summary: after watching a dispute between sister and brother you decide that the latter needs to be attended by a gentler hand this time.
pairing: [snow white and the huntsman] Finn x witch!reader
word count: 5.5k
cw: abuse, adult content
tags: angst, hurt/comfort, depression, Finn is introverted, but also eager to impress, good boy Finn, bathing together, bath sex, handjob, edging, lots of kissing, cuddling, aftercare, the idiots are in love your honor
The sharp noise of a slap echoed through the large chamber. Queen Ravenna had struck her younger brother, again.
Just a few minutes ago you’ve been chatting away with her over a a few glasses of the finest wine in the royal bedchamber she had occupied since ripping the power of the crown out of the former kings hand, and held it with an iron grasp. Of course, who would challenger her. She was one of the most powerful witches in the realm and you were all there for her, not just supporter but friend too.
The evil queen had called upon you years ago, since she needed an advisor at court who wielded the same magical power as she did, she needed a witch. And got one as soon as you arrived to her kingdom. With your combined power the common folk could throw as many rebellions at Ravenna’s feet as they wanted but the crown did never slip nor budge, your hand alone had crushed a many rebellious uprisings.
Although you never fancied either crown nor kingdom you had to admit that living in a castle, enjoying the finest dining and dresses had it’s benefits.
Before all this you came from the swamplands, living in a hut on chicken legs and your only work being helping out peasants or the occasional lord. Even then it was always “Brew me a love potion” or “Help, the cattle has fallen sick.” So you did your crafty work in silent misery, you were born for something greater not for some backwater life conjuring spells to stop foxes from raiding chicken coups. It was an awful exile, one you in all honesty did not deserve. Simply because the king of a far away kingdom decided he preferred the council of a rich man over yours, claiming coin and wealth had greater power over man than witchcraft. Of course you had taken revenge, you weren’t a pushover.
They had found the king and the rich man strung up over the castle gate, naked and with their bellies slit open. Maybe it had been a little over the top but gods did you marvel in their fear and warm blood. Shortly after the folk declared you guilty, the only woman at court with power, so you swallowed your pride and left the country, witch hunts could be quite annoying after all.
You turned your attention back to the spectacle to your back, a fuming queen yelling and screaming like a harpy at her pathetic brother who already cowered on the ground, holding his red cheek, his white hair tousled from the blow he had received.
‘Poor Finn’ you thought, ‘you really mucked up this time.’ Although Ravenna had every right to be furious, with Finn having lost the runaway princess twice now, you still had sympathies for the young man, he always tried to make his sister proud and happy even if it was hard he’d go to the end and beyond for her. She sadly just missed to see that.
Your gaze slowly moves over his dirtied form, mud and twigs clung to him like a second skin, even his hair was dirtied, “A fight with the traitorous huntsman” he had said, eyes cast to the ground. You knew Finn wasn’t the most skilled fighter, by no means was he bad either but you would’ve proposed to go to the cursed forest yourself, being less affected by it’s awful fog and miasma, your witchy nature connected to it in an unexplainable way. But Ravenna had refused and told you she rather needed you here, so you stayed, also curious if Finn would succeed this time.
The queen turned back to you, her raving stopped and a deep troubled sigh left her lips, “Go wash up brother, you reek of dirt and death, my dear consort and I will think of another way then. Leave!”
And so he did, with his muddied head bowed in defeat, the sound of his steps vanishing in the hallway.
Ravenna let herself fall down onto the plush chaise longue in front of yours, grabbing the goblet of wine and emptying it in one go. You chuckled a little before speaking up, “You are to harsh on him sometimes, have I not told you of his admiration for you before. You seldom see it.”
She looked at you, her eyes turned softer. “I know you favour him, but that alone won’t make him a better man I fear”, she poured more wine into her gold cup “I just can’t afford failures during these times, I can feel my skin growing old, the heart of Snow White could undo this curse once and for all.”
“Then let me find her, I will bring you her heart and head if you desire that too.”
You gently took her hand, “I do not care much for kings or princesses but I care for you, my friend!”
A smile ghosted across her lips and she squeezed your hand, “And for that I am immensely grateful, but you are important to me, not only as an ace up my sleeve but as a friend as well. I will let you know when we strike.”
“Fine then, I trust your judgement…” You too now took a sip of the wine, a sweet aroma sliding over your tongue and you let go of each others hands. “But must you hit him?”
A groan left Ravenna as she dramatically threw her head back and you smiled into your wine cup. “Fine, I agree I get carried away in my rage sometimes, gods forbid I call it desperation. I will apologize to Finn on the morrow. If you worry so much about him go see him then.” She rolled her eyes, but in truth she would never be mad with you and if you desired her brother then so be it. She just couldn’t wrap her head around how such a beautiful creature like you would give so much attention to her pathetic brother of all people. Of course she loved him, he was her kin after all but some days she wondered how a man like him could be of the same blood as her.
A huff escaped through your nose, “If that would please my queen and release her from my exasperating worries about her brother then I shall take my leave!”
Ravenna gifted you a lighthearted look “You know I didn’t mean it like that, but yes go look after him. He likes seeing you more after such spectacles. Go wipe his tears woman.” At that you chuckled and stood up. But before making your way to the door you strut around the table and put your arms around Ravenna, your cheek laid on the top of her head. “Have a good night my queen.” She softly petted your arm and watched you leave with a smile. Everything would be good in the morning and when you returned to her side you two could finally plot some new plan.
-
The cold from the stone floors seeped into the naked skin of your bare feet, your blueish embroidered mantle and simple chemise a dance of fabric behind your hurried form. You didn’t wear much, for it was late and you had planned to go to your chambers after the little lounge with Ravenna before Finn had interrupted you with his return.
The guards crossing your way lowered their gaze in respect but you didn’t even acknowledge them, your destination just being at the end of the hallway, Finn’s chambers. You’ve been there before, more than once comforting the poor man after a rough day or after he had gotten an earful from Ravenna again. Now probably wouldn’t be any different.
Your steps came to a halt as you faced the fancy wooden door, separating you from his chamber. With a hand raised you let your knuckles knock at the door softly. No answer came. You knocked a little firmer. Still no answer.
“Finn? It’s just me. Can you hear me?”
Silence.
You waited for a minute longer, “Finn I’m coming in alright?”
Hand pressed onto the handle you opened the door, slipped in and shut it right after. The sound of water sloshing made you turn around now looking at the white haired man, he already looked cleaner than before. Clear water ran down his temples and pooled in his collarbones, his wet hair framed his pretty face and still had bits of leaves in it, you’d have to pick them out later. It looked like he just dunked his head under water and was thus unable to hear you at the door.
