[the-darklings]

𓈒 ˳ ˳ 𝐁𝐄𝐓𝐓𝐄𝐑 𝐁𝐎𝐁𝐁𝐘 𝐌𝐀𝐒𝐓𝐄𝐑𝐋𝐈𝐒𝐓.

Bobby's been a shit boyfriend for months. When you disappear through a wall in the basement of Clark's furniture store, you wake up in the Backrooms, where a better version of Bobby is waiting. One who actually shows up, one who loves you, one who never, ever wants to let you go.

bobby franklin x f!reader x entity!bobby

cw: emotional neglect, psychological horror, backroom entities/lore, implied creature violence, emotional manipulation by non-human entity, alcohol abuse (secondary character), grief/loss, verbal arguments (no physical violence), angst.

𓈒 asks/mini concepts 𓈒 𓈒 𓈒 playlist

‽ part one / concept. ‽ part two. ‽ part three. ⸘ interlude: entity 0 ‽ part four.

extras:

҉　- main story canon compliant piece.

Ꮺ୧ making out w/ better bobby. Ꮺ୧ better you! ҉　 Ꮺ୧ "baby." ҉　 Ꮺ୧ "open your mouth." Ꮺ୧ pillow fort. Ꮺ୧ in the beginning. ҉　 Ꮺ୧ my, what long tongue you have. Ꮺ୧ sunlight. ҉　 Ꮺ୧ slow dancing. ҉　 Ꮺ୧ rib time. Ꮺ୧ conceiving w/ bb. Ꮺ୧ bb watching you w/ bobby. ҉　 Ꮺ୧ intimacy hdcs w/ BB. Ꮺ୧ memories. ҉　 Ꮺ୧ cuteness aggression. Ꮺ୧ twins au. Ꮺ୧ mr. kitty. ҉　

⎋ M.E.G. ENTITY 0 — RESEARCH FILE INDEX:

↹ MEG-ENT-0000-ADDM-██ — Restricted Addendum: Reproductive Capability Assessment (Filed Under Protest)

[lopata-four]

Members of House Florent 🦊💙

[sfaira]

Dragon dreams

[lopata-four]

Viserys Targaryen & Aemma Arryn (pregnant with Rhaenyra) ✨A series of book portraits of all the marriages of the Targaryen family✨

[sem-ra]

A Dragon, Clearly (Maekar Targaryen x Reader)

Masterlist

Summary:  You attempted to embroider a handkerchief for Maekar as a gift for the first nameday he would celebrate as your husband. It did not go exactly as planned.

Word count: 1.9K

Tags: 18+/MINORS DO NOT INTERACT, she/her pronouns, AFAB reader, second-wife reader, unspecified age-gap, fluff, silly, quiet intimacy, English is my second language, proof read once 

Disclaimer: I do not own the characters, setting, or story of A Knight of the Seven Kingdoms. This work is a fanfiction created for enjoyment and non-commercial purposes only.

A/N: It all started as a silly idea for Baelor, but then I could not stop myself from writing about Maekar as well. Thank you as always for all your likes, reblogs, comments and follows! I do appreciate each and every single one of them!!

You wanted to make something nice for Maekar. His first nameday since you got married was approaching fast, and you wanted him to have something special from you. Your husband did not lack gifts, but none of them ever seemed personal.

Wishing to rectify that, you thought embroidering a handkerchief for him would be the perfect solution. It was small, useful and something he might actually like. Although embroidery was never your strongest skill, you spent a fortnight working on it slowly. 

The cream linen itself was lovely, soft beneath your fingers. You had stitched the edges carefully in black thread. But then you made the mistake of attempting to add the Targaryen sigil.

And now, a few days before his nameday, you sat by the window of your chamber, the despair growing in your chest as you stared at the disaster in your lap.

“You were supposed to be ferocious.” You informed the dragon accusingly.

Maekar was not cruel, but he was proud. A severe warrior prince. You could not imagine presenting him with this crooked little monstrosity without dying of shame the moment he looked at it.

But, you wanted him to have something from you. Something made because you thought of him while making it. 

The sound of boots outside your chambers startled you from your thoughts. Your heart lurched and too late, you tried to hide the handkerchief as the door opened.

Maekar stepped inside still dressed from training, silver hair damp at the temples, shirt opened at the neck. There was always something imposing and beautiful about him after sparring. His gaze landed immediately on you, then narrowed at the linen in your lap.

“What the fuck is that?”

“Nothing.” You said, standing and hiding the cloth instinctively around your back.

“It does not look like nothing.” He said, coming closer.

“It is an ugly, unfinished project, my love.” You attempted to dissuade him.

Heat crawled up your neck as you felt his gaze on you like a touch. You could still save yourself, you thought. You could say that it was practice, a gift for one of his children. 

You hesitated too long, and his eyes sharpened immediately.

“It is for you…” You admitted finally, sighing. “I… tried to make something for your nameday.”

His expression shifted into something more attentive and somewhat warmer. You suddenly wished even more desperately that the dragon did not resemble a dying bird.

“It was supposed to be better than this.” You rambled quickly. “I wanted to make something nice, but halfway through I realized it looked ridiculous and I thought perhaps it would offend you! So I decided not to-”

Maekar simply held out his hand.

You blinked, confused. “What?”

“The handkerchief.” He stated simply. “Give it to me.”

“No!” You said, mortification washed over you instantly. 

“Why the fuck not?”

“Because you will look at it.”

“That is generally what one does with things, wife.”

“But it is terrible! Simply dreadful! I cannot give it to you.”

“I have survived worse.” He grunted. “Now give it here.”

You stared at him suspiciously for a long moment before finally surrendering the linen.

Maekar unfolded it carefully. There was silence, absolute, unbearable silence as his eyes moved slowly across the embroidery. Once, twice, then again, his brows furrowing deeper with every passing second. The shape made very little sense to him. It was clearly something, or perhaps several somethings in red thread.

He turned the handkerchief slightly sideways. There was a neck, he was sure of it, curved at such an unnatural angle it looked broken. And there were leaves, or flames, he was not certain. Then, he turned it upside down, which somehow made it worse because now it looked like a damned crab.

Gods, a battlefield map might have been easier to decipher. 

“What in Seven Hells is this?” He finally asked.

Mortification flooded through you like a crashing wave.

“It is supposed to be a dragon…” You mumbled weakly. “I tried to stitch the sigil of your house, my love.”

At that, Maekar looked back down at the embroidery. Then back at you, and slowly back at the embroidery again. Now that he knew what to look for, he recognised the shape. One of the heads was noticeably larger than the others, while the other appeared to be stuck in permanent outrage. The third looked exhausted by the entire situation. If he were truly honest, the three heads of the Targaryen dragon resembled three deeply offended snakes.

Maekar continued staring, and then, to your absolute horror, a sharp snort escaped him.

“Oh, you are cruel.” You gasped in betrayal.

“I did not say anything.” He attempted to regain some composure and control of the situation.

“But you laughed!” You groaned, covering your face with your hands.

Scoffing, he looked back at the dragon once more. “Becuase the heads look personally insulted by their own existence." 

“Or maybe it is because the dragon knows you are mocking it!” You said dramatically, glaring at the offending fabric through your fingers.

Another snort escaped him before he could stop it.

“Maekar!” Your eyes widened in scandalised outrage, before declaring miserably. “It is horrible! I know it! And now you know it too!”

“I did not fucking say anything like that.” Maekar replied, sounding truly exasperated now.

“But you looked at it in silence for nearly a minute! And then you laughed!”

“I did it because it required examination.”

“It is an embroidery, not a strategy for the battlefield.”

That finally broke him and a real laugh escaped him this time. You looked at him in utter betrayal. His gaze dropped back to the dragon, thumb brushing once over the crooked red stitching.

“You made this yourself…” It was not a question.

You nodded reluctantly, warmth settling in your chest at his somewhat soft tone.

“For me.” Maekar looked at you then and something unreadable lingered in his expression. It was not softness, but it was dangerously close.

“No one has ever made me a dragon before.” He said quietly.

Your throat tightened, the words landing heavier than anything else in the room.

“It is still a bad one.” You whispered. “It is not what you deserve, my love.”

“But it is mine.” He said firmly. “Just as you are mine, wife.”

Before you could respond, he stepped closer, finger warm against your jaw as he tilted your chin upward. You barely had time to breathe before he kissed you.

Maekar kissed like he did everything else, deliberate and thorough. His warmth surrounded you completely, as he drew you closer, hand tightened gently against your jaw and hips firm against yours. When a low moan escaped you, something in him shifted. He wrapped his other arm around your waist, pulling you flush against him, the kiss deepening at once.

It was possessive in that devastating way that made your heart stumble painfully in your chest.

His thumb brushed slowly along your jaw and neck, as though soothing you even while he kissed you harder. And the contrast nearly undid you entirely. You could feel the restraint in him, the effort to remain under control. Yet the unmistakable hunger and affection lived underneath, wrapped tightly beneath all that iron self-control.

When he finally pulled back, he pressed his forehead against yours. Your annoyance dissolved completely, leaving only warmth and the dizzy awareness of how closely he was still holding you.

“You did not need to hesitate to give me your gift…” He said quietly.

You sighed. “I thought you might be offended...”

“I am not easily offended.”

Maekar’s thumb brushed once against your cheek before he released you entirely. He looked down at the handkerchief again. Then, with a finality that brooked no argument, he folded it carefully and gave it back to you.

“You will finish it.” He said simply.

“Even if it looks like that?”

“Yes.” He grunted. “I intend to keep it.”

And this time, when he looked at you again, there was something quieter in his gaze. Something that suggested he meant more than just the dragon.

⚬ ⚬ ○ ⚬ ⚬

You hoped, perhaps foolishly, that Maekar would keep the handkerchief privately. Maybe tucked away in a chest somewhere, or hidden among his things. Instead, he carried it with him. Not openly or proudly, afterall Maekar was not the sort of man who displayed sentiment for the world to admire. But it was constant enough that you began noticing flashes of cream linen and crooked red stitching everywhere. 

And it was not just you. 

No one dared question him directly at first, because your husband’s presence discouraged any foolishness naturally. Unfortunately, that did not apply to every knight. When one squinted openly at the fabric and remarked if it actually was a dragon, Maekar looked sharply at him.

“Concern yourself with your swordsmanship. Leave dragons to House Targaryen.” He said threateningly.

You wanted simultaneously to kiss him and disappear into the floor.

When a courtier, one of those men who thrived on false smiles and subtle mockery, remarked lightly that it was an “unusual interpretation” of the royal sigil, humiliation rose instantly in your throat. But Maekar looked at him, with a cold anger that suddenly made the air feel thinner.

“Careful.” The single word cut through like a blade. The courtier paled immediately.

“It was made by my wife.” Maekar said evenly. “And I would advise you to be careful how amusing you find that.”

The courtier attempted a weak smile. “I intended no insult, your Grace.”

“And yet you continue insulting me with your presence. Fuck off!” He growled.

You stared at him, and for a brief moment, his hand grasped yours firmly. The warmth of it lingered long after.

Then came Aegon, who unlike others, did not mock your little dragon. When he wandered one evening into Maekar’s solar, he noticed the handkerchief beside the candlelight, and picked it up curiously.

“Father, why does it look like that?” He asked bluntly. 

You nearly choked on your own spit, from where you sat nearby with your book.

“That is because it is a dragon.” Maekar deadpanned.

“It looks like one head wants to bite the other ones.”

“They can be angry creatures.”

The boy considered this carefully, before nodding solemnly and accepting this explanation completely with the seriousness it deserved. 

“You carry it everywhere.” 

Maekar’s expression did not change, but something gentler settled beneath the severity.

“Yes.”

“Why?”

His answer came without hesitation. “Because it was made for me.”

That was all. It was nothing poetic or elaborate, but the words settled warm and heavy in your chest. It became impossible not to understand what he was truly defending.

It was never the dragon, because even he understood that the creature looked mildly cursed.

It was you.

And the fact you wanted to make something for him badly enough to sit for nights stabbing your fingers raw with needles.

Maekar was not a gentle man, he was fire and iron sharpened by duty. But everyday, he carried your ridiculous little dragon as though it were something precious. And he never once hid it away. And he defended it every single time. 

That realisation changed everything. The embarrassment remained and you suspected it always would whenever someone stared too hard at the linen. But beneath all that, something softer began blooming. Pure love and affection for your husband, especially when you caught him later at night absentmindedly smoothing his thumb once across the red stitching before joining you in bed.

And when Maekar looked at you afterwards, quietly and impossibly warm, you thought every crooked stitch was worth it after all.

Join the taglist

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[sem-ra]

Threads and Dragons (Baelor Targaryen x Reader)

Summary:  You attempted to embroider a handkerchief for Baelor as a gift for the first nameday he would celebrate as your husband. It did not go exactly as planned.

Word count: 1.5K

Tags: 18+/MINORS DO NOT INTERACT, she/her pronouns, AFAB reader, second-wife reader, unspecified age-gap, fluff, silly, quiet intimacy, English is my second language, proof read once 

Disclaimer: I do not own the characters, setting, or story of A Knight of the Seven Kingdoms. This work is a fanfiction created for enjoyment and non-commercial purposes only.

A/N: Just a silly idea I had a while ago and I just had to write it. Hope you enjoy it :) Maekar’s version should be up by Friday, because I could not resist not writing this premise for him either. 

Thank you as always for all your likes, reblogs, comments and follows! I do appreciate each and every single one of them!!

You presented the handkerchief to Baelor in his solar five days before his nameday. Although embroidery was never your best skill, you spent a fortnight working on it slowly. And you were quite proud of it. It was his first nameday since you got married and you wanted him to have something special from you. 

You watched him, as he lifted the pale cream linen carefully between his fingers. He lovingly gazed at you before looking back at it. Baelor felt immensely grateful at the gift, at the thought that you had made something for him. 

Then, he noticed the embroidery at the corner. It appeared to be… something. 

The stitching was delicate, uneven in places certainly, but it was made with obvious patience and care. Scarlet thread curled into a shape he could not entirely comprehend. There was a long neck, perhaps. There were wings, maybe, or leaves, he was not certain. 

Baelor tilted it sideways, but that did not help. He turned it upside down. Now it looked alarmingly like a crab.

Heat covered your cheeks as you watched Baelor frown slightly, trying to discern the shape. 

“Ñuha jorrāelagon…” He said carefully, looking back at you. “What is it?”

To say you were mortified was the understatement of the year. 

“It is a dragon.” You said. “I… stitched the sigil of your house, my love.”

A very dangerous silence enveloped you, and Baelor fought for his life within it.

“A dragon…?” He repeated.

“Yes.” 

He looked back down at the embroidered creature. Now that he searched for it, he recognised the shape. One wing was noticeably larger than the other and the tail appeared to vanish midway through existence.

And the three heads of the Targaryen dragon looked like three mildly surprised snakes.

Baelor pressed his lips together so firmly they almost hurt. You narrowed your eyes immediately.

“You are laughing at me.”

“I am not, dearest.”

“You are!”

“I would never laugh at you.” He said gently, stepping closer to you. “Or your work.”

You sighed, looking anywhere but at him right now. 

While what he said was technically true, the matters became worse the longer he stared at the dragon again. Because now he could see you had attempted to add flames around it. Unfortunately, those flames were anything but that as they resembled leaves more.

A sound escaped him before he could stop it, something halfway between a cough and a strangled laugh. 

You felt deeply offended, hiding your face behind your hands. 

“You said you would not laugh at me!” Your voice was muffled, but no less offended. 

“I am deeply sorry, ñuha prūmia.” He said, looking at you with care in his eyes.

“I know embroidery is not my strongest suit, but is it truly that bad?” You asked, lowering your hands, fingers twisting together. 

Baelor lowered the handkerchief immediately, horrified by the injury in your voice. Cupping your cheek with his free hand, he pressed a kiss to your forehead.

“No, dearest.” He said immediately, pulling you into a hug. “It is not done badly.”

“It does not even look like a dragon.” You said against his chest. “I know it, and you know it.”

“It does look like a dragon.” He lied.

“I know it looks like an ill horse.” You said, ignoring him.

Baelor failed once more, as a chuckle left his lips. You stared up at him, your beloved husband, in utter betrayal.

“I spent a fortnight on that.” You whispered miserably.

And that sobered him at once. He looked at you, still smiling despite himself.

“You spent two weeks making something for me.” His voice was warm.

Your expression softened only slightly. “It was supposed to be an elegant present.”

“It is.”

“It is deformed.”

“It is memorable.”

“That does not make it better!” You almost whined.

Baelor pressed a gentle kiss to your cheek, your noses brushing.

“I truly like it.” He said quietly.

“You jest!”

“I do not.”

His grip on the handkerchief tightened. The shape of the three-headed dragon truly was unfortunate, but he recognised that the stitches were careful, every crooked line was made by your own hands.

Something warm settled deeply in his chest.

“No one has embroidered a dragon for me before.” He admitted.

His admission caught you off guard. You pulled back a little, looking into his eyes, searching for another lie. Then, you watched as Baelor folded the handkerchief with surprising care and slipped it into the sleeve of his doublet.

“You do not have to pretend to like it, my love.” You murmured.

“I am not pretending.” He said truthfully. “I intend to keep it with me, so that I may admire it daily.”

“Baelor…” You whispered, mortified still. “I know it is a poor excuse for a dragon.” 

He smiled, softly and fondly, entirely unbothered by crooked stitches and uneven wings.

“Yet it is my dragon.”

Before you could protest further, he leaned closer and pressed a kiss to your lips.

It was gentle at first, almost teasing in its tenderness, the sort of kiss that lingered more than it demanded. His hand came to rest against the back of your neck, thumb brushing lightly as though soothing away the last of your embarrassment. But when you sighed against his mouth something in him softened further.

And he kissed you deeper this time, tilting your head. His other hand pressed against your back, pulling you closer, as your arms snaked around his shoulders.

There was devotion in the way he held you, in the warmth of his mouth moving against yours like a prayer spoken only for the two of you. He kissed as though he wished to reassure you of every unspoken thing at once. That he cherished your little dragon, and that he cherished you most of all.

When he finally drew back, his forehead rested briefly against yours.

You glanced suspiciously toward the linen still tucked within his sleeve. “You truly are keeping it with you?”

A quiet amusement flickered in his mismatched eyes. “Until the Stranger himself pries it from my hands.”

That finally broke you and your laughter filled the room. It was so bright, so unrestrained, and so lovely that Baelor felt his chest ache with it.

And he thought that he would gladly wear a hundred badly embroidered dragons if it meant hearing that sound again.

⚬ ⚬ ○ ⚬ ⚬

By the end of the week, the handkerchief became a permanent fixture upon him. It appeared tucked into his sleeves during council meetings, folded beside his goblet at meals, and once, to the great confusion of several squires, tied around his wrist during training in the yard.

Several Kingsguards spent an alarming amount of time trying to determine what the shape was. Baelor, to his credit, defended the dragon’s honour every single time with complete sincerity. 

“It is unmistakably a dragon.” He would say with such calm conviction that few dared argue further.

At first, you could hardly bear it, fresh waves of embarrassment crawling up your neck whenever he did.

Especially because he never did it mockingly. It would have been easier, if he laughed and tucked the linen away out of politeness, you could have survived it. But your beloved husband treated the ridiculous little creature as though it were genuinely precious, and somehow that was far worse.

When Ser Roland squinted at the embroidery and cautiously asked whether the beast was missing a leg, you nearly died where you were beside Baelor, who calmly answered.

“No. It is embroidered in the traditional Valyrian style.”

You stared at him in horror. But Baelor did not even smile, defending your dragon with the grave dignity of a prince discussing matters of state.

When a younger member of the Kingsguard muttered that it looked more bird than beast, Baelor replied: “Many dragons possess elegant necks.”

At supper, whenever someone’s gaze lingered too long upon the handkerchief, you found yourself shrinking instinctively, waiting for amusement or ridicule. But Baelor never allowed the mockery to linger.

It slowly became impossible not to notice what he was truly defending.

It was not the dragon.

It was you.

And that realisation changed everything. The embarrassment remained, of course you could not help it, but underneath it something warmer bloomed.

Pure love and affection, because Baelor looked genuinely proud whenever he carried it. Because he kept finding reasons to use it in front of other people. Because he never once hid it away to spare himself teasing.

Because he would glance toward you first with the softest and most loving expression imaginable, as though silently saying…

Look what my wonderful, beloved wife made for me.

After a while, your mortification slowly dissolved into fondness, then into something dangerously close to confidence.

So eventually, when Maekar dryly remarked that the dragon resembled a furious goat, you lifted your chin and answered before Baelor could.

“And yet my husband treasures it more than half the jewels in the Red Keep.”

The adoring look and the smile Baelor gave you afterward made every crooked stitch entirely worth it.

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[captainfern]

I know this isn’t your usual style, but you have such an amazing grasp on these characters…

I have in my mind this situation where in a Modern!AU (so bastards don’t really matter as much) you break things off with them and find out you’re pregnant, keep the baby, and then run into them after the baby is about 6mo or so, how do you think the AKOTSK chars (Aerion, Baelor, Maekar, Dunk, maybe Lyonel or Daeron) would react to spotting their ex they’re still not over with a baby, doing the math (or in Aerions case, spotting the white hair and KNOWING bc i know that kid would pop out a carbon copy of his dad and piss you off) and realize you didn’t just leave you never told them you were pregnant?

Sorry if this is complex or doesn’t make sense 😭😭

i sure do have a grasp on them (i'm clutching their necks)

Baby?

Baelor Targaryen, Maekar Targaryen, Aerion Targaryen, Ser Duncan, Daeron Targaryen x fem!reader

✿ months later, you turn up in their lives again. and, of all things you could bring back, you bring back a baby. their baby. ✿ pretty sfw ✿ wc: 8.3k ✿ cw: modern!au, fem!reader + no y/n, a lot more angsty than i intended whoops 😭, comfort, fluff, mentions of smut, pet names, drug + alcohol use (aerion, daeron), pregnancy + labour mentions, green flags all around, strong language, each man is infatuated with you

a/n: a ‘pram’ is a pushchair or stroller usually used for younger babies. also, i’ve kept the descriptions of baby as minimal as possible. two different coloured eyes is mentioned for baelor’s baby; a blond streak of hair is mentioned for aerion’s baby, but the rest of the hair colour, texture, etc is not defined. i hope you enjoy <3

Baelor

The break off wasn’t mutual, but Baelor let you go anyway.

You were younger than him, and his first real relationship after Jena, and although he thought things were going great, you felt otherwise. A trapped canary in a gilded cage, making him feel better, relieving his own stresses. And as much as he doted on you, spoiled you, took you apart on his fingers and his tongue and his cock over and over again, you never really felt you were able to spread your wings.

So he let you go.

And that was over a year ago.

He busied himself with his work, throwing himself head-first into company matters that he used to find tedious. Late nights were spent holed up in his office, head hunched over a mountain of paperwork, or eyes burning before his too-bright computer screen. He tried to go home as late as possible knowing you wouldn’t be there to greet him anymore.

One night, he wraps up at quarter to eleven at night. The city is still humming with life, but the sky is dark and shadows creep along the pavement as Baelor steps out into the cool air. He inhales a deep breath, smelling rain and cigarette smoke blown in from downwind. He walks out onto the pavement, preparing to call his driver, when he spots you.

A pretty dove fluttering out of the shadows. You have a thick jacket obscuring most of your figure, but Baelor would recognise you anywhere. His heart stops in his chest as you walk towards him, seemingly unaware of his presence as your gloved hands fidget with the canopy of—

A pram.

He freezes to the spot, his breath curling around him in a cloud of white. You wheel a black pram in front of you, your eyes darting from the bassinet to the street around you. That’s when you spot him, and Baelor sees the shock pass over your face as you realise who it was standing beneath the streetlight ahead.

Baelor’s legs move before his brain has any time to catch up. You stop, and he watches steam coil from your breath as you sigh.

He calls your name, followed by a sincere, “Hello, pretty dove.”

You bristle a little, but not out of fear. It’s something like uncertainty as Baelor stands before you, his mismatched eyes soft, a light dip in his brow as he looks you up and down, gaze then lingering on the pram.

“Hi Baelor,” you greet quietly, watching the way his eyes rake down the pram’s facade. He looks up at you when you speak, his lips parted in surprised speechlessness. You chew your bottom lip thoughtfully, heart hammering in your chest. “This is… uh…”

“I’ve missed you,” he says gently, catching you off guard. You can’t help but shy away a little, hands gripping the handlebar as if to steady yourself. He continues. “You look good.”

You swallow, the tip of your nose cold. “Thanks. So… so do you.”

His eyes find the pram again, and then they find you. A silent question that you can’t avoid. You sigh, steeling yourself as you carefully pull back the canopy and reveal a sleeping baby, bundled heavily under thick layers of soft wool, tucked neatly beneath a warm blanket. Baelor’s eyes widen, leaning over the pram and tracing the lines of the sleeping baby’s face, finding it to be a complete mirror of yours.

“She’s six months old,” you tell him, his eyes flicking to you momentarily before returning to the baby. “She’s, uh, meant to be in the pushchair by now, but she couldn’t sleep. I used to walk her all the time when she was smaller, and it… well, it seems to have done the trick.”

Six months old.

Those words clatter around his skull almost painfully as he steps away from the pram and allows you to pull the canopy back in place. You look up at him, wanting to grimace at the pure confusion in his eyes.

“Baelor…” You say softly, and you let him reach for you. He places a warm hand over yours, skin searing even through the material of your gloves. His thumb strokes your knuckles as you rattle out a shallow breath. “I didn’t… It wasn’t meant to happen like this.”

