my friend ive gotten this ask about 3 days in a row and if you're separate people my bad but regardless i regret to inform you that i have a job irl so the next round will be posted on the weekend when i am free and available to do so
Gentle reminder that the organizers of the events we love are people with jobs and families and real world obligations outside of fandom.
It costs nothing to be kind and give the people who are spending hours/days/weeks of their limited free time to host events some grace.
I've run a few fandom events in my time as well, and what this organizer has set up is honestly impressive and they deserve recognition for it. It can be easy to forget because they make it look easy but this event is more than just posting character polls and reblogging creations.
They're monitoring DMs, Asks and Tags and tallying up points with six different types of media and monitoring their own posts to ensure that harassment is dealt with.
They've hosted a number of great events. They deserve to take time to themselves without receiving backlash or pressure to justify themselves.
Joe was injured October 8th from an .88 gun exploding on top of him. I’m not quite sure when the ep actually starts feel free to tell me. Interestingly the episode starts with Alley being hit which happened on the 5th, so Joe could have been around at least for a little bit, but I’ve never seen him unless he’s in the wayyy back. And who knows, would they really have put that much thought into the continuity of such a small thing?
Rookanis Leyendecker study for @datvcompanionweeks Lucanis week!
After all, it is the Year of the Horse.
Hope it's ok to use that free day prompt a little early~
Instagram
inprnt
Hi, Kat! Would love to hear your thoughts on how Baelor/Maekar would act when LS is uncommonly needy for them?
Hellllllllllllllllllo. Boy do I have thoughts.... ponderings even...... let it be known that I don't only endorse but actively encourage neediness.
Some suggestive/mature content ahead && not proofread because I need to leave in 5min, we die like baelor instead (¬‿¬)
BAELOR:
The first time you reach for him—truly reach, not the careful courtly distance you've been maintaining in public—he doesn't hesitate. There's no freeze, no moment of shocked stillness. Just this immediate, visceral answer. Like you've finally given him permission to stop pretending he doesn't ache for you every second of every day.
It happens late one night when you can't sleep. Maybe the wound is healing but the phantom ache remains, or maybe it's just the weight of everything pressing down on you—the betrothal, the politics, the fact that you almost died—and you find yourself at his door in nothing but your shift and a robe thrown over it. You don't knock. You just push it open and he's there, still dressed, bent over some report, and he looks up and—
The way his whole body reorients toward you. Like gravity just shifted. He's on his feet before you can speak, crossing the room in three strides, and his hands find your face with this desperate gentleness. "What's wrong? Are you hurt? Is it the shoulder—"
"I just needed—" You don't finish. You don't have to. He pulls you into his chest and oh, the sound he makes when your arms go around his waist tightly, when you press your face into the warm hollow of his throat. Like he's been holding his breath for weeks and you've finally let him exhale.
"I have you," he murmurs into your hair, and one hand slides up to cradle the back of your head while the other splays possessive across your spine. "I have you, I'm here, you're safe."
He walks you backward to the chair he just vacated, sits, and pulls you into his lap without asking permission, without second-guessing. Just gathers you in like it's the most natural thing in the world, arranging your legs over his thigh, your head tucked under his chin. His heartbeat is a steady thunder against your ear. You can feel how tightly he's holding you, like if he loosens his grip even a fraction you might disappear.
"Stay," you whisper, and his arms tighten.
"I'm not going anywhere." He presses a kiss to your temple, then another to your hairline, his lips dragging slow and deliberate across your skin. "You can have me as long as you want. Forever, if you'll take it."
And when you're feverish—a cold, infection, overexertion—Baelor becomes something else entirely. All that princely composure, all that careful control, just... cracks. He clears the room with a voice like iron, and the second you're alone he's on his knees beside the bed, forehead pressed to yours, breathing ragged.
"Don't leave me." It's barely a whisper, scraped raw from somewhere deep in his chest. "Please, I can't—I can't lose you, not now, not when I've only just—"
Your hand finds his hair, fingers threading through the dark strands, and he shudders. Turns his face into your palm and kisses the centre of it, open-mouthed and fervent, like he's trying to memorise the taste of your skin.
