honey

marie, venezuelan, 20s, backup for @hxneywilde

[hxneywilder]

Honey's masterlist Ⳋ᧙

AKOTSK

Maekar Targaryen

"I have confidence in confidence alone" (x reader. Small imagine of a Sound of Music!au, septa!reader)

Baelor Targaryen

"Watered-down duty"

(x reader. Baelor pays a visit to the Water Gardens, where duty is forgotten for good. Martell!reader)

"Girl dad!Baelor"

(A little idea I have of how Baelor would be like with a daughter. This is actually background for a fic I have in mind, but I needed to post it)

[hxneywilder]

Im watching animal kingdom (bc Shawn Hatosy is not enough in the pitt) and why is everybody playing in Pope's face omg😭😭

[hxneywilder]

Some girl dad!Baelor Targaryen

Some girl dad!baelor headcanons!! For my targaryen reader au.

NO INCEST (sometimes a girl needs paternal love😔), really sweet, i made this as background for a fic i have in works.

TW: wholesome dad-daughter relationship, actually beating myself on the ground while writing this, sickly sweet honestly, GRRM should've give baelor a daughter tbh

Posting this on father's day hell yah

Girl dad!Baelor who was contented with his sons, at the end of the day he had done his duty having an heir and a spare. So when, Jena got with child again he didn't felt indifference –not at all, he would always love his children– but he felt no need of going down the path his brother was going, already having a fourth child on the way.

Girl dad!Baelor who was convinced this child was going to be a boy too, as it seemed it was the only thing he sired. But then the maester walked out of his wife's room, immediately after the noises inside where over, and announced the birth of a girl.

Girl dad!Baelor who tried to act indifferent to the news (a girl or a boy. It was all the same, right?) but he couldn't pretend that his heart didn't made a funny move or that his posture didn't straightened immediately.

A girl? Not a boy like he expected.

Girl dad!Baelor who walked into the room, the smell of incense and the grusomeness of birth gretting him, and as he crossed the few steps to the bed where his wife laid he couldn't stop thinking –a girl, a princess. A little girl of his–. He kissed his wife tenderly, for Jena had done a third time something he thought fascinating, and he tried so hard not to stare at the bundle in her arms. To not seem so eager, so fascinated. It worked until Jena raised her arms up.

Girl dad!Baelor who felt like he was seeing a baby for the first time. He knew it was irrational, he had children already, he had had his fill of babies –both his own and his brothers'– but this felt different; this wasn't a boy he could train in swordfighting or put the pressure of the Realm on, this was a girl –a princess of the Realm– he was supposed to see being taught needlework and table manners.

He did not know what to make of it.

Girl dad!Baelor who delighted himself with every single thing his infant daughter did.

"Oh, look at her eyes, Jena, they're so big."

"Look how she stares at you, Maekar. She's really perceptive."

"Let her have your book, Valarr, don't you see she's already investing herself in the intellectual world."

Girl dad!Baelor who allowed his toddler daughter to stay by his side as much as she wanted. Jena scolded him, saying it wasn't proper for a princess –such a little one, nonetheless– to wander around the Council chamber or the Throne room while important matters were discussed.

"How else is she suppose to learn?" He had said, as his eyes trailed behind his daughter toddling around his solar with something in her hand– his brooch it seemed.

"Wouldn't Valarr be a more resonable choice?" Jena retorted. And she was right.

Baelor did not answer.

Girl dad!Baelor who was always busy with his duties but still found time to spent with his daughter. A small habit he started cultivating: five more minutes during breakfast just to speak with her (even if a toddler's conversation subjects didn't go beyond ponies and endless why's), walking her back to her rooms because she had lessons with her septa, letting her nap in the cushions of the couch in his solar, or simply allowing her to play near his feet as he worked.

Girl dad!Baelor who spoiled his daugher rotten, as much as Jena's despair. She liked a ribbon in one of the Court's lady's hair? She had a box of them the next day to put on. She laughed too loud at some jester's jokes one night? That jester had a secure spot every gathering. She wanted to take her father's Hand of the King's brooch? She could have it.

"Don't you think she has enough dolls, husband?"

"One more can't hurt."

Girl dad!Baelor who kissed scrapped knees and palms after she feel while playing with her cousins. They were far too rough, as they were not only older but boys.

"Let's get you a treat for being so brave, yes, firefly?"