Finn looked at you with tense shoulders and a distant look in his eyes, in a way he reminded you of a frightened child and it tugged at your heart strings.
“I didn’t mean to interrupt your bath, I can come back on the morrow if you’d like, bring you the lavender cakes that you like. I just wanted to see-”
“Don’t leave. please.”
He even sounded like a frightened child and you felt your heart break into a thousand pieces. How could a man this sweet be of the same blood as the fierce and cruel queen.
With few steps you were next to the copper bathtub, the warmth radiated from it as you moved the soaps and towel off a stool before sitting on it. You were closer to him now, the candlelight throwing soft light on his features and you could see a little frown now, he looked tired.
“I know Ravenna has been harsh to you again but for all that it’s worth I am proud of you, you are a good brother.” His shoulders dropped a little and he felt his heart swell, for him your praise was worth everything.
Although he would never tell you how your words made him feel all warm, how your soft strokes through his hair made him forget all the bad things for he was afraid, afraid that you’d feel disgusted for him wanting. It was the one thing that stuck with him all his life, something he had learned from an early childhood, that he should never want for anything, not even a loving touch from his mother. For there was no place in their world for boys and now men that wanted to feel. So he always tried to be the opposite, for his beloved sister and in a way for you. Only in these moments, where you caught him in a vulnerable state, often licking his wounds did he quietly indulge the feeling of wanting, wanting to hear your loving words and your soft hands touching his skin, always so soft and never rough. Not once had he feared violence from you, unlike he did his sister. Not rarely catching himself flinching when she raised her hand too quickly when close to him.
His eyes turned glassy and he turned his face from you, “I’m just tired” was all he mumbled. But you knew that it was not the lack of sleep that made him feel this sad. “Oh sweetheart,” you slowly moved your hand to the side of his face that was turned away and onto the cheek that was struck before, covering hurt with love . You had seen him flinch in his sisters presence before, a habit taught through violence. Turning his face towards you and stroking his cheek with your thumb you locked eyes with him.
“Don’t hide away from me. I will hold you gently, you have been cracked enough as it is, and your heart is more shattered than you let on, I know this. My poor boy, my good boy.” He shuddered in your hands then slipped one arm from the water to put it around your midsection, pulling you in. The other arm followed, closing around your waist and the last thing was his face, his sweet face, which he moved from your hand and pressed it to your ribs and stomach.
Your body was warm and he wanted to feel the softness of your skin so bad he wanted to permeate the fabric of your chemise, pressing himself into you like he was afraid you’d turn into air if he let go. Finn couldn’t hold back a breathy whine when he felt your fingers graze through his still muddy hair, the other hand falling on his bare shoulder blade, the bone pulled up underneath the skin. You didn’t mind him sullying your nightdress even if the wetness seeped through the thin material now clinging to your skin, the dress could be changed, his mind could not. So you continued petting his hair and cooing to him as Finn melted in your arms.
“Why are you always so good to me?” he murmured into your middle, and you almost didn’t hear it.
“Because you are a good man Finn,” the sound of his name coming from your lips gave him goosebumps “And you deserve so much more than what you give yourself credit for.” You bent your head to kiss the crown of his head.
“I know you beat yourself up and you never ask for anything but with me you are always allowed to want…anything.”
“Anything?” he repeated and you let him know your answer with a soft “Mhm.”
Finn felt stunted but also immensely grateful, grateful to have met you and for your motherly touches. It still did not make much sense to him how such an ethereal and wonderful creature like you could be so kind to someone like him. You two have had these moments before, where you comforted his hurting and told him to not be afraid. To never be afraid to want.
The words swam around in his brain and he mustered up all the courage he had in his body to pull his face away and look up at your divine face. If this was the moment where you’d tear yourself away from him and leave to never look back then he was ready, it would break his mind but he could say that he wanted for one thing, no, desired one thing. And that was the woman he looked at as if she hung the moon and stars for him. Finn swallowed and felt his fingers flex in the thin fabric of your night dress.
“Even you?”
Finn wanted to grab the words out of the air before they could reach your ears but alas, only his arms tightened around your form, out of instinct most likely. He could almost see the disgust creeping onto your beautiful features, shame overtook him as he squeezed his eyes, mouth formed into a tight line awaiting the familiar sting of palm against cheek.
But it never came, instead he felt your soft lips just above his eyebrow. The young man carefully opened his eyes and stared back into yours, shining beautifully in the glow of the candle light.
“I knew you could do it…”
Now he truly was taken aback, you looked at him as if he was the most precious gem in this world and you were holding it. You wouldn’t tell Finn that this is what you had had in mind all this time, to build up his confidence and you let you know his needs all on his own. Joy spread in your chest as you watched the realisation in his eyes that this was never jest and that you were serious about this.
The young man opened his mouth to say something but closed it again, the words he mustered in the head refusing to roll off the tongue. “In this space right here that we have made for each other, you can say anything and I will not abandon you. So tell me Finn, what do you want of me?”
“All of you then…” he answered with a whispered tone, still unsure of his voice but newfound confidence carried his being right into your loving arms.
You put your hand on the side of his face again, pulling him in and he followed, eyes fixated on your lips until you were close enough to feel each others breath against your faces.
“You have my heart,” head turned into him you whispered against his lips. “You have all of me.” And you sealed it.
The kiss was a soft one, as if you were afraid to break him. His lips moving slowly against your own in a lazy rhythm only breaking up to inhale missing air. “Make me forget,” he rasped into your kisses, “I want you to make me yours.” A smile formed on your lips, “Of course my darling, I will make you forget anything until your pretty head is only filled with the two of us.” You placed an open mouthed kiss on his lips and he eagerly followed your lead, the act becoming more fiery. The hand you put on his face now slid to the nape of his neck where hair met skin, pulling him impossibly closer. Finn’s own hands still on you, the right hadn’t moved from your hip and the left was now holding onto your thigh as if he never wanted to let you go. You both still swam in the sensation even after you parted from the kiss, the two of you hard of breath.
“I’ll make you feel so good sweetheart,” you cooed at him. Finn just nodded and leaned into another kiss, you gave it to him, hot and passionate. Slowly you started to add your tongue, licking along his lower lip, teasing him into opening his mouth, and he did. Still a little clumsy but oh so eager he returned with his own tongue, sliding along yours as he moaned into it.
A shiver ran through him as you continued kissing him with a passion he had only imagined in his darkest dreams, warmth spread in his abdomen and he felt himself become stiff.
Soon your mouth started to travel, your lips felt cool against his burning skin as they touched his neck. Finn craned his neck to give you even more access, a groan leaving the end of his throat as you placed open mouthed kisses all over the sensitive skin.
