After finally confessing your feelings, both you and Baelor must navigate the unfamiliar reality of being together. But while affection comes easily, the realities of rank, duty, and expectation do not.
Content: slow burn, canon divergence, Baelor lives, mutual pining, crossdressing, master & servant, fear of discovery, identity reveal, injury recovery, devotion, violence, protectiveness, eventual smut, no use of y/n, no physical description of reader apart from hair length
You did not expect to sleep at all. But perhaps finally confessing your feelings – and having them returned – released all the tension you had been carrying for weeks, allowing you to drift into the deepest rest you have had in some time.
You carry the breakfast tray up the tower stairs, your stomach fluttering with equal parts excitement and nerves.
Ser Duncan looks up as you enter the corridor.
“Good morning,” you say with a smile.
“Morning,” he replies, returning it with a knowing grin.
Of course he knows. He delivered your letter. He would have seen Baelor rush off to find you. And now here you are.
You step into Baelor’s chambers. Arnol greets you as he leaves, and Baelor looks up from his desk the moment you enter. The warmth in his expression makes something inside you melt.
“Good morning, your grace,” you say as you carry the tray to the table and begin setting out his meal.
“Good morning,” he replies, rising and taking his seat.
He is dressed in his gambeson, ready for training after breakfast. You step forward and reach for the pitcher to fill his cup.
“When we are alone,” he says, “you may call me Baelor.”
You pause, your eyes lifting to his. “It might take some getting used to.”
You find it difficult to look away. Your attention lingers on him a moment too long, and when you tip the pitcher, water splashes over the rim and onto the table, droplets scattering across the front of his gambeson.
You gasp. “I'm sorry!”
You hastily reach for your cloth and begin dabbing at the damp fabric.
“It is quite alright,” he says with a chuckle.
“A good thing it wasn't wine,” you reply. “Otherwise you might have had to dock my wages to pay for a new gambeson.”
A frown briefly touches his brow before understanding dawns. You are referring to the council meeting, when the handle came loose from the pitcher and splashed Lord Foler with wine.
Baelor shakes his head. “I wanted to throw Lord Foler out that day.”
“Really?” you ask, blotting away the last droplets before stepping back.
“The way he spoke to you was unacceptable.” His voice softens. “I saw how upset it made you.”
The look he gives you is gentle enough to make your chest ache.
“Yes... it was humiliating at the time,” you admit. “But I can laugh about it now.” You smile. “Speaking of Lord Foler... will Lady Foler be joining you at training this afternoon?”
Baelor sighs. “I hope not.”
“You don't enjoy her company? Her fluttering eyelashes and lingering touches?”
He gives you a sidelong glance. “You're very observant.”
Heat rushes to your cheeks, which only seems to amuse him.
“Even Egg thought it was excessive,” you say defensively.
That earns a laugh.
“Speaking of Egg, Maekar intends to watch him train today. So if you plan on bringing drinks afterward, you may wish to include one for him as well.”
“Of course.”
~-~
Baelor’s squire helps him into his breastplate and arms him with a blunted practice sword before the prince steps into the training yard, where Ser Duncan and Egg are already waiting, similarly equipped and armed, while Maekar stands at the edge of the courtyard, watching.
Baelor gives Duncan and Egg instructions for an exercise before joining his brother.
“I think you will be pleased with Egg’s progress,” he says.
Maekar merely hums in response. Then he sidesteps a little closer and lowers his voice.
“I saw you last night.”
Baelor stills so slightly that most would miss it. Maekar does not.
“With your cupbearer,” he continues. “Outside the gates.”
“You followed me,” Baelor says, matching his brother's quiet tone.
“Can you blame me? You were acting half-mad when you ran into me.”
Baelor presses his lips together. “And? What is it you wish to say?”
Maekar turns so that he is facing him fully. “Tell me the truth of it. How deep are your feelings for her?”
“Deep enough that losing her would have undone me.”
Maekar studies him for a moment. “And hers for you?”
The tension eases from Baelor's face. That small, disbelieving smile returns.
“She feels the same,” he says softly.
Even now, saying it aloud feels unreal.
“And what do you intend to do with this... affection?”
“I don't know,” Baelor admits. “I only know that I cannot bear to be apart from her.”
“That's not an answer.” Maekar folds his arms. “If you want her as your mistress, say it plainly. If you want her as your wife–”
Baelor's head snaps up.
“I... do not know what choice there is. I would not have her known as my mistress. The way that word is used... it is–”
“Hardly better than whore,” Maekar finishes.
Baelor's jaw tightens.
“You understand, of course,” Maekar continues, “that if you want her as your wife, she will need to be raised up. Given a name, a title, lands. And even then, many would object. The heir to the throne marrying a lowborn woman is no small thing.” He pauses. “And if she becomes your wife, then one day she becomes queen. A lowborn queen is unheard of.”
“Then what would you have me do?” Baelor turns to him, his expression almost desperate, because he knows every word Maekar speaks is true.
“Is her father alive?” Maekar asks.
“No.” Baelor replies. “Her only male relative is her brother. He served me faithfully before recently sustaining an injury.”
“Then you will need to speak to our father, ask him to grant her brother a lordship, and pray that he will allow the match. If this was to be your first marriage, I wouldn’t dare to hope, but since you have already made a political match – and have two heirs to show for it – well… you might just have a chance.”
“You think so?”
Maekar sighs. “I would not build all your hopes on it, but if you really care for her as much as you say, then it’s worth trying.”
-
You step into the training yard carrying a tray of cider, as you usually do, though today there is an extra cup as Baelor suggested.
He and Prince Maekar stand together at one side of the yard. Baelor has his hands clasped before him, while his brother stands with his arms crossed. It is Prince Maekar who notices your approach first. He gives a brief nod in your direction, and Baelor turns. The moment he sees you, his expression softens, the faintest smile touching his lips.
