"someone asked me
to describe home
and i started talking about your hair color
and the sound of your voice
and the taste of your lips
and how your skin feels like
until i realized
they had expected to hear a place"
--Daria M
“I feel like a part of my soul has loved you since the beginning of everything. Maybe we’re from the same star.” --Emery Allen
I'm working on part two of Dornish Flower's and Dragon Fire but here's a little blurb from Baelor's POV from part one. If you haven't read part one this should still make sense but it is part of that same verse.
Summary: Baelor watches you dance.
CW: None...that know of? Let me know if something should be mentioned.
Unedited because fuck it why not.
“You’re staring.”
Baelor ignored Maekar’s comment as his brother took the space beside him, his attention across the room where you were dancing with Aerion, occasionally flicking over to Gormon Peake. The Lord of Starpike had had his eyes on you all night and Baelor trusted the man no more now than he had when he walked off the Redgrass Fields.
“You’ve been watching her all night.” Maekar spoke again. His voice was as gruff as usual but amused in a way one wouldn’t notice unless they knew him.
“Our aunt asked us to keep an eye on her guests.” Baelor responded, watching as his nephew waltzed you around. His gaze narrowed on the way Aerion’s hand slipped from a respectable position lower and lower. He only relaxed when you spun from Aerion’s hands in a whirl of silk, managing to make it look like part of the dance. He would have believed it himself had he not seen you do similar moves in your previous dances. You had clearly gotten good at avoiding unwanted touches, something that you should have to endure.
Maekar stepped in front of Baelor, obscuring his view of you. “Our aunt asks us to keep an eye on her ladies. Your response is you assigned landed knights to keep an eye on most of them while the Hand of the King personally watches over a lesser lord’s daughter?”
Baelor patted his brother on the shoulder. “You’re watching over the young Dayne lass. I’m doing my share.”
“That is my niece as you are well aware. Dyanna would have my bullocks in a vice from beyond the pyre if I let harm come to her kin. It is not the same and you know it.”
Baelor opened his mouth to brush off the comment but Maekar held up a hand to silence him. Lowering his voice so only Baelor would hear, Maekar continued,“You’ve been watching her since the welcome dinner. I haven’t seen you this intense since Jena, and I’m not the only one who’s noticed. Or do you think my son is truly interested in her?”
Baelor’s gaze snapped to his brother sharply. It hadn’t surprised him that Maekar had noticed his attention, his youngest brother knew him better than anyone and was observant in a way most people didn’t realize. Aerion who rarely looked beyond his own self interests was another. He knew well the tastes of his nephew and he refused to let you be used in such a manner.
A flash of orange caught his eye but when he looked in that direction all he saw was the whisper of a cloak leaving the great hall. Stepping around his brother he scanned the dance floor but you were no longer there. Looking about the room he spotted Aerion who caught his eye and gave him a smirk that was far too smug. Ignoring his nephew he continued his search, cursing when he realized both you and Peake were missing.
“Brother-” Maekar started but Baelor ignored him.
At the bottom of the dais Ser Donnel and Ser Roland stood guard, ever vigilant. All it took was a single motion and they fell in line behind him. He had to find you. He had to make sure you were safe. He couldn’t admit out loud yet, not to the people, not to council, not to his father, not even to his closest brother, but you were meant to his. And he would do anything to keep you safe.
Summary - The kingdom has gathered for Prince Valarr's wedding festivities but you have grown tired of young princes and old lords. A walk in the garden to clear your head leads to an encounter you never would have expected.
Pairing - Baelor Targaryen x fem!Dornish!Reader,
CW - Sexual Harassment (not from our man), anti-Dornish racism, age gap, fem!reader, no y/n and reader is not physically defined, reader from an unnamed Dornish house, no show spoilers.
Word count: this was supposed to be a drabble...so it's 6k
AN: This is my first time writing anything from ASOIAF and it's my first time writing x Reader fics so be gentle on me. I've already planned for a part 2, and possibly a part 3 to this if it gets interest. Shout out to @ishtarelisheba for beta reading this and putting up with my bullshit.
The loud, boisterous cheers from the great hall faded as you stole away from the feast in full swing. The announcement of Prince Valarr’s betrothal had gone out, the wedding now less than a week away, and King’s Landing had been flooded with lords and ladies from Winterfell to Sunspear. Your mother was a lady-in-waiting and friend to Princess Daenerys, and you had the privilege of traveling with the princess on her journey back to the capitol. While the princess had been warmly received back at court, the rest of her Dornish entourage less so.