The maesters come and go but Baelor stays. He bathes your forehead with cool cloths, coaxes water past your lips, holds your hand through the worst of the shaking. When the fever breaks in the small hours of the morning and you surface, weak and disoriented, the first thing you see is him, his head pillowed on his arms beside you, one hand still laced with yours, asleep in the chair because he refused to leave.
Physical neediness from you makes him absolutely feral in truth. You'll brush against him in a corridor—hip to hip, deliberate—and his hand will snap out to catch your wrist, pull you into an alcove, press you against cool stone while his mouth finds that sensitive spot just below your ear.
"You're going to be the death of me," he breathes, and there's heat in it, yes, but also something like wonder. Like he genuinely can't believe he gets to have this, to have you. His hips press into yours and you can feel exactly how much he wants you, the hard evidence of his need, but he doesn't rush, he never does. Just holds you there, one hand cradling your jaw, thumb stroking over your cheekbone while he looks at you like you hung the stars.
"Tell me what you need." It's an order and a plea all at once. His other hand finds your waist, slides up under the edge of your bodice to find bare skin, and t he contact makes you both gasp. "Tell me and I'll give it to you. Anything."
The marriage bed is also a revelation. You expected gentleness (Baelor is nothing if not careful with you) but what you get instead is hunger. A starved thing. He worships you with his mouth and hands, maps every inch of skin like he's committing you to memory, and when you arch into his touch, when you ask for more, demand more, the groan he lets out is almost pained.
"Gods, look at you." He's above you, braced on his forearms, hair falling into his eyes, and he looks wrecked. "So beautiful. So perfect. My wolf."
You pull him down into a kiss and he follows willingly, eagerly, all that restraint dissolving into pure, human want. He kisses you like he's drowning and you're air, like he's been starving for you his entire life and now that he has you he'll never let go.
Afterward, when you're both spent and tangled together in sweat-damp sheets, he can't stop touching you. His hand runs up and down your spine in long, soothing strokes; his lips press idle kisses to your shoulder, your collarbone, side of your breast, anywhere he can reach. You shift closer, seeking his warmth, and he makes this soft, satisfied sound and gathers you in tighter.
"I love you," he says into the darkness, and there's no hesitation in it, no doubt. Just certainty. "I've loved you since the moment you threatened to throw me off the walls for brooding."
When/if you're pregnant and uncomfortable and gods you just want him close, he's there. No matter what duty calls, no matter what the realm needs, if you're desperate enough to send for him he comes. Finds you in the solar or the garden or your chambers, and the look on his face when he sees you, tender and fierce all at once, makes your throat tight.
He settles behind you on the couch, one hand splayed possessive over the swell of your belly, the other stroking through your hair. "What do you need?"
"Just you." Your head tips back against his shoulder. "Just this."
His breath hitches and he presses a kiss to your temple, your cheek, the corner of your mouth. "You have me. Always."
Sometimes you wake in the middle of the night reaching for him, half-asleep and needy, and he's there—already pulling you close, already murmuring reassurance. "I'm here, I'm here, go back to sleep." But his hands are moving, sliding over your hip, your thigh, and you press back into him with a soft sound and he—
"Tell me." His mouth is at your ear, voice rough with sleep and want. "Tell me you need me."
"I always need you," you breathe, and he groans like you've just unmade him, rolls you onto your back and shows you exactly how much he needs you too.
MAEKAR:
At first, Maekar doesn't know what to do with your softness. You're married, that much is true, and you come to him needy—whether it's pain, fear, loneliness—and he looks at you like you've handed him a weapon he doesn't know how to wield. All his training, all his brutal competence, none of it prepared him for this. For a wife who actually wants him, who seeks him out when she's vulnerable. Who needs him specifically, not the ghost of his brother.
