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A Change In Him (Baelor Targaryen x Maid!reader)

A/N: Idek what possessed me to write this but I woke up exhausted and burnt out and here we are… (definitely inspired by @sedonasummer’s fic Keep You Close and I can’t remember the author, but someone wrote ideas for dark!baelor after ashford and I was thinking about that lol)

Summary: After the trial of the Seven, Baelor reawakens and begins to heal. He has of course been altered by the events, but to what extent? Jena begins to notice the little changes, until they all culminate to make everything somehow far more worse than the trial itself. And then there is you…

Word count: ~13.5k

Tags: 18+/MDNI, she/her pronouns, AFAB reader, (significant) age gap, younger!reader (of legal age), personality alteration from brain injury, infidelity/cheating, tortured Jena (jena is honestly the victim in this…), canon typical misogyny, gaslighting and denial, slightly OOC Baelor (just in the sense that he is not as nice/gentle as he was in the show on account of the brain injury), reader is obsessed with Baelor, SMUT: virgin!reader, oral (f!receiving), PinV sex, (hint of dubcon, not bc reader doesn’t want it but she refuses in the beginning), never proofread, (please let me know if I missed any)

Disclaimer: I do not own any ‘A Knight of the Seven Kingdoms’ characters. I do not claim to own any of the ‘A Knight of the Seven Kingdoms’ characters. I do not own any pictures used nor do I claim to do so. (I ofc do not condone cheating, this is solely for fictional and dramatic purposes!) Your media consumption is your own responsibility.

Always appreciate comments, likes, and reblogs :)

Despite your time working in the Red Keep, there were some things years of subservience could not quash from you. Perhaps it was your struggle to hold onto your own naivete, to not have all the hopes and dreams that kept you alive in Flea Bottom all those long years be crushed to dust. Or perhaps it was your own stupidity, a recklessness and self-destructive tendency that kept those fantasies alive. Whatever it was, your fascination with the royal family could not be killed. More specifically, your fascination with Prince Baelor.

After the events of the tourney in Ashford, the realm had held its breath. His own brother’s mace, they said, strong and sure, an accident or a deliberate hit, no one could be certain, but it left everything hanging in the balance. The Crown Prince was alive, but barely, a breathing body and not much more.

He had been kept at Ashford until the maesters could be sure he was stable, that moving him would not cause his condition to unsettle, but when his body began to heal and he remained asleep, the decision was taken to have him brought back to the Red Keep. Princess Jena had taken herself to Ashford the moment word reached her of her husband’s condition, and she had been at his side since, keeping vigil like her good-brother and sons.

They arrived as one large party on a cloudy day, you remembered. There was a hubbub in the Keep, and you were swept up in it. The Crown Prince’s chambers were to be made up as comfortably as possible, to be guarded constantly, cleaned regularly, kept at the perfect temperature and tended to like a babe. He was carried through the Keep in a litter manned by four knights, situated carefully into his bed by maesters, and watched over by a rotating procession of family.

You were one of the few maids given the privilege to clean his rooms. You were to come in every day to sweep the floors, to ensure the hearth was kept clean, that the flowers in the vases were always alive and the curtains neat and free of dust. You were to ensure the comfort of not only the Crown Prince, but his family that attended him, and to do it all as silently as possible.

You were proud to be given the duty, to be trusted in the proximity of such people, and your heart hammered as you nodded at each one of your orders before being sent off.

You were sent to the rooms in the late mornings, the hours just before luncheon when the maesters had already been to see to the Crown Prince’s progress and the family members had dispersed to whatever pursuits called their attention. You were left alone inside, though the presence of the King’s Guard at the door was always obvious, and the first few days you made every attempt at keeping your eyes to the floor.

You had been warned time and time again, “do not look at the Targaryens. You are a maid, a mere mortal in the face of these beasts. They will chew you up and spit out your bones if they find your gaze abhorrent. Best to keep your eyes on your task and scurry away when you can.” And most of the time you stuck to this warning. Though you were a curious thing (to your own detriment), and you often wished to lift your head, to gaze in wonder, you had become very good at dispelling your own urges. And you stuck to this those first few days in the Crown Prince’s chambers.

You hurried through your tasks, sweeping across the floors (for you only had to scrub them once every few days), dusting the shelves and shaking the curtains, clearing out the flowers from the vases and filling new ones on the days when they had become well past their prime. You opened the windows for a few moments, just to let out the stagnant air for you were sure the Crown Prince would not appreciate a stuffy room even in his condition, and cleaned over the windowsills as well.

You would be in and out of the room as quickly as you could, not sparing a glance at the bed and the body, nodding in thanks to the Kingsguard then scurrying off, your heart hammering as if you had gotten away with something. But after a week had passed, it seemed to settle inside you that no one was going to burst in, to berate you for simply lifting your eyes to the Crown Prince. So you allowed yourself this first concession, a quick flick of your eyes to the man.

He was tall, taking up space well on the bed even in this state. He wore only a simple tunic and trousers, loose flowing clothes that haloed his body. Though you could still see the muscle tone, perhaps decreasing a little as the days went by and he moved not much. His hair was only a little grown out, as if someone had still sheared it even after his injury, and through it all, he looked… peaceful. Yes, that was how you would describe it. He was only just asleep, dozing softly as if he could awake at any time and smile at whoever disturbed him.

In those days, you only looked in little glances. If you happened to sweep the floor near his bed, you would flick your eyes up, catch the line of his arm resting along his side, then snap your gaze back down, berating yourself for losing focus. But then you would look again, from across the room this time, just watching the rise and fall of his chest as he took his thin breaths.

It was only right that you were so fascinated, so amazed, you told yourself. He was the Crown Prince after all, the next King, and it was a privilege to even be in his vicinity let alone so close. Any other maiden would react the same way if given the opportunity. You were allowed to be curious, to be breathless. Not only that, but you were allowed because of how little you had seen him even before all this.

You had worked in the Red Keep for a few years, it was true, but you had always been sent to the farthest portions of it, to the Kitchens or the guest chambers or wherever was away from the Royals. Despite living within throwing distance of them, you were rarely ever in their vicinity, so had only seen glimpses of your prince before this. It was only fair that you took your fill before he woke up and you were ultimately sent back to scrubbing the floors in the rooms used by visiting Lords once in a blue moon.

Eventually the little glances were not enough to satisfy you. You became blatant in your watching, your eyes stuck to him as you scrubbed and dusted and swept. You loved the days when you were meant to scrub the floors for it allowed you to take your time, to be there for longer without anyone batting an eye. You would just watch him, just trace your eyes over his body and face and attempt to absorb every little detail you could for it felt as though you could never get enough.

He had lovely hands, strong and firm looking, with blunt fingertips and clean nails. The lines of his shoulders were straight, belying a good posture even at rest. The skin of his face was clean and smooth, touched only by lines at the curves of his cheeks and the tired places just under his eyes. Those lines were the only indication that he remained human, that he was not as smooth and perfect and holy as it sometimes felt. But his skin was tan and golden, glowing even when he was sickly and prone as he was. His beard was a touch scraggly, greying as his hair was, but still kept relatively trimmed. Someone must have been taking care of those little things still, the kinds of things someone in Flea Bottom would not care about if they were taken ill.

You would punctuate this time with working of course. You would stare for a long while, then quickly get back on your knees, scrubbing along the floors until a big patch had been worked through before pausing and allowing yourself to stare at him again.