Girl dad!Baelor who woke up one night because something –someone– was trying to climb the bed by using him as a rung. He opened his eyes and sighed when he saw his daughter trying to pull herself up the bed, little hands pulling at the blanket, unintentionally digging into his leg. A futile attempt.

"Want to get in, firefly?" He asked softly. He couldn't refuse her, not even then.

Her face turned to him and he saw clearly the reason why she was there: her tiny face was scrunched, nose sore from scrubbing and she still had stray tears in her lashes.

"What happened, firefly?" He sat down, back against the headboard and picked her up. As he pulled her into his lap, she curled herself against him, wiping her face against his shirt.

"Bad dream."

"A bad dream? Well, do not worry about that now." He leaned down and kissed her soft hair. "You're safe now, firefly."

Girl dad!Baelor who took the work of teaching her not only how to read and write but also to teach her high valyrian. Yes, dragons were long gone and so were the golden years of their House, but she was a princess, his little girl who was still not spared of the worlds expectations.

Girl dad!Baelor who saw her grown up into herself. Toddling legs and puffy cheeks changing into long limbs and the sharper face that came with age. To say he was heartbroken would be an understatement, he was proud –of couse he was, his little girl growing everyday– but years passed by and left tiny drops of melancholy behind.

Girl dad!Baelor who, with the years, had made more time for his daughter. She was growing up, getting older and her attention was starting to get divided with her own duties as a princess, and yet they both found time to sat down every evening together. Sometimes it was tea, sometimes a quiet moment in Baelor's solar, but the time was there. And Baelor couldn't be happier.

Girl dad!Baelor who asked the servants to always have a plate of pastries just for her in his solar.

Girl dad!Baelor who was his daughter's biggest supporter. She wanted to learn falconry? Of course. She wanted to learn to paint? Everything she needed was already there.

There was no limits.

Girl dad!Baelor who loved all his children, but his heart had a soft spot for his only daugther.

Okkk, so this was shorter than I wanted but I had to post something gor father's day and baelor was the man, so here it is

Hope you liked it!!

[hxneywilder]

And if i say I have a girl dad!baelor fic (actually one shot) in the works, then what? 😋😋😋

[ildico-the-golden]

look at your dad (such a dork)

↪︎ wanna go on an unexpected date with that dada? part 2 here

Includes: modern!Baelor x f!reader / modern!Maekar x f!reader

Warning(s): ModernAU, kind of a crack!fic really (i wish my dad kept bees)

GIF by @sakuraspoke

The thing about Valarr, sweet, naïve Valarr, was that he had absolutely no survival instincts.

"He's just reading," he said, from beside you on the kitchen counter, stealing grapes from the bowl between you with the casual ease of someone who had decided you were close enough friends that your food was his food. "It's not that interesting."

"He's got two pairs of glasses on," you said.

"He does that." Valarr ate another grape. "He loses one pair, so he puts on another and then he finds the first pair and instead of swapping them he just—" he gestured vaguely, "stacks them."

You looked back through the kitchen window into the living room where his father was arranged in the armchair by the lamp with the particular quality of a man who had achieved a level of comfort he intended to defend unto death. Dark hair, threads of white catching the warm lamplight. Two pairs of glasses. A book that appeared to be roughly the size of a brick, held with the careful reverence of someone deeply personally invested in its continued structural integrity.

He had a cup of tea on the side table that he had not touched in forty minutes because he kept forgetting it existed.

"What is he reading," you said.

"Something about Byzantine military strategy."

You stared.

"For fun," Valarr added. "He does it for fun."

Baelor turned a page. The lamplight shifted across the lines of his face — the strong bearded jaw, the particular set of his brow when he was concentrating, the slight movement of his lips because he occasionally read difficult passages quietly to himself without realising he was doing it, a habit Valarr had told you about once with the fond exasperation of someone who had grown up watching it and could no longer imagine its absence.

He reached for his tea without looking. Missed it by four inches. Patted the table twice, frowning faintly at his book, and then looked down with an expression of mild surprise at the existence of the cup, like he had genuinely forgotten he had made it.

"Oh no," you said quietly.

"Yeah," said Valarr.

Baelor took a sip of the tea, realised it was cold, made a face of profound personal betrayal directed at no one, set it back down, and returned to his book.

You were experiencing something you didn't have a clean word for. It sat somewhere in the vicinity of I would like to bring this man a fresh cup of tea every day for the rest of my natural life and considerably south of that as well, if you were being honest with yourself, which you were trying not to be.