The first time it happens, you find him in Winterfell's practice yard, sweat-soaked and breathing hard from drills with your men. The northern cold doesn't seem to touch him, like he was born for it while he fights like he's trying to burn something out of his system. You don't say anything, just stand at the edge watching, and when he notices you his whole body goes taut. He dismisses his sparring partner with a jerk of his head and crosses to you, every line of him coiled.
"What's wrong." Not a question. A demand. His eyes rake over you, looking for injury, for threat, for something he can fight. Always looking for the enemy he can break for you.
"Nothing's wrong." You reach for his hand—still wrapped in leather from the sword—and lace your fingers through his. "I just wanted to see you."
And the look on his face, like you've just told him the sun rises in the north. Like he can't quite process the fact that you'd seek him out for no reason except wanting his presence. Not duty, not for a show or politics, just him. His fingers tighten convulsively around yours and he swallows hard, Adam's apple bobbing.
"Oh." Rough and quiet. Then, gruffer: "Come on, then, woman. You'll catch a chill standing out here."
It's the first time he's called you that—woman—and there's something in it that isn't dismissive but almost... possessive. Affectionate in a way he doesn't have prettier words for. You don't let go of his hand and he doesn't either, just guides you away from the yard with his calloused fingers still laced through yours.
When you're sick or injured in the brutal northern winter, Maekar becomes absolutely relentless. Maesters from the Citadel if he has to send for them, every healer in the North, hot compresses and furs and a brazier kept burning in your chambers until it's sweltering. He marshals them all with military efficiency, and then he stays. Sits beside your bed in Winterfell's solar like a stone sentinel, close enough to touch but not quite touching unless you reach for him first.
The first time you take his hand while you're feverish and hurting, his fingers close around yours so carefully it makes your chest ache. Like you're made of glass. Like you're the most precious thing he's ever held and if he breaks you it'll destroy him.
"Not going anywhere, wife." The word is rough, almost stern, but there's something underneath it that makes your throat tight. "Rest. I'll be here."
And he is. When you wake, shaking and cold despite the furs, from fever dreams of arrows and blood and dying alone, he's there. He immediately pulls you against his chest, one arm banded across your back, the other hand cupping your head. "I have you. You're safe. I'm here."
The way he learns you. Slowly, carefully. What makes you feel safe, what you need when the nightmares come (because they do, after the Kingswood, after almost dying, after marrying a man you barely knew). He can't fix it with a sword, can't command it away, so he does the only thing he can: stays. Solid and unyielding as the Wall itself, as immovable as the stone of Winterfell around you.
But here's the thing about Maekar: your neediness becomes like a drug to him. Specifically because you need him—not the match that should have been, not his brother, not some idealised version of what a husband could be. You need Maekar. The hard edges, the gruff words, the man who doesn't know how to be soft but tries anyway because you're his.
You're both reserved by nature—you're a Stark, he's the fourth son who learned early that showing want was weakness—so when you do reach for him, when you openly admit you need him, it destroys him in the best possible way.
It happens one night in your shared chambers in Winterfell, the cold pressing against the windows, when you can't sleep, can't stop the anxious spiral of thoughts. You slip out of bed and he's immediately aware—he sleeps like a soldier, always half-alert—and when he sees you standing at the window, arms wrapped around yourself, he sits up.
"Come here." Not a question. A command, but there's something almost gentle underneath it.
You go, and when you're close enough he reaches out and pulls you into his lap, arranging you across his strong thighs with those big, scarred hands. You feel the breath leave him in a rush when you curl into his chest, tucking your face into the warm hollow of his throat.
"Couldn't sleep?" His voice is rough from sleep, one hand coming up to stroke through your hair.
"I needed you," you admit quietly, and he—
The sound he makes. Low and rough and almost pained, like you've just reached inside his chest and squeezed an organ. His arms lock around you convulsively and you feel him shudder, feel the way his whole body responds to those words.
"Say that again." It's barely a whisper, rougher than gravel, almost desperate.
"I needed you." You tip your head back to look at him and his eyes are blazing in the dim firelight. "Not just anyone. You. I needed my husband."
