requests are permanently open! however, do not expect me to write a story out of every single one, i only choose to write those that i like the most and that i have time for. thanks for understanding!! :d
i write for: harry potter universe, lord of the rings, throne of glass, game of thrones, a knight of the seven kingdoms, house of the dragon, the hunger games, fourth wing, project hail mary
in which the biohazard tape is finally crossed during a candlelit bunker date
word count: 2,1k
requests are open!
The concept of "repetitive testing" proved to be dangerously distracting.
It took exactly twelve minutes for the adrenaline to fully fade, leaving behind a highly charged, thoroughly unprofessional atmosphere. You spent those twelve minutes furiously organizing your perfectly aligned row of pens, acutely aware of Ryland watching you from his side of the room.
He hadn't stopped smiling.
"Stop looking at me," you commanded, snapping the cap onto a highlighter with a sharp click. "We need to finish that report for Stratt. We have actual work to do, not... whatever just happened."
"Whatever just happened?" Ryland echoed, kicking off his desk so his rolling chair glided smoothly until its front wheels bumped exactly against the red tape. He leaned forward, resting his chin in his hands. "Stratt can wait. I think 'whatever just happened' was highly successful."
You pointed the highlighter at him like a weapon. "It was a fluke."
"Right. Sure." His blue eyes crinkled at the corners. He reached down and casually flicked the red tape. "So, about this border..."
"It remains in effect," you stated. "Your chaos is still a threat to my sanity."
Ryland sighed, a dramatic, suffering sound. "Fine. If you're going to be a dictator about it, I guess I'll have to submit a formal request for a temporary visa. For a date."
Your hands froze. "A date."
"Tonight. Seven PM," he confirmed, his voice dropping an octave, replacing the jokey tone with something infinitely warmer. "Dress code is... whatever you consider casual. Which, for you, I assume is a slightly less ironed blouse."
"The cafeteria serves dehydrated stroganoff and nutrient paste," you pointed out, though your heart was doing that traitorous flutter again.
"Just be ready, Doc." He shot you a devastatingly handsome wink, spun on his heel, and immediately tripped over his own trash can. "I'm good! Totally meant to do that!" he called out, not looking back as he scrambled to clean up the mess.
At 6:55 PM, you intentionally untucked the front of your blouse and took out your hair clip, letting your hair fall around your shoulders.
When you stepped back into the main lab, you stopped dead in your tracks.
Ryland had transformed the "neutral zone." He had rolled two swiveling lab stools to the exact center of the room, straddling the red tape. Between them, he had repurposed a heavy-duty stainless steel cart into a table. In the center, casting a warm, flickering glow across the sterile room, were three Bunsen burners, their flames adjusted to a soft, romantic yellow.
"You bypassed a military-grade fire system for ambiance?" you asked, walking toward him.
"I prefer to think of it as setting the mood." He pulled out a stool for you - on your side of the red tape, of course. He was wearing a fresh t-shirt reading: You must be the square root of negative one, because you can't be real. But over it, he had actually thrown on a surprisingly well-fitting, dark gray blazer.
You sat, noting two sterile petri dishes as plates, and two large glass beakers filled with what looked like red wine.
"Stratt's private stash," he admitted, sitting across from you. The firelight caught the warmth in his eyes. "I may have convinced a guard we needed it to sanitize some very important equipment."
You couldn't help it. A genuine laugh slipped out of you.
He reached under the cart and produced two silver foil packets. "Dinner is served. MRE Beef Stew. I warmed it over the radiators."
For a while, you just ate in a comfortable silence, the hostility of the past weeks entirely gone. You found yourself watching the way his hands moved when he talked, the genuine passion in his voice. He was brilliant. Messy, disorganized, but undeniably brilliant.
"So," Ryland said, taking a sip from his beaker and leaning forward. "I have a theory. I think the uptight Head of Evolutionary Biology is secretly having a great time."
"Careful, Dr. Grace," you murmured. "Jumping to conclusions led to your downfall once before."
"Then let's find out for sure." He reached across the table, his fingers gently brushing against yours. The contact sent a jolt of electricity straight up your arm. "Cross the tape, Doc."
You looked down at the thick red line on the floor, then back up into his warm, intelligent eyes. You didn't hesitate. You stood up, stepped entirely over the border, and closed the distance between you.
"My side is much cleaner anyway," you whispered, right before you kissed him.
The kiss was entirely different this time. The frantic adrenaline of the afternoon had faded, replaced by something much slower and sweeter.
Ryland’s hands slid from your waist to the small of your back, pulling you flush against him. He kissed you with the same eager enthusiasm he applied to everything else - exploring and entirely lacking in proper boundaries.
You felt a laugh vibrate in his chest when your fingers tangled in the messy hair at the nape of his neck. He pulled you closer, and his knee bumped the cart. The glass beakers rattled precariously.
You broke the kiss, breathless, steadying the stolen wine before it could spill. "Careful," you gasped. "You're going to ruin dinner."
Ryland was looking up at you, his blue eyes dark, his lips flushed. A slow, ridiculously pleased grin spread across his face.
"I'd say that went pretty well," he murmured. "Admit it. You like my side of the tape better."
You glanced around his designated area. It was a disaster zone of crumpled paper and frantic scribbles. And yet, looking back down at him, you couldn't find an ounce of your usual disdain.
"It's... habitable," you conceded, a soft smile finally betraying you. "With a few changes."
"I'll take it." He reached up, gently tucking a stray lock of hair behind your ear. The movement was so surprisingly tender that it made your breath catch again. "So. Are we getting rid of the border?"
"The tape stays," you repeated, your eyes glinting with amusement. "But... I am willing to authorize some cross-border visits. Provided you learn how to put the cap back on a marker. And let me organize your desk."
"You want to organize my desk?" He looked at you as if you had just offered him the moon.
"I'm doing it for my own sanity."
"Romantic," he whispered, his smile softening into something incredibly genuine. "You really know how to sweet-talk a guy."
For the rest of the evening, the bunker didn't feel like a top-secret prison, and the threat of the end of the world felt a million miles away. You sat on his side of the red tape, drinking stolen wine out of beakers, arguing playfully, and laughing at his terrible puns.
Eventually, when the wine was gone and the burners had to be turned off for safety, you found yourselves sitting on the floor, your backs against the sturdy metal of the lab counter. The dim light of the emergency backup bulbs cast long, soft shadows across the lab. Sitting on the floor with your back against Ryland’s chest, you could feel the slow, steady rise and fall of his breathing. It was entirely too comfortable.
He shifted slightly, his arm tightening around your shoulders. His free hand found yours where it rested on your knee. Slowly, his thumb began tracing lazy, absentminded circles against your palm.
"You know," Ryland murmured, his voice a low, pleasant rumble vibrating against your shoulder blade. "For someone who claims to absolutely despise my chaos, you fit pretty perfectly right here in the middle of it."
You let out a soft huff of breath, tilting your head back to look at him upside down. "Don't get too used to it, Grace. Tomorrow morning, I am still confiscating your mug. It's a biohazard."
"Take the mug," he countered easily, a slow smile spreading across his face. "Just don't take your side of the tape back."
He shifted, sliding his legs out from under yours and moving until he was sitting cross-legged directly facing you. The playful, dorky energy he usually carried had quieted down, replaced by something much heavier and far more intense. He reached up and pulled his glasses off, folding them and setting them on the floor.
Without the thick frames hiding his face, his blue eyes looked darker. Warmer. They tracked every tiny movement of your face.
"What?" you whispered, suddenly feeling very exposed under his gaze.
"Nothing," he said softly. He reached out, his knuckles brushing gently down the side of your cheek. "Just updating my observations. You look... really beautiful when you aren't trying to intimidate me."
Your breath caught in your throat. Your relentlessly analytical brain scrambled for a witty comeback, a sharp deflection, anything to protect the last remaining pieces of your ego. But looking at the genuine, open affection in his eyes, the words completely failed you.
Instead, you found your own hand lifting. You traced the line of his jaw. It was slightly rough with the beginnings of five o'clock shadow.
Ryland leaned into your touch, his eyes fluttering shut for a fraction of a second before opening again. He turned his head just enough to press a soft kiss to the inside of your wrist.
Your pulse spiked immediately. A slow, wicked little smirk pulled at the corner of his mouth.
"Heart rate is elevated, Doc," he teased, his voice dropping to a whisper that sent a shiver down your spine.
"It's the stolen Cabernet," you lied smoothly, though your voice lacked its usual authority.
"Is it?" He leaned in closer. You could smell the mints again, mingling with the clean, warm scent of his skin. "Because I'm pretty sure it's me. And for the record, my heart is beating so fast right now I'm surprised you can't hear it."
He didn't wait for you to answer. He closed the remaining distance, pressing his lips to yours.
If the kisses earlier had been eager and clumsy, this one was a masterclass in slow, deliberate ruin. Ryland’s hands moved to your waist, pulling you flush against him so you were practically in his lap. One of your hands tangled in the soft hair at the nape of his neck, the other gripping the lapel of his ridiculous blazer like it was a lifeline.
He parted your lips with a soft sigh, tasting like red wine and absolute devotion. It wasn't rushed. It was a thorough, dizzying exploration that made the sterile laboratory fade completely into the background. Every time you tried to catch your breath, he angled his head and pulled you right back under, his thumb lightly mapping the curve of your jaw, his fingers digging slightly into your hips.
You felt a soft, completely un-academic sound escape your throat. Ryland swallowed the sound, his grip on you tightening. The sheer, overwhelming reality of him - the heat, the strength of his broad shoulders, the surprisingly skilled way his mouth moved against yours - was completely dismantling your pristine, logical world.
When he finally pulled back, neither of you went very far. Your foreheads rested together, both of you breathing heavily in the quiet dark of the bunker.
Ryland’s eyes were blown wide, a dazed, completely awestruck look on his face. He let out a shaky breath, his thumbs gently smoothing down the front of your untucked silk blouse.
"Okay," he rasped, a lopsided, entirely breathless grin forming on his lips. "Okay. Wow."
"Wow," you echoed softly, your usually sharp mind completely blank. You tried to smooth his collar, though your hands were actually trembling a little. "Your... your variable control has significantly improved."
He let out a low, warm laugh, resting his forehead against yours. "I told you. I'm a fast learner. Especially when the subject matter is this interesting."
He tilted your chin up, stealing one more soft, lingering kiss.
"So," he whispered against your lips, his arms wrapping tightly around you, completely ignoring the red tape beneath you. "What time do I have to be on your side of the lab tomorrow?"
You smiled, resting your head against his shoulder, perfectly content in the middle of his chaos. "Six AM, Dr. Grace. And you are wearing a plain, solid-colored shirt. No puns."
"No puns?" he gasped in mock horror, holding you tighter. "You're suppressing my natural habitat. But... for someone like you, I'll see what I can do."
I kovw your writing!! I'd love to see a smutty pt2 to good girl
good girl II - Ryland Grace
ryland grace x reader
part one - part two
warnings: smut
i love my men whimpering and needy with a little bit of worshipping on the side
word count: 6,1k
requests are open!
The ship had transitioned into its designated night cycle, plunging the corridors of the Hail Mary into a deep, moody blue. The ambient, heavy thrum of the centrifuge spin drive vibrated up through the floorboards, pulling a steady, comforting artificial gravity down on everything inside the hull.
You were in the laboratory, sitting at one of the workstations, idly reviewing some atmospheric data on your monitor. Or, at least, pretending to. In reality, you were just waiting.
You knew him well enough by now to know that Dr. Ryland Grace could not leave an anomaly unexamined. He also couldn't let a social faux pas go un-agonized over. It was only a matter of time before he tried to 'fix' it.
Right on cue, the soft hiss of the lab doors sliding open broke the quiet.
You didn't turn around immediately, letting the rustle of his jumpsuit and the soft, hesitant thud of his sneakers against the metal floor grating announce his arrival. He walked into the lab, stopping a safe, meticulously calculated four feet away from your chair.
"Hey," he said. His voice was a little too loud for the dim lighting, tightly wound with nervous energy.
You pushed your chair back slightly and turned to face him, keeping your feet planted on the floor. "Hey, Ryland."
He was clutching a digital tablet to his chest like a ballistic shield. His hair was slightly ruffled, and that betraying flush was still lingering high on his cheekbones.
"So. I've been doing some thinking," he started, launching immediately into his rehearsed speech before his courage could fail him. His words came out in a rapid-fire, heavily academic clip. "And some reading. I reviewed the ship's psychological medical files regarding long-term, deep-space isolation, and I think it's really important that we contextualize what happened in the control room."
You raised an eyebrow, staying perfectly still. "Contextualize it."
"Yes!" He tapped the tablet, not looking at you, his eyes locked desperately on the screen. "You see, in an environment devoid of external stimuli, the human endocrine system begins to aggressively seek out serotonin and dopamine. Furthermore, forced proximity combined with high-stress situations can cause an artificial spike in oxytocin, leading the brain to misinterpret standard platonic attachment as a... as a romantic imperative."
He finally looked up from the tablet, offering a tight, panic-laced smile. "So, the slip-up earlier, the vocabulary choice... it was just a neurochemical misfire. Entirely clinical. We can just log it as a symptom of space madness and completely forget it ever happened. Right?"
Instead of answering, you stood up.
The gravity felt heavy and grounding as you closed the four feet of empty space separating you with slow, deliberate steps. He took a sudden, panicked step backward until his shoulders hit the cool metal of the bulkhead with a soft thud.
You didn't stop. You stepped completely into his personal space, so close that the toes of your shoes bumped gently against his sneakers. Because of the height difference, you had to tilt your head back to look at him. The proximity forced him to look down, his posture stiffening as he tried to press himself as flat against the wall as physically possible.
"Clinical," you repeated, keeping your voice low and soft.
"Y-yes," he stammered. His eyes were wide, darting nervously across your face before dropping to your lips and quickly snapping back up to the ceiling. He swallowed so hard you saw the apple of his throat bob. "Very clinical. Textbook."
You let a small, teasing smile touch your lips. You reached up, lightly resting your palm flat against the center of his chest.
Ryland made a sound that was half-whimper, half-squeak. Beneath the thin fabric of his jumpsuit, you could feel his heart hammering a frantic, erratic rhythm against your palm. His fingers went completely slack. The digital tablet slipped from his grasp, hitting the metal floor grating with a sharp, loud clack.
"So, the isolation made you do it," you murmured, lightly tracing the zipper line of his jumpsuit with your fingertips. "The oxytocin made you call me a good girl in that exact tone of voice."
"Please don't say it back to me," he whispered miserably. He squeezed his eyes shut, letting his head thump back against the bulkhead. "I'm going to die. My heart is going to give out before we even reach Tau Ceti."
"I don't know, Dr. Grace," you murmured, stepping just a fraction of an inch closer. Your voice was barely a whisper now. "Your heart feels pretty strong right now. It's practically beating out of your chest. Is that the oxytocin, too?"
"It's the... the adrenaline," he choked out, opening his eyes. He was trying so desperately to keep his composure, but his gaze immediately dropped to your mouth again. "Flight or... or fight response."
"And which one are you doing?" you teased gently. "Because you're backed against a wall, Ryland, and you're definitely not fighting me."
"I..." His voice cracked completely. "I'm trying very hard to be professional."
You waited for a moment, letting your hand rest against his chest, giving him the chance to drop the act. But he just stood there, frozen in place, his breathing shallow and his eyes wide behind his glasses, completely paralyzed by his own over-analytical brain.
You let out a soft, slightly resigned sigh. You let your hand drop from his chest, taking a slow step backward.
"Okay," you said quietly. The teasing edge completely left your voice, leaving behind something far more gentle and a little sad. "I can give you space to be professional, if that's what you really want. Goodnight, Ryland."
You turned away from him, your sneakers scuffing softly against the floor grating as you started to walk back toward the lab doors.
You only made it two steps.
"Wait."
His voice wasn't a stammer this time; it was slightly raspy, sudden, and urgent.
Before you could fully turn around, his hand caught yours. His long fingers wrapped around your hand, halting your momentum instantly. The grip wasn't painful, but it was incredibly firm - the grounding, desperate hold of someone who had just realized exactly what they were about to lose.
You paused, looking back over your shoulder.
Ryland wasn't pressed against the wall anymore. He had taken a sudden step forward, closing the distance you had just tried to put between you. The panic was still there in his eyes, but the hesitation was gone, overridden by the sheer terror of watching you walk away.
"Don't," he breathed. He tugged gently on your hand, pulling you back around to face him. "Please don't go."
"Ryland..."
"I'm not trying to be professional," he confessed, the words tumbling out of him in a rushed, breathless whisper. He stepped closer, using his grip on your hand to gently pull you back into his space. "I'm just... I'm terrified. I don't know what I'm doing, and you're so incredible, and my brain is just short-circuiting because I can't believe this is actually happening."
He lifted your hand, pressing the back of your knuckles softly against his chest, right over his racing heart.
"The data is flawed," he murmured, a shaky, self-deprecating smile finally touching his lips as he looked down at you. "It's not oxytocin."
He didn't give his brain another second to overthink it. He let go of your hand, only so his arms could encircle you. He bowed his head, his shoulders hunching slightly to accommodate the height difference, and finally pressed his mouth to yours.
The kiss wasn't perfectly smooth or practiced, but it was overwhelmingly sweet, dizzyingly eager, and completely unguarded. He kissed you like a man who had been starving for years and had suddenly been handed a feast. You felt his rigid posture give way entirely as he let out a soft, shuddering sigh against your lips. His arms wrapped securely around your back, holding you close, his warmth chasing away the chill of the lab. You slid your hands up to his shoulders, tangling your fingers gently in the hair at the nape of his neck.
When you finally broke apart to breathe, he didn't pull away. Instead, he just let his forehead drop to rest heavily on your shoulder, hiding his face in the crook of your neck. His chest heaved against yours as he tried to catch his breath, and you could feel the furious heat radiating off his cheeks.
"So," you whispered into his ruffled hair, a tiny smile playing on your lips as you rubbed soothing circles into his back. "Still think it was just a neurochemical misfire?"
Ryland let out a breathless, muffled groan against your shoulder. He held you a little tighter, completely abandoning any remaining pretense of being 'just colleagues'.
"Okay," he mumbled into your collarbone, refusing to lift his head and face his own mortification just yet. "Okay, fine. I admit it. My hypothesis was completely wrong."
You let out a soft laugh, resting your cheek against the top of his head. The tension that had been suffocating the ship for hours finally broke, replaced by a warm, comfortable domesticity.
"I'm glad to hear it," you murmured.
He stayed hidden in the crook of your neck for a long moment, just breathing you in, letting his nervous system finally catch up to the reality that you weren't going to reject him. When he finally lifted his head, the furious blush had faded to a soft, warm pink across his cheekbones. His glasses were slightly askew, and his hair was an absolute mess. He looked incredibly handsome.
He didn't pull away. Instead, his hands slid from your waist around to the small of your back, resting there as he looked down at you. The panic in his eyes was entirely gone, replaced by a deep, overwhelming affection that made your breath hitch.
"You're going to get a crick in your neck," he murmured softly, his thumb gently stroking the fabric of your jumpsuit at your spine.
Before you could ask what he meant, he took a half-step forward. With a surprising, quiet strength, he gripped your waist, lifted you effortlessly, and set you down on the edge of the metal lab counter behind you.
The change in elevation brought you perfectly eye-to-eye.
Ryland let out a small, satisfied sigh at the new arrangement. He stepped between your knees, stepping completely flush against the counter. He reached up, his hands gently framing your face. His thumbs lightly brushed across your cheekbones, tracing the line of your jaw with a reverence that made your heart ache.
"Much better," he whispered.
This time, when he kissed you, there was no hesitation. The desperate, frantic energy of his first kiss smoothed out into something slow, deliberate, and dizzyingly intimate. He tasted like the bitter ship's coffee and the minty toothpaste from the washroom, a bizarrely comforting combination. You wrapped your arms around his neck, tangling your fingers into the soft hair at the nape of his neck, pulling him closer.
He let out a low, rough sound in the back of his throat, his hands sliding down from your face to trace the line of your neck, his fingers lightly brushing against your collarbone - a deliberate, lingering echo of the touch that had started this entire cascade. His lips trailed softly to the corner of your mouth, down to your jaw, pressing open-mouthed, heated kisses against your skin that sent a searing jolt straight down your spine. He wasn't dominant or aggressive; he was thorough, attentive, and incredibly observant, learning exactly what made you gasp and immediately repeating it.
The cool, sterile air of the laboratory seemed to evaporate, replaced by a heavy, suffocating heat. You tilted your head back, letting your eyes fall shut as his lips moved to the sensitive skin just below your ear.
"Ryland..." you breathed out, your voice slightly wrecked.
He paused, resting his forehead against your temple, his chest heaving as he tried to steady his breathing. "Am I doing okay?" he whispered, his voice incredibly rough, still carrying that adorkable need for positive reinforcement.
"You're doing amazing," you managed to say, pulling him back in.
He smiled against your lips, a bright, genuine thing, and leaned in to kiss you again-
Beep.
The sharp, electronic chime of the PA system echoed through the quiet lab, instantly shattering the heavy silence.
"Observation. Human biological monitors are registering unprecedented spikes."
The deadpan, robotic monotone of the translation software blared from the ceiling speakers. Ryland froze instantly, his lips hovering a millimeter above yours.
"Oh, you have got to be kidding me," Ryland groaned, his forehead dropping heavily onto your shoulder.
"Heart rates are highly elevated," Rocky's voice continued mercilessly. "Body temperatures have increased by zero-point-eight degrees Celsius. Respiratory rates indicate lack of oxygen. Are you experiencing a medical emergency, question? Or is this the continuation of the mating ritual, question?"
You pressed your face into Ryland's shoulder, your shoulders shaking with silent, uncontrollable laughter. Ryland let out a long, long sigh, resting his weight against you for a moment before reluctantly pulling back.
"I forgot about him," he muttered, adjusting his glasses. "I completely forgot about the very smart, very nosy alien spider who has complete access to our biometric data."
You hopped down from the counter, smoothing out your jumpsuit while still biting your lip to suppress a grin. "We have to answer him, Ryland, or he's going to roll in here to administer first aid."
Ryland dragged a hand down his face, looking up at the nearest security camera. He hit the comms button on the lab console.
"We are not having a medical emergency, Rocky," Ryland said, trying to inject as much calm, teacher-like authority into his voice as possible. "We are... we are fine."
"Understood," the robotic voice replied. "Then it is the mating ritual. Does Earth biology require privacy for mating, question?"
Ryland's entire face burned a spectacular shade of crimson. He looked at you, utterly mortified, but you just nodded encouragingly, gesturing for him to continue.
"Yes," Ryland said, his voice cracking slightly. "Yes, Rocky. Human... human bonding requires a high degree of privacy. It is a very strict cultural imperative."
"Fascinating. Eridanians sleep in large piles to maintain temperature and security. Isolation is illogical. But I will respect Earth customs."
A series of musical chords filtered through the speakers, the raw audio of Rocky humming to himself, before the translator kicked back in.
"I have disabled the biometric alerts and audio-visual feeds for the human sleeping quarters. I will remain in the engineering bay. Have a good mating ritual. Words of encouragement.”
The comms clicked off, plunging the lab back into the low hum of the centrifuge drive.
You stared at the speaker for a moment, letting the sheer absurdity of the conversation wash over you, before you finally let out a loud, genuine laugh.
Ryland buried his face in his hands, shaking his head. "I am a respected scientist," he mumbled into his palms. "I have published papers. And I just asked an alien for permission to have privacy with my crewmate."
You walked over, gently prying his hands away from his face. His eyes were crinkled at the corners, a sheepish, hopelessly fond smile breaking through his embarrassment.
"Well," you said softly, linking your fingers through his. "He did turn off the cameras in the sleeping quarters."
Ryland looked down at your joined hands, his thumb brushing over your knuckles. The nervous energy was entirely gone now, replaced by a quiet, deep anticipation. He looked back up at you, the dark intensity returning to his eyes.
"He did," Ryland agreed, his voice dropping back down into that low, quiet register. He gave your hand a gentle tug, pulling you toward the lab doors. "We should probably go verify that his modifications to the security system are fully functional."
"Very clinical of you, Dr. Grace."
"Extremely," he murmured, a completely smitten smile on his face as he led you out into the blue-lit corridor.
The walk down the corridor was a study in sensory overload.
After months of navigating the Hail Mary with careful, professional distance, the simple act of holding his hand felt completely grounding. His palm was warm and slightly calloused, his long fingers interwoven tightly with yours. The ship’s night cycle bathed the narrow hallway in a deep, sapphire glow, and the only sound was the steady, heavy thrum of the centrifuge and the quiet scuff of your shoes against the floor grating.
When you reached the door to your quarters, the keypad glowed a soft green. The door slid open with a quiet hiss, and you stepped inside, the door automatically sealing shut behind you.
The sleeping quarters were not designed for romance. They were small, utilitarian, and dominated by the narrow bunk built securely into the bulkhead. The air in here always felt a little cooler, stripped of the residual heat from the laboratory equipment.
But as the door clicked into its lock, isolating the two of you completely from the rest of the ship - and from the universe at large - the sterile room suddenly felt incredibly small, and incredibly charged.
Ryland let go of your hand, only to reach up and gently cup your face again. In the dim light of the cabin, without his glasses slipping or his scientific brain frantically trying to categorize his emotions, he looked incredibly soft. The adorkable, frantic microbiologist was still there, but beneath it was a man who was looking at you with a reverence that stole the breath right out of your lungs.
"I can't believe we're actually doing this," he whispered, his thumb tracing the line of your cheekbone. It wasn't a question of hesitation, but a statement of pure, unadulterated awe. "I've spent the last months terrified that if I looked at you for too long, you'd figure it out."
"Figure what out?" you asked softly, leaning into his touch.
"That you are the absolute center of my gravity right now," he breathed, his voice rough and incredibly earnest. "And we are currently in a one-g spin."
You let out a shaky, quiet laugh, your hands coming up to rest on his chest. "That was a terrible physics pun, Dr. Grace."
"I'm a desperate man," he murmured, a smile curving against your lips just before he kissed you.
The gentle, tentative exploration from the lab vanished, replaced by a deep, aching certainty. He stepped fully into your space, backing you slowly until the backs of your knees hit the edge of the mattress. His hands slid down from your face, moving with a careful, deliberate focus to the heavy, industrial zipper at the collar of your standard-issue jumpsuit.
His fingers worked the zipper down, the metal teeth separating with a soft, rhythmic rasp. The sound seemed impossibly loud in the small cabin, punctuated only by the low thrum of the centrifuge and the quick, shallow rhythm of his breathing.
You could feel him trembling - just slightly - as he pushed the jumpsuit off your shoulders, letting the fabric fall and pool at your feet. The cool air of the cabin raised goosebumps along your arms, but the heat radiating off his body, pressed so close to yours, quickly chased the chill away.
"You're shaking," you whispered, your hands coming up to rest on his bare forearms.
"I know." He didn't deny it. His eyes met yours, dark and earnest in the dim blue light, his glasses slightly askew. "I know I'm not- I haven't- It's been a very long time, and I want this to be good for you. I want you."
You pulled him closer, your fingers working at the zipper of his own jumpsuit now. "So stop trying to hypothesize and just ask me what I like."
A shaky exhale escaped him. "What do you like?"
"This," you said, pressing a kiss to the corner of his mouth. "And this." Another kiss, softer, to his jaw. "And when you're confident. When you stop second-guessing and just take what you want."
His gaze dropped to your mouth, then lower, tracing the line of your throat, the curve of your breasts beneath the thin tank top you wore underneath your jumpsuit.
He reached for the hem of your tank top, his knuckles brushing against your stomach as he bunched the fabric in his hands. You lifted your arms, and he pulled it over your head, discarding it somewhere on the floor. His breath caught audibly as his eyes traveled over you - your bare skin, the way your chest rose and fell with quickening breaths, the flush spreading across your collarbone.
"God," he breathed, the word barely audible. "You're so beautiful. I've imagined this - l've tried not to imagine this, because it felt invasive, but-" He swallowed hard, his hands hovering just above your hips, not quite touching. "Can I-"
"Yes," you said, pulling him closer. "Ryland, yes."
His hands finally made contact, sliding around your waist, spanning the curve of your hips. His palms were warm, slightly rough, and they left trails of fire in their wake as they traveled upward, tracing the sides of your ribs, the underside of your breasts. He was looking at you like you were the answer to every question he'd ever asked.
You reached up, your fingers gently removing his glasses and folding them carefully, setting them on the small shelf beside the bunk before tangling your fingers in his hair and pulling his mouth down to yours.
The kiss was deeper now, hungrier. His tongue slid against yours, and you tasted the desperation there, the months of suppressed longing finally unleashed. His hands grew bolder, cupping your breasts, his thumbs brushing over your nipples. You gasped against his mouth, arching into his touch, and he made a low, rough sound in response.
"Bed," he managed, his voice wrecked.
"We should - the bed is right there-"
You nodded, letting him guide you backward until your knees hit the edge of the narrow bunk. You sat down on the thin mattress, looking up at him as he stood over you, chest heaving, his pupils blown wide.
"You're wearing too many clothes," you observed.
A shaky laugh escaped him. "Working on it."
He reached for the zipper or his jumpsuit, pulling it down with a steady hand that belied his nervousness. The fabric parted, and he shrugged it off his shoulders, letting it fall to the floor. Underneath, he wore a black t-shirt-and across the front, in block letters, it read:
I had potential.
You burst out laughing. "You wore that. Under your uniform. On a mission to save humanity."
His cheeks flushed crimson, but he was grinning. "It was a gift from my students. It's lucky."
"It's terrible."
"And yet," he said, tugging the hem of the shirt, "you're smiling."
He pulled the t-shirt over his head, and the laughter died in your throat.
Because beneath the nerdy exterior, Ryland Grace was jacked.
There was no other word for it. His chest was broad and sculpted, pectorals so defined they looked carved from stone. His shoulders were massive, capped with muscle. His arms were thick, biceps straining against nothing, veins tracing along his forearms.
His abdominal muscles were a ridged, symmetrical washboard, the kind you saw on fitness magazines, not on microbiologists. And trailing down from his navel was a dark line of hair that disappeared beneath the waistband of his boxers, drawing your gaze exactly where he clearly wanted it to go.
You stared. You couldn't help it.
He caught you looking and his flush deepened, but something else flickered in his eyes. Confidence. Heat. He flexed slightly - unconsciously, or maybe not - and his pecs shifted.
"See something you like?" he asked, his voice lower now.
"You've been hiding that under a baggy jumpsuit for months?"
He shrugged, and the movement made his shoulders roll impressively. "Didn't seem professional to walk around shirtless."
You reached out, trailing a finger down the center of his chest, tracing the line between his pectorals, then down each ridge of his abs. He shivered under your touch, his breath catching.
"Definitely not professional," you murmured. "Definitely a problem."
"I can put the shirt back on-"
"Don't you dare."
He hooked his thumbs into the waistband of his boxers and pushed them down, stepping out of them with an awkward haste that made you smile. He was hard - clearly, obviously hard - and the sight of him, completely bare and utterly vulnerable in the dim blue light, sent a pulse of heat straight between your legs.
"Your turn," he said, his voice dropping into that lower register that made your stomach flip. He knelt in front of you, his hands finding the waistband of your underwear.
"Can I-"
"Yes. Please."
He tugged them down your legs, his knuckles brushing against your thighs, your knees, your calves. He paused when you were bare, his hands resting on your knees, his eyes fixed on the apex of your thighs. His breath came in short, uneven bursts.
"You have no idea," he whispered, "how many times I've thought about this. About you. About what you would sound like. What you would taste like."
"Then stop thinking," you said softly, reaching down to cup his face, tilting his chin up so his eyes met yours. "And find out."
He needed no further encouragement.
He leaned forward, his hands sliding up your thighs, parting them gently. You let your knees fall open, making space for him, and he settled between them with a quiet sigh of relief - like he'd finally found where he belonged.
His first kiss was pressed to the inside of your knee. Then higher, to your thigh. Then higher still, his lips brushing against the sensitive skin of your inner thigh, his breath hot and damp against you. You shivered, your fingers tangling in his hair, and he let out a low hum of approval.
"You're so responsive," he murmured against your skin. "I love that. I love that I can feel you react to every single thing I do."
His mouth found you - finally, finally - and your head fell back, a sharp gasp tearing from your throat. His tongue was tentative at first, exploratory, the same careful, methodical attention he gave to every experiment. But he learned fast. He always did.
He learned exactly how much pressure to apply, exactly where to focus, exactly when to circle his tongue and when to suck gently. He learned the sounds you made - the little whimpers, the sharp intakes of breath, the way you moaned his name when he did something particularly devastating. And every time he discovered something that made you gasp, he did it again, and again, until you were trembling beneath him, your thighs shaking around his shoulders.
"Ryland," you breathed, tugging at his hair.
"Ryland, I'm close-"
He didn't stop. If anything, he doubled down, his hands gripping your hips, holding you steady as his tongue worked you through the rising tide of sensation. Your back arched off the mattress, a broken cry escaping your lips as the wave crashed over you, white-hot and overwhelming, your entire body shuddering through the release.
He stayed with you through it, gentling his touch as you came down, pressing soft kisses to your inner thighs, your hip bones, the curve of your stomach. When you finally opened your eyes, he was looking up at you with an expression of pure, unguarded wonder.
"That," he said, his voice rough and raw, "was the single most incredible thing I have ever experienced. And l've seen a supernova."
A breathless laugh escaped you. "You're ridiculous."
"I'm honest." He crawled up your body, bracing himself above you, his forearms planted on either side of your head. His hair was a disaster, his lips were slick, and his eyes were burning with a heat that made your heart stutter. "I want to be inside you," he said quietly, no stammer, no hesitation.
"Is that okay?"
You reached up, cupping his face in your hands, pulling him down so your foreheads touched. "Yes. Ryland, yes."
He reached down between your bodies, positioning himself at your entrance. You could feel him there - hot, hard, pressing against you - and the anticipation alone made your thighs clench around his hips.
"Tell me if I hurt you," he said. "Tell me if you want to stop."
"I want this." You reached up, cupping his face in your hands. "I want you, Ryland. Every overthinking, beautiful, brilliant inch of you. Now stop talking and fuck me."
The word hit him like a physical blow. His hips jerked against you, and a sound escaped him - half laugh, half moan - that vibrated through your chest.
"Yes ma'am," he breathed. He didn't push in immediately. Instead, he rocked against you, teasing, letting the friction build until you were arching up beneath him, nails digging into his shoulders.
"Ryland, please-"
He pushed inside you slowly - agonizingly slowly - inch by inch, his jaw clenched, a low groan vibrating through his chest. The stretch was exquisite, a fullness that made your eyes flutter shut and your nails dig into his shoulders.
"You're so tight," he breathed, his voice cracking. "God, you feel- I can't- fuck-"
"More," you demanded.
He gave you more. Another inch, then another, until he was buried to the hilt, his body pressed flush against yours. He stayed there for a moment, trembling, his face buried in the crook of your neck.
"You feel..." He couldn't finish the sentence. He didn't need to.
You clenched around him experimentally, and he swore - a sharp, bitten-off curse that would have made his academic colleagues blush.
"Move," you whispered against his ear.
He did.
The first thrust was tentative, almost shy.
The second was deeper, harder. By the third, he had found a rhythm - slow and deep, each stroke dragging against that spot inside you that made stars burst behind your eyes.
"That's it," you breathed, your legs tightening around his waist, pulling him deeper. "Right there. Don't stop."
He didn't stop.
His hips snapped against yours, the rhythm deepening, quickening, each thrust driving him impossibly farther inside you.
"Like that?" he gasped, his forehead pressed to yours, sweat-slick and trembling. "Is this- fuck- is this what you wanted?"
"Yes," you managed, your voice breaking on the word. Your hands clawed at his back, nails raking across his shoulder blades, and he groaned - a raw, guttural sound that seemed to come from somewhere deeper than his chest.
His hips never stopped moving, but the frantic edge softened into something deeper, more deliberate. He was making love to you now, not just fucking, and the shift made your chest ache.
"I'm not going to last," he admitted, his voice muffled against your skin. "You feel- God, you feel incredible- and l've been imagining this for so long, and I can't-" His voice broke, his hips stuttering as he fought for control. His forehead pressed hard against yours, eyes squeezed shut, every muscle in his body pulled taut like a wire about to snap.
"Don't stop," you commanded, your voice breathless but firm. Your legs locked tighter around his waist, heels digging into the small of his back. "I'm close too. Don't you dare stop."
His eyes flew open. "You're-"
"Yes. So close. Please, Ryland-"
Something shifted in his expression. The desperate scramble for his own release transformed into fierce, focused determination. He wanted this for you.
Needed it.
"Okay," he breathed, adjusting his angle.
"Okay, tell me what you need."
"Harder. Right there-"
He obeyed. His hips snapped against yours with renewed purpose, each thrust deliberate, aimed, hitting that spot inside you that made stars burst behind your eyes. His breathing turned ragged, his control clearly fraying, but he held on. For you.
"That's it," you gasped, your nails raking down his back. "Don't stop, don't stop, don't-"
The pressure inside you coiled tighter and tighter, a spring winding toward its breaking point. He was trembling above you, sweat dripping from his temple, his jaw clenched so hard you could see the muscle jumping.
"I can feel you," he groaned, his voice wrecked. "I can feel you squeezing me- fuck, you're so close-"
And then his voice dropped. Lower. Darker.
That tone - the one that had started this whole thing back in the control room.
"Come for me," he murmured against your ear, his hips never slowing. "That's it. Be a good girl and come for me."
There.
The words hit you like a live wire. Your back arched off the mattress, a broken cry tearing from your throat as the orgasm crashed through you - white, hot and all-consuming, radiating from your core to your fingertips. Your inner walls clenched around him in pulsing waves, and the sensation of you coming undone around him, triggered by those two words, was the final thread holding his control together.
"God-" he choked out.
His hips snapped twice more, three times, and then he buried himself to the hilt and shattered. A raw, broken sound escaped him - half your name, half a sob-as he spilled inside you, his body shuddering through wave after wave of release. His forehead dropped to your shoulder, his entire weight pressing you into the thin mattress, and he gasped against your skin like a drowning man finally breaking the surface.
For a long moment, neither of you moved.
The ship hummed around you. The centrifuge spun. Somewhere in the engineering bay, an alien politely pretended not to have heard any of this.
Ryland's breathing slowly steadied. His heart hammered against your chest, wild and out of sync with your own. You could feel the dampness of sweat on his back, the fine tremor still running through his thighs.
"That was..." He lifted his head, looking down at you with glassy, adoring eyes. His hair was a disaster, his lips swollen. He looked utterly wrecked. And utterly happy.
"Clinical?" you offered, a teasing smile tugging at your lips.
He snorted, burying his face in the crook of your neck again. "If I ever use that word to describe this, you have my permission to space me."
You laughed softly, your fingers tracing lazy patterns on his sweat-damp back.
"Noted."
He shifted, pulling out of you with a gentle slowness that made you both wince. The loss of him left you feeling strangely empty, but he didn't go far. He rolled onto his side, pulling you with him, rearranging your bodies until you were curled against his chest, your head tucked under his chin.
"We should probably clean up," he murmured, his hand stroking up and down your spine.
"Probably," you agreed, making no move to get up.
He was quiet for a moment, his thumb tracing the curve of your hip. Then, softly, almost hesitantly: "I meant what I said. About you being the center of my gravity. That wasn't- I wasn't just trying to be clever."