He turned another page. Murmured something to himself. The lamplight caught the line of his jaw and the silver in his hair and the careful way his hands held the book, and you were, genuinely, a little embarrassed about yourself at realizing that you were, in fact, biting your lower lip.

"Valarr," you said.

"Mm."

"Your dad is—" You stopped. Tried to start again. Stopped again.

"Is…" Valarr prompted, with the patience of someone who had been watching this unfold for the better part of an hour and had popcorn, metaphorically speaking.

You watched Baelor reach for his tea again. Miss it again. The same four inches. The same faint frown. The same expression of mild existential surprise upon locating the cup.

Something in you gave way entirely.

"Valarr," you said. "I want to fuck your dad."

The grape Valarr had been eating went somewhere it was not supposed to go. He coughed. You waited. He held up a finger, collected himself, and turned to look at you with an expression that cycled through several distinct phases — shock, offence, processing, reluctant resignation — in the space of approximately four seconds.

"That's my father," he said.

"I know."

"You just said that about my father."

"I'm aware of what I said."

"He's reading about Byzantine military strategy."

"I know! But him being a nerd isn’t helping," you yelled-whispered to your friend.

You looked back through the window. Baelor had found his tea again, remembered it was cold, and was now looking at it with an expression of genuine philosophical sadness, as if looking at it would eventually warm its content again.

Valarr stared at you for a long moment. Then he looked at his father through the window. Then back at you. The reluctant resignation had settled into something that looked almost like the beginning of a plan.

"He needs a fresh cup of tea," he said slowly.

"He really does."

"Someone should bring it to him." A pause. "He likes it with a splash of milk. No sugar. He'll look up when you come in and forget what he was reading for a moment because he's polite like that, and when he takes his glasses off to look at you properly he'll probably—" Valarr stopped himself. Pinched the bridge of his nose. "I cannot believe I'm doing this."

"Valarr—"

"The kettle's right there," he said, getting off the counter and leaving the kitchen with the dignity of a man washing his hands of a situation while absolutely enabling it. "I'm going to be upstairs. Not hearing anything. For a very long time."

You were already filling the kettle.

GIF by @prettysharwood

You had come over to study.

That had been the plan. That was still, technically, the plan, in the same way that standing in Daeron's kitchen doorway staring into the back garden while your notes sat untouched on the kitchen table was still, technically, adjacent to studying.

"What are you looking at," said Daeron, from somewhere behind you, in the tone of someone who already knew and was choosing to witness it anyway.

"Nothing," you said.

"You've been looking at nothing for six minutes straight."

Through the kitchen window and the glass of the back door, Maekar was in the garden.

He was doing something to a raised bed that appeared to involve a great deal of focused activity — kneeling in the dirt in old jeans and a worn grey t-shirt that had not survived contact with the garden soil in any meaningful way, hands dark to the wrist, white hair shoved back from his face with what appeared to have been a forearm and was now sticking up at an angle that should have looked ridiculous and did not. He was frowning at the soil the way, Daeron had once told you, he frowned at everything that failed to immediately cooperate with his intentions.

He said what seemed like a profanity by the look on his face under his breath. Adjusted whatever he was doing. The frown deepened fractionally.

The t-shirt was doing a lot.

"He's been out there since eight," Daeron said, now beside you with a mug of coffee and the expression of a young man who had made his peace with his life. "Something about the drainage not being right."

"Does he garden a lot?"

"He acts like it's a tactical problem he's been assigned to solve." Daeron drank his coffee. "Last month he made an Excel spreadsheet."

"A spreadsheet."

"For the tomatoes." A pause. "It had conditional formatting."

Outside, Maekar sat back on his heels and looked at the raised bed with his arms resting on his knees and dirt on his beard and the particular expression of a man reassessing a situation and preparing a revised approach. The late afternoon light was doing something entirely unreasonable to the line of his shoulders. His forearms were right there. Existentially. Just present in the world, doing that to your composure.

You needed to get a grip.

"He looks like that when he's cooking too," Daeron said conversationally. You wondered if he wore an apron. "And when he's parallel parking. And when he's doing the crossword. Basically, whenever he's concentrating on anything he gets that—" a vague gesture toward the window— "face."

"The face," you repeated.

"You know the face."

You knew the face. The face was a problem. The face combined with the forearms combined with the dirt on his bearded jaw combined with the knowledge that he had made a colour-coded spreadsheet for his tomatoes was creating a situation inside your chest that you were not equipped to manage.

