longer the kind and honourable man you loved. Yet you still held onto the man you once had known.
"It is a prophecy," he replied, his thumb bruising the delicate skin of your inner wrist. You feel the frantic thrum of his pulse through his fingertips, a jagged rhythm that betrays the calm mask he usually wears for the Realm. It is the sound of a man drowning, and for a terrifying second, you realize you are the only thing he has left to cling to.
"I have fasted from wine, from meat, from the comforts of the bed. I have scoured my skin until it bled to remain pure for the Seven. But you... you stand there with your heart beating so loud it defies the silence of my prayers..." He absentmindedly scratched your skin just enough to draw blood. "You tempt me to commit a sacrilege far greater than any the High Septon could imagine."
He leaned down, his lips brushing the shell of your ear, his breath hot and uneven. "I wonder... if I were to take what I want, would you call it a sin? Or would you thank me for finally showing you the fire that burns beneath no matter how hard I fight it?"
His free hand moved to the nape of your neck, his fingers tangling in your hair, forcing your head back so you had no choice but to look into the abyss of his devotion. The weight of his gaze feels like a physical brand, stripping away your titles and your pride until you are nothing but a collection of nerves and shallow breaths.
"There is a holiness in total surrender," he whispered, his gaze dropping to your mouth. "And tonight, I think I shall find my salvation in your ruin."
Baelor’s restraint didn't just snap; it dissolved into a frantic, starved desperation. He rather dragged you toward the heavy oak table, the one usually reserved for his books and scrolls. With a sudden, violent sweep of his arm, he cleared it all clattering to the stone floor.
He lifted you onto the wood, his hot hands sliding up your thighs with a rough, frantic energy. There was no gentleness left in him now, only the terrifying hunger of a man who had denied himself for a lifetime. He wasn't looking for a wife; he was looking for an altar.
When his mouth finally crashed against yours, it tasted of iron and salt. He kissed you with a biting, punishing heat, his tongue demanding entry as if he were trying to consume your very breath. Every gasp you let out was swallowed by him, a confession pulled straight from your core.
"Tell me," he growled against your throat, his teeth grazing the sensitive skin above your collarbone, leaving marks that would turn a dark, tell-tale purple by morning. "Tell me you want the King to be unmade. Tell me you want the Saint to sin."
As his hands found the fastenings of your bodice, his eyes never left yours. They were dark, unhinged, and utterly devoid of the "divine" peace he preached to the masses. In this shadow-drenched room, there was no Seven, no crown, and no mercy—only the crushing weight of his power and the exquisite, dark debauchery of a man finally embracing his own corruption.
He didn’t wait for your answer. He took it from your silence, from the way your fingers clawed into the shoulders of his linen tunic. With a sharp tug, the silk of your bodice gave way, the sound of tearing fabric loud in the vaulted room. It is a finality you weren't prepared for like a bridge burning behind you and leaving you exposed to a coldness that only his feverish skin can remedy.
The cool air hit your skin for only a second before his searing heat replaced it. Baelor’s demanding hands were everywhere. You quickly realised he wasn’t only worshiping you; he was also colonizing you. His palms, calloused from years of gripping sword raked over your curves with a possessive friction that made your blood sing a dangerous, discordant song.
"The books say the flesh is a prison," he panted, his forehead pressed against yours, his left eye a burning coal in the dark. "But they never told me the walls were so soft... so maddening."
He hiked your skirts up around your waist, his knee forcing your legs apart with a blunt, dominating strength. He stepped between them with a rigid line of tension in his body. His hand slid down, finding the damp heat between your thighs. You let out a choked cry, your head snapping back against the hard oak of the table as his thick fingers forced their way into your aching centre. How long had it been since he last touched you since before Ashford? It was getting harder by the second as his rings pushed and rubbed your walls, sealing you with the seven pointed stars on his silver band, making your mind hazy with lust.
You try to find the words to protest, to call him back to the light, but your voice dies in your throat as your body betrays you, arching toward the very hand that is desecrating your modesty.
"Louder," he commanded, his voice a vibrating snarl. "I have spent my life listening to the silence of the gods. Do not drown it out now. I want to hear every sin you breathe."