You tilted your head back, looking up at him. In the dim blue light, his face was open, vulnerable.
"I know," you said softly. "You're terrible at lying, Ryland. It's one of the things I like about you."
His lips twitched. "One of the things?"
"There are many things," you allowed. "We have a long flight to Tau Ceti. I'm sure I'II discover more."
He pulled you closer, pressing a kiss to the top of your head. "We have a few years," he said quietly. "Give or take."
"Plenty of time for research."
A laugh rumbled through his chest. "Is that what we're calling it now? Research?"
"Very rigorous research," you confirmed, your hand splaying across his heart. It was still beating fast, a steady thrum beneath your palm. "Peer-reviewed, even."
He propped himself on an elbow to look down at you, his nose brushing affectionately against yours. In the dim blue light, the earlier panic was completely gone, replaced by something steady, warm, and profoundly certain.
"Well, as a man of science," he whispered, a bright, hopelessly fond smile breaking across his face, "I'm going to need to replicate the results. Multiple times. Just to be absolutely sure the data is sound."
"Get some rest, Dr. Grace," you murmured against his lips. "We will still be here tomorrow."
He let out a soft, contented sigh, settling his weight back down beside you and wrapping his arms securely around your waist. He tucked his face into the crook of your neck, his breathing finally falling into a slow, even rhythm.
The ship hummed around you, the centrifuge spinning you both toward a star you might never reach. But as you laid there in the dark, surrounded by his warmth and the steady beat of his heart against yours, the vast, empty expanse of space didn't feel quite so lonely anymore.
in which Dr. Grace uses the wrong vocabulary, and the Hail Mary gets a lot hotter
part one - part two
word count: 2,9k
requests are open!
The vast, endless expanse of interstellar space was, frankly, a little monotonous.
When you first boarded the Hail Mary, the sheer, existential terror of the mission had been enough to keep your adrenaline spiking every hour of the day since you woke up. You were on a one-way trip to Tau Ceti, carrying the weight of the entire human race on your shoulders, surrounded by technology that was experimental at best and completely suicidal at worst. For the first few months, every creak of the hull, every fluctuation in the life support systems, and every minor error code on the monitors had felt like a harbinger of imminent death.
But the human brain is remarkably adaptable. After millions of miles, the terrifying isolation of the cosmos had slowly morphed into a strange, domestic routine. You knew the exact, comforting hum of the centrifuge spin drive. You recognized the faint, metallic scent of the air scrubbers working overtime. And, perhaps most dangerously, you had memorized the exact way Dr. Ryland Grace’s brow furrowed when he was lost in a complex mathematical equation.
Living in a tin can hurtling through the dark abyss of space meant that personal boundaries were a luxury you had both abandoned long ago. You had learned to navigate around each other in the cramped, utilitarian quarters of the ship, sharing unappetizing nutrient paste rations, recalibrating the atmospheric controls shoulder-to-shoulder, and existing in a constant, comfortable proximity that would have felt suffocating back on Earth.
But out here, with only each other - and an incredibly intelligent, five-legged alien space spider - for company, that proximity was the only thing keeping you sane. Ryland was brilliant, relentlessly optimistic, and possessed a deeply ingrained, nerdy charm that made the crushing weight of the mission feel survivable. He was a good man.
Lately, however, that comfortable proximity had started to feel a lot heavier. The accidental brushes of his arm against yours in the laboratory, the way he looked at you when you managed to decipher a new string of Eridanian vocabulary, the warmth of his presence when you were both exhausted and staring out at the uncaring void - it was all beginning to build a quiet, simmering tension in the pit of your stomach.
Currently, that tension was being tested as you sat strapped securely into the pilot’s seat in the main control room, running manual astrogation drills.
The ship’s automated systems were robust, but Eva Stratt’s paranoia had dictated that every single crew member know how to fly the Hail Mary in the event of a catastrophic computer failure. Well, except the two of you. You were scientists, not pilots. The dizzying arrays of vectors, velocities, and orbital mechanics were entirely outside your wheelhouse. But Ryland, ever the patient educator, had taken it upon himself to teach you - in theory, that was. You liked to consider the both of you as clueless as any other human down on Earth.
"Okay, let's run through the parameters one more time," Ryland said.
He was hovering just over your left shoulder, anchored to the hard plastic back of your pilot's chair in the zero-gravity environment of the control cabin. Because there was no 'up' or 'down' without the centrifuge spinning, he was floating at a slight angle, perfectly relaxed in the weightlessness.
"If I want to adjust our attitude to point exactly at that specific star cluster in the Tau Ceti system," you murmured, keeping your eyes locked strictly on the glowing telemetry screen in front of you. You raised your hands, hovering them over the manual thruster controls. "I can't just fire the port thruster like I'm turning a steering wheel."
"Right. Why?" Ryland prompted. His voice was close. Close enough that you could feel the ambient heat radiating off his standard-issue jumpsuit, a stark contrast to the slightly chilly, sterile air of the cabin.
"Because of Newton's First Law," you replied, reciting the lessons he had been drilling into your head for the past three weeks. "An object in motion stays in motion. In the vacuum of space, there is zero atmospheric friction to slow down the spin. If I fire the port thruster, the ship will just keep spinning along that axis forever, or until we make ourselves incredibly dizzy."
"Exactly," Ryland beamed. The pride in his voice was palpable, vibrating right near your ear. "You are your own friction. You have to be your own brakes."
You swallowed hard, forcing your focus away from the warmth of his arm, which was currently hovering a mere millimeter away from the shoulder of your flight suit, and forced your brain back to the math. "So, I fire the port thruster to initiate the turn, let the momentum carry our mass, and then I have to counter-fire the starboard thruster at the exact right millisecond to arrest the momentum and lock us into the new trajectory."
"That's the theory. Now let's see the application," Ryland encouraged softly. He was watching your hands over the console, entirely focused on your progress.
You let out a slow, steadying breath. You disabled the autopilot interlocks, the console flashing a brief yellow warning before yielding full manual control to your joysticks.
"Alright. Manual control engaged. Firing port attitude thruster for zero-point-two seconds... now."
You tapped the left control stick. The ship didn't shudder - the attitude thrusters were too small to feel inside the massive hull - but the starfield out the reinforced viewport slowly, lazily began to drift to the right. It was a dizzying sensation, watching the universe spin around you while you sat perfectly still.
You glued your eyes to the digital degree marker on the main astrogation display. It ticked up with agonizing slowness. Ten degrees. Fifteen degrees. Twenty degrees.
"Wait for it," Ryland coaxed.
He leaned in a fraction closer to check the monitor over your shoulder. You could faintly smell the sterile, unscented ship soap they provided in the washroom, mixed with the distinct, warm scent that was just fundamentally him. It was intoxicating in a way it had absolutely no right to be. His presence was a massive, grounding anchor in the middle of nowhere.
"Twenty-eight... thirty-two..." you counted aloud, your fingers tensing over the starboard control stick. Your heart was thumping a rapid rhythm against your ribs. If you overshot the counter-burn, you'd have to waste precious fuel correcting the wobble.
You tapped the starboard control with as much precision as you could muster.
Out the viewport, the spinning starfield instantly stopped drifting. The sudden halt was almost jarring to the eyes. The nose of the Hail Mary locked into absolute stillness. You checked the telemetry screen. The digital crosshairs were sitting exactly on top of the coordinates you had calculated. Dead center. Zero drift. Zero wobble.
"Yes!" Ryland cheered.
In a completely natural, unfiltered burst of scientific triumph and pride, he shifted his grip.
His large hand moved from the hard plastic back of the pilot's chair to rest warmly and firmly on the curve of your shoulder. His thumb pressed right into the dip of your collarbone through the fabric of your jumpsuit, an anchoring, heavy weight in the zero gravity. He leaned down, his face dipping into your peripheral vision, his cheek almost brushing yours as he grinned at the perfect alignment on the screen.
"Perfect pitch and yaw," he praised.
The sheer, relieved approval stripped away his usual nervous, rapid-fire energy. His voice dropped an octave, settling into a low, breathless rumble that vibrated right through the shell of your ear.
"Textbook execution. Good girl."
The ambient, ever-present hum of the ship’s life support systems seemed to vanish entirely from your awareness.
The praise had slipped out of him on pure, unadulterated instinct. It was a leftover relic from his previous life, from his days of leaning over lab tables, grading middle school science fair projects, and offering gentle, authoritative encouragement to students who finally figured out how to balance a chemical equation.
But floating in a tiny cabin in the dark abyss of space, millions of miles away from any school or civilization... it didn't sound like a teacher.
Delivered with the heavy, possessive weight of his hand on your collarbone, the close proximity of his body, and the low, rough timbre of his voice, it sounded like something else entirely.
It sent a searing, electric jolt straight down your spine, pooling hot and heavy in your stomach. Your breath hitched audibly in the dead quiet of the cabin. Your hands froze over the manual controls, your fingers curling inward. Every single nerve ending in your shoulder seemed to hyper-focus on the exact shape and heat of his hand gripping you.
It took Ryland Grace exactly one and a half seconds to hear the echo of his own words replay in his brilliant, analytical brain.
"Oh, my gosh," he gasped.
He yanked his hand off your shoulder as if your flight suit had just been doused in liquid nitrogen. In his sudden, blind, overwhelming panic, the man completely forgot the very laws of physics he had just spent half an hour teaching you.
He pushed back away from you with entirely too much force. Without any gravity to anchor him, the violent push launched him backward across the control room. He flailed wildly, his arms windmilling in the air as he sailed across the cabin, completely out of control, until his back slammed into the main science console with a loud, painful thump.
You spun around in your chair, your heart hammering a frantic rhythm against your ribs, entirely unsure if you should be concerned for his safety or absolutely entirely amused by his panic.
The brilliant, world-saving biologist - the man who had figured out how to harness alien microbes for interstellar travel - was currently tangled in his own zero-G socks, gripping the edge of the metal console for dear life. A furious, agonizing, painfully bright red blush was crawling so fast up his neck that his ears practically looked radioactive.
"I- I didn't mean-" Ryland stammered.
His eyes were wide, round, and completely horrified behind the lenses of his glasses. His hands hovered awkwardly in the air in front of him, fingers twitching, as if he didn't know what to do with his own limbs anymore.
"My brain just- it cross-wired!" he blurted out, his voice cracking horribly. "I was looking at the telemetry and I was just so proud of the math, and my brain just reverted to grading eighth-grade science fairs! I swear on my life, I swear to gosh, I do not think of you as a seventh grader! That was incredibly inappropriate, I am so, so sorry, I didn't mean it like- I didn't mean to sound-"
He was rambling at the speed of light, his chest heaving under his jumpsuit as he hyperventilated.
But despite his absolute mortification, despite his frantic attempts to rationalize the slip of the tongue as a simple, harmless pedagogical error... the tension in the room had irreversibly shifted.
It was thick. It was electric. You could practically cut it with a scalpel.
He was panicking precisely because he was suddenly, acutely, and overwhelmingly aware of the fact that you were definitely not one of his students. The realization was hitting him like a freight train, crashing through the comfortable, platonic barriers he had built around himself for the duration of this mission. As he stared at you from across the room, his eyes darted nervously from your gaze, down to your slightly parted lips, down to the curve of your throat, and quickly back up to the ceiling ceiling panels, swallowing hard enough that you could see the apple of his throat bob from across the room.
You bit down hard on your lower lip, trying desperately to suppress the smile that was threatening to break across your face. Your own cheeks were burning hot, a flush that you knew matched his completely. You could still feel the physical ghost of his thumb pressing into your collarbone.
"Ryland, breathe," you managed to say. You tried to sound reassuring, but your voice came out a little softer, a little huskier than usual, betraying the fact that the slip-up had affected you just as much as it had horrified him. "It's fine. Really. I know what you meant-"
Thump.
A soft, hollow impact echoed in the cabin, cutting off your reassurance.
A large, perfectly clear, pressurized sphere of xenonite drifted lazily through the open doorway of the control room, gently bumping against the upper doorframe before floating into the space between you and Ryland.
Rocky was inside his custom-built bubble. The Eridanian engineer had likely been in his workshop, heard the loud crash of Ryland slamming into the science console, and pushed himself down the zero-gravity corridor to investigate the commotion.
"Observation. Human female face is red. Internal temperature elevated."
The deadpan, entirely emotionless robotic monotone of Ryland’s custom translation program filled the room instantly. Because the software was completely hardwired to intercept Rocky’s frequencies and translate them in real-time, there were no musical chords to soften the blow - just the immediate, blunt observation echoing from the laptop speakers strapped to the console.
Ryland groaned, a sound of pure, unadulterated suffering. He let go of the console and pressed both hands over his flaming face, hiding behind his fingers.
"Oh, heck," Ryland muffled into his palms. "Please. Kill me now. Just vent the airlock and put me out of my misery."
Inside the floating sphere, Rocky shifted. His carapace scraped slightly against the xenonite, his five little articulated legs tapping a rapid, curious rhythm against the clear wall of his bubble. He was a scientist at heart, and a new, unexplained biological phenomenon was entirely too fascinating to ignore.
The laptop speakers instantly spoke again, delivering the translation with zero tact.
"Query. Grace also turning red. Heart rates for both humans are currently fast. Biometric sensors indicate endocrine systems are actively producing large amounts of adrenaline, cortisol, and oxytocin."
Rocky’s bubble slowly rotated in the zero gravity, his eyeless carapace seemingly tracking between the two of you.
"Are humans in physical danger, question? Or is this typical Earth mating behavior, question? Please explain."
"It's not mating behavior!" Ryland yelped, dropping his hands from his face.
His voice was an octave higher than normal, bordering on hysterical. He pointed an accusatory finger at the floating glass ball, looking like a man who was fighting for his life against his own ship's computer.
"It was a linguistic error! A vocabulary slip! I used a colloquial phrase in the wrong context and triggered an inappropriate psychological response! Rocky, I swear to gosh, turn off the biological monitors right now! Stop looking at our oxytocin levels!"
Inside the sphere, Rocky tapped a few more times.
"Linguistic error causes mating response, question?" the robotic voice stated deadpan. The xenonite ball slowly bounced off a wall panel, lazily drifting back toward the center of the room. "Earth biology remains highly confusing. I will take notes for future reference."
You finally let out a shaky laugh. You couldn't hold it in anymore. The sheer absurdity of the situation - arguing about mating responses and oxytocin levels with a highly intelligent, incredibly blunt alien space spider who was rolling around in a hamster ball - was exactly what you needed to break the suffocating, heavy sexual tension that had gripped the room.
You unbuckled your complex pilot's harness, the straps floating away from your shoulders. With a gentle, practiced push against the footrests, you floated up and out of the pilot's seat, letting the zero gravity carry your momentum smoothly across the small room.
Ryland watched you approach. He looked entirely paralyzed, his back pressed flat against the science console. His eyes tracked your every movement, the dark rings around his pupils blown wide, the furious blush on his face stubbornly refusing to fade.
You reached out and caught the edge of the science console, arresting your momentum and stopping just a few inches away from where Ryland was currently trying to merge his molecular structure with the bulkhead. Up this close, you could see the rapid pulse beating at the base of his throat. You could feel the heat radiating off him again.
He looked up at you, his breath catching audibly in his chest for a second time.
"I'm going to go to the galley and get a drink of water," you said softly, holding his panicked, entirely captivated gaze.
You let a slow, deliberate, teasing smirk tug at the corner of your mouth. You didn't back down from the proximity. Instead, you let the silence stretch for just a second longer than necessary, letting him sweat it out.
"But you know..." you added, leaning in just a fraction of an inch closer, dropping your voice. "My astrogation is getting pretty good."
Ryland swallowed, his eyes darting to your lips. "It... it is. Yes."
"So," you whispered, pushing off the console to slowly float backward toward the open doorway, "I expect you to keep up the positive reinforcement, Dr. Grace."
Ryland made a sound that was half-choke, half-squeak. His hands gripped the metal edge of the console so tightly his knuckles turned completely white.
Satisfied, you turned in the air and floated gracefully out of the control room, heading down the corridor toward the galley. You left the brilliant, awkward microbiologist completely flustered, entirely speechless, and very, very red as Rocky’s clear glass bubble lazily drifted past his head, the laptop speakers chiming one last time.
"Observation. Human female has retreated. Mating ritual concluded?"
pls don’t mind the scientifical inaccuracies, i was kind of winging it as i went hahhah
requests are open!
You were a woman of exactitudes. As the youngest person ever to be named head of Evolutionary Biology at your university, your lab was a temple of sterility. Your hypotheses were mapped to the final decimal, your wardrobe consisted entirely of perfectly pressed silk blouses, and your ego was a meticulously constructed, utterly untouchable fortress.
Then Eva Stratt shoved you into a top-secret underground bunker, handed you a vial of sun-eating alien microbes called Astrophage, and gave you a co-lead.
Dr. Ryland Grace was a walking embodiment of entropy. He was a disgraced academic turned middle school science teacher with a defensive slouch, glasses perpetually slipping down his crooked nose, and an absolute inability to keep a workspace clean. On day one, he was surrounded by a halo of loose papers and wearing a shirt that read: I wear this t-shirt periodically.
You didn't look up from your electron microscope. "Stratt, I specifically said no assistants. I don't have time to hold anyone's hand."
"He's not an assistant," Stratt said, her tone absolute zero. "He is your co-lead. Dr. Grace, meet your new partner."
You finally looked up, annoyed - and your relentlessly analytical brain immediately betrayed you by registering a highly inconvenient data point.
Dr. Ryland Grace was infuriatingly, objectively attractive.
It was a completely unscientific reaction, but it hit you before anything else did. Beneath the terrible shirt and the defensive slouch, he possessed a jawline that looked like it had been carved from marble by a renaissance sculptor. His messy, sandy-blond hair fell perfectly into warm, intelligent blue eyes, giving him a rugged, effortlessly handsome aesthetic that absolutely did not belong in a sterile laboratory. The soft cotton of his ridiculous shirt stretched across shoulders that were surprisingly, unfairly broad.
Your heart did a strange, traitorous little flutter.
And then, a second later, recognition finally pierced through the fog of sudden physical attraction, instantly replaced by a wave of pure, aristocratic disdain.
He was the man whose sensationalist paper on non-aqueous alien life you had publicly dismantled in Nature three years ago.
"You ruined my career," he stated, the warm blue eyes hardening as he pointed an accusative, ink-stained finger at you.
The spell was broken. Your untouchable fortress slammed back into place.
"I engaged in basic scientific rigor," you countered smoothly, leaning back in your chair and violently suppressing the part of your brain that had just admired his shoulders. "It's not my fault your theories were built on a foundation of intellectual sand."
"She wrote a thirty-page hit piece on my paper!" Grace turned to Stratt, gesturing wildly. "She called my hypothesis 'a charming exercise in creative writing'! I lost my tenure track! I was a laughingstock!"
"Because you assumed water wasn't a universal solvent based on absolutely zero empirical evidence," you shot back, narrowing your eyes at his stupidly perfect jawline. "Now, please remove your... clutter from my half of the console."
Stratt silenced you both with a look that could freeze nitrogen, ordered you to figure out the alien microbes, and locked the heavy door behind her.
From that moment, you made a conscious, dedicated choice: you were going to strongly dislike him. And you were absolutely, under no circumstances, going to notice how attractive he was ever again.
For the first forty-eight hours, the laboratory was a petty, high-stakes war zone. You worked through systematic documentation; Ryland worked through chaotic trial-and-error. You used your label-maker to tag his haphazardly stacked notebooks as TRIPPING HAZARDS. He retaliated by labeling your perfectly aligned row of ergonomic pens as TOOLS OF THE OPPRESSOR.
On day two, you established a physical border.
You found a roll of thick, red biohazard tape in the supply closet. Without a word, you got on your hands and knees and pulled a perfectly straight, undeniably hostile line down the exact center of the laboratory floor.
Ryland watched you from his spinning chair, sipping from a mug that said World's Okayest Teacher. "Are you serious? You're literally drawing a line in the sand?"
"It's linoleum," you corrected, tearing the tape with a sharp snap. "And yes. Your side is a biome of unwashed coffee cups and chaotic variables. My side is for science. Do not cross the tape."
On day three, the Great Whiteboard Skirmish occurred.
The lab only had one massive, wall-to-wall dry-erase board. You were meticulously mapping out Astrophage’s suspected metabolic pathways on the left side, your handwriting a neat, uniform script. You stepped back to admire your work, only to find Ryland encroaching on the center.
He was furiously drawing a sprawling, chaotic mind map of thermal radiation absorption. He drew a wildly enthusiastic arrow that cut directly through your perfectly formatted Krebs cycle diagram.
"Excuse me," you snapped, marching over. "Your thermal loop is invading my biology."
"My thermal loop is the only thing keeping us from freezing to death in the dark," he shot back, not stopping. "Biology is just applied chemistry anyway."
You gasped in genuine, academic horror. You snatched a black marker and aggressively drew a thick boundary box around your equations. "Your structural formulas look like a toddler finger-painted a benzene ring, Grace. Keep it on your side."
He stubbornly drew his next equation mere millimeters from your boundary box. You stepped closer to block his arm. He stepped closer to angle around you. Before long, you were practically shoulder-to-shoulder, furiously scribbling equations in a silent, high-stakes battle for whiteboard real estate, breathing heavily and smelling of dry-erase ink and stubborn pride.
The frenzied scribbling inevitably took its toll on your supplies. Ryland's frantic, chaotic markers began to squeak and die one by one, forcing a temporary retreat. You marched back to your impeccably organized desk to log the newly established formulas, feeling a smug sense of victory.
But the truce was short-lived.
You were at your workstation, reaching blindly for your favorite fine-tip marker, only to grasp empty air. You looked up.
Ryland was leaning entirely over the red biohazard tape, his foot hovering dangerously above your floor, trying to discreetly snag your pen from your organizer. Today’s shirt read: Are you made of Copper and Tellurium? Because you are CuTe.
"Excuse me," you snapped, swatting at his hand. "That is a Tool of the Oppressor. Put it back."
"My pens are all out of ink," he argued, not retreating, his fingers wrapping around the marker at the exact same time yours did.
"Because you leave the caps off, you absolute barbarian."
"I am a victim of my own chaotic genius!" he declared, tugging the pen.
You tugged back. "You are a victim of poor organizational skills!"
He pulled harder, but his shoe caught on the edge of his own spinning chair. He lost his balance, stumbled directly over the red tape, and crashed spectacularly into your workspace.
You gasped, instinctively bracing your hands against his chest to steady him. He caught himself by gripping the edge of the console behind you, effectively trapping you between his arms.
Suddenly, the laboratory was very, very quiet.
He was incredibly close. You could smell dry-erase ink, stale coffee, and mints. His glasses were knocked completely askew, and there were pen marks on his cheek.
He looked down at you, blinking in surprise, his chest rising and falling quickly under your hands. The banter died in his throat. His warm blue eyes flicked from your eyes down to your lips, and the sudden, heavy shift in his gaze made your breath catch.
"Calculated trajectory error," he whispered, his voice suddenly hoarse.
"You crossed the tape, Grace," you whispered back, your heart hammering a frantic rhythm against your ribs.
For a long, suspended second, neither of you moved. The air between you felt highly combustible, charged with an undeniable, terrifying variable that had absolutely no place in your meticulously planned life.
Then, your academic survival instincts finally kicked in. The heavy doors of your untouchable fortress slammed shut.
You pushed firmly against his chest - pointedly ignoring the disappointing loss of warmth - and ducked under his arm, stepping safely back onto your side of the red linoleum divide.
"Return to your designated area, Dr. Grace," you instructed, smoothing your perfectly pressed silk blouse. You were pleased to note your voice only shook by a fraction of a decibel. "And use your own markers."
Ryland blinked, the dazed expression lingering on his face for a moment before he slowly cleared his throat and stepped back. "Right. Uh. Sorry. For the... gravity."
You didn't look up as you uncapped your reclaimed pen, turned your back on him, and aggressively returned to your metabolic pathways on the whiteboard. You stared at the neat lines of your Krebs cycle, strictly willing your heart rate to return to a statistical norm.
Squeak. Roll. You heard him slowly retreat to his messy desk. But as you gripped your fine-tip marker, your relentlessly analytical brain logged a terrifying, undeniable conclusion.
The physical boundary of the red tape was still intact. But as you stood there, pretending to calculate energy yields while trying to ignore the lingering scent of him, you knew the truth. The structural integrity of your resistance was fundamentally compromised, and it was only a matter of time before the whole fortress came crashing down.
By day four, the sleep deprivation began to blur the sharp lines of your hostility into something infinitely more dangerous.
It was 3:00 AM. You were waiting on a centrifuge, rubbing your temples to ward off a headache. You glanced over at Ryland’s side of the room. He had fallen asleep at his desk. His cheek was squished against a stack of unfiled papers, his glasses were pushed up onto his forehead, and he was quietly, rhythmically snoring.
You stood up, intending to wake him up and demand he document his last batch of samples. You marched up to the red tape. You crossed it.
You walked right up to his chair, took a breath to snap at him... and stopped.
Without the frantic, defensive energy animating his face, he looked younger. Exhausted. The harsh fluorescent lighting caught the surprisingly long sweep of his eyelashes against his cheek. His current shirt read: I had potential. A strange, tight feeling seized your chest. It was an urge - a horrifying, irrational urge - to brush a stray lock of his messy blond hair out of his eyes.
Your hand actually twitched upward before your brain slammed on the brakes. What are you doing? you screamed at yourself. You violently snatched your hand back, spun around, and practically fled back to your side of the tape, your heart pounding as if you'd just avoided stepping off a cliff.
The cracks in your professional composure came on day five. The mass spectrometer beeped, and Ryland practically rolled his chair over his own foot to get to the monitor.
He froze. The color drained from his face.
"What?" you asked, leaning over his shoulder. Your eyes scanned the data.
A slow, wicked smile spread across your face. A laugh bubbled up in your chest, echoing loudly in the sterile lab. "Shut up," Ryland muttered, burying his face in his hands.
"Oh my god," you gasped. "It’s water. The terrifying alien lifeform eating our sun is a heat-resistant water balloon."
"It’s highly pressurized intracellular fluid-"
"You lost your tenure!" you interrupted mercilessly, tapping a manicured fingernail against the center of his chest - right on the 'O' of his H2O: The Original Energy Drink shirt. "You threw a colossal fit at the entire scientific community insisting alien life wouldn't be aqueous. And the very first extraterrestrial entity we discover is hydrated."
"I'm going to figure out how this thing breeds," he whispered fiercely, stepping into your space instead of backing away. "And when I do, I'm going to make you eat that smirk."
"I look forward to it," you whispered back. The air in the bunker felt dangerously thin.
Then he pivoted on his heel to make a dramatic, brooding exit, completely missed the doorway, and marched headfirst into the heavy steel frame of the storage closet.
CLANG.
"I'm fine!" he yelped, rubbing his forehead and scattering dry-erase markers everywhere. "Calculated trajectory error! Gravity is heavier over here!"
A few days later, the tension was a physical weight. You were losing your mind. You hadn't seen sunlight in a week, and you were developing a mortifying, all-consuming crush on a man currently wearing a shirt that said: Never trust an atom, they make up everything.
You hated how much you liked those shirts. They were a crime against fashion, yet you found yourself subconsciously waiting for his morning "reveal." Schrödinger’s cat is dead/alive. I’m reading a book on anti-gravity, I can’t put it down. You wanted to glare at his face, but your eyes kept traitorously dropping to his chest to read the puns, which meant you couldn't help but notice how the soft cotton stretched across shoulders that were unfairly broad.
"They aren't breeding," Ryland groaned, slumped over his messy desk, which was currently covered in crumbs and coffee rings. "I’ve given them heat, I’ve given them trace elements. They’re just... sitting there. Storing energy like little gold bars."
He stopped, his eyes falling on an unsecured CO₂ canister he’d left near the incubator - a clear violation of your "Safety First" rule. He bit his lip. "Wait. What does Venus have that we’ve been filtering out to protect our sensors?"
"Carbon dioxide," you said, standing up. "But the pressure required to mimic that environment-"
"They don't just want heat, they want home!" He lunged across the red tape you'd used to divide the room, grabbing your hands. "They need carbon to build the shells for the next generation. We’ve been starving the babies!"
He rushed to the controls, bypassing your safety margins with a frantic, messy brilliance. He flooded the chamber with CO₂ while cranking the IR lasers. The warning lights screamed in a rhythmic, pulsing red.
"Ryland, you’ll blow the seals!" you yelled.
"Trust the chaos!" he yelled back, grinning.
You both leaned into the microscope feed. The black specks didn't just divide; they multiplied in a frantic, beautiful geometric explosion, converting the CO₂ and light into a thriving colony.
"We did it," he breathed. He let out a giddy, hysterical laugh and suddenly scooped you up by the waist, spinning you around in a dizzying circle.
"Grace! Put me down! This is highly unprofessional-"
"We saved the world, Doc!" He set you down, but he didn't let go. His hands stayed on your waist, and your hands were instinctively braced against his shoulders. You were both breathless, flushed with adrenaline and the scent of ozone.
His glasses were lopsided. His hair was a disaster. He looked like a man who had just won the lottery and a science fair at the same time.
"You have a smudge of graphite on your nose," he whispered, his eyes dropping to your lips.
"And you have a complete lack of regard for lab safety," you whispered back, your heart hammering a frantic rhythm against your ribs.
He started to lean in, then hesitated, his inner middle-school teacher taking over. "Is this... is this okay? I don't want to get a 'Non-Consensual Interaction' label stuck to my forehead."
You huffed a laugh, reached up, and pulled his glasses off his face, setting them on the counter. "The data suggests," you murmured, pulling him down by his collar, "that the reaction is inevitable."
The kiss wasn't a sophisticated, cinematic moment. It was wonderfully, perfectly clumsy. He bumped your nose, you accidentally stepped on his foot, and he made a soft, surprised sound against your mouth before melting into it. He tasted like mints and triumph. His hands, usually so shaky with glass vials, were steady as they pulled you flush against his pun-covered chest.
When you finally pulled back, Ryland looked dazed and delighted. He glanced down at his shirt, then back at you.
"So," he rasped, a lopsided, dorky grin spreading across his face. "On a scale of one to ten, how's my 'Basic Scientific Rigor' now?"
You rolled your eyes, smoothing your messy hair and trying to regain some semblance of the Head of Department. "It’s a statistical outlier, Grace. We’ll need more samples to confirm the results."
"Oh," he beamed, closing the distance again and pulling you back into his chaotic space. "I'm a big fan of repetitive testing."
AHHHH I love the jewel of summerhall!!! Could we see a little Reunion between Baelor and Maekars Daughter after she returns from visiting her family in the Stormlands?? I love soft! Baelor he is so sweet
The jewel of Summerhall IV - Baelor Targaryen
baelor targaryen x maekar’s daughter!reader
part one - part two - part three - part four
word count: 4k
requests are open!
The rain had been falling on King’s Landing for three days, a relentless, gray deluge that perfectly mirrored the mood of the Crown Prince. In the Small Council chambers, the air was thick with the smell of damp wool, beeswax candles, and tedious political posturing. Baelor Breakspear sat at the head of the heavy oak table, his dark eyes fixed on the Master of Coin, though his legendary patience had evaporated somewhere around the second hour of the meeting.
"The tariffs on the Arbor wines are necessary, my Prince," the Master of Coin droned on.
"The Crown's treasury will survive a minor deficit," Baelor cut in. He didn't raise his voice. He didn't have to. The quiet, vibrating authority in his tone instantly silenced the room. "You will draft the tax reduction for the Arbor, my Lord, and you will have it on my desk before the sun sets. We are at peace. I will not have the Reach whispering of rebellion simply because you wish to hoard gold in the vaults. This council is adjourned."
He stood up, completely ignoring the customary formalities, and strode out of the chamber. His Kingsguard fell into step behind him, their white cloaks a stark contrast to the dark, storm-cloud aura radiating from the Prince. It had been exactly three weeks and four days since you had ridden south to Summerhall to visit your father and brothers. In your absence, the Hand of the King had become a notoriously formidable, unyielding presence. Without his wife to anchor him, Baelor had buried himself entirely in the grueling machinery of the realm. He worked from dawn until the early hours of the morning, purposely exhausting his body because he knew what awaited him if he stopped: an empty, massive featherbed that smelled faintly of your lavender oil, a chilling reminder of how entirely dependent he had become on your presence just to breathe.
He bypassed the corridor leading to your private bedchamber and walked directly to his solar. The heavy oak doors shut tight, locking out the relentless, exhausting demands of the Red Keep. The afternoon light filtering through the rain-streaked windows cast long, dreary shadows across the stone floor. Baelor walked behind his massive desk and sank heavily into the leather chair. A mountain of trade ledgers, unread raven scrolls, and petitions awaited him. He ignored them all. He rested his elbows on the wood, dropping his head and pressing the heels of his hands against his tired, burning eyes. On his right hand, his thumb unconsciously sought out the heavy gold and ruby signet ring, twisting it rhythmically against his knuckle - the only physical betrayal of his fraying, exhausted sanity. He just wanted you. He wanted the soft, pragmatic sound of your voice cutting through the political noise. He wanted the cool, gentle touch of your fingers tangling in his hair at the end of a long day. He was a man sitting in the dark, waiting for his sun to return.
Then, the heavy iron latch of the solar door clicked.
The twisting of the ring stopped instantly. Baelor didn't lift his head, assuming it was the Grand Maester returning to plague him with more figures despite his explicit orders. "I said I was not to be disturbed until the evening meal," he murmured, his deep voice carrying a warning rumble of pure Valyrian exhaustion.
"Not even by me, my Prince?"
Baelor completely froze. He dropped his hands, his mismatched eyes snapping to the doorway. You were standing there, still wearing your heavy, dark wool riding cloak, the hood pushed back to reveal your silver-gold hair slightly damp from the autumn rain. You smelled faintly of the Kingswood - pine needles, petrichor, and leather. The legendary, unyielding armor of the Hand of the King vanished in a single heartbeat. Baelor stood up so fast his heavy oak chair scraped loudly against the stone floor. He crossed the expansive solar in three long, desperate strides.
"You are three days early," Baelor breathed, his voice instantly losing its sharp edge, melting into a thick, reverent awe.
"The storm broke over the Kingswood, so we rode straight through," you smiled, reaching up to unfasten the silver clasp of your cloak. "And I realized that I vastly prefer the company of my brooding husband to the company of my brooding father."
You didn't even get the cloak fully off before Baelor was there. His large hands caught yours, gently pulling the heavy wool from your shoulders and tossing it carelessly onto a nearby chair. The moment it was gone, his massive arms wrapped securely around your waist, hauling you flush against his chest. He buried his face in the crook of your neck, letting out a long, heavy, shuddering sigh that seemed to carry three weeks of absolute misery.
"I missed you," he murmured against your skin, the vibration of his deep voice sending a warm thrill through your chest. "Gods, I missed you so much the walls of this castle were starting to close in on me."
"I missed you too, Baelor," you whispered softly, your arms wrapping around his broad shoulders. You tangled your fingers into the dark, silver-streaked hair at the nape of his neck, feeling the rigid, knotting tension in his muscles immediately begin to unspool beneath your touch.
He held you tightly, just breathing you in for a long moment, letting the warmth of your body melt the ice that had been gathering in his chest for weeks. When he finally lifted his head, his eyes were heavy with that soft, unconditional adoration. He reached up, his large, calloused hands incredibly gentle as they cupped your face. His thumbs tenderly stroked your cheekbones, brushing away the lingering chill of the road. His gaze dropped intuitively to your left forearm. He gently pushed back the sleeve of your traveling gown, his eyes tracing the raised, silvery line of the scar you had taken for him at the tourney. He didn't flinch away from it anymore. He pressed a soft, lingering kiss directly to the center of the scar, a silent, permanent vow of his devotion, before looking back up at your eyes.
"Where is she?" Baelor asked softly, the edges of his eyes crinkling.
"The nursery," you smiled. "She fell asleep in the carriage before we even passed the Mud Gate. I wanted to see you before the court realized I had returned."
Baelor let out a low, rich chuckle, his thumbs continuing their soothing rhythm against your cheeks. But as his gaze searched your face, the smile faded slightly. The seasoned commander in him recognized the faint, lingering shadow of tension behind your violet eyes.
"What happened at Summerhall?" he asked, his voice dropping an octave, the fiercely protective husband instantly stepping forward. He gently guided you to the velvet settee by the hearth, pulling you down to sit beside him, keeping one of your hands firmly engulfed in his.
You let out a tired sigh, leaning your head against his broad shoulder. "Nothing we haven't dealt with before. My father is in a foul mood, pacing the halls and complaining about the Crown's lack of intervention in the Dornish Marches."
"Maekar is always in a foul mood," Baelor pointed out dryly, his thumb stroking your knuckles. "But he was civil to you, I hope?"
"He was," you conceded, a wry, nostalgic smile touching your lips. "At least he didn't threaten to burn all of Westeros to the ground this time. That is a marked improvement from all those years ago."
Baelor let out a low, breathy laugh, leaning his head against yours. "I will never forget the look on his face the morning I came to his solar to ask for your hand. When he grabbed me by the collar, for a terrifying moment, I genuinely thought he was going to beat me to death right there on the rug."
"You did walk in and demand he hand over the only light he had left," you teased gently, your thumb stroking the back of his hand. "It was a rather bold diplomatic strategy."
"It was the only strategy I had left," Baelor murmured, his voice dropping to a low, fiercely possessive rumble at the memory. "Not after watching that Tyrell whelp put his hands on your waist the night before. If I hadn't gone to Maekar at dawn, I would have ended up crushing the boy's neck instead of a wine goblet."
You smiled softly, leaning into his solid warmth. "My father loves you, you know. Even if it physically pains him to admit it. He knows you kept the vow you made to him that day." You paused, the levity completely draining from your voice. "But... it isn't my father I am worried about, Baelor. It is Aerion."
Baelor’s posture stiffened instantly. The name alone was enough to make the temperature in the room drop. "What has your brother done now?"
"He is out of control," you admitted, the old, familiar exhaustion creeping back into your bones. "He is tormenting the servants, picking fights with the Marcher lords, and making Aegon's life a misery. I spent half my visit stepping between them. Aemon is hiding in the library just to avoid him."
Baelor went completely still. The mismatched eyes that had been so soft a moment ago crystallized into hard, freezing stone. He looked down at your hands, then at the silver scar on your arm.
"You stepped between them," Baelor repeated. It wasn't a question. It was a statement of fact, heavy with a sudden, quiet fury.
"Baelor, I had to. Maekar turns a blind eye to it, and Aegon is just a boy-"
"You are not their shield anymore." Baelor interrupted, his voice a low, vibrating rumble that commanded absolute authority. He turned his body fully toward you, his large hands shifting to grip your waist, anchoring you to him. "We talked about this. You do not have to be the martyr for your family's dysfunction. You are my wife. You are the Princess of the Seven Kingdoms."
"They are my brothers," you argued softly, though you didn't pull away from his grounding touch. "I cannot simply watch Aerion tear our house apart."
"And you will not have to," Baelor promised fiercely. The raw, unyielding power of the Hand of the King radiated from him, completely focused on your protection. "If Maekar refuses to discipline his son, the Crown will do it for him. I will draft a royal decree this evening. I will have Aerion recalled to King's Landing."
You blinked in surprise. "Baelor, bringing Aerion to the capital..."