You did not get a grip.

"Daeron," you said.

"Mm."

The words were out before you made a decision about them. "I want to fuck your dad."

The silence that followed had genuine texture.

Daeron lowered his coffee mug with the slow care of a man buying himself time. He looked at you. You looked at the garden. Outside, Maekar was frowning at the soil again, entirely unaware that his drainage problem was the least of what was currently happening in his kitchen.

"That's—" Daeron started.

"I know."

"He's my dad."

"I know."

"You came over here to study."

"I am studying."

A long pause during which Daeron appeared to conduct an internal debate of some complexity. You watched Maekar stand, brush the dirt from his jeans, push his hair back from his face with one forearm, and survey his raised bed with his hands on his hips. The t-shirt. The forearms. The hair. The frown.

"He's going to be insufferable about the drainage for the rest of the evening," Daeron said finally. "He needs something to redirect his attention."

You said nothing. You let that sit.

"He doesn't know you're here," Daeron continued, in the tone of a man constructing a case for something he will deny constructing. "I could go tell him. He does this thing when he's surprised — not bad surprised, just caught off guard — where he kind of—" another vague gesture— "resets. Stops frowning. It's a good moment."

"Daeron."

"I'm just providing information."

"You're facilitating."

"I'm going to go tell my dad you're here," he said, setting his mug down and heading for the back door with the air of someone who has made peace with their choices. "And then I'm going to remember that I have somewhere else to be. Urgently." He paused with his hand on the door. "He likes it when people are direct, by the way. He has no patience for anything else."

"I know," you said.

Daeron looked at you with suspicious eyes, like how long has this woman been observing my father without me noticing kind of eyes. He preferred not to walk down that line of thought and went to open the back door instead.

"Dad," he called, "look who came to visit!"

Maekar looked up from his raised bed. Found you through the glass. The frown shifted into something else — not quite a smile, but the suggestion of one, that fractional movement at the corner of his mouth that you had learned was as much as you usually got and had discovered was entirely sufficient.

Daeron brushed past you back into the kitchen, collected his jacket from the chair, and pointed at you on his way to the hall.

"I want absolutely no details," he said. "Like ever. Under any circumstances."

"Obviously," you said.

"Not even a look. Not a grin. Nothing."

"Daeron."

"I mean it,” he directed one final look to you from the front door. He turned on his heels and, with that wicked smile he usually saved for when he wanted to get under your skin, said: "Go on, pup, go get your toy."

Your eyes widened at the audacity of the man. But, when the front door closed behind him and you looked back through the glass at Maekar, who was still watching you with that fractional almost-smile and the dirt on his jaw and the forearms, you smiled and decided, for maybe the first time in your friendship, to not argue with Daeron.

So, you opened the back door.

I am completely normal about these men. Yeah. Completely normal.

Taglist: @qardasngan @nerdyinfluencertastemaker @princessphilly @shyravenns @loveslide @dulcebloodhnd @caitlynluna

Want to join the taglist? Leave a comment here!

[hxneywilder]

This is soooo good. I love me some old men endearment

[hxneywilder]

"Watered-down duty"

Baelor Targaryen x fem!reader

"Duty was the foundation of everything Baelor stood for: the Lord Hand, the Heir to the Throne. But Dorne had a way to peel off every layers of not only clothing but of the soul itself"

TW: INCEST (very briefly mentioned, like so brief i forgot myself) reader is not only a Martell but a Targaryen (daughter of Maron Martell and Daenerys of Dorne😋, so this is like double kill), age gap (reader is in her 20's, Baelor is like mid-late 30's, but once again not mentioned), no physical descriptions for reader so imagine her as you please

English is not my first language!!

There's few things that could be missed in Dorne: warmth, breeze, the eager moves of bodies and endless nights full of music and starry skies were available even to the most unfortunate, specially in the Water Gardens.

The palace, made as a wedding gift to delight your mother, stood proudly next to the Summer Sea. Tall sand-colored walls enclosed the vast garden and the pools. You had grown up between Sunspear and the Gardens, just like your siblings; balancing softly in the middle of being the crown family of Dorne and just children; between duty and the simple pleasure of living.

It was easy to forget duty in the Gardens.

The sun was up in the sky, warm and merciless to the ones under her, the breeze eased the sting of sunrays and the pool waters refreshed sunkissed skin. You had been making flower crowns with the little girls the whole evening, gathered under one of the blood orange trees around the pools with bundles of freshly picked flowers and thread scattered on the grass.