“She’s mine?” He asks you, and you physically see the way his eyes light up when you give him a feeble nod. You catch them growing glassy too, but he blinks rapidly as he peers back down at the pram, his other hand smoothing over the vinyl of the canopy. “You… you didn’t tell me you were—”

“I didn’t find out until I was like three months along,” you confess, watching his hand brushing along the top of the pram. “We had just broken up, and I was upset, so I didn’t think—”

“You don’t owe me any explanation,” Baelor interrupts you, eyes finding yours. “I’m sorry I wasn’t there.”

You laugh bitterly. “I wouldn’t have wanted you there.”

It came out harsher than intended, and you frown at yourself. Shaking your head, you corrected: “I wouldn’t have wanted you to worry about me, that’s all.”

“I worry about you everyday,” he says honestly, hand still atop yours. “Everyday since I last saw you. You’re all I worry about, pretty dove. You’re all I think about.”

You suck your bottom lip into your mouth just as you hear your baby begin to stir. You curse softly, and Baelor takes a step back as you attempt to push the pram on. You give him a sympathetic look.

“I better get her home. It’s getting colder.”

Baelor looks around. “You shouldn’t be walking around the city at this time. It’s not safe for you or for her.”

He says her so gently it almost makes you cry. You sniffle, blaming it on your cold nose, then shrug. Baelor approaches you and, with a silent question in his eyes, he slides his arm around your waist. You sink into it immediately, his familiar warmth heating you from the inside-out as the two of you fall into sync.

“Let me walk you home,” he says, and you nod.

He smiles, his hand a firm protection on the curve of your hip. Your walk home is filled with hushed conversation, and you find yourself giggling like a school girl. He’s saying all the right things; all the right things you remember made you fall in love with him to begin with.

When you arrive at your flat, he lets you go.

You offer him a sincere smile. “Thank you, Baelor.”

Baelor looks up at your flat. It seems a lot smaller than he remembers. Looks a lot colder, a lot emptier than the nights he spent here when the two of you couldn’t make it to his flat on the posher side of town.

“Let me help you,” Baelor says suddenly, and you look at him, puzzled. He gestures to the baby, now silent in the warmth of her pram. “Let me do what I was always supposed to do.”

You sigh. “Baelor…”

“I love you,” he whispers, and you can’t help the pained whimper that leaves your throat at the confession. He closes the distance and takes your hand in his. “I still do. I never stopped, pretty dove, I want you to know that. And I want you to know that I want to help you. I want to try us again.”

You withdraw your hand, and he swears his heart sinks into his stomach.

“Baelor, I don’t know…”

“We can go as slow as you need,” he tells you, his voice as smooth and comforting as you remember. A voice you couldn’t forget even if you tried. He takes another step forward. “I want to be there for you, and I want to be there for her.”

Your eyes dart across his, finding the watery sincerity that wells there in the low porch light. You sigh out, eyes flicking down to where your daughter—his daughter—sleeps soundly in the pram’s bassinet. You think of the overwhelming joy you felt when she arrived, bloody and screaming. You recall the time she opened her eyes, and you recall the moment your heart leapt into your throat when you realised they were two different colours.

“Slowly,” you mutter, eyes finding his again. “We can try again. Slowly.”

“I can do slowly,” he says with a nod, reaching up to place a hand on your warm cheek. You close your eyes and find yourself sinking into it. He wants to kiss you, but he doesn’t. Slowly echoes around his mind. He thumbs your cheekbone instead. “I’ve missed you so much, pretty dove.”

Then, he looks down at the pram.

“Baby dove,” he whispers, smiling to himself.

He has a baby dove.

Maekar

Maekar hasn’t seen you in well over a year, yet he keeps a framed photo of you on his office desk. It faces him, tucked below his computer monitor, and when his eyes stray from his work, they always find you.

It’s a moment he replays in his head when his bed feels too empty and his home feels too quiet. You’re not looking at the camera, you’re looking behind the camera, eyes gazing at Maekar as you hold a flower towards him. It’s candid, and it fills his heart with an unimaginably warm light that keeps him from spiralling.

Spiralling into the man he was before you.

Pessimistic, withheld. Grumpy, as you always used to remark, dragging one of your nails along the dimpled scars on his face, or passing the pad of your thumb across the frown lines on his forehead.

So he mourned the breakup like a widow.

You were moving away. Family. Work. Something that Maekar didn’t really care to listen to, because all he heard was the fact you couldn’t stay. You couldn’t stay with him. He said he’d come with you, but you couldn’t let him do that. He had children that needed him, a company that needed him, and this city had always been his home, and you weren’t willing to take him away from all of that.

So the last night you spent together had you coming three times on his mouth and another three on his cock, before he held you while you cried and then morning came.

And you left.

The months were long. His children comforted him the way children could, but he was a hollow man. He didn’t remove the photos of you from his bedside table, nor did he even take your toothbrush out of the cup in his bathroom.

A few months ago, he found a travel vial of your perfume under his bed. He keeps it in his pocket and rolls it between his fingers when he’s stressed.

So the next time he saw you, months and months and months since you had left him, he could have sworn he was dreaming.

He’s taking a walk on his lunch break, having successfully ignored his pestering assistant and finding solace in a leafy green park a block away from his building. He walks slowly down the pavement, eyes skimming across the shrubs of flowers as he nurses his coffee (fourth of the day, if he’s remembering correctly—and it was only midday). He rounds a corner, and there you are.

Perching on a nearby bench, a pretty smile split across your face. That pretty smile he still so often dreams of. When he moves closer, his feet carrying him instinctively, the shrubs surrounding the bench seem to melt away and reveal a fat, babbling baby bouncing in your lap.

As he nears you, he can hear you cooing at the baby. And the baby is giggling, chubby fingers reaching for your face, clenching weakly at the tip of your nose, at the curve of your jaw, sliding over your lips.

A lump forms in his throat. You looked happy.

He thinks about turning away. He thinks about disappearing before you can see him. He thinks about leaving you happy and unaware in your life without him.

But Maekar is a selfish man, and his feet don’t stop.

Within a few yards of you, he says your name. It was heaven to say it knowing it was going to land on the ears of the person he needed it to.

You look up, your cooing coming to an abrupt stop. The baby garbles some baby gibberish to you as Maekar approaches and your eyes widen.

“Maekar,” you say in disbelief. “I—wow, hi.”

“My love,” he says instinctively. He remains standing. “You’re… back.”

You nod bashfully, still bouncing the fat baby in your lap. “Yeah. I, uh, moved back a few months ago. My new job didn’t… didn’t give me the kind of maternity cover I needed.”

He looks down then. You smile, small and almost embarrassed, as you turn the baby in your lap. Maekar’s eyes narrow as he looks at the baby, appraising happy, healthy features and glistening eyes.

“You… have a baby,” he says slowly.

You nod, then pat the bench beside you. He sits like a trained dog, his movements immediate. The baby watches him thoughtfully.

“I do,” you say, leaning down to press a kiss to the baby’s head. “She’s about seven months. Only just started sitting up properly.”

Maekar looks at the baby. Despite her face being overwhelmed by your features, his heart clenches when he sees Rhae. He sees Aegon and Daella in her round face and gummy smile.

“She’s beautiful,” Maekar says, trying not to sound bitter. “She looks just like you.”

You laugh, and the sound is music to Maekar’s ears. He watches you and the pure joy that dances across your face. He squashes the urge to lean forward and kiss the smile from your lips.

“People’ve always told me that,” you tell him, cradling the back of the baby’s head as you hold her steady in your lap. She’s still watching Maekar with curious eyes. “But I think she looks a lot like her dad.”

Maekar sucks his teeth in thought. He tastes coffee in the grooves, and he has half the mind to pull your perfume vial from his pocket and spin it between his fingers. His hand clutches tightly around his nearly empty coffee cup instead.

He doesn’t want to ask, but you answer for him.

“Our last night together obviously went a little better than I expected,” you say around a laugh. The baby reacts to the sound, cooing up at you, eyes leaving Maekar for the first time in several minutes. Maekar watches the exchange with his heart in his throat. You continue, bouncing your leg slightly. “A month into the move, I thought my morning sickness was just nerves about starting a new job. Turns out—” you plant a kiss on the baby’s forehead, and she squeals with delight. “—you’d left me a present.”

Maekar stiffens. “What?”

You turn to him, a brow cocked. “Come on, Maekar. Do the math.”

He looks between you and the baby a few times before his brain catches up. He was a father. Again. And his baby, a baby he didn’t know existed, was perched in your lap right in front of him, glassy eyes boring into his soul. Slowly, he runs a hand down his face, and he hears you chuckle softly beneath your breath.

“Why didn’t you tell me?” Was the first thing that left his mouth. “Why didn’t you call? Or text? I would have—I would have been with you that fucking moment.”

You shrug flippantly. “We never really talked about kids, and I’d moved across the country, Maekar. I didn’t want to interrupt your life—”

“If I knew you were pregnant, I would have wanted my life interrupted,” Maekar hisses, immediately regretting the annoyance in his tone. The baby makes a little gasp, and you shush her gently. He continues after calming himself. “I would have moved you right back home.”

Home. His home.

You frown sadly. “You knew I had to go—”

“Then I would’ve come to you,” he says. “My love, you should have told me.”

“I know, I know,” you whisper, looking down at your daughter. She’s staring at Maekar like she knows him. The thought makes you laugh through your nose, a small smile spreading back across your beautiful face. You turn to him. “You know, all she’s been saying is dada.”

Maekar’s heart clenches even tighter.

“Isn’t that right?” You bounce the baby in your lap, and she giggles. She might just be the happiest baby Maekar has ever met. Living with you does that to somebody, though. You nod towards Maekar, as if gesturing for the baby to look over at him again. “It’s never mama, is it? Always dada.”

You face him then. “Do you want to hold her?”

Maekar places his cup aside straight away. You nearly laugh at his eagerness as you hand the baby over to him, and he takes her naturally. He cradles her to his chest exactly how he remembers cradling Daeron, and Aerion, and every single one of his children. In that moment, he can’t help the hot press of tears that find the back of his eyes, and he gazes down at the smiling baby as she looks back up at him.

“Hi,” he says softly.

The baby blows a raspberry. But then, she reaches up, and wraps a few chubby fingers around the tip of his nose. His smile is beaming, and he doesn’t have to look over at you to know that you’re smiling too.

“Da…da…da…” The baby garbles, and Maekar has to blink away tears.

You laugh. “See? That’s all she says.”

“I’m here,” Maekar coos, and it’s the softest he’s spoken in a very long time.

After a long moment, the baby finally lets go of his nose and he can shift his head to look you up and down. You recline against the back of the bench, smiling happily, hands resting across your stomach.

“Can I take you out for lunch?” Maekar asks suddenly, the baby tugging on his tie now.

You purse your lips. “It’s a busy time of year for you. I don’t want—”

“I’m free for the rest of the fucking day,” Maekar interrupts.

You can’t help but smile now. “Okay, but I don’t have anyone to look after—”

“She can come,” Maekar says quickly.

You look him up and down. “Okay… yeah, okay, I’d love that. We’d love that.”

Maekar leans forward, almost out of habit, but he stops himself. His eyes go wide, as if he only just realised what he was trying to do. He wants to mutter out an apology, but you lean in and dismiss any doubt in his mind. You press your lips to his and everything feels right again.

You pull away, then giggle behind your palm. “Uh, she’s got your tie in her mouth.”

Maekar looks down, the baby—his daughter mouthing her gums against the triangular end of his navy tie. He looks back at you.

“It’s her tie now,” he says simply, and his heart soars as you smile at him.

Aerion

You and Aerion’s relationship had always been too complicated for you to really enjoy.

Sure, he could do the boyfriend things. He’d take you out on dates, remember the names of your friends, drive you to and from work, buy you flowers every other day. He’d buy you pads or tampons or chocolate or whatever the fuck else you needed when you were on your period (and he ignored the insults you hurled at him when his jokes didn’t land while you were dealing with cramps). He could be caring and attentive and loyal.

And yes, he was a good lover. He’d listen to the noises you’d make and listen to what you needed: faster, harder, slower, deeper. He’d break you apart on his tongue and his fingers, against his kitchen counter or spread out in the backseat of his Merc. He’d have you seeing stars and shouting his name until your voice came out hoarse.

But he was unpredictable. He was a complicated man.

Never toxic, never mean, but his mouth would get him into more trouble than he cared to admit, and there were a few times he felt a pang of guilt when he saw the sadness in your face as you bailed him out of jail. Literally and figuratively.

He never acknowledged it, but he knew you hated when he worked too late, when he came home in the early hours of the morning. He knew you hated it when he took too long to reply to your messages, or when he cancelled your plans an hour before.

He was immature and he needed time to grow.

Which is why you ended it.

At first, he refused. He’d grow with you, he’d said. He’d stop getting into fights and he’d stop working so late. He’d take you out more, post you more, buy you more flowers or jewellery. He’d fuck you better—

But that wasn’t what you wanted to hear.

So you left, and Aerion found himself with a brand new fist-sized hole in his bedroom wall.

And that’s when he promised to himself that he’d get better. That he’d stop being an absolute fuckwit and, as his dad had so often told him, get his fucking act together.

So he stopped drinking. He stopped clubbing. He stopped doing drugs.

He went to the gym more. Went for more walks. Spent more time watching shitty old movies from his childhood with Daeron, and helping Aemon with his homework. He spent more time with Daella, Aegon and Rhae, taking them on outings: taking them to the zoo, to theme parks, to museums. He started spending more time as their brother.

Hell, he even volunteered. Sure, maybe it started off as community service after he had found himself in a drunken brawl, but he actually enjoyed it. So every Sunday, he found himself a few blocks away from his flat, tending to the community garden and teaching kids how not to kill a fucking tomato plant. It really wasn’t that hard.

A few times over the last year, he’d tried to get in contact with you. You hadn’t blocked his number, but you didn’t reply either. So he found himself sending you the occasional message, updating you on his life. Pathetic, he knows, but it kept him grounded. And each time he turned on his phone—his lockscreen still a selfie of you and him—he waited to see if you had responded.

But you hadn’t.

Until one day, you did.

He sits on a park bench, watching Daella and Rhae sprint around the playground with Aegon chasing them with his sword (a stick), when his phone chimes in his pocket. He expects it to be literally anyone else but you, but when he sees your name light up, his stomach swoops in excitement. He opens your message so fast his knuckle cracks.

> I’m ready to talk if you are

That afternoon, he’s sitting outside his favourite cafe—your favourite cafe—when he spots you approaching. He leaps to his feet, a victorious smile split across his pale face. But the smile drops, and it drops hard, when he sees you’ve got a baby carrier strapped to your front.

A fucking baby. The thought is like a migraine in his head, and he watches you smile softly at him as you approach, one of your hands a sturdy support on the base of the carrier. You stop just far enough away that he can’t see the baby’s head, but he can see the covered arms and legs that poke out the side.

“Aerion,” you greet. You sound confident, not nervous, as you look him up and down.

He suddenly feels like he wants to shrink away. “Hi, baby.”

You sit down on the seat across from him, and he leans his elbow against the separating table as he stares at you. His eyes are intense, but there’s a softness there that you can’t remember. The lines of his face seem less sharp too, and even his white-blond hair appears softer as it flicks against his forehead.

“I thought we should talk,” you say earnestly. “I know you’ve been doing a lot better.”

Aerion nods. “So much better, baby, I promise.” He almost whines then as his eyes drift down your body, desperately ignoring the baby carrier. “Fuck, I’ve missed you so much, you have no idea.”

You can’t help but grow hot at his words. “I’ve… missed you too.”

“Then come back to me,” Aerion says, not missing his opportunity. “Come back to me. I… I need you back.”

“Aerion,” you slow him down with the gentleness of your voice. “It’s complicated.”

He deems it the appropriate time to address the baby-sized elephant in the room.

“Cause of the baby?” Aerion asks, flicking a casual finger in the carrier’s direction. “I don’t mind stepping up. I used to help dad and Daeron with Rhae when she was born.”

You shake your head. “Aerion—”

“I’m not mad at you,” Aerion continues. “I mean, I would’ve wanted you to move on. So, the baby doesn’t worry me—”

“Aerion!”

He stops.

“That’s what I wanted to talk to you about,” you say carefully, then slowly begin unbuckling the carrier. Aerion watches patiently as you undo the clasps and straps keeping the infant secured to you, before you’re plucking the baby out. You utter as you do this, “He’s five months now. Hates to be put down, which is a pain in the arse, if I’m honest. I brought this fancy pushchair and he fucking hates it.”

But Aerion’s not really listening. The little boy, groggy from his nap, blinks lazily up at the sky as you heft him in your arms. He looks a lot like you, but it feels like Aerion’s been shot through the heart, because the baby also looks like him. So much like him it physically pains him: a strip of white-blond through the texture of the baby’s short hair has him feeling sick with guilt.

“He’s mine?” Aerion questions, almost breathless, before you can say anything else.

You nod sceptically, unsure of how your ex will take the news. “Yeah, surprise. My birth control failed and, yeah, you have a son.”

“A son…” Aerion watches the baby carefully.

Bright eyes peered at the world around him. Probably so bright, so colourful, so busy. Aerion watches those eyes move—eyes that look so much like yours—until they come to a stop on Aerion’s face.

The baby frowns.

Aerion wants to scoff. “He doesn’t like me.”

“You’re a stranger,” you tell him.

That makes his heart sting.

“I shouldn’t be a stranger,” Aerion whispers. “I should be his dad.”

You suck in a steadying breath, looking at the pure, unbridled sadness stretching across Aerion’s usually cocky features. He does appear to be a changed man.

“I didn’t tell you because I wanted you to focus on… getting better,” you say honestly, your son lying content in your arms. He’s still looking at Aerion warily though, lips pulled into a frown Aerion has seen one too many times in the mirror. You continue. “You’ve done so well for yourself, Aerion, so I figured now was as good a time as any.”

He nods, more to himself than you.

“I’m not saying we’re ready to be how… we once were.” His heart stutters a little when you say that. “But I want you to be in your son’s life. I want you to be a dad, Aerion.”

Pride fills him.

You want him. That’s all he really hears.

“I want that,” he informs you like it’s the easiest decision of his entire life. Because it is. “But I want you back, baby.”

“Aerion…”

“Please.” Aerion reaches across the table and places his fingers against your forearm, your hands holding your son. “I’m better. I promise you I’m better. I’m a changed man, baby, I need you to see that. And I want to be yours again. I want to be a dad, and I want you in my life again—fuck, I want you both in my life. Please.”

His son is still staring at him.

But he’s not frowning anymore.

You release a shaky breath, and Aerion just wants to hug you. “If you even think about acting the way you used to—”

“Never.”

“—you’ll never see us again.”

“I know,” Aerion whispers. “Please, baby.”

Wordlessly, you hold your son out to him. Anxiety heavy in his gut, Aerion gently takes your son, his son, from your hands and cradles him to his chest, supporting his head with a warm hand. Aerion’s heart swells. The baby stares up at him, not making a sound.

“Look at that,” you mutter, pulling out your phone to take a photo. “You’re a natural.”

It’s the happiest he’s felt in a very long time

Dunk

Dunk had been your best friend for god knows how long.

He’d known you all his life. You’d practically grown up together. But it wasn’t until secondary school that he realised he liked you a lot more than he originally thought. That the way he looked at you became heavier, that his heart beat increased each time you hugged him.

He’d taken you to your secondary school’s last dance, and he’d spend the rest of the year subtly scaring off any boy that looked at you for too long. Because to you, Dunk was your gentle giant, your best friend. But to Dunk, you were his everything.

University is when things changed.

You started sleeping together.

It was a friends with a lot of benefits situation, but you were happy with it. And if you were happy, Dunk was happy. He cared for you like any good boyfriend would: his mass a solid protection, a warm comfort. He was chivalrous and kind and so, so sweet. You loved him endlessly, but it was Dunk who loved you in a slightly different way. But he would never tell you that, never admit to you that his feelings transcended the boundaries of your strongly built friendship. Not then, anyway.

It was a few years later, he remembered, when the words slipped from his mouth. A drunken night with his mouth between your legs, your graduation ceremony a happy memory in both of your minds. He had licked you through your second orgasm when it slurred out of him: he loved you, he loved you so much it hurt.

You sat upright then, and he had rested his head against the plush of your thigh. You told him you loved him too, and he believed you. He believed you so much that he surged up the bed to kiss you, and then took you again and again until he was sure you’d both disappear between the springs of the mattress.

But a few months later, you were leaving him. You were saying goodbye to him.

Why would you leave him if you loved him?

You’d cupped his face on the doorstep of his flat, your bags packed behind you. Your thumbs wiped the tears from his cheeks as you cooed at him that everything was going to be okay. That you’d be back one day. That your time across the sea, in a completely different country, on a completely different continent, would be over before he knew it. You’d be back.

You promised him.

It was hard. Your absence was far-reaching in every little crevice of his mind. It was a hole in his heart, or a cavity in the ivory of his teeth. Empty.

You called him every night. Told him about your day, about your new job, about the friends you had made. You always asked how he was doing, and you always asked a million questions about him. So much so that some nights guilt plagued him as he lay in bed, realising he had talked so much about himself. But you seemed to like it. So he learned to live with it.

As the months ticked by, calls came less and less. You were busy, he understood. Less video calls became no video calls, and phone calls became shorter and shorter, often in the wee hours of the morning. Dunk didn’t mind. As long as he got to listen to your voice, listen to the way you hummed out his name as you bid him goodnight, he would be happy.

A full year came and went, and then some. You called him every so often, apologising. Changes in your schedule, new demands at work. He would shush you, tell you that everything was okay, and then listen to the day you had and how beautiful the weather was.

Exactly 449 days since Dunk had last seen you—yes, he was keeping count—his world shifted on its axis. You told him you were coming home. Told him that the tenure at whatever job you were at—a stupid job, Dunk deduced, because it had taken you away from him—had come to an end, and now you were miserably homesick and were moving home at the end of the month.

So now, here he was.

Dunk waits impatiently in the living room of his flat, pacing the space that has always been just a little too small for him. You had landed a few hours ago, and had informed him that once you were settled with your family, you’d come to visit.

His mind is racing. He gets to see you again.

When his doorbell rings, he leaps over his couch and sprints down the hall. He throws open the door with such excitement that it bangs against the wall, and he all but tosses himself at you. You yelp as he engulfs you in a crushing hug, and you return it as best you can. When he pulls back, he can’t help himself: he presses his mouth to yours, and he delights in the way you squeak and kiss him back.

When you pull away, he cups your face in his hands just as you had done to him all those months ago.

“Dunk,” you say, almost giddy.

“I’ve missed you so much,” he replies, pressing his mouth back to yours. You kiss, then part with a chuckle. He whines and attempts to chase it. “My sweet girl, I’ve missed you so much, you have no idea.”

“I have some idea,” you say humorously. You manage to wriggle yourself out of his arms, then step to the side with a bashful smile. “Dunk, there’s someone I want you to meet.”

Dunk hadn’t noticed it. You step aside and reveal a pushchair behind you, a little mobile hanging from the canopy. And he sees then a pair of little hands reaching for a plush yellow star that bobs just out of reach.

Dunk’s stomach drops. “Oh my god.”

You fidget with the hem of your shirt. “Yeah… surprise.”

“This is your baby?” Dunk looks from the pushchair to you. “Yours?”

“No, I stole her,” you joke, then snort out a laugh at Dunk’s shocked face. “Yes, she’s mine, Dunk. She was born a couple months early, but she’s mine, and she’s healthy—”

Dunk was trying to order numbers in his head. He was having a bit of trouble.

You stop yourself, catching sight of Dunk’s frazzled expression. Gently, you take his hand and lead him over to the pushchair, pulling back the canopy at to reveal the baby. Dunk gapes: the little girl tucked amongst a myriad of pink and purple blankets is big and chubby, with round cheeks and a full head of hair. She makes a noise of surprise—a soft “hoo” when Dunk’s head fills her field of vision—and then starts wriggling under the blankets, kicking her feet.

“She was eight pounds,” you tell him. “If she had been born on her due date, she would have ripped me open. I s’pose that’s what I get when her dad is almost seven feet tall.”

Dunk snaps his head to you. “So—?”

“Yeah.” You hold his hand, as if you were scared he’d run away. But you know he’d never run from you. You peer down at your daughter. “She’s yours, Dunk.”

Dunk gapes down at the little girl. She’s the most beautiful thing he’s ever seen.

“I know this is a lot,” you begin nervously. “I found out I was pregnant in the airport bathroom when I arrived, actually. I thought about telling you, but I knew you would’ve worried too much for your own good, so I thought it’d be better to just… let it happen and I’d tell you when the time was right.”

Dunk didn’t know what to say.

But then he heard you sniffle. His eyes were on you that very second.

Tears well in your eyes. “I didn’t mean to hide it from you. I just… I was so far away from home, and I was so scared, and I couldn’t bear the thought of you being mad at me—”

Dunk cuts you off by bringing your face into his chest. He holds you tightly, face pressing to the top of your head.

“I would never be mad at you,” Dunk whispers. “Oh, my sweet girl, I’m so sorry you had to do this alone.”

You sniffle against him. “I’m sorry.”

“Don’t you dare apologise,” Dunk says, firm but still gentle. “You have nothing to be sorry for. I just wish I could have been there for you. I would have gotten on the next flight over.”

You chuckle dryly into his chest before pulling away. “That’s what I thought you would’ve done, but it was… better for me to do it alone. I didn’t want to burden you.”

He cradles your face like you were the most fragile thing in the world. “You would never be a burden on me. Ever. But it’s done. It’s behind us now, okay? Now I have you home—” he looks down at his daughter. “—and we’re a family.”

You smile. “We should probably get married then, huh?”

Dunk’s eyes widen and he stares down at you desperately. “Seriously?”

You laugh. “No, Dunk, I’m kidding.”

Dunk huffs. “But I will marry you one day, just so you’re aware.”