He began to move his fingers with a rhythmic, punishing precision, watching your face with a terrifying intensity. He watched your pupils dilate, watched the way your lips parted as you fought for air. He was like a man discovering fire for the first time, fascinated by the way it burned.
When he finally freed himself from his robes, the sight of him—lean, corded muscle and raw, pulsing need—was a testament to how deep his repression had run. He didn't grace you with a slow entrance. He took you in one deep, staggering lunge that pinned you to the table, the air leaving your lungs in a sharp, broken sob.
"Baelor—"
A moan breaks from your lips, not from pain, but from the sheer realization that the King you once knelt to is gone. He was replaced by a creature of pure, unadulterated hunger that demands your total annihilation.
"Say it," he groaned, his hands locking your wrists above your head, his chest heaving against yours. "Tell me I am fouled. Tell me I am no longer their 'Divine' king. Tell me I am just a man, drowning in you."
He began to move with a frantic, driving pace that lacked any pretense of grace. It was all hunger... The starved, desperate motion of a predator that had finally broken its cage. Every thrust was a rejection of his vows, a deliberate step further into the abyss. The table groaned under the weight of his frantic movements, the rhythm echoing off the cold stone walls.
Your fingers dig into his back, seeking purchase in the wreckage of his piety,. As you realize that in this moment, you are not just his lover. You are his living sacrifice.
He buried his face in the crook of your neck, his teeth sinking into your shoulder to stifle his own roar of release. As he shuddered against you, his entire body racking with the force of months' worth of denied desire, he whispered into your damp skin, his voice broken and utterly unhinged.
"If this is the hell they promised me... then let me burn until there is nothing left but ash."
As the last of the tremors left his body, Baelor remained collapsed against you, his forehead resting in the crook of your shoulder. The silence of the Maidenvault returned, but it was no longer holy.
You looked up at the shadow-drenched ceiling, fingers still tangled in his damp hair, feeling the cold oak of the table beneath you and the searing heat of the King above you. For a moment, you thought of the prayers, the septons, and the "Divine" white robes discarded on the floor.
The realization hit you with a cold, sharp clarity: Baelor hadn’t just broken his vows; he had used you to shatter them. And as you felt the weight of his sin pressing into your skin, you didn't feel a need to run. You felt a terrifying, dark sense of belonging.
“Then let us burn together,” you whispered into the dark, your voice a bruised rasp that matched his own. “Because I forsake any Heaven left that would not have us together.”
He didn't pull away. Instead, he tightened his grip, burying his face deeper into your skin as if trying to hide from the Seven. The Saint was dead, the King was unmade, and in the wreckage of his restraint, you had found a throne of your own.
It now went beyond the point of being worrying and reached the point of borderline obsession, the amount of time I spend thinking about girl dad Baelor… like it pops in my head several times a day and makes me lose train of thought and it’s so fucking annoying but in the most tooth rotting sweet way I CANT
I imagine the way they cackle and burst into laughter, Baelor holding his baby princess in his gentle arms and holding her as close as possible to his chest and their identical, brilliant eyes looking at each other and her baby smile with just two little lower teeth somehow matches his wide, proud girl dad grin…
but imagine... baelor and maekar... the hammer and the anvil... not one, both.
“If it is sin to want this, then let it be a sin we choose—again and again.”
maekar volunteering himself as chaperone, seemingly all rigid duty and sharp glances, insisting it is only proper, only necessary—when in truth, he simply cannot bear the thought of leaving you alone with baelor while baelor courts you.
leaving you to baelor.
he aches.
at first, it looks like obligation. maekar standing too straight, speaking too little, always two steps behind you both… except his gaze lingers. always lingers. not on baelor—never on baelor—but on you.
baelor, of course, notices. he notices everything. the way maekar’s jaw tightens when your hand brushes baelor’s sleeve. the way his voice drops when he addresses you, softer, almost reverent, as if you are something he should not want but does anyway.
and you notice too. how could you not? maekar is not subtle—he is contained. there is a difference. all that restraint only makes every stolen glance feel heavier, more dangerous.
the first shift happens in silence. a long corridor, torches flickering low. baelor walks ahead, slow—too slow—giving maekar just enough space to fall into step beside you.