Some of the girls were daughters of minor houses but most were unfortunate orphans from every corner of Dorne; however, here they were simply girls, some young enough to still wobble as they walk, others old enough to blush at young knights. Or at young princes.

"Stop gaping." You called out at two of them, daughters of a minor lord under House Blackmont lordship. The girls jumped and blushed, their sunburned skin turning an embarrassing shade of red.

The other girls giggled. They blushed even more.

"The princes will not be swallowed by the pools if you stop looking." You added, looking briefly at where the princes were standing by the pools before casting your eyes down at the crown you were making.

"Yes, princess."

"Sorry, princess."

The girls stumbled with their words and their blush deepened, if that was even possible. The group erupted in giggles again and one of the other girls made a mocking kiss sound that made the giggles turned into laughter.

"Brianna likes the princes!" Siya, one of the eldest, jested. She pulled Brianna to her side and put a crown over her head as she hold her tight. "Oh, she wants to marry them!"

"Stop! Princess, tell her to stop!" Brianna squirmed, trying to pull away from Siya's embrace.

You can't help but laugh. It was a familiar sight: the jest, the laughter, and the summer heat wrapping the moment in a memory that would linger in the garden for years to come.

And the aggressive blush of poor Brianna.

"Now, Siya, let her go." you commanded softly, and the girl did as she was told. Duty may be forgotten but sometimes the titles that came with it got in handy.

You smiled at the girls and nodded at them to continue with their craft. As one of the smallest girls fumbled with her crown you moved to assist her, sitting her on your lap and guiding her hands with agile fingers braiding the stems.

The summer buzzed around the little group, the dornish warm as familiar as an embrace. You took brief glances at the pools: your older brother had been given the task to entartain the princes; Valarr and Matarys hadn't been in the Gardens since they were children and they had spent the whole day wandering with your brother, relearning their way around the halls.

The princes were a sight to behold; Valarr had grown into a handsome man, the white streak in his dark hair and his mismatched eyes making him stand out for the ladies to look. Matarys' was different but not less from his brother, his copper hair got brighter under the sun and his shoulders were covered in freckles that he didn't mind to cover.

They were truly an odd representation of house Targaryen, but they were chivalrous and gracious. Just like...

"Princess." A sultry voice, one that had taken your thoughts since its owner's arrival, made you turn your head.

There, dressed in light linen and silk, was Baelor Breakspear, the honorable Hand of the King.

"Lord Hand." you greeted him, smiling politely.

The man smiled back, a closed-lip smile that you knew was adquired from years of learned politeness. But when it was aimed at you, you liked to pretend it wasn't a pleasantry but a genuine smile.

"May I request you to walk with me? In the Gardens." He asked, clutching his hands behind his back.

The request was polite, innocent enough, but he held your gaze with far too much intensity, his mismatched eyes —one a rich brown, the other deep regal purple— taking you in, noting every part of your reaction.

You could feel the flock of girls around you starting to booze, their attention divided between Prince Baelor and you, and whatever it was their sunburned minds were conjuring about the two of you.

"Of course, your Grace." You answered, your face still composed in a mask of breed graciousness.

The little girl in your lap stood up in wobbly legs, giggling as she stumbled away with the flower crown held tightly in her small hand. You stood up too, brushing off stray petals and cut stems that had pooled over your skirts. Baelor was already waiting, his arm extended for you to take.

One of the girls giggled nervously. And another shushed her.

You wrapped your hands around Baelor's bicep, the fabric of his tunic soft under your palms as he guided you away from the pools into the more intricate part of the Gardens. The breeze made the surroundings smell like the close sea, a salty fragrance mixed with the musk of dornish flowers and blood oranges; Baelor walked the both of you down a step of stairs, his steps measured, unhurried towards a canopy surrounded by large trees. You knew the canopy, it was secluded from the rest of the Gardens, it was built for the mere purpose of being use for afternoon tea or simply for private conversation.

The structure was made of a sturdy wood, the pillars had been carved with images of suns and oranges, there were vines wrapped around them and the ceiling was covered with leaves and colorful flowers, a lovely blanket of warm colored petal.

"My mother has tried for ages to grow those in the Red Keep's gardens." Baelor speaked softly, as you both walk under the protection of the canopy. "Unsuccessfully, I'm afraid."

"The capital is far too humid, my Lord." You added, sitting down on one of the plush chairs.