His clothes were regularly changed, a rotating array of simple tunics in black, grey, red and even white. Sometimes they had laces on the front, sometimes they were just cut at the collar. They always looked soft, blessed to be able to touch his skin. You ate up the glimpses of his skin like a greedy child given sweets, your eyes fixating on the little cut at his chest exposing a hint of chest hair, at one sleeve slightly more rolled up than the other exposing a strong forearm.

You looked enough to fill your stomach and then some, always staying away from the bed, but always watching. Eventually that too was not enough, for you began to venture away from your bucket or your broom, away from the hearth or the windowsill, to stand just by the side of his bed. From there you could get a closer look. From there you could trace your eyes over him as if you were actually touching him, get a clearer understanding of every detail that made him up. From here you could smell the deep scent they dabbed at his neck and wrists even in his sleep, a lovely manly freshness that made you flutter your eyes shut and breathe deeply. It was touched by him, that smell. It was his own too, for you could smell sweat and skin there too, his skin.

And then one day you gained the courage to touch him. It was accidental at first, your scrubbing taking you to the floor just beside his bed. You had leaned against the bed without thinking, your shoulder against it as you reached under, your arm then coming up to lay across the edge to steady yourself, and your fingers brushed his sleeve. You gasped, almost falling back onto the wet stone, staring wide eyed at him then the room at large. You imagined the Kingsguard barging in, swords drawn, yelling about high treason and gripping you under the arms to haul you off to a prison cell.

But the room remained silent. The door remained shut and the Crown Prince remained sleeping. Not even the wind whispered. You slowly sat up again, kneeling now beside the bed, and as a blush burned under your skin, you placed your shaking palms along the edge of the bed. You gripped onto the mattress, the sheets crinkling under your hold, and you lifted a little higher until you could peek up to his face. Though the angle only gave you a view of the underside of his chin and the slopes of his cheeks, his breaths were even.

You ventured a hand out and gently grazed his tunic. The material was as soft as you had imagined. Your breaths shook as they expelled from you, like little butterflies pouring from your nose. You allowed yourself to touch the hems of his sleeves and run your fingers along the bits of his clothes that did not touch him. It was all you allowed yourself. Then you hurried to return to scrubbing the floors before someone could catch you.

Slowly though, you became even more adventurous. You had become a mouse that scurried across the kitchen in the dark, venturing further and further each time the cat stayed away. One day you gathered the courage to touch him. Properly touch him.

You waited for the silence to fall in the room. You could hear the distant shifting of the Kingsguard’s armour, an alert if you needed it. But nothing else in the room moved, nothing else shifted or whispered or worried you in any way. The sunlight streamed in through the window, open and allowing the air to shift in and out. Everything was warm and yellow, soft and sweet. Even your dress was nicer today, one of the newer ones you had been given with fabric that had not been completely run through in the wash, swishing prettily at your ankles despite the drab beige colour.

You kneeled by the head of his bed, your lips parted as you rested your elbows on the mattress. His head had turned to the side a little in his sleep, one of the few signs that perhaps his mind was still alive in his sleep, that he desired something, even if it was as simple as a change in the position of his neck. You just watched him for a little while, sitting closer than you ever had before. You followed the slope of his nose and the soft lashes that rested against his cheeks, the part of his lips and the pinkness of them.

Then, with careful but shaking hands, you reached out and gently rested a fingertip to the middle of his brow. It felt sacrilegous to touch him. You trembled harder, full of worry and anticipation, but all you could focus on was the warm skin under your finger. Your other fingertips came down to gently line along his brow, beginning to caress there. You moved up to his hair, softly carding through it and noting every little sensation of it. You spent some time caressing it, brushing through it softly the way a lover might do, the way someone who held a great affection did.

You traced a fingertip over the shell of his ear, feeling the softness of his earlobe, then allowed your fingers to drag down to his cheeks. You traced your index finger over his cheekbone, one on either side, and you felt the plumpness of the skin there. You caressed down onto his beard, the soft hairs that had been touched with oil when he had last been cared for in that way. You traced the bridge of his nose then over his beard again, memorising the feel of it under your hands.

Finally you allowed yourself to touch his lips. It had felt too much until then, a threshold you could not cross, but you were greedy. You were greedy and had become too used to your freedom, and so you allowed yourself to caress your finger over the line of his lower lip as if you were his lover, as if you would ever even be worthy of such a thing.

You allowed your thumb to drag over the curve of his bottom lip, and you pulled back to gaze at his face in its entirety as you did it. You could almost see him laying like this, as if he was only asleep, waking up with blinking eyes and smiling at you, kissing your thumb and telling you to come back into bed with him. You felt full to the brim with the wish of it.

Just as you began swiping your thumb there again, the Prince’s eyes fluttered. You froze. Your eyes widened, your hand suddenly stuck where it was. Your spine turned to stone, your stomach a pit, and you were incapable of movement. Perhaps it was only one of those movements he made now, the things unconscious people did. But then his eyelids fluttered again, with more purpose this time, and the corner of his mouth twitched.

You stared, wide-eyed, mouth dropped open, and the Crown Prince’s eyes fluttered open. You were looking right into them, one blue and one brown, bleary and unfamiliar. He shifted a little, his mouth twitching again, and he blinked once more, his eyes opening a little wider, becoming a little more aware, and you gasped yourself into action then.

You hurried onto your feet, scrambling back and snapping your hands to yourself, clutching them at your chest in a panic. You stared down at him as his brow furrowed and he began to shift a little again and you ran from the room, throwing the door open. The Kingsguards turned to you with deep frowns, stepping forward instantly and watching you clutch a hand to your chest, heaving breaths and spluttering as you looked between them and the door you had just run through.

“The Prince!” You managed to break out, blinking rapidly. “It is the prince! He has awoken!”

Jena sat in the chair beside Baelor’s bed the next morning, his hand held tightly in hers as she gazed upon him with wide teary eyes, an uncontrollable smile pulling at her lips. Her tears still wet her cheeks and she only removed one of her hands to wipe at them every few moments though they remained renewed. Around her, the rest of the royal family situated themselves in chairs or standing positions as Baelor sat up in his sickbed, an exhausted sheen to his brow and an encouraging smile on his mouth.

The maesters had kept him mostly isolated the evening before when he had woken up from his slumber. He had asked for Maekar, for his mother and Jena, and they had all come to see him individually, advised not to overwhelm him with presence just yet. The maesters had checked him over, seen to the wound on his head that was already healing into a scar and an unfortunate patch of torn hair. Though he had admitted to some physical weakness and an overwhelming tiredness (all understandable of course), he had been deemed relatively well.

He had returned to sleep shortly after he had awoken, citing that terrible tiredness, but he had woken more than once throughout the night, and in the morning his eyes opened once more for maesters and family.

They had been allowed to gather now, to come see Baelor and make their well wishes and cares known. Jena took the seat by the head of his bed on the right, holding tight to his hand as if the grip kept him tethered to the waking world. Valarr and Matarys stood just behind their mother, hands on her chair and eyes teary and bright on their father. King Daeron and Queen Myriah took seats on the other side of the bed, watching their son with so much love and care and relief that it permeated the air. Maekar stood further back, keeping vigil at the end table by the window, his face smoothed in relief.

“Though I cannot deny the obvious, I feel as well as can be,” Baelor told them all, his voice hoarse from disuse. The maesters had been adamant that he must take everything slowly. All movement must be careful and built up gently so that he did not overly fatigue himself, and he had agreed if only to appease them in return.