“Sure, Dunk.”

“I mean it.”

You smile, standing on your toes to press your lips to his, your daughter babbling happily to herself beside you. “I know.”

Dunk pulls back and sticks a hand into the pushchair. His little girl immediately wraps her hand around his index finger, and she looks so tiny next to him.

A tear rolls down his face and he smiles, whispering to the little girl, “Hi, sweet baby, daddy’s here.”

Daeron

Daeron had been a great boyfriend for a considerable amount of time.

He was incredibly attentive, you’d give him that. He knew you better than he knew himself it seemed, and he always, no matter what, went out of his way to spoil you. Gift giving and acts of service were his love language, and day after day he’d find something new to give you, or something new to do for you. He brought you anything your eyes lingered on for too long while out shopping, and he took you across the world on lavish trips you could have only dreamed of when you were younger.

But he was a tormented man. Always told you it was in his genes. That generations before him were much the same.

And that’s how it descended towards its end.

Daeron fell into a pit of bad habits, the walls steep around him, and you watched as he didn’t even try to dig himself out. He simply dug further and further: alcohol, drugs, anything to make his brain shut up. You tried your best to help him—his perfect girl, his special girl—but there wasn’t much you could really do except clean him up after a rough night, pluck glass and debris from wounds across his hands, and kiss him on his dewy forehead as he toppled into an unsettled slumber.

It was a cycle you struggled to keep up with.

Good days dwindled, and you slowly watched the Daeron you knew, the Daeron you loved, crumble away from you before your very eyes. So, when you found out you were pregnant one stormy evening, Daeron passed out in the living room, you couldn’t help the sobs that tore from your throat. You had no one to comfort you then, which is why you decided to leave.

You told him that next morning, and he had cried.

His arms had reached for you, clutching at the material of your shirt, the cuffs of your trousers, the bend of your ankle as you backed towards the door. You begged him to get help, that you would take him back when he was better. But you couldn’t give him what he needed, which is why you turned without a glance back and left his high-rise flat.

So, he changed.

He got sober. Fuck, it was hard, but he did it. He poured everything he had down the sink, and the smell of it tipping down the drain made him want to throw up with guilt. He blocked his dealer, blocked the number of his favourite bartender, and got better. Hell, he even went to those stupid AA meetings his dad had set up for him—which, by the way, were fucking boring, but he stayed. He sat in that circle of people and he stayed. And he listened.

And he did it for you.

It wasn’t a quick fix. Days trudged by slowly, and months even slower after that. It seemed as though time was dragging itself through quicksand, drawing out every little hurting part of Daeron and stringing it up for everyone to see.

But he got better.

Over a year after he started, he truly felt better. His soul seemed to sit lighter in the hollow of his body, and his eyes were brighter, could see further. He saw then a future with you, a future where everything was normal again. Where he could spoil you rotten, take care of you, smother you with love in every way he thought possible.

He wanted to buy you a big house and a nice car. He wanted to slip a flashy rock onto your finger and he wanted to hear you say “I do” at the altar. He wanted to see you grow round with his child and he wanted to see you chasing a gaggle of toddlers around the house.

He wanted to see and hear you.

He wanted you.

You had blocked his number, but he didn’t see that as an obstacle. You had moved out of your old flat and seemingly vanished, but that wasn’t an obstacle either. He was a Targaryen, after all.

Now, present day, he peruses through the aisles of a clothing shop in the middle of the city. He pauses by a rack near the window, ignoring the triple-figure price tags as he flicks through the items. Over the metal pole of the rack, he spots a flash of movement, his eyes immediately drawing upwards to follow it.

It’s you.

He swears the heavens have opened for him. Here you are, walking slowly past the window of the shop he’s in. He didn’t even think twice before he was dumping the clothes he had already accumulated and hurrying outside.

He catches you just as you pass the door, and he calls your name.

You turn and god you look as beautiful as ever.

Daeron’s knees nearly buckle. “Hi.”

You step to the side of the pavement to let other pedestrians walk by, and he does the same. That’s also the exact moment he notices you’re pushing a covered pushchair. His heart just about drops out of his arse as he stares at it.

“Hi Daeron. It’s been a while,” you greet, looking him up and down. “Wow, you look great.”

Daeron faces you head-on, taking a deep breath. His heart is beating so fast. He’s nervous. “It has… and thank you. I’m sober.”

You smile. “That’s great! I’m so proud of you.”

Daeron fidgets anxiously with his fingers as he checks your own fingers for a ring. No wedding ring, good.

He looks back up. “Thank you, sweetheart. I’m, uh, over a year sober.”

“That’s the best thing I’ve heard all day,” you say with such sincerity that tears threaten to well in his eyes. He watches you smile then, your hand running up and down the handle of the pushchair. “I’m so happy you got better, Daeron. Really.”

He takes a step forward, a small dent in his brow as he speaks around a subtle pout. “My special girl, I did it for you. I got better for you.”

You peer up at him. “I know.”

“Then you remember what you said?” Daeron has to physically stop himself from getting on his knees to beg. “You said you’d come back to me. You said if I got better—”

“I know,” you repeat, sucking your bottom lip nervously between your teeth. Your eyes wander back down to the pushchair, and Daeron feels his heart sink. He waits for you to continue, and you do. “Things aren’t the same as they used to be, Daeron.”

He frowns. “Are you in a relationship?”

You shake your head.

He continues. “Then what’s the problem? I’m here now, sweetheart, I got better. For you.” He points at the pushchair then. “You have a baby? Is that the problem?”

“My baby is not a problem,” you grumble, giving him a pointed look.

Daeron’s eyes widen. “That’s not what I meant.”

“It’s the father that’s the problem,” you say, leaning back against the wall of the shop. You rock the pushchair gently back and forth. “I never told him I was pregnant, and I never told him I had the baby. I don’t want him to be mad at me.”

Daeron swipes a hand through the air, trying to be nonchalant. “Don’t worry about that. If he loves you, he would never be mad. This should be amazing news, right?”

“I guess,” you say quietly.

“Tell him.” Daeron reaches for you then, placing a warm hand against your arm. “I can help you, if you want? I always thought my mitigation skills were pretty good—”

“Daeron?”

“Yeah?”

“This is your baby.”

He freezes.

You suck your teeth, gesturing to the pushchair. His eyes find it, the blood draining from his face. God, he’s always wanted this, he always wanted this with you, but not like this. Not knowing you did this all on his own. Not knowing he wasn’t there with you.

“My… baby?” Daeron breathes out.

You nod, then bring the pushchair around. Daeron’s heart squeezes tightly beneath his sternum as a gleaming-eyed baby is revealed to him, perched up in the pushchair with a pair of chubby hands gripping the neck of a soft dragon plushie.

“He’s eight months at the end of the week,” you tell your ex, pulling the canopy of the pushchair back so Daeron could get a clearer look. “Fifteen hour labour. I wanted to fucking die, but it was worth it.”

You squat down beside the pushchair and press one of your fingers to your son’s squishy cheeks. He giggles as you coo at him: “It was worth it, wasn’t it, baby?”

The baby continues to giggle as you stand back up, and in his excitement, he tosses his dragon onto the pavement. Daeron bends to grab it, feeling the silky-soft fur and the slight rattle of plastic beads in its tail. Gently, he approaches the pushchair and squats before it, holding the dragon out to the little boy.

The baby looks at him with a straight face—as straight a face as a baby can have—as the dragon is offered to him. A beat passes where Daeron feels he might burst into tears before a wide, gummy smile spreads across the baby’s fat face. He giggles again, reaching for the toy, taking it from Daeron. Daeron smiles as the baby takes one hand and clutches five tiny fingers around one of Daeron’s.

“I found out I was pregnant the day before we broke up,” you tell him, watching your son squeeze your ex’s finger. “I figured you needed to focus on your sobriety. I was planning to unblock you eventually, by the way. He wouldn’t have been kept a secret for too much longer, I promise.”

“My special girl,” Daeron whispers to you, still letting his son hold his finger in one hand and the little dragon in the other. “You owe me no explanations. That was the right thing to do.”

You clear your throat. “Yeah, well, I’m sorry that—”

“And you don’t owe me apologies either.”

You shut up.

Daeron gets to his feet, slipping his hand into yours. He looks to you with teary eyes that seem so much brighter than the last time you saw him. His skin is clearer, his hair is neater. He looks good.

“I’ve missed you so much,” he tells you softly. “Can… will you let me show you how much I’ve changed?”

You look down at your son for a moment. Then, with a shuddering exhale, you grip Daeron’s hand in return and nod before you can have any second thoughts.

“I’d like that,” you utter, and then let your ex wrap you in a tight hug. You listen to your baby giggle as you return the hug, and when you part, you reach up to wipe a tear from Daeron’s cheek. He smiles shyly, then you gesture at your son. “His middle name’s Daeron, by the way. And he’s a Targaryen.”

Daeron’s heart could have exploded right there

———

fern not writing smut is a rarity lol quick take a picture while it lasts

tags 🌿

@targlocket @ghostlybfgf @dmitriene @valarrsgirl @noone1233nobody @sem-ra @targaryenstar

[erwinsvow]

soothe the wrath and tame the fury — masterlist.

summary: you awake in a strange place with a prince at your bedside.

pairing: maekar targaryen x amnesia wife reader

tagged posts | ao3 link | moodboard

part one

part two

[lopata-four]

Alys Arryn & Rhaegel Targaryen ✨A series of book portraits of all the marriages of the Targaryen family✨

[sedonasummer]

ᴍᴏʀᴇ ᴛʜᴀɴ ᴇɴᴏᴜɢʜ | ᴍᴀᴇᴋᴀʀ ᴛᴀʀɢᴀʀʏᴇɴ

Masterlist AO3

─ summary: The night your daughter is born is the best and worst night of Maekar's life.

─ pairing: Maekar Targaryen x reader

─ word count: 4.5k

─ content: mention of canon character death | childbirth | there is a happy ending i promise | angst | grief | fluff | canon divergent

─ a/n: I started writing this series because I just loved Maekar so so much and felt like he deserved all the happiness in the world, which he obviously does not get canonically. And here we are now, five fics later at the end. Thank you for your continued support along the way. Much love. As always, thank you for your likes, comments, reblogs, and requests. 🖤

The light in the solar was failing, the day's last gold fingers clawing at the leaded glass of the window. Maekar sat behind the desk, a quill suspended over a parchment that detailed the grain stores for the coming winter. It was mundane work, the sort of arithmetic that usually grounded him, but the figures swam slightly before his eyes. He had been checking the same column for ten minutes.

Then a frantic knock shattered the quiet before the door opened. A young maid stood in the threshold, her apron askew and her face drained of all color.

"My prince," she gasped, the breath hitching in her throat. "It is time. The princess asks for you."

Maekar was on his feet before she finished the sentence. The chair he vacated scraped violently against the stone floor, toppling backward with a crash that he did not hear. He did not remember crossing the room or passing the maid. He was simply moving, his long stride eating up the corridor, his boots striking the flagstones with a rhythm that was more like a run than a walk.

He reached the door to the chambers and paused only for the fraction of a second needed to compose his face before pushing the door open and stepping inside.

The room was stiflingly warm, the hearth built up to a roaring blaze that chased away the evening chill. The air smelled of lavender oil and the copper tang of blood, faint but present. In the center of the room was the bed where you lay.

You were propped up against a mound of pillows, your hair plastered to your forehead in dark, sweat-soaked strands.

You turned your head at the sound of the door. Your eyes, usually bright with laughter, were glazed with pain and exhaustion, but when they found him, locking onto his face across the room, the tension in your shoulders dropped. You let out a breath that shuddered through your entire frame, your hand reaching out, grasping at the empty air beside you.

"You are here," you whispered. Your voice was thin, worn down by exertion.

Maekar took your damp, trembling hand and brought your knuckles to his lips, pressing a kiss against the heated skin.

"I am here." His voice was a low rumble, meant only for you. "I am not going anywhere."

Maester Darron cleared his throat, a delicate, professional sound that held an edge of hesitation. He did not look up from the basin of water he was wringing a cloth into. "My prince. Perhaps it would be best if you waited outside. This is… it is a difficult business. It might be easier for her if—"

"Do not finish that thought."

Maekar did not look at the maester; his eyes were on your face, watching the way a small, tired smile touched the corner of your mouth at his words. Darron did not speak again; he simply nodded, a short, sharp jerk of his chin, and returned to his preparations.

The hours that followed bled into one another, marked only by the shifting of the firelight on the walls and the increasing intensity of your pain. At first, you bore it with a stoic silence, gritting your teeth, squeezing his hand until the bones ground together. But as the night deepened outside the windows, the silence fractured.

A contraction took you, seizing your body like a violent cramp. You cried out, your back arching off the pillows, your head thrown back. Maekar stood, leaning over you, one hand supporting your neck, the other gripping your fingers.

"Breathe," he commanded, though his voice was gentle. "Look at me. Just look at me."

You gasped, your eyes flying open, darting around the room before finding his. "I can't," you choked out, tears spilling over and tracking through the sweat on your temples. "Maekar, I can't! It hurts too much; something is wrong."

"Nothing is wrong," he said, wiping your face with a cool cloth Darron had left on the table. "You are doing it."

"Please, make it stop."

The fear in your voice was a physical thing, a blade twisting in his gut. Maekar set his jaw, forcing his own face to remain a mask of calm certainty. He could not stop the pain, and the helplessness of it left a bitter taste in his mouth.

"You are doing so well," he said, his voice low and steady, cutting through the sound of your ragged breathing.

You let out a wet, breathless laugh that was half a sob. "You are a terrible liar."

"I do not lie," he said, kissing your forehead, tasting the salt of your sweat. "Now, hold on to me."

He held your leg as Darron directed, his large hands supporting your weight, steadying you when the waves of pain threatened to pull you under. He wiped the sweat from your brow, murmured encouragement against your hair, and kept your gaze focused on his when the terror threatened to drag you away.

In the lulls between the pain, his mind wandered, unbidden, to the months that had led to this night. He remembered the way you had glowed, your skin taking on a luminous quality that had made it hard for him to keep his hands off you. He remembered Egg pressing his ear against the swell of your stomach, delivering his daily reports on the baby's movements. He is kicking today, Father. He is very strong.

He remembered Rhae, sitting beside you on the settee, reading aloud from a storybook or narrating the events of her day in a whisper, as if the child inside could already understand the complexities of court life.

The intensity of the labor peaked as the night wore on. Your grip on his hand was crushing, your nails digging into his skin, but he welcomed the pain. It was nothing compared to what you were enduring.

"Push, my lady," Darron urged, his voice tight with strain. "Now. One more."

You screamed, a raw, primal sound that seemed to tear itself from your soul, and then the tension broke.

The sound that filled the room was not a scream, but a cry. Indignant, furious, and loud.

Maekar pulled back just as Darron straightened up, holding a small, writhing bundle. The maester worked quickly and efficiently, clearing the mouth and nose, rubbing the small back with a cloth.

"A girl," Darron said, his voice breathless with relief. "A healthy daughter, my prince."

Maekar did not wait for an invitation. He reached out, his hands moving with a delicacy that belied their size, and took the child. He did not care about the blood, the vernix, the mess of it; he pulled her against his chest.

She was small, impossibly so. A fragile, squirming thing with a furious face screwed tight against the light. He looked down at her and saw a shock of pale hair, like his own, plastered to her tiny scalp.

The love hit him instantly. He looked at this small, angry creature, and he knew he would burn the world to ash before he let a single hair on her head be harmed. He looked up at you, meaning to show you, to share this moment that was yours together.

You reached out, your hands trembling, face exhausted but radiant. You laughed, a soft, breathless sound of pure relief. "Let me see."

Maekar shifted the baby, turning her so you could see. Your daughter chose that moment to open her eyes, blinking against the dim light. Maekar smiled, the expression feeling foreign on his face, stretching muscles that had grown stiff with disuse. For one heartbeat, the world was perfect. The fire was warm, the baby was fussing, and you were smiling.

Then Maekar looked up and saw Maester Darron's face.

He was looking back at the bed, at the sheets beneath your legs. The color had drained from the maester's face, leaving him ashen, a roadmap of anxieties etched into his features.

"Maester?"

Darron didn't answer. He was muttering to himself, a string of jargon that meant nothing to Maekar, but the tone meant everything.

"Maester." Maekar's voice sharpened. He stood up and thrust the child toward the maid who was hovering near the wall, her eyes wide. "Take her."

"What is happening?" he demanded. He reached the side of the bed and took your hand.

Darron looked up, his eyes darting to Maekar and then quickly away. "There is bleeding, my prince. We must… I am trying to locate the source."

"How much?" He looked at the sheets and saw so much red.

Darron didn't answer. The maester's face, pale and slick with sweat, was answer enough.

Maekar turned back to you. Your head was falling back against the pillows, lolling to the side. Your eyes were losing focus, the pupils dilating. "Look at me," he commanded, squeezing your hand. "Look at me. Do not close your eyes."

 "Maekar." Your voice was slurring, thick and clumsy.

"You are going to be fine."

You said his name again, a mere whisper of sound. Your eyes slid shut. Your chest rose, fell, and then went still for a terrifying second before rising again in a shallow, ragged hitch. You did not respond to his voice.

He was back in the worst moment of his life.

He knew these sounds. He knew the wet, sucking sound of breath fighting to fill lungs that were failing. He knew the smell of iron, the particular quality of light that filtered through a window when hope was dying. He had stood in a room like this one a long time ago, holding the hand of another woman, and he had come out the other side with a hollowness in his chest that never entirely healed.

He had spent years after that day making himself into a man who could not be touched, and then you had come into his life, smiling at his gruffness, laughing at his thunder, and you had undone all of it. Stone by stone, you had dismantled him and he had begun to believe that he deserved this happiness.

Now the gods, who had always had a particular sense of humor where Maekar was concerned, were showing him exactly how foolish that was.

The fury had to go somewhere. It bubbled up in his chest, hot and violent, seeking an outlet. From the corner, he heard the baby crying. That healthy, furious wail. It was the sound of life, of vitality, and in this room, filled with the scent of dying, it sounded like an accusation. This child was the cause of your suffering and his.

"Get her out!" Maekar roared, turning toward the doorway. The maid standing there flinched as if he had struck her. She fled, the sound of crying fading with her. Maekar turned back to the bed. He did not ask after the child again.

He looked at Maester Darron. The man was fumbling, his hands shaking as he tried to pack the bleeding with linen. The incompetence of it made Maekar's blood boil.

He spoke to you without stopping. He needed to fill the silence, to drown out the memories that were crashing against him. "I am here," he whispered, leaning close to your ear. "I am right here. You are not alone." He paused, his throat tightening. "You promised me… you said we would grow old. You gave me your word."

He looked at your face, so pale it was almost grey. The memory of Dyanna pressed in on him. He remembered the silence that had followed her last breath. He remembered the way the light had left the room, leaving him alone in the dark, and he knew, with absolute certainty, that he could not survive it a second time.

Time lost its meaning. Then, the maester made a sound. A sharp intake of breath, followed by a curse that was uncharacteristic of a man of the Citadel.

"What?" Maekar demanded, his head snapping up.

Darron's voice changed. The panic was still there, but it was suddenly overlaid with a different kind of focus. "I have it," he said, his hands moving faster, more surely. "A tear. Hidden behind the... I have it. Press here." He directed one of the assistants.

Darron worked for another five minutes, though to Maekar it felt like an eternity. Finally, he stepped back, his shoulders slumping with exhaustion.

"The bleeding is stopped," Darron said softly. "She lost a great deal of blood, a dangerous amount, but it has stopped."

"Will she live?"

"She needs rest," Darron said, wiping his forehead with the back of his arm. "If she holds through the night, if the fever does not take her... she will live."

He gestured to the maids hovering in the shadows. "We must change the linens and her."

The maids moved forward, their eyes averted, carrying fresh sheets and basins of warm water. They reached for the bed, intending to shift you to strip the mattress.

"Do not touch her," Maekar said.

He leaned over the bed and slid one arm beneath your shoulders and the other under your knees, lifting you easily.

He held you there, cradling you against his body, while the maids stripped the blood-soaked sheets and replaced them with fresh, clean linen. He used the damp cloth to clean you as they worked. When the bed was made and you were changed, he lay you down gently, arranging your limbs with care.

Maester Darron paused at the door. "My prince, you should rest. She is stable for now."

"Go,"  He did not turn from the bed. "Close the door."

Maekar pulled the chair closer, so close his knees brushed the mattress, and took your hand again. It was still cold, but not as cold as before. He sat there as the night wore on, watching the play of shadows on the wall.

Morning came, a pale, gray light seeping through the large windows. The fire had died down to embers. Maekar did not move to stoke it.

Sometime around mid-morning, food was brought. Maekar ignored it. He had no appetite; the thought of food made his stomach turn.

Maester Darron came in around noon. He checked your pulse, lifted an eyelid, and felt your forehead. Maekar watched him like a hawk, ready to strike if the man's expression faltered.

"She is holding," Darron said quietly. "Her pulse is weak, but steady. She is a strong woman, my prince."

Hours passed, the room grew dark again as evening descended, but Maekar remained fixed in place. He had not slept, had not eaten, had barely moved. The exhaustion was a heavy, dragging at his limbs, clouding his thoughts.

Maekar leaned forward, resting his forehead on the edge of the mattress, right next to your clasped hands. He closed his eyes. Just for a moment, he told himself. Just to rest his eyes.

The adrenaline that had sustained him through the night and the day finally began to ebb. His body, pushed beyond its limits, began to shut down. The fear was still there, a cold knot in his stomach, but the sheer physical weight of his fatigue dragged him down.

His grip on your hand loosened slightly, but he did not let go. He held on, his fingers threaded through yours, as the darkness of sleep pulled him under.

When he surfaced, it was not gradual; it was a sharp, jarring intrusion as pressure tightened around his fingers.

Maekar jerked, his neck stiff, a groan catching in his throat as he tried to sit up. The room was dim with the deep, bruising purple of early evening. Shadows stretched long across the stone floor, and the air had cooled, carrying the scent of dying embers and the lingering, sharp odor of blood and wine.

He looked down. Your hand was in his, and your fingers had curled around his.

Your eyes were open. They were glassy, unfocused, moving sluggishly around the ceiling before drifting lower, scanning the tapestries, the heavy furniture, the shadows in the corners. They looked past him, then returned, locking onto his face.

He sat forward. "You're awake," he rasped. His voice was ruined, sounding like gravel grinding together.

You blinked slowly, your lashes fluttering against sunken cheeks. You tried to wet your lips but failed. Your throat moved, a dry, clicking swallow.

Maekar moved without thought, reaching for the pitcher and basin on the side table. The water was tepid, but he didn't care. He poured a cup, his hand steadying only by sheer force of will, and then he was sliding one arm behind your shoulders, lifting you with infinite care. You were light, terribly, frighteningly light. Your head lolled against his chest, your hair a tangled, wild halo of knots and curls spilling over his arm.

"Drink," he murmured, bringing the cup to your mouth.

You sipped, choking slightly, then drank deeper, your hands coming up to grip his wrist. The water spilled, a single drop tracking down your chin, but you swallowed greedily until he pulled the cup away, and you collapsed back against the pillows. Your eyes tracked over him, taking in the tunic he hadn't changed, the dark circles he knew must be bruising the skin beneath his eyes.

"Maekar," you whispered. Your voice was a wisp of sound, barely there.

"I'm here," he said. "I'm not going anywhere."

You shifted, trying to push yourself up higher, wincing as the movement pulled at you. "The baby," you breathed. "Where is she?"

"You need to rest," the instinct to protect you, to shield you from any exertion, overriding everything else. "The Maester said—"

"No." The word was stronger this time, a flash of the iron will he knew so well. Your fingers dug into his hand, your gaze hardening. "I want her. Now."

He looked at you, seeing the determination flaring in the depths of your eyes. He could deny you many things for your own good, but not this. Not the sight of your child.

He let go of your hand and stood, his knees cracking in the quiet room. He crossed to the door, yanking it open. A guard snapped to attention in the hallway.

"Send for the child," Maekar commanded, "and fetch Maester Darron."

Minutes stretched, taut and silent. Then, the door opened.

A maid entered first, carrying a bundle of white wool in her arms. Maester Darron followed, his expression unreadable.

Maekar stepped aside, his eyes fixed on the bundle.

The nurse approached the bed, lowering the child gently into your waiting arms.

Maekar watched the transformation happen. As soon as the weight of the baby settled against you, the fear, the pain, the confusion, it all vanished from your face. Your eyes softened, melting into a look of such raw, unguarded adoration that it made his chest ache.

You pulled the blanket back. The baby was asleep, a small thing with a shock of white hair and a scrunched-up nose. You stared down, your index finger tracing the delicate curve of a cheek, the tiny fist.

"Look at her," you whispered, the words catching on a sob. "Maekar, look!"

He stepped closer, compelled against the sudden knot of guilt tightening his throat. "I see her."

"She's perfect," you cooed, leaning down to breathe in the scent of the infant's scalp. "She has your ears! And your hair." You looked up at him, your eyes swimming with tears, a brilliant smile breaking through the exhaustion. "We made her my love. She's perfect."

Maester Darron moved to the side of the bed, his professional demeanor masking whatever relief he felt. He checked the sheets, felt your forehead, asked questions about your vision, your pain, your strength. You answered distractedly, your attention never truly leaving the child's face.

"The bleeding has stopped," the Maester said. "Your pulse is steady." He gave a stiff bow. "Rest is the only prescription now, my lady."

He packed his tools into his bag, gave Maekar a respectful nod, and saw himself out. The nurse lingered for a moment, but you waved her away with a dismissive, gentle authority. You wanted no one else here.