“you should not walk alone,” maekar murmurs, even though you are not alone at all. his hand hovers at your back, not quite touching, like he’s holding himself back from something far more reckless.
baelor glances over his shoulder. sees the distance. sees the tension.
and instead of interrupting… he smiles.
after that, things begin to change. deliberately.
baelor starts leaving you with maekar more often. “just for a moment,” he says, always with that knowing softness. meetings that run long. walks he “forgets” to attend. doors he closes just a little too slowly.
maekar realizes. of course he realizes. and it unsettles him more than anything else—that baelor sees through him and does nothing to stop it.
“this is improper,” maekar says one evening, voice low, strained, when you are far too close and the air feels far too warm. the word "improper" sounds like a caress on your skin and a shiver in his body.
like a sinful promise for what might.
“then stop,” you answer.
he does not. can not.
and baelor? baelor watches the both of you like this is something precious unfolding, not something forbidden. there’s no jealousy in him—only anticipation. a quiet, steady approval.
that makes everything feel even more scandalous.
the first time the balance tips, it’s because baelor makes it tip.
he draws you close in maekar’s presence, fingers gentle at your chin, tilting your face toward him… but his eyes flick past you, locking with maekar’s.
like an invitation.
like a challenge.
maekar should not step closer. he knows he should not. everything in him has been built on control, on discipline, on denying himself.
but baelor does not look away.
and you do not move back.
so he does.
after that, there is no pretending.
it becomes something unspoken but understood:
baelor is warmth, open and certain, the one who welcomes.
maekar is tension, restraint unraveling thread by thread, the one who aches.
and you are right at the center of it, feeling both—the ease and the intensity, the softness and the fire.
they orbit you differently, but inevitably, they begin to orbit each other too.
quiet conversations between the brothers grow heavier, layered with meaning. glances that last a second too long. a mutual awareness that this is no longer about chaperoning—or even just about you.
baelor is the first to name it, of course. he always is.
“we need not pretend this is a burden,” he says lightly, though his gaze is anything but light. “not when we all seem… quite unwilling to give it up.”
maekar exhales like something inside him finally breaks.
and after that, the scandal of it stops being something to avoid… and becomes something to indulge in.
shared spaces grow smaller. conversations quieter, closer. touches that linger just a second longer than they should—until “should” stops mattering at all.
and the most dangerous part?
none of you regret it.
not baelor, who watches it all unfold with that calm, knowing satisfaction.
not maekar, who finally stops pretending he doesn’t want.
and certainly not you—caught between them, chosen by both, in something that was never meant to exist… and yet feels far too right to deny.
so you lay there, naked in each others eyes. each swears a new oath to the others.
“I told myself it was duty—until I realized I would burn kingdoms before I let this end.”
“If it is sin to want this, then let it be a sin we choose—again and again.”
"Between his fire and his faith, I stopped choosing—and they never asked me to.”
"They call it excess, as if were something shameful. If that is so, I am guilty of craving it—of choosing it—of refusing to be denied it. Gladly.”
but imagine… baelor meeting you for the first time and not even attempting to hide how struck he is.
baelor is not a man easily shaken—but you unsettle him in the gentlest way. it isn’t just that he finds you beautiful (though he does, immediately, undeniably), it’s that there is presence to you. warmth. softness that feels like something sacred rather than indulgent.
where others might hesitate, might measure, might judge—baelor simply… looks. openly. sincerely. as though he is trying to memorize you from the first moment. and sees.
he speaks to you with the same quiet reverence he offers to prayer. slower, softer, attentive to every word you say like it matters more than court politics ever could.
his compliments are rare, but when they come, they linger:
“you carry yourself as though the world should be gentler—and I find myself wanting to make it so.”
...his admiration becomes unmistakable
baelor does not flirt the way others do. no teasing, no games. instead, he notices you.