You had seen the way lords and ladies alike look at you with disdain, and sometimes open hostility. They scoffed at your accents, whispered insults about your dress, turned their noses up at the Dornish foods that the Good King had prepared for you. Dornish born and bred, you knew the art of poison, and here it was laced in every word and deed. You knew your parents hoped for you to find a match here, possibly even amongst the King’s own grandsons, and so you held your tongue.
You smiled and played nice with the ladies who smiled to your face, ignoring their sneers and false compliments. The women were easier to ignore. Everywhere in the world women battled for power. Men fought in tourneys and on the battlefield for honor and power. Women fought in closed rooms and bright solars. While men used weapons of iron and Valyrian steel, women used words and the gentle touch. The lands may be different, but the fight was the same. You knew how to handle noble women. Men, however, were a different matter.
You were no stranger to the desires of men. Dorne was not so prudish with its values and thoughts on sex. The difference between home and here was clear, however. In Dorne, sex was an exchange of pleasure and consent. Here the lords seemed to think they were entitled to your time and body. You had expected the leering looks-men were still men regardless of their nobility. It was the wandering hands that you took offence to. Back home, if a man touched you without your permission and consent, the only kiss he’d experience would be the kiss of your knuckles against their jaw. Your father and brothers had shown you how to defend yourself, to ensure you weren’t helpless. However, the rest of the kingdom frowned on such actions, considering them feral and ‘unbecoming of a lady.’ So for the sake of your family, you became an expert in dancing away from the unwanted touches while placating the egos of men old enough to be your grandsire. Still, there was only so much you could tolerate.
The cool air was welcome after escaping the grasp of one of the princes. Dareon? Aelor? Aerion? You didn’t remember their name, but they were silver-haired and violet-eyed, with the ego that only a Targaryen prince could boast. The night was still young as you stepped out into the gardens. They were so different from the ones back home, but lovely in their own right. Paper lanterns decorated with the red and black of the Targaryens and crests of Prince Valarr’s Tyroshi bride swayed in the light spring breeze.
The Young Prince seemed a good man, inheriting his father’s sense of honor and duty. You had met the crown prince only briefly upon your initial arrival to King’s Landing and the following feast welcoming Princess Daenerys back to the keep. He was different from what you had expected, clearly favoring his mother’s coloring instead of the standard Targaryen palette. He welcomed the whole of the Dornish contingent, recounting stories of trips in his youth to his mother’s homeland. He commanded a room without needing to raise his voice, not through fear and abuse of power, but through a genuine respect from those around him. Your father and uncles had served under him during the Blackfyre rebellion and spoke endlessly of Prince Baelor’s valor and honor. As a young girl, you used to tease your father about how he sung the prince’s praise, but having met the man in person, you now understood why everyone held him in such high regard.
You walked aimlessly amongst the fragrant blooms until a soft breeze brought the familiar scent of blood lilies. The scent was a surprise to you and drew you deeper into the gardens. The flower was your favorite, native only to Dorne, growing along the banks of the Greenblood and introduced to the Water Gardens. You followed the floral scent to the center of the garden where several large pots held the flowers. Dipping your head, you inhaled deeply, the scent filling you with nostalgia. Memories of summer heat on your skin and playing in the pools of the Water Gardens, playful flirtations and first kisses that tasted of sour wine. Everything that reminded you of home.
Lost in memories, you almost missed the sound of footsteps approaching. You straightened slowly, the polite mask you wore here at the keep slipping back into place. You didn’t turn as the stranger stepped up beside you, focusing on the deep red flowers in front of you. From what you could tell of the man from your peripheral, he was older, closer in age to your father than yourself, dressed in orange and black. You were saved from striking up polite conversation when he spoke first.
“You left the feast early. You should be careful. Iit’s dangerous to wander off at night. Especially as an unaccompanied lady.” The words were spoken softly, but a prickle of fear ran up your spine. You were well aware that you were a woman alone in the garden with a man you didn’t know, who had apparently been watching you enough to notice you slip from the feast. You don’t know what you had done to deserve the attention, but you weren’t thankful for it.
You slowly made your way around pots of flowers, your fingers tracing over the petals as you put space between you and the man. You glanced at him as furtively as you could, trying to place him or his house. His doublet held a pin representing three black castles on an orange crest, and you cursed yourself for not paying more attention to your lessons on the noble houses of the realm. You knew he wasn’t from Dorne, nor was he from one of the great houses, but you couldn’t place him. Still, you fixed a polite smile on your face despite the chill this man instilled in you.