He felt as if his entire body was tingling when you let your teeth deliciously graze the skin on an especially sensitive spot right beneath his ear. The slight stutter of his hips underneath the water didn’t go unnoticed by you and a knowing smile spread across your face. You continued kissing his neck and occasionally sucking the sensitive skin that made him tense so adorably in your arms. But you wanted more, your own desire to make him break apart in your hands taking over your lust-clouded mind.
So you left the hand that was placed on his shoulder wander down, sliding it over his chest and you felt the skin and muscle beneath it. Finn’s body was on the leaner side, soft in some parts but mouth watering nonetheless. The skin felt hotter the lower you let your hand travel, it reached water, and dipped beneath it. A choked gasp reached your ear as you finally took hold of him, he felt hot and heavy in your hand. “You’re such a good boy, behaving so well for me,” you groaned against his neck, his hands clutching at your form frantically. “Let me take care of you.”
With slow and lazy strokes you purred sweet nothings in his ear and watched him squirm in your hold. He looked so gorgeous in your eyes, trusting you completely with his body and mind as if you were a goddess and his body the sacrifice.
A rasped moan escaped him and you picked up the tempo, stroking his cock and twisting your wrist. You focused on applying a little more pressure on the head as he was most sensitive there, eliciting delicious groans out of him. Even the smallest of his whimpers snaked themselves under your skin and you felt so hot you thought you might melt into a puddle. The sensation of a tingling set itself in you and you felt yourself becoming wet, every noise that escaped Finn shot straight to your core.
“Are you feeling good my love?” You whispered into his neck and pressed a kiss onto his scorching skin. A strangled ”Yes…fuck” was all you got before he turned his face into yours, catching your lips with his own. It was him this time who licked into your mouth greedily, you could but return, a heated battle of tongues ensuing which left both of you breathless. He whimpered into your mouth as you picked up the pace again and caught a glimpse of how his right leg had started to tremble. A hand shot into the water and wrapped around your wrist, not to stop you but simply to hold on.
Finn let out a choked gasp and his puppy eyes flew up to yours, “Please…go slower.” ’Oh the poor thing’ you thought. “I-I can’t…please, I don’t want this to end so soon.” How adorable.
“Are you close hm?” A drawn out groan reached your ears and you actually slowed down. Poor thing wanted to deny himself pleasure simply because he was afraid of it ending. But you wouldn’t have that, you wanted him to cum but not in your hand.
You took away your hand and Finn whined at the loss of contact, “What… no please don’t stop.”
“Don’t worry darling, I promised to take care of you so I will do exactly that.” You ensured him with a smile and gave him another quick kiss which he chased as you stood up. Longing eyes fell on your covered body, his arms returned to him and he put them onto the bathtubs rim.
Slowly you raised your hands to your shoulders, pushing off the sleeves and the chemise cascaded down in waves of white and cream pooling at your feet. Finn’s eyes darkened, his pupils almost covering the iris whole and he gazed at you as if you were a goddess, your skin smooth and glistening. A divine figure in his eyes and he wet his lips with his tongue, this had to be a dream. Or maybe he was dead and the picture in front of him was heaven. He let out a breath he was holding and you motioned him to make room in the tub. Were you going to bathe with him?
He slid back until the warm copper touched his skin and he watched you step into the water, but instead of taking a seat at the other end of the tub you moved closer to him and lowered yourself in his lap. If he wasn’t blushing before then he was now, your own naked skin touching his almost drove him into madness. Finn immediately put his hands on the flesh of your hips, as if it was second nature and his hands always belonged there.
The water swished around your bodies, tracing your ribs just under your breasts, nipples still soft for the water was warm. You let him roam your body with his eyes before pulling him by the hair into another kiss. The groan he lost in your mouth was like music in your ears.
Between kisses and moans you told him to touch your body, to explore it with his hands. He didn’t have to be told twice as hands began to wander over your skin. You could feel the calluses on his fingers, it would certainly be heaven to feel them inside of you. But that was something for next time, right now you wanted this experience to be all about him, to cover hurt with love and to make him forget.
His hands soon found your breasts, fascination in his touch and he began to imitate what you had done to him earlier, mouth traveling lower, to your jaw and neck. And he placed soft open mouthed kisses there, remembering how your teeth had grazed his skin, making you feel the same. Light moans escaped you and you buried your right hand in his hair, pulling at it gently. You wanted to tell him to stop, to let you take care of him but it felt like he took immense pleasure in making you feel good as his dick twitched against your thigh. Always so eager to please.
Soft lips were now at your collarbones, littering them in kisses and kitten licks. Finn wanted to explore all of your body, especially since such sweet sounds were blessing his ears and he felt a little pride in being the one eliciting these sounds from you. He wanted more, his left hand found your breast, giving it a light squeeze while his mouth wrapped around your nipple. The feeling made you shudder and you pet his head, silken white strands between your fingers. When he was done sucking and lapping at your right breast he switched to the other, showering it in as much attention as the other had received. You let out a breathy chuckle, “Wouldn’t you like to see what I want to do with you?” Light eyes were on yours immediately, hands coming to rest back on your hips.
Finn swallowed before responding with almost a whisper, “Of course I would.” You kissed his forehead.
“Then lean back my darling, I wish to ride you…”
The hands on your hips tightened but he did as you said, cock twitching against your thigh again. You dipped your hand underneath the water and took a hold of him, a slight shiver overcame his body making you coo at him and place another kiss on his lips. Aligning his dick with your core you let your eyes meet, as you wanted to savour everything he gave you. And you sank down on him, you were slick enough so he could slide in easy, a groan left your lips. You watched him as he tensed and left out a shuddering moan, grasping onto your hips so hard it would surely leave bruises.
As much as Finn wanted to watch your face he couldn’t, his eyesight turning blurry as he strained to not immediately release into you. It took all his willpower and concentration, you just felt so divine around him, wet and welcoming and hot. He swallowed down a groan and let out a shuddery breath.
Watching the young man so tense brought a smile to your face and you wondered if this was his actual first time or if it was just a long time since his last woman. Deep inside you hoped this was his first time, pride worming it’s way into your chest and you took his face with both hands, raising it to yours. “I won’t move until you tell me to, love. Take your time.” You stroked his cheek with your thumb and watched his eyes glisten before enveloping his lips with another kiss.