You looked up from the baby, your eyes finding him where he stood rooted near the bedpost. You shifted, wincing slightly, and scooted over, pressing your back against the far side of the mattress.

"Come here," you said softly.

Maekar hesitated. He felt too large, too dirty, too stained with the memory of the last hours to intrude on this sanctum. But you patted the space beside you, your eyes leaving no room for refusal.

He sat on the edge of the mattress, the frame dipping under his weight. He kicked off his boots, the leather thudding dully against the rug, and swung his legs up, lying back stiffly, the tension in his shoulders a solid wall.

You leaned into him, your head finding the hollow of his shoulder.

The baby was so small. A fragile, breathing thing that fit entirely within the span of his hand. Then the guilt hit him, crashing over him like a tidal wave, cold and suffocating.

He had blamed this child. In the darkest, most terrified moments of the hemorrhage, when he thought he was watching you die, he had looked at this baby and seen an executioner. He had felt a spike of hatred toward the innocent life that had torn you open. The shame was overwhelming.

"Maekar." Your voice vibrated against his chest. He didn't answer.

You shifted, turning your face up to look at him.

"You are trembling, my love. What is it?"

He looked at you and the love you offered so freely. He didn't deserve it.

"I thought..." He stopped, his throat closing up. "When the bleeding started, I thought I was going to lose you."

He felt you stiffen slightly, but you didn't look away.

"I was terrified," he confessed, the volume of his voice dropping to a bare whisper. "I stood there, and I watched the life draining out of you, and I couldn't stop it. I was helpless."

He took a shuddering breath. "And I was angry, so angry. At the Maesters, at the situation, at..." He couldn't say it. He looked down at the baby sleeping in your arms.

"At her," you finished for him.

"Yes," he breathed, the admission tearing him apart. "I looked at her, and I hated her for what she did to you." He turned his face into your palm, closing his eyes. "I am ashamed of myself."

"You were scared."

"That is no excuse."

You pulled him closer, guiding his head down until your foreheads touched. The baby stirred between you, making a small, snuffling noise, but settled back into sleep.

"You are everything to me. Everything. If I were to lose you..." He couldn't finish the sentence. The thought was a void he could not look into.

"You won't lose me."

He pulled back just enough to look at you. The intensity of his gaze pinned you. "I cannot bear this again. I cannot go through this a second time." He shook his head. "No."

He looked down at the baby again, but the resentment was gone, replaced only by a desperate, protective fear. This child was perfect, yes. She was a miracle. But the price of her had been nearly too high to pay.

"No more children," he said. The words were flat, absolute.

You looked at him, your eyes searching his. "Maekar..."

He cut in, his voice low and rough. "This girl — she is more than enough. I am begging you, no more."

He reached out, his hand hovering over the baby's head, trembling. "I will not survive if I lose you. And if we do this again... I cannot take that risk."

He saw the tears well up in your eyes again, spilling over to track down your cheeks.

"Okay," you whispered.

You nodded, your hand moving to cover his where it hovered over your daughter. "No more."

The relief that crashed through him was so powerful it left him lightheaded. He slumped, exhaling a breath he felt he had been holding for a lifetime. "Thank you," he breathed.

You smiled then, a soft, watery thing, and pulled him down. "Hold her."

"I do not want to wake her," he protested weakly.

"Hold your daughter, Maekar."

He shifted carefully, angling his body as you guided the infant into the crook of his arm. He went rigid, terrified of his own strength, but the baby fit perfectly against his chest, her head resting over his heart.

He looked down at her small face. The guilt was still there, a shadow in the back of his mind, but it was smaller now, dwarfed by the rising tide of affection. He bent his head, his beard brushing the soft fuzz of her forehead, and pressed a kiss to her skin. It was the first time he had kissed her since those frantic seconds in the birthing chamber.

The baby stirred, her dark eyes opening briefly. They focused on him, unseeing, yet holding a weight that knocked the breath from his lungs. She didn't cry, she just looked at him, then yawned, her tiny mouth opening wide, and closed her eyes again.

"I am sorry," he whispered to her, the words for her alone. "I am sorry I wasn't there. But I am here now, and I will love you forever."

He leaned over the baby, careful not to disturb the child, and captured your lips with his. It was a slow, deep kiss, a sealing of vows spoken and unspoken. He poured everything he had into it, his gratitude, his fear, his overwhelming, desperate love for you.

When he pulled back, the room was quiet. The shadows had deepened into night, but the darkness no longer felt like a threat. He was exhausted, his body aching, his soul weary, but for the first time in days, the knot in his chest had loosened.

He closed his eyes, exhaling slowly, and let the world finally fall away.

All was right.

[sem-ra]

The Lady Of Summerhall

━━━━━━━━━━━━━⊱༒︎ ☽✧☾ ༒︎⊰━━━━━━━━━━━━━

Maekar Targaryen x reader

Widowed and reluctant, you are wed to Maekar Targaryen, who is still haunted by the death of his beloved wife. At Summerhall, you expected distance, cold civility and duty-bound nights. What you do not expect is to fall in love with him anyway.

♡ = smut

✦ Chapter 1 ♡ ✦ Chapter 2 ♡ ✦ Chapter 3 ✦ Chapter 4 ✦ Chapter 5 ✦ Read on ao3 ✦

Extra Chapters

✦ Shadows over Ashford

✦ Before You Knew

━━━━━━━━━━━━━⊱༒︎ ☽✧☾ ༒︎⊰━━━━━━━━━━━━━

[feral4youu]

ɴᴏʟɪᴛᴇ ᴛᴇ ʙᴀꜱᴛᴀʀᴅᴇꜱ ᴄᴀʀʙᴏʀᴜɴᴅᴏʀᴜᴍ

Summary: It doesn’t begin with death, but with absence. Fewer births, fewer healthy children, and no clear cause for it. What should be isolated becomes pattern, then expectation. No one names it a plague, but it spreads through the realm all the same.

House Targaryen does not wait for answers.

They treat it as something that can be managed. Controlled. Women are selected, brought in quietly and given a purpose that is not theirs to question, all in the name of preserving what remains.

Pairing: Dark! Commander! Baelor x Handmaid! reader

WC: 10.5k

(please read the warnings!)

Warnings: 18+, slightly proofread, dead dove do not eat: dub-con, non-con, manipulation, drugging, women are treated as objects, possessive behavior, manipulation, jena and dyanna are still alive, betrayal, arguments, council drama, non-canon, an au that still takes place in westeros during the same time period, cigars exist, religious themes, misogyny, complex dynamic, mentions of violence, toxic relationships.

Westeros was never perfect— it had wars, brutality, rebellions, and issues like any other place but it was functional. It was stable and had order.

The Targaryen’s had held the throne since the conquerors with no one except Daemon Blackfyre being idiotic enough to challenge them. They crushed him and everything returned to normal, normal enough.

It was as if one day in the night— the wind shifted, things warped, the stars were no longer as bright. Things in Westeros became far from normal.

At first, it was just odd circumstances— women lost babes all of the time during various stages of pregnancy. It was unfortunate, but still common. Then, it was no longer the loss of babes— but the absence of pregnancy altogether.

Women weren’t getting pregnant and if they were, the children never made it past the halfway mark. It was as if a silent plague had struck the realm.

The Maesters were dumbfounded, unable to find a root to the cause. The women experiencing these issues were mostly healthy, did not drink, did not get sick and yet they could not get pregnant. Noble Houses had already lacked heirs before this and accidents happening, but barren women put the realm in peril.

After the discovery of what was happening, after it was monitored— decisions had to be made.

Within a year, the realm had drastically changed. This was the women’s fault, is what the men said. They were sure in their hearts that it couldn’t have been their fault or them as the cause, it was the women. This was what happened when people reveled in sin and permitted it, instead of speaking against it. The Gods would punish everyone, allowing them to go without unless the realm was restored to its proper holiness. It wasn’t a cruel punishment, but it was a just one after years of darkness and disappointment.

There were several conclaves held to discuss the situation, noblemen traveling from all over to be present. The noblemen sat with King Baelor and gave their opinions, good and bad. It was a discussion that carried on for many moons until a decision was made. None of the whispers and theories could have prepared for the change that King Baelor would make.

With the changes put in place, Westeros went from normal to unrecognizable. It made places like essos look like the holy land, even with the slaves.

Women in Westeros were no longer allowed to read or write, regardless if they knew how to already— that included sending ravens. To be caught in such an act could cost you an eye or a few fingers. The new hierarchy system had no room for homeless, heretics, whores, and gender traitors.

Most noblemen became what they now called Commanders, some ranking higher than others in terms of power and authority— while some were not able to become one at all.

All wives now only wore the color green, it was a deep forest green. There were only certain colors permitted for certain occasions and those colors were not used often. The only house that did not have to abide by the color rule was House Targaryen as they were the noble family.

Despite the change with everything else, the Targaryen’s still ruled. It was different in some ways, but not by much. Baelor was still the king and also a Commander, along with his brothers and his oldest nephews.

Most Septa’s became what they called aunts, aunts had many tasks at hand— but most handled the handmaids. If you weren’t an aunt, then being a servant was an option. Being a servant was also only for select women, women who had the skills and capabilities. Servants were not paid and they took care of households—cooking, cleaning, mending, and more.

If you were not high ranking, you could’ve been what was considered an unmarked person. Unmarked people were smallfolk who were allowed to worship the seven and forced to live in certain quarters. Unmarked people reaped no benefits and were allowed to have certain small jobs like a farmer, seamstress, butcher, or other things. Even then, they were under constant surveillance by the eyes. To be an unmarked person was a form of luck, those positions were only reserved for certain people and families.

As a woman, if you did not fall into any of those categories— you’d be picked to be a handmaid or end up on the wall. Being a handmaid was considered to be a sacred thing and it had two categories— maidens from noble houses who were not wed could do their duty and bring honor to their houses. Those women wore red cloaks. “Ruined women” — poor, whores, widows, and women who had children out of wedlock were handmaids who wore black cloaks. Though the dress was the same for all handmaids, the cloaks were different colors— still a gentle reminder of how everyone saw you even when they needed you.

The lie that the crown fed the realm was that it was an honor to serve families in such a way and that they’d be rewarded immensely. They also told people to never question the things that they saw, punishments included. Everything that happened, happened under the watchful eyes of the gods— nothing was improper.

The children who did not come from noble houses were taken from their own families and given to various noble families. They received a different first name, one fitting for their family and a proper last name. The children would grow up under the new world of Westeros and be taught the regime, taught to never turn their backs on the Gods for this is what would happen.

Noble houses no longer had distinct looks anymore, nor did they care about them— they just needed heirs.

Outside of the Commanders, Aunts were terrifying. They were women themselves upholding a world against their best interest. They delivered punishments with swift brutality and no remorse— feet whippings, hand whippings, take an eye if it offends, a finger, or your tongue.

During your childhood you were quiet, curious, and always had a habit of staring too hard or doing things that you weren’t supposed to. Your home life was peaceful and you were extremely spoiled as you were an only child. An only child and a bastard, a Targaryen bastard to add to matters. You were sired by someone that you did not know, someone who could’ve been anyone from the royal family.

The worst part of being a bastard wasn’t just being a bastard, but an obvious one. Compared to your parents and the rest of your house, you stuck out like a sore thumb— silver hair and violet eyes.

Your mother was an adulterer or had been taken advantage of, a question that you never had a true answer to. Even though it was awful, she was your mother and you loved her no less.

Your father was stern, but fair. He loved you, but deep down you always felt the disappointment that he’d have when he looked at you sometimes. You reminded him of himself in certain ways, but your features did not. You were his daughter by name, but not truly his.

Your father was honorable in the sense that he never shamed your mother for her actions or raised his hand at her. His love always outweighed his anger.

She paid deeply for her mistakes in ways that you’d never learn.

𖤐

When you were younger your family was very close with the royal family, you were often visiting King’s Landing for various things. Everywhere you went, people whispered about you and your mother. It was something that you truly could not escape. Your bastardy was not brought up by the royal family, at least not to you. While your father was always attending to duties during your visits, you played with the children. You were closest with Daeron, he always tried to protect from Aerion and his cruel words.

“If it isn’t our lovely bastard cousin.” Aerion sneered.

Daeron closed his eyes, taking a deep breath.

“Don’t be rude, brother.”

“It is not being rude, if I call her what she is.”

You twirled the flower stem that sat between your fingers.

“Being a bastard does not mean that I’m your cousin.” You reminded him.

“You have a better chance of that being the case than anything else.. someone strayed away from their bed to make you—“

“Perhaps Uncle Baelor, maybe even our odd uncle Rhaegal.. definitely not Aerys.”

“Stop.” Daeron spoke.

Aerion raised his brow, a smirk tugging at his lips.

“Unless, it was father and you’re actually our.. sister.”

His comments often overwhelmed you, but you never let it show. He didn’t have to point out the obvious or make conspiracies about your parentage, but he did anyway for fun. Daeron never judged you, neither did Valarr— they instead tried getting to know you. They would be the only two people that you’d ever trust in your life.

When word of what had been going on in the realm spread, everyone whispered about it and found people to blame. Your mother was not interested in the blame game as the women would always lose, it was never a fair game. She kept telling you not to lean on your ideas, but listen to what you’re hearing— what they’re saying is more important than what you’re thinking or feeling.

Fertility crisis. Women being at fault. Sin. Straying away from the Gods.

None of those words used together would ever equal anything good for anyone and it also would mean that those words would catch fire, spreading around— soon everyone would be saying them. When the shift happened, it was if everyone was holding their breath— in fear of the ugliness that would rear its head.

Your mother knew what this change could mean for you and what your life would look like, so she prepared everything and had you sent to Essos.

A place where you could be safe and free of anything at home. You gave her and your father long, teary eyed hugs before you left that night— not knowing if you’d see them again. She never wanted the crown to have the opportunity to call on you for such a thing, even if it meant her actions could be seen as treasonous.

When you arrived in Essos, you cried continuously for the first few days— filled with worry about your family. Eventually, the worry faded and you found your footing.

You liked Essos— the people, vibrant colors, different traditions, vastly different herbs, and the weather.

It wasn’t until one night while you were peacefully asleep that you felt hands yank you out of bed, hidden figures that you couldn’t quite see until they moved closer to the light.

Then you saw it, the seven pointed star on the cloaks of the men and the woman in the light brown uniform— her hair neatly pinned. She was an aunt and they were eyes from Westeros.

“Bring her.” The aunt spoke, walking out of the room.

You kicked and screamed, trying to free yourself from their grip— but it was no use. As you got closer to the ship, the aunt forcefully poured a thick and sour wine down your throat.

After that everything was a blur, only small and distorted memories from your trip back to Westeros.

The eyes reached further than you had expected, because they had called on you to serve— but you were nowhere to be found. They had searched high and low for you, because of your features— something House Targaryen wanted to maintain. You had an obligation to fulfill your duties for the royal family.

When you returned to Westeros— it was quiet, cold, clean, and had seven pointed stars everywhere. You weren’t the only handmaid that they were transporting, they brought all of you to a repurposed inn. The inn was made to hold and teach incoming handmaids, along with handmaids that weren’t new..

The aunt that helped bring you back from Essos was named Aunt Vidala. She seemed to be young, probably around your age and that meant they picked her from elsewhere for this role.

Aunt Vidala was stern, very precise with her words, and quick to correct— she was almost as bad as the head Aunt, Aunt Catelyn.

Aunt Vidala was the one who inspected you and took note of everything. She examined your scalp, how long your hair was, your eyes, your body, your mouth, your teeth, and lastly she made sure that you were still a maiden.

It was a cold, awkward, and humiliating experience.

You stood there in the room, putting your dress back on— your hands shaking.

“It is most sinful to treat women like broodmares, the gods would not be fond of that.” You spoke.

Aunt Vidala did not like your comment, but her facial expression did not change. She just stared at you blankly for a moment, then she backhanded you.

“Mind your manners. To be a handmaid is to serve the gods and their blessed noble families. It is a reward and worth all that comes with it—“

“By the mothers grace.”

You held your face as it stung and touched your now your split lip.

“She will provide.” You replied.

The most ridiculous part about all of it was that they believed what they said, they believed that they were chosen by the gods to punish women. That women were the sin, not the men who tempted women into sin, the men who raged wars, had bastards, drank to their hearts desires, paid for whores— it was the women who couldn’t give them children's fault.

The aunts do not tolerate any form of backtalk or unruliness, all you should be saying is “Yes, Aunt Vidala.” or “No, Aunt Vidala.”

A girl from House Arryn lost her tongue for calling Aunt Selyse a cunt, not inherently kind— but not a big enough deal to lose a tongue over it.

Women weren’t safe before the change, but now they’re not free either. The men had a justification to hurt women all over the realm now and no one would bat an eye.

As the aunts prepared you for meeting the family that you’d be serving, you thought back on your family— wondering if they were safe or if they were punished. The Aunts would never answer those questions for any of the women as those things no longer mattered.

They had all of you stand around, your hands in front of you— your eyes focused on them. The room was dimly lit, the breeze from the window ruffling the bottom of your dress.

“The ceremony is the holiest ceremony.” Aunt Catelyn spoke as she circled the handmaids.

“It is a ceremony that takes place once a month, on the day that prepares your womb for a babe in your monthly cycle—“

“It is watched in the presence of the gods and the lady of the house.” Aunt Vidala reminded everyone.

“You will lay on the edge of the bed with your head in the lap of the wife, she will hold your wrists and the Commander will penetrate you until release.” Aunt Catelyn followed up.

Aunt Catelyn’s words made you shudder, made your stomach turn with disgust. Some man would be on top of you, rutting into you once a month to make an heir for him and his wife. The child wouldn’t be yours and afterwards you’d just be moved around to another posting, another man to try giving a child to.

The Aunts also mentioned that to show any form of pleasure during such a serious event would be disrespectful, but also that it would make you a whore. It is whorish to feel such things for another woman’s husband. It would be an insult to the gods and the family that you’re supposed to serve.

You were meant to serve, not be fucked by a lustful man and if they were lustful— it was your fault.

𖤐

After that Aunt Vidala had a bath prepared for you and while you waited, your mind raced on whose handmaid you’d be.

Hopefully, not Aerion’s— if there was even a possibility of that, you’d much rather throw yourself out of a window in the red keep. It’d be an easier and much more fair fate.

Maybe, it’d be Valarr. He’s understanding and kind, but you still did not want him to fuck you.

Your mind continued to obsess over the idea, waiting to be called for your bath— picking at your nails. Aunt Vidala called your name and signaled for you to get ready.

You slowly unlaced your dress, allowing it to fall off of your shoulders and pool onto the floor. You then pulled the pins out of your hair and unbraided it, releasing the tension that you felt all day.

The room smelled of honey and rose as you approached the tub, you stepped into the tub and slowly sank into the hot water. Aunt Vidala sat by the tub and scrubbed your skin, almost felt as if she was scrubbing it off.

She scrubbed you all over and under your finger nails, your scalp, along with your feet. You needed to be completely clean and presentable to the royal family.

“Remember to be respectful when talking to the Commander tomorrow, do not shame us.” Aunt Vidala spoke.

“Yes, Aunt Vidala.”

“You are to treat the wife of the home with the utmost respect at all times.” Aunt Vidala added as she scrubbed your fingers.

You winced, the roughness causing pain.

“Yes, Aunt Vidala.”

“You are to keep your chambers tidied and to only leave them when it is permitted.”

“Yes, Aunt Vidala.”

“This position is a blessing, for any woman— but especially you given your status. You will serve them with pride and give them a babe.” She reminded you.

“Yes, Aunt Vidala. It is the highest honor.”

She brushed your hair, yanking your head as she untangled a knot. A heavy silence lingered in the room and tears pooled in the corner of your eye.

Aunt Vidala set down the brush and stood up beside the tub.

“Dry yourself off and prepare for bed, you have a long day ahead of you—“

“By the mothers grace.”

“She will provide.” You muttered, your voice shaky.

You stayed in the tub a little bit longer, a feeling of sadness overcoming you. Your life had changed into something that was completely unrecognizable, something from a nightmare and you were alone.

There was no one coming to save you.

After your bath, you dried off and put on your nightgown— walking into your shared chambers. You shared a bedchamber with a girl from House Tully, she seemed a bit older than you.

The candlelight flickered in the windowsill, your shadow being cast on the wall near you.

You climbed into the cold bed, pulling the covers over your body.

“Have you found out which family you’ll serve?” She whispered.

“I will be serving the royal family, I have not been told which Commander.” You spoke, staring at the ceiling.

“I will be OfAerion.” She admitted.

Your head shifted, turning your glance to her— your eyes wide.

“Oh.” You mumbled.

The poor girl had no idea what would be in store for her, no one deserved Aerion’s cruelty.

“What house are you from?” She asked, her words came with genuine confusion and curiosity.

You turned your head back towards the ceiling.

“Houses no longer matter, we are handmaids now.”

She nodded, the sound of her blanket rustling as she laid onto her back.

“This might very well be the last time that you see me alive.”

Her words fell into your stomach like a pit, your stomach turning at the idea.

“Don’t say that. We will both do our duty and make it out of this.”

She sniffled and wiped her tears.

“We both know that this situation doesn’t truly work that way. Being a handmaid is a cruel fate… being passed from man to man as they rape you and hoping that they are still merciful—“

“It’s lunacy.” She muttered, her voice shaky.

You agreed with her, a painful truth that you didn’t want to accept. You wanted to believe that this was not what the realm had succumbed to, that most men wouldn’t stand by and watch this idly— but you were wrong.

There was a deep silence in the room after her words, a silence that carried on until the both of you were asleep.

That morning, it was dark outside— the clouded skies covering the sun. The wind blew and rattled the shutters, almost scaring you half to death.

You stood there, taking in the space and what this day would mean for your life.

“What is your name?” You spoke.

She glanced at you putting on her handmaids dress. “Lysa.”

You stared out the window, watching as the clouds shifted in the sky— how angry they looked.

“If I ever escape this place—I will find you, Lysa. I will bring you with me.” You admitted.

She ran over and hugged you, which caught you by surprise.

“I pray that you do. I pray that even if you can’t find me, that you flee to Essos and never look back here.”

Your eyes watered, because the goal was to escape— but who knew how long that would take, how much you would’ve already lost.

You got dressed, lacing up your dress before putting on your white bonnet and gathering with the other handmaids.

Your hands shook uncontrollably as you waited for the carriage that would separate you from everyone else, the one that would take you and Lysa to the keep.

The carriage was a bright red, but otherwise plain— stripped of all the things that would once make you stop and look. You, Aunt Vidala, and Lysa sat in the carriage. The windows were covered mostly so that you couldn’t see out, but you didn’t need to— there was nothing to see.

Westeros had been completely stripped of its identity. There was no one roaming the streets, not even drunkards— only the eyes that worked for the commanders.

Eyes were former knights that had a strict allegiance to the commanders, they were still knights— but knights with no honor. Knights who no longer protected the innocents, but the men who would harm them.

The entire ride to the keep, you felt like you were going to be ill. The urge to gag gnawing at the back of your throat.

The ride was silent, there was no room for talking as they told you that loose tongues were bound to sin. Aunt Vidala would occasionally peak out of the window as you and Lysa stared down at your feet.

Eventually, the carriage came to a stop and in that moment you felt like your heart did too.

“Remember girls, use your manners and speak when spoken to only.” Aunt Vidala reminded both of you.

“Yes, Aunt Vidala.” Both of you spoke in unison.

The door opened, the eyes helping all three of you step out. You took a deep breath, glancing back at Lysa— both of your eyes saying things that your mouths could not.

The eyes walked both of you to the courtyard, where you saw four people standing.

“By the mother’s grace, Commander Targaryen.” Aunt Vidala muttered.

Baelor, his wife Jena, along with his nephew Aerion and his wife stood there waiting.

“She will provide.” He replied, his hand coming out to shake Aunt Vidala’s and a half smile on his face— the kind that didn’t fully reach his eyes.

Both you and Lysa stood behind Aunt Vidala, your heads down looking at the stone.

“Girls, will you look up at me?” Baelor softly asked.

You and Lysa slowly rose your heads, almost too scared to even respond to his command.

You stared at him in his Commander uniform, his completely black doublet and the red aiguillette that circled his shoulder with a seven pointed star in center. There was a small, gold, three headed dragon pin that was on the cuff of his doublet— just merely a reminder of who he was.

Aerion was dressed the same way, but his cockiness was still palpable.

Their wives stood there in their green gowns, their hair neatly pinned back— being the dutiful wife to their awful husbands.

“Which one is mine?” Aerion questioned.

Baelor cut him a look for his rudeness, Aunt Vidala had a slight scowl on her face.

She grabbed Lysa’s hand and brought her forward.

“She will be your new handmaid.”

Aerion stepped closer, grabbing her face and examining it as if she were an animal.

He stepped back with an unreadable facial expression.

“Hmm.. she will do—“

“Let’s go.” He added, pointing to Lysa as he and his wife started walking away.

“Aerion, you must—“

“I have things to attend to, uncle. Perhaps some other time.” Aerion replied, walking out of the courtyard.

You watched as they walked out of the courtyard, your mind saying a silent prayer for Lysa and her safety.

“Can you pull your bonnet off for me?” Baelor questioned.

You glanced at Aunt Vidala for approval and she nodded. You pulled off your bonnet, your silver locks bright to the eyes even when it was gloomy outside.

Baelor clasped his fingers in front of him.

“You will be Jena and I’s handmaid.”

Your heart sank and you figured that your face showed it. The king already had two sons who were up in age, you never figured that he’d be trying for another child.

“It.. it is an honor, Commander Targaryen.”

“Yes, it truly is. May the gods bless this family.” Aunt Vidala added.

Jena stared at you, it wasn’t with disdain— but it was obvious that she did not like you. You weren’t sure if it was your hair or if she never wanted a handmaid to begin with, but you were nervous.