“I came to admire the gardens. I hadn’t expected to find blood lilies here, so far from home.” It wasn’t a lie, but you felt no need to tell him that you had come to escape the overwhelming company that the ball entailed.
“King Dareon had them brought over from Dorne soon after his wedding. To please his lady wife.” The man’s voice was hard as flint but with a sarcastic lilt at the end that stripped any warmth from his tone. Just as you had, he brushed his fingers over the blood red petals of the flower before plucking them off one by one and letting them flutter to the ground.
Before you could do more than make a noise of surprised protest, he continued, “Originally he tried planting them in the garden, but the buds withered and died before they could even bloom. Twice more he tried but, to no surprise, they didn’t take. His Grace had to bring in dirt all the way from the barbaric wastes just so his bride could have her flowers.”
While his words themselves were polite, his tone, the way he practically spit out “his grace” made clear his true feelings. You glanced again at the man’s pin, something tickling the back of your mind. Your father once mentioned something about a Marcher lord who lost his castles after the rebellion for siding with the Black Dragon, yet still his house escaped you.
You could feel his eyes on you, his stare burning holes through you, so you met his gaze head on. You refused to cower under his flinty stare. Dorne did not bend or break. “The king is a good man, to go to all that trouble just to bring a piece of home here for his bride.” Your voice remained quiet but strong.
“The king should have learned that Dornish trash can not bloom in civilized society.” No longer did the lord hide behind false niceties, speaking his true apparent feelings.
With broad steps, the lord followed your path around the flower pots, crowding into your space. Despite his obvious distaste for your home, his hand came up to brush along your shoulders.
For the first time, you cursed the Dornish cut of your dress and how it bared so much skin. You tried to shy away from his proprietary touch as he pushed the dress from your shoulder, but his hand shot out to grab your wrist before traveling up to cup your neck. He was close enough now that you could smell the wine on his breath and, despite the low light, you could see how lust glazed his eyes.
You shoved at his chest, but he was strong and held you tight, the hand at your neck moving up to grip your hair at the root. “I’ve been watching you. You’ve played quite the polite lady, so far. One could almost believe you were one.”
“Let go of me!” You cried out, louder than you intended, as you fought against his hold. You pounded against his chest, but he simply took the blows as if they didn’t faze him. You clawed at his face, but he easily captured your hands in one of his, all your father’s self defense training rendered useless in this moment of need.
“Why so shy now? I’ve never fucked a Dornish whore, but maybe I can find out why the king is so enraptured. Why he was so willing to give space at court for a people that refused to bend the knee until their ‘prince’ could stick his cock in Daeron’s sweet sister.”
You were about to call out for help when suddenly you were free from the lord’s grasp and sent stumbling back into the flower pots. You and one of the pots went down-you heard it shatter just before your hand came down on a shard of ceramic. You hissed out as the ceramic bit into your hand, blood welling from the wound and running down your wrist to fall to the ground just like the flower petal did moments ago. A shadow fell over you, and instinctively you shrank back, expecting the inebriated lord, Instead found yourself looking into the mismatched gaze of Prince Baelor.
You were unsure where he had come from, but you couldn’t be more happy to see the prince. “My lady, are you alright?” His voice was measured and kind as he knelt down to be at your level, but you could see the worry in his eyes.
You gave a slightly shaky nod, your eyes darting over the prince’s shoulder to where the lord who had menaced you was pacing back and forth, partially obscured by the two Kingsguard who stood between the prince and him. He caught your gaze and you held it even as fear and adrenaline had your heart beating a mile a minute. Had the prince and his guard not shown up, who knows what would have happened. You didn’t want to think of what that outcome could have been.
Gentle fingers touched your chin, bringing your attention back to the prince, who looked at you with a kind smile. “Don’t worry about him. Are you hurt?”
His gaze washed over you, and before you could try to claim you were okay, he was taking your injured hand in his own. Small pieces of painted ceramic remained in the cut from your fall and dirt had mixed with the blood, causing the wound to sting. Baelor’s thumb traced along the cut, not touching it directly but ghosting alongside it as he examined the injury. He fished a handkerchief from his pocket and wrapped it loosely around your hand. You hissed slightly at the pressure and he gave you a sympathetic smile as his thumb brushed back and forth over the pulse beating wildly beneath the thin skin of your wrist.