Soon you felt him grind his hips into yours and little whimpers leaving his lips, “Please move, you feel so good.” And who were you to deny him this wish, you couldn’t wait any longer either, he filled you out so nicely. His size was just perfect for you, not too long and a manageable girth with a slight curve upwards, hitting your sweet spot in all the right angles. Slowly you picked up a rhythm that would fit you both, you were aware of how sensitive he was so you moved your hips in a lazy grind. Finn let out a strangled moan and tried to match your rhythm, it was uneven at fist but he quickly got the hang of it. He looked so beautiful under you, eyes all glassy, mouth hanging open and letting out the sweetest sounds. A tear escaped his eye and rolled down his cheek and you quickly caught it with a kiss before placing your lips back on his. Warmth grew in your belly and you decided to go a little faster, a lazy grind turning into a steady up and down, his cock sliding against your plush walls and Finn swore he saw stars when he felt your pussy suck him in. It was such a delicious feeling and it had him internally thanking all the gods for bringing you into this castle, you took such good care of him. A tight heat started building in him and he could feel his abdomen flex with every thrust he tried to deliver into your welcoming heat.
Parting to catch a breath had him mewling, “oh my sweet darling you will get your reward soon.” You promised him, his eyes still glistening from pleasure and you put one arm behind him, catching the bathtub rim before leaning over him. The feeling of being so full and the tug of his dick against your walls had you building up an orgasm of your own. And having watched Finn how he breathed and moaned and the stutter of his hips trying to keep up with the pace you set told you everything you needed to know.
“Please,” he sounded so desperate, trying to chase the pleasure.
You pressed a kiss against his temple and started to move faster, now bouncing on his cock, making the water splash in waves around your entwined bodies. A choked moan of your name made you stifle a groan of your own. Quick breaths fanned against the skin of your neck as Finn wrapped his arms around you and held onto you like a lifeline, his face buried where the neck meets shoulder. Just a little bit more, just a little more.
“Come inside me, love,” you moaned into the side of his head. The hard stutter of his hips were all you got as a warning before he let out a strangled moan and your name on his lips as a full body shudder rattled his body, legs shaking under you. You could feel his warm cum inside of you and your walls clutched around him so tight before you came with a a silent moan, nails buried in his hair and the copper of the tub and your aching thighs tensed around his hips.
The two of you remained entangled for a while, coming down from you high. You had to admit, you were proud of him for having lasted so long after all.
Finn was spent, his entire body felt sore, never had he felt such an amount of pleasure. Even when there wasn’t any comparison, he had always been so busy working around his sister that a womanly touch evaded him. Until now and it made him so happy, he couldn’t explain it even if he wanted to but he was glad that it had been you who was his first. With no one else had he built this much trust.
He felt your kiss on his head and looked up at you like a devote servant to his deity, “Thank you” he choked out, not knowing what else to say but he felt the need to let you know how grateful he was.
“You don’t have to thank me, my love. I enjoyed it as much as you did, you made me feel so good you know. My good boy.” There it was again, it made him feel so warm in his chest an his heart fluttered at your praise. A blush crept up on his face again, but this time instead of hiding it he leaned in for a kiss. A soft one full of love and longing, a kiss which you eagerly returned. He behaved much more different already, the tension in his shoulders gone and his brows unfurrowed. For the first time in a long time Finn looked happy and relaxed, it made your heart ache.
Smiling sweetly you pulled away, petting his head, “Let’s wash up and get to bed. It’s already late.”
Finn just nodded at you and buried his face in the crook of your neck, sighing, “I don’t want to let go of you yet.” That earned him a chuckle and a kiss to the crown of his head.
“Fine then, let’s stay like this a little longer.”
And you two stayed entwined until the water started getting cold, even then it took convincing and a promise of cuddling in bed for Finn to loosen his grip around you.
The night was yours entirely, the morrow could wait.
Pairing: Maekar Targaryen x F!Reader | Baelor Targaryen x F!Reader
Warnings: light smut, age gap (reader is in her early 20s), minors DNI
Words: 5100
How Maekar and Baelor react when they discover that their betrothed has disguised herself as a mystery knight during a tourney.
A/N: I will never get tired of the "Reader disguises herself as a mystery knight in a tourney" trope
Divider by @dingusfreakhxrrington
Baelor Targaryen
The afternoon sun bears down on the tourney grounds with an almost oppressive weight, heat shimmering off armor and trampled earth alike. Baelor sits in the royal box, one hand resting against his jaw as he watches the mystery knight take the field for the third time.
There is something wrong. Not with the joust itself—the knight rides well, better than well, with a precision that speaks of years of practice—but with the sick feeling that crawls up Baelor's spine as he watches. A prickling awareness that refuses to settle.
The knight's armor is unremarkable. Plain steel, well-maintained but bearing no identifying marks, no house sigils, nothing to suggest identity or allegiance. The horse is quality without being distinctive. Everything about this competitor seems carefully, deliberately anonymous.
And yet.
Baelor leans forward slightly as the mystery knight adjusts their seat, preparing for the charge. There is something in that movement—the particular angle of the shoulders, the way the reins are held—that tugs at memory like a half-remembered dream.
The lance strike is perfect. Clean, precise, economical. Lord Royce goes down hard, and the crowd roars its approval. Baelor does not react. He is too busy watching the way the mystery knight settles back into the saddle after impact, now recognising the slight correction of balance that he has seen a hundred times during his morning rides.
His chest constricts.
No. It cannot be.
But he knows. With absolute certainty, he knows.
That is you beneath that helm. His betrothed, the woman he has been courting for months, is jousting in a tourney disguised as a knight. Risking injury, scandal, death, for reasons he cannot begin to fathom.
The horror that floods through him is sharp and immediate. He maintains his composure through sheer force of will, years of courtly training allowing him to keep his expression neutral even as his heart hammers against his ribs. His father says something, a question about the mystery knight's identity, and Baelor shakes his head, not trusting his voice.
The next tilt is worse. He watches you charge, watches the opposing lance come dangerously close to your chest, watches you adjust at the last moment with a skill that should reassure him but only makes the fear worse. Because skill does not prevent accidents. Skill does not stop a splintered lance from finding the gap in armor, does not prevent horses from falling, does not guarantee survival.
When you win again, the crowd cheers. Baelor's hands are clenched so tightly in his lap that his knuckles have gone white.
He needs to stop this. Now. Before something irreversible happens.
The armory is dim and cool after the brightness of the tourney grounds. Baelor finds you there, as he knew he would, struggling with the buckles of your breastplate with hands that shake from exertion or nerves or both.
"That was quite a performance."
His voice is quiet, but you startle anyway, spinning to face him with eyes gone wide. For a moment, you simply stare at each other. Then you seem to deflate slightly, shoulders dropping.
"Baelor." Not 'Your Grace.' Just his name, small and uncertain. "I can explain—"
"I certainly hope so." He steps inside and closes the door with careful deliberation, the soft click of the latch somehow final. "Because I have just spent the last hour watching my betrothed risk her neck in the lists while pretending to be perfectly calm about the entire affair."