“you seem more at ease in the gardens,” he says once, not as an observation but as something he’s been watching for days.
he adjusts things for you without asking—chairs, cloaks, the pace of a walk—never in a way that feels diminishing, always in a way that feels like care.
“Come here. No—closer. I am tired of pretending distance is anything but intolerable.”
and yes, he loves your body. not in a passing way. not politely.
he looks at you like softness is something divine—something meant to be held close, not hidden. and he intends to hold you close.
...but sometimes he reacts - because others do poorly...
court is cruel in quiet ways. looks, whispers, the subtle narrowing of eyes.
baelor notices all of it.
he does not lash out immediately—but the air around him changes. colder. sharper.
if someone dares speak on it directly, he answers with unsettling calm:
“I was not aware beauty required your approval.”
and that is the gentler version.
the harsher truth? baelor remembers. he does not forget disrespect—not when it touches something he has come to value so deeply.
you become, in a way, his line in the sand.
...so his admiration turns someting... deeper. realization hits like crack.
it happens slowly, then all at once.
he finds himself seeking you out not out of courtesy, but need. conversations that run too long. silences that feel too charged.
baelor is a man of restraint—but you test that restraint without even trying.
the first time his hand lingers on yours, it is accidental.
the second time… it is not.
and he looks almost startled by himself. like he crossed a boundary he cannot uncross.
then he allows himself to desire.
and possess.
baelor does not propose lightly. but when he does, there is no hesitation left in him.
it is not grand—it is intense. quiet, private, his voice low and steady:
“I do not wish to live a life where you are not beside me.”
as a husband, he is devoted in a way that borders on consuming.
he touches you often—not carelessly, but with intention. hands at your waist, your arms, your hips… like grounding himself in your presence.
he is deeply attentive to your comfort, but also to your confidence. he does not allow you to diminish yourself—not even in passing.
“do not repeat what lesser minds have said,” he tells you once, thumb pressing under your chin to make you meet his gaze, voice lower than you’ve ever heard it. “not when I would choose this—you—every time.”
...yet sometimes his softness turns into something heavier
baelor begins gentle. always. at first.
like he’s afraid you might pull away if he moves too quickly, too boldly.
but the more he learns you, the more that restraint begins to… slip.
he adores your softness. not abstractly—physically. the way you feel in his hands, the way you fit in his hands, against him. the way your dips and curves call to his most carnal desires.
there is something almost reverent in the way he traces you, memorizing, appreciating—until reverence blurs into want.
and baelor, once he allows himself to want, does not do anything halfway.
his control becomes selective. precise.
“They look at you as if they are permitted to decide your worth… I have half a mind to teach them what it costs.”
he is still careful—but now there is an edge to it. a quiet insistence.
...and sometimes... it turns into something more dangerous
the shift... where he becomes a little... unhinged about it.
baelor is still composed in public. still measured.
but in private, his restraint is no longer about denial—it is about focus.
“Careful,” he murmurs, quieter now, more dangerous for it, “you are very close to discovering just how little of my restraint is left.”
he grows… possessive, though never cruel. more like he cannot quite tolerate distance anymore.
he notices when others look at you. he always noticed—but now it lingers with him. brews... to the boiling point.
his touches become more deliberate afterward. grounding. claiming in a way he would never name out loud.
and when you doubt yourself—even slightly—he does not respond gently anymore.
he responds firmly.
"Say it again—that you are anything less—and I will not be gentle in correcting you." and with a dark smirk on his lips, "Yet you will like it the same, I promise you that.”
...his devotion softens and deepens all at once with your pregnancy
he is attentive to you in ways that intensify—more protective, more present, more watchful. so tender.
he treats your body with even more reverence, not less. as something that has carried life, that deserves care, admiration—honor.
with your children, he is gentle but unwavering. a quiet strength, a steady presence.
but with you? the intensity never fades.
because the quiet truth of it all is...
baelor does not love you despite anything.
he loves you entirely.
your softness, your presence, your body, your mind—none of it is separate in his eyes.
and once he lets himself have you…
he does not let go.
not gently. not halfway. not ever.