His eyes. Seven above, his eyes were distracting, both deep blue and warm brown. So different than any of the other Targaryens you had met. You recalled the violet eyes of the prince you danced with and found you much preferred Baelor’s mismatched stare. It both humanized him and gave him an otherworldly look. You understood now the presence people referred to when they spoke of the Targareyns. This was the blood of the dragon in human form.
You could feel his eyes on you as he looked over the way your dress hung from your shoulder and how the hair was pulled free from the intricate braids your maids had twisted them into. You watched as he glanced back at the lord and you saw the minute changes that turned Prince Baelor Targaryen, Hand of the King, into Baelor Breakspear, The Hammer of the Redgrass Fields. For a moment, you were sure violence was going to break out, based on the way the Prince’s face went dark, A blink of a moment later, his attention was back on you.
“My lady, let me help you back to your chamber." Baelor gently helped you to your feet, making sure you were stable before he unclasped his cloak and wrapped it around your shoulders. The cloak was still warm from his body and enveloped you in his scent. You glanced at the other lord but Baelor stepped into your view, blocking your way as his hand came to rest on your lower back.
He looked over his shoulder at the Kingsguard, gesturing to the lord. “Ser Donnel, ensure Lord Peake gets back to his quarters. He will be leaving on the morn. Ser Roland, please fetch Maester Lewyll to the lady’s quarters.” He didn’t wait for the Kingsguard’s response before leading you back through the garden.
Once removed from the situation the adrenaline started to abate, and you could feel yourself shaking in a way that had to do nothing with the cool night breeze sweeping through the garden. You were acutely aware of what had almost happened. Dorne was more relaxed when it came to sex, but a woman violated? It was still a shame on your person, on your name, on your house. It was still unfortunately common that violated women were forced to be married off, either to their abuser or whoever would be desperate enough to take “ruined” stock. You were moments from a future you couldn’t even truly imagine.
You hadn’t realized you had come to a stop in the middle of the corridor until Baelor was in front of you once more. Again his fingers found your chin to tilt your eyes up to his. “My lady, are you sure he didn’t hurt you? You do not need to fear his reprisal. He will not be permitted near you again.” There was no judgement in his voice, just concern and a flicker of steel in his gaze as he glanced over your shoulder back the way you came.
“He didn’t. Nothing lasting, that is. You don’t need to escort me back, I assure you I’ll be fine. I’m sorry to have interrupted your evening, Your Grace. ” You honestly felt embarrassed about the whole thing now. You should have known better. You shouldn’t have let yourself get caught in that situation. You should have done more to get away.
Your guilt spiral was halted as the prince said your name. The shock of it made your mind go quiet because up until now you hadn’t realized he knew it. He continued as if you weren’t staring up at him in mild shock, leading you along again back towards your quarters with his hand a solid pressure at your lower back. “You didn’t do anything wrong, my dear. He was watching you all evening, trailing you like a hunter tracking his prey. From the moment you entered, he had his eyes on you. When you left after your dance with Aerion, he stalked after you. He assaulted you. It is he who is in the wrong.”
You blinked up at the prince in surprise, a slight blush darkening your complexion. You hadn't realized the prince had been paying such close attention. “You were watching me?”
It must have been a trick of the candle light as you walked through the halls of the keep, because you swore you saw the prince’s own cheeks darken. “You are a ward of my aunt,” he said, as if that explained everything.
The ward of the Princess of Dorne, who was also the sister of the king? It would look bad on both Dorne and the king if something was to happen to them under the king’s watch. It would have made perfect sense, had it been true.You were loyal to Princess Daenerys and thankful for her invitation, but you were not her ward. The events of the night either made you bold or you had lost common sense, for you raised an eyebrow in disbelief at the prince. You were not buying his explanation.
Baelor gave an almost sheepish smile. “My aunt did ask for me to keep an eye on her ladies. While anti-Dornish sentiment has lessened some after their assistance in the rebellion, she wanted to ensure the safety of her companions. She was worried some Marcher lord would try to take advantage of the situation. The princess is clearly a wise and insightful woman. At her insistence, we’ve had city guards and knights loyal to the crown keeping watch on your and your companions.”