Your throat works as you swallow. "You knew? The entire time?"
"Not the entire time." He keeps his voice level, controlled, even though his heart is still racing. "But yes. I determined it was you partway through your second tilt. The question I cannot seem to answer is why. Why would you do something so profoundly reckless?"
The stubbornness he knows so well settles over your features, that particular Stark pride that will not bend even when it should. "Because I wanted to prove I could. Because I have trained for years and never had the opportunity to truly test myself. Because—"
"Because you are the most stubborn woman in the Seven Kingdoms," he finishes, but there is no heat in it. Only a bone-deep weariness born of fear. "You could have been killed."
"But I was not."
"No." He moves closer, studying the bruise forming on your cheek, the way your hands still tremble slightly. "But you could have been. One bad fall, one splintered lance finding the wrong gap in your armor, one moment of bad luck, and I would be standing here looking at your corpse instead of arguing with you."
Something in your expression flickers. "I was careful—"
"Careful." The word tastes bitter. "There is no such thing as being careful in a joust. You know that. I know you know that, which makes this all the more incomprehensible."
For a long moment, silence stretches between you. Then, quietly: "Are you going to expose me?"
The question settles heavy in the air. Baelor considers it, truly considers it. He should. It would be proper, honorable, the right thing to do. Exposing you now would end this madness before you can continue risking yourself.
But looking at you standing there in armor that is slightly too large, face flushed with equal parts triumph and fear, he finds he cannot do it. Cannot bear to humiliate you publicly, to strip away the victory you clearly fought so hard to achieve.
"No," he says finally. "I am not going to expose you."
The relief that crosses your face is visible, immediate. "Thank you—"
"But you will withdraw." His voice is gentle but inflexible as stone. "Immediately. You have proven your point. You have tested yourself. You have won several tilts, which is more than many seasoned knights can claim. Now you will stop before your luck runs out."
"Baelor—"
"This is not a request." His voice takes the same tone as he uses when commanding the realm as Hand of the King. He steps closer, close enough that you have to tilt your head back to maintain eye contact. "If you insist on continuing, I will be forced to reveal your identity to prevent you from further endangering yourself. I would greatly prefer not to humiliate you in such a fashion, but I will if it means keeping you alive."
Your jaw sets. "That is not fair."
"No," he agrees quietly. "But it is reasonable. You have had your adventure. Now let it end before it becomes a tragedy I cannot undo."
The silence that follows is broken by your heavy breathing. He can see the war happening behind your eyes—pride warring with logic, the desire to continue fighting against the understanding that he will follow through on his threat.
Finally, your shoulders slump. Not in defeat, exactly, but in acceptance.
"Very well," you say, voice low. "I will withdraw."
"Thank you." The relief is immediate and overwhelming. He reaches out, cups your face with one hand, feeling the warmth of your skin, the realness of you. "I understand the impulse. Truly, I do. The desire to prove yourself, to test your limits. But I cannot—" His voice catches, and he has to stop, has to breathe through the tightness in his chest. "I cannot watch you risk yourself like that. Not when losing you would destroy me."
Your expression softens, some of the stubbornness melting away. "I did not mean to frighten you."
"And yet you did." His thumb traces the line of your cheekbone, gentle against the bruising there. "Quite thoroughly. My heart has not stopped racing since I realized it was you out there."
"I am sorry."
"I know you are." He leans down, presses his forehead to yours for just a moment. "Now get out of that armor before someone else discovers you. And we will discuss appropriate venues for you to test your skills—ones that do not involve you nearly getting killed in front of half the realm."
"Such as?"
"Private training sessions." He pulls back enough to see your face. "Where I can supervise. Where you can hone your skills without risking scandal or serious injury. Where—" He stops, manages a small smile. "Where I do not have to sit in the stands feeling as though my heart is being slowly torn from my chest while I watch."
Despite everything, you smile too. "You would allow that?"
"Allow it?" His smile widens slightly. "I intend to participate. Someone needs to provide you with proper competition. Though I suspect you may prove better at this than I anticipated. You unseated Royce quite expertly."
"I did, did I not?"
"You did." He studies you for a long moment, this woman who jousts in secret and unseats seasoned knights. "Which is both impressive and absolutely terrifying in equal measure."
He kisses you then, soft and careful, tasting salt and dust and relief.
"Now go," he murmurs against your mouth. "Before I am forced to confront exactly how attracted I am to the fact that my betrothed can joust better than half the knights in this tournament."
Your chambers are dark when Baelor enters—no candles lit, no fire in the hearth despite the evening chill. He finds you sitting by the window, still dressed, staring out at nothing.
"I thought you might be asleep," he says quietly, closing the door behind him.
You do not turn. "I cannot seem to manage it."
He crosses to you slowly, giving you time to protest if you wish. When you do not, he kneels beside your chair, one hand coming to rest on your knee.
"What troubles you?"
"I have been thinking," you say, voice distant, "about what you said. About how I could have been killed."
"I did not mean to frighten you—"
"No." You finally look at him, and there is something raw in your expression. "You were right to say it. I did not think—I did not let myself think about what might happen. About what it would mean if..." You trail off, swallowing hard.
Baelor's hand tightens on your knee. "But it did not happen. You are here. You are safe."
"This time." Your voice is barely a whisper. "But you were right. I was reckless. Foolish. I could have—if something had gone wrong—"
He stands, drawing you up with him, pulling you against his chest. For a long moment, he just holds you, feeling the rapid flutter of your heartbeat, the warmth of your breath against his neck.
"I have been thinking too," he admits quietly. "About what I would have done if you had been hurt. If I had been forced to watch you fall and been unable to do anything to prevent it."
You make a small sound against his chest.
"But I have also been thinking," he continues, "about how extraordinary you are. How brave. How skilled. Watching you out there—once I got past the terror—I was in awe."
You pull back enough to look at him. "You were?"
"You unseated three trained knights," he says simply. "Your form was nearly perfect. Your timing impeccable. If I had not been drowning in fear for your safety, I would have been thoroughly impressed. As it was, I was both."
Something shifts in your expression. "I did well?"
"You did remarkably well." His hands frame your face, thumbs brushing over your cheekbones. "Which only makes it more terrifying. Because you are good enough to make this seem easy, and that makes it easy to forget how dangerous it truly is."
You nod slowly, understanding settling over your features.
"I need to touch you," Baelor says, the words coming out rougher than intended. "I need—I have been sitting with this fear all day, maintaining composure, pretending to be calm. But I am not calm. I am—"
He does not finish. Cannot finish. Instead, he kisses you, pouring all the fear and relief and frustrated desire into it.