“Jena will show you to your chambers, while I have a conversation with Aunt Vidala.”

You nodded and followed behind Jena as she walked up the steps.

Baelor was never known for his cruelty, at least before this. He was always regarded as a good king— one who was kind and gentle. The king that would leave the realm in good standing for generations to come, but that changed— now you’ll serve the man who’s the architect of this system, the reason that handmaids exist.

You finally reached your chambers with Jena as she opened the door to the room.

The room was bare— a bed, a table, and a chair. There were tapestries on the wall that made your skin warm, depicting acts that were far from appropriate for a handmaid to see. The room also still kept the House Targaryen colors as they were still the ruling family and high level Commanders.

You walked into the room and stood at the center of it.

“I will have your supper and a bath arranged.” Jena mentioned.

You gave a fake smile. “Thank you, Mrs. Targaryen.”

The hours had raged on, the moon settling into the sky. You ate your supper in your room and for once enjoyed your peace, despite the situation— life was much easier when you didn’t have an Aunt in your ear correcting you.

You had taken your bath and put on your shift, preparing to go to sleep. It had been a long day and you were sure that the days here would feel infinitely longer than they were.

As you stood up from the chair in deep thought, there was a knock at the door.

An eye opened the door, averting his gaze because you were only in a shift.

“The Commander has requested your presence.”

You were at a loss for words, the commander requested your presence now? at such a late hour?

You nodded anyway and put on your robe, following the eye to his chambers.

When you reached his chambers there were two eyes present outside of it, one of them opening the heavy oak door for you and shutting it after you stepped in.

Baelor sat at his desk, still dressed from earlier.

His solar was dim with only a small amount of candlelight, the smell of tobacco and cherry in the air.

Baelor leaned back in his chair, the cigar in his mouth and his eyes leaving the scroll that was in front of him.

This was wrong, it was against what the Aunt’s had trained you on and told you about. If you were caught, you would be punished— not him.

You nervously and absentmindedly picked at your fingers, waiting on him to speak.

He exhaled smoke, pointing towards your hand.

“Nervous?”

You stopped instantly, shaking your head. “No, Commander— I”

He waved you off, “it’s alright if you are.”

“Are you a maiden?” He questioned, the smoke from his cigar swarming him.

Your skin warmed at his question, not out of embarrassment— but because he knew you were. You wore the red cloak for a reason.

“Yes, Commander.”

“Ah—“

“Your ceremony will be coming up soon and with you being a maiden, it will be quite painful.. the ceremony is holy— but I will do my best to make sure that I do not hurt you too much.” He admitted.

Your lips opened and then closed again, you weren’t sure what to say. Thank him for not being rough? Thank him for being considerate?

It didn’t help that Baelor wasn't an unattractive man, it in fact made things worse as your eyes raked over him. Your stomach was in a knot as you thought about him inside you, even when you didn’t want to. You didn’t want to have sex with him, but for some reason your mind was having thoughts about him.

“Thank.. thank you, Commander.” You muttered, picking at your fingers again.

“Do not thank me, sweet girl. It is what is right.”

He called you sweet girl and you needed to take a deep breath. Was this a test put forth by him and the aunts? A test to see if you were a whore? Unworthy?

“I see that you have the hair and eyes of a Targaryen— you are from Westeros, correct?”

“Yes.”

“Who is your father?” He pried, his question a mix of care and an even bigger mix of nosiness.

“That I am unsure of, Commander. I was never told.” You responded.

He exhaled a cloud of smoke and set down his cigar on the glass tray in front of him.

“I plan to be fair to you, as fair as I can be to a handmaid. I do not intend to stress you or cause you harm.”

He stood from his chair and walked over to you, circling you like a hawk does its prey. He stopped in front of you, looking down at you as you tried to avoid looking up.

His fingers found your chin, lifting it.

“You remind me of an innocent little dove, soft and fragile. Something that isn’t meant for cruelty.” He whispered.

He looked into your violet eyes, his mismatched eyes taking in your face and features.

“You won’t be of any trouble, will you?”

You shook your head, your heart pounding in your chest.

“Good.” He replied, letting go of your face and walking back to his desk.

“You are free to go—“

“Tell no one about this conversation.”

“Yes, Commander.” You replied, walking to the door and opening it.

The eye escorted you back to your chambers and you felt as if you could finally breathe when you were in there. It was as if his mere presence had sucked the life out of you. He controlled you in every aspect of the word, you were his little dove.

The next morning after breaking your fast in your chambers and getting dressed, everyone was summoned to the courtyard. You, all of the commanders, their wives, and their handmaids— everyone of importance that was in King’s Landing.

When you gathered in the courtyard, you stood next to Baelor and Jena as you stared at the wooden fixtures that had been created.

Aunt Catelyn and Aunt Vidala stood on it, behind two people who had their hands tied and bags over their heads.

“You’ve been summoned here to discuss an unsavory situation, a treachery that’s been uncovered—“

They took the bags off of their heads and you saw OfLeo, Leo Tyrell’s handmaid and an eye beside her.

“These two took it upon themselves to engage in unholy and sinful sexual relations. They were selfish and they betrayed the gods, the gods who gave them a second chance.” Aunt Catelyn spoke.

OfLeo sobbed, her tears staining her cheeks as she tried to speak but she was gagged.

“They were ungrateful! They were deceptive!” Aunt Catelyn shouted.

“My precious girls, explain to them what happens when they commit an act like this.”

You and the other handmaids shouted in unison as you had been taught.

“Death!”

Aunt Catelyn grinned, proud of her precious girls— proud that they still have stuck to doing their duty.

“That’s right, girls!—“

“For death could be the only thing that could cleanse such sin.”

The eyes came behind the two of them, standing them up and putting a noose around their necks. Even through the heavy winds that swept through the area and ruffled dresses, you could still hear the pleas of the two of them— the broken promises on their lips.

The eyes walked off of the platform and Aunt Catelyn stood near the lever.

“May the gods grant you the mercy that you do not deserve and the comfort that you squandered.” She continued.

Within a split second the platform from underneath them fell and you watched as they moved about in the air, trying so hard to fight for air. OfLeo even pissed herself in the process as her face changed colors.

Tears fell from your eyes as you watched in horror, watching both of them take their last breath for something so trivial— something that humans do.

Baelor glanced over and saw your wet cheeks.

“Stop crying this instant.” He commanded in a whisper.

You wiped your eyes and clenched your fists by your side, trying so hard to mask the anger that now brewed in your veins.

Just leaving with Lysa wasn’t a good option anymore, they needed to die— all of the commanders, their wives who agreed, the Aunts, and the eyes.

They smiled and wanted you to cheer for death, they were corrupting all of you— bringing you to their level.

Within a few minutes, all of you started to walk away — you followed Baelor and Jena as you walked up the steps, the Commanders talking amongst themselves.

At the last step you saw it, your mother and father. Your father dressed as a Commander and your mother like a wife— you almost didn’t recognize them.

You stopped in your tracks, “mother?”

She saw you and you could see the despair in her eyes as she realized that she could not save you or go to you.

Baelor grabbed your arm, his grip tight as he brought you closer.

“You are a handmaid now, she is no longer your mother in that capacity.”

Tears welled in your eyes.

“This outburst should not happen again.”

“Yes, Commander Targaryen.” You stammered through your tears.

On your walk, you saw a few people hanging along the wall— crows picking at them. All of them were marked as sinners and traitors.

Once you got back to your chambers, you shut the door and your tears started flowing down your face and neck. You yanked off your bonnet, throwing it across the room as you slid down the door. Your sobs caught in your throat as you struggled to breathe.

This was fucking stupid, all of it was. It hadn’t even been that long and you don’t remember yourself. They stripped your identity from you and you were struggling to hold onto it, to remember it.

There was a knock at your door that startled you to your feet. You stumbled away from the door, wiping your eyes.

The door opened with Commander Targaryen walking in and shutting the door behind him.

“Commander, I—“

He stepped closer to you, his lips pursed and his hands behind his back.

“You are a handmaid, are you not?”

“Yes, Commander Targaryen.”

“Baelor—“

“You can call me Baelor.” He corrected you.

He closed the gap in between the two of you, his hand reaching out to touch your face.

You flinched, his warm hand against your face— gentle like a feather.

“You are mine, you know that? My handmaid to help continue my house.”

“Yes, Comma—“

“Yes, Baelor.” You muttered.

“We do not cry for sinners, for people who’ve turned their backs on the gods.. besides you are too pretty to cry.”

You nodded, closing your eyes as if he’d disappear when you opened them.

He pulled his hand away, his eyes scanning your face.

A few moments later, he left you in the room— standing there with just your thoughts.

𖤐

You sat in your chambers and picked over your supper, your appetite coming in waves. The fire in the fireplace crackled, embers from the fire dying in the air.

You re-braided your hair as it was almost time, almost time to lose the last shred of dignity that you had.

You kept thinking about your mother and father, how they were part of this— part of the same thing that got you in this position.

What did they threaten them with? How could they justify this?

Just as you finished your braid, there was a knock at the door— Aunt Vidala walking in.

“We are ready for you.”

The knot in your stomach grew, your fists clenching as you stood up from the chair.

“Yes, Aunt Vidala.” 

You put your bonnet on and made your way out of the door in step with Aunt Vidala. 

The two of you walked the hall, passing the eyes— a walk that felt like it lasted an eternity before you reached Baelor’s solar. Aunt Vidala pushed open the doors, a heavy thud behind them.

The candlelight in his solar was bright, brighter than it was the night before— bright so that everything could be properly watched.

Jena and Baelor stood near the center on the rug as they waited for your appearance.  You walked over and knelt in front of them like you were supposed to.

“Mother above, grant your mercy and make her womb fruitful—“

“Father, judge this act as just and in accordance with your will. Let what is done here be done in your sight.” Baelor spoke.

“The gods will bless both of you.” Aunt Vidala smiled.

Baelor nodded, a small smile on his face.

Aunt Vidala walked towards the door, glancing back at you.

“You know what to do.” 

Aunt Vidala left the room, leaving you with Jena and Baelor. Baelor offered his hand, helping you stand up as Jena positioned herself on the bed properly. 

Your hands shook as you held his, the walk to the bed felt impossible— but you did it.

You climbed onto the bed and laid your head in Jena’s lap, your lower half dangling off the bed. Jena grabbed your wrists, her grip was tighter than it should’ve been— making you wince.

She turned her head in disgust and what felt like jealousy as she didn’t want to watch.

Baelor came between your legs, propping them up and undoing his laces.

During the ceremony, you remain covered— he technically doesn’t get to see what your body looks like, he leads by touch and experience.

While Jena turned her head, she did not notice how Baelor’s hands caressed your bare thigh or how he pretended to still be untying his laces, but his thumb was actually circling your clit— making sure that you were ready for him.

He was enjoying every bit of touching you and wanted you to enjoy it too. He wanted you to accidentally moan or break an obvious rule in front of his wife.

You closed your eyes, the heat between your legs betraying you as he rubbed your clit— a moan was crawling its way up your throat. 

He pulled his hand away, leaving your body aching for more when it shouldn’t have. His hands grabbed your thighs as he lined himself up with your entrance, a small smirk on his face.

Jena still looked away and that annoyed you, they wanted a handmaid— so, she should be able to watch. She should watch what her husband is capable of doing and even enjoying.

With a gentle thrust, he slowly pushed inside of you— a faint gasp leaving your throat and a groan hung in his. You couldn’t see his cock, but it felt huge— the way it stretched you so effortlessly and made you mold to him.

He was so deep inside you, your stomach felt full of him.

His cool rings pressed against your thighs as he gripped them, the bed creaking under his thrusts.

He was disgusting, this was disgusting. You clenched around him, your eyes welling with tears because part of you did not want this, the other half of you wanted to enjoy this. Part of you wished his wife was not here so that the king could properly fuck you and give you all of him.

You felt sick, sick that you could cave to a man who gave you no choice.

He loved fucking you, feeling how undeniably tight you were around him, claiming your cunt as his, fucking you and knowing that you won’t stop thinking of him— he loved being your first.

There was pressure that was building in your stomach, a pressure so intense that you wanted to cry out in pleasure. The pressure almost made you squirm from Jena’s grasp.

His grip on your thighs tightened as he felt it, you could hear a hum come from his lips.

You bit your lip, bit it so hard that blood came into your mouth as you reached your peak. It was a feeling that you had never felt before and a feeling that left you wanting more, it was wrong.

A muffled groan from him could be heard from him as his cock slammed into you one last time.

You could feel the warmth of his seed as the heat spread throughout your cunt. He slowly pulled out of you and dropped your thighs, tucking himself back into his breeches.

Jena let go of your wrist, climbing off of the bed. Within a few moments, her and Baelor both left the chambers.

You still laid on the bed as you were instructed, the aunts said that you had to lay on your back for five minutes after. It increased the chances of having a babe, not that you wanted to.

A few days later— you, Baelor and Jena would be visiting House Lannister as Lord Lannister's handmaid was due to give birth. You didn’t quite understand why it was necessary for all the handmaids to be there, but it was. 

During your travels, you rode in a carriage that was separate from Jena and Baelor. You sat in yours by yourself, thankful for the quiet and peace that you had. You were also thankful that you could look out of the window without being scolded or being told that you were unruly.

While the carriage and horses trekked on, you took off your bonnet and unpinned your hair. The pins were irritating your scalp and so was having your hair braided every day, it was painful— sometimes causing headaches. 

It would take a few days before all of you reached Casterly Rock, which you did not mind— if it meant that you had time to yourself.

Time to think about getting out of this situation, because the gods themselves only knew how badly that you wanted out. You wanted to be free of them, of this slow torture.

The minutes stretched into hours during the ride, causing you to doze off occasionally. You propped your leg against the other bench, raising your dress to let in some air because you felt warm. 

Your carriage stopped, along with the horses and you could hear some talking from the eyes in front. The kind of talking that made you nervous, because too much conversation was always a bad sign.

As you waited for things to start moving again, the conversation ceased and the door to your carriage opened.

It was Commander Targaryen who stepped in and shut the door behind him.

Your brows began to furrow as the nervousness creeped into your bones. 

He sat on the bench across from you, where your leg was once propped up.

“I see you’ve made yourself comfortable in here.” He mentioned, taking note of your hair being down and your dress pulled higher than it should be.

“I was only just—“

“No need to explain, dove. I want you to be comfortable.” He interrupted.

You started to pin your hair back up.

“Leave it down, I like it that way.”  Baelor commanded softly.

You dropped your arms into your lap, your eyes looking everywhere but at him.

“This is inappropriate. We are not allowed to be alone in closed spaces like this, the Aunts would not appreciate it.”

He chuckled, low and laced with amusement.

“Is there anything those miserable women do appreciate?” 

Your eyes flickered over to him, shocked that he’d say such a thing— but also shocked that he found it funny.

“Are you adjusting well?” He questioned.

You clasped your hands together, pressing as hard as you could— hoping to suppress how he made you feel, how he got under your skin like a disease.

“Yes, Commander Targaryen.”

He pursed his lips, his eyes scanning over your figure.

“Baelor, as I told you.”

“That is inappropriate. You are my Commander, not my friend.” You replied.

He twisted his rings, leaning back against the padding on the bench.

“Life does not have to be so black and white, it can have color in it too— If you allow that.”

You looked down at your fingers, holding back the bitter laugh that wanted to escape you. 

Baelor moved from his bench over to yours, the space between you closing.

He pushed the hair from your face, his thumb swiping the bottom of your lip.

“You tempt me.” 

You stared at him through your eyelashes, your chest rising and falling fast. 

“I do no such thing.” You stammered.

His lips curved in a gentle smirk, “but you do. I saw the way that you had your dress up.. the way your legs and thighs were exposed—“

“It made my mouth water.” He admitted.

He pressed his lips against yours, a soft kiss— a test. You closed your eyes, your fingers pressed into the palm of your hand as you didn’t want to kiss him back.

“You can do better than that, dove. I know that you can.” He breathed.

You kissed him back, your lips pressed softly against his. He grabbed your face, pulling you into something deeper and hungrier.

His tongue slipped past your teeth, the taste of his cigar and pomegranate on his lips.

Kissing him like this was so wrong, but it felt so good. It felt so good to be kissed by the handsome King. You hated him and yourself for feeling this way, what was wrong with you?

“You are my pretty girl, all mine.” He groaned into your mouth.

You sucked on his tongue, a moan leaving his mouth.

“Let me taste you, taste what’s mine.” 

You pulled away, a string of spit connecting your lips— your reality and what you engaged in coming back to you.

“No—“

“We’ve already done too much. You are my Commander.. this is wrong, you are married.” You fretted. 

He turned your face to him. “Those are none of your concerns, only mine.”

“I am not your whore.” You reminded him.

“Correct, you are my handmaid— my sweet dove.”

Before anything else could be said, Baelor slipped onto his knees in front of you— pushing your legs apart. He pushed your dress up, exposing yourself to him.

His eyes raked over your thighs, your glistening cunt, how you looked down at him with such need— your eyes saying what you wouldn’t allow yourself to say.

He wrapped his arms around your thighs, pulling you to the edge of the bench.

“Commander—“

Your words were halted as he pressed his warm mouth against your cunt. The way his tongue flicked against your clit made you want to cry, your fingers gripped the bench.

He chuckled as ate you out, his eyes glancing up to see your mouth wide open from shock and pleasure.

He sucked your clit, making your eyes flutter and pulling moans from your mouth.

“Baelor.. we shouldn’t..” You breathed.

He pulled his face away from you, your slick coating his chin and mouth.

“You taste divine, better than anything I’ve ever tasted.”

He kept his eyes locked on your face—watching as you struggled to hide the way that he had you breathing, the way that you liked him eating your cunt.

You watched as his spit dripped from his mouth onto your pussy, almost unraveling right there in that moment.

He brought his mouth back to you, his tongue flicking against your clit— your whines getting louder. Baelor adjusted you, pressing his finger against your entrance.

“You want to take a finger for me, pretty girl?”

He made sure his finger was coated, pushing into you and causing you to gasp.

“That’s it, sweetling—“

“You take it so well, clenching around me.”

He sucked on your clit, pumping his finger in and out of you.

“Gods.” You moaned.

He pressed another finger inside of you, stretching you even more as it was the finger he had his ring on.

You were so full, your peak approaching quickly.

“Baelor, I’m—“

“I know, pretty girl. I want you to cum for me.”

“Fuck.” You breathed.

You were barely able to keep your eyes open as you reached your peak, your fingers hurting from gripping the bench.

He slowly pulled his fingers from you as you collected yourself. 

“You did well.” He mentioned, licking his fingers.

You pulled your dress down, unable to even look at him. He sat back down on the bench on the opposite side.

The two of you sat in silence afterwards, both of you returning to the painful reality that you allowed yourself to be intentionally blind to. Shortly after, the carriages came to a stop again— Baelor exiting yours without a word.

When he stepped out of the carriage, you felt like there was another piece of yourself that you allowed to be stripped away— another piece of control that you had given him.

𖤐

Eventually, you finally reached Casterly Rock and when you did, you were happy. Happy to not be left alone with your thoughts anymore, happy to escape the way that you judged yourself within your own mind.

You made sure your dress looked as neat as possible when you followed behind Baelor and Jena.

Inside Casterly Rock, it had been cleaned and prepped with precision. There was nothing out of place, everything was cleaned, shined, and perfect overall. The wives and Commanders had their own areas where they mingled separately.

Aunt Vidala found you. 

“Come, you must help with this birthing process.”

You followed her, looking around as they treated this like a formal event— like celebrating taking someone’s babe was normal.

Aunt Vidala brought you to the chambers for the handmaid, where the screams of agony could be heard in the hallway.

You walked into the chambers, all the other handmaids along with Aunt Catelyn gathered around the bed.

“OfDamon, you must breathe through the pain. Breathe in and out, deep breaths—“

“Help her, girls.” Aunt Catelyn demanded.

The wind blew outside, creating a nice cool breeze in the room.

You moved closer to the bed, taking in the sight of OfDamon’s shift being drenched in sweat, her brown hair clinging to her face, and tears of exhaustion sliding down her cheeks.

All of you practiced taking deep breaths as Aunt Catelyn instructed, trying to help OfDaemon.

This was the fate that awaited you, if Baelor got you pregnant. A bunch of people that you can’t stand in the room while you labored, waiting to take the babe after it was born. A special form of hell.

Lady Lannister took a sip of water and made her way back to the bed, her silk white nightgown clinging to her. She climbed into the bed and positioned herself behind OfDamon, mimicking her pain and contractions— pretending as if they were her own.

A truly disturbing sight in your opinion.

You couldn’t understand why it disturbed you so, but the entire situation made you uncomfortable— made you unable to think straight.

OfDamon cried out, her legs propped up and blood staining the white sheets.

“I can’t.. I can’t.” She fretted.

Aunt Catelyn walked towards the bed, a cool cloth in her hand. She dabbed away some of the sweat on OfDamon’s forehead.

“You must, dear—“

“You are so close, so close to bringing the blessing that gods have bestowed upon this family.”

OfDamon took deep breaths, preparing to start pushing again. 

The Maesters came back into the room, trying to guide the labor as easy as they could— hoping that they would not have to cut.

“Mother above, be merciful in this hour. Bring forth the child whole and strength to the handmaid. Let no life be lost this day.” Aunt Catelyn spoke.

“You have one more push.” The Maester mentioned.

“One more, dear and the babe will be here.” Aunt Catelyn reminded her.

You watched as OfDamom mustered up what strength she had to push, Lady Lannister screaming behind her like she was also pushing.

A few seconds later the babe came out into the Maester’s hands, a loud cry following.

Everyone sighed with relief while Lady Lannister left the bed to see the babe.

“It’s a boy!” The Maester shouted.

“Wonderful news.” Aunt Vidala smiled.

Now that the babe was born, all the attention was on Lady Lannister and the babe. The only ones still by OfDamon’s side were the handmaids.

Cheers erupted from the halls while OfDamon began to cry, all of that hard work and she didn’t even get to see the child— the child that she had to suffer for. She could’ve died and it would’ve been for nothing, for someone else’s wish.

You brought water to her as the other women talked to her. You didn’t have much to say, nothing that would be deemed appropriate anyways.

In the time that followed after the birth, they cleaned up the room and got OfDamon situated in her own chambers for rest.

The Commanders and wives wrapped up their conversations as everyone prepared to leave, allowing the family to have time alone.

You departed shortly after, weeping alone in your carriage.

Weeping for the mothers that would lose their children, the mothers that would die before seeing them again, the children that would die without their mothers, the fathers that could not protect their children.

You weeped because of what this place would turn you into, what you might have to lose in the process.

It was almost time for your next ceremony, but that would not be happening— not this time. You were to accompany Baelor on the summit being held for the Commanders in Winterfell. This summit was to discuss how successful things had been, the growing conflict with Dorne over the change and how they treated women, and to get Baelor’s approval on some matters.

You weren’t sure why you needed to attend with him, not only was it unnecessary— but a bad look.

One night you could hear him and Jena arguing in the hall over you attending the summit, but Baelor assured her that it was not what she thought — that you would be with the Aunts and other handmaids. 

It was a lie, an obvious lie.

She had her own intuition and before you took off for Winterfell, she assigned two eyes to watch you and stand guard near your carriage. She wanted to make sure that you were never out of their sight and that nothing deceitful was happening.

The journey was long and grueling as you did not talk to anyone the entire time, you were merely just trapped with your own thoughts— thoughts that weren’t the best.

When you finally arrived at Winterfell and stepped out of your carriage, you smiled for the first time in forever. The snow and ice covered the ground, the cool air brushing against your skin, the small flakes of snow that fell into your hair.

Baelor walked to you, a smile on his face.

“I can tell by your smile that you must’ve missed this place.”

You didn’t respond, just gave a half smile. 

Before you started to walk alongside, he pulled the two eyes that had been assigned to you to the side. You couldn’t hear what was being said, but you saw his hand placed on one of their shoulders and they both left after the conversation.

Baelor brought you to an inn, the inn was no longer functional and turned into something else. As things had changed, who knows what happened to the man that owned it.

Baelor opened the door to the bright inn— Commanders were sitting around drinking, handmaids without their bonnets, whores, and music.

The sight of this inn was truly something, the same very things they preached against— they were over indulging in. They had women who did not fit the standards of any role as their own personal whores, but scrutinized the women for not giving them children.

You stared around the room— the smell of cigars, ale, fruits, and meats overwhelming it.

“I’m glad that you could make it, uncle.” Aerion smiled, placing his arm on his shoulder.

“Ah, I didn’t think you’d make it either.” Baelor responded, pulling his gloves off.

You kept your head down around Aerion, you really did not need his attention on you— now or later.

Baelor got distracted in a small conversation with another Commander, Aerion walked over to you— his fingers lifting your chin.

“Cousin, he brought you. I am shocked.” He taunted.

You just stared at him, your nails digging into your palms again.

“I am not your cousin.” You replied.

His hand rubbed your face, his words laced with amusement.

“Are you not? You came from somewhere, certainly not from a bastard in Lys.”

You smacked his hand from your face, making him chuckle.

“You are fierce, I like that. Fierce is exactly what I need.”

Baelor turned his attention back to the two of you and it was obvious by the grimace on your face that Aerion had done something.

“Leave her alone, she is not yours to torment—“

“Did you bring your own handmaid?”

Aerion rolled his eyes, “I did.”

“Okay, well then— stick with her or the other women that are around.” Baelor spoke.

Baelor grabbed your hand, taking you to the assigned room for you and him.

The room was spacious and fancy, reminding you of his solar. The heat from the fireplace warmed your face instantly as Baelor shut the door.

He pulled off his cloak, placing it neatly on the back of a chair— while you still stood by the door.

“Why am I here?” You finally asked.