Thank you for this request dear @0velvet-verse0 I hope you like it💙
hello there,
you may call me nora or whatever you want. it's very nice to have you here on my blog.
i am not new around here but relatively new as a writer and english is not my mother tongue. therefore i am kindly asking you to be considerate.
as long as you are kind and doing good, feel free to contact me. i enjoy connecting people over interests and my works.
i am a working woman with a master's going on and a lot of domestic busyness so i might not be quick to reply but i will.
thanks for visiting. enjoy 💙
"They call it excess, as if were something shameful. If that is so, I am guilty of craving it—of choosing it—of refusing to be denied it. Gladly.”
but imagine… baelor meeting you for the first time and not even attempting to hide how struck he is.
baelor is not a man easily shaken—but you unsettle him in the gentlest way. it isn’t just that he finds you beautiful (though he does, immediately, undeniably), it’s that there is presence to you. warmth. softness that feels like something sacred rather than indulgent.
where others might hesitate, might measure, might judge—baelor simply… looks. openly. sincerely. as though he is trying to memorize you from the first moment. and sees.
he speaks to you with the same quiet reverence he offers to prayer. slower, softer, attentive to every word you say like it matters more than court politics ever could.
his compliments are rare, but when they come, they linger:
“you carry yourself as though the world should be gentler—and I find myself wanting to make it so.”
...his admiration becomes unmistakable
baelor does not flirt the way others do. no teasing, no games. instead, he notices you.
“you seem more at ease in the gardens,” he says once, not as an observation but as something he’s been watching for days.
he adjusts things for you without asking—chairs, cloaks, the pace of a walk—never in a way that feels diminishing, always in a way that feels like care.
“Come here. No—closer. I am tired of pretending distance is anything but intolerable.”
and yes, he loves your body. not in a passing way. not politely.
he looks at you like softness is something divine—something meant to be held close, not hidden. and he intends to hold you close.
...but sometimes he reacts - because others do poorly...
court is cruel in quiet ways. looks, whispers, the subtle narrowing of eyes.
baelor notices all of it.
he does not lash out immediately—but the air around him changes. colder. sharper.
if someone dares speak on it directly, he answers with unsettling calm:
“I was not aware beauty required your approval.”
and that is the gentler version.
the harsher truth? baelor remembers. he does not forget disrespect—not when it touches something he has come to value so deeply.
you become, in a way, his line in the sand.
...so his admiration turns someting... deeper. realization hits like crack.
it happens slowly, then all at once.
he finds himself seeking you out not out of courtesy, but need. conversations that run too long. silences that feel too charged.
baelor is a man of restraint—but you test that restraint without even trying.
the first time his hand lingers on yours, it is accidental.
the second time… it is not.
and he looks almost startled by himself. like he crossed a boundary he cannot uncross.
then he allows himself to desire.
and possess.
baelor does not propose lightly. but when he does, there is no hesitation left in him.
it is not grand—it is intense. quiet, private, his voice low and steady:
“I do not wish to live a life where you are not beside me.”
as a husband, he is devoted in a way that borders on consuming.
he touches you often—not carelessly, but with intention. hands at your waist, your arms, your hips… like grounding himself in your presence.
he is deeply attentive to your comfort, but also to your confidence. he does not allow you to diminish yourself—not even in passing.
“do not repeat what lesser minds have said,” he tells you once, thumb pressing under your chin to make you meet his gaze, voice lower than you’ve ever heard it. “not when I would choose this—you—every time.”
...yet sometimes his softness turns into something heavier
baelor begins gentle. always. at first.
like he’s afraid you might pull away if he moves too quickly, too boldly.
but the more he learns you, the more that restraint begins to… slip.
he adores your softness. not abstractly—physically. the way you feel in his hands, the way you fit in his hands, against him. the way your dips and curves call to his most carnal desires.
there is something almost reverent in the way he traces you, memorizing, appreciating—until reverence blurs into want.
and baelor, once he allows himself to want, does not do anything halfway.
his control becomes selective. precise.
“They look at you as if they are permitted to decide your worth… I have half a mind to teach them what it costs.”
he is still careful—but now there is an edge to it. a quiet insistence.