You respond immediately, hands fisting in his doublet, pulling him closer. When you finally break apart, you are both breathing hard.
"Please," you whisper. "I need—I need to feel something other than this guilt, this fear—"
He understands. Of course he understands.
He undresses you slowly, reverently, fingers lingering on the bruises he finds—evidence of impact, of near-misses, of how close he came to losing you. Each mark makes his chest tighten, makes the fear surge anew.
"I am sorry," you say as he traces a particularly dark bruise on your ribs. "I am so sorry—"
"Hush, my lady." He leans down, presses a kiss to the bruised flesh. "You are here. You are safe. That is what matters."
When he lays you on the bed, it is with a care that borders on worship. Every touch is deliberate, measured, designed to chase away the fear for both of you. His hands map your body as though memorizing it, as though assuring himself that you are whole, unbroken, here.
"You were magnificent today," he murmurs against your skin. "Watching you handle that lance, seeing the precision of your strikes—it was extraordinary."
His mouth traces the path his hands have traveled, kissing bruises, worshiping unmarked skin, building heat slowly, carefully.
"Baelor," you gasp as his fingers find the warmth between your thighs. "Please—"
"I know." He looks up at you, and there is something vulnerable in his expression. "I know what you need. Let me give it to you."
He works you with patience, building pleasure with the same careful attention he brings to everything. When you finally break, it is with his name on your lips and tears streaming down your face—release and relief and residual fear all tangled together.
He does not stop. Keeps building you higher again, relentless in his attention, until you are shaking and oversensitive and begging.
Only then does he position himself above you, entering slowly, giving you time to adjust.
"I love you, sweet wolf" he says, the words falling like a confession. "I am in love with you, and that is why today was so unbearable. Because the thought of losing you—"
His voice breaks. You reach up, pull him down into a kiss that tastes like salt and desperation.
"I am here," you whisper against his mouth. "I am here, I am safe, I am yours."
He fucks you with a tenderness that steals breath, each thrust measured and deliberate, his eyes never leaving yours. It is not rushed or desperate—it is thorough, complete, an affirmation of presence, of survival, of love spoken through touch.
When you come apart together, it is quiet. No dramatic cries, just soft gasps and whispered names and the feeling of each other. Afterward, he holds you close, your back pressed to his chest, his arm a solid but tender weight across your ribs.
"Promise me," he whispers into the darkness. "Promise me you will not take such risks again without telling me first."
"I promise," you whisper back.
His arm tightens fractionally. "Thank you."
You lie there in the darkness, listening to his breathing gradually slow, feeling the rapid beat of his heart against your back begin to settle into something calmer.
And if his hand remains protectively over your heart all through the night, if he wakes several times just to assure himself you are still breathing—you do not mention it.
Maekar Targaryen
The heat is unbearable. Maekar sits in the stands, sweat gathering beneath his collar despite the shade, watching the mystery knight take the field with growing irritation that he cannot quite name.
The rider is good. Too good for some unknown fucking hedge knight with no reputation, no history, nothing to explain this level of skill. The technique is economical, almost clinical in its precision—no wasted movement, no flourishes, just pure efficiency.
It bothers him.
"Who is that?" he mutters to Baelor, nodding toward the mystery knight.
His brother shrugs. "No one seems to know, brother. No sigil, no identifying marks. Appeared this morning and has been defeating everyone since."
Maekar grunts, unsettled. There is something familiar about the way this knight moves, something that tugs at the edge of recognition without quite resolving into clarity.
The mystery knight defeats another opponent—some Reach lord whose name Maekar cannot remember—and the crowd roars its approval. Maekar does not. He is too busy watching, trying to identify what it is about this rider that feels so wrong.
Then the knight adjusts their position in the saddle, and Maekar's blood turns to ice.
He knows that movement. Has seen it countless times during early morning rides, during the careful lessons he has been giving you in horsemanship, during quiet afternoons when you thought no one was watching you practice.
The realization hits like a mace to the chest.
That is you.
His betrothed; his stubborn, reckless, infuriating betrothed is currently jousting in a tourney. Disguised as a knight. Risking injury, death, for reasons his fury-addled mind cannot begin to comprehend.
"Fuck me," he breathes, the word lost beneath the crowd's noise.
"Why are you cursing?" Baelor asks.
Maekar is already standing. "I need to go."
"The mystery knight is about to joust again—"
"I know exactly who the fucking mystery knight is," Maekar hisses as he rises from his seat.
The next few minutes are torment. He has to maintain composure, has to make his way down from the stands without causing a scene, has to move with deliberate calm when everything in him is screaming to run, to reach you, to drag you bodily from that horse before something terrible happens.
By the time he reaches the competitors' area, you have already finished your tilt. Won again, of course. Because you are skilled and brave and absolutely out of your gods-damned mind.
He finds you in the stables, tending to your horse with your helm finally removed. Your hair is plastered to your head with sweat. There is a bruise forming on your cheek—dark and ugly and proof of how close you came to serious injury.
The fear that has been building in his chest crystallizes into fury.
"Enjoying yourself?"
You whirl around, eyes going wide with a fear that should satisfy him but only makes the anger worse.
"Maekar—"
"Do not." He crosses the distance between you in three strides, grabbing your shoulders before he can think better of it. "Do not even try to lie to me. Do you have any fucking idea how reckless this is?"
"I can explain—"
"Explain?" His voice rises despite his attempts at control. "Explain what, exactly? How my betrothed decided to risk her neck jousting in a tourney? How you could have been killed or seriously injured? How you are courting scandal that could destroy both our houses?"
Your chin lifts in that stubborn way he knows too well. "I was winning."
The words hit something raw in him. "I do not give a fuck if you were winning!" He is shouting now, unable to contain it. "You could have been killed! One bad fall, one splintered lance in the wrong place, and you would be dead! Do you understand that? Dead!"
"But I am not dead—"
"Yet!" His hands tighten on your shoulders, not enough to hurt but enough to make you feel the intensity of his fear. "You are not dead yet. But if you go back out there—"
"I was not planning to withdraw." Your voice has that particular steel that means you have set your mind to something, that stubborn Stark determination that will not bend.
"The bloody hell you are not." He can feel his control slipping, can feel the fear transmuting into something uglier. "You are done. Finished. You will withdraw from this farce immediately."
"You cannot order me—"
"I absolutely can and I am." His face is inches from yours now, close enough that you can probably see the fear beneath the fury. "You will withdraw from this tourney right now, or I swear by all the Seven, I will drag you out of those lists myself and let the realm make of it what they will."
"You would not dare."
"Try me." Something in his voice must convince you, because you actually step back. "You think I care about propriety more than your life? About scandal more than keeping you alive? I will tear this entire fucking tourney apart if it means stopping you from getting yourself killed."