“What do you mean, sweet girl?” He questioned, placing a cigar in his mouth as he sat in the chair at the desk.

“This is not a place for handmaids.. it is sinful. It is a disgrace.”

He chuckled, lighting the cigar and taking a puff.

“Sinful, is it?”

You took a deep breath, trying not to overwork yourself and your nerves.

He inhaled, staring at you.

“How about this, I’ll allow you to give me your unsolicited opinion— give it to me. You will not be punished.” 

You stood there, your fingers once again digging into your palms as you tried to calm yourself.

“I have nothing to say.” 

He blew smoke out of his nostrils.

“Handmaids, Aunts, whores, and women in general— they always have something to say.” 

You pulled your bonnet off, placing it on the table beside the door— allowing yourself to do anything other than pay attention to him.

He repulsed you.

“You are a pig.” You gritted under your breath.

His brows raised and came back down quickly, surprised that you’d uttered such words to a Commander — let alone a king. He set his cigar down in the glass tray that was on his desk, the smoke swirling in the air.

He stood up from his chair and in two strides walked across the room, standing in front of you— his body pressed against yours and your body pressed against the cool wall.

“A pig, am I?” He asked, staring at you as you kept your eyes closed.

“The pigs are the men that are out there, I’m far gentler. They would rip you into two, but I will not do that. I will be kind to you, I will take care of you—“ He whispered, rubbing your face.

You smacked his hand away, moving from him.

“Is that it!?!—“

“You think that you’re some saint because you don’t beat me? You are worse than the men out there, because you orchestrated this whole thing!” You spat, pacing the room.

“You and those rotten fools that you call Commanders, you’re the worst of the worst. The gods have forsaken this place, because of all of you! The men are the reason that we do not have children, not the fucking women!” You continued.

You walked away, taking a deep breath and covering your mouth as you realized what you had said.

Baelor watched with a smirk, crossing the room in slow strides.

“There she is, I knew there was a fire that brewed in you.”

He grabbed your hand, his fingers becoming wet with blood from your hand and the deep marks that your fingernails left.

You tried to pull it back, but he held it up.

“You mutilate yourself?” He questioned.

“Better myself than you, I suppose.” You mumbled.

His warm fingers held your hand, bringing it to his face for closer examination you had thought— until you felt his tongue swirl around your palm. His mismatched eyes watched you, as his tongue was coated in your blood— his lips pressed to your palm.

He brought his face to your cheek, pressing a gentle kiss amongst your warm tears.

“You are mine, regardless of your thoughts. Your thoughts do not matter here, sweetling— that you must know. I have so much in store for us.”

He brought his lips to yours pressing a gentle kiss. The kiss made your heart race and your knees feel weak, you felt things for this man that you shouldn’t.

Maybe, it was truly naive to think that you’d ever escape this

˗ˏˋ ♡ ˎˊ˗

reblogs, comments, and likes are appreciated.

[ghostlybfgf]

THE STRANGEST THING

summary: Life starting anew with your husband and family. AKA some snippets and moments after the Trial of Seven.

pairing: blind!baelor targaryen x wife!reader

warning(s): canon typical violence, mention of disability, mention of memory loss, slight smut, angst and hurt, baelor lives au, happy ending!!

word count: 3.3k

a/n: it’s not the longest of course.. but here he is, i’d like to do more of this honestly!! let me know what you think loves 💗

The fury of crashing metal and eardrums bursting did not allow him to hear for the first few hours he was ordered to rest. Scraped and stumbling away led by maesters from the tourney field just as the mist had uncovered from the land. His speech took days to come afterward, with drawn, weary syllables, much unlike himself.

The shaking and tremble of his hands took weeks to begin to steady, a hand needed on his arm for support to support his aching back.

Though, the senses began to heal with time, all but one.

His sight.

It seemed like such irony, how could he have been so forward thinking, so certain of so much around him, and yet here he was, Baelor Targaryen, Breakspear he was called, one many sought for guidance and understanding in such oversight, and yet, he was left blinded.

A curse to many, a punishment from the Gods, a cruel trick for a good man, many would have said, could have, and yet it did not near as affect him in such a way.

——

“Is that really him?” Valarr’s words rang loudly in your head, echoing from the doorway with another beside him. Matarys. Both of your sons stood there shaken, shoulders sunken daring whether to take another step.

The nerves still buzzed heavily through you, biting at your skin like it had been set alight. Your throat burned from the scream you had let out for him when he did not wake for the first few days, tears stained to your cheeks like painting, but you did your best to cover them.

“I should hope so.”

His voice was weak but cutting, drawing you all to the darkness that draped the room, a warmth settling as quickly as it had been taken away. The maesters told you of no visitors, but he had recovered enough, and it had been far too long without you children seeing him.

“Come..” You whispered quietly, holding out your arm as the boys stepped in. Valarr first, with quickened but trembling strides to the bedside, and then Matarys.. he moved shyly into your side as your arm closed around him.

All but boys, Valarr nearly grown at ten and nine, but Matarys only a boy of ten and three. You combed back the auburn curls from the top of his head soothingly, watching as your eldest sat down onto the bed. His sat there for a moment, the four of you in a complete, breathless silence, until Valarr’s hand went to reach for his father’s face before dropping.

A cotton binding, cream and dampened by the rags that had been washed at his forehead. The dottings of blood that littered the back of it were covered as much as possible, not dried into a tackiness.

He did not see all of you, but he felt your gaze, and heard the stutter of breaths.

“The maesters say it is to help me be accquianted without my sight.” His fingers brushed over the fastened bandage around his head. A comforting gesture as if to chip away everything that felt so alien, that he was still him, still there despite it all.

“So you will be unable to see?” Valarr spoke, faltering just a little before his back straightened, almost studying.

“Indeed..”

“You will not be able to see us?” Matarys called out meekly, tears threatening his eyes at the vision of his father in front of him, tucking more into your side. Your fingers stilled at his hair, drawing a sharp breath.

“I’am afraid not..”

“But how will you teach us in the yard.. or help us with our lessons?” You went to speak, but words failed you, your mouth opening and closing as Baelor’s hand reached out. He laid it out flat, unfurling it and facing it upwards, gently beckoning him forwards.

Matarys took it, giving you one last look of assurance as you nodded to him, drawn into his father’s side as he sniffled, sitting just before his brother on the edge of the bed.

Somehow their eyes met through the cloth and barrier. And Baelor leaned in close from where he sat propped up against the pillows, placing hid hand to his shoulder.

“I need not for eyes to see, I will learn another way.”

“You mean it?” The boy’s eyes widened, sniffling lightly through a small smile.

“I swear to you.”

If you all had been able to see his eyes, you would have known he would have been looking at Matarys and the three of you with complete adoration.

You did not, but you felt it.

“All of you.”

He beckoned to you then, placing his other hand at the side of Valarr’s shoulder, you kneeling at the bedside just in between them all. His arms somehow managing their way to wrap around you all at once, embracing you all in warmth and promise.

You were the first one to uncover the bindings, deciding to take it into your own hands when sleep proved restless. Even the feathered, plush coverings of quilts and pillows could not take away the itching from his head and the tossing and turning that drove you mad.

And on the next morrow you’d cornered him, moving into his lap before sunrise, just as the reddish purple light filtered in through the curtains.

Sleep still consumed you, your hair disheveled and chemise ruffled, bunching at your thighs as you straddled his knees, encircled by his steady arms, heavy from rest, or rather none of it.

“Mhm, good morrow to you too.” His voice was thick with sleep, warm and enticing.

“If you could call it that.” You gritted softly, eyes squinting at the way he winced, muscles tensing under flesh were you studied the packed cotton and bandage.

“My heart, I do apologise these things are—“ His hand moved over it, rubbing over his head soothingly.

“I know.. that’s why we are taking them off.”

And you did, without any more protest. Your fingers traced the longings of bandage carefully, finding where the stitchings had been placed and for an opening. You found it at last, at the very back of his head, where you had kept away from, out of fear, out of upset you couldn’t say.

But it was unfastened anyway, the cotton pulling from his head with a single gentle pull, minding the hairs underneath, you smoothed them down as it fell away, cascaded to the side as you unwrapped layer by layer.

“And how is it?”

You paused, allowing the final few layers of cloth fall between you and onto the bed. Little of him had been covered, but now you saw him fully, all of him. Somehow not as you expected. His eyes were open, wide open, and moving, following every sound and flit of light. There was only one difference, one that made your heart ache.

Those beautiful mismatched eyes of violet and brown had faded, a cloud grey in between them.

Your hand placed to his cheek, rubbing over the skin as you breathed.

“Handsome as always.” And he was. The tan flush of his skin was no different, the darkened hairs at his beard and head turning peppery in age, the curve of his cheekbones, and that loving gaze he left you.

Though your heart still ached.

“Come now..” He urged, like your voice alone betrayed you and he knew there was more.

“Your eyes..”

“What of them..” His voice remained calm, thumb rubbing into the small of your back, face leaning into your palm.

“They aren’t the colour they used to be.. they aren’t yours.”

The chuckle that left him was breathy, a hand soothing over your own as he brought it between it between you.

“They are mine, my heart..” Your lips were close enough to touch, slowly melding to one another softly, once, twice.

They so obviously were. The same sharpness, staring into you as if all could be seen through a single glance, he read you still, even if something blocked the way.

It would not entirely, and in such a moment it brought you comfort, the lightness to greying dark cloud that swarmed you.

——

The weeks came and went, the lot of you settling as much as would allow. And without little fuss.

Though not for some.

Maekar had visited as little as he could manage, overcome with the guilt and grief that came with the whispers from the court. The title could not be given, for Baelor was still alive, gods be good, but he heard them. Every one of you all did.

Kinslayer.

Many waged for his position, he was indisposed, a danger if any. They looked upon him such a way since his touch, his dornish looks, his proper ways.. but they all knew beneath it all, he would prevail”. Because he was what they were not, good. though baelor would not let him be far from court, not so much as he could help it, he’d sent his brother for whatever peace he had in summerhall, but he knew the path he was taken down. and just as baelor did. the keep heard it many a night in the tower of the hand

“The realm talks opinionated of us all.” Maekar could barely look at him. From the distance that they stood apart, he may as well have been just the same. The same straight backed figure, that same reassuring cadence, the same man he had looked up to when they were into boys.

“The realm did not watch you disfigure your brother.” He spoke plainly, hanging his head low.

“Aye they did not. But I will not have my brother become more of a recluse in the meantime.”

Maekar paused then, turning over his shoulder from where Baelor stood, as content and assuring as ever, light flickering on from the hearth in the solar. And he had meant it, as much ache and grief that had happened in the meantime, he knew well not to let it play on longer then necessary, that voices would do greatly to tear them all apart.

He stood like a wall around you all for that, through the threats spat your way in hushed shadows, through the upset apologies that had been spilled over wine and the intimate, private conversations you shared.

But even through his averted gaze, and the amount of apology to you both that could be done, Maekar did not need to look up to see the way his brother’s shoulders sagged, or the harsh tension in his neck that refused him to move too fast, like he needed for that before it all.

And though such guilt threatened to bite, somehow he had been convinced. In the small study in the Tower of the Hand, Baelor had promised to his brother that it would be well, he would be well.

They stayed a little longer after that night, lingering in the Red Keep alongside you, a flurrying chaos of children and love that you all so desperately needed to be surrounded by.

And you were all the more happier for it.

Even Maekar.

Your eldest nephews slowly healed from their injuries, the youngest clinging to your skirts in wonder and caution. And you basked in their company. Lessons with the girls, Daella and Rhae, with shared laughter and stolen cakes afterward, overseeing the boys’ training, where Egg would take his eldest brother Daeron’s place as he sat in the sidelines, sparring with your sons while the adults watched on.

All was comfortable as they came to be.

The kind that could not go without supervision, careful and cautious of what stood around you, but how strongly you all burned from the inside.

——

Distant chuckles rumbled through the corridors, barely after dawn and the bed was still warm, but empty. The coolness of tile bit into the warm soles of your feet as you pressed them to the floor, pulling your gown over the chemise that covered your body. It wasn’t an unknown sight, for the bed to be emptied by the time you’d awoken, the remnants of a kiss waning on your forehead.

But such a sight was different.

What was before, the readily made, propriety of your chambers, had been left with chaos in its wake in the pattern of an overturned table, parchment scattered along the floor, and all of your husband’s usual daywear and armour discarded onto the armchair.

Unusual.

You followed the trail, stepping over the quaint mess as you were pulled to the door. The Kingsguard standing to attention bordered the door, seemingly unaffected and untouched. Your gaze flickered to them both, the slight of their glances back hardly noticeable with their necks craned directly forward.

But they knew you better, enough, having seen what you had missed from sleep moments earlier. The taller one had gently pressed his finer pointer outwards, gesturing down the corridor as you followed it. You were left with nothing but an echo. And so you followed it, thanking them both kindly as you made your way down through the tunnel of stone and stained windows.

“You remember this way don’t you?”

Valarr’s voice urged on, as a family chuckle followed. And then another.. a smaller, more curious one, one you had come to adore near as much as your own son’s.

Aegon.

And that’s when you were met with them. Arm in arm walking the corridors in light day clothes just barely thrown on, stumbling through the Keep just before dawn. Baelor’s hand tracing the jagged ridges along the wall with an outstretched arm, held just by his nephew’s smaller hands with every step.

Baelor paused first, slowing as both boys did by his side, Valarr first, with the same eyes he bore him watching expectantly, not quite in concern, but hope. Though he did not slow just to trace the same stone he had grown around, instead he turned his head, inclining just between the three of them.

“Maegor’s Holdfast,” He paused once more, turning back on himself to where you stood at the end of the corridor, many paces away.

“Would you not agree, my heart?”

Your pulse quickened beneath your hand, pressing your cloak tighter around you from the cold of the morning. He had heard you. Somehow, felt your presence looming just behind them.

The gap closed between you as you moved into his other side, linking his arm through yours, and through Aegon’s with a gentle smile.

“Indeed it is, rather the outer structure of it, but a few more steps, my love.”

“Hm.” He nodded, looking around as if to note it down in memory.

“Good morning, mother.” Valarr leaned forward, catching your eye with a genuine grin.

“Good morning, aunt.” Another voice peeped a this other side, a wide smile meeting his features bashfully.

“Good morning to you both.. stealing him away already I see.”

“It was his idea.” Valarr insisted, and his younger only nodded repeatedly, earning a shake of the head from you and a chuckle from your husband. It seemed they were not wrong indeed.

The four of you pressed on then, mapping the walls you had grown oddly fond of over time, whispering hushed jests around the halls, passing servants who had barely managed to rub the sleep from their eyes themselves. And steering through every stairwell, taking note of what was where, you made your way to your Matarys’ chambers, who in time had been awoken by a sight much like you had.

A table near knocked over, and a slew of giggles to follow, and yet triumph at last. And so you made it a point to do it as often as you could, beginning at dawn, in the off days he could be stolen away from court, slowly making your way through the halls until he no longer needed your arm to hold onto, though he made sure he did anyway.

—

The court resumed in its incessant ways in the moons that had followed, drama and gossip rife as it ever was, and council just as tense. King Daeron closed in on the court, as helpful as he could be, he had proposed a stand in for his son’s position as he recovered. It was not a terrible idea, leaving him able to rest off longer, to take heed of his condition, and yet, Baelor refused, standing somehow taller in his step as the Hand than he ever had.

All of them knew it was not weakness, nor pride, but the steady creeping of vipers around the high table had been far too ready to sink in their teeth. You had heard it, every shameful word and snicker.

He will not stand for long. He is in no mind to be King.

A realm falling apart by brother turning on brother.

How can he even look after his own family, much less the realm?

That one boiled your blood, though not nearly as much as it cut into Baelor. He did not speak of it, not a word after it was uttered, but it was clear in the liens pulling on his face, the distance he kept himself from them, he’d heard it as many times as you had, maids whispering in the corridors, guards nudging one another in private.

It was no secret.

The heavy clink of the chalice was the only sound to break the heavy silence of your chambers.

He mumbled something, unlike himself, far too in his thoughts as he composed himself.

“Pardon?”

“They believe me to be deaf. It is my sight Iam without, not so much my hearing..” His face found yours, lifting at the sound of your voice, parting his lips as he twisted his ring around his forefinger.

“You have heard the nonsense then..” You called out to him, crossing your arms as the tension pressed into your back muscles, heightened by the spoken ‘nonsense’ you had endured for the day.

“That, and the quarrel that was had with Lady Hightower.” You blinked at that, studying the way his lips curves, not quite joking, but not unamused either.

Ah, yes.

One of the many spitting snakes who had attempted to taint your husband’s image.

It was simple courtly gossip, an exchange of afternoon tea and a round of the gardens, and yet the way many looked upon you, was different. Pitiful, almost shameful in a sense, and you had not understood why. No one was to be trusted in King’s Landing, not truly, and that much you were aware of, but the way their brow furrowed in your presence, looking down their noses in shy and arrogant glances, it spoke of something more. Something calculated.

You had accompanied them nonetheless, preferring your own company by the time you’d sat down in your solar with them though it seemed. Because just as things began to settle, afternoon tea being served, that’s when she had landed the final blow, a ghastly, uptight and self involved woman.

“Please.. how are any of them to cope. The blind leading the blind it seems, quite literally.” And she laughed, a piercing giggle folded through her hand, and you had fought not to strike her then and there.

She had not meant one of you, nor just a jab at your husband’s condition, but that all of you were in fact, inept. It was a slight through your very soul, one that had been angled at your whole family, right under your nose.

“Quite comfortably.” That’s all you managed through gritted teeth, standing swiftly as they rose after you, eyes widening at just how close you had been, and at their own ignorance.

Baelor stepped forth, boots firming onto the carpet you stood on, eyelids flitting to the ground before landing back onto you.

“She deserved it.”

“That I have no doubt.” Another step. His hand reached out, curled every so slightly, his knuckles brushing your cheek with the same glint in his eye. Though now covered, a greyed sheen over the mismatched, beautiful hues of violet and gold, they still bore into you with the same brightness.

“And it was not so much a quarrel, I could have attempted a lot more.”

“In truth.” He followed your words, listening, but taken as you leaned into his touch. Baelor felt your angst through all of this just as you both had carried it. He knew of his condition, well enough by now, and it was not just on his back alone.

You breathed in deeply, exhaling sharp through your nose, the warmth of his hand a lingering comfort.

“None of us should have to take this..”

“I know.”

“I do not know if I can take it, how you even can.. not with the others, and the children and..”

“I know.” His voice was firm that time, not unkind or gruff, simply understanding.

He caught you where you trembled, holding onto the lasts of your words as his palm outstretched across your face, cupping it into his hand. Tears threatened the corners of your eyes where your breath stuttered.

“It is not your fault, or anyone’s.. it is just so out of normality, all of this.”

He contemplated for a moment in the pull of his brow, and the crinkle of his nose. He felt the weight you bore as much as he had, how he had held onto you for those few days as he recovered, how you clung to his side and wept holding one another in the restless nights and steering through the Keep. You even stood beside his side at the High Council, amongst whispers and slights.

It was no mistake what Baelor was scarred with on his body, the pair of you certainly were inside. But he was not one to let things unnoticed, to remain broken, even so, it was not in his blood.

“Then we shall hold onto what is familiar.” His head tilted, as if to follow the squint of your eyes, as his lips curved.

He stepped forth at once closing the small distance between you with a click, boots firming to the ground steadily as you did not move, simply watching his every pace until his chest stood before your own.

He shed your clothes first, and then his own. The rough fabric of his doublet, then his shirt, sinking his breeches to barely his thighs before he had descended upon you.

And just as you had vowed to each other before the Gods and kin alike, you would stand beside one another, loving in sickness and health beyond anything. Baelor had renewed it once again, with his body melded to yours familiar and devoted.

Your body was no different, the same otherworldly beauty he had cast himself onto long ago. Every trace of your curves and the scars that adorned your skin, fabrics and material all shed away to nothing, leaving only the warm shelter of heat and your bodies. his lips, his mouth, his hands.

He needed not to reminisce, only to relearn, and he did so, proving to you with every inch of him that pressed into you, that remembered. His mouth trailing down your body in open mouthed kisses, wet heat firmed to your skin as you arched into him, your hands sliding down the sides of his face and back. His tongue tasting you like you were something divine, not stopping until you were undone.

Nipping, sucking, and worshipping every part of you, as his hands opened you up to him, spreading your knees a gentle push of his fingers, running his knuckles across your skin and down your legs.

His breath stuttered over the curve of your stomach, ghosting inch by inch until his mouth sucked deeply where he found the dip between your breast, right over your heart.

“Beautiful.. my heart.”

“And yet you cannot see.” The words that left you were merely jest, though the breath hung between you spoke of more, something missing that could not be replaced.

And he knew better, knew you better than that.

“I need not eyes to see you. You have never left my memory since the first time I set sight on you.”

His lips pursed, damp, plush flesh at your skin.

“The most ethereal, intelligent.. enchanting woman I had the pleasure of meeting. In all of court…,” Another kiss, sharper this time. “..in all of the realm.”

Your breath hitched, heartbeat thrumming loud in your ears, as his fingers tested back down your body, sliding carefully over the hollow of your throat all the way to your navel.

“And you will be, always.”

When you brought him up to face you, neither of you moved, your breaths mingling, his muscles flexed beside your head, braced over you as few fingers brushed back the mussed hair at your face.

“I love you..” You spoke first, face melting into his palm, warm and tender.

“As I love you..” He spoke after without fail, nudging his nose to yours softly.

You spent the night like that, tangled in one another, tugging and teasing, brining one another to an edge only to crash once more.

And most of all you felt.

The one sense many in your positions would have been denied, much less denied themselves, and yet it seemed to be the only one you indulged in, together, remembering every part, every inch with loving hands and gasped breaths, life had pursued you to forget.

And when dawn reached you, all of you had sat around the table to break your fast, cousins, children, kin of all kinds arriving and leaving at different times, surrounded by the constant cacophony of cutlery crashing and servants flitting pass, but there was a steady moment that you all shared.

A gentler one.

Smiles were exchanged, as was laughter, whispered across the table that were not vicious, only childlike, a tug on your sleeve from one of the children in play, not like the vipers in court who often tried to whisk you into their schemes.

Between you all, there was a silent understanding that all of you were together, even through the horrors that preceded you. A feasting table was full, the corridors of the castle were lined with more guards than usual.

And despite everything that had been lost, you were fulfilled.

—

Life did not continue quite as normal as for your family there was no such thing, but it did continue and even at the time Baelor had fully recovered, Maekar and his chaotic bunch moved back to their home in Summerhall, frequent visits found you all sooner than letters often arrived. And you greeted them with open arms, surprisingly even your brother by law had, his guilt not as such fading with time, but opening up his heart to more than he had hardened himself to.

And on the date of his father’s death, and when King’s Landing saw its new king be crowned, he had defied every expectation living and before him. A Targaryen, blessed and good, of Dornish blood and countenance, without sight and supposedly disabled, he was able to lead them all.

And more than anything that he swore in the vows on his coronation, one half for realm, the other for you and your family. To be be by your side, to serve and honour and love you, as he was eternally grateful of you by his.

His queen.

The only sight he had needed.

loving taglist: @sem-ra @captainfern @starxs-s @sallymaywritings @jakecockley @theladytargaryen @evie-after-dark @happilyhertale @orson-pope @celery-grace @rain-soaked-sun @maystyles @userhotd 💗

[lopata-four]

My sweet Daeron and Myriah 💖💖💖

[ghostlybfgf]

Hiiii may I ask for AKOTSK perspective on their big wedding day to reader?! (I love Maekar) They are Madly in love and nervous as hell, yet excited to see reader walking towards him and ready to start their lives!?!?

THE WEDDING DAY

featuring: baelor, maekar, dunk, aerion, lyonel, valarr and daeron

a/n: it’s taking me a while to finish these fics because i’m not feeling the best, so i’m keeping it to headcanons for right now (knowing me a few days) but i hope you enjoy!! 💗

A Crown Prince to be married was no ordinary affair, not in the eyes of anyone in the realm, and neither was it in the eyes of the royal family themselves. Baelor had felt shoved all morning, rather in the whole few weeks leading up to the ceremony, not out of spite or duty, but worry. A feeling in the back of his spine, that ached him to his very core.

There was no uncertainty, in fact it was the opposite, only the weight of a thousand eyes waiting expectantly and though he was not shy of any of it, he only hoped you’d be unaffected by all of the pressure.

Squires had tiptoed around him since dawn, and he had been awake before it, barely sleeping at all. Trails of people, frantic and purposeful with trays and bundles of fabric flitted around him from every angle. He had dressed himself in readiness before any other did, preferring the time it took to prepare by his own hand.

“This one.. for good measure.” Myriah, his mother, spoke softly, sliding a pin into place across the chest of his ceremonial wear. A contrast to the deep crimsons and midnight black of dragons, beneath embroidered sigils and twinkling jewel, was the crest of House Martell. A spear through the a bright orange sun, shining proudly through the darkness of his cloak. A simple gesture, but a heavy one, and underneath those that paused around them, they both felt it.

“Thank you, mother.” He inclined his head, taking a deep breath that felt ragged and she only watched, a quiet knowing of that just as the position of his birth and standing, a new addition to the family was just as welcomed.

“It will guide you, as you already have it here.” Her finger poked playfully light into his chest, though there was no heat to it, only truth. The fury of dragons may have carried him this far, to be strong, mindful, powerful in word and step. But the passion and resistance of his motherland kept him on his feet, brought him to you no less. It made him the man he was, and he was not to hide that much less from you both.

The maids continued to fumble with the length of his clothes, shining his boots as much as possible before taking off in a flurry. They exchanged a look then, as warm as the encouraging hand she placed onto his cheek before moving away. He simply nodded, breathing in the air as the door shut behind her, leaving him alone with his thoughts.