...and sometimes... it turns into something more dangerous
the shift... where he becomes a little... unhinged about it.
baelor is still composed in public. still measured.
but in private, his restraint is no longer about denial—it is about focus.
“Careful,” he murmurs, quieter now, more dangerous for it, “you are very close to discovering just how little of my restraint is left.”
he grows… possessive, though never cruel. more like he cannot quite tolerate distance anymore.
he notices when others look at you. he always noticed—but now it lingers with him. brews... to the boiling point.
his touches become more deliberate afterward. grounding. claiming in a way he would never name out loud.
and when you doubt yourself—even slightly—he does not respond gently anymore.
he responds firmly.
"Say it again—that you are anything less—and I will not be gentle in correcting you." and with a dark smirk on his lips, "Yet you will like it the same, I promise you that.”
...his devotion softens and deepens all at once with your pregnancy
he is attentive to you in ways that intensify—more protective, more present, more watchful. so tender.
he treats your body with even more reverence, not less. as something that has carried life, that deserves care, admiration—honor.
with your children, he is gentle but unwavering. a quiet strength, a steady presence.
but with you? the intensity never fades.
because the quiet truth of it all is...
baelor does not love you despite anything.
he loves you entirely.
your softness, your presence, your body, your mind—none of it is separate in his eyes.
and once he lets himself have you…
he does not let go.
not gently. not halfway. not ever.
Thank you for this request dear @0velvet-verse0 I hope you like it💙
but imagine... baelor and maekar... the hammer and the anvil... not one, both.
“If it is sin to want this, then let it be a sin we choose—again and again.”
maekar volunteering himself as chaperone, seemingly all rigid duty and sharp glances, insisting it is only proper, only necessary—when in truth, he simply cannot bear the thought of leaving you alone with baelor while baelor courts you.
leaving you to baelor.
he aches.
at first, it looks like obligation. maekar standing too straight, speaking too little, always two steps behind you both… except his gaze lingers. always lingers. not on baelor—never on baelor—but on you.
baelor, of course, notices. he notices everything. the way maekar’s jaw tightens when your hand brushes baelor’s sleeve. the way his voice drops when he addresses you, softer, almost reverent, as if you are something he should not want but does anyway.
and you notice too. how could you not? maekar is not subtle—he is contained. there is a difference. all that restraint only makes every stolen glance feel heavier, more dangerous.
the first shift happens in silence. a long corridor, torches flickering low. baelor walks ahead, slow—too slow—giving maekar just enough space to fall into step beside you.
“you should not walk alone,” maekar murmurs, even though you are not alone at all. his hand hovers at your back, not quite touching, like he’s holding himself back from something far more reckless.
baelor glances over his shoulder. sees the distance. sees the tension.
and instead of interrupting… he smiles.
after that, things begin to change. deliberately.
baelor starts leaving you with maekar more often. “just for a moment,” he says, always with that knowing softness. meetings that run long. walks he “forgets” to attend. doors he closes just a little too slowly.
maekar realizes. of course he realizes. and it unsettles him more than anything else—that baelor sees through him and does nothing to stop it.
“this is improper,” maekar says one evening, voice low, strained, when you are far too close and the air feels far too warm. the word "improper" sounds like a caress on your skin and a shiver in his body.
like a sinful promise for what might.
“then stop,” you answer.
he does not. can not.
and baelor? baelor watches the both of you like this is something precious unfolding, not something forbidden. there’s no jealousy in him—only anticipation. a quiet, steady approval.
that makes everything feel even more scandalous.
the first time the balance tips, it’s because baelor makes it tip.
he draws you close in maekar’s presence, fingers gentle at your chin, tilting your face toward him… but his eyes flick past you, locking with maekar’s.
like an invitation.
like a challenge.
maekar should not step closer. he knows he should not. everything in him has been built on control, on discipline, on denying himself.
but baelor does not look away.
and you do not move back.
so he does.
after that, there is no pretending.
it becomes something unspoken but understood:
baelor is warmth, open and certain, the one who welcomes.
maekar is tension, restraint unraveling thread by thread, the one who aches.
and you are right at the center of it, feeling both—the ease and the intensity, the softness and the fire.
they orbit you differently, but inevitably, they begin to orbit each other too.
quiet conversations between the brothers grow heavier, layered with meaning. glances that last a second too long. a mutual awareness that this is no longer about chaperoning—or even just about you.
baelor is the first to name it, of course. he always is.