"...means he will be under my watch, not yours," Baelor finished smoothly, his jaw locked with absolute determination. "He will answer to the Kingsguard. If he steps out of line, if he so much as looks at you or our daughter with anything less than total respect, I will not hesitate to bind him in iron and ship him to the Wall."
You stared at him. He wasn't simply validating your frustration; he was actively, ruthlessly dismantling the source of your anxiety so you wouldn't have to carry it. "You would fight my father on this?" you whispered.
"I would fight the Gods themselves if it meant you could sleep soundly," Baelor stated. He reached up, his hand gently tangling in the hair at the nape of your neck, pulling you just a fraction of an inch closer. "You took a blade for me. The very least I can do is handle my arrogant nephew."
The lingering exhaustion of the road and the heavy dread of dealing with your family evaporated completely. You looked at the brilliant, honorable, terrifyingly devoted man you had married, and a profound wave of love washed over you.
"What could I have possibly done in this life to deserve you?" you whispered, a genuine, breathless smile finally breaking through the exhaustion of the road.
"You looked at a man burdened by the entire realm, and you did not flinch," Baelor murmured. His thumb gently traced the line of your lower lip, his eyes darkening with that familiar, heavy heat. "You chose me. And you came back to me."
He didn't wait for you to reply. He leaned in and captured your lips in a slow, deep, and thoroughly possessive kiss. When he finally pulled away, you were breathless, your hands gripping the lapels of his doublet.
"Leave the decree for tomorrow," you whispered, your thumb tracing his jawline. "The realm has had you for three weeks."
Baelor’s eyes darkened, a slow, incredibly handsome smirk touching his lips. He stood up, pulling you effortlessly to your feet and sweeping you into his arms.
"The realm can wait until spring," the Crown Prince declared, carrying you toward the heavy oak doors. "I have a wife to welcome home."
He didn't take you back to the ledgers. He carried you directly to your private chambers, and the moment the heavy oak doors shut behind you, sealing out the rest of the world, he took over entirely. He didn't call for your maids. He stripped off his heavy velvet doublet and rolled up the sleeves of his linen shirt, his only focus shifting to taking care of you after your long journey. He drew a hot bath in the copper tub by the hearth, scenting the water with the lavender and vanilla oils he had missed so desperately. When you slipped into the warm water, letting out a soft sigh of relief, Baelor knelt on the stone floor behind the tub. The most powerful man in Westeros took a soft sponge and gently, meticulously began to wash the dust of the road from your skin. His large, scarred hands moved with a breathtaking, worshipful reverence. He lathered your silver-gold hair, his fingers massaging your scalp with a slow, soothing rhythm that made your eyes flutter shut. It was in these quiet, domestic moments that the depth of his love was most palpable.
"I hated the mornings the most," Baelor murmured quietly, the warm water trickling softly as he rinsed the soap from your hair. "Waking up and reaching for you, only to find the sheets cold. I realized I have completely forgotten how to exist in a routine that does not begin and end with you."
"I missed our mornings too," you whispered, leaning your head back against the rim of the copper tub, looking up at him upside down. "At Summerhall, the dawn was so loud. Knights drilling in the yard, Aerion shouting. All I wanted was to be back here, drinking watered wine on the balcony in silence with you, reading while you reviewed your letters."
Baelor leaned down, his dark hair falling forward as he pressed a deep, tender kiss to your forehead. "You will never have to endure a loud morning again," he promised softly. "I am going to keep you so close to me that the court will begin to wonder if we share a single shadow."
Later that night, the heavy velvet curtains were drawn tight against the rain. The fire had burned down to glowing embers, casting a warm, flickering light over the massive featherbed. Baelor had pulled you entirely into the curve of his body, his broad chest pressed flush against your back, his heavy arm draped securely over your waist. He was holding you with a possessive, desperate tightness, as if he feared you might vanish into thin air if he loosened his grip. His hand rested over your left arm, his thumb gently, unconsciously tracing the raised, silvery line of the scar - a physical reminder of exactly why he needed you so close. You shifted slightly, tangling your legs with his, and felt the deep, steady rhythm of his heart against your spine. His breathing had finally slowed, evening out into the deep, heavy cadence of true sleep. For the first time in nearly a month, Baelor Breakspear was resting completely, his soul finally quieted by the simple, profound anchor of your presence in his arms.
The next morning, the rain had finally stopped, leaving the Red Keep bathed in crisp, golden autumn light. You woke to the feeling of Baelor’s lips pressing soft, waking kisses to the curve of your shoulder. When you turned over, stretching lazily beneath the warm furs, you found him already awake, lying on his side and simply watching you with an expression of such absolute, contented peace it made your breath catch.
"Good morning," you smiled, your voice thick with sleep, reaching out to trace the strong line of his jaw.
Baelor caught your hand, pressing a kiss to your palm. "It is a perfect morning," he corrected, his voice a low, vibrating hum that you felt all the way to your toes. He made no move to get out of bed, completely ignoring the fact that the sun was fully risen and the Small Council was likely expecting him.
The heavy oak door suddenly pushed open, and the quiet intimacy of the morning was delightfully shattered. Your six-year-old daughter padded into the room, her dark curls sleep-mussed, dragging her favorite wooden dragon behind her. The moment her violet eyes found you in the bed, she let out a delighted squeal and scrambled up the steps, launching herself onto the mattress. Baelor let out a rich, booming laugh, effortlessly catching her before she could accidentally knee you in the ribs, and pulled her down between the two of you. As you lay there, listening to your daughter babble excitedly about the rain while Baelor stroked her hair, you watched the remaining tension completely bleed out of your husband's frame. The hollow, exhausted Hand of the King was entirely gone. When he looked across the pillows at you, his dark eyes shining with a deep, quiet joy, the world finally settled back into its proper alignment.
A few hours later, the routine they had missed so desperately was beautifully restored. Baelor was back in his solar, but the heavy, suffocating dread of the room had evaporated. He sat at his massive oak desk, reviewing the trade ledgers with a clear, focused mind. And he could focus, because on the velvet settee by the hearth, you were curled up with a heavy leather-bound book, occasionally turning a page with a soft rustle of parchment. Every few minutes, Baelor would pause his work, lifting his pen just to look at you. You would feel the weight of his gaze, look up, and offer him that small, private smile. He would smile back, the deep lines of exhaustion on his face replaced by a profound, unyielding peace, and then return to his ledgers. He didn't need to speak. He just needed to know you were there, right where you belonged, anchoring him to the earth.
The quiet of the solar was eventually broken by the definitive, soft thud of your heavy leather book snapping shut.
The sound immediately drew Baelor’s attention. He paused mid-stroke, his quill hovering over the parchment, his dark eyes lifting to meet yours.
You stood up from the velvet settee and walked slowly across the sunlit solar, rounding the massive oak desk until you were standing right beside his chair.
"Are the ledgers truly that fascinating, my Prince?" you asked gently, resting your hand on his broad shoulder.
Baelor smiled, setting the quill down and turning his chair slightly to face you. He wrapped his arm around your waist, pulling you into the space between his knees. "They are tedious beyond measure. I would much rather be looking at you."
"You said earlier," you began, your fingers brushing a stray lock of dark, silver-streaked hair from his forehead, "that you intend to keep me so close, the court will wonder if we share a single shadow."
"I meant every word, little dragon," he murmured, his hands resting warmly on your hips as he looked up at you. "I am never letting you out of my sight again."
"It is a very good thing, then," you whispered, your heart doing a sudden, nervous flutter in your chest as you rested both hands on his broad shoulders. "Because my shadow is going to be growing rather round in the coming months."
Baelor went perfectly, terrifyingly still.
For a breathless second, the brilliant mind of the Hand of the King seemed to completely misfire. He stared at you, his Valyrian eyes widening a fraction of an inch as the meaning of your words slowly caught up to him.
"You are..." Baelor breathed, his voice entirely hollowed out by shock.
"I am," you confirmed softly, a radiant, watery smile finally breaking across your face. "I suspected before I left for Summerhall, but the Maester confirmed it while I was there. I wanted to be absolutely certain before I told you."
You watched the realization hit him, the sheer weight of it magnified by the grueling, quiet heartbreak you had both endured over the past years. Month after month of hopeful waiting, only to be met with the agonizing, silent disappointment of your moon blood. You had tried so hard, choking down bitter fertility teas, offering silent prayers in the sept, the struggle slowly becoming a heavy, unspoken grief between you. For a man who could command the entire Seven Kingdoms, Baelor had never looked more helpless than on the nights he held you while you wept over another empty cradle. You had both begun to fear that the Gods had decided one miracle was all you were allowed.
Baelor didn't speak. He couldn't.
He let out a ragged, trembling exhale, his large, calloused hands sliding slowly from your hips to press flat against your stomach. His hands - hands that wielded broadswords and signed the fate of millions - were shaking violently against the silk of your gown.
He dropped his head, pressing his brow gently against your stomach.
"We did it," you whispered, your voice breaking as hot tears finally spilled over your lashes. You sank to your knees right there on the Myrish carpet, bringing yourself down to his eye level, your hands coming up to cup his face. "After all this time, Baelor... we did it."
Baelor lifted his head. The legendary, untouchable Crown Prince was completely gone, replaced by a man stripped down to his absolute, devastating core. His eyes were swimming with tears, the deep, exhausted lines of his face softening into an expression of profound, earth-shattering relief.
He reached out, his massive arms wrapping around your waist, and physically hauled you off the floor and into his lap.
He didn't just hold you; he buried his face deep in the crook of your neck, his broad chest heaving as he took a shuddering breath, breathing you in like a man who had been drowning for two years and had finally broken the surface.
"You give me everything," Baelor choked out, his voice a thick, wet rasp against your skin, his arms tightening around you like an unbreakable fortress. "You gave me a life I never thought I deserved, and now... the Gods are entirely too good to me."
"You earned this," you whispered fiercely, leaning your head against his, your own tears soaking into the collar of his linen shirt. "You earned every piece of this happiness."
Baelor let out a sound that was half-laugh, half-sob, pressing a desperate, lingering kiss to the curve of your neck, then to your jaw, and finally, a slow, incredibly tender kiss to your lips. He held you there in the sunlit solar, the towering stacks of ledgers and the endless demands of the realm entirely forgotten, utterly anchored by the brilliant, fiercely devoted woman in his arms and the tiny, miraculous heartbeat growing between you.
Hii, love your “The jewel of summerhall” fanfic! *absolute perfection* not sure if you’re taking requests, in case you are, could I request one from the same universe as The jewel of summerhall, where niece/reader get attacked/ injured during a feast/ celebration and Baelor goes ballistic?! Many thanks in advance 🫶
The jewell of Summerhall III - Baelor Targaryen
baelor targaryen x maekar’s daughter!reader
part one - part two - part three - part four
oh how i love this series!!!
word count: 4k
warnings: age gap, mentions of blood, angst and fluff
requests are open!
The heat inside the royal box was oppressive, a suffocating blanket of stagnant air and the smell of dry earth. Below, the lists were a chaotic, blinding haze of golden dust and the deafening roar of the smallfolk. You sat in the seat of honor, draped in silver-gold silk that felt far too heavy for the afternoon sun. Beside you sat Baelor Breakspear. To the thousands of people watching, he was the absolute picture of Valyrian perfection. He wore a high-collared doublet of immaculate black velvet, though he did not seem to sweat. His posture was rigid, his expression a mask of polite, unyielding diplomacy as he watched the joust. He was the Crown Prince. He was the Hand of the King. He was the steady, immovable earth that grounded the entire realm.
But you had spent years studying the quiet, complicated men of your family. You knew the man beneath the mantle.
Your eyes drifted down to his large, calloused hands resting on his thighs. To anyone else, he was perfectly still. But you saw the heavy signet ring on his index finger. His thumb was rhythmically, relentlessly twisting the metal, the faint click of the ring turning against his knuckle the only betrayal of the tension humming beneath his skin. He wasn't impatient with the tourney. He was a man with the patience of a mountain. But he hated seeing you sitting rigidly in the suffocating heat, and his legendary restraint was fraying simply because he wanted to take you away from it.
"You are going to wear a groove into your finger, my Prince," you murmured. Your voice was a soft, melodic whisper, pitched just low enough to slip beneath the blare of the herald’s trumpets.
Baelor didn't turn his head immediately, maintaining his flawless, regal profile for the watching court, but the twisting of the ring stopped instantly. Slowly, subtly, he shifted his massive frame just a fraction of an inch closer to you. Under the heavy, embroidered linen draped over the railing, his hand slid across the gap between your chairs. His warm, rough fingers found yours. He didn't grip you with urgency; he simply laced his fingers through yours with a gentle, profound tenderness, his thumb coming to rest over the erratic pulse at your wrist.
"I am only calculating how many more tilts I must endure before I can reasonably spirit you away to the gardens," Baelor’s deep, velvety voice rumbled softly. He turned his head then, and the mismatched eyes that met yours were completely stripped of their political guard. They were soft, heavy with a quiet, unconditional adoration. "You look tired, little dragon. The sun is too much today."
You offered a fond, private smile, your thumb gently stroking the back of his hand. "I am perfectly fine, Baelor. So long as you are sitting beside me."
"I am always beside you," he murmured gently, lifting your joined hands under the cover of the linens to press a warm, lingering kiss to your knuckles. "But I would much rather be beside you in the shade of the Red Keep, reading to you while you rest. The realm demands too much of your time."
"Two more tilts," you promised softly, squeezing his fingers. "And then I am yours for the rest of the day."
Baelor let out a quiet, contented exhale, his eyes lingering on your face for a moment longer before he forced his attention back to the yard. The twisting of his ring ceased. With his hand firmly anchored to yours, the Crown Prince finally found his peace.
Down in the dirt, the trumpets blared. Two knights - one wearing the green of House Tyrell, the other the silver trout of House Tully - spurred their massive warhorses forward. The impact was spectacular and catastrophic. Both lances shattered, but the angle was clumsy. The horses collided shoulder-to-shoulder, and both knights were violently unhorsed, crashing into the thick dust with the sickening sound of crunching metal. Both men scrambled to their feet, drawing their swords and wading into a brutal, heavy-handed melee right at the base of the royal box. It was clumsy, fueled by adrenaline, exhaustion, and the bitter heat of the day.
In the desperate, close-quarters scramble, the Tyrell knight let go of his tourney sword and reached for the live-steel hunting dirk at his belt to force a yield. The Tully knight saw the draw. Panicking, he brought the heavy iron pommel of his broadsword down in a frantic, wild parry, striking the Tyrell knight's wrist with all of his panicked strength. The force of the blow ripped the dagger from the knight’s grip. Deflected by the violent strike, the dagger spun wildly through the air. It tumbled end-over-end, flying straight up over the low wooden railing of the royal box.
Straight toward Baelor’s face.
You didn't think. There was no time to scream, no time to issue a warning. The instincts forged in the dark, volatile halls of Summerhall took over entirely. You threw your entire weight sideways, tearing your hand from Baelor’s grip and lunging across the gap between your chairs. Your arm shot up, your body twisting to completely cover your husband’s chest and throat. The dagger didn't hit him. But as it tumbled past, the razor-sharp edge of the heavy steel blade caught your raised forearm. It sliced cleanly through the silver-gold silk of your sleeve, tearing a long, vicious gash down your flesh before clattering harmlessly against the wooden floorboards.
You gasped, the air completely leaving your lungs as you fell heavily against Baelor’s chest. A hot, blinding, stinging agony flared across your arm. A thick line of bright, crimson blood instantly welled up along the laceration, dripping onto the immaculate black velvet of his doublet.
For a fraction of a second, the roar of the tourney faded into a dull, ringing hum. The world simply stopped spinning. Baelor stared at the bloody dagger on the floorboards. Then, his dark eyes snapped down to your arm. He saw the ruined silk. He saw the blood. He didn't scream. He didn't roar. The terror that seized the Crown Prince was so absolute, so profound, that it entirely bypassed rage and settled into an icy, horrifying stillness. His massive hands came up, gripping your waist. You could feel the rigid, unnatural tension in his muscles. He looked at your pale face, then back to the blood dripping from your arm.
"You moved," Baelor whispered. The sound was perfectly level, but it was hollow - a breathless, devastating rasp that carried the weight of a man watching his world end.
"I saw it," you breathed, your heart hammering frantically against your ribs from the shock.
"You stepped in front of it." Baelor’s dark eyes slowly rose to meet yours. There was no fire in them, only a black, suffocating panic that he was holding back by the thinnest thread of his sanity. "You put yourself between me and a blade."
"Baelor, it is just a scrape," you tried to say, attempting to pull your arm back to show him, but his grip on you was immovable.
He didn't argue with you. He didn't look at the King, or the crowd, or the brawling knights below. He stood up, lifting you with him effortlessly, shielding you entirely from the yard with his broad back. He looked at the Lord Commander of the Kingsguard.
"Halt the tilt," Baelor commanded. He didn't raise his voice. He didn't have to. The freezing, lethal emptiness in his tone was infinitely more terrifying than any shout. The Lord Commander stopped dead in his tracks.
"Take those two men," Baelor continued softly, his jaw locked. "If they are not chained in the black cells by the time I reach the Maester’s tower, you will take their place."
He unclasped his heavy velvet mantle, wrapping it securely around your shoulders to hide your bleeding arm from the staring court. He scooped you into his arms, holding you so tightly to his chest that you could feel the violent, frantic hammering of his heart, and carried you out of the royal box in total silence.
The heavy oak doors of the Grand Maester’s chambers closed behind you, shutting out the rest of the Red Keep. Baelor laid you down on the examination table with an agonizing, trembling care. He refused to step back even when the elderly Grand Maester rushed over with a wooden kit of supplies. The gash on your arm was long and bleeding sluggishly, and while not life-threatening, it required careful cleaning and several tight silk stitches. But Baelor was a man completely unspooled. He stood directly beside you, his broad shoulders rigid. He watched the Maester with a hyper-vigilant, absolute scrutiny. He didn't speak, but his sheer presence in the room was a heavy, suffocating threat.
The Maester uncorked a vial of boiled wine and took a piece of rough linen. "This will sting, Princess," he murmured, his hands shaking under the terrifying, silent glare of the Crown Prince. As the Maester pressed the alcohol-soaked linen into the open wound, the sharp, fiery burn made you flinch. You drew in a sharp breath through your teeth, your eyes squeezing shut.
Baelor’s hand snapped out like a striking viper. He didn't throw the old man. He simply clamped his large hand around the Maester’s wrist with the unyielding force of an iron vise. The Maester gasped, freezing instantly.
"You are hurting her," Baelor stated. His voice was a low, vibrating whisper, deadly and entirely calm.
"Baelor, please," you exhaled, opening your eyes and reaching out with your good hand to touch his tense arm. "It is alcohol. It is meant to burn. Let him finish."
Baelor didn't look at you. His dark, fathomless eyes remained locked on the terrified Maester. "Leave the linen and the bandages on the table," he ordered softly. "And get out."
The Maester carefully set the supplies down. Baelor released his wrist, and the old man practically ran from the room, pulling the heavy door shut behind him. The moment the latch clicked, the terrifying, untouchable Hand of the King vanished. Baelor let out a long, ragged exhale. He picked up the clean piece of linen and the vial of wine. His large hands, which had just held the Maester in an iron grip, were now trembling. He couldn't hide it. The immaculate Crown Prince was shaking.
He knelt on the cold stone floor, bringing his face level with your arm.
"Let me do it," you whispered, your heart shattering at the sight of the raw, naked fear etched into the deep lines of his face.
"No." Baelor swallowed hard, his jaw clenching as he forced his hands to steady. "I have to do this."
With a gentleness that was incredibly profound, Baelor carefully dabbed the blood away from your skin, preparing the skin before meticulously sewing the wound closed himself. Every time you tensed, every time your breath hitched, his own eyes fluttered shut for a fraction of a second, absorbing the pain as if it were his own. He finished tying off the fine silk threads and carefully wrapped a clean, white bandage around your arm to protect it. When it was done, the last of his strength seemed to leave him. He didn't weep. He simply dropped his head, resting his brow gently against your knee. His massive arms came up, wrapping carefully around your waist, holding you with a desperate, quiet reverence. You could feel the rapid, uneven hitch of his breathing against your skirts.
"You took a blade for me," Baelor whispered into the silk of your gown. The words were thick, suffocated by the crushing weight of what had almost happened. "I am supposed to be your shield. I promised I would be your shield."
You reached down, your uninjured hand sliding into his dark, silver-streaked hair, anchoring him to the quiet reality of the room. "It was flying at your face, Baelor," you said softly. "I couldn't just sit there. I wouldn't."
He slowly lifted his head, his eyes entirely laid bare. "I know," he rasped. "But you cannot do it for me, little dragon. I am a soldier. I know how to bleed. But if I ever had to watch you die because of me... I would not survive it. I would not want to." He buried his face in the warm curve of your neck, holding you in absolute silence for a very long time, listening to the steady, unyielding rhythm of your heartbeat to calm his own.
The transition from the Maester's tower to the absolute quiet of your bedchamber felt like stepping into another world. The Milk of the Poppy pulled you into a deep, heavy sleep for hours. When the moon finally crested high over the Red Keep, the dull, throbbing ache in your arm pierced through the haze, pulling you awake. You blinked into the dimness. The fire had burned down to glowing embers. You shifted, instinctively reaching out to find the familiar, solid warmth of your husband. The silk sheets beside you were cold.
"Baelor?" your voice was a raspy, sleep-heavy whisper.
There was no immediate answer, only the faint, frantic scratch of a quill against parchment. You slowly pushed yourself up, wincing as the movement pulled tightly at your stitches. Across the expansive bedchamber, a single candle flickered on a small, heavy oak writing desk. Baelor was sitting there, his broad back to you. He had stripped down to a simple white linen shirt and dark breeches. The desk around him was littered with crumpled, discarded drafts. He had his head bowed, one hand buried deep in his silver-streaked hair, looking utterly defeated.
You slipped from the high bed, wrapping a silk robe over your shoulders. Your bare feet made no sound on the carpets, but as you stepped into the pool of candlelight, the subtle shift in the air made him freeze. Baelor dropped the quill. He was out of the chair before you could even take another step, his large hands hovering over your shoulders, terrified to touch you.
"What are you doing out of bed?" he whispered, his voice incredibly rough, raw with exhaustion. "You are supposed to be resting. Does it hurt? Should I send for the Maester?"
"I am fine, Baelor," you murmured, leaning your weight gently against his solid chest. You looked past him to the desk. The parchment was half-written. "You haven't slept."
"I cannot sleep," Baelor confessed, the absolute, naked vulnerability in his voice shattering the quiet of the room. He carefully wrapped his arms around your waist, taking your weight, and buried his face in the curve of your neck. "Every time I close my eyes, I see the steel spinning toward you."
You reached up with your good hand, your fingers tangling soothingly into his dark hair at the nape of his neck. "I am right here."
"I went down to the nursery," Baelor choked out, his chest shuddering against yours. "Our daughter was fast asleep, clutching that wooden dragon Aemon carved for her. Completely unaware of how close she came to waking up in a world without her mother."
Baelor lifted his head, gently guiding you to sit in his chair, kneeling on the floor beside you so he was looking up into your face. "I came back here to write to your father," he rasped, gesturing to the ruined parchments. "I must tell Maekar that the jewel of his house - the mother of his granddaughter - bled because I was too blind to stop a blade. He threatened to kill me if I ever let the burdens of the Iron Throne hurt you. And he was right."
A tear finally tracked silently down his face. "I sat here asking the Gods why you would do something so reckless. And then I remembered. You were forged in a house that demanded you be the shield. It is so deeply ingrained in your bones to take the hit for the people you love that you did not even think about our daughter today. You only saw the blade flying at me, and your body moved."
You felt a sudden, hot sting of tears behind your own eyes. He saw you so clearly, but he believed the trauma of Summerhall was a ghost still directing your limbs. "No." You moved your uninjured arm, wrapping it securely around his broad shoulders. "Baelor, look at me. Shielding my brothers was a duty because there was no one else to do it. But shielding you... that was a choice. I did not forget our daughter today. I moved in front of that blade because I love you more than I value my own breath."
Baelor’s breath hitched, a shudder tearing through his massive frame. You picked up the quill from the desk with your good hand, dipped it in the inkwell, and held it out to him.
"We will write to my father," you whispered, pulling his face close until his forehead rested flush against yours. "But you will write the truth. The truth is that you locked two knights in the black cells to demand justice for me. The truth is that you have not left my side, and that our daughter still has both her parents."
Baelor stared at you, the heavy, suffocating dread in his chest slowly giving way to a profound, earth-shattering awe. He took the quill from your hand, set it down, and buried his face in the curve of your neck. "What did I ever do in my past lives to earn a Queen like you?" he murmured against your skin, his arms wrapping around your waist with a desperate reverence.
"You admitted that a nineteen-year-old girl had a sharper political mind than your entire Small Council," you reminded him with a soft, wry smile, your fingers tangling in his hair. "And then you let me reorganize your ledgers."
Baelor let out a low, breathless laugh, the sound vibrating against you. For the first time since the blade flew, the terrifying shadow of the tourney finally began to lift.
The days turned to weeks, and the autumn winds began to strip the leaves from the godswood. In the quiet sanctuary of your bedchamber, the Grand Maester carefully snipped the final silk threads of your stitches and unspooled the length of the linen bandage. The wound had closed entirely. Where the angry laceration had been, there was now a raised, silvery line of scar tissue running along the pale skin of your forearm.
"It healed beautifully, Princess," the Maester murmured.
"Thank you, Maester," you said dismissively, rolling your shoulder. You felt no vanity over the scar; you had survived the Dornish Marches, and you knew that far worse things existed in the world than a blemish on your skin.
But Baelor, standing rigidly by the hearth, did not share your pragmatism. His jaw locked so tightly a muscle feathered wildly beneath his skin. He looked physically ill. "I need to review the ledgers," he said. His voice was incredibly tight, clipped and formal. He didn't look at you. He turned on his heel and walked out.
For the rest of the day, Baelor avoided looking at your left arm. He was treating the scar not as a healed wound, but as a ghost haunting the room. That evening, you were sitting on the velvet settee in your chambers. Your little daughter was curled in your lap, playing with a wooden horse. Baelor had just stepped into the doorway, pausing in the shadows to watch his family. Your daughter’s little hands suddenly stopped playing. Her wide, violet eyes landed on the exposed skin of your forearm. She reached out with a tiny, chubby finger and gently traced the raised, silvery line of the scar.
"Muña, hurt?" she asked, her voice a soft, innocent chime.
In the doorway, Baelor completely froze. His heart stopped. He waited for the confirmation of his guilt, right from the mouth of his child. But you didn't pull your arm away. You smiled, a warm, radiant expression, and gently caught your daughter's hand, pressing a kiss to her knuckles.
"No, sweet girl. It does not hurt anymore," you told her softly. "It is a brave mark. It means a dragon was protecting her treasure, and she won."
Your daughter repeated the words and beamed, entirely satisfied with the logic, and went back to her horse. In the doorway, a choked, quiet breath escaped Baelor. He pressed his hand over his mouth, his eyes shutting tight as the agonizing guilt that had been crushing his chest for weeks finally shattered against the pure, simple truth of your words.
Later that night, the bedchamber was cloaked in the heavy, quiet dark. Your daughter was fast asleep in the nursery. You felt the mattress shift as Baelor slipped into bed. Usually, he would immediately pull you backward into the curve of his body. Tonight, he lay perfectly still on his back. You let out a soft sigh, turning over to face him. You reached out with your scarred arm and placed your palm flat against the center of his broad chest.
Baelor inhaled sharply, his body flinching. He reached up, his large hand wrapping gently but firmly around your wrist, as if to physically move your arm away from him.
"Do not look away from it," you whispered into the dark, your voice laced with a gentle, unyielding steel. "I am not broken, Baelor. And I will not hide my own skin from my husband."
Baelor didn't let go of your wrist, but he didn't push it away either. He slowly turned his head to look at you, the moonlight catching the raw, devastating agony in his dark eyes. "I cannot look at it," Baelor confessed, his voice a broken whisper. His thumb brushed against the raised edge of the scar tissue. "It is a permanent mark of my failure, etched directly into your skin. It makes me sick with shame."
"Then change how you look at it," you challenged him quietly, refusing to let him look away. "You are the one who told me that a dragon does not apologize for protecting its treasure. I protected you so I could come home to our daughter. Do not apologize for this."
Baelor stared at you, the heavy guilt in his chest warring with the absolute, blinding brilliance of the woman he had married. He remembered the sweet, innocent voice of his daughter calling it a brave mark. He didn't speak. He slowly lifted your arm. He brought your wrist to his mouth, his eyes never leaving yours. He pressed his lips to the very bottom of the scar. His touch was incredibly gentle, a breath of warm air against the newly healed skin. You gasped softly as he slowly moved higher.
Baelor kissed the center of the silvery line, his dark eyes heavy with a profound, earth-shattering reverence. He wasn't just accepting the scar; he was worshipping it. He kissed the very top of the mark, right below the curve of your elbow, lingering there as a quiet, shuddering breath escaped him.
"It is the most beautiful mark in the Seven Kingdoms," Baelor murmured against your skin, his voice finally dropping to its familiar, rich rumble. He lowered your arm, shifting his massive frame to pull you entirely flush against his chest, wrapping you securely in his absolute devotion. "Because it means you stayed with us."
You smiled against his collarbone, the last lingering shadow of the tourney finally evaporating into the dark. "I am always going to stay with you, my Prince."
"I know," Baelor whispered, burying his face in your silver-gold hair, his large hand coming to rest protectively over the scar. "And I will spend the rest of my days making sure you never have to prove it again."
i decided to include reader’s and baelor’s kids as the comments suggested and i must say i am very satisfied with how this turned out
requests are open!
word count: 2k
Ser Duncan the Tall had faced charging warhorses, enraged lords, and men wielding spiked maces. He had bled in the dirt of tourney grounds and slept in rain-soaked ditches. None of it - absolutely none of it - had prepared him for the sheer, unadulterated terror of the Red Keep’s royal nursery on a rainy Tuesday afternoon.
He was currently sitting cross-legged on a painfully plush Myrish rug, trying to make himself as small as possible. This was entirely unsuccessful, as he was seven feet tall and took up a solid quarter of the floor space. His massive knees bumped against a tiny, painted wooden table that looked ready to splinter under the sheer force of his proximity.
"You're not doing it right, Ser Duncan," a bossy, high-pitched voice reprimanded.
Five-year-old Princess Aemma stood beside his massive knee, her hands planted firmly on her hips. She had your silver-gold hair, but the deeply unimpressed, aristocratic look she was currently giving Dunk was pure, undiluted Baelor Breakspear.
"I am holding the cup, Princess," Dunk said reasonably. He was pinching a wooden toy teacup - painted with delicate little strawberries - between his thumb and forefinger. It was so agonizingly small he was genuinely afraid he might crush it into dust if he breathed too heavily.
"But your pinky finger isn't out," Aemma sighed, her tone suggesting she was dealing with a particularly slow pack mule. She reached forward with her tiny hands, grabbing Dunk’s massive, calloused pinky and physically prying it away from the cup. "Mother always drinks her tea with her pinky out. If you are going to be the Queen of the castle, you have to do it right."
From his spot by the rain-streaked window, Egg snorted so hard he choked on the apple he was eating. Egg was currently wearing a pair of puppeteer’s velvet wings strapped to his back, a deeply unhappy expression on his usually smug face.
"I still don't understand why I have to be the Queen," Dunk muttered, carefully holding his pinky out exactly as instructed, his arm trembling slightly with the effort of keeping still.
"Because I am the brave knight," seven-year-old Prince Baelon announced. He leaped off a velvet ottoman, wielding a wooden tourney sword that was roughly the size of Dunk’s forearm. "Aegon is the evil dragon, and Aemma is the King. You are the tallest, so you have to be the Queen trapped in the tower. Those are the rules of siege warfare."
"That makes absolutely no sense," Dunk pointed out, looking desperately at the heavy oak doors and wishing they would magically open to offer an escape route. "Usually, the knight rescues a maiden. Or another knight."
"It makes perfect sense," Baelon argued, marching up to Dunk and pointing his wooden sword directly at the knight's chest. "Besides, we know you like Mother. You always look at her like a starving hound watching a butcher window."
Dunk’s imaginary tea went down the wrong pipe. He coughed, his face instantly flaring to the color of a Dornish plum. "I do not-"
"You do," Aemma agreed cheerfully, abandoning Dunk's pinky to climb onto a small footstool behind him. "Last week when Mother wore that sparkly red dress to the feast, you dropped your shield on your own foot."
"That was - my grip slipped. The leather was oily," Dunk lied desperately, his voice cracking horribly. He looked at Egg pleadingly. "Aegon, tell your cousins I am a fierce, respectable knight who does not drop things because of... sparkly dresses."
"He dropped his practice sword yesterday when she smiled at him from the balcony," Egg supplied from the window, entirely happy to throw him directly into the dragon's jaws. "It hit the dirt and he apologized to it."
"Aegon, do you need a clout in the ear?" Dunk threatened, though it lacked any real heat.
"See?" Baelon grinned, his dark eyes dancing with exactly the same wicked, devastating amusement Baelor used to torment his enemies at court. "You're perfect for the role. Now, put this on."
Baelon shoved a shockingly pink, gossamer silk shawl into Dunk's hands.
"What is this?" Dunk asked hollowly.
"The Queen's mantle," Aemma dictated from behind him. Before Dunk could protest, the five-year-old dropped a heavily woven crown of slightly wilted daisies directly onto Dunk's coarse, brown hair. "There. Now you look perfectly royal. Pretend to faint so Baelon can rescue you from the evil wyvern."
Dunk closed his eyes, praying for the Warrior to grant him the strength to survive the next ten minutes. He was a knight of the Seven Kingdoms. He had sworn solemn vows. And right now, he was wearing a pink shawl, a daisy crown, and holding a strawberry teacup.
He took a deep breath, dramatically draped the back of his massive hand over his forehead, and let out a highly unconvincing, monotone groan.
"Oh, no. I am fainting. I am trapped in the tower. Save me, brave knight, from the terrible wyvern who is currently eating an apple."
"Rawr," Egg said flatly from the window, not even bothering to flap his velvet wings.
Baelon cheered, charging forward to tap Dunk's arm with the wooden sword, while Aemma clapped her hands in delight. "A truly harrowing rescue! The Queen is saved!"
"An inspiring performance. The bards shall sing of it for generations."
Dunk’s eyes snapped open. The blood completely drained from his face, leaving him pale, only to rush back with twice the heat. He scrambled to his feet so fast he nearly knocked over the tiny painted table, his head brushing perilously close to the iron chandelier hanging from the ceiling.
Standing in the doorway, framed perfectly by the heavy oak, were Baelor and you.
You had just returned from greeting a delegation from Oldtown and were still dressed in your formal finery - a breathtaking gown of deep, midnight blue embroidered with silver threads. Baelor stood beside you in his imposing black-and-red doublet, his arm resting comfortably on your lower back.
Baelor’s dark eyes swept over the scene in the nursery: his two children, his nephew wearing wings, and the seven-foot-tall hedge knight who was currently sporting a daisy crown, draped in a pink shawl, and clutching a tiny wooden teacup like a lifeline.
Baelor pressed his lips together, visibly fighting a losing battle against a massive grin.
"My Prince! Princess!" Dunk gasped, frantically trying to hide the tiny wooden teacup behind his broad back. He reached up to rip the daisy crown off his head, but Aemma let out a sharp gasp of betrayal, and Dunk's hand froze. He didn't dare remove it. "We were - I was just - Prince Aegon finished his sums early, and I was... we were doing tactical drills."
"Tactical drills," Baelor repeated slowly, his rich, melodic voice echoing in the sudden quiet of the nursery. He stepped into the room, bringing you with him. "I must say, Ser Duncan, your armor is looking rather vibrant today. Is pink the new fashion in Flea Bottom?"
"He's the Queen," Baelon supplied proudly, running over to hug his father's leg. "He's very good at it, Father. He fainted and everything. But he complains a lot about holding his pinky out."
You pressed a hand to your mouth, your shoulders shaking as you tried to stifle your laughter. You looked up at the towering, utterly terrified knight, your eyes softening with immense, genuine affection.
"I think the daisy crown is a wonderful touch, Ser Duncan," you said warmly, stepping away from Baelor to approach the frozen giant. You reached out, your delicate fingers lightly adjusting one of the drooping white petals near his temple. "It really brings out the brown in your eyes. Though I am sorry they forced you into the pink shawl."
Dunk’s entire face turned the color of a freshly painted target. He stared fixedly at a spot on the wall approximately three inches above your head, his brain completely short-circuiting at the gentle brush of your fingers.
"Th-Thank you, Princess," Dunk stammered, his voice sounding like it belonged to a strangled goose. "It is... very floral. Very... soft. The children are... excellent commanders."
Baelor finally let out a rich, echoing laugh that filled the room. He stepped forward, his eyes gleaming with sheer victory, and clapped a heavy hand on Dunk’s shoulder - right over the pink silk shawl.
"You are a braver man than I, Ser Duncan," Baelor said, his voice laced with supreme, devastating amusement. "I would rather face a vanguard of Golden Company mercenaries than let Aemma style my hair."
You let out a bright, unrestrained peel of laughter, leaning against the doorframe as you watched your husband mercilessly torment the poor hedge knight. "Baelor, stop it, you're going to give the poor man a heart attack! He already looks like he's going to pass out for real this time."
Baelor straightened up, his chest heaving with a suppressed laugh. He turned back to you, his eyes sparkling with absolute triumph. "Come, my love. Let us leave Her Grace to her tea. Enjoy your reign, Ser Duncan. I look forward to hearing your decrees regarding the royal toy chest."
"Thank you for watching them!" you beamed, linking your arm through your husband's as he guided you back out into the hall.
"Yes," Dunk croaked, his voice entirely hollow. "Thank you. Long live the Queen."
As the heavy oak doors clicked shut behind the royal couple, sealing Dunk inside once more, a heavy silence fell over the nursery.
Aemma tugged sharply on his tunic. "Ser Duncan, you have to sit back down. The tea is getting cold."
Dunk slowly, mechanically lowered himself back onto the tiny footstool, the pink shawl pooling around his massive shoulders. He looked at the tiny wooden strawberry teacup in his hand. He looked at the closed door. And then, he looked over at Egg, who was leaning against the windowsill, looking entirely too smug.
Dunk took a deep, steadying breath. The blush was finally starting to fade from his cheeks. If he was going to be thoroughly humiliated by the Crown Prince of the Seven Kingdoms, he was at least going to get something out of it.
He sat up perfectly straight, adjusted his pink silk shawl with his free hand, and looked at his squire with absolute, deadpan authority.
"Aegon," Dunk said, his voice dropping into a solemn, commanding register.
Egg's smirk faltered slightly. "Yes, Ser?"
"That is Your Grace to you," Dunk corrected smoothly. He raised the tiny wooden teacup to his lips and took a slow, imaginary sip, making absolutely sure his pinky finger was rigidly extended. "And as your Queen, I command the evil wyvern to go to the kitchens and fetch me a platter of lemon cakes. The royal court is hungry."
Baelon gasped in delight, dropping his wooden sword. "Yes! The wyvern has to bring tribute to the tower! It's the rules!"
Egg stared at his towering, daisy-crowned knight in absolute, sputtering betrayal. "You can't do that! I'm a prince of the blood! I don't fetch pastries!"