For a moment, you just stare at each other. Then, you whisper in disbelief: "You were frightened."
"Of course I was fucking frightened!" The admission comes out like a growl. "I have been sitting in those stands for the past hour trying to maintain composure while my heart threatens to tear itself from my chest because you are risking your life for what? To prove a point?"
"I have trained for years—"
"And you can continue training." His voice drops to something quieter but no less intense. "With me. In private. Where I can ensure you do not break your neck doing something stupid."
"This is not stupid—"
"It absolutely is." He releases your shoulders, running a hand through his hair in frustration. "It is stupid and reckless and brave and I have never been more terrified in my life. Do you understand? I have fought in battles. I have faced death more times than I can count. And none of it—none of it—compares to watching you nearly take a lance to the chest in that third tilt."
Your expression shifts slightly. "The third tilt was—"
"Was almost a disaster," he interrupts harshly. "That lance came within inches of finding the gap in your armor. If you had moved wrong, if your timing had been off by even a fraction—"
He cannot finish. Cannot voice what would have happened. The images are too vivid, too terrible.
Silence settles between you, heavy with things unsaid.
"I am sorry," you finally whisper. "I did not think about how it would affect you."
"No." His voice is rough. "You did not think at all. You just acted, as you always do, without considering the consequences."
"That is not fair—"
"Is it not?" He steps closer again, but gentler this time. "Tell me, when you made this plan, did you once stop to consider what it would do to me if you were injured? If you were killed? Or did you only think about what you wanted, what you needed to prove?"
You have no answer for that. The guilt on your face tells him everything.
"I am asking you," he says, and his voice has gone quiet now, drained of anger, leaving only exhaustion and fear. "I am begging you, if I must. Please withdraw. Please end this before something happens that cannot be undone."
You search his eyes for a long moment. Then, slowly, you nod.
"Very well. I will withdraw."
The relief is immediate and overwhelming. "Thank you."
"But I want to continue training," you add quickly. "You promised—"
"And I will keep that promise." He pulls you against him, armor and all, just needing to feel you solid and whole. "We will train together. Properly. Where I can teach you without fearing for your life every moment."
"I won," you say, muffled against his chest.
Despite everything, pride creeps into his voice. "I know. You unseated three knights and held your own against a fourth. Your form was excellent. Your timing almost perfect."
You pull back to look at him. "You are proud of me."
"I am furious with you," he corrects. But then, quieter: "But yes. Also proud. You fight better than half the fucking knights out there. With proper training, you could be formidable."
"With your training."
"Yes." His thumb brushes over the bruise on your cheek, and the fear surges again at the evidence of impact. "With my training. Starting tomorrow. But today, you are done risking yourself."
You nod slowly. "Agreed."
"Good." He kisses you then, not gentle, but not cruel either. Claiming. Desperate. Relief and fear and frustrated desire all tangled together.
When he pulls back, you are both breathing hard.
"Now get out of that armor," he says roughly, "and join me in the stands."
You do not expect him to come to your chambers. After the confrontation in the stables, after his fury and your withdrawal, you assume he will need time to calm himself, to stew in silence, to process everything that happened.
But as darkness settles over the castle, you hear your door open. You turn from the window to find Maekar standing there, having let himself in without knocking. He bars the door behind him with little care.
"Maekar—"
"Do not speak." His voice is rough, strained. "Not yet."
He crosses to you, and in the dim candlelight, you can see the exhaustion and fear written across his face. All of it still churning beneath the surface.
When he reaches you, he simply pulls you against him, hard enough that you feel the desperation in it. For a long moment, he just holds you, his face buried in your hair, his heartbeat loud against your ear.
"I thought I was going to watch you die today," he finally says, voice muffled. "When that lance came at you—I thought—"
His arms tighten almost painfully.
You press closer, your own arms coming up to hold him back. "I am sorry. I did not think—"
"No, you did not fucking think." But there is no heat in it now. Only weariness. "You did not think about what it would do to me. What I would feel, watching you risk yourself."
"I know. I am sorry."
"I know you are." He pulls back enough to look at you, and there is something raw in his expression. "But you were also magnificent. Gods help me, you were absolutely magnificent out there."
His hands frame your face, rough and calloused and trembling slightly.
"The way you moved," he continues, voice dropping. "The precision of your strikes. Unseating trained knights like it was nothing. I have never—" He stops, swallows hard. "I have never been more attracted to you and more terrified at the same time."
"Maekar—"
He kisses you, cutting off whatever you were going to say. It is fierce and desperate, all the emotions of the day pouring into it.
"I need to feel you," he says against your mouth.
His hands are already working at your clothing, urgent and demanding. You help him, equally desperate now for this connection, this affirmation of life and presence.
When your gown falls away, he simply looks at you for a moment. Then his hands find the bruises—on your ribs, your shoulder, your thigh. Each one makes his jaw clench, makes something dangerous flash in his eyes.
"These could have been worse," he says quietly. "Could have been broken bones. Internal bleeding. Death."
"But they are not—"
"This time." He traces a particularly dark bruise on your ribs, feather-light. "This time you were lucky."
He lifts you then, carrying you to the bed with single-minded purpose. When he lays you down, it is with a care that seems at odds with the intensity burning in his eyes.
"You were outstanding today," he says, his hands mapping your body with deliberate thoroughness. "Watching you handle that horse, that lance, moving with such skill and control—"
His hand slides between your thighs, finding you already wet.
"Seven hells," he breathes. "Do you have any idea what that did to me? Watching you demonstrate such prowess while knowing I could do nothing to protect you?"
"I thought you were angry," you manage as his fingers begin to work with devastating precision.
"I was fucking terrified," he corrects, his mouth finding your breast. "But I was also watching the woman I love prove herself more than capable. And that is—" He bites gently, making you gasp. "That is hypnotising, even when it also makes me want to lock you away somewhere safe."
"You love me?"
He looks up, and there is something raw, almost broken in his expression. "Of course I fucking love you. Why else would watching you risk yourself destroy me so completely?"
He does not wait for a response. Simply positions himself and enters you in one smooth thrust that makes you both groan.
"You are mine," he says, his voice rough as he begins to move. "And I am never letting you go. Not to tourneys. Not to danger. Not to anything."
It is not gentle. He takes you with an intensity born of fear and relief and desperate need, his hands gripping your hips hard enough to leave new marks alongside the bruises. Each thrust is deliberate, claiming, proving to himself that you are here, alive, his.
"Never again," he says, pace relentless. "You do not risk yourself like that without me. Without my protection."