You wanted to inquire on how you, the daughter of a minor lord, had earned the attention of the crown prince and his two Kingsguard, but you had reached the door of your chambers. Baelor opened the door for you but stopped you from entering with a hand to your shoulder. He peered inside as if he expected Lord Peake or some other disgruntled Reach or Stormlander to be hiding inside, and after the recent events, you were inclined in favor of his paranoia. Only after Baelor was seemingly pleased with the safety of the room did he allow you to enter.
You hadn’t realized how tense you still were until you were in your own quarters and could remove the mask of false cheerfulness you were forced to wear here at court. You moved to the pitcher of wine on the small table in the room. You didn’t really care for the overly sweet wine they tended to prefer here in King’s Landing, but if ever you needed a drink, it was now. Without thinking, you picked up the pitcher, only to let it fall to the ground with curse as you used your injured hand.
The clang of metal on stone echoed loud in the chambers, and all you could do was stare at the red liquid as it spilt out onto the floor, soaking your slippered feet. Your hand throbbed with pain. Freshly aggravated, it started to bleed once more. You watched as the blood soaked through the fine white linen of Baelor’s handkerchief and the only thought in your mind was how you were ruining everything you touched tonight.
You didn’t even realize you were crying until a hand was at your cheek brushing tears away. After everything that had transpired tonight, you couldn’t help the way you jumped at the sudden contact, nearly slipping due to the spilt wine. Before you could hit the ground and embarrass yourself further, Baelor had caught you and, for the second time tonight, you found yourself in his arms. Looking up at him, you once again found yourself gazing into Baelor’s striking eyes. You expected to see pity in his gaze, for you were feeling pretty pitiful at this point, but he only looked at you with kindness.
He helped you regain your balance but didn’t immediately pull away, one hand lingering at your waist as if he was worried you would go crashing to the floor if he wasn’t there. With his other hand, he brushed the remaining tears from your cheeks. “My lady, please do not cry. Tell me how I can help you.” His voice was impossibly soft, and he kept his thumb brushing back and forth over the apple of your cheek.
“I’m sorry, Your Grace. You don’t need to wait here with me. I appreciate everything you have done for me, but I have ruined your night enough. I’m sure the maester will be here soon. I will be fine.” You tried to instill the same confidence in your voice you had when you spoke to Lord Peake, but the events of the night had left you in shambles and your voice just came out flat.
Baelor frowned at that, his head tipped to the side. “What do you believe you have ruined?”
A headache was starting to form at the base of your skull from the stress of the evening. “Your Grace, it’s kind of you to pretend otherwise, but we both know this mess is my fault.”
“What is your fault?”
With a sigh, you moved to a nearby chair, unsurprised at this point when Baelor followed with a hand to your back, and sunk into it. Looking up at the prince, you could see this wasn’t something he was willing to budge on. “I ruined your night. It's your son’s engagement feast.”
Baelor picked up the dropped pitcher and returned it to its place, his back facing you. “As far as I’m aware, the feast is still going on with none the wiser as to what took place in the gardens,” he voiced over his shoulder.
“I’m sure your son would want you at his side,” you countered, admiring how the candlelight flickered over the salt and pepper hair. The prince may not have the traditional Targaryen looks, but he was still a very handsome man
Baelor poured you a cup of water from a second pitcher, responding as he sat the cup in front of you. “Valarr has barely strayed from Kiera’s side since her arrival. I doubt he has even noticed my absence.”
“Even if that’s true, I went into the garden alone. It was foolish of me. I should have known better.” You gave voice to the thoughts that had been clanging around your head.
Baelor settled into the chair opposite of you, taking your injured hand in his and unwrapping it to inspect the wound. “You are a guest of the king. You should be able to walk around without fear of being assaulted.”
You sipped the water Baelor had poured you as he examined your hand, hoping he didn’t notice the way your pulse raced under his touch. If his goal was to distract you, he was doing a good job, because as he once again ghosted along the cut on your palm, all you think of was how his fingers would feel elsewhere. You had always known the prince was handsome, even before you met him. Your mother had told you that when it was announced that Baelor would marry Lady Jena Dondarrion, the women of the seven kingdoms wept at the loss. Age had only improved upon his already good looks, and being this close to him had you feeling like you did right before your first kiss. Giddy, nervous, and with butterflies the size of birds in your stomach. As if sensing your thoughts, the prince’s eyes met yours, and you could feel your cheeks darken under his gaze.