The rest of the morning passed swiftly, bells beginning to toll at the nearing of the hour, the hour you were to finally see one another after what felt far too long.

Baelor decided to take himself to the gardens, somewhere he had always found peace, the distant trickle of water, the humming of the breeze and birds. But something stopped him in his path just before. Your corridor, your chambers. A slew of whispers and giggles, excitement and anxiety all at once. He did not stay for long, only allowing himself to hear your voice. He hardly made out what you said, perhaps something nervous, or dreamily, and it lit him up, gave him the last bit of hope that he needed. Confirmation.

He knew it may as well have been bad luck, but such moment of stillness steadied him, settling something inside of him that he would indeed, be worthy of you.

Many heads turned once he walked himself down the aisle standing at the altar in the Great Sept. Though not as many that turned for you, adorned in ivory and jewel, a true ethereal sight to behold, a round of maids and ladies in waiting surrounding you as you departed from them, taking a step toward him.

“Are you ready..?” He spoke quietly, breaking through the hush of the whispering crowd only meant for you as he took your hand in his, guiding you to stand beside him.

His fingers tested over yours, rubbing it along your own comfortingly as your hearts thundered in tandem. Baelor found himself looking more than he’d intended, and he cared not to stop. Your veil hung lengthy in a train over your back, your eyes bright and warm with the same emotion he was swarmed with.

Love.

“You are the most beautiful sight..” He inched closer as the Septon moved to stand before you both, his breath ghosting the shell of your ear as you began to grin. Not the poised and proper manner you had been taught and maids had practiced with you for the weeks prior, but a real one. And all doubt at that moment had fallen away, in fact so did the crowd, it was no longer a spectacle for all to see, it was yours.

He placed his cloak from his shoulders to yours, his fingers over the cloak before the ceremony, grounding himself. And as the bind that tied you both together, bathed in gold and crimson, his grip was firm and reassuring.

Just as he swore it would be for the future to come.

He couldn’t think of anything worse. The camaraderie of it, fabrics and flowers and thousands of eyes on him, on you both. To maks it better he had spent most of the night tossing and turning, irritated it had bothered him so much. If it were up to him, which it certainly was not, it would be private, a smaller ceremony, just as special but not put onto a pedestal.

Albeit it wasn’t, not entirely, the day was for you both, but in Maekar’s eyes, it could be far from it. He wanted to be married, wanting to unify the love you already shared, but not in a parade.

And his somehow shortened temper proved ruthless against all of those around him.

When dawn came he refused himself to be beside you, though it was tradition to keep you apart on the eve of such a ceremony, he made sure he was as far away as possible. Partly because he didn’t want you to see him in such a state, and the other, because he was terrified.

Even Baelor’s gentle encouragement did little to break him from it, even as he paced back and forth against the hard, stone floor.

“Enough fussing, leave us.” Maekar waved his hand at the young squire tugging on his lengthy cloak, a darkened coal black embroidered with a crimson dragon crest over his chest. The boy ducked and tumbled away, meeting the eyes of Baelor.

“Many thanks.” He gestured, and the squire took off at once, leaving them entirely alone in his usually comfortable bedchambers.

“Must it be so nonsensical, all of this running around and chaos.” Maekar grumbled, pacing about the room until he stepped into the back of the armchair, gripping the back of it with taut fingers.

“You are nervous.” Baelor observed, his tone nothing short of amused.

“I’am tired.” Tugging at the collar of his doublet, he met his brothers gaze, and for the first time the grown man had not been there standing stoic and proper, instead it was the measly boy he had grown up beside, wide eyed and vulnerable.

“It is perfectly normal to be, it is a big day. I was when—“

“I’am well aware, and Iam not nervous just..” He stepped forth into the light, just before his brother, “I want to be good enough.”

“And you shall be. She chose you did she not. The both of you are incredibly fortunate.”

“Mhm.” He did not argue.

Baelor even had to shove him down through the corridors until he made his way through the crowd. His grip stayed firmly on his sword-belt, resting on the steel pommel like it would give him some control, some sense grounding so that he may not drive it through his neck out of anxiousness. He did not admit any more, not to anyone, even to his brother. But so many thoughts were running through mind, though one stuck with him most.

Just as he had chosen you before all others, you chose him.

And standing there amongst the crowd, eyeing the expanse of the Sept before him, he went dead quiet, listening. He waited for your steps on bated breath, for the gasps that rocked the crowd at the sight of you. And as he turned, he felt every nerve littering him slip away, a deep plunge punching him in the chest.

“You are,” The words befell him for a moment, his gaze firmly setting on you as if everyone else had disappeared and not that he had cared for them anyway, he couldn’t bare to look around. Not even at his brothers, rather one very proud who encouraged him with a small smile. He stirred from his supposed trance when you gave him a look, a bashful smile, a beautiful one, yours. “Everything..”

His cloak was draped around your form with a restrained urgency, like waiting may well have been a curse.

The cloth around your hands was fastened, signifying your union before gods and commonfol alike. His grip tight as his knuckles brushed yours, almost possessive, but adoringly so. Like the only thing grounding him was through you. And just as the gaze that met Baelor not so long before, you were the only one able to see it, the vulnerable man behind the harsh exterior. Because that one he reserved for those he truly loved, and truly trusted. The front of a hardened man was slowly chipped away, stripped into one in love, and content.

And one that was desperate to cling to your arm the entire night to stay away from clamouring, boorish lords.

Unlike most, a marriage to a hedge knight did not come with castles and thoroughfare. Dunk knew it well, already mulling over the idea of tying you to him for life, no matter how much you convinced him of your acceptance, and how much he want shelf to contain himself. Though, it did come with one man moving from town to town, coin in hand in order to find everything he possibly could.

Flowers, cooks, guests, jewellery, somewhere to be your altar.

He was so close, so certain it was to be perfect, he’d make it so. Though somehow they got lost. A man turned him away, another laughed in his face.

“Don’t look so down, my friend. Here.” A familiar voice, lilting and proud rang in his ears. He barely turned his head before he met eyes with who he already knew feared.

Lyonel Baratheon.

Though that day continued in being swung onto his arm and guided through tourney tents and jolly people dancing and drinking, it had turned into something much more. In fact, with his new friend’s help, he had offered to provide all he needed, or at least assist in the manner. “Such joyous occasion can not go unnoticed, even for a hedge knight.” He clapped him on the back, leaning up just a tad as he boomed over the cacophony of singing and violins.

And what should have been expenses he could not afford became only effort. He took his time in the afternoons stealing away from you, a little more suspicious than he’d have hoped, but he made hearty excuses (reasons) every time. ‘Ave to feed Sweetfoot.. again.’, Armour need sharpening’ He cursed made himself for the words he spoke, not wanting to lie to you, especially with things that made no sense, but before you could protest he was off, striding out into the fields.

With the gift of coin and acquaintance, Lyonel had known, Dunk brought it upon himself to bring your ceremony to life, to make it for the both of you. Quite literally. The pieces of oak ready for the fire he had carved into benches for guests and a pillar for the altar to stand beneath, the rows of summer flowers he had picked from the meadows surrounding, all in bloom of yellows and blues, stood tall and decorated amongst the carpeted aisle he had bargained for with a travelling woman from Dorne.

He was even lent some clothes. A darkened tan emboldened with golden seams of House Baratheon, courtesy of you know who. It hung over his broad shoulders, sweeping as close as it could possibly manage to the ground. The boots he wore were not as broken and battered as usual, his body washed properly scrubbed over and over. He felt like a new man, or preparing to be, and not just for himself, and though he felt about to explode with nerves, he felt proud. He was just the same, rosy cheeks creeping a blush up the back of his neck and ears, the short hairs of his fringe disheveled from the amount of fingers rubbed through his hair.

He could not help the smile that came across his face when he thought of you, feeling the breeze around him, the dew on the grass just beginning to fade into the late morning sun. All of the light, reminded him of you.

For a man of his grand size, he was shaking like a leaf. He stood out like a sore thumb, the flowers he’d planted around the altar of bright oranges and pinks, near the colour of his flush, which he did best to calm with a hand grasped to the back of his neck.

“Gods..” Dunk’s head snapped up, hands falling to his sides as he met the eyes of Lyonel, staring straight past him. “Wha-“

“Your lady waits for you, blessed man.” He smirked, shoving his shoulder lightly to turn him, a confused looking turning into one of amazement.

Blue eyes blinked rapidly open and closed as he watched you walk toward him, stopping him short as if he had just seen the divine itself. A dainty dress adorned your frame, simple and embroidered with pattern and lacing, hugging your curves beautifully, your hair decorated with small cream flowers.

When he placed his cloak around you, he slunk it over carefully, though he was shaking, he was gentle. “My love..” He emphasised that, testing it on his lips in a pattern of reverence. Your hand placed over his, hearing the healer’s words as you both spoke your vows, his words stumbling but true, and though he meant every word, it did not come close to the destiny set in his eyes when he looked at you.

Aerion was not nervous, not particularly. He’d heard with enough whispers and gazes of himself to fulfill a swarm of people, but he wanted this day perfect, and he wanted it him and you.

That was his romance, his own way of stating more than just fear mongering and staking claim around others that you were to be each others.And he would expect nothing less for you. A Prince of the realm, and his princess, there would be nothing but the grandest celebration to be had. Much to the dismay of the servants on the receiving end, though they said nothing in argument.

He had made sure it was traditional, implicating the slightest touch of old Valyrian traditions as allowed at the ceremony. Much like the way he had kept himself from you for the days leading up to the ceremony itself, to him it added to the suspense, that when you would see each other again, it would make up for the lost time. He had slept well in the night before, though that’s all he mentioned to the servants who moved cautiously around him, already privy to his particular obsessive orders. Though on the inside, he was somewhat fractured. He wanted to see you, did not want to wait, he missed you though he would not admit it.

Though he made a vow to prove that to you later in the night.

Even as the voices muffed into the distance, he fixated on you, and only you. The thought of you being his, of everyone from the far reaches of the realm to know you both, as one. He did not register the stoney look in his eye and the distance of his gaze until he was pulled from such thoughts.

“My Prince..” A careful voice called out to him.

“Yes, what.”

“How is it..” The squire ducked behind him, trailing the blood crimson cloak behind him, black as coals on the outside and the inside with linings of red, just as his doublet was. His eyes raked over himself in the mirror, touching the fabric with a tilt of his head at the reflection, imagining it around you instead.

“Good..” He trailed off, leaving what little praise he could give to the young man before he could give a gracious smile. “Now leave.” He snapped absentmindedly, without looking away. And his trance did not end, even as he stormed his way through the Keep with purpose.

Aerion eyed everyone in his way that passed him, a silent understanding right away of his demands, and how not to break them not matter of opinions. He kept his head high, not faltering once until he saw you for the first time. He was sure he wouldn’t, that though feelings spurned deep in his chest he would not let it show. But when you were there, already standing and waiting at the other end for him, in his colours, a soft smile on your features where they met his. He broke. He rolled his tongue between his lips, scrunching his brow until it relaxed, violet eyes watching every step you took until you found him.

You were bound at the altar by your hands, and a scarificial bown full of a red liquid. he placed it to your lip and you over his. His eyes remained on you throughout it all, the grip around you deliberate and claiming, leaving room for something else, something more vulnerable in his eye that could not be named.

“We are now one, dove.”

He had known it from once he met you, you were to be his, and as his arm wrapped around your middle, guiding you both from the congregation and to your seats at the high table, it felt inevitable. The colliding and fated kind, and the one he would not let go of, ever.

Now Lyonel would be nothing if not grand, and though not quite a lord himself yet, he demanded all of everyone to be made up to your standards. which to him couldn’t be reach if tried.

He must have gulped many a sip of wine to get him through the morning, not the kind to get him drunk or sink his sorrows, but the kind that laughter and loudness could not replace. Even for him, he was giddy enough, both cursing and thanking the Gods that they had gifted you to him, though the fear overcame him. His voice expertly loud to mask the nervousness that settled in his tapping foot, and the hand raking through his curls.

Golden browns and yellows had adorned his body, the heavy silver of his crown of antlers placed onto his head proudly, an idea in his head as he toyed with it from the chambers. A tourney tent may as well have down the trick, but he would have not dammed you both to that, not on such an occasion, and so he brought the chaos into Storm’s End.

And even as others ran around him, his teasing quips shouted down the hallways and into the ears of frantic maids, he did it to avoid another doing it to him. And that’s when reality hit him.

It was happening.

“For fuck sake.” He breathed.

“What?” Ser Humfrey Beesbury. Ever the loyal and helpful friend, had stood beside him in the corridor, a quizzical look on his face where Lyonel had stopped dead in the middle of it.

“I’am to be married.. today.” He looked up at the man before him, then gazing down the far end of the corridor, a look of wonder in his eyes.

“Yes.. you are.” But just before it could cripple him, his lips curved, spinning on his heel as he clasped two heavy hands at Humfrey’s shoulders, a frantic and bold grin on his face, near enough pushing him into the stone wall behind.

“Married. Today.. fucking hell, am I not the luckiest man in the realm.” He shook him by the shoulders without thinking, pulling back as he took off in a stride toward the door, the time nearing closer than ever and he could not wait.

Beesbury only shook his head and laughed, following after his friend with a mutual happiness.

A gentle confidence came through him once he set his eyes on you, honey browns twinkling in the light sun rays. There was no chaos, or theatrics, only you both stood before one another, swearing to take one another for life. And he meant it with all of him, even in the wink he left for you once you were bound, wrapped under the warmth of his cloak and colours.

The final gesture was the antlers he had oft worn for himself, just as he did that day, he had displaced it from his head and onto yours, although a little tilted from the weight and sizing difference, the pair of you grinned together, his heart thundering at the sight.

“Worry not, my beautiful wife. We’ll make you your own.”

The celebrations were grand, an altar before a great tree with many eyes and well wishes to send you on. An applause settled behind you, thundered by many familiar faces you came to know, the Fossoway’s, the Hardyng’s and of course Beesbury’s, even a particular beloved hedge knight had stood in the gathering. The lot of you were bundled together, and stayed so even as the intricate details of florals and propriety had descended into true celebration, with cups flowing and raucous laughter.

And even as you danced and sang together, Lyonel did not leave your side hardly once, and his eyes gave him away every time he looked your way.

Utterly in chaotic love.

Valarr had been taught well, his posture, his words, his looks. All of what was required of him. But nothing could have prepared him for this, even if he did his best to prove otherwise. A commitment, a real one, nothing like on the tourney field or in lesson, but one of love.

And he was determined.

He remained composed as he possibly could, but inside he was.. focused. Thoughtful it felt like, the weight of it washing over him more than the pulling and ruffling of his clothes did. Under armour and chainmail, his sword belt and the doublet and cloak of Targaryen colours in blacks greys and red, he felt bare.

He thanked the maids and servants that had dressed and readied him, taking a moment by the window to take it in. The breeze of Blackwater Bay swayed in from the wide balcony, his eyes closing as his hands gripped the balustrade, picking at the sandy rock that had stood there for hundreds of years. He looked up to the sky then, gazing out into the distance.

“Please let us be well, let me keep us safe.. to do right by this, by her.” He spoke aloud, louder than he had meant to. More meant for himself, to disappear in the wind as he did when he often took moments to center.

“And you will..”

Valarr snapped up at the familiar voice.

His father.

He was dressed in similar colours, not far off from himself only the image of him in years to come. His face flushed a deep red of embarrassment as he hung his head low, Baelor stepping forward into his space and into the balcony.

“You will do right by you both you already have to come this far, my son.”

He only nodded, looking back at his father and reading everything with a steady exhale. Valarr believed him, he couldn’t not, not with the assuring look he gave him, an understood urgency.

“Now come.. it is time.”

“Let’s go.” He breathed deeply once, straightening his back before standing beside his father, just as tall as him now, and just as grown it would appear.

They shared a chuckle, a hand clasped onto his back as they moved through the halls. Valarr studied everything in his passing, every detail, every lettering and arrangement, remembering it all as if he could commit it to memory so simply.

His nerves crept harder once he stood before everyone, his family, his father and brother and mother.. everyone. His hands flexed and fell, breath stuttering and sharpening to a still once you appeared, pulling from the shadows and through the crowd.

He could not speak once you stood beside him, only the curve of his lips as it settled into a pleased smile, almost an unbelievable one, his eyes unreadable but pupils blown wide. His emotions were reserved but loud, his thumb storming over yours through the handfasting, standing a little closer to you as he moved the cloak from himself to you with a quiet tenderness.

“You are all I could ask for and more, my love..”

And just as he did the chaos of the day, with florals and banners, he looked at you as if you burn you into his brain, to remember you that way, forever.

To be the eldest grandchild of a King was enough, to be a disgraced man was another. Daeron hadn’t dreamed of himself being married, much less falling in love at all, and yet he did, madly. It was expected of him, as it was all the others of course, but to find you was another thing. You were his light, his hope, his everything, and that only drove him more mad.

How was he to handle that? To do right by you? Much less himself.

He’d heard it from the others. All the advice given, what to do, what not to do, what would be best, most romantic. All the madness from Aerion, all the chivalry from Baelor and Valarr and yet it still surpassed him.

He let them do the rest, keeping away from every possible outing and tray of wine that passed by, every part of setting up the castle in somehow something more grand than it tried to be. He was already distracted and half lost in thought of you by early morning. The chaos descended around him, a joyous occasion and he drank it in, though he hardly spoke, as sleep did not come to him as per usual, but not plagued this time, only awareness.

“Do right by this, boy.”

“You think Iam not trying.” Daeron fumbled with the cuff links at his sleeves, a creamy white that matched the rest of him, all except the dark cloak at his back. He had heard it all already, not meeting the eyes of his father just yet.

“You are, and that is what matters.” Daeron turned his head at that, violet eyes reading almost disbelieving at what he had heard. Maekar wasn’t one for words, he knew this, but even as his hand grasped at the wood of the door he nodded slowly.

And his father inclined his head back.

And that was enough, they knew it both then. A silent understanding, of both pride and a love. Maekar left him to be alone after that, and though it could be said they had more than enough in common, a sense of ease riddled him then, knowing it was not just in anyone’s hands, it was in yours.

Emotion was hard on him, scribbling down thoughts into the nearest handbook he had strewn over his desk, the heaviness of his doublet feeling enough to pull him through the floor. It was a harmless habit, spewing out the words of what he could recollect, his hopes, his wants, his dreams.

He didn’t care to hide the look on his face or the shiver that wracked his body once you stood before him, his hands curling over your own to steady you both. It was poetic, sincere in the only way he knew how, his striking features on view for you to see more so with his golden hair pulled back into a loose ponytail.

Daeron was so lost in repeating the septon’s words, and gazing at you that he had forgotten he had sunk the small piece of parchment into his cloak pocket, unaware it was to be around you before too long. And by the time you had placed your hand into it, out of pure seeking for warmth and comfort, you felt it, paper between your fingertips.

You pulled it out slyly as you walked from the Sept and into the gardens, where further celebration was to be held. It slit into your palm before you opened it, and his eyes widened in realisation as he stepped beside you, going to snatch it from you. But it was too late, your eyes already burning into the page, his face paling.

“To my softest, and sweetest dream.. do not let this one end. Please”

[captainfern]

Blessed

Baelor Targaryen x wife!reader

✿ baelor is ‘blessed’ by a travelling herb-woman, and after two weeks away from his wife, he is desperate to have her (or, a sex pollen fic with the hand of the king). ✿ 18+ ✿ wc: 5.6k ✿ cw: fem!reader/secondwife!reader, reader is not physically defined but she sexyyy, no y/n, sex pollen, SMUT, unprotected piv, unintentional rough sex initially, clothed sex (kinda), baelor is desperate asf, pet names (sweet girl, little dove, etc), praise, lowkey hyperspermia, strong language, baelor being the people’s princess <3

The red and black banners of the royal Targaryen caravan draws a significant crowd, and when Baelor, heir to the Iron Throne and Hand of the King, dismounts his black stallion, the crowd ripples with voices. It’s a great clamour: common people reaching for him, calling his name, begging for his attention as he’s flanked by his loyal kingsguard.

He has been away for two weeks. Travelling from Kings Landing to Sunspear and back again, stopping in various towns and villages on his way. He spoke kindly with vendors, purchased goods from travelling merchants, discussed the state of the realm with minor lords who frequented trailside inns.

He was a man of the people, but in truth, he only wanted to be the man for one person. He wanted to be your man, and he had been away for two weeks too long.

His pretty wife, no doubt sitting alone within the walls of the Keep. Waiting for the return of your dear husband, biding your time lost between the pages of Valyrian literature or nosing around the quiet observatories.

He smiles to himself as he thinks of you.

One of his guards, Ser Donnel, stoops low to whisper in his ear as he waves to the surging crowd, who respond with shouts of praise.

“We need not stop here, your grace,” Donnel informs. “We are but three hours from the royal residence. We can make landing before midday if—”

Baelor swishes his hand through the air, polite but dismissive. “Do not fret, ser. I will only spend a moment here then we will depart once more.”

Donnel says nothing more as Baelor approaches some of the commonfolk. He extends his arm and shakes the hand of a young man, no older than his eldest son. The boy beams at the prince, his handshake firm and confident.

“Seven blessings, your grace,” the young man says, dipping his head as he shakes Baelor’s hand. Baelor smiles softly at him, and the young man brings a hand to his chest in a display of respect. “I have the means to become a knight.”

Baelor smiles still. “Then I wish you all the best. We are always in need of good men and good knights.”

The young man continues to beam as Baelor moves through the crowd, flanked by the shining white armoured men that comprise his kingsguard.

The village is small and very simple. A scarce few buildings stand amongst crudely made wooden houses, but nevertheless, Baelor winds his way through the wide streets, greeting people who peer out their windows and doors curiously.

Once he has done a lap of the village, shaking hands and offering kind smiles, he returns to where he had started. With one final wave to the people, he mounts his steed and the royal caravan presses on. Cantering beside him, Donnel, his white armour gleaming in the mid-morning sun, casts him a sidelong look.

Baelor meets his gaze. “Yes, Ser Donnel?”

“You assume everyone you meet has good intentions, your grace,” Donnel speaks plainly, and this makes Baelor shake his head, chuckling softly.

“I’d rather assume the good intentions of the people than the bad,” Baelor replies, the Targaryen procession winding through the countryside now, surrounded by endless rolling hills, coloured a patchwork of brilliant greens. “If I assume everyone has bad intentions, Ser Donnel, I would not make a good prince.”

Donnel huffs. “You’d make my job significantly easier.”

Baelor tuts, humoured. “Well, we wouldn’t want that, would we?”

An hour passes beneath the bright sun, and Baelor finds his lower back growing stiff with his continued straight riding posture. But he does not complain, nor does he ask for a break: he has kept his entourage from their homes for long enough, and on the distant horizon, King’s Landing juts from the hills, the ocean glittering beyond.

The well-ridden path ahead of them stretches and coils between the rolling hills like a serpent, and way ahead, the guards alert Baelor to a fully-stocked wagon pulled by a gangly old mule. A shawled figure walks beside the mule, and Baelor smiles to himself as he sees the figure patting the creature gently, heading away from King’s Landing.

“I intend to dismount,” Baelor tells Donnel, who can scarcely react before the prince’s horse sidles up beside the wagon. 

The shawled figure, revealed to be an elderly woman of perhaps seven and ninety, stops at the sound of thundering hooves. She leans into a stiff bow as Baelor leaps from his stallion, stretching his hand to stroke the nose of the old mule.

“Your grace,” the woman greets kindly, her eyes darting nervously to the two imposing kingsguard who dismount their own horses and stand beside the prince. Their hands rest on the pommels of their swords, and they eye both the woman and her wagon skeptically. She gestures to the wagon, which is draped in dark blue material and smells of lavender. “I am a travelling herb-woman.”

Baelor assesses the woman with his mismatched eyes. “Well, it has been many years since I have met someone of your specialty.”

The woman smiles, and the kingsguard bristles as Baelor continues to pet the mule. The prince speaks with a disarming kindness that constantly has them on edge. He was considerably more difficult to guard compared to his younger brother, who spoke to no one unless he really needed to.

“I have been travelling for far too long,” Baelor continues, allowing the mule to butt his hand in search of more strokes. “Might you have something to ease my aches?”

Donnel clears his throat behind him. “Your grace, I don’t recommend—”

The woman splits into a deep smile and turns to her wagon, her dark cloak moving around her like the blackness of night. She smells rich of lavender and road dirt, and Baelor shoots Donnel a pointed look as he waits. The woman peels back the covering of her wagon and rifles through the contents she can reach. After a moment, she spins around with a small vial. She holds it up, the liquid inside a milky-white.

“A tannic tea made from the bark of the white willow,” she says, holding it out to the prince. “Used to relieve muscle and joint aches.”

Baelor goes to reach for it, but Donnel beats him to it, snatching the vial from the woman, who jumps slightly at his roughness. Baelor peers curiously at his guard, who inspects the bottle thoughtfully.

“You cannot take something of which you do not know its origins,” Donnel says in response to Baelor’s stare. “It could be poison.”

The woman gawks. “Oh, no! No, your grace, I do not—I do not carry poisons. I am a simple herb-woman, gods believe me, and—”

Baelor lifts his hand, and the mule snorts in discontent at the lack of contact. “Please, you owe us no explanation. Ser Donnel is simply being thorough,” Baelor says the last part pointedly, and casts Donnel a sidelong glance that makes Roland, on his other side, snort around a poorly hidden laugh.