“Oh Baelor,” they all sighed, words watery, and Jena bent to press a kiss to their joined hands. He smiled warmly at her, accepting the kiss to the top of his head that his mother leaned in to place, and he even offered a similar smile to Maekar where he stood, a comfort to his brother even now.

Baelor had expressed little memory of the trial. He could remember making the decision to fight for Ser Duncan, but everything from the morning of the trial was gone from his mind, like a whisp of smoke. Maekar did not wish to divulge the details, but upon gentle prying from Baelor, he had retold the story, the horror. Baelor had only hummed and nodded, letting out little ‘aha’s as if he was listening to a tale over a drink of wine.

The door to the chambers opened and a maid came in carrying a large tray with food and drink. You focused hard on it to ensure you did not stumble, your hands clenched tight to the edges as you stepped inside and walked swiftly over to the table by the hearth. You kept your eyes down as you had been taught to, and though your heart hammered in your chest, you did not allow it to dictate any other action.

You had taken far too many liberties in your time cleaning the room. Since the moment the prince had opened his eyes, your mind had been racing. You waited for the other shoe to fall, for him to confess that you had caressed him, for someone to hunt you down for your impropriety. But thus far nothing had occurred, and you had been forced to carry on with your duties as if you did not hold that secret of your own guilt. And here you were now, forced to be the bearer of their tea as they all gathered around the prince.

Baelor watched you move from the door to the table, your eyes focused solely on your tray, your careful steps and the slightest tremor in your arms. He noted your hair, pretty but neatly braided back as was expected of the maids. You were dressed in the beige that made you blend into the walls, a smock dress with three-quarter sleeves and a neat hem. You were like any other maid, easy to miss, easy to apply to the background.

But his eyes remained on you, on your every move. He watched you place the tray down onto the table and allow your arms to relax just slightly. He watched you begin pouring from the teapot into every cup, filling it high enough to be a proper portion but not so close to the lip that it would spill being carried over. You neatly arranged the plates of cakes and biscuits, and then picked up two saucers before first moving to the King and Queen.

Everyone chattered quietly around you, speaking to Baelor or among themselves, a variety of topics tinged with bright smiles, filling him in on every little thing he may have missed, as if he had only just been away. But Baelor did not register much, did not give it much import, for his mind focused entirely on you for a reason which he could not name.

He followed your path around the room, handing out cups of tea until everyone had one. His own sat on the little table beside his bed, perched close enough for either him or Jena to reach. You had not looked at him once. In fact, you had not looked at anyone, your eyes remaining steadfastly on the floor. You came around again, this time offering the little plate of biscuits, waiting patiently for hands to reach out to pick one and place it on their own saucers before you could move on.

Jena watched Baelor watch you. She watched his fixated eyes, following your figure about the room, and her own brow began to furrow.

“Is everything alright?” She asked quietly, her grip on his hand tightening. She had only just had him returned, it would not do to have him taken again. Baelor hummed and nodded, but he did not look back at her, and she nodded as well, though her brow did not smooth out completely.

You glanced up only once in your entire time moving about the room and serving the royals. When the last person had been offered the plate of cakes, you returned to the tray, standing by it to wait for the empty plates to be returned to you before you could leave. You had made good progress on keeping your eyes down, on ensuring that even the temptation was quashed inside you, but of course you had not become an expert overnight, and when the hubbub of conversation was at its loudest, when you could be sure that everyone was distracted, you allowed a glance up.

And there you found the Crown Prince, sitting up in bed, dressed in a simple black tunic, surrounded by his royal kin, and looking right at you. That freezing feeling returned, the one that had turned you to stone at his bedside the day before, and you clenched your hands tightly together.

He had not said anything thus far. He had made no indication he knew you, that he remembered you kneeling beside his bed - none save this stare. You could not look up again. If you looked up and his eyes remained, you were not sure what you would do.

Baelor’s recovery became the most important endeavour in the palace from that day forth. In the beginning it was immensely slow going, and more symptoms of his condition came to light. He found it difficult to do buttons and clasps or laces, his fingers fumbling far more than they would have done before the injury (though this did ease with time). His body ached like anything, and though moving it helped, moving too much too quickly fatigued him into long slumbers.

There were other little changes too, subtle ones that only those closest to him noted, mourned over but did not mention. He was quicker to anger than before, or rather, more irritable than he had once been. Though he still attempted to keep a handle on it, to swallow his reactions, his fuse was shorter, and his patience reached its limit quicker than before. Though it was not earth shattering, it was noted.

He was not as quick to laugh either. He still attempted smiles, still attempted to put on a warm face for those who looked to him for reassurance, they became less sincere, more like tools for him to comfort others than a display for his own enjoyment.

But the recovery continued, slowly and surely, plodding on until he was able to move between his chambers and the council room all on his own. The walks were stiff in the beginning, accompanied by much shuffling and groaning and back pain, but as he gained strength, everything became easier, and his reliance on Maekar’s arm beside his dwindled. Though perhaps he would never be his former self once more, it seemed as though he became akin to it.

Through it all though, there was you. You were still tasked with cleaning his chambers, to continue with your routine but to adjust when you went up so that it was more likely than not that he was sleeping once more (in the beginning anyway). It was a servant’s duty to be neither seen nor heard, and this was made easier if the infirm occupant of the room was fast asleep.

Your first time returning to clean his chambers after he had awoken was wrought with nerves. Though you had become more secure in your safety, this would be your first time returning alone. The last time had been in the company of the entire family, and he had watched you like a hawk with its prey. How would he be now, especially if he was awake?

When you entered, he was laying asleep in bed. You let out a breath of relief, walking on tiptoes as you began wiping surfaces and straightening trinkets. Slowly your heart’s beat calmed, your limbs going loose with relief. You cleaned over the tables and the shelves before readying to carefully sweep the floors.

“I do not recall you from before Ashford.”

You gasped, shoulders jumping as you slapped a hand to your mouth and clenched your entire body inward. You turned swiftly to face the bed, your eyes wide and frantic, your heart racing. He had shifted upwards in the bed without you realising, not fully sitting up but enough to have his head raised comfortably. He was watching you, eyes slightly hooded from sleep but intent on your figure.

“My- my prince,” you gasped out, instantly curtseying, bowing your head low and clenching your eyes closed for a moment in panic.

“Are you a new occupant, my girl?” He asked, blinking slowly, shifting just a tad higher. You stood up a little, eyes flitting about, unsure if you could look upon him or not. You shook your head, clenching your jaw a little to keep it shut. “You may speak if you wish. You will not be punished.”

“No, your grace, I am not new.” You answered quickly, voice breathy and small. He hummed a little.

“Perhaps I am not as good with faces as I once was then,” he said quietly, as if it saddened him, and you felt your heart clench in your chest. You looked up then, quickly, meeting his gaze as your lips turned down a little and you began shaking your head frantically.

“Oh, no, my prince, no, I do not think it is that. Prior to your departure for Ashford, I was not often in any halls you may have been in. While I am not the most recent addition to the staff of the Keep, I was new a handful of years ago, and in that time I was mostly in the kitchens or the guest wings. I assume we crossed paths no more than twice in that time.” You cleared your throat a little, heat flushing under your skin as you berated yourself for chattering so. You could be overly talkative, you knew that, but this was neither time nor place. “It is not your failing,” you added, soft and comforting, and you wished to thrash yourself for that. What business was it of yours to attempt to comfort a prince?

But Baelor smiled at it, seemed to appreciate it as he nodded in thanks and pushed himself up even higher, his arms shaking a little with the effort. You moved forward, one jerky motion as if to attempt to help, to do something.