"Yes," you gasp, meeting his movements. "Yes, I promise—"
"Good." His hand finds your throat, spanning it easily, applying just enough pressure to make your breath catch. "Because you are mine to protect. Mine to train. Mine to keep safe. Mine."
When you shatter around him, it is with his name torn from your throat and his hand at your neck, possessive and claiming. He follows moments later, burying himself deep and groaning your name like something sacred.
Afterward, he does not let go. Pulls you against him with arms that shake slightly, his breathing harsh against your neck.
"I love you," he says into the darkness. "And that is why I cannot watch you risk yourself. Because losing you would break me."
You turn in his arms, pressing your face against his chest. "I know. I understand now. I am sorry."
"I know you are." His hand strokes through your hair, gentle despite the desperation of moments before. "Tomorrow we begin training properly. I will teach you everything I know. Make you even more formidable.”
He holds you close as the candles burn low, as exhaustion finally begins to claim you both. But even as sleep creeps closer, his arms do not loosen. If anything, they tighten.
"I did win, though," you murmur drowsily.
Despite everything, he laughs—rough and genuine. "Yes. You won. You were fucking incredible, and I am both proud and furious about it."
"I can live with that."
"You will have to." He presses a kiss to your forehead. "Now sleep. Tomorrow we train. And if you ever disguise yourself as a knight again without telling me first—"
"You will tan my hide," you finish. "I know."
"Exactly." But there is fondness in his voice now, the anger finally burned away. "My brave, foolish, magnificent woman."
Left: Fritz and Friedrich sleeping on a train ride from Italy back to Würzburg. Fritz met with his family in Italy when he was on a short leave in March 1942, and then travelled back to Germany together with them. The photo was most likely taken by Ellen, who thought it was adorable how her brother and son snuggled up against each other. Right: I'm not sure about the exact date of this photo, but I believe it was an earlier one (possibly pre-war) taken during a walk in their hometown Würzburg.
Today is the birthday of Fritz Bayerlein's nephew Friedrich "Fritz" Bayerlein-Dittmar. He was born on January 31, 1925 and was the only child of Fritz' sister Ellen. He had a very close relationship with his uncle throughout his life and seemed to have loved and admired him very much. He was also very involved in the books that Patricia Spayd wrote about Bayerlein later on, providing her with photographs from the family album and many personal anecdotes. Whether he always stuck entirely to facts or sometimes tried to portray his uncle in a slightly more favourable way (be it deliberately or because he subconsciously clung to the happier memories) is something I cannot for sure confirm or deny at this point in time though.
Another photo of Friedrich, Fritz and Ellen from the vacation in Italy during March 1942.
Friedrich's father was the reserve officer Matthäus Dittmar, however his parents divorced at some point. I don't know the exact date, I'm not sure anymore if it was mentioned as a sidenote in Bayerlein's biography as it's been a while since I last read the book. I just know that it must've been before 1954, as in that year Matthäus Dittmar was invited to the police to give testimony regarding Bayerlein's suspected homosexuality, and in said testimony he referred to Ellen as his ex-wife. I won't go into the other contents of this report in detail, as that's a whole topic for another time, however just based on the tone of how he describes his relationship, I personally got the impression that the divorce did not go amicably and that his relationship with the Bayerleins had cooled down significantly afterwards. How his relationship with his son specifically was from then on, or if they even held any contact at all, I do not know though. It strongly seems that his uncle Fritz, despite not having any children of his own, was very much a parental figure to Friedrich, at least equally if not more so than his biological father. Friedrich's mother Ellen remarried at least once afterwards, at least in Bayerlein's biography a man called Alberto Rose is mentioned as her husband, however it seems that this marriage was divorced again as well. Ellen is buried in the Bayerlein family grave alongside her parents and brother, with no indication of a husband, and under her last name Dittmar from her first marriage.
Left: Ellen, Fritz and Friedrich during a walk in Würzburg, probably in the same time frame as photo 2. Right: Friedrich, Fritz and an unnamed family friend, probably from a later point during the war.
Friedrich would go on to study and later work in economy. Based on what is publicly known, he never married and also remained childless his whole life just like his uncle. I don't think he purposefully imitated Fritz in that regard (maybe he just never found the right woman, or he was more focused on his career, or he was not straight, or just uninterested in a long-term relationship for any other reason), but in the end who knows. He passed away in 2019 at the age of 94, and I can't help myself but hope that all the belongings, photographs and such that he had inherited from his uncle and mother were preserved somehow (maybe given to some historical archive, or at least kept by a trusted friend) and not just thrown away due to the lack of an heir.
The Bayerlein family grave. Fritz passed away just one day before his nephew's 45th birthday. Also to this day I'm not 100% sure what exactly Friedrich's legal name was. On the grave he's named Fritz, however everywhere else I've seen him being called Friedrich (possibly for better distinction from his uncle?). I've also seen his last name swapped around the other way as Dittmar-Bayerlein.
Sources:
Spayd, P. A. & Dittmar-Bayerlein, F. (2004). The Private Afrikakorps Photograph Collection of Rommel’s Chief-of-Staff Generalleutnant Fritz Bayerlein. Schiffer Publishing.
Spayd, P. A. (2011). Bayerlein: The Denazification Trial of Rommel’s Chief-Of-Staff, and Panzer Lehr Division Commander Generalleutnant Fritz Bayerlein. Schiffer Military History.
U.S. National Archives, Box 329, AE 501661, Fritz Bayerlein, 1-155.
I wanted to make an overview over my most important Bayerlein posts (or what I personally consider as such), especially those that contain a lot of information. I think he's an extremely interesting person to research about, but sadly not very well known, which is why I would love to introduce him to more people. My plan is to cover different aspects of his life in detail, each in its own dedicated blog post. At the moment the list is not very long yet, but I hope to add more in the future, hopefully in somewhat chronological order.
Short Biography / Basic Overview
If you have no idea at all who Bayerlein is, this is probably the best place to start. I tried to keep it as short as possible while still covering all important events that happened throughout his life. Most other things on this list will probably either cover something mentioned here in more detail, or will be about something else that wasn't important enough to fit in, but that still seems interesting to me.
The Bayerlein Family / Fritz' Childhood
Basically what the title says, more background information about his parents, siblings and early upbringing up to WWI. -> Going on a slight detour, here is also a post with some more information about his father that I found kind of randomly, but still thought it was interesting.
Fritz and his pet goat
Nothing of military significance, but this story is simply one of my favourites when it comes to the more mundane and light-hearted chapters of Fritz' life.
Me personally, if I was Giovanna I would rethink my life decisions and if I really wanna be with Passos. Because imo Max did the dirty work and saved Giovanna ass while Passos was just a chopper pick up.
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