A knock at the door broke the moment, startling you, and you realized you had been leaning in closer to the prince. Embarrassed and hoping he couldn’t tell, you sat back quickly, glancing at the door. Ser Roland stood just inside the door with the Grand Maester, who was looking between you and the prince with a raised eyebrow. “You sent for me, Your Grace?”
Baelor stood and gestured to you. “The lady suffered a cut.”
The maester’s eyes flicked to you and then back to Baelor as if waiting for more and you became acutely aware of the fact that the Prince had called in the Grand Maester for a cut to your hand. The Grand Maester who sat on the small council with him and helped guide the realm was here because you cut your hand. If it hadn’t been such an emotionally charged night you would have laughed at the absurdity, instead you just gave a tired smile.
“I’m sorry to be such a bother Grand Maester.”
Maester Lewyll glanced at Baelor once more, but when the prince said nothing further and just nodded at you, he took the spot that Baelor had vacated. You offered your hand, jumping slightly as the maester took it in his much cooler one. With slow precision, he picked out painted shards of terracotta from the wound with tweezers and let them plink to the table.
“I will have to apologize to the queen for the destruction of one of her arrangements,” you muttered, half to yourself. It wasn’t a task you were looking forward to having to explain.
“The gardeners will have it fixed by morning,” Baelor replied with certainty from where he stood over the maester’s shoulder, watching him clean the wound.
“Lord Peake-” you started out but froze when Baelor’s head shot up, his eyes full of fire at the mention of the man who harassed you. When Maester Lewyll paused and looked up at you with a searching glance, you cleared your throat and motioned for him to keep going. Turning your attention back to Baelor, you continued. “The man in the garden said that the king had to bring in soil from Dorne for them. That they withered without it.”
From the door, Ser Roland chuckled, and Baelor cracked an amused smile. “Yes, that is the story.” At your confused look, he continued. “My grandsire was not overly fond of my parents' union, to say the least. He hated my mother for being Dornish, but they were wed during the reign of my namesake, who was determined to bring peace between us and Dorne. So when my father insisted they bring in flowers from my mother’s homeland, King Baelor had it done.”
You hissed as Maester Lewyll stitched your hand and Baelor’s eyes shot to the maester, who was either used to such looks or was doing a damned good job at ignoring the death glare he was receiving.
“Shouldn’t she receive something for the pain?” Baelor inquired with more bite in his voice than the poor maester deserved, but you waved him off.
“I’m fine, Your Grace. It just caught me off guard,” you replied honestly. You had been so caught up in Baelor’s story that you hadn’t noticed the maester had finished cleaning the cut. Not that you were going to say that much. You gave a nod to the maester to continue before speaking again, “What happened next?”
Baelor eyed you as if looking for any discomfort before continuing. “The flowers died and my mother claimed that they would only thrive in Dornish soil. My grandsire said it was proof that Dorne should be stomped under the claw of the dragon that was the Targaryen might. King Baelor disagreed. He had the soil brought up, escorted by the Dragonknight himself. When grown in the Greenblood's soil, the flowers blossomed and bloomed, and King Baelor declared it as proof that the Seven themselves blessed my parents' marriage, and that the Targaryens would grow stronger with the strength of Dorne to support them.”
Bealor’s gaze focused solely on you as he spoke, as if trying to convey something unsaid but important. Yet, under his intense attention, all you could do was pray that he mistook the flush on your face as a reaction to your injury.
Maester Lewyll tied off the last stitch with efficient fingers, wrapping your hand and instructing you to keep it clean and dry, and impressing on you to reach out if you noticed any sign of infection or worsening pain. At your thanks and assurance, the maester took his leave, but not before casting a lingering look at Baelor that the prince met with his own steadfast stare.
You looked over the gauze that was weaved between your fingers, down the palm of your hand, and ended just below your wrist. It certainly wasn’t the most sightly accessory, but you took small pleasure that the injury meant you had an excuse to avoid dancing with the lecherous lords who had set their eyes on you of late. After tonight, you were in no hurry to let any man get close.
Baelor glanced over at the door where Ser Roland still stood, ever the watchful guard, and occurred to you how this could look, the two of you alone here in your quarters. With his Kingsguard in place, Baelor ensured your honor remained unsullied, even from a prince of the realm who no one would question.
“Does it hurt still?” Baelor’s soft voice interrupted your introspection and you found yourself correcting your previous thoughts. There was one man you were willing to let get close.