"Not in this tower, you aren't," Dunk replied. A genuine, entirely relieved smile finally broke through his lingering embarrassment as he fully settled into the ridiculousness of the game. He pointed a massive, calloused finger at the door. "Now fly, wyvern. The Queen requires snacks, and if you dawdle, I will have Ser Baelon banish you to the moat."
Egg let out a loud, highly theatrical groan of defeat, snatching up his velvet wings and trudging toward the heavy oak doors. "Fine. But I'm eating at least three of them on the way back, Your Grace."
"See that you don't drop them," Dunk called after him, before turning back to the two delighted children at his knees. "Now, Princess Aemma, pour me another cup. Being royalty is thirsty work."
hahahah atp maekar is so done with all of them and im here for it
If there was one thing Ser Duncan the Tall hated more than the blazing heat of the training yard, it was a royal feast.
In the yard, his massive size was an advantage. In the Great Hall of the Red Keep, surrounded by delicate Myrish carpets, fragile crystal goblets, and lords wearing so much silk he wondered how they could still stand straight, he felt like a runaway draft horse that had somehow wandered into a glassblower's shop.
He stood stiffly near a tapestry depicting Aegon the Conqueror, trying very hard to blend into the woven dragons. Beside him, Egg was doing his best to consume an entire platter of roasted quail while simultaneously trying to wipe grease on his fine velvet doublet without anyone noticing.
"Stop that," Dunk hissed, swatting the boy's hand away from his tunic. "Your father will have my hide if you look like a scullion when the King raises a toast."
"My father isn't looking," Egg mumbled around a mouthful of meat. "He's too busy scowling at the Master of Coin."
Dunk glanced toward the high table. Prince Maekar Targaryen sat with a cup of wine resting against his chest, looking like a man who hadn't slept a full night in a decade.
"Just eat your quail, Egg, and let me be miserable in peace," Dunk muttered, crossing his massive arms over his chest.
"You wouldn't be miserable if you went over and talked to Auntie," Egg pointed out, his violet eyes gleaming with pure, unadulterated mischief as he nodded toward the center of the hall.
Dunk snapped his gaze forward, and his brain completely ceased to function.
You were moving through the crowd of fawning lords and ladies, the absolute picture of royal grace. As the Crown Princess and Baelor's wife, you were the jewel of the court. Tonight, you wore a gown of midnight-blue velvet that made your silver-gold hair look like captured moonlight. You were smiling politely at a Lannister lord, but the moment you spotted Egg, your smile turned entirely genuine, and you began to make your way toward the tapestry.
Run, Dunk’s brain commanded him. Turn around and run all the way to Dorne.
Instead, his boots remained rooted to the floor.
"Aegon," you greeted warmly as you approached, reaching out to tap your nephew lightly on his nose. "I see you have conquered the quail. Are you leaving any for the rest of the court?"
"I'm a growing boy," Egg said proudly. "Dunk says I need meat to build my muscles."
You laughed, a bright, melodic sound that made Dunk’s heart do a strange, frantic flip against his ribs. You turned those kind, beautiful eyes up toward him.
"And how are you faring this evening, Ser Duncan?" you asked gently. "You look terribly stiff standing all the way over here in the shadows. Have you tried the lemon cakes?"
"N-No, Princess," Dunk stammered, his massive hands instantly beginning to sweat. "I am... guarding. Very busy guarding. The tapestry, that is. Keeping it safe."
Keeping the tapestry safe? Dunk wanted to punch himself in the jaw. Thick as a castle wall. You offered a sweet, entirely understanding smile, entirely used to the towering knight's flustered babbling. "Well, you must take a break from your fierce defense of the woven dragons to eat something. I shall have a servant bring you a plate-"
"Aegon, put that bone down before you ruin your tunic."
The temperature in their small corner of the hall dropped. Dunk flinched so hard his elbow knocked against the stone wall.
Prince Maekar materialized from the crowd. He didn't look enraged; he looked profoundly, spiritually exhausted. He pinched the bridge of his nose, exhaling a long, slow breath as if praying for the Seven to grant him the patience he desperately lacked.
"Father," Egg said, instantly dropping his quail bone and wiping his greasy hands on his pants anyway.
"Maekar," you greeted smoothly, entirely unaffected by your grumpy brother-in-law. "Enjoying the feast?"
"I would rather be mucking out the royal stables, good-sister," Maekar replied dryly, dropping his hand from his face.
His pale violet eyes shifted from you to the towering hedge knight. Dunk’s face was rapidly turning the color of a crushed plum, and a single bead of sweat was rolling down his temple.
Maekar stared at him. The silence stretched, heavy and filled with sheer, unfiltered disappointment.
"Seven fucking hells," Maekar muttered, his voice flat. "Why is he sweating? It is freezing in this corner of the hall."
"He's not ill, Father," Egg chimed in loudly, entirely happy to throw his sworn shield directly to the wolves. "He just gets red and sweaty whenever Auntie talks to him."
Dunk’s soul left his body. He closed his eyes, preparing for Maekar to draw steel.
Instead, Maekar just groaned, a deeply pained sound, and rubbed his temples.
"Are you shitting me?" Maekar asked the ceiling, as if the gods themselves were playing a prank on him. He looked back at Dunk. "I hire a knight who is seven feet tall to protect my son, and I find him hyperventilating over my brother's wife like a green boy at a brothel."
"N-No, Prince Maekar!" Dunk squeaked, his voice cracking horribly. "Not looking at the Princess! Not looking! I am blind!"
Maekar gave him a look so devoid of respect it physically hurt. "You are an absolute, oversized sack of useless shit, Ser Duncan. Stop looking at her like a starving dog outside a butcher's window before Baelor catches you, and I have to go through the absolute fucking headache of finding Aegon someone else to squire for."
"Too late, brother."
A heavy, warm hand clapped down firmly on Dunk's tense shoulder.
Baelor Breakspear stepped out from the crowd, moving to stand perfectly between his annoyed brother and the terrified hedge knight. Baelor was dressed in the magnificent black and red of the Crown Prince, a silver cup of wine in his free hand. He looked entirely unbothered, his dark eyes sparkling with supreme mirth. He gave Dunk’s shoulder a reassuring, slightly firm squeeze before stepping past him to your side.
Baelor slipped his arm around your waist, pulling you flush against him. He looked at his deeply exasperated brother, and then at Dunk, who was visibly trembling.
"I think I can forgive Ser Duncan this once, Maekar," Baelor said, his voice laced with regal amusement. He looked down at you, a soft, devoted smile touching his lips. "My wife has a habit of leaving men entirely speechless. It is one of her many talents. And can we blame him, Maekar? She outshines every star in the sky tonight."
Baelor leaned down, pressing a lingering, unapologetic kiss to your temple right in front of the entire court, his grumpy brother, and the blushing hedge knight. When he pulled back, he looked at Dunk with a teasing, devastatingly confident smirk.
"But," Baelor added, his tone sharpening just enough to remind everyone exactly who he was, "a wise knight also knows that some stars are entirely out of his reach. Isn't that right, Ser Duncan?"
"Y-Yes, my Prince," Dunk gasped, nodding frantically, desperately grateful for the lifeline. "Out of reach. Very far away. In the sky. I am just... looking at the floor, mostly."
You stifled a laugh behind your hand, leaning your head against Baelor's broad shoulder.
Maekar let out a harsh, irritated huff, taking a long sip of his wine. He glared at Dunk one last time. "See that you keep your fucking eyes on the floor, hedge knight. And keep Aegon out of trouble, or I will geld you myself."
With a swirl of a black cloak and a muttered string of curses about how much he hated feasts, Maekar marched away into the crowd to find a dark corner to brood in.
Baelor chuckled softly, entirely victorious. "Come, my Queen. The King is asking for you. Let us leave Ser Duncan to guard his tapestry in peace."
"Goodnight, Ser Duncan. Goodnight, Aegon," you smiled, allowing Baelor to lead you away.
Dunk stood frozen for a long, agonizing moment, waiting until the royal couple had completely disappeared. Slowly, he let out a massive, shaky breath, wiping the cold sweat from his forehead.
He looked down at Egg, who had picked up another roasted quail and was chewing on a wing.
"Egg," Dunk said, his voice deadpan and hollow.
"Yes, Ser?"
"When we leave this keep, I am going to throw you into the Blackwater."
Egg just grinned around his mouthful of meat. "Auntie wouldn't let you."
Dunk stared at the boy, weighing the actual consequences of committing treason against how satisfying the splash would be. Ultimately, the fear of Prince Maekar's absolute wrath - and Baelor's terrifyingly polite smile - won out.
"I wouldn't tell her," Dunk muttered, finally dropping his arms and massaging the back of his neck, which had knotted into tightly wound cords of tension. "I'd tell her you flew away. You're a dragon, aren't you? She'd believe it."
"I don't have wings, Ser," Egg pointed out matter-of-factly, tossing the clean quail bone onto a passing servant's silver tray with terrifying accuracy. "And Auntie is entirely too smart to believe you. She says you have an 'honest face.' I think that's royal-speak for being a terrible liar."
Dunk groaned, grabbing Egg by the scruff of his velvet doublet. "Right. That's it. We are retreating. We are finding a corner so dark and so boring that not even a drunken stableboy would wander into it, and we are staying there until the King goes to bed."
"But the lemon cakes-"
"You have eaten enough birds to fly south for the winter, Egg," Dunk said firmly, steering the protesting squire through the outer perimeter of the feast.
He moved with the exaggerated, hyper-cautious steps of a man who knew he could accidentally crush a minor lordling if he turned around too fast. He dodged a group of Tyrell cousins laughing loudly over their wine, narrowly avoided stepping on the flowing train of a Velaryon lady's gown, and finally managed to shove Egg into a blessedly shadowed alcove near the tall, arched windows.
The cool night air blowing in from the Blackwater Bay was a profound relief against Dunk's burning cheeks. He leaned his massive shoulders against the cold stone, closing his eyes and exhaling a breath that ruffled his coarse hair.
"You know," Egg said, his voice muffled.
Dunk cracked one eye open. Egg had somehow, impossibly, procured a lemon cake during their brief march across the hall. The boy was currently stuffing half of it into his mouth.
"You know," Egg repeated, chewing enthusiastically, "Uncle Baelor wasn't actually mad at you. He just likes showing off."
"I don't care if he was showing off, Egg," Dunk whispered harshly, glancing around to make sure no one was eavesdropping. "He's the Crown Prince. He could have my head removed just for looking at his wife the wrong way. And your father looked ready to use my skull as a wine goblet."
"Father always looks like that," Egg shrugged, swallowing thickly. "And Uncle Baelor loves Auntie more than anything in the world. Everyone knows it. He fought in a tourney just to name her Queen of Love and Beauty, and he unhorsed every man to do it. He just thinks it's funny when you get flustered. He told me so yesterday in the training yard."
Dunk’s stomach dropped to his boots. "The Crown Prince of the Seven Kingdoms talks about my sweating problem in his free time?"
"Only when he's making a point about situational awareness," Egg said brightly. "He says a knight must always be aware of his surroundings, but that Ser Duncan's surroundings completely disappear the moment a pretty woman walks into the room. He called it a 'tactical vulnerability.'"
Dunk tipped his head back against the stone wall with a hollow thunk. "Dunk the Lunk," he whispered miserably to the ceiling. "Thick as a castle wall."
"Don't worry, Ser," Egg said, patting Dunk’s massive forearm with a sticky, lemon-glazed hand. "I told him you weren't entirely useless. I said you were very good at hitting things with a sword."
"Thank you, Egg," Dunk said flatly, not bothering to wipe the icing off his sleeve. "Your loyalty is a true comfort to me in my darkest hour."
"You're welcome, Ser," Egg beamed, entirely oblivious to the sarcasm. He peered out of the alcove, his violet eyes scanning the high table. "Oh, look! Father is yelling at the Master of Coin again. And Auntie is pouring his wine into a potted plant when he isn't looking."
Despite himself, Dunk opened his eyes and followed Egg's gaze. Sure enough, back at the center of the hall, Maekar was gesturing angrily at a red-faced lord, completely unaware that his good-sister was smoothly emptying his goblet into a large Myrish fern. Baelor was standing right beside her, watching the entire thing happen, and doing absolutely nothing to stop it. In fact, he looked like he was trying very hard not to laugh.
Dunk let out a long, defeated sigh, though the tightness in his chest finally began to loosen.
"Gods save us from Targaryens," Dunk muttered, crossing his arms and watching the most powerful family in the world act like a pack of squabbling tavern patrons.
would u pls consider writing something with egg, dunk and baelor? maybe the hedge knight has a crush on his favorite auntie, baelor's wife <3
Sunstruck I - Ser Duncan the Tall
ser duncan the tall x baelor’s wife!reader
part one - part two - part three
this is very short and sweet, hope u will enjoy it :)
requests are open!
word count: 1,9k
The afternoon sun beat down relentlessly on the hard-packed earth of the Red Keep’s training yard, baking the air until it shimmered in visible, wavy lines above the cobblestones. Ser Duncan the Tall was sweating straight through his roughspun linen tunic, his chest heaving like a bellows as he swung his heavy broadsword at the wooden quintain.
Most days, Dunk missed the open road. Being a hedge knight was a hard life, full of empty bellies and patched armor, but it was simple. The Red Keep, on the other hand, was a gilded cage full of perfumed lords who looked at him like he was a stray dog that had wandered into a feast. The only reason he was tolerated in the castle at all was the small, bald boy currently sitting in the shade of a weeping willow a few yards away.
Aegon - currently disguised as the precocious, foul-mouthed squire "Egg" - was supposed to be polishing Dunk's battered oak-and-iron shield. Instead, the boy was entirely distracted, leaning back against the trunk of the tree and squinting up toward the arched stone walkway that overlooked the royal yards.
"You're dropping your guard on the left, Ser," Egg called out unhelpfully, not even looking at the knight. "A real swordsman would have taken your ear off by now."
"I wouldn't drop my guard if you'd stop talking, Egg," Dunk grunted, swiping the stinging sweat from his eyes with the back of his massive, taped forearm. "And keep polishing. That shield is supposed to shine enough to blind a man in the lists."
"It would shine a lot better if you'd stop dropping it in the mud every time someone swings at you," Egg shot back, entirely too smug for a boy of ten.
Suddenly, the boy's face broke into a massive, gap-toothed grin. He dropped the polishing rag into the dirt and scrambled to his feet, waving his arms frantically. "Auntie! Down here!"
Dunk froze. His broadsword halted mid-swing, the sudden, awkward stop sending a jarring, painful ache all the way up his shoulder. Dunk the Lunk, thick as a castle wall, he cursed himself silently, his stomach instantly dropping past his worn leather boots and into the center of the earth.
He turned around just as you descended the stone steps into the yard.
In a fortress full of stuffy, judgmental nobility, you were a breath of crisp autumn air. You were dressed simply but elegantly in a gown of light, breathable crimson silk, your silver-gold hair pinned up elegantly off your neck to beat the oppressive heat. In your hands, you carried a large clay pitcher beaded with icy condensation and two wooden cups. To Dunk, who spent his days surrounded by sweating men-at-arms, the smell of horse manure, and the clanging of steel, you looked like a vision straight out of the songs - entirely too beautiful to be walking through the dust of the training yard.
"You are working him far too hard in this heat, Ser Duncan," you called out, your voice melodic and teasing as you approached.
"P-Princess," Dunk stammered.
He scrambled to sheath his sword, his massive, clumsy hands suddenly forgetting how a scabbard worked. He jammed the blade home, nearly pinching his own fingers, and dropped to a hasty, awkward knee in the dirt. His face was flushing so violently he was certain it rivaled the crimson of the Targaryen banners snapping in the wind above the keep.
"We were just... I mean to say, Egg was... we are honored by your presence, Your Grace," Dunk choked out, staring very intently at the hem of your gown.
"Oh, please stand up, Ser Duncan, you make me feel terribly formal and old when you do that," you laughed warmly.
You poured a cup of iced lemon water and handed it to Egg, who eagerly chugged it down, a line of cold water escaping the corner of his mouth to cut a clean trail through the dust on his chin. You gently patted the boy's cheek, then poured a second cup and stepped toward the towering hedge knight.
Dunk scrambled to his feet, instantly terrified of his own size. He loomed over you by more than two feet, feeling like a massive, lumbering bear next to a delicate swan. He kept his eyes respectfully averted. The scent of jasmine, sweet lemons, and parchment wafted off you, completely overriding the smell of the training yard and making his brain short-circuit.
"For you, Ser Duncan," you said, holding up the cup. "You look as though you are about to melt right into the cobblestones. Are you remembering to rest?"
"Thank you, Princess," Dunk managed to croak.
As he reached for the cup, his massive, calloused fingers accidentally brushed against your soft knuckles. A jolt of electricity went straight up his arm. He jerked his hand back slightly, splashing a bit of the water, but managed to catch the cup before it fell. He took a desperate gulp, nearly choking on it as he realized you were smiling up at him with those bright, impossibly kind eyes.
You had always been exceptionally kind to him. When the other high lords of the court sneered at his lowly status or mocked his height, you went out of your way to include him. You asked his opinion on matters of the City Watch; you made sure the kitchens sent extra portions to his quarters because of his size. It made his chest ache in a way that was entirely, disastrously inappropriate for a knight sworn to protect your nephew.
"He's blushing again, Auntie," Egg observed loudly, crossing his arms and smirking.
Dunk inhaled half a mouthful of lemon water and started coughing violently.
"I am not!" Dunk choked out, his face turning an even darker, more alarming shade of purple as he pounded a fist against his own chest to clear his lungs. "It is the sun, Egg. The sun is very hot today. It makes a man's face red."
"Your ears are red, Ser," Egg pointed out ruthlessly, stepping closer to inspect him. "They only get red like that when you look at Lady Rohanne, or when Auntie brings us water. Or when someone mentions kissing."
"Aegon," you chided gently, though your eyes danced with obvious amusement. You reached out, affectionately ruffling the boy's bald head. "Leave the poor knight be. He is doing a fine job keeping you out of trouble, and he deserves a moment's peace without you terrorizing him."
"I'm just warning him," Egg muttered under his breath, though loud enough for Dunk to hear. "Uncle Baelor has a mace."
Before Dunk could formulate an excuse, beg for mercy, or command the ground to open up and swallow him whole, a heavy, authoritative voice echoed across the yard.
"He is doing an adequate job, though his footwork still leaves much to be desired. He relies too much on his reach."
Dunk snapped to attention so fast his spine popped.
Baelor Breakspear strode into the yard. The Crown Prince and Hand of the King was not in his armor, wearing a simple, impeccably tailored dark doublet, but his presence commanded the space effortlessly. Dunk felt a profound, overwhelming wave of respect and absolute terror wash over him. He idolized Baelor. The man was the epitome of chivalry, justice, and martial prowess - the greatest knight in the Seven Kingdoms.
And Dunk was currently blushing over his wife.
"My Prince," Dunk said, bowing as deeply as his massive frame allowed, wishing he could somehow shrink himself down to the size of a mouse.
"Ser Duncan," Baelor replied. His tone was perfectly polite, though his dark, ruthlessly perceptive eyes swept over the knight's painfully flushed face, the sweat beading on his brow, and the empty cup gripped so tightly in his massive hands that the wood was creaking.
Baelor stepped right past the towering hedge knight and moved directly to you. Without a word, Baelor’s large hand settled firmly on the curve of your waist - a casual, deeply intimate touch that staked an undeniable, public claim. He leaned down, pressing a soft kiss to your temple, entirely unbothered by the dust of the yard or the eyes of the squire.
"I went looking for you in the solar, my love," Baelor murmured, his voice dropping to a low, affectionate rumble that made Dunk acutely aware of how much of an intruder he was in this dynamic. "The Maesters are bickering over the Dornish trade routes again. I needed you to translate their complaints into something I actually care about."
"I was merely bringing our nephew and his knight some water, Baelor. They are roasting in their armor," you explained, leaning back comfortably against your husband's chest, resting your hand lightly over his where it sat at your waist.
Baelor’s dark eyes flicked over to Dunk again. The Crown Prince was far too intelligent not to notice the hedge knight's stammering, the flushed ears, and the way Dunk was staring very hard at a weapon rack as if it held the secrets of the universe.
But Baelor wasn't angry.
In fact, a faint, deeply amused smirk played at the corner of Baelor's mouth. He knew exactly how beautiful, kind, and captivating his wife was. He knew that half the court was secretly in love with you. He found the young, honorable hedge knight's helpless, entirely harmless infatuation rather endearing - mostly because Baelor possessed the absolute, unshakeable confidence of a man who knew he had his wife's entire heart. He had absolutely no reason to be jealous of a blushing boy from Flea Bottom.
"A kind gesture, my Queen," Baelor said smoothly, his thumb drawing a slow, possessive circle against your waist. He looked directly at Dunk, his eyes glinting with a teasing edge that only made Dunk sweat harder. "Though I am sure Ser Duncan knows not to let himself be too distracted by beautiful things while he is meant to be training. An enemy in battle will not stop to offer you lemon water. Isn't that right, Ser?"
Dunk swallowed hard, his Adam's apple bobbing erratically. "Y-Yes, my Prince. Absolutely. Focus is key. Very focused, me. On the quintain. Only the quintain."
"Good," Baelor chuckled softly, the sound rich, satisfied, and devastatingly regal. He gently turned you toward the arched walkway, guiding you back toward the cool shade of the keep. "Come, my love. Let us leave Ser Duncan to his focus. The Dornish trade routes await."
As Baelor escorted you away, his arm wrapped securely around your waist, you glanced over your shoulder and offered Dunk one last, radiant smile.
"Have a good afternoon, Ser Duncan! Do try not to drop your shield in the mud again!"
Dunk stood completely frozen in the yard, clutching the empty cup, his heart hammering a frantic rhythm against his ribs. He let out a long, miserable sigh, slumping his massive shoulders as he watched the royal couple disappear into the shadows of the keep.
Beside him, Egg picked up the dirty polishing rag and smacked it hard against the back of Dunk’s knee.
"You're staring again, Dunk," Egg said matter-of-factly, shaking his head with the weary disappointment of an old man. "I'm telling you, Uncle Baelor is going to notice one day and hit you with his mace. Or worse, he'll tell my father, and he'll hit you with his mace."
"Shut up, Egg," Dunk groaned, burying his bright red face in his massive hands, wishing he had never left the road. "Just... shut up and polish the shield."
Jewel of summerhall is good. Make part 2.
Also when i read the point in that fic basically Baelor x niece reader are the healthy version of Rhaenyra and Daemon 😭😂.
The jewel of Summerhall II - Baelor Targaryen
baelor targaryen x maekar’s daughter!reader
part one - part two - part three - part four
thanks for the request! i hope this healthy version heals all of us after rhaenyra and daemon fr
word count: 6k
warnings: soft smut (heavy on consent!!), incest, age gap
requests are open!
The great hall of the Red Keep still echoed with the fading laughter and music of the wedding feast. You had smiled until your cheeks ached, accepted countless goblets of wine you barely tasted, and endured the speculative glances of every lord and lady who wondered how the ancient Crown Prince would treat his young bride.
Now, as the heavy oak door to the royal chambers closed behind you, the silence was deafening.
You stood in the center of the room, your wedding cloak - a magnificent thing of crimson and gold, heavy with rubies sewn into the fabric - still draped across your shoulders. The servants had prepared the chamber with care. Candles flickered on every surface, casting dancing shadows across the massive featherbed. A decanter of sweet Arbor gold sat waiting on the side table.
But you couldn't move.
The wine you had drunk swirled uneasily in your stomach. Your heart hammered against your ribs. You had known this moment was coming. You had prepared yourself, or tried to. The septa had explained the duty of a wife in clinical, detached terms.
Lie back, spread your legs, endure it. It was the price a woman paid for security.
But the man who stood behind you now, quietly sliding the bolt into place, was nothing like the faceless husband you had imagined.
Baelor did not advance on you like a conqueror. He simply stood there, leaning against the door, watching you with those mismatched, fathomless eyes that had seen his fair share of namedays. He was still in his wedding finery - a doublet of black velvet embroidered with golden three-headed dragons.
"Come here, little dragon," he said softly.
It was not a command. It was an invitation.
You turned, your legs moving of their own accord, crossing the distance between you until you stood before him. Up close, you could see the faint lines at the corners of his eyes, the threads of silver in his hair that made him look so distinguished next to the young knights who had sneered at your marriage. He was twice your age. He had seen wars, fathered children, buried a wife.
And now he was looking at you - young, trembling, unexperienced - with an expression so tender it made your chest ache.
"You are shaking," Baelor observed, reaching out to brush his knuckles against your cheek. "Are you cold?"
"No, my Prince," you whispered. "I am... I am afraid."
Something flickered in his eyes. Not disappointment, but a fierce protectiveness that made him look almost dangerous. He cupped your face in both hands, tilting your head up to meet his gaze.
"Look at me," he murmured. "There is no shame in fear. You are half my age, and I am a stranger to you still. But l am not a monster, and I will not take from you what you do not offer freely."
Your eyes stung with unexpected tears.
The septa had not prepared you for this - for a husband who looked at you like you were precious, like your comfort mattered more than his pleasure.
"I want to be your wife," you managed, your voice cracking. "I just... I do not know how."
Baelor smiled - a slow, devastating thing that transformed his stern features into something breathtakingly handsome. He leaned down and pressed his lips to your forehead, lingering there.
"Then let me teach you."
He moved slowly. Deliberately. His hands went first to the clasp of your wedding cloak, unfastening it with careful precision and letting the heavy garment slide from your shoulders to pool on the floor. When he stepped back to look at you, his breath caught.
You stood before him in your wedding gown - ivory silk that your mother had worn before you, fitted close to your body, the bodice stitched with tiny pearls. Your silver-gold hair tumbled loose past your waist, freed from the elaborate braids the handmaidens had woven.
"The most beautiful bride I have ever seen," Baelor breathed, and you knew he meant it.
He reached for you again, but this time he guided you backward toward the bed. When your knees hit the edge of the mattress, he eased you down to sit, then knelt before you on the floor. The Crown Prince of the Seven Kingdoms, the Hand of the King, the most powerful man in the realm - kneeling at your feet like a supplicant.
"I am going to undress you now," he said quietly, his hands resting on your knees. "If you want me to stop at any moment, you need only say so. Do you understand?"
You nodded, not trusting your voice.
"Words, little dragon."
"I understand," you whispered.
His hands were gentle as they worked the laces of your gown. He took his time, fingers brushing against your spine through the silk, pressing soft kisses to each new inch of skin he revealed. When the bodice loosened, he helped you shrug out of the sleeves, baring you to the waist.
You fought the urge to cover yourself. You had never been naked before anyone - not like this, not with a man looking at you with such heated reverence. But Baelor made no move to touch you yet. He simply looked, his dark eyes tracing every curve, every shadow.
"Beautiful," he murmured. "So beautiful."
He leaned forward and pressed his lips to the hollow of your throat, right where your pulse fluttered like a trapped bird. The kiss was soft, almost reverent. Then another, lower, at the top of your breastbone.
Another, between your breasts. Another, pressing against the swell of one breast without quite reaching the peak.
"Baelor," you breathed, your fingers tangling in his silver hair.
He looked up at you, and the heat in his gaze stole your breath. "Yes, little dragon?"
"I... I want..."
"What do you want?" He kissed the inside of your wrist, then turned your hand over to press his lips to your palm. "You must tell me. I will not guess."
You swallowed hard. "I want you to touch me. Please."
He smiled against your skin. "As my queen commands."
His mouth closed over your breast, and you gasped - a sharp, startled sound that dissolved into a moan. The sensation was like nothing you had imagined. His tongue circled the peak, teasing, tasting, while his hand came up to cup your other breast, thumb stroking with devastating gentleness. Heat pooled low in your belly, strange and sweet, and you found yourself arching into him, seeking more.
Baelor made a sound of approval against your skin. He laid you back on the bed, following you down, his body a warm, solid weight beside you. He continued his exploration - kissing, tasting, touching - until you were writhing beneath him, whimpering with need you didn't fully understand.
"Please," you begged, though you didn't know what you were begging for. "Baelor, please..."
He lifted his head, and his eyes were almost black with desire. But his hands remained gentle, his movements controlled.
"I know you are frightened," he said, his voice rough. "I know this is new. But I need you to trust me. Can you do that?"
"Yes," you said without hesitation. "I trust you."
He kissed you then - truly kissed you, his tongue sliding against yours in a rhythm that made your toes curl. While he kissed you senseless, his hand slid down your body, past your belly, between your thighs.
You tensed instinctively at the first touch, but he didn't push. He simply stroked, soft and slow, until your tension melted and your legs fell open of their own accord.
"You are wet for me," he murmured against your mouth, and the pride in his voice made heat flood your cheeks. "Do you feel that, little dragon? Your body knows what it wants."
His finger found the place where all that heat seemed centered, and you cried out - a sharp, high sound that made him smile.
He circled that sensitive nub with agonizing slowness, watching your face intently, learning every reaction.
"That's it," he encouraged. "Let yourself feel. Don't think, just feel."
Pleasure built like a wave, rising higher and higher, until you were clutching at his shoulders, gasping his name. And when it crested, when that sweet tension shattered into something exquisite, you sobbed with the shock of it.
Baelor held you through it, kissing you, murmuring praises against your flushed skin. When your trembling subsided, he looked down at you with such tenderness that your heart clenched.
"There is more," he said softly. "If you want to stop here tonight, we will. I meant what I said - I will not take what you do not offer freely."
You looked at him - this man who had been so patient, so gentle, so careful with your fear and your youth. And you realized you wanted him. Not just the pleasure he could give you, but him. Your husband.
"I want all of you," you whispered.
Something fierce and possessive flared in his eyes. He kissed you again, deeper this time, and you felt him shift between your thighs. The weight of him, the heat of him - it should have been terrifying. But he moved slowly, giving you time to adjust, pressing forward only when your body accepted him.
When he entered you, there was pain, only a sharp, stretching burn that made you gasp.
But he stopped immediately, holding himself still, kissing your face, whispering endearments until the pain faded and something else took its place.
"You are so tight," he groaned, his forehead pressed to yours. "So perfect. My little dragon."
The pain faded as quickly as it had come, replaced by a strange fullness that made you gasp in a different way. Baelor remained still above you, his arms trembling with the effort of restraint, his breath hot against your neck.
"You are doing so well," he praised, his voice strained. "Tell me how it feels."
"Full," you whispered, experimenting with a small movement that made you both moan. "Strange. But not... not bad."
He lifted his head to look at you, and the raw emotion in his face stole your breath. This was not the composed Crown Prince who sat on the small council, not the stern uncle who had inspected your needlework with polite disinterest at family gatherings. This was a man laid bare - hungry and tender and achingly vulnerable.
"My brave little dragon," he murmured. "Now comes the best part."
He began to move - slow, deep strokes that built upon the pleasure he had already shown you. Each thrust sent ripples of sensation through your body, drawing you back toward that shattering peak. But this time was different. This time he was inside you, part of you, and every movement bound you closer together.
You wrapped your legs around his waist without thinking, and he groaned your name like a prayer.
"That's it," he gasped. "Take all of me. You were made for this - made for me."
His rhythm quickened, and you rose to meet him instinctively, your bodies finding a cadence older than language. The pleasure built again, higher and sweeter than before, until you were clinging to him, crying out incoherently as it broke over you in waves.
Baelor followed moments later, burying his face in your neck as he spilled himself inside you with a groan that sounded almost like anguish. His body shuddered above you, and you held him through it, your hands stroking his sweat-damp hair.
For a long moment, neither of you moved. The candles flickered. The city slept beyond the windows. And you lay tangled together, husband and wife, your heart beating against his.
Finally, Baelor raised his head. His dark eyes were soft, his stern face transformed by a smile of such profound tenderness that tears pricked your eyes again.
"Are you hurting?" he asked.
"A little," you admitted. "But it is a good hurt."
He kissed your forehead, your nose, your lips - small, reverent touches that made you feel cherished beyond measure.
"There will be less pain tomorrow," he promised. "And more pleasure. I will spend the rest of our lives showing you pleasure, if you will let me."
"I will let you," you whispered. "For all our lives."
He gathered you against his chest, pulling the furs over your naked bodies. You could feel his heart still pounding, as wild as your own.
"Sleep now, little dragon," he murmured against your hair. "Tomorrow you wake as the future queen of the realm. But tonight, you are simply mine."
You smiled against his skin, already drifting toward sleep, wrapped in warmth and safety and the surprising sweetness of a marriage you had dreaded.
And as you slept, Baelon Targaryen held you close and watched the candles burn low, marveling at the gift he had somehow been given - a young bride who looked at him without fear, who had given herself to him with trembling trust.
He would be worthy of that trust, he vowed silently. He would protect you, cherish you, treasure you until his last breath.
The Seven Kingdoms could wait.
Tonight, there was only you.
***
For the first time in your life, you did not wake to the sound of a crying infant, the clashing of training swords, or the booming echo of your father’s legendary temper.
You woke to the soft, golden light of the morning sun streaming through the high arched windows of the Crown Prince’s chambers. The heavy velvet curtains were drawn back, and the air smelled of sea salt and the sweet jasmine Baelor had ordered placed in the room.
You blinked, instinctively throwing off the heavy furs and sitting up in a sudden, breathless panic. The sun was fully in the sky. It was late. You had missed the morning ledger review, you hadn't checked on Rhae, you hadn't broken your fast with Aegon-
"Peace, little dragon."
You froze, turning toward the sound of the rich, soothing voice.
Baelor was sitting in a high-backed leather chair near the balcony. He was already dressed for the day in a simple dark tunic, a silver tray of fresh fruit, warm bread, and spiced tea resting on the table beside him. He was holding a scroll from the Citadel, but his dark eyes were fixed entirely on you, practically radiating warmth and quiet amusement.
"I slept past dawn," you breathed, still half-caught in the panic of your old life, pulling the silk sheet to your chest. "The servants, the household..."
"The servants were instructed not to make a sound near these doors," Baelor said gently, setting his scroll aside and walking over to the bed. The devastating heat of your wedding night still lingered in the space between you, but right now, his touch was purely comforting. He sat on the edge of the mattress, reaching out to gently brush a tangled lock of silver-gold hair from your face. "And your father’s household is his own to manage now. Aegon is at his lessons. Rhae is with her wet nurse. Aerion is... wherever Aerion goes, and it is no longer your burden to fix it."
You stared at him, your heartbeat finally beginning to slow. The reality of his words washed over you. You didn't have to fix anything today.
"I am not used to being idle," you murmured, leaning into the warmth of his hand against your cheek.
"You are not idle; you are resting," Baelor corrected softly, his thumb tracing your cheekbone. "You have spent years carrying the weight of Summerhall. I promised Maekar I would let you rest, and I intend to keep that vow. You can sleep until midday every day if you wish it. You can read, you can ride, you can do absolutely nothing at all. Eat your breakfast, my Queen. The realm can wait."
But resting, as it turned out, was much harder than it sounded.
A mind as sharp as yours - honed by years of surviving the volatile Dornish Marches - was never going to be satisfied with doing absolutely nothing. Baelor quickly realized that forcing you to be idle only made you pace the royal apartments like a caged dragon.
Within a week of the wedding, the court quickly learned that the Crown Princess was not just a beautiful ornament to sit beside the Hand of the King. She was his sharpest weapon.
Instead of sitting with the court ladies gossiping over embroidery, you had a desk moved into Baelor’s solar, right next to his massive oak table. You worked side-by-side, passing tax decrees, trade agreements, and raven scrolls back and forth.
The true test of your partnership came during an open court session when Baelor was sitting the Iron Throne in his father's stead. Lord Tyrell - still bitter over his heir being publicly humiliated at the feast - stepped forward to present a grievance regarding a Crown tax on Reach grain.
Tyrell spoke in circles, using flowery language and veiled threats about the Reach's vital food supply, attempting to corner Baelor into lifting the tax entirely. Baelor sat upon the throne, his jaw tightening as he prepared to deliver a diplomatic, albeit frustrating, rebuttal.
But you did not let him.
You sat in a high seat beside the throne, dressed in impeccable Targaryen colors. Before Baelor could speak, you leaned forward, resting your chin on your hand, your voice cutting through the Great Hall with absolute, crystalline authority.
"Lord Tyrell," you said smoothly, stopping the proud lord mid-sentence. "If I am reading the Crown’s ledgers correctly - and I assure you, I am - the Reach experienced a surplus harvest this past autumn. A surplus large enough to fill the granaries of Highgarden thrice over."
Lord Tyrell blinked, completely caught off guard. "I... yes, Princess, the Mother was generous to us, but the cost of transport-"
"The cost of transport is exactly why the Crown built and maintained the new Rose Road last year, at a heavy expense to the royal treasury," you countered effortlessly, reciting the political facts you and Baelor had reviewed over breakfast that very morning. "A road that allows your carts to reach the capital in half the time, with less spoilage. The tax is merely recouping the cost of the infrastructure that is currently lining your own pockets, my lord."
The Great Hall fell dead silent. You hadn't raised your voice, you hadn't lost your temper - you had simply dismantled the Lord of Highgarden with terrifying precision and a polite smile.
You tilted your head. "Unless, of course, the Reach would prefer the Crown cease maintaining the road? We could divert those funds to the Stormlands instead."
"No!" Lord Tyrell said hastily, his face flushing. "No, Princess. That will not be necessary. The... the tax is fair."
He bowed stiffly and retreated into the crowd.
You settled back into your seat, entirely unbothered. When you glanced to your left, you found Baelor staring at you. The Crown Prince wasn't just relieved; he looked absolutely, devastatingly proud. The dark, burning adoration in his eyes was so intense it made your breath catch.
He reached out across the armrest of the Iron Throne, taking your hand in front of the entire court and bringing your knuckles to his lips for a brief, reverent kiss.
"Remind me never to argue with you, my love," he murmured, his deep voice carrying only to your ears.
"You would lose, my Prince," you whispered back with a smirk.
Baelor let out a low, rich laugh that echoed through the hall, a sound of pure joy the Red Keep had not heard from the Crown Prince in years. The lords of the realm looked on in awe. They finally realized the truth: Baelor Breakspear had not just found a wife. He had found his equal.
Yet, even with your brilliant political victories, a phantom weight lingered on your shoulders.
The transition from the Crown Princess to simply his wife always began the moment the heavy oak doors of your chambers clicked shut. Baelor never called for your handmaidens in the evening. He preferred to do it himself. After a grueling day, you would feel the heavy, grounding heat of his chest against your back as his calloused hands worked with shocking gentleness to unlace your silken gowns. He would take the heavy hairbrush and patiently untangle your silver-gold braids, kissing your neck, telling you that you didn't have to carry the world anymore.
But the ghosts of Summerhall were loud.
It culminated one night, a few months into your marriage. The Red Keep was silent, but you were wide awake, staring at the canopy of the massive featherbed. Baelor, who was a fiercely protective sleeper, lay beside you with one heavy arm thrown securely across your waist.
He stirred, his dark eyes opening in the dim moonlight. He felt the rigid tension in your spine.
"You are a thousand leagues away," Baelor whispered, his voice a raw, ragged rasp from sleep. He shifted, propping himself up on one elbow to look down at you. "What is it, little dragon? Are you ill?"
"I am fine," you whispered, though your voice trembled. "I just... I keep expecting a raven. I keep wondering if Aerion has struck a servant, or if Aemon is eating enough, or if my father has drowned in his own dark moods." You let out a frustrated sigh, rubbing your eyes. "You gave me the world, Baelor. You gave me peace. And I am so angry with myself that I cannot just be happy and let it go."