“Do you require help, my prince?” You asked then, stopping yourself short before you could do anything that would put you at risk. He smiled a little wider then, chuckling at himself and his own incapability before nodding and beckoning you over.

“I am not the man I once was, unfortunately, and now I require help to even fluff pillows,” he huffed, a wry smile on his mouth. You walked over carefully, smiling a little, and reached behind him to push the pillows together to firm them up.

Your hands shook and you were hyperaware of the proximity. He smelt clean, like sandalwood and spice, and warm from sleep. His tunic was soft where it touched your hands and his muscles were somehow strong and frail at the same time, firm from where they had once existed and fragile where they trembled from disuse.

“Thank you,” he said quietly, tilting his head back to look up at you when you finished and began to rise. There it was again, that traitorous heat that flushed under your skin and turned you incapable of speech. You nodded and bowed your head a little, clenching your hands tight together to hide the trembling.

You stepped back and returned to your spot by the table where you had been going for the broom before he had spoken, glancing back to him. Would it be rude to continue cleaning? Should you leave now that he had awoken? Should you wait until he dismissed you? You were frozen by your own indecision.

“Do not let my consciousness interrupt your tasks, my girl.” He smiled comfortingly, and even managed to quirk an eyebrow almost teasingly. “I would much prefer clean chambers.” You nodded, tamping down the urge to smile in return and reached for the broom.

Oh goodness, you understood why everyone was so enamoured by him. Even now, in his infirm state, his smile was contagious, his warmth a physical thing that enveloped like a blanket.

You began to sweep, and he said nothing more. But he watched. His eyes left your figure only when he blinked. Each time you glanced back to him, tingling and aware, he would be watching you as if you were a tourney and he a mere spectator. You could not function, making clumsy trips and slips where you would usually be so sure.

You took a moment to close your eyes at one point, to attempt to settle yourself, a good berating in your own head at your own stupidity before continuing on. Just before you finished, you realised he had dozed off again, his eyes shut and hands loosened. His mouth was parted with his deep breaths and he looked smoothed out and at peace once more.

You watched him in return then, traced your eyes over his figure the way he had done yours, the way you had once done when there was no indication that he may ever awake again. Then you smiled to yourself, small and soft, and you quietly slipped out of his chambers.

Somehow this became your life from then on. When you came to clean his chambers, the Crown Prince was awake, aware, ready to watch you. At first it was mostly watching, silent yet severe. He did not interrupt your tasks, simply observed, and it took you a long while to become used to such treatment. He made you hyperaware, and being hyperaware was not good for your productivity. But eventually, the sensation just became another thing you learned to handle, and it turned into a familiarity between you, sharing small smiles whenever you caught eyes.

Then, it morphed into something more. He began speaking to you, making light conversation. He asked after your health, how you slept and what you ate, if you ate enough of it. As his recovery continued and strengthened him further, he began regaling you with tales of his days, of the lengths he had walked and the steps he had gained. Sometimes he told you of before, of the things he could still remember clearly, of the Battle of the Redgrass Field and his aunt Daenerys’s wedding tourney where he gained his title.

Though you attempted to continue with your work, you often became rapt. You would pause where you kneeled on the floor, scrubbing brush loose in your hand as you sat back against your heels and gazed up at him where he sat at his little table, slowly returning to his duties as Prince and hand by reading correspondence.

“Were you truly punctured by an arrow?” You asked incredulously, eyes wide and mouth open as you kneeled on the floor. Your hair was messy this morning, unbraided and simply tossed in a knot at the back of your head, slipping a little loose here and there. Baelor smiled gently and nodded, beckoning you up with one hand.

“Come,” he requested simply, waiting for you as you rushed to stand, dropping the brush where you had sat and hurrying over, wiping your hands on your skirts. “If you would be so kind as to undo the clasp of my doublet,” he then requested, waiting patiently as your trembling hands reached forward and undid the top two buckles.

Your eyes flickered quickly all over him, where your hands had instinctually followed his orders, where his mouth rested relaxed. You should not be touching a prince, should not be helping to undress a man regardless of station, but he had asked and you could not refuse. Neither did you want to…

Baelor hooked his fingers into the doublet and his tunic underneath then pulled it to expose the back of his shoulder. There was a thick scar, like someone had painted on a large line of scar tissue, pink despite the age and raised like a welt.

“It entered through there, and…” then he moved his hand to the front and pulled the collar down until the top of his pectoral was exposed to you. “Pushed most of the way out through here. It was rather lucky, for they needed only to break off either end and pull the shaft out.”

You gasped at the sight, moving back and forth to marvel at the scar, real physical evidence of his commitment to the defense of Westeros. Your hands reached out on instinct, your fingertips readying to touch him when you snapped back, clenching them tight to your chest and gulping a little at the almost. But he smiled, small and knowing, and nudged his head toward his own shoulder.

“You may touch it if you wish,” he said, an invitation, and you glanced at his face with wide eyes. It was an open expression, not expectant, not repulsed, just kind and unassuming. He watched you as you reached out and gently pressed your fingertips to the scar tissue at the front of his shoulder. You caressed it, running your index finger over it, following the line so delicately it sent a shiver down his spine.

Suddenly he reached up and wrapped his palm over the back of your hand. His grip was firm but not harsh, just an insistent pressure as he flattened your hand to that space. He was not looking into your eyes as he did it, staring off as if he was focusing only on the sensation of your hand flattened to his chest.

It was not out of impatience. At least, it did not feel like it. No, it felt as though he was testing something, speaking to himself in his own head. You were merely a bystander, watching him press your hand to his chest and feel whatever he felt.

His skin was warm under your palm, smooth around the scar, and you allowed yourself to indulge, to enjoy it. You could not have imagined such a situation months ago, could not have fathomed being in the same room as him, let alone touching him so intimately. You allowed yourself this, keeping your palm there yourself and moving your fingers just enough to feel him further.

Eventually his grip loosened, only just, and his eyes moved to look at your face, but he seemed to remain lost in thought. He whispered, “there,” soft yet sure, as if it was a comfort, then relaxed a little in his chair. You nodded, as if you understood what that meant, and simply kept your hand there until he decided it was enough.

Maekar and Jena opened the door to Baelor’s chambers, stepping inside ready to inquire on him for the day. Everyone had become more sensitive to his condition now, and despite his significant improvement, his relative return to normalcy, it had become a habit they could not be rid of.

They found him by the table, sitting comfortably and turned toward the hearth, an easy look of calm on his face as he sipped from a teacup. He was watching you clean the mantelpiece above the hearth, lifting onto your toes to dust along the shelf, careful of the carvings and trinkets placed there. You had been humming quietly, occasionally making conversation with the prince, but all went silent at the entry of his brother and wife.

“How do you fare, brother?” Maekar asked, walking in and gazing upon Baelor. He smiled distractedly and nodded, taking another sip from his cup before looking at his brother.

“Well enough for me, brother,” he responded kindly, but his eyes returned to you almost instantly, as if he could not keep them away for too long. He did not even acknowledge Jena’s presence.

She cleared her throat, walking over to stand behind his seat, placing her hands gently on his shoulders and leaning down to kiss his cheek. He hummed in acknowledgement but did not bother with much else of a reaction, and Jena felt stiff, unsure if she should move away again or remain where she was.

You finished dusting the mantelpiece quickly and moved to the back of the room so you would not be in their line of sight, an invisible moving thing behind them all that they could easily ignore. But as you began moving away, your head bowing low, Baelor cleared his throat and stiffened in his seat.