He kisses you. Hard and hungry and desperate, one hand sliding up to cup the back of your head while the other splays possessive across your lower back, pressing you closer. When he finally pulls away you're both breathing hard.
"Gods, woman." It comes out ragged. "You have no idea what it does to me when you say that. When you need me." Not his brother. Not the crown prince. Him.
Physical neediness with Maekar is a revelation because it's the only language he's truly fluent in. Words are hard for him, pretty speeches don't come naturally, but this—your body pressed against his, your hands seeking his skin, your breath hitching when he touches you—this he understands. And in Winterfell, where you rule together, where you're his in a way that's undeniable, he's even more viscerally responsive to it.
You'll come up behind him while he's working on plans for the northern defences, slide your arms around his waist, press your face between his shoulder blades, and you feel him go rigid. Not with rejection, with barely leashed want. He loves feeling your need, your hunger.
"What do you need, wife." His voice is strained, careful, like he's trying very hard not to turn around and devour you in one bite.
"You." Simple. Direct. The very first thing he noticed and liked about you, that bluntness, no frills. "Just you."
He turns in your arms and the look on his face, raw and hungry, makes heat coil low in your belly. His hands find your hips, grip tight enough to bruise, and he walks you backward until your back hits the great desk that was your father's, that's now yours and his.
"Here?" Rough question, but his hands are already sliding up under your skirts, finding bare skin, calluses catching on your thighs, and you gasp. "In your father's solar?"
"Our solar," you correct breathlessly, and something in his eyes ignites. "And yes. Please, Maekar."
That last word unmakes him. Hearing you beg, hearing you say his name like that. He hauls you up onto the desk, scattering maps and correspondence, steps between your thighs and takes your mouth in a kiss that's all teeth and hunger. His hands are everywhere. Your waist, your thighs, sliding up to cup your breasts through your bodice, and when you arch into his touch he groans like a dying man.
"Gods, woman, the things you do to me." He's working at the laces of your dress with shaking hands, and there's something almost angry in it—not at you, but at his own desperate need. "The way you want me—you need me—"
"Only you," you breathe, pulling him closer by his belt, and his control just snaps. "I only need you, husband."
He's done with talking after that. Just gathers you close and takes, and gives, and takes again, until you're both shaking with it, until the only sounds in the solar are your gasps and his rough groans and the creak of wood beneath you.
The aftermath is where you really see the change in him. He doesn't pull away, doesn't retreat behind walls and duty, into that cold iron. Instead he gathers you against his chest, still breathing hard, and holds you like he's afraid you'll vanish if he lets go. His hand strokes down your spine, rough with his own need.
"Stay, wife." His voice is ragged, almost pleading despite the gruff delivery. "Don't leave yet."
You press a kiss to his jaw, his throat, tasting salt and him. "I'm not going anywhere. This is my home. You're my home."
The shudder that runs through him at those words. The way his arms tighten until you can barely breathe. You've learned that Maekar is a man starved for exactly this kind of reassurance—that he's wanted, needed, chosen. Not as a replacement for what you couldn't have, but as himself. That you need his particular brand of rough edges and blunt honesty and fierce protectiveness. And when you give it to him freely it's the fastest way to reduce him to desperate, aching want.
When/if you're pregnant and uncomfortable in the bitter northern winter, gods he's so careful but also somehow more openly needy himself. Seeing you round with his child—his heir, his son or daughter—has unlocked something genuinely primal in him. He can't stop touching you—your belly, your hips, the small of your back when it aches from carrying the weight.
You wake in the middle of the night, restless and sore and gods you can't get comfortable, and he's immediately alert. "What do you need, woman?"
The gruffness is automatic, but his hand is already on you (belly, breast, between your thighs), already trying to help. You've learned that "woman" in his voice means my woman, means something possessive and tender even if he'd never use that word.
"Help me up. I need to walk."