Baelor’s expression softened into something impossibly tender. He reached out, tracing the outline of your lower lip with his thumb.
"You spent years keeping a fractured house together," Baelor said quietly. "You cannot simply unlace that kind of devotion like a corset at the end of the day. Your heart is here with me, but your mind is still in the Marches."
He leaned down, pressing a firm, reassuring kiss to your forehead. "We will leave at first light."
You blinked, startled. "Leave?"
"To Summerhall," Baelor stated, settling back down and pulling you flush against his chest, burying his face in the crook of your neck. "You cannot find your peace here until you go back and see with your own eyes that the castle has not fallen into the sea without you. We will go home, little dragon. So you can finally say goodbye."
***
The scent of pine and rain hit you before Summerhall even came into view.
Riding through the Dornish Marches, your posture instinctively stiffened. For fifteen years, approaching these gates meant bracing yourself. Muscle memory dictated that as soon as you crossed the drawbridge, you would need to ask the steward about the grain stores and check the ledgers.
A large, warm gloved hand reached over, gently covering yours on the reins.
You looked to your left. Baelor was riding beside you on his massive black destrier. He saw the tension in your jaw and the rigid set of your shoulders.
"You are not the mother of Summerhall anymore," Baelor murmured, his dark eyes fiercely protective. "You are the Crown Princess, and you are my wife. You are a guest here. Let Maekar manage his own keep."
His words broke the spell of anxiety. You let out a breath you didn't realize you were holding, offering him a grateful smile as the towering walls of your childhood home appeared over the tree line.
The courtyard was lined with the entire household. As Baelor dismounted and lifted you effortlessly from your saddle, little Rhae and Aegon practically crashed into your skirts. You laughed, dropping to your knees to pull them into a tight embrace. Aemon stood a few paces back, offering you a warm smile.
But looming behind them was your father.
Prince Maekar stepped forward, his expression as hard as the stone of the castle. His piercing gaze locked entirely on you. He scrutinized the color in your cheeks, the relaxed slope of your shoulders, and the way the heavy, dark velvet cloak of the Crown Prince rested securely around you.
Slowly, Maekar shifted his gaze to Baelor, who stood just a half-step behind you, his hand resting lightly but possessively on the small of your back.
"Brother," Maekar grunted.
"Maekar," Baelor replied, offering a respectful nod.
"She looks rested," Maekar observed gruffly, crossing his massive arms over his chest. It was the closest the Prince of Summerhall would ever come to offering a compliment.
Baelor’s grip on your waist tightened affectionately. "I gave you my word, Maekar. I do not break my vows."
But the true test of your newfound peace came that evening, during the feast Maekar hosted in the great hall. You sat at the high table, situated in the seat of honor beside your husband. You didn't have to pour the wine. You didn't have to direct the servants.
Halfway through the feast, a servant accidentally spilled a few drops of wine near Aerion’s goblet. Your younger brother’s face twisted into a vicious sneer, his hand raising to strike the boy.
Before you could even tense to intervene, Baelor’s hand closed gently over your knee under the table, anchoring you to your seat. Let it be, his touch said.
Aerion caught the movement. His pale violet eyes snapped to you, flashing with bitter resentment at seeing you so elevated, so untouchable.
"It seems the Crown Princess has forgotten her place," Aerion mocked, his voice slicing through the chatter of the hall. He sloshed his wine in his cup, leaning back in his chair. "You used to pour Father's wine yourself, sister. Has the Red Keep made you lazy? Or are you too busy keeping our ancient uncle's bed warm to remember your duties to your own blood?"
The hall went dead silent. Maekar’s hand slammed down onto the table, his jaw clenching, preparing to roar at his second son.
But Baelor moved first.
The Crown Prince did not shout. He did not draw steel. He simply stood up. His massive frame seemed to plunge the entire high table into shadow. The easy, affectionate husband vanished entirely, replaced by the lethal, unforgiving Hand of the King.
Baelor stared down at Aerion. The sheer, suffocating weight of his authority made the younger prince swallow hard, his arrogant smirk faltering.
"You speak to the future Queen of the Seven Kingdoms, boy," Baelor's voice was a low, vibrating rumble that promised absolute destruction. "She owes this house nothing. She sacrificed her youth to keep you from drowning in your own cruelty, and you will address her with the reverence she is owed."
Baelor leaned forward, planting his knuckles on the table, his dark eyes boring into Aerion’s.
"If you ever disrespect my wife again, Aerion, I will not bother telling your father. I will have you stripped of your titles, bound in iron, and shipped to the Wall before the sun sets. Do we understand one another?"
Aerion paled, visibly shrinking back into his chair under the terrifying, icy rage of the Crown Prince. He looked to Maekar for defense, but Maekar merely took a slow sip of his wine, a dark, satisfied gleam in his eye, entirely approving of Baelor putting the boy in his place.
"Yes, Uncle," Aerion muttered, looking down at his plate.
Baelor held his gaze for one more lethal second before sitting back down. The moment he took his seat, the terrifying aura vanished. He reached under the table, finding your hand and threading his fingers through yours, his thumb rubbing soothing circles into your palm as if nothing had happened.
Later that night, Baelor escorted you to your old bedchamber.
The room was exactly as you had left it - pragmatic, simple, and devoid of luxury. It had never truly felt like a sanctuary; it was just a place you collapsed into after a day of managing everyone else's lives.
Baelor closed the heavy wooden door and slid the bolt shut. He walked up behind you, wrapping his strong arms around your waist and pulling your back flush against his broad chest. He buried his face in the crook of your neck.
"I hate this room," Baelor murmured, his lips grazing your collarbone.
You leaned your head back against his shoulder, closing your eyes. "It is just a room, Baelor."
"No," he disagreed softly, turning you around in his arms so he could look down into your eyes. "It is a monument to everything you suffered alone. It is where you cried when you were exhausted, and where no one came to comfort you."
He brought his hands up to cup your face, his thumbs wiping away a stray tear you hadn't even realized had fallen. Confronting this room, seeing Aerion managed, seeing your father surviving without you - it finally broke the invisible chains holding you to the Marches.
"I cannot change the years you spent alone in here," Baelor whispered, his voice thick with raw emotion, leaning down until his forehead rested against yours. "But I swear to you, little dragon... from this night forward, you will never spend another night in this room without me holding you."
He kissed you then - deep, slow, and devastatingly tender. It was a kiss designed to chase away the ghosts of your childhood. As he lifted you into his arms and carried you toward the bed, the cold walls of Summerhall finally felt warm.
The next morning, you found the final closure you needed. In the castle library, you watched Baelor kneel before your youngest brothers. You watched him hand Aemon a letter of introduction to the Citadel, securing the boy's scholarly future. You watched him hand little Aegon a wooden training sword, swearing on his honor as the Crown Prince that Egg would squire his son Valarr at the Red Keep.
Baelor wasn't just a husband taking you away from your family; he was seamlessly weaving himself into the fabric of it, ensuring you never had to truly choose between them and him.
An hour later, the courtyard was bustling with the sounds of departure.
You stood before your father one last time. Maekar looked down at you, the deep lines around his mouth softer than you had ever seen them. He reached out, his massive, scarred hand gently cupping your cheek.
"You did well, daughter," Maekar said, his voice a thick, gruff rumble. "You are a true dragon. Make them see it in the capital."
"I will, Father," you whispered, resting your hand over his.
Maekar dropped his hand and stepped back, looking past you to where Baelor sat upon his horse. The two brothers locked eyes across the courtyard. Baelor offered a solemn, respectful nod to the Lord of Summerhall. Maekar nodded back - a silent, final transfer of guardianship.
When Baelor reached down and effortlessly hoisted you up into the saddle of your own white mare, you didn't look back at the keep.
As you rode out of the gates of Summerhall and onto the kingsroad, the dark pine trees of the Dornish Marches gave way to the rolling, sunlit hills of the Reach. The heavy, suffocating restlessness that had pressed down on your chest for months was entirely gone. You had faced your ghosts, and you had won.
Baelor rode close beside you. He reached over, weaving his warm, leather-clad fingers through yours, resting your joined hands on the pommel of his saddle.
"Are you alright?" he asked softly, studying your profile in the morning light.
You looked at the man beside you - the honorable Crown Prince who shattered his own rigid rules just to love you, the man who terrified your enemies and comforted your brothers, the man who brought you back here just so you could finally learn how to let go.
You squeezed his hand, a radiant, brilliant smile breaking across your face. The lingering weight of Summerhall was gone, replaced only by the bright, unburdened future of the Crown Princess.
"I have never been better, my Prince," you replied, looking forward toward the horizon. "Take me home."
***
Summerhall had always been defined by its silences - the heavy, suffocating quiet of a grieving house, where every footstep felt too loud and every unspoken word weighed like iron.
King’s Landing, by contrast, was a symphony of life.
You sat by the open balcony in the Hand’s solar, letting the warm salt breeze from Blackwater Bay wash over you. From the courtyard far below, the sharp, rhythmic clack of training swords drifted upward, followed by a triumphant shout. You smiled, leaning your head back against the velvet chair. Down in the dust, young Aegon was giving the master-at-arms hell. He was no longer the pouting, scared and angry boy from the Dornish Marches; under Baelor’s rigorous but patient tutelage, he was growing into a brilliant, fiercely loyal squire.
On the table beside you rested a raven scroll from Oldtown. Aemon’s neat, careful script proudly announced the forging of his silver link. Your brothers were thriving, no longer surviving in the shadows of your father's grief.
But the most precious sound of all was the soft, steady breathing against your collarbone.
Your daughter - a tiny, perfect thing with Baelor’s dark hair and your violet eyes - was fast asleep in your arms, swaddled in crimson silk. Holding a child used to mean you were shielding them from a storm. Now, it simply meant you were a mother, safe in the center of your own life.
The heavy oak door to the solar clicked open, and the subtle scent of leather and sandalwood filled the room.
Baelor stepped inside, shedding the heavy mantle of the Hand of the King the exact moment the latch caught. The silver at his temples had deepened over the last five years, a testament to the relentless demands of the realm, but the dark, fathomless eyes that found yours were entirely unburdened.
He crossed the room with quiet, purposeful strides. He didn't check his ledgers; he didn't ask for a report from the King. He simply dropped to one knee beside your chair, bringing himself level with the two of you.
Baelor reached out, his large, calloused finger gently stroking the baby’s soft cheek. He leaned forward, pressing a reverent kiss to the crown of her dark head, before tilting his chin up to look at you.
"She has your stubborn brow when she sleeps," Baelor murmured, his voice a low, rumbling whisper so as not to wake her.
"She has your absolute refusal to surrender to a reasonable bedtime," you countered softly, a fond smile playing on your lips.
Baelor chuckled, a rich sound that vibrated in his chest. He shifted his hand, gently cupping your cheek, his thumb tracing the line of your jaw just as he had on your wedding night. He looked at the relaxed slope of your shoulders, the bright clarity in your eyes, and the absolute absence of the exhaustion that used to haunt you.
"Five years," Baelor whispered, his gaze moving from your lips back up to your eyes, burning with the same quiet, fierce devotion he had shown you on the dance floor all those years ago. "Five years, and I still wake up terrified that I am going to find you exhausted, trying to hold up the sky all by yourself."
You leaned into his palm, turning your face to press a kiss to the center of his hand.
"You hold the sky now, Baelor," you reminded him softly. "I am just enjoying the sun."
Baelor smiled - a slow, devastating expression of pure, unfiltered love. He wrapped his arms around both you and your daughter, pulling his family securely against his broad chest, right where you belonged. The realm outside the door could demand his mind and his sword, but in this room, the Crown Prince was entirely, hopelessly yours.
Your "The jewel of Summerhall" is the best baelor x niece i've read! i LOVED that is not just smut but there's plot as well, i loved the writing as well, very well done babe
thank u dear!!!! i haven’t been attracted to an old white man in a whiiiile and i think that it’s getting kinda obvious atp hahahah (more baelor and niece fanfics coming soon)
this was so fun to write!! if anyone is interested in part 2 i would love to write it :)
requests are open!!
word count: 3,9k
warnings: age gap, incest
You remembered the exact moment your childhood ended. It smelled of copper, sweat, and burning pine.
You were only ten and four when the Maesters emerged from your mother’s chambers, their hands stained red, to announce that Lady Dyanna Dayne was gone, leaving only a squalling, motherless infant named Rhae in her wake. In the span of a single night, the vibrant, warm halls of Summerhall turned to ice. Your father, Prince Maekar, shattered. He retreated into a dark, impenetrable grief, his legendary temper flaring at the slightest provocation.
Someone had to step into the void, and as the eldest daughter, the burden fell to you.
You became the mother your siblings desperately needed. You were the one who sat up through the night rocking little Rhae. You coaxed quiet, studious Aemon out of his shell, and you dried Aegon’s tears. Most dangerously, you were the only one who could stand between Aerion and his cruel impulses. You learned to command a room before you even had your first flowering, speaking with a steel in your voice that made even the castle guards stand at attention.
You also became the shadow-ruler of Summerhall. While your father brooded and trained to the point of exhaustion, you managed the household ledgers, mediated disputes between the servants, and learned to navigate the treacherous political waters of the Dornish Marches. You asked for nothing in return. You simply endured, burying your own grief to ensure House Targaryen did not fracture.
By the time Queen Myriah’s raven arrived summoning you to King's Landing, you were not merely a princess looking for a husband. You were a veteran of your family’s quiet wars, possessing a brilliant, pragmatic mind hidden behind a beautiful, dutiful smile.
King's Landing was a chaotic assault on the senses. When you stepped into the Great Hall upon your arrival, the chatter of a hundred lords and ladies died down to a hushed murmur. You wore the colors of your house, black silk embroidered with ruby-red dragons.
Queen Myriah rose from her seat, a warm smile breaking across her face, and took your hands in hers. "Look at her, Maekar," the Queen’s voice carried effortlessly. "She has the beauty of the morning and the grace of a true queen. You have kept her hidden away for far too long."
Beside you, your father let out a disgruntled hum, his hand planted firmly on the pommel of his sword, his jaw locked in a permanent scowl.
The Queen’s praise was all the invitation the court needed. Within hours, you were besieged. Second sons, arrogant young heirs, and seasoned knights flocked to you. They tripped over themselves to offer you wine and terrible poetry. You maintained a perfect, polite smile through it all, but inside, you felt an aching exhaustion. They did not see you. They saw a prize. And any man who lingered a moment too long was quickly chased away by the murderous glare of Prince Maekar.
It was during your third day at court that the overwhelming tide of suitors finally broke you. You slipped away from a midday feast, seeking the quiet of the outer gardens. Leaning against a stone balustrade, staring out at the waters of Blackwater Bay, you let your perfect posture slump, wishing you were back in the quiet pines of Summerhall.
"They are relentless, aren't they?"
You startled, turning to see Baelor Breakspear stepping out from the shade of an elm tree. The Crown Prince of Dragonstone was not like his brother Maekar. Where your father was a storm, Baelor was the steady, unyielding earth.
"The young lords of the Reach are proving too much for me, I'm afraid," you admitted, offering a tired smile. "Not one of them has asked me if I am tired."
Baelor stepped closer. He didn't offer empty platitudes. He simply looked at you, his dark eyes softening with a piercing understanding. "You have been tired for a very long time, little dragon," he murmured. "You have spent your whole life caring for Summerhall. You raised Aegon. You mothered Rhae. You kept my brother from drowning in his own grief."
You felt a sudden sting of tears behind your eyes. He saw the burden you had carried in silence.
"It is my duty," you whispered.
"Duty is a heavy cloak," Baelor replied softly. "I know it well. But when will you allow someone to care for you?"
That quiet moment changed everything. You began to seek refuge in the Hand's solar to escape the court. Baelor, drowning in his duties as Hand of the King, never turned you away. In fact, he began to look forward to the soft click of his heavy oak door closing, signaling that you had arrived.
It was here, amidst the parchment and ink, that Baelor realized you were not just a beautiful distraction, but his absolute intellectual equal.
Late one evening, Baelor was exhausted, rubbing his temples as he stared down at a sprawling map of the Dornish Marches. "Lord Peake is threatening to raise his banners over a border dispute with the Daynes," Baelor sighed. "If I rule in favor of the Daynes, the Reach will accuse me of Dornish favoritism. If I rule for Peake, I alienate Dorne."
You set your embroidery aside and walked over to the table. "You cannot rule for either of them," you said simply, pointing at the border. "You must order an independent inquiry. But do not send a man from the Crownlands. Send my father. Maekar is half-Dornish, just like you, but he is fiercely married to his martial pride. Lord Peake knows my father hates the Dornish court, so Peake will trust him not to show favoritism. But the Daynes will accept his judgment because of my mother's blood. Maekar’s presence alone will terrify both houses into a truce."
Baelor stared at you in absolute silence. His mind traced the brilliant, flawless logic of your plan.
"By the Seven," Baelor breathed, profound awe washing over his handsome features. "You have a sharper political mind than my entire Small Council."
"I spent my youth keeping Aerion from starting wars with the castle staff, Uncle," you replied with a wry smile. "Lord Peake is merely a child throwing a louder tantrum."
You were the perfect counterbalance to his life. Baelor was a man of high ideals; you were fiercely practical. But the pull between you was not merely intellectual. It was a physical, gravitational force that grew more agonizing with every passing day.
You became hyper-aware of his sheer size, the way his broad shoulders filled a doorway, the scent of sandalwood, leather, and steel that lingered in the air long after he left a room. When you stood beside him at court, the heat radiating from his towering frame sent a treacherous thrill down your spine. Baelor was suffering just as much. He caught himself staring at the delicate curve of your neck when you bent over a ledger. He watched the way you wet your lips when you were thinking, a dark, heavy heat settling low in his stomach.
The restraint was breaking them both. One afternoon, reaching for the same inkwell on his desk, your hands collided.
Neither of you pulled away.
His large, calloused hand covered yours completely. The shock of the contact stole the breath from your lungs. You looked up, finding his face mere inches from yours. Baelor’s dark eyes were completely dilated, his gaze dropping to your lips with a hunger that made your pulse hammer in your ears. You swayed toward him, your heart silently begging him to cross the line, to drop the agonizing mask of the honorable Crown Prince and just take what you were so desperate to give.
Baelor’s jaw clenched so hard a muscle feathered in his cheek. He let out a ragged breath, his thumb lightly grazing your knuckles before he ripped his hand away as if he had been burned. "Forgive me," he said, his voice a hoarse, strained rasp as he turned his back to you, gripping the edge of the table until his knuckles turned white.
The unspoken desire reached its peak on the eve of the royal tourney. You were walking the dimly lit corridors of the Red Keep together. The air was heavy, the silence fragile, charged with the memory of a hundred almost-touches. When you reached the doors to your chambers, you turned to face him.
You didn't want to go back to being the perfect, dutiful daughter. You stepped closer, looking up into his dark eyes, and slowly leaned in.
For a breathless second, Baelor met you halfway. His breath hitched, his eyes dropping to your lips, his hand rising as if to cup your face. But then, as if struck by physical pain, his jaw tightened. The honorable Hand of the King stepped back, putting a cold, agonizing distance between you.
"I cannot," he whispered, his voice strained.
You froze, the rejection hitting you like a physical blow, stealing the breath from your lungs. "Baelor..."
"I am your uncle," he said, his hands clenching into fists at his sides. "You are Maekar's daughter. You are in the spring of your life. You deserve a brilliant match, a young lord who can give you the world, a man unburdened by the Iron Throne. I am too old for you to waste your youth on."
"I don't care about the young lords or your age," you pleaded fiercely, reaching out to catch his sleeve. "I only want you."
Baelor looked down at your hand on his arm, and for a terrifying moment, his mask of chivalry slipped, revealing a man in pure agony. But he forced it back into place, his voice turning deliberately cold—a shield forged to protect you from himself.
"But I care," Baelor replied, his tone suddenly clipped and formal. "Look at yourself. You are a girl on the edge of the rest of her life, and I am a widower bound to the King's Council. I will not allow you to ruin your reputation out of some misplaced infatuation."
The words felt like a slap. "Misplaced infatuation?" you repeated, your voice trembling.
You had spent your entire life managing the heavy, complicated emotions of your family. You knew your own heart. For him to dismiss the profound, intellectual, and soul-deep connection you shared as the mere 'infatuation' of a silly girl was the deepest cut of all.
Baelor saw the tears welling in your eyes, and a muscle jumped in his jaw. He wanted nothing more than to fall to his knees and beg your forgiveness, but he believed he was saving you.
"Go to sleep, Princess," Baelor said quietly, dropping the affectionate 'little dragon' he always used. He stepped back into the shadows of the corridor. "You are tired, and the hour is late."
He bowed stiffly, turning on his heel and walking away.
You stood frozen in the corridor until the heavy sound of his boots faded completely into silence. You pushed open the heavy oak door to your chambers and slammed it shut, sliding the iron bolt into place. The moment the lock clicked, your legs gave out. You sank to the cold stone floor, pulling your knees to your chest as the first, ragged sob tore from your throat. It was an agonizing, suffocating kind of heartbreak. You had been the unyielding pillar of Summerhall, swallowing your own exhaustion for everyone else. And the one time you dared to reach for something that was yours, he had looked at you and seen only a foolish girl.
You wept until your chest ached and your eyes burned, spending the entire night curled on the floor in the dark. But as the sun began to rise, casting a pale, bloody light through the windows of the Red Keep, the tears finally stopped.
You slowly stood up, walking over to the gilded mirror. Your eyes were red, your face pale, your silver-gold hair tangled. A sudden, fierce spark of anger ignited in your chest, hot and bright. Targaryens were not made to weep in the shadows. They were made of fire and blood. You were the one who tamed Aerion's cruelty and managed Maekar's wrath. If Baelor believed you were just a girl who belonged with a young, carefree lord, you would show him exactly what that looked like. You wiped the remnants of tears from your cheeks, your jaw setting with a lethal determination.
You walked to your wardrobe and bypassed the dutiful, mourning blacks of Summerhall. Instead, you reached for the crimson.
The grand feast that evening was a spectacle, but you outshone it all. You arrived in a breathtaking gown of crimson and black silk, the bodice cut daringly low, looking every inch a conqueror. You immediately accepted the arm of a dashing young Tyrell heir. You laughed at his jokes and allowed him to spin you onto the dance floor, making sure you looked utterly radiant and completely unbothered.
From the high table, Baelor watched.
He had told himself it was the honorable thing to do. But watching the Tyrell boy's hand rest intimately on your waist awoke a dark, ancient, and fiercely possessive dragon within him.
The Tyrell heir spun you close, leaning in to whisper something brazen. You offered a coy smile.
Crack.
At the high table, Baelor had gripped his silver wine goblet so forcefully that the thick metal crumpled inward like parchment. Dark Dornish wine spilled over his knuckles like fresh blood. King Daeron paused mid-sentence. Maekar stopped to stare at his older brother in shock.
Baelor calmly set the ruined cup down, wiped his hand, and stood. He strode onto the floor with the regal, unhurried grace of the Crown Prince. The crowd naturally parted.
"Lord Tyrell," Baelor said, his voice a study in absolute authority, offering a perfectly polite smile that didn't reach his burning eyes. "A magnificent dance. But you have monopolized the Princess for quite some time. By your leave, I would claim a dance with my niece."
It was an impeccably polite request that left no room to refuse. The young lord stammered and quickly retreated.
Baelor turned to you. He offered you his hand, the very picture of chivalrous grace. But the moment your fingers rested in his palm, his grip was iron-clad. He pulled you into the steps of the dance.
"You are a hypocrite, my Prince," you murmured, keeping your voice low, tilting your chin up to meet his fierce gaze. "You instructed me to find a young lord. I was merely following your wise counsel."
"He was looking at you like a prized mare at a horse fair," Baelor replied, his voice a vibrating rumble. "He does not know your mind. He does not know how you kept Summerhall together. He is a boy, and he is unworthy of you."
"And who is worthy?" you challenged, the hurt from the hallway flashing in your eyes. "You told me you were too old. You told me it was a misplaced infatuation."
"Do not mock my honor," Baelor said softly, the pain of his internal war bleeding into his voice. "I tried to do what was right. I thought I had the strength to watch you wed another." He seamlessly spun you to the edge of the dance floor, into the shadows of the pillars.
"And do you?" you whispered.
Baelor looked down at you, his dark eyes stripped of all his defenses. He didn't abandon his honor; he finally aligned it with his heart.
"No," he confessed, his breath ghosting over your forehead. "My honor demands that I do not lie, little dragon. And it is a lie to say I can let you go. It is a lie to pretend that any other man in this realm could ever cherish you, protect you, and understand you the way I do."
His thumb gently stroked the silk at your waist. "I will do this right. Tomorrow morning, I will go to my brother. I will ask for your hand formally, in the light of day, and face whatever wrath Maekar throws at me." He pressed a lingering, burning kiss to your knuckles. "But tonight, do not smile at that Tyrell boy again. You are mine."
The morning sun had barely crested the walls of the Red Keep when Baelor made his way to his brother’s chambers. He found Maekar pacing the solar, fully dressed in black and red leathers, his legendary mace resting on the table.
"Baelor," Maekar grunted. "Tell me you have banished that Tyrell whelp. If I see him look at my daughter again, I will cave his chest in."
"Lord Tyrell will not be a problem," Baelor said quietly. "None of the young lords will be. I have come to formally ask for her hand."
For a long, agonizing moment, the room was silent. Then, the infamous "angry haze" descended. The veins in Maekar's neck bulged.
"You?" Maekar roared, his voice shaking the stone walls. "Are you out of your bloody mind, Baelor? You are her uncle! You are fifteen years her senior!"
"I am aware of my age and my station, Maekar," Baelor said calmly, refusing to step back.
"Fuck your station!" Maekar shouted, closing the distance, his chest heaving, spit flying from his lips. "She is my jewel! She gave her entire fucking childhood to raise my children when my wife died. She deserves a young lord. She deserves a life of ease, not the crushing weight of the Crown and a man who has already lived half his bloody life!"
Maekar’s hand shot out, gripping Baelor by the thick collar of his doublet. Years of bitter resentment boiled over. "You have always had everything, Baelor. The Iron Throne, the glory, the love of the smallfolk. You are the perfect fucking Prince! And now you come into my home to take the only light I have left?"
Baelor didn't flinch. He reached up, his large hands gripping Maekar's wrists with unyielding strength, pulling his brother's hands down.
"And do you think those boys will ever truly see her?" Baelor challenged, his own voice rising to match Maekar’s, raw and completely stripped of his usual diplomacy. "Do you think that Tyrell boy understands the sacrifices she made for Summerhall? He sees a beautiful Targaryen bride to breed him heirs. He does not see her."
Baelor completely disarmed himself before his brother. "I tried to step aside. I told myself my honor demanded I let her go. But when I saw her on that dance floor... I realized that giving her to a man who does not understand her worth is a far greater dishonor."
He met Maekar's furious, hateful gaze. "I know her mind. I know her strength. If you give me her hand, I swear to you upon the Seven, I will never let her carry the weight of the world alone again. She will be my equal. She will be my Queen. And I will spend every day of my remaining years ensuring she is worshipped as she deserves."
Maekar stood frozen, chest heaving. The sheer, naked desperation in his perfect brother’s voice broke through the haze. If there was one man in the Seven Kingdoms who would never break her heart, it was Baelor Breakspear.
Maekar slowly stepped back. "If you ever make her weep," Maekar growled, his voice thick with protective, savage love, "if you ever let the burdens of the Iron Throne dim her light... I will cave your fucking skull in myself, Baelor. I do not care if you are the King."
"I would expect nothing less, Maekar."
You had spent the entire morning pacing the floor of the Hand’s solar, bracing yourself for the sound of your father's heavy boots coming to drag you back to Summerhall. Instead, the heavy oak door clicked open with deliberate finality.
Baelor stood in the doorway. He looked exhausted, his doublet slightly rumpled from where Maekar had grabbed him, but there was a profound, undeniable peace radiating from him. He closed the door and slid the heavy iron bolt into place, locking out the rest of the world.
"Baelor?" you whispered, your heart in your throat. "My father... did he...?"
Baelor let out a rough, ragged chuckle as he crossed the room. "He threatened to cave my skull in if I ever make you weep," he murmured, closing the distance between you like a starving man.
Your eyes went wide. "And what did you say?"
"I told him I expected nothing less."
He reached out, and this time, there was no hesitation. No stepping back. No walls of honor or duty standing between you.
"It is done, little dragon," he vowed, his voice a deep, resonant rumble. "I have the blessing of your father. You belong to no young lord. You are mine."
The sheer relief broke whatever composure you had left. You leaned into him, your hands gripping the dark velvet of his doublet. "You will not change your mind tomorrow and tell me it is an infatuation?"
Baelor’s gaze darkened with a raw, possessive fire. "Never again. I was a fool for ever trying to let you go."
And then, his control shattered.
It wasn't a chaste, polite kiss of the court. It was an explosion forged from weeks of agonizing restraint and desperate longing. Baelor didn't just lean in; he backed you up until your shoulders hit the heavy oak door, pinning you there with his towering frame. His mouth crashed down onto yours with a devastating, commanding heat.
His hands were everywhere—one tangled frantically in the silver-gold waves at the nape of your neck, tilting your head back to deepen the kiss, while the other gripped your hip, pulling you flush against the hard planes of his body. The scent of sandalwood and leather completely overwhelmed your senses.
You met his passion with a fierce, ravenous fire of your own, your fingers digging into his broad shoulders, opening your mouth to the slick, intoxicating slide of his tongue. It was messy, breathless, and completely untamed. The weight of Summerhall, the exhaustion, the endless performances for the court—it all burned away in the frantic friction of his body against yours.
When he finally tore his mouth away, resting his forehead against yours, you were both panting heavily, chests heaving together.
"You have spent your entire life caring for others," Baelor whispered against your swollen lips, his arms caging you against the door. "You have held up the sky for Maekar. Let me hold it for you now. Be my wife. Be my Queen. And let me spend the rest of my days taking care of you."
You looked up into the dark, heavy eyes of the Crown Prince, feeling the frantic, hammering beat of his heart against your chest, and smiled.
"Yes," you whispered breathlessly. "Yes, Baelor."
Baelor groaned, burying his face in the crook of your neck, his teeth lightly grazing your pulse point as he pulled you impossibly closer. "You are going to be the death of my sanity, little dragon," he muttered hoarsely. "But what a glorious way to die."
Baelor x Niece reader (Maekar eldest child and daughter) .
Okay i know is common targest but i could not help it. She was perfect princess, Dyanna are die for give birth her youngest sister Rhae, so right now she has to be a sister, a mother, a daughter. Everything she doing with grace then Queen Myriah write to Maekar to bring reader to King Landing for her to find a husband.
The moment she step up Queen Myriah praise her granddaughter beauty and grace. Making many lord woo over her (despite Maekar angry haze). But all that lord fail her expect her own Uncle. He understand her, he kind to her. Something that reader want it. Baelor refuse reader to not coutinue their silent love tension or whatever is going between them. Reader was so heartbroken and end up make him jealous.
And the rest up to you dear author 🤭🤭
hey, thank u for the request! u can find the story here or on my profile, it was a please writing it!!
Hello! I was wondering if there will be a part 2 of “When Desire Outlives Honour.” I completely fell in love with your writing it was so good. I keep checking your account like a little stalker hoping to see an updated chapter. Of course there’s absolutely no pressure! I just wanted to say how much I enjoyed it and that I’d love to read more if you ever decide to continue the story. Your writing really left an impression on me🤍
When desire outlives honour II - Baelor Targaryen
baelor targaryen x valarr’s wife!reader
part one - part two
thank u sm for your kind words!! it was really hard for me to write this because i felt like it would be really emotional no matter what direction i chose but i hope this is the best outcome :)
btw valarr is so pretty when i cry coded and baelor is ultraviolence coded, noone can change my mind
requests are open!
word count: 9k
warnings: dark!baelor, smut, angst, infidelity, age gap
The welcome feast was a blinding, deafening torture. For two years, you had sat at Baelor’s right hand, the unchallenged queen of his stolen, shadowy kingdom. Tonight, you were shoved brutally back into the light.
You sat beside Valarr at the high table. He was radiant, flush with wine and victory, his arm draped affectionately over the back of your chair. Every lord in the Great Hall raised a glass to the Prince of Dragonstone, to his beautiful, faithful wife, and to the dark-haired boy sleeping peacefully in the royal nursery.
It was a portrait of perfect Targaryen glory. And it made you want to weep.
Because three seats away, Baelor sat perfectly still. He was the Hand of the King, dressed in immaculate black velvet, but beneath the stoic mask, you could feel the agonizing tension radiating from him. Every time Valarr leaned in to whisper a sweet nothing against your ear, every time your husband pressed a public, adoring kiss to your temple, Baelor’s jaw clenched. He was a man watching a good, innocent boy handle his most prized, hard-won treasure, paralyzed by the horrific reality that he was the one who had engineered this exact torture.
When the hour grew late, Valarr stood, offering you his hand. "Come, my love. The sea has made me weary, and I have spent two years dreaming of my own bed."
The entire hall seemed to go dead silent in your ears. You placed your trembling hand in his. As Valarr led you down from the dais, you risked one, singular glance back. Baelor was staring straight at you. The look in his dark eyes was absolute, suffocating agony—a silent, desperate plea, entirely helpless to stop his own son from leading you away.
The heavy oak doors of your shared chambers closed behind you with a dull, final thud. The iron latch clicked. The cage was locked.
Valarr let out a long, heavy sigh, stripping off his velvet doublet. He turned to you in the dim candlelight of the hearth. He did not rush you. He crossed the room slowly, his dark eyes entirely soft and reverent, and gently cupped your face in his hands. He smelled of sea salt, clean linen, and that sweet, familiar lemon water.
"I thought of this room every night in the Stepstones," Valarr whispered, his thumbs sweeping over your pale cheeks. "When the fever took the camp, when the arrows fell like rain... I survived because I knew I was coming back to you. You gave me a son. You kept my heart safe."
A physical ache ripped through your chest. He was so incredibly good. Looking up into his earnest, battle-weary face, you felt a profound, overwhelming wave of genuine affection for him. You reached up, your fingers gently tracing the new, pale scar across his cheek, your heart breaking for the boy who had gone to war simply to prove himself to a father who had already betrayed him.
"You are home now, Valarr," you whispered, rising onto your toes to press a soft, willing kiss to his lips. "You are safe."
Valarr let out a shaky breath, wrapping his arms around your waist. When he lifted you into his arms and carried you to the canopy bed, you did not pull away. You yielded to him completely, matching his rhythm, holding him as he murmured sweet praises into the dark. He was a gentle lover, entirely focused on your pleasure, his touch light and adoring. And you loved him for it—you truly did.
But as Valarr gasped your name and collapsed against your chest, entirely spent and blissfully happy, the true, agonizing tragedy of your reality settled over you. You held your husband as he drifted off to sleep, your fingers idly playing with his dark hair.
Valarr was the sun. He was warm, kind, and safe. But over the last two years, you had learned to breathe in the dark.
Your skin hummed with a restless, hollow ache. You didn't want gentleness. You craved the terrifying, bruising weight of the Hand of the King. You craved the heavy scent of woodsmoke and leather, and the dangerous, feral possessiveness that made you feel like the only breathing thing in the Seven Kingdoms. Valarr had given you his whole heart, but your soul was irrevocably tethered to a monster.
***
A fortnight later, during the hour of the wolf, a vicious fever seized the royal nursery.
The room was stifling, thick with the smell of camphor and burning sage. You sat on the edge of the crib, pale and trembling, pressing a damp cloth to Aemon’s burning forehead. The boy was whimpering, a weak, reedy sound that tore at your chest.
Valarr was pacing at the foot of the crib, his hands running frantically through his hair. "The Grand Maester said the willow bark would break the fever by midnight," Valarr said, his voice tight with a father's helpless panic. "It is past midnight. I should send for him again. I should wake the King's own physicians—"
The heavy oak doors of the nursery suddenly flew open, hitting the stone wall with a violent crack.
Baelor Breakspear strode into the room. He was not dressed as the Hand of the King. He wore only a loose linen sleep shirt and dark trousers, his chest heaving as if he had run all the way from the Tower of the Hand. He completely bypassed his son, his dark, terrified eyes locking instantly onto the crib.
"How high is it?" Baelor demanded, his voice a low, terrifying rasp that brokered absolutely no pleasantries.
Valarr blinked, startled by his father's sudden, unkempt appearance. "Father? It is late, I did not mean to wake—"
"I asked how high the fever is," Baelor snapped, his massive frame crowding Valarr out of the way as he stepped directly to your side.
Baelor didn't wait for your answer. He reached right into the crib, his large, scarred hands lifting the burning toddler from the mattress. The legendary military commander pulled the boy flush against his broad chest, cradling the back of the child's head with a visceral, desperate tenderness.
"He will not take the tea," you whispered to Baelor, your voice shaking, completely forgetting that Valarr was standing right there. You looked up at Baelor not as the Hand, but as the only man who could anchor you. "He keeps coughing it up. I am so afraid, Baelor."
"I have him," Baelor murmured quietly, a vow meant entirely for you. He pressed his lips to the boy’s damp, dark hair, his eyes closing in agony as he felt the heat radiating from the child. "I have him. Hush, my lady. The dragon's blood burns hot, but it does not break."
Valarr stood frozen at the foot of the crib. He watched his father—a man who had never once shown him such raw, unshielded affection—rocking the child back and forth. But what chilled Valarr to the bone was the way you were looking at Baelor. You had stopped trembling the second Baelor walked in. The terrified, helpless mother had instantly yielded to the authority of the man holding the child, trusting him with a complete, blind devotion.
"Let me take him, Father," Valarr tried, stepping forward, his voice wavering. "You should rest. He is my son."
Baelor’s dark eyes snapped open. He looked over the boy's head at Valarr. For a fraction of a second, the feral, possessive starvation of a cornered wolf flashed across the Hand's face. Baelor’s grip on the child tightened, his jaw locking so hard the muscle feathered beneath his scar.
"The boy stays with me until the fever breaks," Baelor commanded, a cold, deathly finality in his tone. He didn't hand the child over. He sat down in the heavy rocking chair by the hearth, pulling the boy closer to his heart.
The fever finally broke just as the pale, gray light of dawn began to bleed through the nursery windows.
Baelor had not moved from the heavy wooden chair. He had held the burning child against his broad chest for six hours straight, his jaw locked in a terrifying, silent war against the Gods, refusing to let the boy go.
Valarr, entirely overwhelmed by his father's imposing presence and exhausted from two days of travel and pacing, had eventually succumbed to sleep. He was slumped in a high-backed armchair in the shadowed alcove of the room, completely dead to the world.
You stood by the window, your arms wrapped tightly around yourself, until you heard the subtle, profound shift in the room.
Aemon’s frantic, reedy whimpering faded into a soft, even sigh.
You turned. Baelor was looking down at the bundle in his arms, his massive shoulders finally, physically dropping. He let out a long, ragged breath that sounded like a man who had just narrowly escaped the headsman’s block.
You crossed the nursery, your footsteps completely silent on the thick Myrish rug. You didn't check on Valarr; you didn't even look toward the alcove. Your entire world was anchored to the man in the rocking chair.
You sank to the floor right beside Baelor’s boots, resting your arms on his thigh as you peered down at the sleeping child. The boy’s skin was pale and cool again, his dark lashes resting peacefully against his cheeks.
"The heat is gone," you whispered, the sheer relief making your voice tremble. You rested your cheek against the heavy wool of Baelor’s trousers, completely exhausted.