“I would like to be left alone,” he ordered, glancing up to his brother and his wife. Both Maekar and Jena’s eyes widened as they looked down at him. When they did not move, his jaw clenched a little, but he remained steadfast, nudging his head in the direction of the door.

After a moment, Maekar nodded, steeling himself and holding his arm out for Jena to walk first ahead of him. He would be patient if Baelor could not. It was his own fault that his brother had become so altered, the least he could do was not make a fuss around it. Perhaps in his old life Baelor would never have been so curt with him or his wife. Perhaps he would never have clenched his jaw and waited impatiently for them to leave, but that life had ended with the blow to his head and Maekar was at fault.

“Come then girl, your prince demands solitude,” Maekar ordered in your direction, turning back to look at where you were dusting one of Baelor’s side tables, but the Crown Prince shook his head.

“She may stay,” he spoke firmly, his eyes serious as he looked up at Maekar. Again, the younger prince’s eyes widened a fraction, his stare fixated on his older brother. Jena glanced back as well, looking between her husband, good-brother, and the young maid in the corner. Her lips trembled as she looked at the relaxed way Baelor sat, so unchanged yet so altered. His eyes were hard like gems, resolute, so foreign to her now. She simply clenched her hands tighter into fists and breezed out of the room without waiting for Maekar to follow, her heart racing.

Maekar watched his own brother, glancing back to where you were standing, shaking with fear and conflict. You glanced between him and Baelor, your eyes wide and hands clenched on your dusting cloth, your lips parted as if you would speak. He knew you would not, for servants were not permitted to speak in the presence of royalty unless directly spoken to.

“You are… sure, brother?” Maekar asked then, a gentle pry, the softest of pushbacks.

“I am sure, Maekar. She may stay,” and he did not back down. He continued to stare up at his younger brother, urging him to leave quickly and quietly so he may go back to his new favourite pursuit.

Maekar nodded, then slowly stalked out as well, brows furrowed. Baelor had never been so dismissive before. Yes, he had had a tendency to be single-minded even before the blow, but never so unnecessarily curt. Not with his brothers, and certainly never with his wife. But the way he had dismissed Jena… the way his eyes had been glued to your figure as if you were the sole focus of his mind… No, no, this was all unnecessary thinking. Baelor was alive, and yes, changed, but that did not matter, for he was allowed to be so, as long as he remained alive.

Maekar shook his head and walked off, attempting to return to a normal pace.

Back in the room, you remained frozen by the side of the bed, staring at the door that had shut so firmly and the Crown Prince who had now stood and begun turning his chair so that he may face you as you continued to work.

“My prince…” you began quietly, glancing to him with big apprehensive eyes, picking at the cloth nervously. “I can leave if you wish to be alone, truly. My duties may be continued at any other time that suits you.”

“No,” he answered quickly, firmly, brooking no room for argument. “I wish you to stay, and you must listen.” His words softened a little there, though they remained a command, there was something gentler and giving in them.

“As you wish,” you finally broke out, nodding and returning to wipe over his side table.

This had become more frequent, his watching, his hovering company. You did not mind, for it made you feel special, even cared for.

“You look pretty in this light,” he spoke quietly, almost murmured, as if it was a thought he had simply spoken aloud to himself. You glanced back at him, meeting his intent gaze. That one blue eye, intense and piercing, that one brown eye, warm yet firm, tracing over your figure, over the little details of your face. You shivered, licking your lips then parting them as your breaths became heavier.

“Thank you, your grace,” you breathed out, hands shaking a little. He nodded, one dip of his head, then settled back in his seat to watch you. When you turned back to continue, you were far too aware of his presence, of his eyes, in a way that you had not been for a while. Though this had become a regular occurrence, his watching, it seemed as if your awareness of it had been renewed.

“Does it not bore you?” You asked quietly, your mouth desperate to speak, to alleviate the tension in your shoulders, emboldened by the security of having your back turned to him. “Watching me do such menial tasks?”

“How could I be bored when you enrapture me so?” He asked, as if it was the most obvious answer. Again, you turned to look at him, your insides shivering, your mouth parted, your eyes blinking rapidly.

“I-” you stopped, pressing your hands up to your chest a little, an unconscious act in an attempt to comfort, but nothing would alleviate the storm in your body.

He leaned his elbow onto the armrest of his seat, then rested his chin in his hand, his thumb under it and his index finger touching his cheekbone. He hummed softly, appreciatively.

“No, I could not be bored in your company,” he added, and you felt warm all over. Trembling and warm and suddenly incapable of doing anything other than watching him in return. You nodded, because that was all you could do, then turned to begin cleaning once more, your movements shaky and fluttery like a newborn fawn.

Jena watched Baelor grimace at Matarys’s slip in pronunciation, his head shaking instantly as he repeated the word in High Valyrian and instructed the boy to try again. She had noticed that expression more often on his face now, ever since he had woken from the slumber. It was as if that endless patience had finally weaned. Years and years of being understanding, of never finding a limit to his kindness, perhaps he had finally discovered the end of the tether.

He was far better now, physically anyway, after moons of recovery. He walked of his own accord, and his stamina had increased enough for him to traverse the entire gardens without breaking a sweat. Though his fingers still fumbled sometimes with small tasks, he had improved enough to hold a quill and return to many of his duties as both Hand and heir. Everyone breathed sighs of relief now, settled in the knowledge that the heir was intact. Life had almost returned to the way it had been before Ashford. Almost.

Jena had noticed it the most, his shorter temper. Though it was not so altered that someone who did not know him well would not notice, it was there. He spoke more directly, as if he no longer had time to waste on the niceties he had once so enjoyed employing. Though perhaps he was not as straightforward as Maekar, he was less tactful than he had once been. People seemed to appreciate it, enjoying the fresh air of honesty that he now brought, but when his face fell into a stern look and he dismissed someone without a second thought, it truly hit how his threshold for mercy had decreased.

Even that Jena could have handled, if it was not accompanied by his disinterest. That was the truth of it, the one she only whispered to herself at night, the one that filled her with guilt. She should have been grateful that he was alive, that not only was he alive, but he was well. But this new Baelor was an altered man because he no longer felt the need to care for his wife.

Once, Baelor had been the man of her dreams. He had been the comfort she needed when the call to Dorne in her soul made her most upset. He had been the doting husband, the caring lover, the friend and the romance, all rolled up in one. She remembered still the way he would light up when she entered the room, his eyes sparking, the hand he would hold out so he could tuck her close to himself.

The new Baelor only glanced in her direction when forced. He offered her distracted smiles before looking over her head to whatever else interested him. She had accepted the dismissal the first few times. He was recovering, ill in a way that had invited only dread into her body for months. Her feelings did not matter as long as his recovery kept on track. But then he had improved and still his interest had not returned. He allowed her to hold his hand, to touch him if she wished, but he never returned it. No longer did he light up at the sight of her, only nodding and moving on. She did not feel like a wife, but a secondary guest in her own home.

And… there was the maid. She had thought nothing of you at first, barely noticed your presence if she was honest. You were just another girl in a long line of girls who quietly ensured the castle looked as regal as it was meant to, and no one batted an eye at your presence. Well, until Baelor did.

For whatever reason, he had become fixated on you. He asked only for you to attend to him, to clean his chambers and pour his wine and keep him company. She had seen it herself, the way he waited for you at the start of the garden path, ordering you away from your duties to accompany him on his stroll. She had seen you smiling at him as she watched through a crack in the door, the two of you at other ends of the room as you stood by your scrubbing bucket, a smile of pure joy on your face as Baelor gazed upon you.