He's out of bed before you finish speaking, already reaching for you, and when you lean heavily on him he practically glows with satisfaction. Like being needed by you (being useful to you, being the one you reach for) is the highest honour he can imagine. Not because you settled for him, but because you chose to need him.
Afterward, when you're settled on the furs in front of the hearth with him behind you, his hand splayed possessive over your belly, you turn your head to look at him. "Thank you."
"For what?" His other hand is stroking through your hair, gentle in a way that still surprises you sometimes.
"For being exactly what I need." You lace your fingers through his. "Not what I thought I wanted. What I actually need."
The breath leaves him in a rush and he buries his face in your neck, arms coming around you from behind, careful of your belly. "You could ask me for anything," he says roughly, "and I'd give it to you. The whole godsdamned realm if you wanted it. You know that, don't you?"
You thread your fingers through his and squeeze. "I just need you. My husband. My Maekar."
His arms tighten and you feel him shake slightly, feel the way those words hit him. Every time you make it clear you need him—not duty, not obligation, not the ghost of his brother—it destroys him and heals him. Remakes him into something softer underneath all that gruff exterior.
Sometimes, late at night when you're both half-asleep in your shared chambers, you'll roll over and press yourself against his side, seeking warmth, seeking him, and he'll make this low, satisfied sound and pull you closer. His hands map your body with possessive gentleness—hip, waist, the curve of your breast, cupping it in his hand with easy confidence—and you can feel how much he wants you even in sleep.
"Need you," you mumble greedily, barely awake, and his eyes crack open, dark and hungry in the firelight.
"You have me, wife." He rolls to cover you, settles between your thighs with the practiced ease of a man who knows your body as well as he knows any battlefield, and the way he looks at you—like you're everything, like you're his entire world—makes your breath catch. "You've always had me. Only me."
an: NO IDEA HOW TO FEEL ABOUT THIS FORMAT BUT I LIKED WRITING LIKE THIS (less formal and felt kinda faster?) SO HOPE YOU ENJOYED THIS. If anyone wants to see how your neediness would effects other characters let me know, and we'll see how the muse feels about it!
also fanfic writers write whatever they want to read for themselves first and foremost. they didn’t write to please you, random stranger on the internet.
fanfic writers didn’t force you to read their works. they’re kind enough to let you in their house for free if you want to. if you don’t like how they decorate their own house, quietly leave instead of telling them things you want them to change about their own house to better suit your personal preferences and calling it “constructive criticism”.
if they specifically ask for one, then sure. give them that. but if they didn’t ask and if you don’t have anything nice to say, quietly leave.
this is our hobby. something we do for ourselves as a form of self care. we don’t get paid for it. and personally if I, as a fellow fanfic writer, want constructive criticism and if I want to “get better” at writing, I will ask for honest feedback from people I personally know, whose opinions I trust and value, not random strangers on the internet who, more often than not, just give me lists of things they want me to write for them and their personal likings instead of any actual constructive criticism.
The reblog chain is one of the things that makes Tumblr unlike anywhere else. All the notes on reblogs are attributed to the original post, no matter which branch people actually liked or reblogged. We want to keep encouraging conversations, and give contributors the recognition they deserve.Â
Soon, you'll be able to like, reblog, or reply to any part of a reblog chain, and that note will go to that reblog's author. Each reblog will have its own counts, instead of one aggregated number from every version of the post. And yes, you’ll be able to like multiple posts in one chain.
If a reblog doesn't add anything, the love flows up to the last person in the chain who did. Your post doesn't lose notes just because people spread it quietly.
Past notes will stay on the original post — we're only changing what happens from here on out. Retroactively re-attributing all of them would be... a lot.
This is just the beginning. More changes are coming as we keep building this out – stay tuned!
We rolled out a significant change to how notes work on reblogs, and the reaction has been strong. We're not going to pretend otherwise.Â
First things first: We're reversing the change. Your feedback in comments, emails, and especially reblogs, made clear that the rollout created problems we need to address before moving forward. We also should have communicated this differently from the start, and we didn't.