Baelor didn't say a word at first. His large, battle-calloused hand moved from the baby’s back and came to rest heavily on the crown of your head. His fingers tangled into your loose hair, his thumb stroking your temple with a slow, agonizingly tender rhythm. It was a gesture of such profound, ingrained familiarity—a physical tether that grounded you both.
"I thought they were taking him," Baelor confessed into the quiet room, his deep voice a raw, broken vibration. The terrifying Hand of the King was completely gone, leaving only a devastated father. "I sat here in the dark, and I thought the Gods were finally balancing the scales. Punishing my treason by taking the only pure thing I have ever made."
"Don't say that," you murmured fiercely, lifting your head. You reached up, your hand cupping Baelor’s cheek. You stroked his skin, your eyes locking onto his with absolute, unwavering devotion. "He is strong. He has the dragon's blood, Baelor. He has your strength. He is yours."
Baelor leaned heavily into your touch, his dark eyes closing as he pressed his face into your palm. He turned his head just enough to press a soft, lingering kiss to the center of your wrist.
"He is my very soul," Baelor breathed, opening his eyes to look at you, the feral, possessive fire completely softened by an overwhelming, unconditional love. "Just as you are. I would burn the Seven Kingdoms to the ground before I let anything happen to either of you."
You shifted upward, pressing your lips softly to Baelor’s forehead, then rested your brow against his as you both looked down at your sleeping son.
From the shadows of the alcove, Valarr stopped breathing.
He had not been deeply asleep for the last ten minutes. He had woken to the quiet murmur of voices, expecting to see his wife and his father discussing the Maester’s orders.
Instead, he opened his eyes to a portrait that would haunt him to his grave.
Valarr sat perfectly still in the high-backed chair, completely swallowed by the shadows, watching his wife kneel at his father’s feet. He watched the way your body completely yielded to Baelor's space—a total, unquestioning physical surrender that Valarr had never, not once, felt from you in his own bed. He watched the terrifying, immovable Hand of the King press a kiss to your wrist with the reverence of a man at an altar.
He listened to the quiet, devastating words hanging in the air.
"He is yours."
"He is my very soul."
The puzzle pieces didn't crash down on Valarr like a collapsing roof; they slid into place like a Valyrian steel blade sliding smoothly, silently between his ribs.
The dark hair of the boy. The exact, identical brow line. The sudden, ruthless decree sending a newlywed prince to the Stepstones for two years. The way Baelor had charged into the nursery hours ago, completely bypassing Valarr to take the child, looking at Valarr not as a son, but as a threat.
The air in Valarr’s lungs turned to lead. A sickening, icy dread pooled in his stomach, spreading through his veins until his hands went completely numb.
He wasn't sitting in his nursery looking at his father and his wife. He was a ghost haunting a home that didn't belong to him. He was looking at a complete, fiercely devoted family that had built their entire world on the ashes of his honor.
Valarr stared at the way Baelor's thumb absently stroked your hair. The sheer, domestic comfort of the touch was infinitely more agonizing than if he had caught you tearing at each other's clothes. Lust could be explained as a moment of madness. But this? This profound, intrinsic peace? This was a love that had taken years to build.
Valarr had spent two years fighting a bloody war to prove himself worthy of a woman who had never belonged to him, and a father who had betrayed him in the most unimaginable way possible.
The young prince didn't gasp. He didn't jump from his chair and draw the sword at his hip. The betrayal was so absolute, so fundamentally world-ending, that it completely hollowed him out. If he made a sound, if he stepped forward and shattered the quiet intimacy of the room, it would make the nightmare permanently real.
A single, hot tear spilled over Valarr's pale, scarred cheek, tracking silently into the collar of his shirt.
He closed his eyes, pressing his head back against the chair, and completely stopped moving. He forced his breathing to remain slow and even, playing the part of the sleeping fool one last time, while his heart physically broke in the dark.
He waited. He waited for another hour, listening to the soft murmur of his wife and his father, until Baelor finally laid the sleeping child back into the crib. Only when Baelor quietly left the nursery, and you went to the adjoining washroom, did Valarr finally open his eyes.
The Prince of Summer stood up. His bright, eager eyes were completely dead, replaced by a bottomless abyss of shattered devastation. He looked at the crib, at the boy he had loved with his whole heart, and felt nothing but a terrifying, suffocating void.
He turned and walked silently out of the nursery. He didn't know where he was going. He only knew that the boy who had sailed back from the Stepstones was dead, and the man left behind had nothing left to lose.
The rest of the day passed in a haze of profound, exhausting relief. Aemon slept soundly, his breathing even and cool. But as the sun began to set over the Blackwater, casting long, bloody shadows across the Red Keep, the relief curdled into a creeping, quiet unease.
Valarr had not returned to the nursery. He had not attended the midday meal. When you asked his Kingsguard, they simply cast their eyes to the floor and said the Prince had requested absolute solitude in the lower yards.
Night fell. You were sitting at the vanity in your shared bedchamber, the heavy silence of the room pressing against your eardrums. You pulled a silver brush through your hair, staring blindly at your own reflection in the glass, trying to shake the sudden, icy dread pooling in your stomach.
The heavy iron latch clicked.
You turned on the velvet stool, a reprimand for his absence already forming on your lips. "Valarr, where have you been? The Maester came to check on Aemon, and you—"
The words died instantly in your throat.
Valarr closed the heavy oak door behind him, the dull thud echoing like a coffin lid snapping shut. He was still wearing the clothes he had slept in the night before, completely wrinkled and smelling faintly of stale sweat and cold stone. But it was his face that made the brush slip from your trembling fingers, clattering loudly against the wood of the vanity.
The Prince of Summer was gone.
The man standing in the shadows of the bedchamber looked as though he had aged ten years in a single afternoon. The bright, eager warmth that had defined his dark eyes was entirely, permanently extinguished. He looked hollowed out, a walking corpse staring at you across the expanse of the room.
"Valarr?" you whispered, your heart seizing in your chest. You stood up, your legs suddenly feeling like water. "Are you unwell?"
He didn't move toward you. He stood perfectly still, his hands hanging limply at his sides. He looked at the massive canopy bed—the bed he had dreamed of every single night in the mud and blood of the Stepstones.
"I woke up just after dawn," Valarr said.
His voice was terrifying. It wasn't a shout. It wasn't angry. It was a flat, dead rasp, devoid of any inflection.
The blood in your veins turned to ice. You stopped breathing.
Valarr slowly shifted his deadened gaze from the bed to your pale face. "I woke up in the alcove chair. You didn't see me. You were entirely focused on the floor, resting your head against my father's knee."
The room began to spin. A suffocating, sheer panic gripped your throat like a vice. You opened your mouth to speak, to weave a lie about the exhaustion of the night, to explain away the intimacy as shared grief—but Valarr didn't let you.
"He is yours," Valarr whispered into the quiet room, repeating the words with a perfect, devastating emptiness. "He is my very soul."
The floor dropped completely out from beneath your feet. You backed away, your hand coming up to cover your mouth as a choked, horrified gasp tore from your lungs. There was no lie to weave. There was no defense. He had heard the absolute, damning truth.
Valarr watched you tremble, his face an impenetrable mask of pure agony. "For two years," he said, the words slowly bleeding out of him. "For two years, I sat in a war camp. I watched men die of graywater fever. I took arrows to my shield. And every night, I prayed to the Mother to let me live long enough to come back to this room. To hold my son."
A single, hot tear spilled over Valarr's scarred cheek. He didn't wipe it away.
"I paraded a bastard before the realm," Valarr choked out, the reality of his humiliation finally fracturing his deadened composure. "I thanked the Gods for a boy who has my father's eyes. My father. The man who handed me a royal decree, looked me in the eye, and sent me to the edge of the world to die so he could clear his own bed."
"Valarr, please," you wept, the tears spilling hot and fast over your lashes. You took a step toward him, your heart breaking into a thousand jagged pieces for the boy you had destroyed. "Please, I never wanted to hurt you. You have to believe me, I never wanted this for you—"
"Do not touch me!" Valarr gasped, recoiling violently as if the very air radiating from your skin had turned to acid. He pressed his back against the heavy wood of the door, his chest heaving, his hands shaking so violently he had to fist them in the fabric of his tunic. "Do not come near me. You are a stranger. You are a monster wearing my wife's face."
He stared at you, his chest rising and falling with ragged, tearing breaths. The silence between you was an executioner's block, heavy with the weight of the dynasty you and Baelor had shattered.
Valarr let out a broken, agonizing sound—a sob that tore straight from the bottom of his soul. He looked at you, the woman he had crossed an ocean for, completely stripped of his pride, his honor, and his future.
"Why did you choose him?" Valarr demanded, his voice cracking, a flash of pure, unadulterated agony finally breaking through his shock. "I gave you my whole heart. I was so good to you. If I loved you with every breath in my body... why did you choose him over me?"
You stood frozen in the center of the room. You looked at the pure, unsuspecting boy who had loved you, standing in the ruins of the life you and the Hand of the King had systematically dismantled.
You could not offer him a comforting lie. He deserved the absolute, bleeding truth.
"Because he saw me," you whispered into the dark room, the devastating truth finally bleeding out, severing the last tether to your marriage. "And because I loved him before I even knew your face."
The words hung in the air, a Valyrian steel blade sliding smoothly and irreversibly through the heart of the Prince of Summer.
Valarr didn't scream. He didn't draw his sword to strike you down. The absolute, unrepentant honesty in your voice simply snuffed out the very last ember of his spirit. He looked at you one final time, a man memorizing the face of his own executioner.
"My father took my honor," Valarr whispered, his voice completely hollowed out. "And you took my soul. I hope the two of you choke on what is left."
He turned the iron latch. He didn't slam the heavy oak door; he pulled it shut with a quiet, sickening finality that echoed far louder than a shout ever could. You were left entirely alone in the suffocating silence, the ruins of the Targaryen dynasty crumbling around your feet.
Panic is a cold, blinding thing. You didn't wait. You didn't think. You ran.
You didn't use the hidden servant's passage. You didn't care about the shadows. You hiked your skirts and flew through the empty, torchlit corridors of Maegor’s Holdfast, your breath tearing through your lungs. You bypassed the Kingsguard at the base of the Tower with a frantic, breathless command, flying up the spiraling stone steps until you reached the heavy oak doors of the Hand's solar.
You threw them open without knocking.
Baelor was sitting at his mahogany desk, a single candle burning as he poured over a map of the Dornish Marches. The moment the door crashed against the stone wall, his head snapped up.
He took one look at your tear-streaked face, the wild, unpinned mess of your hair, and the sheer, unadulterated terror in your eyes.
The Hand of the King vanished. The dragon awoke.
Baelor was on his feet and across the room before you could even take a full breath. He caught you as you practically collapsed into him, his massive arms wrapping around you like a vice, kicking the heavy door shut behind you.
"What happened?" Baelor commanded, his voice a low, lethal rumble that vibrated through your chest. His hands framed your face, his thumbs wiping the frantic tears from your cheeks. "Are you hurt? Did he touch you?"
"He knows," you sobbed, your fingers gripping the lapels of his tunic so hard your knuckles ached. "Baelor, he knows everything. He heard us in the nursery. He knows about Aemon."
The silence that fell over the solar was absolute. It was the heavy, suffocating calm at the very center of a hurricane.
You expected Baelor to panic. You expected the honorable, legendary military commander to finally break under the sheer, staggering weight of his own damnation.
But Baelor Breakspear did not flinch.
The blood drained from his face, leaving his severe, scarred features looking as though they had been carved from pale marble. His dark eyes didn't widen in fear; they darkened into an abyss of cold, terrifying certainty. The guilt that had plagued him for two years was instantly incinerated by the feral, overriding instinct to protect what was his.
"Where is he?" Baelor asked. The absolute, deathly calm in his voice terrified you more than a shout ever could.
"I don't know," you wept, trembling uncontrollably against his broad chest. "He left the chambers. Baelor, if he goes to the King—if he tells the Small Council—they will kill you. They will take my son."
"No one is taking my son," Baelor swore, his voice a jagged, unbreakable vow. He pulled you flush against his chest, burying his face in your hair, holding you so tightly it felt as though he were trying to physically absorb your terror into his own body. "And no one is touching you. Do you hear me? You belong to me."
He pulled back, his dark eyes burning with a dark, uncompromising lethality. He was calculating, his mind moving with the ruthless speed that had won him the Dornish wars.
"Go back to your chambers," Baelor ordered, his hands gripping your shoulders, grounding you in his absolute authority. "Lock the door to the nursery. Do not let anyone inside, not even the Maester. I will find Valarr."
"What are you going to do?" you whispered, horrified by the cold, unyielding violence radiating from the man you loved. "Baelor, he is your son."
Baelor’s jaw clenched, a flash of profound, devastating agony breaking through the stone mask before he violently suppressed it. "He is my son," Baelor murmured, a heavy, bleeding truth. "But you are my soul. And I will do whatever I must to keep you."
Baelor did not find Valarr in the King's chambers. He did not find him in the courtyard preparing a horse to flee.
He found the Prince of Dragonstone exactly where a broken Targaryen would go to mourn the death of his honor.
The cavernous hall of the Red Keep’s lower levels was pitch black, save for the flickering glow of a single torch. The massive, ancient skulls of the Targaryen dragons lined the walls, their hollow, bone-white eyes staring blindly into the dark.
Valarr stood at the far end of the hall, staring up at the colossal skull of Balerion the Black Dread. He looked unimaginably small.
Baelor’s heavy boots echoed loudly against the stone as he walked down the center of the hall. He didn't try to hide his approach. He walked with the deliberate, heavy cadence of an executioner.
Valarr did not turn around. "Did you come to finish the job, Father?" Valarr asked, his voice echoing off the ancient bone. It was utterly devoid of life. "Or did you just come to silence the man who knows you are a traitor to the realm?"
Baelor stopped ten paces away. He looked at the line of his son's shoulders. The crushing weight of what he had done to this boy—the boy he had taught to ride, to fight, to swear oaths to the Seven—bore down on Baelor with agonizing force. But the image of you, terrified and trembling in his solar, instantly hardened his spine to iron.
"I came to speak with you," Baelor said, his voice a low, heavy rumble in the dark.
Valarr slowly turned around. The flickering torchlight caught the tears tracking through the dust on his face. The pure, adoring respect that had defined his relationship with his father was completely, permanently eradicated. In its place was a revulsion so deep it made Baelor’s chest ache.
"There is nothing to speak of," Valarr spat, the betrayal finally igniting into a bitter, furious fire. "You are a monster. You sit on the high table and judge thieves and murderers, and all the while you were stealing my wife and murdering my honor in the dark!"
"I love her."
The three words left Baelor’s mouth with quiet, absolute finality. He didn't shout them. He didn't offer them as an excuse. He stated them as a fundamental, unbreakable law of the universe.
Valarr flinched as if he had been physically struck. "You love her," he repeated, a manic, broken laugh tearing from his throat. "You love her. And what about me? Did you love me when you drafted the decree to the Stepstones? Did you love me when you stood in the courtyard and told me to do my duty, knowing you were going to go back inside and take her to your bed?"
Baelor took a slow step forward. "I sent you away because I was losing my mind. I sent you away because if I had to sit in that hall and watch you put your hands on her for one more day, I would have killed you."
Valarr stared at him, horrified. The absolute, unrepentant truth in Baelor's eyes was more terrifying than any lie could have been. The Hand of the King was not apologizing.
"You are mad," Valarr breathed, shaking his head, backing away toward the massive dragon skull. "You are completely mad. The boy... Aemon..." Valarr’s voice broke entirely on the name. "He is my blood. But he is your bastard. I paraded him before the realm. I thanked the Gods for him."
"He is a Targaryen," Baelor stated, his voice turning cold and lethally protective. "And he is my son. You will not speak of him as anything else."
"I will speak the truth!" Valarr roared, the Valyrian steel sword at his hip rattling as his hands clenched into fists. "I will go to the King! I will strip you of your chain, I will tell the entire realm that Baelor Breakspear is a treacherous, lecherous hypocrite who bedded his own son's wife!"
The silence that followed was deafening.
Baelor did not draw his own blade. He simply stared at his son, the shadows of the dragon skulls dancing across his severe, scarred face. The legendary military commander calculated the board. He saw the moves. And he played the only card he had left.
"If you go to the King," Baelor said, his voice dropping to a whisper that echoed with terrifying clarity throughout the cavernous room, "Daeron will execute me for treason."
Valarr’s chest heaved. "You deserve it."
"I do," Baelor agreed instantly, without a shred of hesitation. "I will walk to the block myself. I will lay my head down, and I will let them take it. But you know the law, Valarr. You know the King's justice." Baelor took another step forward, closing the distance until he towered over his son, the true, horrifying weight of his threat settling over the room. "Treason of the blood is not punished alone. If you expose me, Daeron will not just take my head. He will execute her."
Valarr froze.
"He will drag her out of her bed," Baelor continued, his voice a merciless, driving hammer. "He will march the woman you swore to protect to the chopping block, and he will take her head in front of the entire court. And then, he will take the boy. A bastard born of treason to the Iron Throne? They will drown him in Blackwater Bay before the sun sets."
Valarr stared at his father, his dark eyes wide with an unspeakable, paralyzing horror. The fury drained out of him, replaced by a suffocating, terrifying helplessness.
"You love her," Baelor stated, turning Valarr’s own pure heart into a weapon against him. "You are a good man, Valarr. You are a better man than I have ever been. I know you hate me. I welcome your hatred. But ask yourself... are you willing to sign her death warrant just to have your revenge on me? Are you willing to murder an innocent child?"
Valarr began to tremble. He looked at the father he had idolized, seeing him for the absolute, ruthless monster he truly was. Baelor had engineered a trap so perfect, so impossibly cruel, that Valarr was completely paralyzed by his own honor. If he spoke the truth, the woman he loved would die.
Valarr fell to his knees on the cold stone floor.
He covered his face with his hands, a broken, agonizing sob echoing through the hall of skulls. He was trapped. He was a prisoner in his own life, bound by the sins of a father who had stolen everything from him.
Baelor stood over his broken son. He did not feel triumph. He felt a crushing, soul-destroying guilt that would haunt him to his grave. But as he looked down at the boy weeping on the stone, Baelor knew he would do it all again in a heartbeat.
He reached down, his massive hand hesitating for a fraction of a second, before he rested it heavily on Valarr’s shaking shoulder.
"I am sorry," Baelor whispered into the dark. It was the only truth he had left to offer. "But she is mine. And she will remain mine until the end of my days."
***
The wait in your chambers was a slow, agonizing execution. You sat in the dark, the heavy oak door locked, listening to the soft, even breathing of your son in the adjoining nursery. Every creak of the floorboards, every gust of wind against the glass, sounded like the heavy boots of the Kingsguard coming to drag you to the black cells.
When the latch finally turned, you flinched, your heart slamming violently against your ribs.
The door opened, and Baelor stepped inside.
He closed the door behind him, sliding the heavy iron bolt into place with a definitive, ringing clack. He didn't say a word. He stood in the shadows, his chest rising and falling with a slow, heavy rhythm. The scent of the dragon skulls—ancient dust, cold stone, and ash—clung to the dark velvet of his doublet.
You stood up, your legs trembling so badly they barely held your weight. You crossed the room, stopping inches from his massive chest, searching the severe, impenetrable lines of his face in the dim moonlight.
"Baelor," you whispered, the name catching on a choked, terrified breath. "What happened? Where is he?"
Baelor looked down at you. The feral, lethal tension that had radiated from him when he left the solar was gone. In its place was a profound, devastating exhaustion. He raised his large, calloused hands, cupping your face with an agonizingly gentle touch.
"He will not speak," Baelor said, his deep voice a hollow, quiet rumble.
A wave of sheer, staggering relief washed over you, so powerful your knees buckled. Baelor caught you instantly, his thick arms wrapping around your waist, pulling you flush against the solid, immovable heat of his chest. You buried your face in his tunic, a broken sob tearing from your throat as the terror of the executioner's block finally shattered.
"How?" you wept into the dark fabric, your fingers gripping him desperately. "How did you stop him?"
Baelor rested his chin on the crown of your head. He did not dress his sins in noble lies. He gave you the brutal, unvarnished truth. "I told him the King's justice. I told him that if he struck me down, Daeron would take your head, and he would drown the boy. I bound his silence with your life."
You went completely still in his arms.
You looked up at the man holding you. Baelor Breakspear, the shield of the realm, the most honorable man in Westeros, had looked his own devastated son in the eye and weaponized the boy's pure, innocent heart against him. It was a move of such breathtaking, calculating cruelty that it terrified you.
But as Baelor looked back at you, his dark eyes burning with an absolute, uncompromising devotion, you realized the terrifying truth of your own soul. You weren't repulsed. You were completely, hopelessly anchored to him. He had damned himself to the deepest ring of the Seven Hells, entirely to keep you breathing.
"We are monsters," you whispered, a tear slipping down your cheek, tracing the line of his thumb.
"We are alive," Baelor corrected fiercely, his voice dropping to a jagged rasp. He leaned down, pressing his forehead against yours. "And we are together. I will carry the weight of this for the rest of my days, but I will not apologize for keeping you. Never."
He kissed you then, and it wasn't the frantic, starving collision of your stolen moments. It was a heavy, profound claiming. It was the kiss of a man sealing a blood pact in the dark. His mouth moved over yours with a slow, deliberate worship, his tongue sweeping past your lips to swallow your breath, grounding you entirely in the reality of his massive, protective presence. You yielded to him completely, your hands tangling in his dark hair, letting the terrifying, beautiful gravity of the monster you loved swallow your guilt whole.
The first pale light crept through the shutters, painting grey stripes across the floor of the chamber. You lay tangled in the sheets, the memory of his kiss still a phantom pressure on your lips, the weight of his confession still a stone in your chest.
You were alone.
Sitting up, you found him standing at the window, his back to you, the massive span of his shoulders silhouetted against the dawn. He was already dressed, his doublet laced, but his dark hair was disheveled. He looked like a statue carved from the very stone of the Keep-unyielding, eternal, and utterly alone with his thoughts.
You rose, the air cool against your skin. The floor was cold under your bare feet as you crossed to him. You didn't speak. You simply slipped your arms around his waist from behind, pressing your cheek to the space between his shoulder blades. You felt the sharp intake of his breath, the rigid tension in his muscles.
For a moment, he didn't move. Then, one of his hands came up to cover yours where they clasped over his stomach. His other hand reached back, his fingers finding your hip, anchoring you to him.
"You should be sleeping," he said, his voice a low rumble that vibrated through his back and into your bones.
"So should you."
He let out a quiet, humourless breath. "I have not slept."
You knew. You could feel the coiled alertness in him, the predator's vigilance that had stood guard while you rested. You tightened your arms around him.
"Baelor." His name was a whisper against his tunic.
He turned in your arms then, his hands moving to frame your face. In the grey light, his dark eyes were fathomless, holding the weight of the night, the weight of his choice. He looked at you not as a prince, but as a man standing on the edge of an abyss he had willingly leapt into.
"I would do it again," he said, the words a fierce, quiet vow. "A thousand times. I would break every law of gods and men. I would let them call me monster, traitor, coward. I would let them strip me of name and title and lance, and I would crawl through the Seven Hells on my hands and knees-" his voice cracked, a raw fracture in his iron control. "—if it meant you woke to one more dawn."
You reached up, your thumb tracing the hard line of his jaw, feeling the faint scratch of stubble. "You are not a monster. Not to me."
He caught your wrist, turning his head to press a kiss to your palm. It was a gesture of such tender reverence, a stark contrast to the brutal calculation he had described in the dark.
"We face them today," he said quietly.
"Together."
The dawn brought a new, chilling reality to the Red Keep.
The immediate danger of the headsman's axe was gone, but the golden cage had fundamentally changed. It was no longer locked by the King's laws; it was locked by Valarr’s silence.
The Prince of Summer did not publicly confront you. He did not banish you from his chambers. To the outside world, Valarr simply played the role of a war-weary commander. He claimed the horrors of the Stepstones had left him with night terrors, using it as a flawless, tragic excuse to move his sleeping quarters into a sparse room down the hall. The court sympathized deeply with the traumatized prince, completely blind to the fact that the only monster Valarr was having nightmares about was the Hand of the King.
Living with Valarr became a suffocating pantomime.
When you passed him in the corridors, escorted by your ladies, Valarr would offer a stiff, polite bow. His bright, eager eyes were completely dead whenever they landed on you. He spoke to you only when necessary, his voice a flat, hollow echo of the boy who had once shared your bed in the dark.
And he never, ever touched the child again.
When Aemon was brought to the gardens, Valarr would find a reason to leave. If the boy toddled toward him in the Great Hall, Valarr would go entirely rigid, turning his back and walking away before the child could reach his boots. The court whispered that the Prince was merely overwhelmed by fatherhood after the war, but you knew the truth. Every time Valarr looked at the boy, he saw the man who had stolen his life.
With Valarr's quiet, devastating withdrawal from the private sphere, the dynamic between you and Baelor shifted entirely.
The frantic, terrified edge of your affair vanished. Baelor no longer had to scheme to get Valarr out of the castle just to breathe the same air as you. Valarr's deliberate absence created a sprawling, silent vacuum in your life, and the Hand of the King moved in to fill every single inch of it.
Baelor’s dominance over your life became an absolute, quiet certainty.
It was no longer just about stolen moments of passion in his solar. Baelor began to openly, quietly manage your world. He would enter your private solar in the late afternoons, dismissing your maids with a single, sharp look. He would sit in Valarr’s empty chair, reviewing your ledgers, pouring your wine, and pulling you into his lap.
The guilt that gnawed at your chest was constantly, meticulously dismantled by Baelor's overwhelming presence.
One evening, a month after the confrontation, you were standing by the window of your bedchamber, watching the rain lash against the glass. The silence of the empty room was heavy, pressing down on you until you felt you might suffocate.
The heavy door opened, and Baelor stepped inside.
He didn't bother locking it immediately. He crossed the room, his heavy boots making no sound on the Myrish rugs, and wrapped his arms around you from behind. He pulled your back flush against his broad chest, his chin resting on the crown of your head. The deep, familiar scent of woodsmoke and leather instantly steadied your racing pulse.
"You are thinking too loudly," Baelor murmured, his large hands sliding down to rest flat against your stomach, anchoring you.
"I passed him in the courtyard today," you whispered, leaning your weight back into Baelor’s immovable frame. "He looked right through me. He looks like a ghost, Baelor. We killed him."
Baelor’s jaw clenched. His hands tightened slightly around your waist. He did not offer you empty platitudes. He turned you around in his arms, forcing you to look up into his dark, severe face.
"He is a man grown, and he has made his choice," Baelor stated, his voice a low, commanding rumble. "He chose his honor over his vengeance. I bear the sin of it. Not you." He reached up, his calloused thumb tracing the line of your jaw, his eyes blazing with that dark, feral possessiveness that always managed to eclipse your guilt. "I will not let you wither in this castle mourning a marriage that was never real. You were never his. You have been mine since the kingsroad."
"Baelor—"
"Mine," he repeated, a heavy, unyielding vow. He stepped forward, backing you slowly toward the canopy bed. "Let the realm have the Young Prince. Let him have the cheers and the victory feasts. But this room, this life, the boy sleeping next door... that is my kingdom."
He didn't make love to you that night with frantic haste. With the threat of Valarr’s sudden return completely eradicated, Baelor took his time.
He undressed you with an agonizing, meticulous worship, his dark eyes mapping every inch of your skin in the firelight.
When he laid you back against the silk sheets, the heavy weight of his body pressing into yours was a physical manifestation of his absolute claim.
He captured your mouth in a kiss that was less a kiss and more a branding, his tongue sweeping past your lips to taste the guilt still clinging to your palate. You moaned against him, your fingers threading into his dark hair as his scarred hand palmed your breast, thumb circling your nipple until it peaked into a tight, aching bead.
"You think of him when I touch you?" he growled against your throat, teeth grazing the delicate skin there. Not quite a bite, but a warning. A reminder.
"No," you breathed, the word half-truth, half-desperate plea. "Never. Only you."
"Prove it." His command was velvet wrapped in iron.
He rose up just long enough to shed his tunic, and you drank in the sight of him-the broad, muscled chest crisscrossed with the pale lines of old battles, the dark hair that trailed down his stomach and disappeared beneath his breeches. He was all power, all contained violence, and he was yours. You were his.
He came back to you, settling between your thighs, the rough wool of his breeches a cruel friction against your bare, aching core. He didn't rush. He lowered his head, taking one nipple into the hot, wet cavern of his mouth, suckling hard as his fingers found your center, sliding through the slick evidence of your desire.
"You're wet for me," he murmured against your skin, the vibration of his voice sending a shockwave straight to your womb.
"Already. Always." He pushed one thick finger inside you, then two, stretching you, preparing you. "This cunt knows who it belongs to, even when your mind wanders."
A broken cry escaped your lips as his thumb found the sensitive nub hidden in your folds, circling with a pressure that bordered on cruel.
The guilt was still there, a specter in the corner of the room, but Baelor's touch was a bonfire, burning everything in its path. He worked you higher, his fingers pumping in and out of your clutching heat, his mouth never leaving your breast, until you shattered against his hand with a choked sob of his name.
He didn't give you time to come down. He was already shucking his breeches, his cock springing free, thick and heavy and slick with his own desire. He positioned himself at your entrance, the blunt head pressing against your oversensitive flesh.
"Look at me," he demanded. Your heavy-lidded eyes met his. "Who do you belong to?"
"You," you gasped.
He thrust inside you in one brutal, seamless stroke, burying himself to the hilt. The stretch was exquisite, a perfect pain that melted instantly into pleasure. He filled you completely, and for that moment, there was no room for anything else. No Valarr. No guilt. No ghosts.
"Yes," he hissed, his forehead dropping to yours, his breath hot and ragged. "Mine."
He began to move, a slow, devastating rhythm that had you clawing at his shoulders, wrapping your legs around his waist to take him deeper. Each thrust was a deliberate, physical erasure. He was fucking the memory of the Young Prince out of you, replacing it with nothing but the feel of him, the scent of him, the absolute claim of him.
"You want to know where he is?" Baelor grunted, angling his hips to hit that spot inside you that made white-hot stars burst behind your eyes. "He's in a cold room, alone. But you? You're here. Wet. Warm.
Screaming my name." He drove into you harder, faster. "You chose me. You'll always choose me."
The pace turned frenzied, primal. The headboard began to knock against the stone wall, a rhythmic counterpoint to the wet sounds of your joining and your mingled cries. Baelor hooked an arm under your knee, pushing your leg up, changing the angle, driving deeper still.
The second climax ripped through you without warning, a convulsion of pleasure so intense it bordered on pain. You cried out, your inner walls clenching around him like a fist. The sensation pulled him over the edge with you. He buried his face in your neck, his body shuddering as he spilled himself inside you with a guttural groan, hot and deep and possessive.
For a long moment, there was only the sound of your ragged breathing and the crackle of the fire. He remained sheathed inside you, his weight a welcome crush, his lips pressing soft, almost apologetic kisses to the sweat-damp skin of your throat.
Slowly, he rolled to his side, taking you with him, keeping you tucked against the hard wall of his chest. His hand splayed across your stomach, a warm, heavy brand.
The heavy silence of the bedchamber settled around you, broken only by the hiss of the dying fire and the synchronized, ragged rhythm of your breathing. Baelor didn't move to pull away. He kept you tucked securely against his side, his large hand resting flat across your stomach—a silent, physical guard over the life you had made together in the dark, the very treason that had shattered his son.
For a long time, neither of you spoke. The physical storm had passed, leaving behind a profound, terrifying clarity. The ghost of the Prince of Summer had been banished from the mattress by the sheer, consuming force of the Hand of the King, but Valarr still haunted the stone halls beyond the heavy oak door.
You stared into the dying embers, the adrenaline fading, leaving behind a cold, creeping dread. You thought of the years stretching ahead. Decades of forced smiles at the high table. Decades of watching Valarr age into a hollow, bitter shell of a man. Decades of guarding every glance, every touch, terrified that a single slipped word could send you all to the headsman's block.
"Are we going to live like this forever?" you whispered into the dark.
The question hung in the air, fragile and terrified.
Baelor’s hand flexed against your bare skin. He didn't offer a comforting lie. He didn't dress the reality of their damnation in noble words. He shifted his weight, rising up on one elbow so he could look down at your face in the dim, flickering light.
"Yes," Baelor answered, his voice a low, heavy rumble that offered absolutely no quarter. "Until the day I die, and the day I am put in the ground. This is our life."
You closed your eyes, a small, involuntary shudder racking your frame at the sheer, suffocating permanence of it. "It is a life built on a graveyard, Baelor. I look at the door and I wait for it to break open. I look at Valarr and I feel like I am suffocating. How do we survive an eternity of this?"
Baelor’s jaw clenched. He reached out, his calloused fingers brushing a damp strand of hair from your cheek, his touch agonizingly gentle against the brutal reality of his words.
"You survive it by looking at me," Baelor commanded softly, the absolute, unyielding authority of the Hand of the King bleeding into the devotion of the lover. "You do not look at Valarr. You do not look at the King. You look at me. I built this graveyard, and I will be the one to stand watch over it."
He leaned down, pressing his forehead against yours, forcing you to open your eyes and meet his dark, burning gaze. The feral possessiveness was there, but beneath it was a profound anchor. He was offering to carry the entire weight of their sins on his own broad shoulders.
"The lie is the armor," Baelor whispered fiercely, his breath ghosting over your lips. "Valarr will play his part because I bound him with the one thing he cannot sacrifice—your life. He will sit on the Small Council. He will smile for the realm. He will wear the crown of the dutiful husband, and he will never, ever step foot in these chambers again."
"And what happens when Aemon grows?" you breathed, your voice shaking. "What happens when the entire court sees your face looking back at them from the Prince's heir?"
"Then they will see the blood of the dragon, and they will bow," Baelor stated, a dark, terrifying certainty in his tone. He kissed the corner of your mouth, a slow, deliberate claiming. "I control the court. I control the King's armies. I control the narrative of this dynasty. If any man dares to whisper a word against you or the boy, I will cut out his tongue myself."
He pulled you flush against his chest, wrapping his massive arms around you, completely enveloping you in his heat and the heavy scent of woodsmoke.
"Are you afraid?" Baelor murmured into your hair.
"I am terrified," you confessed, the absolute truth bleeding out into the dark. "I am terrified of slipping. I am terrified of the dark."
"Then let me be the dark," Baelor vowed, a heavy, unbreakable oath sworn against the very skin of your neck. "Let me be the monster. You just have to breathe, and play the Princess in the light. When the sun goes down, and the doors are locked, I will remind you exactly whose you are. Every single night, for the rest of our lives."
You clung to the heavy wool of his discarded tunic, burying your face in the solid, immovable wall of his chest. The golden cage of the Red Keep had been definitively, permanently locked from the inside. It was a suffocating, terrifying eternity. But as Baelor’s large hand stroked the long line of your spine, keeping you safe and warm in the ashes of the Targaryen dynasty, you realized the most terrifying truth of all.
As Hand of the King, Baelor Breakspear has built his life on honor — to his crown, his realm, and his son, Valarr Targaryen. He does not make reckless choices. Until he desires what he cannot have. What begins as admiration for his son’s young bride becomes something far more darker and dangerous, unraveling the discipline that once defined him.
warnings: moderate sexual content, age gap, infidelity
word count: 14k
requests are open!
Your father had secured the match of the century: you were to marry Prince Valarr Targaryen, the heir to the Iron Throne. Because Valarr was occupied with a tourney in the Reach, the Crown sent a royal escort to finalize the dowry and bring you to King's Landing. They did not send a mere lord. They sent the Hand of the King.
When Baelor Breakspear strode into your family’s hall, he commanded the room without speaking a word. He did not look like the silver-haired dragon kings of the tapestries; he had the dark, striking features of his Dornish mother. He was a man carved from duty, worn by war, and carrying the heavy burden of ruling in his father's stead. During the feast that evening, you were seated to his right. He was polite, formal, and entirely distant—treating you exactly like the young, naive girl he expected his son’s bride to be.
That was, until the conversation turned to the taxation of the Riverlands. Your father and uncles were fumbling over the crown's new edicts, complaining about the grain tariffs. Without missing a beat, you quietly corrected your uncle’s math, smoothly quoting a century-old trade law that offered a loophole, and suggested a pragmatic compromise that would please both the Crown and the Riverlords. The table went dead silent. Baelor’s goblet stopped halfway to his mouth. He slowly turned his head to look at you, the polite, paternal dismissal vanishing from his dark eyes, instantly replaced by a sharp, piercing intensity. He studied your face for a long, heavy moment before a slow, genuine smile touched his lips.
"It seems, my lady," Baelor murmured, his deep voice cutting through the silence, "that my son is getting a bride with a sharper mind than half of my Small Council."
The journey to King's Landing took three agonizingly slow weeks. For the first two days, you were confined to the suffocating velvet interior of the royal wheelhouse. By the third day, you couldn't stand it. You ordered your maids to ready a horse and rode out to the front of the vanguard. When you pulled your mare up beside Baelor's massive black destrier, his Kingsguard shifted uncomfortably, but Baelor simply raised a hand to wave them off.
"The wheelhouse is too stifling, My Prince," you offered as an excuse, keeping your eyes on the road.
"The kingsroad is dangerous and dusty," Baelor replied, though the corner of his mouth twitched upward. "But the view is decidedly better. You may ride with me, if you can keep the pace."
You kept the pace. From that day on, you rode side-by-side. The polite formalities melted away under the hot afternoon sun, replaced by hours of intense, fascinating conversation. You debated history, military strategy, and the bloody reality of the Blackfyre Rebellion. You matched his dry, pragmatic wit with your own.
Baelor began to actively seek out your company. He would purposefully slow his horse so you could catch up. And then, the intellectual admiration began to curdle into something physical, and deeply dangerous. He caught himself staring at the way the wind whipped strands of hair across your face, and the confident, capable way you held the reins. One afternoon, when your horse stumbled on a loose rock, Baelor’s hand shot out with lightning speed, gripping your forearm to steady you. His calloused fingers burned through the fabric of your riding dress, and when your eyes met his, the air between you suddenly felt thick and heavy. He pulled his hand back quickly, his jaw clenched, riding in absolute silence for the rest of the day. The legendary commander was realizing, with mounting horror, that he was becoming entirely captivated by his son's future wife.
The breaking point finally came when you were only three days' ride from the capital. The kingsroad encampment was pitch black, the hundreds of knights and servants long asleep. Unable to rest due to the suffocating reality of your impending marriage, you slipped out of your pavilion and wandered toward the center of the camp. Sitting on a heavy wooden crate with a whetstone in one hand and a broadsword in the other, was Baelor.
"My lady," his deep voice cut through the quiet crackle of the embers. He did not startle; his dark eyes simply lifted to meet yours. "The hour is late. You should be resting."
"It is difficult to rest when the rest of your life is waiting at the end of this road, My Prince," you replied softly, taking a seat on a log across the fire from him.
He set the whetstone down. He tried to build the wall back up. He tried to be the good father. "It is natural to be afraid. But you have no cause to fear my son. Valarr is a good man. He is fiercely loyal, and he has a gentle heart. He will treat you with the utmost honor, I swear it to you."
The platitudes felt hollow. You had spent three weeks learning the mind of the man in front of you.
"I do not doubt his honor, Baelor," you said, the use of his name without his title slipping out naturally. "I am sure he is a perfectly gallant knight. But is he ready for the vipers?"