Donnel frowns. “Your father would not forgive me if I allowed you to drink strange liquids from strangers. Not to mention, your wife—”

Baelor gently takes the small vial from Donnel, interrupting his tirade. The prince carefully uncorks it, smells it—it smells of willow tannins, something he is familiar with from his many travels across the realm—and then drinks the entire small bottle. It’s bitter to the taste, with a subtle honey-sweetness used by many experienced healers to remedy the acridness of many bark-based tannics.

The woman smiles softly, taking the vial back. “It should begin to work within the hour.”

The prince returns the smile, allowing the old woman to clasp one of his hands in two of hers. The kingsguard watches her like a pair of hawks as she retreats, but not before exclaiming aloud, pulling a small pouch from within her thick cloak.

“May I bless you, your grace?” She asks.

Donnel frowns. “No—”

Baelor ignores his guard, stepping forward and presenting himself to the herb-woman, thus putting some space between him and his guards. She smiles, opening the pouch. Between her thumb and forefinger, she produces a pinch of bright pink powder.

“How long have you been from your wife?” the woman questions, tucking the pouch back within her cloak and sprinkling the powder onto her outstretched palm.

Baelor chuckles softly, watching the woman. “Too long. Weeks now.”

“You must desire her embrace then, I assume,” she says, and Baelor ignores another poorly-hidden laugh from Roland at the woman’s open words.

“Desperately,” Baelor speaks plainly, also ignoring the fact he could feel Donnel’s scowl pressing into the back of his head.

“Well,” the woman begins, running her finger through the pink powder on her palm and drawing a circle in it. “I bless you, your grace, with the passion and the desire to make up for such lost time.”

The woman raises her hand and blows the pink powder directly into Baelor’s face. He closes his eyes, the dust settling across him like a mist, tickling his skin as it settles. It takes a second for the smell to calm around his head, but as he inhales, everything he smells is strikingly familiar. He smells his childhood in Dorne: hot, sun-bleached sand, rain-soaked yew trees, spiced wine and pomegranate juice; he smells the ash of Dragonstone, fresh wax seals, blood on Valyrian steel beneath a stormy sky; and then he smells you.

That makes him freeze.

You, as if he had his nose pressed to the crook of your neck.

The musk of your skin, the rose-water of your baths, the cinnamon in your perfume. He smells the lilacs you pick in the gardens, and the ink you so often spill across your fingers as you write. He smells the honey wax soap you wash your hair with, and the rich apple cider you so often treat yourself to during times of celebration.

Baelor opens his eyes and gapes at the woman. “What is—?”

“Blessed be you and your wife, your grace. Travel safely,” she says with a knowing smile, dipping into another stiff curtsy before taking the rope at her mule’s neck and leading him on, pulling the cart away.

Behind the prince, Donnel places a hand on his shoulder. “Your grace, are you—?”

“Let us continue,” Baelor interrupts, slightly too loud. He quickly mounts his horse as Donnel and Roland exchange a strange look. Baelor beckons his knights. “Come, sers. We must not delay our arrival any longer.”

He can’t wait to see you.

Your face flits through his mind and he has to physically press the back of his hand to his mouth to stop himself from groaning as he nudges his horse into motion. When he pulls his hand away, he can see something iridescent dusting across the black leather of his riding glove, but it quickly melts into the hide, leaving behind only a dull shimmer.

He doesn’t feel as though he has been poisoned, but now more than ever, with King’s Landing looming in the distance, his mind is plagued with thoughts of you. Thoughts, which were once wholesome, now diverge—images of you spread out on his bed, a hand between your legs; or the whiny little breath you suck in each time he enters you.

His thoughts are unbecoming of a man of his standing.

But he cannot rid his mind of them.

Images—memories—of you hiking up your skirts as you perch on the edge of his desk, cunt glistening as his mouth lowers, or the way you arch and bend yourself over the edge of your tall bed, gripping the soft furs and sheets, begging him to take you.

“Your grace, are you well?” Donnel asks, catching the light glaze falling across the prince’s eyes.

Baelor nods, clearing his throat. He’s fine. If he ignores the way his cock is currently twitching in his breeches, he’s fine.

“I am,” he replies convincingly. “I must admit, my back feels better already.”

Donnel scoffs, but says nothing more.

If not for the horde of people around him, Baelor would have taken off. No doubt he would have gotten to the Keep in record time, even if he did run his poor stallion into the ground.

—✿—

The sun hangs high in the sky as Baelor hurriedly dismounts his steed and waves Donnel and Roland away. The Red Keep is alive with servants and workers, but amongst the sea of people he does not see you.

The hours that went by were torturous, and on several occasions the prince found himself screwing his eyes shut and willing himself not to burst through the seam of his trousers. Your scent clogged his sinuses, and he could almost feel some phantom of your touch trailing along the back of his neck, rustling the cropped hair of his beard, fiddling with the clasp of his cloak.

He strides purposely through the glowing halls of the Keep, pulling his riding gloves off and tossing them to a servant who hurries after him. He unclasps his cloak too, letting it drop to the ground behind him. The servant squeaks, scooping the cloak up before sprinting forward in an attempt to keep up with the heir.

The servant clears his throat nervously. “Your grace, your presence is requested in counsel at the turn of the hour, and the Lord of Riverrun is awaiting your letter in reply to—”

“I have been absent for weeks,” Baelor snaps, but although his tone is short, he is not cruel. “It will not hurt to miss one more meeting. And as for the Lord of Riverrun, he can wait even longer unless he’d rather a reply from my brother, who he is not fond of.”

The servant nods. “Of course, your grace, but—”

“Where is my wife?” Baelor voices, his doublet too hot and too restrictive around his chest. The halls of the Keep seem particularly warm today.

“Your chambers, as far as I’m aware,” the servant replies. “But—”

“Thank you, you are dismissed,” Baelor says as he rounds a corner, the door to your shared chambers coming into close view. His heart leaps in his chest envisioning you waiting patiently for his arrival.

The servant, arms struggling to hold onto Baelor’s thick, luxurious cloak, frowns deeply. “Your grace—?”

Baelor whirls around, and the servant yelps as he is forced to an abrupt stop. The prince gestures to the closed door of his chambers with a quick flick of his hand.

“Please make it aware to all of the workers that I am not to be disturbed for the rest of the day,” he says, voice low. “Tell the entire Keep for all I care, but under no circumstances is anyone to call for me, understood?”

The servant nods.

Baelor spins and pushes his door open, closing it and bolting it behind him with a resounding clank. He rests his forehead on the rough wood for a moment, catching his breath. His heart hammers wildly in his chest, as if his journey through the Keep had been miles longer than it actually was. It almost pains him, the way it clatters against his ribs as his breaths grow more ragged. His head is swimming too, a dizzy sort of euphoria overwhelmed by everything relating to you.

You.

He groans, eyes screwing shut as his cock presses painfully to the front of his breeches. He has half the mind to simply stick his hand into his trousers and jerk himself into the linen.

“Baelor?”

Your voice is angelic in the quiet of the chambers, and it makes another groan split from between Baelor’s lax jaw.

He turns, eyes opening, blinking blearily as he stares into the sunlight streaming through the windows. You sit up in the large canopy bed, your white chemise sitting loosely on your shoulders, revealing the curve of your neck. The furs and sheets pool around you in a mass of browns and blacks, and you rub at your eyes with the heel of your hand as you take in the sight of your husband across the room.

“You’re home,” you smile lazily at him, pushing yourself from the bed and padding your way over to him.

Your voice is so soft that it makes Baelor fold forward, the weight of his arousal dragging him towards you. You have him on an invisible leash, tugging him across the room until you can wrap your arms around his waist and press your face into his chest.

“No one informed me you were returning today,” you tell him, voice muffled against the thickness of his doublet. He presses two trembling hands to your lower back, pulling you tighter against him. You nuzzle him, the feeling making his stomach swoop. “I’ve missed you.”

“And I you,” he responds quietly, and he stiffens when he feels you go still. His voice is throaty and hoarse, hauled through gravel.

Slowly, you look up, and he realises you can feel the press of his clothed cock against your stomach. He groans, a pathetic little bellow as you gape up at him, eyes sparkling as they take in the state of his fevered face. You raise a hand, placing it against his cheek. He closes his eyes, and like a puppy, leans into your touch with a small sound of pleasure.

“You…” You begin, but falter. Your fingers trail along the neat line where the hair of his beard meets his cheek. He wonders, as he finally opens his eyes, if you can see every one of his pores glistening. He wonders too if the sweat that collects along his forehead is tinted pink. You frown. “You smell of… well, I’m not sure.”

He whines at the timidness in your voice, his hands circling to your hips. He grips you tightly, pulling your pelvis flush to his. It takes all power within him not to grind his cock against you. He doesn’t want to scare you off.

“I’ve missed you so much,” he says before you can open your mouth. Your hands continue to flutter over his face, and it makes his cock jump in his breeches when your thumb slides over the bow of his top lip. “Being away from you has been torture.”

You hum, slightly distracted. Your hands continue to shift across his face, and your brows knit together once more when you slowly pull one of them away. Baelor watches you examine your fingertips before your eyes find his again. He can feel the hot pressure of tears behind his eyes—not because he is sad, but because he needs you so badly he feels his heart will implode against his sternum.

“Gods, I need you,” Baelor declares gently, strong hands lifting to cup your face. He leans forward to press his lips to yours, but you resist, turning your head so his mouth lands against your warm cheek. He whines, frustrated, as he scatters kisses over your cheekbone. “No, no, sweet girl, please don’t—”

“You’re sparkling like a silk-street whore,” you quip, voice light with humour, but Baelor doesn’t hear it that way.

“No, no, never,” he rambles, nose pressing to your cheek. “I’d never, sweet girl, gods no. I’d first open my throat before I ever—”

“Baelor,” you stop him with a small, breathless chuckle, slightly overwhelmed. 

He’s burning hot against you, he knows it, and you’re just as warm against him. It makes his head swim as he inhales, your skin slightly tacky with sweat from your midday nap, but smelling of roses and cinnamon.

“I’ve been blessed,” he says quickly, trying to turn your face, but you resist. He kisses your chin instead. “A herb-woman blessed me.”

“Ah,” you reply, knowing what he’s referring to. Not only have you met a few of these travelling healers in your time, but you’ve also read much about them.

Baelor leans his weight into you, and you stumble back until you collide with one of the thick posts of your canopy bed. He groans, pinning you to it as he kisses along your jaw, strong hands cupping your face. Your fingers find the hem of his doublet and you rub along the dense seam. As you do that, his hips rut forward and you gasp at the thick print of his cock against you, hot and hard in his trousers. Your hands drop, finding the cool metal of the clasp.

You hear him suck in a breath as he kisses the tender skin beside your ear. Then, he whispers, “Yes, take them off. Please take them off, little dove.”

You unbuckle the clasp.

He groans. “Yes, yes.”

Your fingers peel the front of his trousers open, and he finally manages to pull your mouth up to his. His hands are burning hot against the side of your head as his mouth slots against yours. The kiss is tender to start with, but one beat of your heart later and he’s whining against you, tongue sliding across your lips.

“Let me in,” he pleads against your mouth, before delving back in.

You do, opening your kisses for him to press his tongue in, finding yours. Everything about it is warm, your proximity burning hotter than a Dornish summer sun.

The tent of his cock nudges your palm as you finally shuck his trousers down. You feel for the ties of his breeches next, pulling at the knots as his tongue skims across your teeth. When he feels his breeches begin to loosen around his hips, he breaks away to groan, head tilting down slightly, your foreheads bumping together. He watches your fingers draw his breeches undone before they drop alongside his trousers.

You hesitate.

Baelor groans. “Touch me. Touch me, please, I need you to—”

You clasp the base of his cock with a warm, gentle hand. He groans again: this time, louder, and he lifts your head with his guiding hands and slams his mouth back to yours. There’s a subtle bitterness on his tongue, like a medicine of some sort, but it’s overwhelmed by an apple flavour that has you searching for more. Your tongues tangle as you grasp his cock, giving it a few tiny strokes as he pulls you away from the canopy post and pushes you down onto the mattress.

The kiss disconnects and you yelp as you fall flat onto the furs. Your husband’s hands find the hem of your chemise now and push it quickly up your body.

“There’s my pretty girl,” he utters, finding you bare of any smallclothes beneath your sleepwear.

He stares down at your cunt with a misty gloss across his mismatched eyes. His hands drag down your sides, then onto your thighs, massaging the fat there before he’s prying them apart.

One of his hands grips the base of his cock, replacing your own. “You have no… no idea how badly I need this.”

Baelor steps forward and tugs you towards him at the same time. You yelp once more as your arse practically hangs off of the bed as he settles between your spread legs. The thick head of his cock presses right against your clit, and you yowl his name as he taps it there roughly. His eyes snap up to take in your expression, and that’s when you notice a tear slip from his dark-hued eye.

“Oh, Baelor,” you whisper, pussy fluttering around nothing at the unbridled need in his face. There are a million butterflies in your tummy too.

He whimpers deeply, then drags his cock through your silken folds. He collects the slick that gathers there with a small moan before he speaks. The tear disappears into the hair of his beard. “My sweetest girl, please let me have you.”

You’re nodding straight away.

Baelor sucks in a breath, and you see something like regret flicker through his eyes. “Gods, I don’t want to hurt you.”

“You won’t,” you tell him, noting the rapid rise and fall of his chest as his eyes rake down your body. They linger on the peaks of your nipples through the thin material of your chemise. “You could never hurt me.”

“No, no, sweet girl, I can’t—” Baelor slurs, then cuts himself off with a low whine as he notches the head of his cock at your hole.

You’re wet and glistening for him, but his mind is split in two: conflicted, overrun with the effects of whatever he had been ‘blessed’ with, but still anchored to his princely values.

He huffs, desperate as he rubs the tip of his cock in tight circles around your entrance. “Oh, fuck.”

You angle your hips and the leaking tip sinks into you. He chokes on his moan, the apple in his throat bobbing as he swallows around it. He watches, eyes nearly the same colour with the way his pupils dilate, as your pussy splits apart for him and sucks the head in. Then, his entire body trembling with need, he pushes even further, shoving his cock all the way inside you, giving you no room to adjust.

It punches a pained noise from your chest that you tried to keep at bay, and you can’t help but wriggle away from him at the intrusion. It’s instinctive, your body reacting to the sudden pressure that fissures both pain and pleasure deep in your gut. Your body writhes against the furs as you whimper, somehow feeling the tip of his cock all the way in your chest, the sensation of being filled suffocating after over two weeks without him.

Your body flees his, and the moan that leaves his mouth is nothing short of heart-breaking. It’s stretched and whiny and nothing you’ve ever heard before.

“No, no, no, please, don’t run from me,” Baelor stammers, eyes wide, hands tight on your hips. He tugs you back down, spearing you on his cock and you howl as he buries himself to the hilt inside you. You fist the sheets, wriggling. Baelor whines. “Stop, s-stop, no, I’m sorry, sweet girl, please don’t—please don’t cry.”

You hadn’t even noticed a few hot tears slipping from your eyes. He bends then, kissing them from your face. His eyelashes flutter against you and the hair of his beard scratches against the skin of your cheek. He whispers to you as he rolls his hips, stretching your pussy around him.

“M’sorry, need—fuck, tell me to stop and I will.” His lips ghost across your earlobe as he pins you beneath him, the angle slightly awkward, hips trapped beneath his.

You gasp softly as he ruts his hips again. “Don’t stop, jus’ keep going.”

“Thank you,” Baelor says, kissing your cheek once more before he rights himself. He holds your hips tightly, pulling himself out and then back in. The drive is deep, and he’s moaning louder than you as he bottoms out again and again. “Thank you, thank you, thank you—”

His trousers and breeches rustle against his thighs as he fucks you, your arse hanging off the bed, the wood of the canopy creaking with his feverish movements. You take it, the sting of the stretch slowly dissipating with each thrust. Your cunt clenches around him as he thanks you repeatedly, growing more and more desperate as he moves. You can see the sweat on his forehead, and you can only assume he’s drenched beneath his doublet and tunic.

The sounds of your union bounce through the chambers, moans and whimpers and curses ricocheting off the stone. He’s murmuring your name like a prayer, strung beautifully between rambling sentences of High Valyrian as he ruts into you.

Not only is this little blessing working, but the white willow tea surely did. His back no longer pains him, and he feels like he could go on forever as he fills you. His eyes linger on where your pussy takes him, sloppy and wet and so fucking loud that his ears burn red. And you’re loud too, whimpering and gasping as your body is rocked roughly against the silken sheets and plush furs.

With a long-winded groan, Baelor takes one of his hands and presses it down on your lower belly. The added pressure has you keening, eyes almost rolling.

“That’s it,” Baelor speaks in a tone heavy with pleasure. “That’s it, little dove. Feel me filling you. Feel the way you take me.”

His words are so foreign yet so familiar. In bed, he’s no stranger to telling you how well you’re doing, how well you take him, how good of a girl you are. But this? The pink powder is thick between his teeth, clogging up the blood vessels in his brain, and he’s spitting out sentences that have you clenching tight around him. He groans as your pussy flutters, and the knot of pleasure in your tummy grows tenfold. A heavy pressure begins to build in the base of your cervix too, hips twitching as he slams into you.

He must see it in your face, because he’s panting now, eyes taking in every little expression that flits before him.

“I know, I know,” he affirms gently, noting what you could not articulate into words. “I know you’re feeling good. I know you’re feeling real good, little dove, but you just need to h-hang on—don’t want you coming u-until I do.”

You whimper, pouting a little.

“Can you do that for me?” Baelor pants, forcing your hips down. By the way he’s moving, the speed in which he fills you and the whines that begin to replace his groans, you know he’s close. But the pressure in your tummy is so heavy that you can’t answer him. He coos at you. “You can do it, sweet girl. I’m almost there. Just hold on for me.”

You moan his name, arching off the bed as the knot in your stomach pulls taut. He responds with a moan of his own, leaning forward as if he’s beginning to lose his balance. He ruts into you like a starving man, the bed shaking, his body silhouetted by the window behind him. His mouth is agape, his breathing erratic and strained.

“Baelor,” you call for him. You’re teetering on a very high cliff, your entire body alight with your impending orgasm. There’s a scream trapped in your throat and your legs pull painfully tight either side of him.

“Okay, okay, okay,” he rambles, his knuckles white where he holds you. “Okay, fuck, s’okay, little dove. You can come for me. M’right here, m’right here.”

You whine, almost pained.

“S’alright, sweet girl,” Baelor continues to coo down at you. “Let me feel you. Want to feel you come around me while I fill you.”

His cock jerks heavily inside you, and his thrusts falter just as you release around him. Gripping the sheets, you sob his name as the knot of pleasure splinters apart. Your release is intense: you shake beneath the warm hold of his big hands, legs seizing tightly as you wrap them around him. His name and his title tumble from your lips, and they only increase when you feel his cock nudge up against your cervix as he spills inside you.

Baelor groans your name. His hips stutter to a stop as he spills, and he’s panting and shuddering as his pleasure peaks. It’s the strongest release he’s ever experienced, his eyes snapping closed as his entire body shakes and his heart leaps into his throat.

And he’s still spilling. Thick ropes of seed that seem never-ending as he hunches over you, cock jolting over and over until the point of pain.

He whines deeply, then pulls out, just for a few hot spurts of cum to splatter across your mound and your lower tummy.

“Fuck, fuck, fuck,” Baelor whimpers, and you gasp out as he rests his cock against you. You feel it give one last jerk, dribbling at your navel, before you watch it slowly begin to soften, blood steadily seeping away from the head. Baelor notices the mess he’s made when his vision finally clears, still slightly dizzy with pleasure though. “M’so sorry, little dove, I didn’t—gods, I didn’t mean—”

You lift a tired arm and seize him by the doublet, tugging him down beside you. You capture his mouth in a heated kiss, and he melts into it straight away. His hands smooth down your sides as your fingers comb through his beard.

When you pull apart, you kiss the tip of his nose. “You have nothing to be sorry for.”

Baelor frowns slightly, and you can’t help but raise your head to kiss the divots in his brow. He huffs. “I… I was too rough, I shouldn’t have…”

There’s a slight ache deep in your womb, but nothing significant. All you’re focusing on, anyway, is the way his seed leaks from you like honey from its dipper.

“Please, Baelor,” you interrupt him softly, stroking his face. “Like I said, you could never hurt me.”

He goes to speak again, but you kiss him to shut him up.

“I missed you so much,” you say against him, and he grunts, agreeing. You laugh, pulling back a little, examining the bright pink in his cheeks. “And although I… enjoyed this, I must implore you not to take strange blessings from strange people—”

Baelor rolls his eyes, and now it’s his turn to kiss you to shut you up.

———

this might be a little ooc but oh well he’s hot

———

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[sedonasummer]

the concept of maekar and baelor exchanging girldad advice with each other

ɢɪʀʟ ᴅᴀᴅ | ʙᴀᴇʟᴏʀ ᴀɴᴅ ᴍᴀᴇᴋᴀʀ ᴛᴀʀɢᴀʀʏᴇɴ

— summary: Maekar's daughter does not listen. Baelor throws stones in a glass house.

— characters: Baelor Targaryen, Maekar Targaryen, King Daeron II 

— content: fluff | children | girl dads | typical toddler chaos ( I think, I don't have kids)

— a/n: I am so amused by the idea of Baelor giving parenting advice he does not follow, all while being entirely oblivious to it. For fic purposes, both girlies are their father's only daughter. Thank you as always for likes, comments, reblogs, and requests.

The midday meal in the Red Keep's solar was a quiet affair, the air thick with the scent of roasted capon and honey-glazed carrots. Sunlight slanted through the arched windows. At the head of the oak table sat King Daeron, his silver hair catching the light as he methodically sliced his meat. His gaze drifted between his two sons, seated at his flanks, their murmured conversation touching on topics devoid of any real urgency.

Perched on Baelor's knee was his daughter, in her fifth year, who had decided there was nowhere else she would rather sit. Her dark hair, tied back with a plain ribbon, mirrored his own, and she kicked her little heels against his thigh in a lazy rhythm. On Daeron's other side, Maekar cradled his own small daughter against his chest. Unlike her cousin's restless motion, she sat perfectly still, surprising for a child in their second year. Her pale violet eyes surveyed the table like a miniature queen inspecting her court.

The younger girl's gaze fixed on the heavy silver goblet before her father, an ornate cup chased with dragons that gleamed in the sun. She stretched out her chubby fingers, straining toward its cool surface.

"Stop it," Maekar rumbled without turning, his focus remaining on his plate.

She let out a small frustrated whine, a thin sound that was all the more piercing for its restraint. Her lower lip pushed forward into a pout of considerable depth, a perfect plump curve of displeasure.

"You cannot even reach it," he said, which was indisputably true. She let her hand drop back to her lap with a frustrated pat. "She does whatever she pleases", he muttered, the words meant for no one in particular.

"You must be firm," Baelor interjected, his voice calm and deliberate as he carefully cut a piece of capon into bite-sized morsels. He spoke with the confidence of a man possessing great expertise in the art of parenting. "You must be consistent. Establish early that there are rules and apply them evenly, or"—

Before he could finish, his own daughter seized his wrist, stilling the fork in midair, then leaned forward and plucked the meat directly off its prongs. His eyes tracked the top of her dark head.

"—or else," he continued smoothly, "you will find yourself unable to—"

"Papa," she cut him off, her small face twisting into an expression of profound betrayal and disgust. "I don't like this."

"No?" Baelor said, with genuine surprise. His tone softened like warm wax, and he raised a hand to summon a servant to bring water. Then, turning back to Maekar, he wore an unruffled mask of gentle authority. "A steady hand," he said, reaching for his goblet — she had been tugging at his sleeve — and passing it to her. She lifted it to her lips and drank deeply, more deeply than one would expect from someone her size. He did not intervene. "Girls are clever. Often, more so than boys, they will exploit any weakness. The remedy is to have none."

When she set the goblet down with a decisive clink, it was empty. King Daeron said nothing, only took a deliberate sipfrom his own cup as amusement flickered in his eyes.

Maekar's daughter, having tired of the table entirely, tapped his arm in a series of insistent pats. "Down, please, Papa."

He lowered her to the floor with gentle care. Her leather-soled shoes made no sound on stones as she set off along the edge of the table, toddling with determined purpose, her pale hair a bright streak against the dark wood.

"Leave that be" Maekar warned over his shoulder, half to her and half to the conversation. "Come here."

She ignored him, focusing instead on the tassels of the tablecloth, tugging one with intense concentration.

"Each time you allow it to pass," Baelor went on, his voice patient and firm, "you teach her there are no consequences. "You must—"

"Come here," Maekar repeated, sharper this time.

She cast him a brief unwavering glance from those pale violet eyes, then returned her attention to the tassel and yanked harder.

"—mean what you say," Baelor concluded, undeterred.

"Papa," Baelor's daughter chimed, her voice cutting cleanly through the room. "May I have cake now?"

"Your mother said no sweets before dark," Baelor replied with gentle firmness.

"Pleeeeease papa." The plea stretched and lilted, devastatingly effective.

Baelor hesitated only a heartbeat before summoning a servant.

"My sons," King Daeron murmured softly, shaking his head.

A crash at the far end of the table made them all turn. Maekar's daughter stood beside an overturned dish of candied figs, their purple jewels scattered across the stone. She regarded the mess with little repentance.

"Sorry papa," she said, her voice small and clear in the sudden silence.

"I told you to leave it be," Maekar chastised, rising to collect her. He settled her against his shoulder, where her head nestled instantly. "Be careful," He pressed a soft kiss to her hair, then another, as he returned to his seat to pass her the now-empty goblet she had wanted all along. Her small hands closed around it immediately, satisfied at last.

"You spoil that girl,"  Baelor said, sliding a small slice of lemon cake toward his daughter.

King Daeron surveyed them both, a subtle smile curving his lips. In that quiet moment, he thought with private certainty that were it his lot to raise daughters, he too would be wholly undone.