“It is nothing, Your Grace. I’m thankful for Maester Lewyll’s excellent care. Though I do believe I will be sitting out the dances until this heals,” you joked, giving him a small smile. A true one, not the one you perfected for court.
Baelor took your wrapped hand in his, holding it gently in his own, positioning it as if you were to dance. His touch was gentle, holding your hand without putting any pressure on the wound itself. “You simply need to find the correct partner, my lady.”
You ducked your head to hide your blush, choosing to change the subject. “You didn’t explain what you meant earlier about the flowers. You said King Baelor had the flowers and the soil brought in and declared it meant peace with Dorne. Yet you claim the gardeners could fix the broken one by morning. How so?”
Baelor kept hold of your hand as he spoke. “When the flowers died after being planted here and my mother said they had to be planted in Dornish soil, no one questioned it. What they didn’t know was that she and my father had been watering the flowers with boiling water and vinegar. It scalded the plants and they withered.”
You stared at Baelor in shock for a moment as you processed what he said. “Wait…why?” you questioned, trying to picture what would drive the good king to do such a thing. You had no skill with tending to plants, but even you knew the king’s actions would kill the flowers.
Baelor chuckled, a warm sound you wanted to hear more often. “Because he knew how much his father hated Dorne, and he knew King Baelor would follow through with the request. It drove my grandsire mad when the flowers bloomed and Baelor and the Sept rejoiced. When he became king, he wanted to destroy them, but the High Septon and small council convinced him that to do so would bring more trouble than it was worth. So they stayed, and every time he saw them, he seethed.”
A laugh bubbled free as you listened. You knew that King Daeron’s relationship with his late father was strained at best and the former king had used every opportunity to take shots at him. You hadn’t known that King Daeron had fought back.
“So the flowers don’t need to be Dornish soil? You can just replant them?”
“We can, and we have before.” At your surprised look, Baelor continued, “You are not the first person to take a tumble in the garden. My parents raised four boys, three of us with children of our own. At some point all of those pots have been broken and replaced.”
“How does no one know this?” you asked incredulously. Gossip spread like wildfire in the Red Keep, and yet Peak hadn’t known or deliberately lied to you.
“Only the royal family, a few members of the Kingsguard, and chief gardener know.” Baelor hesitated before continuing somewhat sheepishly. “And now you.”
You glanced away to hide the smile that was threatening to break free at his admission, pleased that he trusted you with this secret. Your gaze landed on your injured hand, which Baelor still held within his own hands, and you wondered if he realized he still held it. You didn’t know what you had done to earn such interest from him, but you weren’t complaining. Still, you knew it couldn’t last.
You went to ask him again why he was so attentive to you, what you had done to earn this level of trust, but when you opened your mouth, what came out was a yawn. Your face flamed red as you reached a previously unheard of level of embarrassment. “I’m so sorry, Your Grace. It’s been a long night and-”
Baelor waved off your rushed apology with a smile. “Do not apologize. It has been a long night and I have kept you from your rest.”
You tried to protest, but Baelor just shook his head. Using his gentle hold on your hand, he pulled you to your feet and pressed a kiss to the back of your hand before letting go. The brush of his lips to your skin stole any thoughts from your head, which thankfully he seemed to take as exhaustion on your part.
Baelor gave you a small smile, taking your silence as his cue to leave. “I will let you get your rest. Sleep well, my lady.”
You watched as he left, your hand still tingling from where his lips had touched it. You ended up hugging yourself to keep from doing anything stupid, something stupid like reaching out and asking the crown prince to stay and take you to bed. When your fingers closed around soft velvet, you realized that you were still wearing the cloak Baelor had wrapped around you in the gardens.
“Wait!” you called out, rushing out to the hall, “Your Grace!" Your voice carried through the hall, but thankfully it was empty, besides Baelor and Ser Roland. You skidded to a halt in front of him, closer to him than you intended. Close enough that you could feel the heat of him and could smell the scent of his cologne with each breath. Clearing your throat, you explained, “You forgot your cloak.”
Your fingers fumbled to unfasten it so you could give it back to him, but he stilled your hands, his fingers brushing against your throat and sending shivers down your spine. His hand rested at your throat, thumb brushing over the pounding pulse, as he looked down at you.
“Keep it,” Baelor insisted, his voice soft. There was a moment where he seemed to hesitate before he leaned in, breaching the short distance between the two of you. You went stock still as he pressed a kiss to your cheek, whispering in your ear as he pulled away, “Targaryen colors look good on you.”