Baelor’s brow furrowed slightly. "The vipers?"
"The Blackfyre loyalists who still whisper in the shadows. The lords who smile to your face while counting your coppers," you said, your voice steady, staring directly into the flames. "I am not marrying a knight to run tourneys. I am marrying the future of this dynasty. Tell me he has the steel for that. Tell me he sees the daggers in the dark, because if he does not, I will have to be the one to catch them."
Baelor’s hand stopped entirely. A bitter, chilling wind swept through the clearing, and as you shivered, Baelor stood. He unclasped the heavy, dragon-embroidered cloak from his own broad shoulders, stepping around the fire to drape the heavy fur-lined fabric over you. As he settled it, his calloused, battle-worn fingers brushed accidentally against the bare skin of your collarbone.
Time fractured. He stood over you, his hands hovering just inches from your neck, his breath catching audibly in his throat. You tilted your head up, locking eyes with him in the firelight. The scent of him—rich leather, woodsmoke, and a faint trace of sandalwood—wrapped completely around you.
For one terrifying, earth-shattering second, the mask of the honorable Hand slipped. He did not see his son's young bride; he saw a woman who could stand by his side and hold the weight of the world with him. His jaw clenched so hard a muscle feathered in his cheek. He pulled his hands back as if the fire itself had burned him.
"Get some sleep, my lady," he ordered, his voice suddenly rough, completely stripped of its former warmth. Before you could say a word, he turned on his heel and strode away into the darkness, leaving his sword resting by the fire, and leaving you entirely swallowed up in his cloak, your heart hammering a frantic rhythm against your ribs.
***
King’s Landing was a blinding assault on the senses. After weeks of the quiet, shadowy canopy of the Kingswood, the capital was a chaotic blur of glaring sunlight, suffocating heat, and the overwhelming scent of sea salt and crushed flowers.
As your wheelhouse clattered through the massive bronze gates of the Red Keep, your heart hammered a frantic rhythm. You had not spoken to Baelor alone since that night by the embers. For the remainder of the journey, he had ridden at the front of the vanguard, his jaw set in a hard line, completely unapproachable. He had rebuilt the impenetrable fortress of his honor, locking you firmly outside of it.
When the wheelhouse doors opened in the bustling courtyard, Baelor was not the one waiting to hand you down.
Instead, a young man stepped forward into the sun. He had his father's dark hair only with a white streak, but the face beneath it was entirely unmarred by the weight of the world. Prince Valarr Targaryen was undeniably handsome, his eyes bright and eager. He wore a doublet of rich black velvet trimmed in scarlet, and when he smiled, it was a warm, brilliant thing that could charm the birds from the trees.
"My lady," Valarr said, his voice bright and musical. He offered his hand, helping you down from the carriage. He bowed low and pressed a soft, lingering kiss to the back of your knuckles. "The journey has been long, but the Seven have blessed us with your safe arrival. You are even more beautiful than the painters claimed."
He was perfect. He was a prince from a song. And it was pure agony.
Valarr was a softer, younger mirror of his father. But as he stepped closer to offer you his arm, the illusion shattered. Valarr smelled of sweet lemon water, expensive oils, and Arbor gold. It was a pleasant scent, but it was cloying. It was entirely wrong. Your skin still vividly remembered the heavy, grounding scent of worn leather, woodsmoke, and sandalwood from Baelor's cloak.
You forced a polite, trembling smile, accepting his arm. "Thank you, My Prince."
You glanced over Valarr’s shoulder. Standing on the steps of the keep, flanked by the Kingsguard, was Baelor. He wore the heavy silver pin of the Hand of the King. His posture was rigid, his expression an unreadable mask of stone. When Valarr led you past him, Baelor bowed his head respectfully, but he refused to meet your eyes.
The cold dismissal stung worse than a slap.
The next few days passed in a blur of silk fittings, septon's prayers, and courtly pleasantries. Valarr was attentive, showering you with gifts and eager conversation. He spoke of his favorite horses, the tourneys he wished to ride in, and the grand summer he planned for the two of you. He was a Prince of Summer, completely blind to the winter you knew was coming. You felt a terrible, crushing guilt. You were about to marry a boy who was offering you his whole heart, while yours was already firmly lodged in the chest of the man organizing the wedding feast.
The wedding itself was a staggering display of Targaryen wealth. Inside the Great Sept of Baelor, thousands of candles cast a golden, hazy glow over the nobility of Westeros. When Baelor stepped forward to wrap the maiden's cloak of your house around your shoulders and exchange it for the Targaryen colors, his knuckles brushed your spine.
A violent shudder racked your frame. Baelor’s breath hitched audibly, a sound only you could hear over the septon’s chanting. His dark eyes flicked up to yours for a fraction of a second—a raw, burning look of pure desperation—before he hastily retreated into the shadows of the altar.
The feast that followed was loud, hot, and suffocating. You sat at the high table beside your new husband, your face aching from hours of forced, polite smiles.
"You are quiet, my love," Valarr murmured, leaning close to press a warm, affectionate kiss to your temple. He poured you another cup of sweet wine, his eyes shining with adoration. "Are you unwell? The noise is much, I know."
"I am perfectly well, Valarr. Just overwhelmed by the honor," you lied smoothly.
Valarr beamed, looking down the long expanse of the high table. "Father!" he called out over the din of the musicians.
Baelor, sitting three seats away, slowly turned his head. He looked exhausted. The deep lines around his mouth seemed etched in stone.
"You were right, Father," Valarr said proudly, taking your hand and kissing your palm. "You chose perfectly. I could not have asked the Gods for a better bride."
The silence that fell over Baelor was deafening. He stared at his son's hand wrapped around yours. His jaw clenched so hard a muscle feathered dangerously in his cheek. He slowly raised his heavy golden goblet, his knuckles turning stark white from the force of his grip.
He finally lifted his eyes to yours. The mask was gone. The look he gave you over the rim of his cup was devastating—a man watching his own soul be condemned to the Seven Hells, bound by his own unyielding honor to smile as it burned.
"Long life to you both," Baelor said, his voice entirely hoarse. He downed the wine like it was poison.
Then came the bedding ceremony. The raucous tradition began with the lords of the realm descending upon you, laughing and shouting bawdy jests as they lifted you into the air. Valarr was laughing too, taking the jests in stride as the ladies of the court surrounded him.
The crowd surged, sweeping you toward the heavy oak doors that led to the royal chambers. The noise was deafening, a tidal wave of cheering and music. But as you were carried out of the Great Hall, you twisted your head to look back over the sea of cheering faces one last time.
Baelor remained at the high table. He had not joined the procession. He stood entirely alone, his back turned to the heavy doors, his head bowed low as he gripped the edge of the table. He was a portrait of a broken man, clinging to the shattered pieces of his honor as the court carried you away to his son's bed.
***
Six months had passed. You played the role of the devoted, perfect wife flawlessly. You managed the household of Dragonstone's heir, you smiled sweetly at Valarr’s gentle jests, and you avoided the Hand of the King at all costs.
But the Red Keep was a cage, and even cages have limits.
It was near midnight, and a violent summer storm was battering King's Landing. Heavy rain lashed against the thick glass of the narrow windows, masking the sounds of the sleeping castle. Valarr had been gone for three days, hunting poachers in the Kingswood. In his absence, a dispute over the crown's shipping ledgers had landed on your desk, and it required the Hand's official seal before dawn.
You stood outside the heavy oak door of the Hand's solar for a long time, your pulse thrumming in your ears, before you finally raised your hand and knocked.
"Enter," Baelor's exhausted voice called out.
You pushed the heavy door open. The solar was dim, lit only by the flickering glow of a few weeping candles and the sporadic flash of lightning. Baelor sat behind a massive desk buried in maps, raven scrolls, and ledgers. He had discarded his heavy velvet doublet; he wore only a loose linen shirt, the sleeves rolled up past his elbows, exposing the thick scars on his forearms. He was rubbing his temples, looking older and deeply worn down by the weight of the realm.
"Forgive the intrusion," you said quietly, stepping inside and gently setting the ledger on the edge of his desk.
He did not look up. He kept his eyes firmly fixed on the parchment in front of him, reaching blindly for a quill. "It is no intrusion, my lady," he said, his voice entirely formal, entirely hollow. "How fares my son?"
It was the same question he asked every time you were forced into the same room. A shield he held up to protect himself.
"Valarr is well. He is hunting," you replied, the words tasting like ash in your mouth. You paused, watching the tense line of Baelor's shoulders. You couldn't stop the next words from bleeding out of you. "Before he left, he told me that a lord's true strength lies in his patience. He sounded exactly like you."
Baelor’s hand froze. The heavy silence of the room was suddenly broken by a sharp crack.
He had snapped the wooden quill clean in half between his fingers.
He stood up so abruptly his heavy chair scraped violently against the stone floor. He rounded the desk, his towering frame cutting through the dim candlelight, closing the distance between you until he was standing mere inches away. The scent of him—leather, rain, and that deep, intoxicating woodsmoke—enveloped you instantly, making your head spin.
"Do not," Baelor commanded, his voice a low, dangerous rasp that sent a shiver straight down your spine. "Do not speak to me of my son."
"You ask of him every time we speak," you whispered, tilting your head back to meet his furious, tormented gaze. You refused to back down.
"Because if I do not remind myself that you belong to him, I will forget myself entirely!" Baelor confessed, the words tearing from his throat like a physical wound. The honorable, unbreakable Prince of Dragonstone looked completely defeated. His dark eyes were wild with a desperate, starving kind of grief.
He stepped even closer, his chest brushing against yours. "I have fought wars, my lady. I have faced down rebellions and commanded armies. But I cannot fight this." Baelor raised a shaking hand, hovering just an inch from your cheek, terrified to touch you. "Every time he touches you, every time he calls you his... every time I see you smile at him from across the hall, I am losing my mind."
Tears pricked your eyes, the six months of suffocating pretending finally cracking wide open. "Then why did you let them take me to him?" you whispered, a single tear spilling over your lashes. "Why did you leave me in the dark at the feast, Baelor?"
A ragged, heavy breath shuddered through his massive frame. His famous honor finally shattered.
Baelor reached out, his large, calloused hands framing your face, and he kissed you.
It was nothing like Valarr’s sweet, gentle kisses. It was desperate, bruising, and heavy with months of starved longing and suffocating guilt. It was a man drowning, finally breaking the surface for air. You gasped into his mouth, your hands instantly flying up to grip the lapels of his open shirt, pulling him closer, anchoring yourself to the man you had belonged to since that night on the kingsroad.
Baelor’s arms wrapped tightly around your waist, lifting you flush against him as he backed you into the heavy oak door, pressing you against the wood as the storm raged outside. He kissed you like the world was ending, his thumb tracing the line of your jaw, his heartbeat hammering violently against your chest.
When he finally tore himself away, resting his forehead against yours, you were both breathing heavily in the dark. The silence of the solar pressed in around you, heavy with the terrifying reality of what you had just done. There was no going back from this. The line had been crossed.
"Gods forgive us," Baelor whispered, his voice shaking as he closed his eyes, burying his face into the crook of your neck, refusing to let you go. "Gods forgive me."
***
The peace of the morning was a fragile, lying thing. Outside the window, the first bells of the Sept began to chime, calling the city to prayer—a rhythmic reminder of the divine order Baelor had just dismantled with his own hands.
You were awake before the sun, lying tangled in the heavy silken sheets of the Hand’s private chambers, hidden just behind the solar. The air smelled of rain, extinguished candles, and him. Baelor was awake, too. He lay beside you, his large, scarred hand gently tracing the curve of your bare shoulder. His dark eyes were fixed on the canopy above, his expression a devastating war between the profound peace of finally having you and the crushing, agonizing weight of his guilt.
"I have damned us both," Baelor whispered, his voice a rough rumble in the quiet room. He didn't sound regretful—he sounded entirely resigned to his fate. He pressed a kiss to your temple, pulling you tighter against his chest. "I am the Hand of the King. I am supposed to be the shield that guards the realm, and I could not even guard my own son's house."
You shifted, resting your hand flat against his heart. It was beating steadily, a comforting rhythm beneath your palm. "You did not force me into this room, Baelor. I walked in, and I chose to stay."
He closed his eyes, his jaw tightening. "He is a good boy. He does not deserve this betrayal. But the Gods help me..." Baelor’s hand moved to cup your cheek, his thumb brushing over your lower lip. "...if I had to do it again, I would not change a second of tonight. I am a selfish, broken man when it comes to you."
He rose from the bed with the heavy, deliberate movements of a man preparing for his own execution. He didn't look away from you, his eyes tracing your form with a mournful, starving intensity, as if he were memorizing a dream he knew would be ripped away by the light. When he finally spoke, his voice was the cold, iron rasp of the Hand of the King once more, but the hand he extended to help you rise was trembling.
"You must go," he whispered, his fingers lingering against your wrist. "Before the servants stir. Before the world wakes up and realizes what we have stolen from it."
"And what happens when Valarr returns?" The question hung in the air, sharp and poisonous.
Baelor’s face contorted, a flash of pure agony breaking through his mask. "I will look my son in the eye, and I will lie. I will lead his councils, I will command his armies, and I will carry the rot of this secret until it kills me. Because the only thing more certain than my dishonor is that I cannot let you go. Not now."
Before you could reply, a sound shattered the quiet intimacy of the room.
A hunting horn blew from the outer courtyard. It was sharp, loud, and unmistakable.
The softness vanished from Baelor’s face as the hardened military commander took over. He crossed the room in three long strides, pulling back the heavy velvet curtain just enough to peer down into the bailey.
"Black and scarlet," Baelor said, the blood draining completely from his face. He turned back to you, panic finally breaking through his stoic composure. "It’s Valarr. The storm must have washed out the Kingswood and driven the hunting party back early."
Panic seized your throat. If you were found in the Hand’s bedchamber, the scandal would not just destroy Baelor's honor—it would tear the Targaryen dynasty apart.
"Dress. Quickly," Baelor ordered, already pulling on his dark trousers and a fresh tunic. His hands, which had been so impossibly gentle moments before, were now rigid and shaking slightly as he fastened his belt.
You scrambled out of bed, pulling on your gown with trembling fingers. Baelor helped you lace the back, his knuckles brushing your spine just as they had at the wedding. But this time, there was no longing in the touch, only sheer terror.
"Take the servant's stair behind the tapestry in the solar," Baelor instructed, his voice low and urgent as he guided you toward the hidden door. He paused, his dark eyes searching yours one last time. He grabbed your face, pressing one desperate, hard kiss to your lips. "Go. Act as if you have just woken up. I will hold him in the courtyard."
You slipped into the dark, narrow stairwell just as you heard the heavy oak door of the solar being unlatched.
You ran. You hiked your skirts and practically flew down the stone steps, your heart hammering violently against your ribs. You slipped out from behind a statue in the corridor just outside your shared chambers, threw open your door, and collapsed onto your own untouched bed. You barely had time to mess up the sheets and unpin your hair when the heavy oak door flew open.
"My love!"
Valarr stood in the doorway, soaked to the bone, his dark hair plastered to his forehead, his boots caked in Kingswood mud. Despite the miserable weather, his boyish face was split into a massive, radiant smile.
"Valarr," you gasped, trying to steady your ragged breathing, praying he thought you were simply startled from sleep. "You’re back early."
"The storm was a nightmare, washed out the entire camp," he laughed, crossing the room. He didn't care about his muddy clothes; he sat on the edge of the bed and pulled you into his arms, kissing your cheek enthusiastically. "I missed you terribly. The woods are dull without you to talk to."
You forced a smile, guilt twisting in your stomach like a rusted blade. "I missed you as well."
"I ran into Father in the courtyard," Valarr continued brightly, completely oblivious to the way your breath hitched at the mention of Baelor. "He was already up and working, if you can believe it. The man never rests! He looked terrible, honestly. Pale as a ghost. I told him he needs to take a morning off, perhaps go riding with us."
Valarr kissed your forehead, completely blind to the fact that his wife's skin still faintly smelled of his father's woodsmoke and leather.
"Come," Valarr said, standing up and offering you his hand. "Let us break our fast together. Father said he would join us in the small dining hall once he changed."
The blood roared in your ears. Baelor was coming to breakfast. Twenty minutes later, you sat across from your husband, a plate of fresh bread and honey before you that you couldn't stomach. The doors opened, and Baelor strode into the room. He was dressed flawlessly in the deep black and red of his house, the Hand's pin gleaming on his chest. His face was a mask of impenetrable stone.
"Father! Sit," Valarr called out cheerfully.
Baelor took the seat at the head of the table. He did not look at you.
"I was just telling my wife that we must force you to rest, Father," Valarr said, reaching out to cover your hand affectionately with his own.
Baelor’s dark eyes flicked down to Valarr’s hand resting on top of yours. The muscle in Baelor's jaw feathered violently. He slowly lifted his gaze, meeting your eyes across the table. The look he gave you was agonizing—a man staring at the woman he had just held naked in his arms, now forced to watch his oblivious son claim her all over again in the cold light of day.
"Duty does not rest, Valarr," Baelor said quietly, his voice dangerously tight. "And we all must play our parts."
The breakfast ended, but the true torture had only just begun. The Red Keep transformed from a home into a glass castle, where every shadow hid a pair of eyes and every locked door felt as thin as parchment. Baelor Breakspear had spent his entire life mastering his impulses, forging a reputation as the most disciplined and honorable man in the Seven Kingdoms. But the secret you now shared was a poison in his veins, and the legendary commander was rapidly losing his mind.
Living in the same castle as the man you loved, while sharing a name and a household with his son, pushed Baelor to the absolute brink. By day, he was the immovable Hand of the King. He stood beside the Iron Throne, his face a mask of impenetrable stone, his voice steady as he commanded the realm. But beneath that iron-clad armor beat the blood of the dragon, and the dragon was starving. The strain of watching Valarr casually touch your arm, or kiss your cheek in the courtyards, was physically tearing Baelor apart. You could feel the terrifying, simmering heat of his gaze tracking you across the Great Hall. It wasn't a gentle, protective look; it was a dark, possessive hunger that promised absolute ruin the second you were alone.
He began to use the immense power of his office not to govern, but to steal time. He would invent disputes over taxes in the Crownlands or bandit raids in the Kingswood, sending Valarr away on minor patrols just to clear the Red Keep. And the moment Valarr rode out of the gates, the suffocating tension would snap.
It was during the hour of the wolf when you would finally slip through the hidden servant’s passage, wrapped only in a dark velvet cloak. The heavy iron latch of his private bedchamber would barely click shut before Baelor was there. He moved out of the shadows with terrifying speed, his massive hands gripping your waist and backing you hard against the thick wood of the door. There was no courtly greeting. His mouth would crash down on yours, hot, demanding, and utterly ravenous. The kisses were collisions. He would shed his heavy velvet doublets, pulling you against his broad, scarred chest, murmuring dark, desperate confessions into your skin about how close he had come to drawing his sword when Valarr had touched you at dinner. Every stolen night was a frantic, consuming fire, but the ashes of guilt they left behind in the morning were growing too heavy to bear.
The breaking point did not come in the dark. It came in the blinding, gilded light of the throne room, surrounded by half the lords of Westeros.
King Daeron had called a grand feast to celebrate the changing of the season, and the Great Hall was a sea of silk, gold, and excess. You sat at the high table beside Valarr, who was in rare, exuberant spirits. He had won the morning’s joust, and the flush of victory—coupled with several cups of strong Dornish red—made him uncharacteristically bold. He kept throwing his arm around your waist, pulling you against his side, and pressing wet, lingering kisses to your cheek while the lords of the Reach cheered him on. You forced a breathless laugh, but your eyes involuntarily darted down the length of the table.
Baelor sat rigid in his high-backed chair, his heavy golden chain gleaming in the torchlight. He had not touched his food. He had not spoken to the lords beside him. His dark, terrifying gaze was fixed entirely on Valarr’s hand resting on your waist. He looked like a wolf watching a lamb play carelessly with a piece of meat it fully intended to steal.
"My love," Valarr announced loudly, standing up and pulling you with him as the musicians struck up a slow, sweeping high harp measure. "Dance with me."
"Valarr, I am tired from the heat," you tried to excuse yourself, feeling the physical weight of Baelor's glare burning into your skin.
"Nonsense," Valarr laughed, kissing your temple. But before he could lead you down the steps, King Daeron leaned forward from his seat, raising his cup with a booming laugh.
"The victor of the joust must dance with the Queen," the King declared warmly, waving his hand toward his own wife. "Let the Hand of the King lead our lovely new Princess to the floor to open the measure! Show the realm the unity of House Targaryen."
The entire hall clapped in agreement. The blood completely drained from your face.
Baelor stood up slowly. He looked as though he were walking to the headsman’s block, but his face was an impenetrable mask of stone. He descended the steps of the dais, stopping before you. He bowed perfectly, extending his large, scarred hand.
"My lady," Baelor said, his voice terrifyingly blank.
You placed your trembling hand in his. The moment his fingers closed around yours, a violent jolt of heat shot straight up your arm. He led you onto the floor as the court parted. The music swelled, and Baelor stepped into the frame of the dance. His hand moved to your waist—exactly where Valarr’s had been moments before—but his grip was bruising, possessive, and entirely devoid of courtly gentleness. He pulled you a fraction of an inch too close.
"Smile, my lady," Baelor commanded under his breath, his voice a low, lethal rasp that only you could hear over the music. "Half the realm is watching."
"Baelor, you are holding me too tightly," you whispered frantically, trying to maintain the serene expression of a dutiful princess as you spun together.
"Am I?" he countered, his dark eyes flashing with a feral, barely contained rage. He didn't loosen his grip; he pulled you closer, until the heavy velvet of his doublet brushed the silk of your gown. "Or am I simply taking back what is mine? I have sat at that table for three hours watching him put his hands on you. I have watched him drink wine from your cup. I have watched him kiss your neck while you looked at me."
"You know I am only playing the part," you pleaded, your heart hammering against your ribs. "We have to play the part."
"I am done playing," Baelor swore, the music swirling around you, isolating the two of you in a bubble of suffocating tension. "I am a Targaryen, and I am the Hand of the King. I command armies. I break rebellions. And yet I am forced to sit at a table like a beaten dog and watch a boy touch the only thing in this world I actually want."
"Baelor, lower your voice," you breathed, terrified that Valarr or the King would notice the dark, murderous intensity radiating from him.
"Let them hear," he rasped fiercely, spinning you into the final steps of the measure. His breath ghosted over your ear, sending a shiver straight down your spine. "Let them all hear. I am drafting the orders tonight. He will take a fleet to the Stepstones, he will tour the North, I do not care where he goes. But if he puts his hands on you in front of me one more time, I will forget he is my blood and I will kill him."
The music abruptly stopped. Baelor stopped moving. He stared down at you, his chest heaving, his legendary restraint completely, permanently shattered in front of the entire court. He didn't bow. He didn't offer you his arm to escort you back to your husband. He simply let go of your hand, turned his back on the King, and strode straight out of the Great Hall, leaving a stunned, echoing silence in his wake.
The heavy oak door of the Hand's solar shuddered under the force of Baelor's pacing. The feast was still raging in the Great Hall below, the muffled, thumping bass of the drums vibrating through the thick stone floors of the Red Keep. Baelor had torn off his velvet doublet and thrown his heavy golden chain onto the floor. He stood over his mahogany desk in his linen shirt, his chest heaving, his hands planted flat against the wood as he stared down at a blank piece of parchment. He was a man drowning in his own poison. He dipped a fresh quill into the inkwell and began to write with violent, jagged strokes, drafting the royal decree that would tear his son away from the capital.
A tentative knock echoed through the room.
Baelor’s hand froze. The ink dripped from the tip of his quill, pooling like black blood on the parchment. He knew that knock. It lacked the heavy, authoritative strike of the Kingsguard and the hurried tap of a servant.
"Enter," Baelor commanded, his voice entirely devoid of emotion.
The door pushed open, and Valarr stepped into the dim, candlelit solar. He was still dressed in his feast finery, the black and scarlet silks highlighting his youth. But the bright, exuberant flush of his tournament victory had completely vanished. Valarr looked deeply unsettled, his dark eyes searching his father’s rigid posture.
"Father?" Valarr asked quietly, closing the door behind him. "The King was asking after you. You left before the final course was served. The entire court is whispering."
"Let them whisper," Baelor said coldly, not looking up from the parchment. "I am the Hand of the King. The realm does not pause for lemon cakes and high harp measures. I had urgent matters of state to attend to."
Valarr took a step closer to the desk, his brow furrowed in genuine concern. "It is more than that. You looked... furious, Father. On the dance floor. I saw your face." Valarr hesitated, his voice dropping defensively. "Did my wife say something to offend you? She was trembling when you left her standing there. I know she has a sharp mind, and she does not mince words, but she is my wife, and I will not have her humiliated in front of the Tyrells."
The sheer, agonizing irony of the statement hit Baelor like a physical blow. Valarr was trying to defend your honor from the very man who had spent the last six months stripping it away in the dark.
Baelor slowly lifted his head. The muscle in his jaw was feathering so violently it looked ready to snap. "Your wife," Baelor said, every single syllable tasting like ash, "did nothing to offend me."
"Then what is it?" Valarr pleaded, stepping right up to the edge of the desk. He looked so devastatingly young, so earnest. "I love her, Father. I truly do. When I watched you dance with her tonight, I realized how incredibly lucky I am. She is the jewel of this court, and I want her to be happy here. But you look at us as if we are a disappointment to you."
Baelor could not breathe. He looked at his son—the boy he had raised, the boy he had taught to swing a sword, the boy who shared his blood and his name. Valarr was offering him his whole, trusting heart, completely oblivious to the fact that his father was the monster in the shadows. The guilt was a suffocating, crushing weight, but it was instantly swallowed by the starving, feral possessiveness that roared in Baelor’s chest.
Baelor grabbed the parchment he had just written, his fist crumpling the edges, and shoved it across the mahogany desk toward his son.
"You are leaving King's Landing," Baelor ordered, his voice echoing like thunder in the small room.
Valarr blinked, stunned. He looked down at the parchment, his eyes scanning the wet ink. "The Stepstones? To hunt pirate fleets? Father, this is a two-year campaign. We just married six months ago. The King expects an heir. I cannot leave my wife here alone in the capital for two years!"
"You are a Prince of the Targaryen dynasty, not a lapdog meant to hide in his wife's skirts!" Baelor roared, the sudden, explosive volume of his voice making Valarr flinch backward. Baelor rounded the desk, his massive frame towering over his son, completely driven by a desperate, ugly madness he could no longer control. "You will take the royal fleet, you will root out the corsairs, and you will do your duty to the realm. You sail in three days."
Valarr stared up at his father, his dark eyes wide with shock and a deep, profound hurt. He had idolized Baelor his entire life, and he could not comprehend the sudden, ruthless cruelty radiating from the man standing before him.
"You are punishing me," Valarr whispered, his voice cracking with betrayal. "What have I done to earn this? Tell me my crime, Father."
Baelor stared down at his son's heartbroken face. It was like looking into a mirror that reflected every single one of his own sins. Baelor’s hands, which were balled into fists at his sides, shook with the effort of keeping them anchored there. He wanted to scream the truth. He wanted to tell his son that his crime was putting his hands on the only woman Baelor had ever truly loved. But the legendary commander swallowed the poison instead, letting it burn through his veins.
"You have done nothing," Baelor said, his voice dropping to a deathly, hollow whisper. "That is the tragedy of it. Now get out of my sight."
Valarr stared at him for one long, agonizing second, the tears of betrayal shining in his eyes, before he turned on his heel and fled the solar, slamming the heavy oak door behind him. Left entirely alone in the dim candlelight, Baelor collapsed into his chair, burying his face in his scarred, trembling hands, knowing he had just destroyed his son to keep you.
The heavy oak door of your shared bedchamber opened an hour later, and Valarr looked like a ghost. You were sitting at your vanity, brushing out your hair, still shaking from the terrifying, bruising grip Baelor had held you in on the dance floor. When you saw your husband's reflection in the glass, the brush slipped from your fingers. Valarr did not look like the proud, victorious Prince of Summer who had won the joust that morning. He looked completely shattered. He crossed the room, dropping heavily onto the edge of the mattress, and buried his face in his hands.
When you rushed to his side, asking what had happened, his voice cracked in the quiet room. He told you of the Stepstones. He told you of the royal fleet, the two-year campaign, and the cold, ruthless cruelty in his father’s eyes. Valarr wept, a quiet, devastated sound, confessing that he did not know how he had failed the Hand of the King so profoundly that he was being banished from his own home, and from his new bride. You held him, stroking his dark hair as he cried into your shoulder, your heart breaking for the boy you had married. Beneath your silk gown, your blood ran entirely cold. You knew exactly why Baelor Breakspear had done this. It had nothing to do with pirates, and everything to do with the heavy, possessive threat he had whispered into your ear while the high harps played.
But Valarr’s despair quickly twisted into a frantic, terrifying desperation. He pulled back, his hands gripping your shoulders, his dark eyes wide and haunted.
"The Stepstones are a graveyard," Valarr whispered, his voice trembling with a sudden, panicked urgency. "Men die there of pirate steel and greywater fever. If I do not return... if the sea takes me, I cannot leave you with nothing. I am the heir to the Iron Throne. I must leave a piece of myself behind."
He kissed you, and it was not the confident, joyful kiss of a young prince. It was tender, desperate, and fueled entirely by the terror of his own mortality. He pulled you down onto the mattress, holding you as if you were the only solid thing left in a world that had suddenly turned its back on him.
The next three days were a suffocating, emotional tragedy. Driven by the fear of an early grave and the crushing rejection of his father, Valarr became utterly consumed with leaving you with child. And because you cared for him—because he was kind, and good, and entirely undeserving of the deceit happening in the shadows—you gave him everything he asked for. You held your husband in the dark, returning his kisses, running your hands through his hair, and offering him every ounce of comfort you had.
But the guilt was a living, breathing weight on your chest. You lay in his arms, feeling his skin against yours, knowing that while you cared deeply for the boy holding you, your soul belonged entirely to the man who had caused his pain. You felt like a traitor to them both. You were giving Valarr a comfort born of pity and duty, while Baelor sat locked in the Tower of the Hand, fully aware of what was happening behind your closed doors, tortured by his own decree.
On the final night before the fleet was set to sail, Valarr finally succumbed to exhaustion, resting his head heavily against your chest. You waited until his breathing deepened into a heavy, unbreakable rhythm. Then, pulling your dark velvet cloak tight over your shoulders, you slipped out into the corridors.
You did not use the secret servant's passage this time. You were too furious, entirely wrecked by the emotional toll of the last three days. You walked straight past the Kingsguard stationed at the base of the Tower of the Hand, your face pale and set in stone, climbing the winding stairs until you reached his solar. You threw the door open without knocking.
Baelor was exactly where Valarr had left him three days ago. He was sitting in the dark, the candles burned down to pooling wax, a half-empty goblet of wine in his hand. He looked like a man who had not slept since the feast. He did not flinch when the door slammed shut behind you. He simply raised his dark, heavy eyes, bloodshot and lined with exhaustion, to meet your furious gaze.
"You sent him away," you breathed, your voice trembling with a mixture of absolute horror and disbelief as you marched across the room. "Two years, Baelor. Two years in a war zone. You exiled your own son!"
"I gave my son a command to defend the realm," Baelor replied, his voice a flat, deathly calm that terrified you more than his rage. He took a slow drink from his goblet, refusing to look away from you. "The Stepstones are infested with corsairs. It is a necessary campaign."
"Do not lie to me!" you shouted, slamming your hands down onto the mahogany desk, right over the scattered maps. "Do not dress this up as duty! You broke his heart, and for what? Because he danced with me?"
Baelor’s grip on the silver goblet tightened so violently the metal began to groan. "I warned you on that dance floor. I told you that if I had to watch him put his hands on you one more time, I would lose my mind."
"He has done nothing but put his hands on me for three days!" you screamed, the agonizing reality of the last seventy-two hours finally tearing from your throat. Tears of pure adrenaline and exhaustion spilled over your lashes. "He is terrified of dying because of you! I have spent three days holding a broken boy, trying to comfort a husband who is desperately trying to leave me with an heir because he thinks his father is sending him to his grave! Is this what you wanted, Baelor? Did you want to force me to break my own heart trying to mend the pieces of his?"
The goblet shattered.
The silver crumpled in Baelor's massive fist, the dark red wine spilling over his knuckles like blood. He stood up so violently his heavy wooden chair crashed backward onto the stone floor. He vaulted around the desk, a terrifying, towering mass of pure, unadulterated fury and agony. He closed the distance between you in a heartbeat, his large hands clamping down on your shoulders and backing you hard against the stone wall. The scent of wine, woodsmoke, and a murderous, burning desperation rolled off him.
"Do not," Baelor roared, the sudden, explosive sound shaking the very walls of the solar. He pressed you against the stone, his chest heaving, his dark eyes completely feral. "Do not speak of him touching you. Do not tell me what he did with you in that bed, I have sat in this tower for three days imagining every second of it, and it has nearly killed me!"
"You did this!" you cried out, struggling against his grip, your chest heaving against his. "You did this to him, and you did this to us! He is a good man, Baelor! How could you do something so unspeakably cruel to your own flesh?"
"Because my honor is dead!" Baelor swore, his voice cracking, entirely wrecked by the terrifying magnitude of his own sins. His hands slid from your shoulders to frame your face, his thumbs wiping the tears from your cheeks with a touch that was agonizingly, heartbreakingly gentle compared to his rage. "It died the night I gave you my cloak! It died the night I took you in my bed! You stand there and preach to me of cruelty? Do you know what it is to sit at a table and watch the woman you love smile at another man? Do you know what it took for me to sit in this room for three days, knowing you were giving yourself to him, and not march down there and tear the doors off their hinges?"
You stared up at him, breathless, trembling under the sheer, suffocating weight of his confession. "Baelor—"
"I am a monster," he whispered fiercely in the dark, his voice dropping to a jagged, broken rasp. He leaned down, his forehead resting heavily against yours, his breath shuddering against your lips. He was completely undone, a man who had traded his soul for the woman standing in his arms. "I am a monster, and I am entirely selfish. I looked at my son and I knew that I would gladly send him to the edge of the world if it meant I could have you to myself. I would burn the Iron Throne to slag. I would burn my own name from the history books."
His hands slid into your hair, tilting your head back as his dark eyes burned into yours with a devastating, consuming devotion that eclipsed all reason.
"I will bear the guilt of breaking his heart," Baelor vowed, his thumb stroking your trembling lower lip. "I will let the Gods judge me when I die. But as long as I draw breath, I will not let another man have you. Not even my own blood. Tell me I was wrong to send him away. Tell me to tear up the decree, and I will do it. But if he stays, I swear to you, I will not survive it."
You stared up into the dark, feral eyes of the Hand of the King, the heavy, suffocating silence stretching between you. You could have saved Valarr. You could have spoken the words, demanded he burn the parchment, and Baelor would have done it. He would have broken his own heart to keep yours whole. But as his calloused thumb brushed against your trembling lower lip, the terrifying, undeniable truth settled into your bones like lead. You did not want his son to stay.
You raised your hands, tangling your fingers into his dark hair, and pulled his face down to yours. You kissed him—a desperate, bruising, ruinous kiss that swallowed his breath and sealed his son’s fate. Baelor groaned, a ragged, starving sound, his arms wrapping around you like a vice as he backed you into the stone, completely consuming you in the dark. You had chosen the monster. You had chosen the dragon.
Three days later, the harbor of King's Landing was choked with thick sea mist and the snapping canvas sails of the royal fleet. You stood at the edge of the docks, the damp morning wind whipping your heavy velvet cloak around your legs, playing the part of the devastated wife one final time. Valarr stood before you, clad in dark riding leathers and steel armor, looking every inch the brave Targaryen prince. But his dark eyes still held the bruised, lingering shadow of his father's sudden rejection.
"I will write to you from every port," Valarr promised, his voice thick with emotion as he pulled you into a desperate, crushing embrace. You buried your face in his shoulder, closing your eyes as the guilt gnawed at your insides like a starving animal. He smelled of sea salt and that sweet, cloying lemon water. "Two years will pass quickly, my sweet. I will bring you back a pirate king's crown to prove I am worthy of this family."
"Just bring yourself back safely," you whispered, the lie tasting like ash and poison on your tongue.
Valarr kissed your forehead gently, lingering for a long moment before he finally pulled away and turned toward the imposing figure standing a few paces behind you.
Baelor wore the immaculate black and red of his house, his heavy golden chain of office catching the dull, gray morning light. He looked entirely carved from stone. His broad shoulders were rigid, his hands clasped tightly behind his back, his jaw set in an unreadable line. Valarr approached him slowly, stopping a few feet away and offering a deep, formal bow.
"I will not fail you, Father," Valarr said, his voice dropping slightly, desperately seeking a sliver of the paternal warmth he had known his entire life. "I will secure the Stepstones for the crown. I will make you proud."
Baelor stared down at his son. For a fraction of a second, the impenetrable mask slipped, and you saw the sheer, crushing weight of his sins bearing down on him. Baelor’s hand twitched at his side, his fingers uncurling as if he meant to reach out, to pull his boy into his arms and tear up the royal decree right then and there. But his dark eyes flickered past Valarr, locking directly onto you. The feral, possessive hunger of the dragon won out over the love of the father. Baelor's hand slowly curled back into a fist at his side.
"May the winds favor you, Prince Valarr," Baelor said, his voice a hollow, echoing rasp that carried over the crashing waves. "Do your duty."
Valarr flinched slightly at the freezing formality. He nodded once, a sharp, defeated motion, before turning on his heel and marching up the gangplank of the flagship. You stood beside Baelor as the heavy wooden planks were pulled away. The massive oars hit the water in unison, and the warship began to drift into the gray mist of Blackwater Bay. You watched until the crimson sails were swallowed entirely by the horizon, taking your husband and Baelor's honor with them.
The lords and ladies of the court began to murmur their farewells, dispersing and heading back up the winding cobblestone streets toward the Red Keep. You did not move. Neither did Baelor.
The silence between you was deafening, heavy with the absolute, bleeding cost of your freedom. Slowly, Baelor turned his head to look at you. The air shifted instantly. The agonizing paranoia of the last six months—the stolen glances, the terror of footsteps in the hall, the suffocating need to hide—vanished, replaced by a dark, intoxicating reality. The cage door was finally open, but you had both slaughtered the guard to unlock it.
"He is gone," Baelor murmured, his deep voice vibrating with a terrifying mixture of grief and undeniable triumph.
He took a single step toward you, entirely uncaring of the few dockworkers still milling about the harbor. His massive hand reached out, his calloused knuckles brushing against your cold cheek with a reverent, starving gentleness. The familiar scent of woodsmoke and leather washed over you, instantly making your pulse race.
"We are damned, Baelor," you whispered, a shiver running straight down your spine that had absolutely nothing to do with the cold sea air. You leaned helplessly into his touch, closing your eyes as his thumb stroked your cheekbone.
"I told you," Baelor rasped, stepping closer until his broad chest brushed against yours, his dark eyes burning with an absolute, consuming devotion that eclipsed everything else in the world. "I am already damned. And I no longer care. Come to my chambers tonight. Walk through the front doors of the Hand's tower. I am entirely done hiding you in the shadows."
The heavy oak doors of the Tower of the Hand did not feel like a cage that night. They felt like a kingdom.