"Baelor, princess. No need for titles."

His voices was, oh, so steady. You tried not to show how much you enjoyed it.

"Of course. My apologies." You agreed. "Sometimes I forget, that's all. I guess there's not as much familiarity as there should be."

"No, there isn't." He replied, sitting down too. "A shame, if you ask me."

You allowed your eyes to wander. He was, to say the least, a man easy on the eyes. He could have pass as a dornish man if it wasn't for his one purple eye, a valyrian purple that gave away his ancestry. His nose had been broken before and stood crooked in the middle of his face, but it did not made him any less handsome. Looking down, his shoulders squared proudly under the soft fabric of his clothes, linen that wrapped loosely over his torso until it reached his lap where his hands rested.

His hands.

Strong, steady. The hands of a man that had used them throughly in both battlefield and the quieter matters of the Realm. He wore rings, one with the signet of his house, the three-headed dragon and the others simpler silver bands.

Would they be cool against the skin? Or were they warmed by his contact?

"These Gardens have not change much since the last time I was here."

"Excuse me?" You blurt out, suddenly pulled away from your shameless gazing.

"Except the children, of course." Baelor continued, unfazed. "Those have changed."

"Oh, yes. Every year it seems there's more and more." You laughed, thinking fondly of the endless sea of children that arrived every year. "They're lovely, most of them. Being here keeps them away from trouble."

"A noble labour." He hummed and his gaze landed on your face, unmoved. "You've changed too."

"I've grown. To my father's misfortune or so he says." You cited your father's words. Maron Martell pride himself on having raised exemplary children but he still lamented that they had inevitably grown up.

Baelor gave you a smile.

"That I can understand." He replied, his eyes never moved an inch from your face. "It seems like yesterday when Valarr and Matarys were just children. Not like I think of them as any different."

"Prince Valarr has a betrothed." You remind him.

He hummed at that and raised his eyebrows almost dismissively, his eyes finally left your face. He leaned against the back of his chair, giving away an even wider view of the expanse of his body.

It took everything in you not to look away from his face, not to let the mask slip as you examined his side profile: the straight line of his nose, the dip over his lip, the soft hair covering his cheeks...

"It is not polite to stare like that, princess." He spoke then, facing you again.

He sat composed and his expression could've been called serene if it hadn't been for the intensity in his eyes. It was something that had made him stand out when his name came out during conversations: the Hand of the King was a man of intensity; not as much as his younger brother, who was valyrian fire through and through, but as a warm ember, constant and reliable and one second to turn into flames if necessary.

That intensity was clear in his eyes.

"W–what?" You had stumbled with your words, and the heat wrapping around your throat had nothing to do with the weather.

"Let's not." He leaned over, his elbows resting over his knees as he invaded the space around you. "Let's not pretend, princess. I had the impression there was no need to pretend here."

"There is none."

"Perfect."

You two stay quiet, enganging in a silent fight of wills. His unmovable conviction of thinking —knowing— what had been going on in your mind and your reluntance to accept it and give in.

Baelor made the first move. His hand fell over your knee, the warmth of it seeping through the fabric of your skirt, his hand trailed up your thigh, leaving a burning trail all the way up until he stopped at you hip, his fingertips barely touching the fabric of your bodice with his palm flat over the plush flesh near the juncture of your hip.

"Is this alright?" He asked, and his tone was steady, casual. Like he didn't knew what his actions were implying.

Is it?, you wondered, is it alright?

Your body did not wondered and reacted on its own. Your hand covered his, smaller fingers clutching the back of his hand, not to push away but to anchor yourself.

For this was real, for the lingering gazes of his were not a fragment of your imagination, nor was the way his voice lowered when adressing you.

It was alright, indeed.

You nodded then, a sign for him to continue. And so he did.

He stood up, towering over your sitting form, his hand letting go off you for a second before it found its place over your cheek. His fingers were warm, roughed by the years, and the contact made your eyes fluttered. Your mouth fell agape in a silent gasp of air.

"The Gardens may have not changed, but you truly have. Have you not, princess?" He inquired, and his hand pressed fully against your cheek. His ring was cool against your skin. "You have, far too much."

You had, yes.

"You're a woman grown." He continued. "A beautiful one, a princess of both Sunspear and house Targaryen. Maybe that's why I find so strange that you're still unwed."

You opened your eyes, finding his mismatched ones.

"Duty does not reach the Gardens, my prince."