At your shocked silence, he withdrew, and immediately you missed the warmth of him. He gave you a final smile and nod. “Good night”
You managed to mumble out a response and walk back to your quarters, though you were not sure how, given that your mind was replaying the kiss over and over on a loop in your mind. You could still feel the press of his lips to your cheek, the slight scratch of his beard versus the softness of his lips. Your mind supplied intriguing questions, such as how his kisses would feel on other parts of your body and how you could find out. When you finally crawled into bed, you were exhausted from the events of the evening. You quickly fell into a dreamless sleep, the cloak clutched tightly to your chest.
A non-writer asked me "but where do you get your ideas" and i genuinely did not know how to explain that it's not a place. it's not a website. it's not a folder. it's that i was on the bus and a woman was holding a paper bag very carefully and something about the way she held it made me need to know what was inside and then i needed to know why she was sad about it and then there was a whole person and then there was a whole story and the bus had already stopped and i missed my stop. that's where.
genuinely one of my favourite details about Bram Stokers Dracula that isn't really transferred to the pop culture is that vampires have irridescent eyes, they appear brown at a glance, however when light is reflected on them they seem to go red!
another thing that pop culture latched onto is this idea that you might use a wreath of garlic bulbs to ward off a vampire, however, in the book there is a popular use of garlic blossoms rather than the bulbs. i think these are a lot prettier and way more versatile for stylisation! you could have a garlic flower crown.
also like the cowboy part can we please stop omitting the fact that there is a real ass cowboy in Bram Stokers Dracula and hes from real ass Texas and he has a fucking gun and he tries to fucking shoot Dracula
The implication of Victor being an undergrad in the novel is incredibly funny because, yes, it explains so much of his behavior and audacity, but it also means Victor's apartment could've been some sort of student housing, which means there were other undergrads living there, too.
Which means when Victor wakes up to the Creature standing by his bed like ☺️, and Victor freaks out and runs away, the Creature could have ostensibly wandered into the hallway after him, only to be met with a pack of incredibly drunk-after-an-all-night-1818-rager yet well-meaning frat boys.
Who were so blasted that they were just like, "Dude, what, do you play rugby? Holy shit, he's fuckin' huge, look at this fuckin' guy! Absolute unit!" And they all whooped and hollered and just ushered the Creature into their dorm to keep the party going.
And the Creature was just like, "?????" but very pleased to find other people vaguely shaped like him, so he lets them because he may be just minutes old but he knew early on all he really wanted was one (1) buddy and now there's, like, a herd of them and they're all having a blast.
When the guys inevitably pass out, sloshed beyond all sense, he just sits and waits for them to wake up and when they do, later that morning, he's poking at one of them to make sure the guy is still breathing, and the kid wakes up and yells for a second and squints at the 8 foot-tall (rugby???? player????) guy in their dorm and is like, "Shit, what is that?"
And another one squints at him and goes, "I don't fuckin' know, bro, but he can throw us so hard. Did you see how David just...fuckin'...flew out the window last night? Just hurled David like it was no big deal. That was awesome."
David groans and puts his head under his pillow because his headache is awful but he lets out a pained, muffled, "that was awesome" in agreement.
So in a rare case of wholesome frat boy camaraderie, this herd of college roommate boys, all of whom are dumb as rocks but well-meaning, just take the Creature in because, "There's this huge fucking monster guy and it's the coolest thing we've ever seen."
This would possibly mean the Creature is socialized to be a dumb-as-rocks frat boy, but because I cannot allow that to happen and because there is no universe in which he would not be into poetry, he somehow also gets socialized by liberal arts majors and is just as Sensitive™, it rubs off on his frat buddies, who start saying things like, "No, man, it's Sturm und Drang, it's, like, the fuckin' vast rolling of the soul that, like...fuckin' eschews Enlightenment rationalism."
But some of the boys' lingo inevitably rubs off on the Creature so when, months later, Victor comes back to get all of his things with Henry post-mental breakdown, he bumps into a crowd of rowdy guys playfully jostling each other, and that crowd includes an 8-foot tall dude in a letterman jacket holding a volume of Goethe in one hand and a tankard of beer in the other, and he scoffs down at Victor and goes, "Accursed Creator! Why didst thou abandon me in my hour of need? Fuckin' lame."
i know that when a book describes dragons picking up their riders they probably mean scruffing them by the neck in their mouths like a kitten, but i always imagine something like this