We still believe there's a better version of how reblogs can work. One that gives every voice in a chain the credit it deserves. But we want to get there with you.
In the coming days we'll share more on how we plan to do that, including ways to work directly with some of you on this and future changes before they ship.
Over 165.6k comments/reblogs in 24hrs is more than a strong reaction. Especially when it is considered that that is only the reblogs/comments on the the Change post itself, and doesn't include the other posts, polls and discussions that have floated around.
"Problems" is another understatement. This rollout fundamentally broke the platform at it's core and showed a breathtaking disconnect between the developers making changes to the website and their core userbase.
The change is marketed to give people who add to posts a voice while blatantly and obviously cutting the original creator out of the conversation.
Which brings us to the next point.
This is still breathtakingly tone deaf.
Hundreds of thousands of Users have spoken out about how the vast majority of them would rather leave the platform all together rather than watch as their creations are shared in circles without their knowledge or visibility.
In the same breath that it is being admitted that this change was shortsighted and rolled out poorly, you're still talking about how people who add to someone's post deserve the same or more credit as the original poster.
Once again without acknowledging the original creator and just how detrimental this change was to them at every single level.
It's great that this is being rolled back, and I am appreciative of that and the developers/technicians who are working to revert this, but this should have never even been considered for a production change.
And it's still glossing over how harmful this change was to people who wished to share their creative work, regardless of where "in the chain" they shared it.
The reblog chain is one of the things that makes Tumblr unlike anywhere else. All the notes on reblogs are attributed to the original post, no matter which branch people actually liked or reblogged. We want to keep encouraging conversations, and give contributors the recognition they deserve.Â
Soon, you'll be able to like, reblog, or reply to any part of a reblog chain, and that note will go to that reblog's author. Each reblog will have its own counts, instead of one aggregated number from every version of the post. And yes, you’ll be able to like multiple posts in one chain.
If a reblog doesn't add anything, the love flows up to the last person in the chain who did. Your post doesn't lose notes just because people spread it quietly.
Past notes will stay on the original post — we're only changing what happens from here on out. Retroactively re-attributing all of them would be... a lot.
This is just the beginning. More changes are coming as we keep building this out – stay tuned!
It’s very clear that you all have strong feelings about Tumblr and about this change. We hear you. The passion people have for how Tumblr works is one of the things that makes this place special.
As this rolls out over the next few days and you explore it, we’ll keep reading your replies and reblogs, so please keep sharing your questions, concerns, and ideas.
Your creativity has always been the heart of Tumblr, whether you’re the original poster or adding something brilliant in the reblogs, and nothing about this change is meant to limit that.
If you’d like to talk directly beyond the comments, leave a reply and we’ll follow up with as many of you as we can. We want to work with you to make Tumblr better.
Being able to see all reblogs and comments on your original post has been a core functionality of this platform for years. Removing it completely circumvents the original creator from their posts and any engagement and discussion about it.
We do not need to explore this feature any further.
This is fundamentally breaks the core functionality that allowed people to build communities around their art/gifs/writing and engage with fandoms. This is functionally no different than someone sharing a direct link to your posts on a completely different platform because the reblogs/comments are now separated from the original post and original creator.
This update should be rolled back until there are features in place that allow Users to maintain control and visibility of their posts. This never should've been a global change when it breaks how fandom communities have worked for years.
From a technical standpoint, the core function of this change forces a separation between the original poster and someone else who came along later and "added something brilliant" in a reblog. It also means that the original poster is unable to see that "something brilliant" that was inspired by their work.
It cuts small and new blogs out of fandom spaces and prevents them from engaging with new people if their work is rebloged from the "wrong" spot in the note list.
And that's not even getting into the fact people lose the traceability of their own creations and their ability to moderate their posts or see what people are saying about it.
This change directly limits creators from engaging with people who enjoy their work.
do you guys also have favourite The Characters in-law. like characters from media you know nothing about but you just kinda like looking at them when your mutuals put them on your dash
saw this post on twitter and immediately thought to send you.. Baelor finally letting his guard down because LS hugged him
⊹ ࣪ ˖ summary: In which a dragon prince receives a much needed hug.