“Let us leave off for the day, my son,” Baelor finally grumbled, waving his hand in the air and shaking his head with a little frown. “My head has begun to ache,” he sighed, voice low and frustrated. Matarys glanced up at his father, a worried sheen to his eyes, but Baelor attempted a smile, stroking a hand over the boy’s head and then patting him on the back. “I shall retire to my chambers for the afternoon,” he announced, glancing in Jena’s direction. “I wish not to be disturbed.” All the woman could do was nod, chewing on her lip as she watched her husband go with glassy eyes.

“You called for me, your grace?” You asked, out of breath, shutting the door behind you quickly and stepping into the room. You pushed the little flyaways out of your face and blinked expectantly at him. You had run through the Keep to get here the moment the attendant had come to the kitchens with your name on his lips and a direct order from the Crown Prince.

Baelor smiled, soft and devastatingly handsome, and you felt as though you had lost your breath all over again. He nodded, beckoning you closer, and you obeyed without question, walking up to the little table he always sat at when you were cleaning and standing just in front of him, your dress brushing his knees.

“I have a present for you,” he stated simply, one of his hands folded into a loose fist on his lap. You gaped at him, mouth dropping open and eyes widening as you began blinking rapidly. Shocked, choked, little noises left you as you attempted to come up with something to say.

“A present?” Was what finally broke out, incredulous and disbelieving. You were but a maid, elevated only due to his sudden interest. He was bringing you a present? The Crown Prince?

“Yes, my dove, a present,” he repeated, chuckling and reaching out to grasp your hand softly. He threaded your fingers together, tugging you closer until you stood right at his side, then let go of your hand to band his arm around the backs of your legs. You shivered at the touch, heat rippling under your skin as you looked down at him.

This had become regular too, the affectionate touches. He held your hand without thought, wrapped his arm around you like nothing, caressed your face as if it was a friendly touch. You were still not accustomed to it, and you were not sure you would ever become accustomed to it. The Crown Prince, Baelor himself, touching you, a lowly maid, was unfathomable.

Baelor lifted up his hand and unfurled his fist to allow something to dangle loosely from his fingers. It was a thin gold chain, delicate and near invisible, with a small sun-shaped pendant dangling from it. He watched your face carefully for your reaction, smiling triumphantly to himself when your eyes shined with wonder and awe and you began reaching out for it. You stopped yourself, tucking your hand back to just under your chin, and gazed back and forth between the necklace and his face.

“This… this is a present for me, my prince?” You asked quietly, hesitantly, and he nodded. He patted the backs of your thighs once then stood up, turning you around by the shoulders so he stood directly behind you. He threaded the necklace over your front then with shaking fingers clasped it at your nape (he would not tell you that he had practiced doing and undoing it a million times over to ensure his hands would be ready for when he finally gave it to you).

You reached up to touch the pendant softly, holding it against your chest while you trembled all over. It was beautiful, small and delicate exactly the way you liked, and you were overwhelmed by the gesture.

“I do not know how to begin my thanks to you, my prince,” you whispered, turning around swiftly to blink up at him with wet eyes. “It is so beautiful. It is the most beautiful thing anyone has ever given me. To think that you would…” you shook your head a little, pursing your lips to stop yourself from crying.

He hushed you softly, reaching up to cup your cheek and swiping his thumb over your cheekbone. He simply watched you, watched you blink your wet lashes and attempt a teary smile of thanks.

Baelor leaned in closer, shuffling forward until you were fully pressed together, front to front, sharing warmth. You could feel his breaths brushing over your face, and you allowed yourself to rest your hands against his chest. In any other scenario you would not have dared, but it had been him pressing himself to you, which meant you had done nothing wrong.

“If you wish to thank me properly, a kiss will do,” he finally said, voice quiet as it touched your ears. You blinked rapidly up at him, mouth parting in surprise.

“A kiss?” You breathed in response.

“Yes,” he replied equally softly, leaning in even closer until your noses brushed and your lips were nearly grazing.

He closed the remaining distance, his eyes fluttering shut as he pressed his mouth to yours. You were frozen, eyes closing naturally. You did not pull away, for you were far too weak-willed. You knew it was wrong, knew you should not be kissing a married man, should not be kissing the Crown Prince of the Seven Kingdoms. But his mouth was soft and warm and he tasted of fresh fruit and joy and you were simply too weak to refuse something that you had wanted for far too long.

You kissed him in return, pushing your lips just a little into his, allowing him to part yours, to lick gently into the inside of his mouth and to caress your tongue with his. He used the hand cupping your cheek to keep you close, to keep you pressed to him, and you indulged it, leaning in further, licking at him in return.

Finally, he slowly pulled away. He returned for another small kiss before the first even ended, then another and another as they slowed and softened (somehow) until the final little peck as the two of you heaved and leaned into each other. His thumb stroked over your cheekbone and your eyes fluttered as you slowly blinked them open.

But when you finally gazed upon him, looked at the serene smile he sported, your own actions finally hit you and you gasped, stumbling back. You were frantic, horrified, and you turned and ran from the room, the door whipped open and only your steps echoing back to Baelor.

Maekar had not expected to find Jena crying. She was in her solar, sitting on the sofa with her face pressed into her hands as she sobbed. It was quiet in there apart from her cries which only made them sound that much worse. When she looked up at his entrance, he could see her puffy eyes, limned with red, her lips turned down and bitten until swollen. Her cheeks too were swollen from her crying, splotched and reddened, and her hands trembled.

“What?” He asked gruffly, hands clenching tight with discomfort at his belt. “Has something happened to Baelor?” It was always his first question now, his first worry. He was quite sure that he would never stop asking that first.

“No, no,” she answered quickly, shaking her head. Her voice was raw, a quiet rasping thing. “It… it is only…”

Maekar stared at her, eyes as harsh as they always were. Then, slowly, he walked over, sitting down beside her on the sofa. Not close enough to touch, but enough for it to appear comforting. He cleared his throat a little, resting his forearms on his thighs as he leaned forward and prepared to listen.

“He is different,” Jena began quietly, swiping at her undereyes as tears continued to trickle. “He is not the man he used to be.”

“Of course he isn’t,” Maekar answered gruffly, refraining from rolling eyes. “He was near death. No man is the same after almost being taken by the Stranger.”

“I know that, I understand that, but… he is truly different. At his core. He has no patience any longer, he is quick to anger, and…”

Maekar had already known of those two things, had noticed them easily whenever his brother now grunted with frustration at a Lord who said something stupid where he would once have remained silent. But what else was there?

“He shows no interest in me. Since he has woken up, he has not cared for me one bit. He tires of my presence easily, he does not care whether I stay or go. He does not invite me into his bed or to take a stroll with him in the gardens. I am no longer a wife.”

Maekar opened his mouth to answer, readying to say something frivolous about time and patience, about how not everything would be the same but it was not possible that Baelor no longer cared about her, but she continued on.

“And the maid…” at that the younger Targaryen froze. He glanced up at Jena, at the anguish in her eyes and the clench of her hand in her lap. She was staring off into the distance, as if she could see it. “He is fixated on her like nothing else. I have not seen anything improper yet but I have this dreadful feeling that it happens behind my back.”

“Enough,” Maekar said then, standing quickly and pacing to the balcony, his heart pounding. He shook his head, hands on his hips, and refused to turn around to face Jena who was looking in his direction, face contorted in pain. “Baelor is good, honorable.”