For six agonizing months, your path to Baelor had been a labyrinth of terrified paranoia. You had memorized the damp smell of the secret tunnels, the exact stone steps that creaked, and the breathless, suffocating terror of slipping through the shadows like a thief. But tonight, the Red Keep was silent, and the shadows belonged entirely to you.
You wore a gown of deep crimson silk, devoid of the heavy velvet cloak you usually used to hide your face. You walked openly down the main corridor of Maegor’s Holdfast. When you reached the base of the Hand’s tower, the two massive Kingsguard knights stationed at the steps stiffened. For a fraction of a second, your heart hammered a familiar, panicked rhythm against your ribs. But as you approached, they simply bowed their white-cloaked heads and stepped aside, parting their halberds to let the Princess pass. Baelor had given the order. The Master of the Keep had cleared the way.
You ascended the wide, sweeping spiral staircase, your soft slippers making no sound against the stone. When you reached the heavy double doors of his private quarters, you did not scratch at the wood like a beggar. You turned the heavy iron ring and pushed them open.
The chambers were bathed in the warm, golden light of a dozen hearth fires and thick beeswax candles. Baelor was not hunched over his mahogany desk burying his guilt in shipping ledgers and war maps. He was standing by the massive arched window that overlooked the pitch-black expanse of Blackwater Bay, a silver goblet of wine in his hand. He had shed his formal doublets, wearing only dark trousers and a loose linen shirt unlaced at the throat.
When the heavy doors clicked shut behind you, Baelor turned.
The silence between you was absolute, but it was no longer the suffocating silence of a ticking clock. It was vast. It was permanent. Baelor set his silver goblet down on the windowsill. He did not rush across the room to pull you into a desperate, frantic embrace. He didn't have to. The agonizing fear that Valarr’s boots would come echoing down the hallway at any second was gone. For the first time since the embers of the kingsroad, Baelor Breakspear had time.
He walked toward you with a slow, deliberate, predatory grace that made your breath catch in your throat. He stopped a hair's breadth away, his massive frame completely enveloping you in the heavy, intoxicating scent of woodsmoke, old parchment, and leather. He reached past you, his large, scarred hand finding the heavy iron bolt on the door.
Clack. He threw the lock. The sound echoed like a gunshot in the quiet room, a final, definitive severing of the world outside.
"No one is coming," Baelor murmured, his deep voice a velvet rumble that vibrated straight through your chest. His dark eyes, usually so guarded and severe, were completely laid bare, burning with a possessive, worshipful heat. "No one is knocking. No one is taking you from this room until I say so."
"Baelor," you whispered, reaching up to rest your palms flat against the burning heat of his broad chest. Your hands were trembling slightly, overwhelmed by the sheer, staggering reality of being allowed to simply touch him in the light.
"Do not tremble," he rasped, his massive hands coming up to frame your face. His thumbs smoothed over your cheekbones, calloused and impossibly gentle. "The war is over. I waged it against my own blood, and I won. You are mine."
He leaned down and kissed you. It was not the ravenous, teeth-clashing collision of your stolen moments. It was slow, devastatingly thorough, and infinitely deeper. He tasted of rich arbor gold and sheer, intoxicating relief. He kissed you until your knees went weak, until your hands tangled desperately into his thick dark hair to keep yourself anchored. He let out a low, ragged sigh against your mouth, a man who had been suffocating for half a year finally drawing his first full breath.
When he finally pulled back, he did not let you go. Baelor’s hands moved to the laces of your crimson gown. There was no frantic tearing of silk, no panic. With agonizing, meticulous slowness, the greatest commander in Westeros undressed you. He unlaced the bodice, slipping the heavy fabric off your shoulders and letting it pool in a ring of crimson at your feet. He unlaced your chemise, his burning gaze mapping every inch of your skin as if memorizing the territory of his newly conquered kingdom.
He lifted you effortlessly into his arms, carrying you toward the massive, heavy-timbered canopy bed. He laid you back against the dark silken sheets, the heat of the hearth fire dancing across your bare skin. Baelor stripped off his linen shirt, his broad, fiercely scarred chest rising and falling heavily. He followed you down into the mattress, his heavy weight pressing you into the silk.
He didn't just take you; he worshipped you. He kissed the hollow of your throat, the curve of your stomach, the inside of your wrists, marking you with a slow, agonizingly deliberate passion that made you cry out his name in the quiet, echoing chamber. Every touch, every heavy thrust, was a vow. Every breathless sound you made was a prayer he swallowed from your lips. The ghost of Valarr, the guilt of the royal decree, the honor of the Hand—it all burned to ash in the fire of Baelor's bed, leaving nothing behind but the devastating, absolute truth that you belonged to him, and he belonged entirely to you.
As weeks bled into months, the atmosphere of the Red Keep shifted entirely. The suffocating, violent tension that had once radiated from the Hand of the King evaporated. Baelor Breakspear was no longer a caged, starving dragon. The dragon had been fed.
At court, Baelor was an entirely different man. The severe, impenetrable mask of stone remained when dealing with matters of state, but the frantic, murderous jealousy was gone, replaced by a dark, terrifying confidence. Everyone in the Red Keep felt the shift in power, even if they couldn't name the cause. He was commanding, relaxed, and utterly untouchable.
And his silent, public claim on you was absolute.
With Valarr away, the court naturally assumed you would retreat into the background, a lonely, grieving bride waiting for her husband's return from the Stepstones. But Baelor refused to let you fade. He ensured you were seated at his right hand during feasts, occupying the space usually reserved for the absent prince. When you walked the gardens, his Kingsguard shadowed you. When minor lords, smelling an opportunity to curry favor with the lonely future queen, lingered a moment too long in conversation or offered you a dance, Baelor did not seethe in silence. He simply stepped into the conversation, his towering, intimidating presence suffocating the poor lord's ambitions instantly.
"The Princess is fatigued," Baelor would say, his voice a smooth, low warning that brooked absolutely no argument. He would place a heavy, proprietary hand on the small of your back—a touch just formal enough to excuse as paternal guidance to the untrained eye, but burning with a possessive heat that made your breath hitch. "I will escort her to her solar."
No one dared question the Hand of the King protecting his son's wife. No one realized the dragon was simply guarding his own kill.
One afternoon, during a particularly grueling session of the King's court, you sat quietly on a padded bench near the base of the Iron Throne. King Daeron was ill, and Baelor sat upon the towering, bladed seat in his stead, rendering judgments. The hall was packed with petitioners, the air thick with the smell of unwashed bodies and perfumes.
A messenger from the royal fleet had arrived earlier that morning. He knelt before the throne, reading a dispatch aloud to the entire hall. It was from Valarr. The Prince wrote of naval victories, of taking three pirate galleys, and of his undying love for his beautiful wife waiting in King's Landing. The messenger read Valarr's sweet, poetic vows of devotion out loud for every lord and lady to hear.
A collective, sympathetic murmur rippled through the court. Several ladies looked your way, smiling softly at the romantic tragedy of the young, separated lovers. The guilt, which you had managed to bury under the intoxicating haze of Baelor's bed, flared sharply in your chest. You lowered your eyes to your lap, your hands twisting the silk of your skirts.
From atop the Iron Throne, Baelor did not flinch. He did not look angry. He looked entirely, utterly unmoved. He dismissed the messenger with a wave of his hand, granting a reward for the good news. Then, the Hand of the King slowly shifted his dark gaze down through the crowd, past the bowing lords, until his eyes locked directly onto yours.
The look he gave you from the throne was devastating. It was a silent, unrepentant promise. Valarr could send a thousand letters. He could conquer the entire Narrow Sea. But it didn't matter. Baelor’s dark eyes burned into yours, commanding you to look at him, reminding you of the exact, heavy weight of his body pressing you into the sheets just hours before.
A flush of deep, uncontrollable heat rushed to your cheeks. You forced yourself to look away, your heart hammering against your ribs. The court saw the Hand of the King ruling the realm. But you knew the terrifying truth: he was ruling you, and he was doing it right in front of them all.
The illusion of their perfect, stolen kingdom lasted precisely three moons.
Autumn came to King’s Landing, bringing crisp winds off Blackwater Bay that finally broke the suffocating summer heat. But the chill that settled permanently into your bones had nothing to do with the changing of the seasons. It began as a faint, lingering nausea in the mornings, easy enough to blame on the rich food of the royal kitchens or the exhaustion of courtly life. But then came the exhaustion that settled deep into your limbs, and the undeniable, terrifying absence of your moonblood.
You sat on the edge of your bed in the quiet hours of the dawn, your hands pressed flat against your stomach, completely paralyzed by the biological math. Valarr’s frantic, desperate attempts to plant his heir had failed. You knew this with absolute, damning certainty, because you had bled the week after his fleet disappeared over the horizon. The child now taking root in your womb did not belong to the Prince of Dragonstone. It belonged entirely to the Hand of the King.
That night, you did not walk the corridors with the confident, untouchable grace Baelor had cultivated in you. You moved like a ghost, slipping through the heavy oak doors of his chambers with your face pale and your hands trembling violently beneath your velvet cloak.
Baelor was standing by the hearth, stoking the fire with an iron poker. He wore a simple dark tunic, the flickering orange light casting long, familiar shadows over his broad shoulders. When he heard the latch click, he turned, the severe lines of his face instantly softening into the warm, devoted expression he reserved only for you. But the moment his dark eyes swept over your face, the poker slipped from his hand, clattering loudly against the stone hearth.
He crossed the room in an instant, his massive hands reaching out to grip your arms. "What is it? Are you ill? Has someone spoken against you at court?"
"Baelor," you breathed, the name catching on a choked sob. You couldn't look him in the eye. You stared at the heavy silver clasp of his tunic, the walls of his kingdom suddenly feeling exactly like a cage again.
"Look at me," he commanded softly, his calloused fingers coming up to cup your jaw, tilting your face up to meet his fierce, searching gaze. "Whatever it is, I will end it. Tell me."
"Valarr has been gone for three moons," you whispered, your voice shaking so badly the words barely made it past your lips. "And I bled after his ships sailed. I bled, Baelor. I was sure of it."
Baelor’s brow furrowed in confusion for a fraction of a second. The legendary military commander, a man whose mind processed troop movements and taxation laws with ruthless speed, hit a complete wall. He stared down at you, his thumb freezing against your cheekbone as the meaning of your words slowly, agonizingly clicked into place.
"I am late," you confessed, a tear finally spilling over your lashes, tracing a hot path down your cheek. "I am late, and I am sick in the mornings. It is not his."
The silence in the bedchamber was absolute. It was a heavy, ringing silence—the sound of the world completely stopping on its axis.
Baelor did not breathe. He did not blink. The blood drained entirely from his face, leaving him looking carved from pale stone. His dark eyes dropped from yours, staring down at the flat expanse of your stomach hidden beneath your cloak.
If this secret was discovered, it was not just scandal. It was high treason. It was the bastardization of the royal line. The King would have your head on a spike, and Baelor’s honor would be permanently blackened in the annals of history. It was the ultimate, unforgivable betrayal of his son, a sin so massive it would tear the Seven Kingdoms into a bloody civil war.
You expected the honorable Hand of the King to finally break. You expected the guilt to crush him, to see him turn away from you in horror at the catastrophic ruin you had both created.
Instead, Baelor let out a ragged, shuddering breath and dropped to his knees.
The sheer force of his massive frame hitting the stone floor sent a tremor through your legs. He wrapped his thick arms around your hips, burying his face directly against your stomach. He let out a sound—a deep, wrecked, tearing groan that vibrated through your entire body. It wasn't the sound of a man mourning his honor. It was the sound of a starving man realizing he had finally been given everything he had ever wanted, completely regardless of the cost.
"A child," Baelor rasped against the velvet of your gown, his voice thick with a raw, bleeding emotion that made your heart hammer violently against your ribs. His large hands gripped the backs of your thighs, pulling you flush against him as if he could physically shield the life growing inside you from the rest of the world. "Gods forgive me... you are carrying my child."
"We are dead, Baelor," you wept, your fingers tangling desperately into his dark hair. "If the King finds out the timeline—if the maesters count the moons—"
"They will count what I tell them to count," Baelor swore, his voice suddenly shifting from reverent awe to a dark, terrifying lethality. He pulled back, looking up at you from his knees. The feral, possessive fire of the dragon was blazing in his dark eyes, burning away every last shred of the honorable man he used to be. "Do you hear me? You will go to the Grand Maester tomorrow. You will tell him you believe you are with child, and you will tell him you have not bled since the night before the royal fleet sailed. You will weep for the blessing Valarr left you."
You stared down at him, horrified and completely captivated by his utter ruthlessness. "You want me to name it Valarr’s."
"It is a Targaryen," Baelor declared fiercely, standing up to his full, towering height. He framed your face with his large hands, his thumbs wiping the tears from your cheeks. The legendary commander was already weaving the armor around you, rewriting history to protect his blood. "It has the blood of the dragon. But it is mine. It is the physical proof that you belong to me, and I will be damned to the Seven Hells before I let anyone take it from you."
He pulled you into his chest, burying his face in the crook of your neck. His heartbeat was a frantic, heavy war drum against your own.
"We will lie to the realm," Baelor whispered into your skin, a dark, unbreakable vow. "We will lie to the King, and we will lie to my son when he returns. They will call the child the heir to the Iron Throne, and they will bow to it. But you and I will know the truth. I will look at that child every single day for the rest of my life, and I will know it is the piece of my soul I left inside you."
The lie you and Baelor spun became the absolute truth of the realm. The maesters counted the moons exactly as they were told, the court whispered of Valarr’s tragic absence, and the Hand of the King ruled the Seven Kingdoms with a dark, untouchable authority.
And then, nine moons (or was it twelve?) after the royal fleet vanished into the mist of Blackwater Bay, the Red Keep echoed not with the heavy footsteps of guards, but with the sharp, piercing cry of a newborn child.
The birthing chamber in Maegor’s Holdfast was sweltering, the air thick with the smell of sweet herbs, woodsmoke, and sweat. You lay back against the damp silken pillows, your body trembling violently from hours of agonizing labor. Your vision was blurred, your chest heaving as the Grand Maester lifted the squalling, blood-slicked infant into the light of the hearth.
"A boy, Princess," the Grand Maester announced, his frail voice trembling with profound relief. "A strong, healthy son for Prince Valarr. The succession is secure."
A collective sigh of joy rippled through the midwives. But your eyes did not go to the child just yet. They went straight to the heavy oak doors of the chamber.
King Daeron was too frail to attend the birth, leaving the duty of formally witnessing the new royal heir to the Hand of the King. The heavy iron latch lifted, and Baelor Breakspear stepped into the sweltering room. He wore his formal black and scarlet doublets, the heavy golden chain of office gleaming across his broad chest. His face was an absolute, impenetrable fortress of stone. But as his dark eyes cut through the bustling servants and locked onto your exhausted, pale face, the fortress cracked. For a fraction of a second, you saw the sheer, starving terror of a man who had spent the last twelve hours pacing the floors of his tower, listening to your screams and knowing he could not be the one to hold your hand.
The midwives quickly washed the infant, wrapping him in a rich silken swaddling cloth embroidered with the three-headed dragon of House Targaryen. The senior midwife carried the bundle forward. She did not bring the child to you. As custom dictated, she brought the heir’s heir to the Hand of the King.
Baelor stopped at the foot of your bed. He looked down at the bundle. The baby had a shock of thick, dark hair—the unmistakable Dornish blood of Baelor’s mother. It was a trait Valarr shared, making the treason perfectly, flawlessly hidden in plain sight.
Slowly, Baelor extended his massive, battle-scarred arms. The hands that wielded broadswords and commanded thousands of men were visibly trembling as he took the tiny, fragile weight of the boy against his chest.
The entire room seemed to hold its breath. Baelor stared down at the infant’s red, wrinkled face. The baby blinked, opening dark, unfocused eyes, and let out a soft, mewling sound. Baelor’s jaw clenched so hard the muscle feathered dangerously. The legendary commander looked as though a sword had just been driven straight through his ribs. The devastating, profound love of a father warring with the suffocating cage of a grandfather threatened to completely undo him right there in front of the Maester.
"The realm rejoices," Baelor said. His voice was entirely hoarse, a jagged rasp that barely resembled his usual booming command. "Prince Valarr has a trueborn son."
He stepped around the edge of the bed, approaching your side. With a sharp, lethal flick of his dark eyes, he silently commanded the midwives and the Maester to step back. They scrambled toward the hearth, bowing their heads, giving the Hand of the King a moment to present the child to the exhausted mother.
Baelor knelt beside the mattress. The sheer size of him shielded you from the rest of the room. He carefully lowered the bundled infant into your weak, trembling arms, but he did not pull his own hands away. He kept his large palms resting protectively over yours, his head bowed low, pretending to admire the boy.
"He is perfect," Baelor choked out, his voice a raw, bleeding whisper meant only for your ears. A single tear escaped his dark eyes, falling silently to soak into the red silk of the baby's blanket. "He has my eyes."
"He is yours," you whispered back, entirely overcome, a sob catching in your throat as you looked from the beautiful, dark-haired boy up to the devastated, fiercely devoted man kneeling beside you. "He is yours, Baelor."
"I know," Baelor breathed, his forehead resting lightly against the edge of your pillow, inhaling the scent of your damp hair as he stared at his newborn son. "I know. And I will burn the world to ash before I let anyone take him from us."
He stayed there for a long moment, a father silently making a vow to a son he could never publicly claim. When he finally stood, the impenetrable mask of the Hand of the King slammed back into place. He turned to the room, ordered the ravens to be sent to the Stepstones to inform Prince Valarr of his new son, and strode out of the chamber, leaving you alone with the living, breathing proof of your treason.
Two years to the day after the royal fleet vanished into the mist, the horns of the Red Keep sounded a triumphant, earth-shattering blast. The pirate kings of the Stepstones were broken. Prince Valarr was coming home.
You stood on the sweeping stone steps of the courtyard, the heavy velvet of your gown whipping in the crisp ocean breeze. In your arms, you held a strong, striking boy who had just passed his first nameday. He had the dark, Dornish hair and the intense, solemn eyes of the man standing rigidly just three paces behind you. Baelor wore his heavy golden chain, his face an impenetrable mask of iron, but you could feel the agonizing, suffocating tension radiating from his massive frame.
The portcullis raised with a scream of iron. Valarr rode into the courtyard at the head of the vanguard. He was no longer the soft, exuberant Prince of Summer. The sun and sea had weathered him, leaving a pale scar across his cheek and a hardened, weary set to his broad shoulders. But the moment his dark eyes found you on the steps, the battle-worn commander vanished. He practically threw himself from his horse before it had even stopped moving.
"My love!" Valarr’s voice cracked, echoing off the stone walls.
He ran up the steps, his armor clanking heavily, and fell to his knees on the stone before you. He wrapped his arms around your waist, burying his face in your skirts, weeping with a raw, overwhelming relief. You placed a trembling hand on his dark hair, the guilt rising in your throat like bile as the entire court watched the victorious prince break down before his devoted wife.
Valarr pulled back, his tear-streaked face turning upward to look at the toddler resting against your hip. The boy stared down at him with dark, calculating eyes. Valarr reached out with shaking hands, gently taking the child from your arms. He stood up, cradling the boy against his chestplate, completely overcome with awe.
"A son," Valarr whispered, pressing a reverent kiss to the crown of the boy's dark head. He looked at you, his eyes shining with pure, untainted adoration. "You gave me a son. You kept your promise. I survived the Stepstones for him, and for you. He is perfect."
"He is the pride of the realm, Valarr," you replied, your voice perfectly steady, perfectly hollow.
Valarr turned, his face beaming with a pride that physically hurt to look at. He stepped toward the imposing figure of the Hand of the King.
"Father," Valarr said, his voice thick with emotion, offering the child forward. "I did my duty. I secured the Stepstones. And I have brought you the future of our house. Look at him. Does he not have our eyes?"
Baelor Breakspear did not flinch. He did not break. He stepped forward, the towering, terrifying shadow of the dragon falling over his son and his grandson. He reached out, his large, battle-calloused hand gently cupping the back of the boy's head. His thumb brushed over the dark hair—a touch so agonizingly familiar, so fiercely possessive, that it made your breath catch in your throat.
"He has the blood of the dragon," Baelor said, his deep voice a low, echoing rumble that carried across the silent courtyard. "He is exactly what I always knew he would be."
Valarr smiled, pulling the boy back against his chest, completely blind to the terrifying double meaning of his father’s words. He turned to the cheering court, raising his son into the air to accept the roaring adulation of the realm.
As the crowd erupted, Baelor slowly lifted his gaze from the child. His dark, feral eyes locked directly onto yours over his son's shoulder. The look he gave you was absolutely devastating. It was a silent, unrepentant vow. Valarr held the boy, and Valarr wore the victor’s crown, but as Baelor’s gaze burned into your soul, the terrifying, permanent truth settled heavily over the Red Keep. The honorable Prince of Dragonstone had died in the dark, and the monster who took his place had won everything. You belonged to him, the future king belonged to him, and they would all spend the rest of their lives bowing to his sins.
Hiii I’ve never done a request on here so I hope this isn’t like wrong? But I just read your valarr x reader and it was one of the best I read on here in a long long time toes curled heart racing ong so are you maybe planning on doing more of AKOTSK? 🙏🙏🙏🙏
love you love your work wish you well 🙂↕️
what was never ours - Valarr Targaryen
valarr targaryen x reader
hey, thank u so much for the support!! i love writing for akotsk sm so if u have any plot ideas for a fic hit me up in my requests!!
warnings: mentions of rape, aerion being aerion
word count: 3,9k
The hall had been bright, alive with gold and crimson, the air thick with incense and the hum of whispered admiration, and yet the moment you stepped down the aisle, everything else seemed to blur. You were meant to focus on Aerion, on the words of the septa, on the weight of the vows, but your eyes found him instead. Valarr Targaryen, standing among the princes and lords, poised and restrained, the white streak in his otherwise dark hair catching the light, his mismatched eyes fixed on you with an intensity that made your chest tighten.
It was not curiosity that held him there. It was fear. For you.
You remembered how his gaze had lingered as the septa spoke, as your hands were joined with Aerion’s, as the vows were repeated. There was no disapproval, no anger, only a profound sadness that seemed to pierce the glittering air of the hall. He knew, just as surely as you would not yet, the monster hidden behind Aerion’s handsome, charming facade. His lips pressed together slightly, his jaw tense, and you felt a pang of something you could not name, a mixture of longing and guilt, that perhaps you were already leaning toward a life that he knew would hurt you.
You stole glances at him during the feast that followed, your skirts heavy against the polished floor, your hands folded tightly in your lap. Aerion’s hand rested possessively near yours, his smile dazzling, his laughter spilling over the crowd, and yet every time you looked up, Valarr was there, waiting, careful, never intrusive, his gaze offering something no one else could: understanding.
The music shifted, the bright, lively pipes giving way to the sweeping, mournful strings of a high Valyrian waltz. The lords and ladies began to part, clearing the center of the Great Hall as the royal family was expected to take the floor.
You felt Aerion’s fingers tighten around your own, a subtle, bruising pressure hidden beneath the table, just before a shadow fell over your plates.
Valarr stood before the high table. He moved with the quiet, deliberate grace of the Crown Prince’s son, his dark blue doublet embroidered with the three-headed dragon in silver thread. His face was a mask of perfect, courtly politeness, but when his eyes met yours, the raw, aching sorrow was still there, burning just beneath the surface.
He nodded, not to you, but to the man sitting beside you.
"Cousin," Valarr’s voice was smooth, carrying over the hum of the feast. "A beautiful ceremony. The realm rejoices with you today."
Aerion’s smile was razor-sharp, his violet eyes flashing with a dangerous, proprietary gleam. "We thank you, Valarr. It is a day of triumphs."
Valarr’s jaw tightened imperceptibly, but he did not rise to the bait. Instead, he turned his gaze to you, extending a gloved hand. "The musicians play the Dance of the Dragons. I would consider it the highest honor if you would permit me a single dance with your new bride."
The silence that fell over your section of the table was suffocating. Every lesson you had ever learned screamed at you to keep your head bowed, to wait for your husband's command. You were Aerion's now. A vessel for his pride.
Aerion’s thumb stroked the back of your hand—a gesture that looked affectionate to the hall, but felt like a warning brand against your skin. Yet, in front of the King and the court, he could not deny the Heir's Heir without appearing jealous or insecure.
"Of course," Aerion purred, releasing your hand so suddenly your fingers ached. "A single dance. Do guide her gently, cousin. My wife is... delicate."
You rose, your heavy skirts rustling, and placed your trembling fingers into Valarr's palm.
As he led you onto the floor, the suffocating heat of Aerion's proximity faded, replaced by the cool, steadying presence of Valarr. He drew you into the frame of the waltz. You instinctively braced your spine, preparing for the tight, commanding grip you had already been taught to expect from your new husband.
But Valarr’s hand settled on your waist as lightly as a falling leaf. It was not a hold meant to trap you; it was meant to support you.
"I have you," Valarr murmured, his voice so low that only you could hear it over the sweeping strings. He spun you into the rhythm of the other dancers, his eyes finally dropping the courtly mask. "You are safe here."
"I am a married woman now, prince Valarr," you breathed, keeping your eyes fixed on the silver dragon on his chest. You recited the words like a shield to protect yourself from the emotion in his voice. "I am perfectly well."
"Look at me," he pleaded softly.
When you finally lifted your chin, the desperation in his gaze made your heart stutter. The walls of endurance and duty you had spent your whole life building suddenly felt terribly fragile.
"I stood in that sept and watched him take your hand," Valarr whispered, the grief in his voice tearing at your carefully practiced composure. "I watched you say the words, knowing what awaits you when the doors close tonight. It took everything I had not to draw my sword and ruin it all."
"You mustn't speak like this," you whispered back, panic and a forbidden, terrifying warmth flooding your chest. "It is my duty. A wife endures. It is the way of the world."
"It should not be your way," Valarr replied fiercely, his thumb gently brushing the silk at your waist. "You were not made to be broken by him. If you were mine..." He stopped, swallowing hard against the treasonous words. "If you were mine, you would never have to brace yourself for the dark."
The music swelled, and as he swept you across the floor, you realized the most dangerous thing in the Red Keep was not Aerion's cruelty, but Valarr's love. Aerion was teaching you how to survive a monster, but Valarr, with his gentle touch and sorrowful eyes, was making you realize that you deserved to be saved. And that terrified you more than anything else.
The final notes of the waltz lingered in the air, a beautiful, tragic sound that signaled the end of your brief sanctuary. Valarr’s hand slipped from your waist with an agonizing reluctance. He stepped back, bowing low, the measured mask of the Heir's Heir sliding effortlessly back into place to hide the desperate man beneath.
"Thank you for the dance, Princess," Valarr said, his voice perfectly even for the listening court. But as his mismatched eyes met yours one last time, they whispered a silent, devastating apology.
Aerion was waiting at the edge of the floor. He did not offer his hand; he simply stepped into your space, a silent, absolute claim. His fingers wrapped around your upper arm, the grip tight enough to immediately silence any lingering warmth Valarr had left behind. Aerion guided you away from the light, away from the music, and away from the only man who had ever looked at you with true reverence.
The wedding night was quieter than the day had been, but heavier in ways that no one could see. Candles flickered against the gilded walls, casting long, warm shadows that seemed to stretch like fingers across the bed. Aerion stood close, his hand on your waist, warm and insistent, and when he spoke, it was soft but edged with expectation.
“You look tired,” he said, brushing a stray lock of hair from your cheek. “Did the day exhaust you so completely that you cannot even smile?”
“I am well, my prince,” you said evenly, keeping your tone calm. “It has been a long day, that is all.”
He smiled, but it was not the charming smile of the day’s ceremony. It was sharper, a blade hidden in velvet. “Long? Or dull?” His eyes searched yours, and there was amusement there, but also the subtle weight of a challenge.
“I am content, my prince,” you murmured, because that was what you had been taught. That was what was expected. You did not yet know fear, only the practiced calm that had carried you through every expectation in your life.
He leaned closer, so close that the warmth of his chest brushed yours. “Content, hmm?” he murmured. “Do you think contentment will be enough, my bride?”
You swallowed. You had been prepared for obedience, but not for this—this sharp, intimate test that left no room for words beyond the ones you offered. “It will suffice, my prince.” you whispered, your voice measured, though your pulse quickened.
“Good,” he said softly. “Because you belong to me now. Every choice, every thought… I will take what I wish, and you will not refuse the wishes of a dragon.”
When he pressed closer, when his hands slid along your arms and your back, it was not with affection—it was control. The realization hit sharply: this was the man you were meant to live with, to obey, to endure in all ways. He leaned close, and in the darkness of the bedchamber, far from the eyes of the court, his intent was unmistakable.
You did not flinch. You had been taught to endure. You had been taught that pain could be accepted as quietly as pleasure, that survival was a form of grace. And so you allowed him to test those lessons, to assert dominance, to touch you and leave marks where no one else would see, and your mind cataloged each touch, each whisper, each subtle cruelty, without protest, without sound. The lesson was clear, brutal in its simplicity: your life with Aerion would be a life where your choices did not matter.
But how would he know that while you were lying beneath him, caged by his powerful body, your limbs no longer belonging to you, all you saw in front of your eyes was the image of prince Valarr and his sad, mismatched eyes?
***
The next day took place the tournament, created solely for the purpose of celebrating your wedding.
You sat in the royal box, swathed in heavy crimson silks that carefully hid the fresh, dark bruises blooming along your collarbone. Aerion sat beside you, sipping heavily spiced wine, his mood already volatile.
Then, Valarr rode onto the field. He looked every inch a true knight, his armor gleaming in the sun. He spurred his courser forward, stopping directly beneath the royal box. He did not look at the King, nor at his father, Prince Baelor. He raised his lance, pointing its tip gently toward you.
"My princess," Valarr called out, his voice carrying over the din of the crowd. "Might I ask for your favor to carry in the lists today? To bring me luck?"
The silence in the royal box was immediate and suffocating. Beside you, Aerion went perfectly still.
You should have declined. You should have smiled politely and said your favor belonged to your lord husband. But when you looked down at Valarr, you saw the desperate, reckless adoration in his face. He was willing to risk Aerion's wrath just to hold a piece of your favour, just to openly declare that he saw you.
With trembling fingers, you grasped the wreath you have made that morning simply out of habit. The colors of the flowers - red and green - blurred as you threw it over the railing at the Young Prince. Valarr caught it with his lance and there it stayed. He bowed his head, not to the king but only to you, before turning his horse away. You couldn’t quite slow down your breathing as you sat back down next to your husband, trying to ignore the burning gaze he turned on you. He said nothing, which might have been even worse than him threatening you.
That night, the heavy oak doors of your chambers slammed shut with a finality that made your blood run cold.
Aerion did not yell. He never did. He moved with the terrifying, silent grace of a predator. Before you could even unlace your gown, his hands were in your hair, his grip twisting painfully as he forced your head back.
"My sweet wife," Aerion whispered, his breath hot against your ear. "So generous with her favors. So desperate for the attention of my dull, brooding cousin."
"It meant nothing," you managed to whisper, though the words trembled in the heavy air.
"Nothing?" Aerion’s voice was a velvet purr, but his fingers dug so harshly into your scalp that tears pricked the corners of your eyes. He turned you roughly, forcing you to face the tall, silvered glass of the vanity mirror. He stepped close behind you, his chin resting near your shoulder, his violet eyes locking onto your reflection. "You gave the Crown Prince's son a token of your favor in front of the King. You let the realm watch as you chose him over the man who took your maidenhead just hours before."
He reached around you, his free hand trailing down the line of your throat, resting heavily against your collarbone where the bruises from the night before were already beginning to darken.
"Let him have your scraps of flowers," Aerion whispered darkly, his grip on your hair forcing your head back against his chest. "Let him tie his pathetic little hopes to his lance. It changes nothing. You are my pet now. And I will remind you exactly who you belong to."
The punishment that followed was exacted in the most intimate, degrading ways he could devise. He did not strike your face—he knew better than to leave marks where the court could see—but he claimed his marital rights with vicious, punishing intent. He backed you against the heavy mahogany bedpost, his hands leaving stinging red marks on your hips, his teeth sinking mercilessly into the sensitive flesh of your shoulder where your heavy gowns would hide the evidence.
You did not cry out. You closed your eyes, retreating deep into the fortress of your mind, reciting the lessons of your youth. A wife endures. A wife is a vessel. Survival is a quiet grace. But the fortress was no longer impenetrable. As Aerion’s cruel weight pressed you into the mattress, as the darkness of the room pressed in on you, the lessons felt hollow. The image of Valarr’s face in the sunlight—his mismatched eyes shining with desperate, reckless devotion—refused to fade. You had thrown him that wreath not out of habit, but because in a life devoid of warmth, you were starving for the light he offered.
***
A week later, you sought sanctuary in the royal library.
It was a quiet, dusty alcove far from the training yards and the suffocating heat of the royal apartments. You were seated by a tall arched window, a heavy tome resting in your lap. You were perfectly composed, your spine straight, but every slight movement sent a flare of sharp pain radiating from your ribs where Aerion had shoved you against the doorframe the night before.
You heard footsteps, soft and deliberate on the stone floor. You did not need to look up to know who it was.
Valarr appeared from between the tall shelves. He stepped into the alcove, the sunlight catching the silver threads of his doublet. His eyes dropped immediately to the rigid, unnatural way you were holding your left arm against your side.
"You are hurt," Valarr said, his voice low, skipping all courtly pleasantries.
You slowly turned a page of your book, refusing to meet his gaze. "I tripped on the serpentine steps, my Prince. I am perfectly well."
"Do not lie to me." Valarr stepped closer, dropping to one knee beside your chair so you could not hide from him. "I saw the way he gripped you in the courtyard this morning. I saw you flinch."
Your chin tilted up, your pride flaring hot and defensive. "Whatever passes between my lord husband and I is our affair. It is a wife's burden. I am strong enough to bear it."
Valarr stared at you, his heart breaking at the tragic resignation in your eyes. He reached out, gently covering your shaking hands with his own. His touch was so warm, so careful, it made your chest ache.
"Duty?" Valarr murmured, his voice thick with sorrow. "Is that what they taught you? That marriage is a martyrdom you must suffer in silence? There is no nobility in suffering his cruelty, my love. Love and marriage should not be things you simply survive."
Looking into his sad, mismatched eyes, the iron-clad rules of your upbringing suddenly felt like a heavy, suffocating chain.
“I do not know how to be anything else than a wife, Valarr. I only know how to endure."
"Then why did you give me your favour?" Valarr asked gently, refusing to let go of your hands. "Why did you dance with me, if you truly believe you are meant only for his dark room?"
A sob caught in your throat. The walls you had spent a lifetime building finally shattered.
"Because I love you," you wept quietly, the truth raw and agonizing as you leaned into his warm touch. "I love you so much that for a single moment at the tourney, I forgot the rules.”
Valarr’s breath hitched. The carefully constructed walls of honor and duty that had kept him at a painful distance crumbled to dust. He didn't offer empty promises of rescue in that moment; he simply gathered you into his arms. For the first time since you had arrived at the Red Keep, you were held gently.
You clung to his silver-threaded doublet, weeping for the girl you had been and the prisoner you had become. When he finally tilted your chin up, his mismatched eyes were bright with unshed tears. The kiss was inevitable. It tasted of salt and desperation, a quiet rebellion in the dusty, forgotten corner of the library. It was not a claiming, as Aerion's touches were, but a surrender. Both of you yielding to a love that could mean your heads on spikes.
In the shadows of the shelves, hidden from the world, you gave him the only piece of yourself Aerion had never been able to touch - your heart.
***
The moons that followed were a terrifying, breathless tightrope. When your courses stopped and your belly began to swell, Aerion was ecstatic. His vanity blinded him entirely to the truth; he saw the pregnancy as proof of his own virility, his absolute ownership bearing fruit. He paraded you through the court, completely oblivious to the silent, agonizingly tender glances you shared with Valarr across crowded halls. You endured the heavy months of carrying the child, sustained only by the secret knowledge that the life growing inside you belonged to the man you loved, not the monster you married.
Then, the agonizing hours of labor finally broke.
The chamber smelled of linen and herbs, sunlight spilling through the tall windows and catching motes of dust in the air, gilding the quiet aftermath of life and pain. You lay back against the pillows, your body heavy and tender in ways both familiar and new, the baby swaddled carefully in your arms. His hair gleamed pure white with a single streak of brown, catching the light like threads of silk, and when you let your gaze linger, you saw the striking hue of the child’s eyes — the violet so deep, so impossibly alive, that it seemed to hold two different shades at once, shifting as if hiding secrets only the heart could recognize.
The castle beyond the chamber hummed with celebration. Aerion had discovered he had a son — his son — and had vanished into the wine-soaked halls, intoxicated by the sudden thrill of fatherhood and the idea that the blood of the dragon coursed through the tiny, perfect being you held. You did not mourn his absence. In truth, it was a relief. For a few hours, the harsh expectations, the biting control, the cruel mastery of your husband, were suspended, leaving only warmth, sun, and the soft weight of life cradled in your arms.
A gentle knock at the door drew your attention. “May I come in?” Valarr’s voice was low, steady, careful not to break the fragile quiet that had settled around you.
“Of course,” you whispered, your lips curving in a tired smile. “He’s asleep… for now.”
Valarr entered, closing the door softly behind him. His eyes immediately softened as they fell upon you and the baby. He knelt beside the bed, careful, reverent, his hands hovering above his knees as though afraid to touch what was too precious to disturb.
“He’s… remarkable,” Valarr murmured, almost to himself. Then he looked up at you, the weight of months of longing and knowledge shimmering in his mismatched eyes. “And he has your strength already. But…” His gaze shifted to the child and his voice trembled just slightly. “But he carries me too.”
You tightened your hold instinctively, heart hammering. “You… you see him?” you breathed. “He has mismatched eyes. Just like you.”
Valarr nodded, his lips pressed together, a faint warmth spreading across his usually controlled face. “And the hair,” he added softly, eyes tracing the streak of brown in the white, “a reminder of you, yet undeniably… me. My son, my heart, and yet he is yours.”
You let out a shaky laugh, brushing a tendril of your hair back, tiredness and a strange, tender joy mingling. “Aerion went to celebrate,” you murmured, glancing toward the closed door, knowing well the reasoning behind his absence. “He… he is thrilled he has a son. He believes he has the blood of the dragon in him already.”
Valarr’s hand hovered, then settled lightly atop yours, warm and grounding. “And yet, you are here,” he said softly, his voice low enough that only you could hear, “cradling him, keeping him safe, showing him the gentleness he will need. Even now, even with Aerion’s… excitement, it is your heart he feels first.”
The baby stirred slightly, tiny fists curling, and you held him closer. Valarr’s eyes softened further, watching with quiet awe as if memorizing every small detail, every perfect, impossible curve of the child’s features. “He would know you if he could,” you murmured. “Even now, he would know your heart.”
Valarr covered your hands with his, thumb brushing lightly over your knuckles, grounding and gentle. “And I will be here,” he whispered, leaning just slightly closer, “whenever he—or you—needs me. Always. Even if the world cannot see, I will.”
You closed your eyes for a moment, letting the warmth settle over you, over the child, over the quiet sanctuary you had been granted. For once, there was no Aerion, no courtly expectation, no threat — only the small miracle in your arms, and the quiet, yearning devotion of the man who had always seen your soul, reflected now in the child you held.
For the first time in months, you allowed yourself to smile, fragile, trembling, yet real, as the room filled with a soft light and the promise of a love both sweet and impossible, stretching quietly across the walls and into your heart.