⊹ ࣪ ˖ pairing: baelor "breakspear" targaryen x f!stark!reader
⊹ ࣪ ˖ wc: 1.5k
⊹ ࣪ ˖ notes/content: stark!reader, soft!baelor, they're so in love so just fluff and softness. Ngl my knees nearly quaked when I saw this, so a lil drabble to wind down, hope you enjoy. Also op, your username is a mood.
read on ao3. ⊹ series masterlist.
“Long day?”
Your voice is soft behind him, swallowed almost whole by the crackle of the fire and the distant growl of the city.
By the time you find him, he’s standing very still in front of the window, as if the realm might stop burning itself alive if he just watches hard enough. The fire in his solar has banked low; fat coals glow like sullen eyes, pushing more heat than light. Outside, the city is a smear of lamps and smoke against a black sky, the din of it softened to a low, constant rumble by stone and glass.
Baelor has stripped down to his shirt; the linen clings to his shoulders, gone translucent at the spine. His hair is messier than usual where he’s raked his fingers through it. He doesn’t turn when the door shuts behind you.Â
His reflection answers first: a faint movement in the dark glass, his jaw tightening. Then, “Council ran late,” he says. His voice is level, but there’s a frayed edge under it, like a bowstring too long held taut. “My father believes if we speak of the same problems enough times, they will grow shy and go away.”
You walk closer. The floor underfoot whispers softly, worn stone protesting beneath your boots. He must hear you, but he doesn’t shift. His hands rest on the window ledge, fingers spread, knuckles pale where the skin stretches over bone.
“Did they?” you ponder absently. “Grow shy.”
A breath that almost wants to be a laugh huffs out of him. “No. They multiplied.”
Up close, he looks worse. Not in any way that will set the court whispering; they only see the careful surface. You see the exhaustion soldered into the set of his mouth, the fine cracks at the corners of his eyes, the way his breath sits high in his chest. His shoulders are doing that thing they do when he’s worn the prince too long—held a touch too square, like armour he forgot to take off. There’s ink on his thumb, and a faint tremor in the hand braced on stone.
“Baelor,” you say, soft but steady.
He closes his eyes for a heartbeat, lashes a dark fan against his cheek. When he opens them again and looks at you over his shoulder, one pale eye, one dark, are rimmed red with tiredness.
“You should be abed,” he tells you. “You have your own wolves to worry about, without fretting over tired dragons.”
“Unfortunately for you,” you reply steadily, “I’m very bad at leaving things I care about unattended.”
Something flickers in his gaze. His mouth almost curves. Almost. Then it falters, the attempt dying before it can become a smile. “I’m fine,” he says instead. “It’s just—” His jaw locks around the rest.
You hate that word in his mouth. Fine. As if he isn’t already halfway drowned. You step into his reach, into his heat. Up this close, you can smell the day on him: parchment and wax and the faint sting of wine, overlaid with leather and steel and the warm, familiar note that’s simply him.
“Turn around,” you murmur.
His brow creases. Habit makes him hesitate; you can see the reflexive refusal, the protest that he has work, that there are letters, that he shouldn’t—can’t—stop. Then some stubborn shard of your stubbornness catches in him. Slowly, as if wading through his own instincts, Baelor turns.
Now you see all of it: the fine fatigue around his eyes, the careful way he’s holding himself together, like glass soldered at the seams. He’s still braced, as if waiting for the next blow—a message, an argument, a war.
You don’t offer words. You just open your arms. It’s not a grand gesture. Your hands simply lift, palms bare, a quiet invitation drawn in the small space between you. For a breath, he only gazes at you. Duty and pride and a lifetime’s habit of standing alone all fight in his eyes. The Crown Prince of the Seven Kingdoms does not sag into anyone’s arms like a tired boy.
Then something in his face loosens. It’s small: the easing of a line between his brows, the way his mouth softens, the brief, almost frightened flash in those mismatched eyes.