“That does not mean he has not suddenly decided to take a mistress,” she replied, finally giving voice to the thing that had plagued her for too long. Maekar’s eyes clenched shut, finally faced with a truth he did not want to address.

He had noticed, of course he had noticed, the way his brother had that maid hover wherever he could, the way his eyes would stray to her if she was ever in the vicinity, the sole focus of his mind. It was too obvious, glaringly so, but Maekar had wished he could pretend a moment longer. He cleared his throat, and turned back to Jena, a hard look in his eyes as he ensured that she gazed upon him in return. He clenched his jaw before he spoke, standing up straight and stiff.

“Even if Baelor has decided to take a mistress,” he said, voice low and serious, heavy and demanding. “He has every right to. Baelor is a man, the Crown Prince, no less. If he chooses to find pleasure in someone else’s bed, then it is his right. Do not speak of this as some injustice. And do not speak of it anymore, regardless. You do not even know.”

Then Maekar swiftly marched out of the chambers, shaking with his inner conflict. Jena stared after him, eyes wide and shocked, and when the door slammed behind him, she was left in the bitter, deafening, silence. She stared at her own hands, pale and shaking, and took deep breaths in, as if air could nourish her in the way she needed.

A bird chirped outside, soft and small and sweet, and Jena looked out toward it. The sky was blue and the sun shined and the world was continuing on. But she could not.

You could not have avoided the Prince’s chambers if you tried. He did not permit any staff to work there but you. He did not even entertain the notion when, on the next day, you sent dear Cyrelle up there instead of yourself. But the girl was sent back within minutes, a sheen of tears in her eyes as she said that the Prince had requested only you, had said that the next girl sent up that was not you would be dismissed from the Palace without a wage to show for it.

You trembled all the way there, hands shaking against your best wishes. You clutched at the pendant at your neck, blinking quickly as you prayed to the Mother and the Maiden. You had done wrong, you knew it. You had kissed a married man, the Crown Prince, and you were surely to be struck down, to be tossed from the Keep for your constant wrongdoing. You could only pray and hope that you did not become completely destitute. You did not want to have to sell the necklace the Prince had given you. You cherished it more than your own life.

When you entered his chambers, he was not in the first sitting room, and you exhaled a sigh of relief. You began straightening up there, fluffing cushions and unfolding carpet corners, just little things that would delay you from venturing further. When you could delay it no longer, you walked through into his sleeping chambers.

Baelor was sitting at his desk, head bent over a parchment. There was a severe look to him, his jaw clenched firmly and his shoulders tense. It was not helped on by the severe black of his clothes, the velvet doublet seeming to absorb light itself. When he heard your shuffling steps, his head snapped up, sharp eyes flicking over your figure. The blue one was like ice, cold and unwelcoming, and the brown one was more black, an endless, lifeless, pit. You watched as his eyes landed on the necklace you still gripped nervously. He seemed to relax a little in his seat, like some of the tension had been drained.

Baelor stood, watching as you ventured further in, and the two of you were like predator and prey in the wild. He was the dragon, tall and still, looking down on the trembling lamb walking to her doom. You could not meet his eyes, gazing down at the floor. He beckoned you closer, holding his hand out for you, and you obeyed as you were meant to do.

It was not that you wished to deny him, that you wished he had not kissed you, that you wished he did not lave you with such attentions. You would be a liar on top of an adulterer if you said that. It was that you did a disservice to the Princess by loving him. That you did a disservice to him by wishing for more where there could be none.

You stopped just in front of him, eyes down, when you felt his hand gently touch the underside of your chin, nudging your head up to force your gaze on him. He was not smiling but he was not frowning, simply looking upon you as one might do a tapestry in the hall. You blinked slowly at the feeling of his warm hand touching you there, the skin that you did not know could be so sensitive. His fingertips trailed a little, touching along your neck, and you swallowed harshly, your breaths beginning to turn shallow.

“Why did you attempt to shirk your duties today, my dove?” He asked, not angry, not pleased. You swallowed once more, glancing off to the side.

“I… I did not think you would wish to see me after… the last time.” Not a lie, not a truth.

“I only ever wish to see you. You are the only person in this entire Keep that I actually wish to see.” Your eyes fluttered closed, your chest and face filling up with warmth. You wanted to throw yourself at him, to mouth along his face and bury yourself under his skin. You wanted to be utterly engulfed by him.

“You should not say such things to me, my prince,” you finally whispered, pursing your lips and breathing heavily.

“Why not?” He asked, voice low and rumbling in your ear. You shot your hand out to the edge of his desk, anything to steady yourself. You could feel his breaths brushing along your face.

“Because you will make me believe I am more than I am,” you whispered in return, a tragic pain colouring your words. “Because you will make me believe I deserve more than I have.”

He did not say anything in response. He only moved closer, pressing his front to you as you shuffled back until the edge of his desk dug into your tailbone. You leaned back a little against it, hoping it would put some space between you, but he chased, curving his body along yours. His nose brushed yours, his brow bone brushed yours, his fingers caressed the sides of your neck then cupped your cheek and he kissed you.

It was firm, his mouth warm and wet, and you were lost to it so easily. You could taste the wine he had been sipping at, soft and sweet, and your body was lost to the sensation. He kissed you like he was drinking from you. But it could not last, you could not let it last.

“We cannot, my prince,” you broke out as you pulled away from his mouth, eyes squinting with pain, lower lip trembling as you leaned back over the desk again, attempting a modicum of distance. You shook your head, hoping that you might suddenly gain control of your own desires. “Please, your grace, we cannot. It would not be right.” You could still feel him pressed up against you, his hands curling over your waist and pressing flat to the small of your back, keeping you right there. He was warm, firm, so muscular and hard. Your cheeks were suddenly wet with your tears, anguish and a desperate desire to give in.

“It is right,” he sighed, words breathed against the skin of your neck as he leaned in and grazed his mouth along it. “It is the only thing that is right.” You shook your head though your hands clenched tighter into the fabric of his tunic along his back. You blinked rapidly, the tears spilling and clearing your vision a little. He reached up and cupped your cheek, stroking his thumb along the bone, along the wet flesh, damp and dewy and so impossibly soft that he wanted to press his mouth to it and never move away.

“But your wife, my prince…” you let out a clogged whisper. “The princess…” But he only shook his head, shushing you as he ghosted his mouth over yours. He pressed a gentle kiss to your lips, the softest little joining, then pulled back and caressed his thumb over your cheekbone again.

“Since the moment I awoke, it has been your face that plagues me. It has been your sweet eyes, your pretty lips, your beautiful, beautiful, face that has not left me a moment’s rest. My love for you is the only thing that matters. I decree it so. I have chosen duty over desire for my entire life. Perhaps what this injury has done is shown me that I can choose my own desire without it always being so detrimental to duty. Is that not a lesson worth having learnt?” His eyes were full of life, the spark of a soul at its full capacity. You stared into them, breathless and panting, slowly melting into his arms.

When he kissed you again, you made no attempt to fight it. You leaned in, opening your lips so that he might stick his tongue between them. There was a slightly frenzied air now, not overly hurried but an impatience, an urgency. He hoisted your hips against his, grunting when your pelvis collided with his. He kissed you breathless, then pulled away, gripping you by the hips and turning you around so that you were forced to slam your hands down onto the surface of his desk so as not to fall onto it. He undid the laces of your gown, simple, cheap things that may as well have been rough rope, then shoved it off. He paused then to kiss up and down your neck, hot presses of his mouth, tight sucking, light biting. The smock dress underneath then came up, gathered over your hips into his tight grip.