He hummed, fingers tracing the side of your face, grazing the lobe of your ear. You had used his title on purpose, to try —even if it was futile— to stir in him something more.

"I guess not." His voice was low, as if he feared of being heard by someone else but you.

"And yet you wear duty in your very step." You replied. "You have not shed off the Lord Hand you have to be in King's Landing."

"It is not that easy."

"Is it not?"

His lips closed in a straight line. You had recognized that expression like the one he made when he held his composure, stopping his mouth from running his thoughts. Nothing else could be expected of the Hand of the King.

But you did not want the Lord Hand of the Realm, nor the prince raised to be the Heir to the Throne, you wanted to see the man that peeked briefly when you caught him staring at you for far too long, the man that spoke to you lowly as if he was sharing a secret every time.

You wanted to see that man.

You wanted him.

And you wanted him so much you had drowned that voice that told you he was your kin, that he was off limits. That voice spoke of duty, and who cared about duty now?

"You said not to pretend, so please don't held back." You said. "I'd like to hear what you truly think, what you crave."

Me, me, me. Say you crave me.

"It's not in me to speak so obscenely of a lady, much less of a princess." His ring had warmed against your cheek.

"Even if the princess wishes to hear?"

"Even."

"And if the princess wants you to show her?"

He did not answer right away, but his body did for him. His hand clenched, fingers tightening against plush flesh, a barely percieved restrain that made you want to push him further.

"Is that what you wish?" He asked.

"Will you deny a princess?"

"No."

Plain, simple. A single word that undid days of contained truths.

His other hand found the other side of your face and he pulled you up, steady hands pulling until you collided against his chest. The kiss was less restrained, his lips crashing into yours and he tasted of wine and something so specially him that made you moan into his mouth.

His hands moved from your face to the back of you head, making you get on your tiptoes and hold onto his shoulders to steady yourself against his body. The fabric of his clothes was soft between your fingers as you cling to him, clawing at his shoulders like a lifeline. He kissed how you imagined he would: strong, confident, demanding when he had to and giving away more than he probably meant to. He barely gave time to breath as he took your lips over and over again.

Your head was spiraling as he kissed you like a man starved, taking from you and from your lips, and you allowed him. Allowed his tongue to probe into your mouth, allowed his fingers to dig into your hair, allowed his body to press into yours, the evidence of his desire in between...

Baelor was the first to pull away.

His hands untangled from your hair, long fingers resting over the sides of your neck instead. He looked as wrecked as you felt: his lips were swollen and his eyes had a wildered gleam that you had never seen before on him, his chest moved up and down rapidly as he tried to catch his breath. Your own breathing was fast too, and you were sure your hair was a mess, the braids undone and stray strands of hair poking out.

So that's how it felt? Being kissed by Baelor Targaryen.

Your chest felt warm all over and you couldn't help the smile that overtook your face.

"Wish granted?"

"Mostly."

Baelor's fingers tightened over your flesh and he pulled your face close again, he did not kiss you this time, just held you. Breaths mingling together until all you could breath was nothing but him.

"Then i shall deliver it in full, or it would be a shame on my name."

His lips were over yours once again, and you welcomed the rush that it made bloom in your chest. And you grip at his shoulders, pressing yourself against the firm expanse of his body: soft curves against him, thin linen barely a barrier between you.

Baelor had been raised a man of duty, you knew that much. A man who put everything before himself, and yet here he was; kissing you, touching you, wanting you.

He had finally shed off duty. Shed off the responsibilities bigger than himself, and was just pouring it all out. And you welcomed it.

For duty, alas heavy, was easily forgotten.

Author's note: I've had this in my notes since march 😭 but uni had me by my throat, hope you liked it. Luckily this could have a second part

[wweskywalker]

a sunset in sunspear

[hxneywilder]

Oh, my lord husband 💔

[hxneywilder]

"I have confidence in confidence alone" a small the sound of music au for Maekar

Some blurbs, drabble, imagine (?) (i´m not well versed in this, please bear with me), about Maekar in a Sound of Music!Au (bc i couldn't stop thinking about it), with reader insert of course

This could turn into a series if i get over my laziness. English is not my first languaje!

-"A prince with six children, what's so fearsome about that?" Plenty, it seems.

-You weren't a septa just yet, having been in the order for barely a year, but you were smart, cheerful -to a fault, the other septas said-, and had a way to make everyone warm up to your presence. So when the Crown asked for a septa to be send to Summerhall -again- you were chosen.