He steps forward.
The first touch is careful. His hands come up to your upper arms, fingers light, as if you’re fragile and he’s not sure he remembers how to hold anything that won’t break under him. You close the distance the rest of the way, rising onto your toes, and wrap yourself around him—arms sliding around his ribs, hands linking at his back. You press your cheek to his chest.
He folds.
There’s no princely grace in the gesture. It’s like watching a tree finally admit to the wind. All that height, all that iron composure, just… gives.
His head tips forward until his brow rests against the crown of your hair. His arms come around you properly this time, sweeping low and sure, banding across your back. He drags you in with a small, helpless sound, something half-swallowed and raw. It rumbles in his chest beneath your ear.
You feel the exact moment he stops holding himself up and starts letting you do it with him. His weight settles, not crushing but real, the full truth of him—broad shoulders, tired spine, all those invisible crowns stacked along it—leaning into you. His fingers fist in the wool at your back, knuckles digging in as if he needs the anchor. One hand slides higher, palm spreading between your shoulder blades, warm and large and shaking just a little.
He breathes.
Not the shallow, measured breath he uses in council, all tight control and careful distance. A real breath. In, slow and ragged, drawing in the scent of your hair—winter air, smoke, the faint clean sting of your soap. Out, hot across the side of your neck where his mouth has ended up, the exhale shuddering like a thawing river.
You feel each one, every breath a long, dragging pull, as if he’s been living on half-measures and suddenly remembers what it is to fill his lungs. With every exhale, his shoulders drop a little, as if something heavy is being unhooked, link by link, from his bones.
“Gods,” he mutters, barely audible, the word a warm vibration against your skin. “I didn’t know I was that tired.”
“That’s because you’re an idiot,” you announce fondly into his collar. Your voice comes out softer than the words despite it. “Hold on properly, Baelor.”
He makes a noise that might be a laugh, ragged around the edges. Then he obeys.
His grip tightens. One arm wraps fully around your waist, hauling you flush against him until there’s no polite distance left at all. The other curls higher, forearm braced along your shoulders, his hand cupping the back of your head, fingers threading into your hair with careful, trembling reverence. He cradles you to him like something precious and irreplaceable—or like he is the one being cradled and hasn’t realised it yet.
You can feel his heart hammering under your cheek, too fast at first, like a caged bird. Slowly, inexorably, it steadies. Yours calms to match it, two rhythms folding into one.
“You smell like home,” he says suddenly, rough and bewildered.
“Like wet dog and pine pitch?” you suggest mirthfully.
“Like cold air,” he corrects, breath catching. “And stone that doesn’t move. Like… quiet.” His fingers flex at the back of your head, as if to make sure you’re real. “I forget what quiet feels like.”
“So remember,” you tell him. You shift, settling more comfortably into his chest. “Right now. Here. This is quiet.”
He huffs another small sound, somewhere between agreement and disbelief. His nose buries a little deeper in your hair, tracing a slow, soothing arc, like a man who has just discovered how to rest and is terrified someone will take it from him.
For a while, that’s all there is. The fire pops; the city mutters beyond the stone. His breath fans warm and steady against your neck. His hands stay on you like a promise he doesn’t know how to phrase—clinging without clutching, possessive without pressure. Every time you shift, even a fraction, his arms tighten instinctively, as if his body has decided on its own that letting go is no longer an option.
“Am I crushing you?” he asks at last, words muffled against your shoulder.
“Yes,” you lie. “Stay where you are anyway.”
He laughs then, properly, low and disbelieving and utterly undone. It shakes through both of you. You feel his mouth curve against your skin. His arms, impossibly, pull you closer.
“All right,” he murmurs. “I’ll stay.”
And he does. For once, Baelor Targaryen lets the world get on without him. He stands in the half-dark of his solar, wrapped around you, clinging back as if you’re the only solid thing in a shifting kingdom, and breathes you in like a man who has finally, finally remembered how to breathe at all.