“we need not pretend this is a burden,” he says lightly, though his gaze is anything but light. “not when we all seem… quite unwilling to give it up.”
maekar exhales like something inside him finally breaks.
and after that, the scandal of it stops being something to avoid… and becomes something to indulge in.
shared spaces grow smaller. conversations quieter, closer. touches that linger just a second longer than they should—until “should” stops mattering at all.
and the most dangerous part?
none of you regret it.
not baelor, who watches it all unfold with that calm, knowing satisfaction.
not maekar, who finally stops pretending he doesn’t want.
and certainly not you—caught between them, chosen by both, in something that was never meant to exist… and yet feels far too right to deny.
so you lay there, naked in each others eyes. each swears a new oath to the others.
“I told myself it was duty—until I realized I would burn kingdoms before I let this end.”
“If it is sin to want this, then let it be a sin we choose—again and again.”
"Between his fire and his faith, I stopped choosing—and they never asked me to.”
I ve been away for quite some time but I want to go back to writing with some Baelor fics or mini fics/headcanons/all sorts of stuff. I’m open to fluff/angst/smut and all.
I’ve been seeing soooo many great works recently in this fandom and I want to create a story that includes this lovely fandoms dreams or thoughts on him.
My reqs are open as always and would love some brainstorming in the comments too, if you like.
If we haven’t met yet, please feel free to check my main acc and masterlist -pinned- and reach out ❤️
Imagine Aemond with his precious baby girl, who is barely at at the age of one and a half and exploring everything around. Using all her senses, curiously touching and feeling. And the little princess' favourite feeling of closeness is to her daddy. She spends her mornings, bedtimes and quite some time in between those within dada's embrace by watching his expressions, movements of his good eye and lips closely.
Considering her age, she is surprisingly conscious of his "owie" eye and stitch marks. Dada has a "boo boo" according to her young cousins Jaehaerys and Jaehaera. Although never had seen what's under the eyepatch before, she can comprehend he was hurt in a way now and her little tummy feels weird at the thought of her favourite big person being hurt. So she acts on to make it better.
That evening Aemond holds her in his arms as he often does before tucking her in, as close as possible to his chest which is bursting with his love for his precious. She watches his closed eye intently as he tells her tales of old Valyria and dragons from the story book with colourful dragon paintings that he had made for her first name day. With his relaxed state, busy good eye and hands full with her and the book, he doesn't see her baby hands coming to his eyepatch and tugging at it; pushing it up successfully and baring all his stitch marks. He is so petrified but yet again careful not to hurt her in a panicked movement, he can only close his eyes and drops the book to fix his eyepatch.
He is late to break that shock moment though. Precious is already yanking his head towards herself by his soft locks -which are also among her favourite touch and grab items- and pushing her face into the owie side of his face, gives a warm and light lick to his scar trying to kiss her loving dada better. Neither stops there and keeps giving open mouthed healing kisses all over his cheek and eye.
Aemond is so struck by his little princess' affectionate act, he opens his eyes to see her properly without a second thought. He pulls her away from his face and the sapphire meets her equally bright eyes she inherited from her father. Her initially bewildered looks turn into awed ones and between her chubby cheeks, a wide smile with four baby teeth appears.
While still eyeing the sapphire she snuggles closer to his face and carefully reaches her short forefinger to touch the blue shine. Aemond is holding his shallow breaths as she examines. As soon as she is content and familiar with the newfound wonder of hers, she puts her cotton candy like hands around his face and gives yet another notoriously eager kiss on his sapphire eye.
Aemond finally releases his breath as tears fill his good eye but his chest feels even tighter than before. He lets out a sobbing laugh and rains his precious with kisses everywhere within the reach of his lips, breathing without a single worry or insecurity for the first time in a decade.