-Or better said, you were sacrificed. Summerhall had chewed and spat septas left and right, to the most seasoned ones to the youngest least stern ones. 

-You were send inmediatly, with a simple dress and even simpler belongings in your bag. You expected chaos, hesitance and even dislike from the children.

-Summerhall did not made honor to it's name. It was grand, yes, and beautiful, but it felt cold in a way no house with six children should be.

-Prince Maekar had welcomed you, more out of duty than anything. And when he presented you the children your expectations were met.

-Six kids, the eldest 15 and the youngest a 4 year old little girl. She could understand the prince's perpetual frown. The children had been delightfully behaved in front of their father, but after he left... she understood why many septas left.

-They were unruly, to say the least. The two eldest boys claimed to be too old to have a septa, Daeron was more dismissive, but Aerion was sharper and almost cruel with his remarks. The other four were less hostile: Aemon was 7, quiet but too witty, Daella was every bit of a princess (sweet but far too spoiled), Aegon had a habit of wandering off, and Rhae was just 4, barely more than a babe.

-The first night Daeron had appeared in your rooms, soaked by the rain outside and suspiciously unstable, slurring with his words and telling you not to mention a thing. He surely expected to leave your rooms without being noticed, and he would've been succesful if his youngest four siblings hadn't rushed in your room, scared by the storm.

-Aerion had appeared too, grumbling and claiming he wasn't scared, he just wanted to make sure nobody did anything stupid.

-From then on the children had warmed up to you. Even Aerion.

-They started to open up and you finally noticed they weren't bad kids at all. Troubled, spoiled and flawed, but they weren't bad (yes, including Aerion).

-Summerhall finally started to feel like before, the children started to laugh again, play, they had even begged you to sing to them and tell them stories. The seven of you had settled in a nice routine, even Aerion had become less hostile towards his siblings (and anyone else in general), Daeron had told you about his dreams, Aemon talked about his books, Aegon asked you to play knights with him, Daella was the sweetest girl asking to be told tales and for you to brush her hair before bed, Rhae had welded herself to your hip, playing with your sleeves, hair and anything she could get her hands on.

-Maekar had noticed it too. He grumbled and was his brooding usual self, but he softened: the corner of his eyes when the children passed by, the tension on his shoulders when they laughed, the coil in his chest when he had a glimpse of your voice...

-The last one was a dangerous one.

-Then, one day, Maekar came back from his trip to King's Landing and had found the lot of you fooling around in the gardens. A miniature battlefield, all versus all; his children soaked in water they had collected in buckets and their clothes (one's he had never seen before) stained with grass and dirt.

-He had raged, for that behaviour was not the one of princes and princesses. The children had try to defend themselves, to deflect, but he had won anyway. So they walked back inside, defeated.

-He didn't knew what to do with you. He should've let you go, he would've -if you were someone else, someone he didn't want- but he couldn't. So he just argued, raised his voice at you, thinking it would make you see reason. But you barked back at him.

-"Oh, please, my prince, love them! Love them all!"

-He had stopped then, clenched his jaw and dissmised you to your rooms, just like he had done with the childrens.

-It took a while after that, but Maekar thought about your words. And finally, he opened up too. He asked for your presence in his solar, shared his wine and asked for your opinions. He told stories, of his family, the rebellion, and his late wife.

-He tried to pretend he didn't looked forward to your meetings every day, tried to pretend you hadn't carved your way not only into his home but also into him (his preocupied mind, his troublesome heart). You were a septa, or you will be one day, so anything he could harbor about you could not be.

-You told yourself the same thing. He was a prince of the Realm, a seasoned warrior and widower. It didn't matter how much you enjoyed to be by his side, how soft his voice turned when addressing you, how much he remembered each silly thing you told him as if it was important.

-Neither of you acted on your desires. Until the children noticed.

-Nothing ever had united the Maekarlings more, they schemmed and plot, made up little white lies, got proudly grounded along the way. But at last, they succeded.

-Maekar wasn't a soft man, but he had kissed you so tenderly, had hold you so warmly...

-He didn't pledge his love in any grand way, but his violet eyes had gleamed under the moonlight, his hands holding your face and he leaned over and over again for even more kisses.

-He was a man hardened by battle, scorched by a lifetime of duty, marked by loss and grief, and yet there he was: holding a lovely woman in his arms, far too good for him, someone he had no way to deserve, and yet he did.

-"So somewhere in my youth or childhood. I must have done something good."