“Are you a maiden?” He asked, voice rough and low, like someone scratching at the shell of your ear.

“Yes, my prince,” you panted, eyes shut tight, overwhelmed with feeling. “I have never lain with another.” He hummed, and his mouth pressed a little firmer to your neck on the next kiss.

He dragged the smock dress up over your head and tossed it to the side before pressing between your shoulderblades to ensure you remained steady against the desk. He kissed a line down your spine, hurried presses, until he was kneeling just behind you.

“My prince?” You asked apprehensively, craning your neck in an attempt to see what he was to do.

“Shh,” he hushed, his hands making long warm caresses over your sides and your hips and the plump flesh of your behind. He gripped each side tight, simply feeling the flesh, before he ran his hands up and down the backs of your thighs. “Bend lower over the desk,” he ordered, waiting for you to comply.

He pressed his hands between your thighs, forcibly shuffling your legs a little farther apart. Your eyes remained clenched shut, your fingers digging into the wood of the desk, and then you felt the rough hairs of his beard against the sensitive skin of your inner thighs. You felt the wet drag of his tongue, hot and slick, as he pushed it between the lips of your cunt and all the way to the nub at the top that was hot and swollen and pulsed like anything.

You moaned, high and shocked, and he did it again, pressing the tip of his tongue to the nub as his mouth engulfed the rest of your core. You could feel his nose pressing between the cheeks of your behind, his face nestled there as if it was meant to be, and you leaned even farther forward onto the desk, your sensitive breasts smashed fully into the surface now, your feet pushing you up onto your toes.

He mumbled something between your legs, but you could only perceive the humming sensation. He licked fervently, as if he could not decide between attempting to press his entire tongue up into your entrance, or leaning forward until he could not breathe and using the tip of it to play with the sensitive and swollen nub that made you see stars. His hands gripped the backs of your thighs tight, bruisingly so, and you could only moan into your arms, muffled and groaning.

Neither of you realised the door was opening until it had opened. Neither of you realised his wife was there until she was gasping, hands shooting to her face as she gazed upon the scene, frozen in shock.

Baelor pulled his mouth from you, glancing distractedly back toward the door, one eyebrow raising as he saw Jena staring in horror. When you turned to face the door as well, your own face contorting in horror, you made an attempt to stand, to push and run and hide. But Baelor, still kneeling just behind you, pressed one palm flat to the small of your back. He let it lay there, heavy and keeping you against the desk. You trembled in shame, cold and terrified, but when you attempted to push up, his hand would only press down harder, his blunt fingertips digging in a little.

“What is it? I am attending to important matters.” He was irritated at being disturbed, it was clear as day in his voice, and Jena’s eyes remained open and horrified as she looked upon the husband she could no longer recognise. When she said nothing, he stroked his free hand up the inside of your leg, and began turning back to you. “If you have nothing important to say, then close the door behind you.” And he began pressing kisses to the backs of his thighs as he slowly rose, making sure to rub his beard to the sensitive skin for a moment, just so he could delight in the shiver and whining noise you let out involuntarily.

Jena could no longer watch, and she whirled, slamming the door behind her and running off, distraught beyond anything. You stared at the door, eyes blurry with tears, body confused in an odd mash of shame and retained arousal. Baelor only grunted at the loud slam, shaking his head before running his hands over your back and then down over your behind.

You could hear him unbuckling his belts, the sound of fabric shuffling and dropping and then the warmth of his skin as he pressed up close again. You could feel his thighs against the backs of yours, a thick thing pressing up between your legs, and the tight grip of one hand on your waist as the other rubbed over your cunt and dipped a finger into your entrance. It was far too easy for you to lose yourself again, for your mind to shut down and focus only on the sensations. He dragged his finger back and forth inside you, his focus solely there, and watched as you twitched and hummed and made noises of pleasure at the odd sensation of the wet dragging and rubbing.

“It may hurt, my dove, and for that I am sorry, but I must be inside you now.” He notched his cock at your entrance, caressing you softly up and down your back as he pressed in. It was a full feeling, a burning stretch and the odd sensation of it spearing through you. It was a mix of things. It was the pressure as it split you for the first time. It was the rubbing of it against your walls, of the veins and ridges against your wet and fleshy insides.

You dug your hands into the wood of the desk, panted against it, eyes closed as you could not decide between arching back or curling in. You wanted away from it, you wanted it to keep going into your gut. You were hot and sticky with sweat, wet beyond belief and tingling and numb yet over sensitive.

He pushed all the way in, then dragged out just a little before pushing in again. He did that twice more, gentle and slow movements to accustom you to this change. You twitched at every little thing, sensitive and hot and pulsing with it. He picked up the pace, back and forth, back and forth, back and forth. He pressed one palm to your shoulder blades, holding you down, then gripped your waist with the other, pulling you back onto him.

“My dove,” he mumbled, more to himself than to you, “my sweet, sweet, dove.”

“My prince!” You managed to break out at one point, high pitched and whiny, feeling the pulses and sparks reach up to your nipples, tingle at the back of your throat.

The smack of him against your arse and thighs was odd and only added to the pleasure. You were lost to it quickly, to the darkness behind your eyelids and the sensation that was beginning to reach a peak inside you. It rose and rose and then crashed through you. It was the sparks in your core, reaching down your legs and up your torso. You twitched and pulsed, cried and writhed, pushing back into him and pulling away.

“My prince! My pri- unh!” You moaned and groaned and choked on it, reaching back and digging your fingers into the flesh over his ribs.

“Yes,” he grunted, “fuck, yes,” his hips moved quicker, dragging and pushing and pushing and dragging. “Fu- my dove!” He grunted one final time, moaning as his thrusts froze inside you, hips twitching and stuttering, humping and stopping and starting again.

He was panting against the back of your neck when you were able to register the world again. His entire body was draped over your back, his cock still inside you, the hot seed running a little down your thighs.

“Mmm,” he hummed in satisfaction, one of his hands slowly stroking the back of your head, threading through your hair and beginning to scratch lightly at your scalp. You hummed in return, settling a little despite the odd posture and uncomfortable wood. His hand in your hair was too good. You could melt right there. You could. You did.

Jena never looked at you again. If you happened to be in her vicinity somehow, she never once let her eyes stray to you. And you could not fault her for it, because you could never look at her in return.

You spent every evening in Prince Baelor’s bed now, curled up under the sheets with his heavy body practically engulfing you. He was a relentless man, never taking no for an answer, and eventually you learned to stop giving it. Why should you lie when you were as much a culprit? When you wanted him as much as he wanted you?

Sometimes you wondered if this would have happened without the effects of Ashford. You wondered if he would have been so unabashed, if he would have even looked at you. You tried not to think about it too long, it upset you, and if he found out, then it upset him too.

After a little while, your position in the Red Keep was no longer a secret. Because what maid wore so much gold and silver? What maid had more than one spare gown in her trunk? What maid was summoned to the Crown Prince’s chambers as often as you were?

Eventually you were moved into the Crown Prince’s chambers, taking up the place that might once have been occupied by his wife. You became a wife in everything but name. And Baelor did not care, because he had lost much of his care since Ashford. The people too, eventually, did not care, because a man could do what he wished, could take a mistress without consequence, defy the sanctity of marriage without a witness batting an eye.

And Jena… poor, sweet Jena, once so in love, once set to have it all, to be a queen, and wife, and mother, now only had her title to keep her company…

Taglist: @mxxny-lupin, @risefallrise, @thorins-queen-of-erebor, @samthegreenapologist

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