“Your graces,” you say in greeting as you offer them the drinks.
Baelor thanks you softly. Maekar gives a gruff nod as he accepts his cup.
You leave them to their conversation and cross the yard toward Ser Duncan and Egg. Duncan is cleaning one of the practice swords, while Egg sits on a bench nearby. The boy's usual brightness is absent. His gaze is fixed on the ground, his mouth set in a frown.
You offer him a drink first.
“Thank you,” he mutters.
Ser Duncan sets the sword aside and accepts the last cup, offering his thanks as well. He glances at Egg with concern.
“Are you alright?” you ask as you sit beside the boy, placing the tray on the bench between you.
“I’m fine,” he replies quickly, without looking at you.
“You don’t seem yourself,” you say gently. “If something is bothering you, I'd be happy to listen.”
Egg sighs through his nose. “Father was supposed to watch me train.” He glances across the yard. “I've been trying really hard. I wanted him to see. But he's spent the whole time talking to Uncle Baelor.”
Your heart tugs at the disappointment in his voice.
“I’m sorry, Egg.” You place a hand on his shoulder. “I can see why that would upset you.”
“I don't think he means anything by it, lad,” Duncan says. “He's probably just catching up with his brother.”
“But he could do that any other time.” Egg crosses his arms. “He's leaving soon. He won't be here the next time we train.”
You squeeze his shoulder gently. “Perhaps you could ask to train again before he leaves. Tell him you'd like him to watch. Make sure he knows how much it would mean to you.”
“Maybe... I'll try.”
“Good.” You smile. “I know your uncle is pleased with you. And I'm certain Ser Duncan is as well.”
You glance toward the knight.
“Aye,” Duncan agrees. “You've come a long way, Egg. You should be proud of yourself.”
The boy gives a small smile. Then, quite suddenly, his expression brightens.
“Lady Foler didn't come to training today.”
The abrupt change of subject catches you off guard, though you say nothing. Perhaps speaking about his feelings has made him uncomfortable.
“She’s probably upset Uncle Baelor didn't ask her to dance at the feast,” he continues matter-of-factly. “I think Uncle Baelor wanted to dance with someone else.”
He gives you a pointed, mischievous look. Heat rises to your cheeks.
“Oh,” is all you manage.
Egg grins, clearly pleased with himself.
~
You come to Baelor’s chambers at midday, pushing the door open with your hip as you balance the meal and pitcher on the tray in your hands.
You carry it to the table, where he is already seated, waiting for you.
“Was Prince Maekar pleased with Egg’s progress?” you ask as you fill his cup with wine.
“I assume so,” he replies, though his tone is distracted.
“He didn't say?”
He glances up at you.
“He and I spoke of other matters.”
You hesitate briefly before continuing. “It’s just that... Egg was upset that his father wasn't watching him train. He wanted Prince Maekar to see how much progress he's made.”
Baelor frowns. “The fault is mine. I should not have taken Maekar’s attention away from Egg.”
“Might he train again before Prince Maekar returns to Summerhall?” you ask. “He seemed very eager for his father to watch him.”
Baelor meets your eye, and you step back, abashed.
“I’m sorry, it’s not my place…”
“Never apologise for speaking your mind.” His voice is gentle, but firm. “I will arrange another training session before Maekar leaves.”
You smile thankfully.
“Please.” He gestures toward the chair beside him. “Sit.”
You set the pitcher down and pull the chair out, perching on the edge of the seat. It feels odd to sit at the prince’s table.
Baelor exhales softly. “It feels strange now.”
You look up.
“To carry on as before,” he says. “After everything that passed between us last night.”
Heat immediately rises to your cheeks.
“To have you bring my meals, pour my wine...” His gaze lingers on you. “When you are far more to me than merely my cupbearer.”
Your heart gives a painful little squeeze.
“I don't mind doing it,” you say quietly.
His eyes hold yours for several long moments. Then he says, almost shyly: “Would you join me for supper tonight?”
You blink. “For supper?”
“It feels rather foolish to ask, considering you would be the one bringing it upstairs.” The corner of his mouth twitches. “But if you brought two plates, two cups, and enough wine for both of us...”
“I get to drink the good wine?” A smile spreads across your face. “I gladly accept your invitation.”
He chuckles. “Ah. I see now. This was your plan all along.”
“I never planned any of this,” you say softly, the words slipping out before you can stop them. “I never thought...”
“Neither did I,” Baelor says. “But here we are.” There is wonder in his voice still, as though he can scarcely believe it himself. “And I would like to share my supper with you beside me, rather than having you stand by waiting to refill my cup.”
The tenderness of the sentiment makes your chest ache.
“I would like that very much, your gra–” You catch yourself, a smile tugging at your lips. “Baelor.”
His expression softens immediately at the sound of his name on your lips. And for a moment, neither of you seems inclined to look away.
~
You enter his chambers that evening carrying two meals and two goblets.
Baelor looks up the moment you step inside. He rises from his desk and approaches the table as you begin setting out the plates – his in its usual place, and yours at the seat to his right.
It feels strange laying two places. Stranger still that one of them is for you.
You fill both goblets with wine and move to take your seat, but Baelor steps forward first, pulling out the chair for you. You look up at him with a smile as you sit, and only then notice what he is wearing.
“You’re wearing the shirt again.” You cannot quite hide the delight in your voice.
His hand moves instinctively to the cuff, his thumb brushing over the embroidery.
“It has become my favourite,” he admits as he takes his seat.
Warmth blossoms through your chest.
“I cannot explain how thrilled I was when I saw you wearing it at your name day feast.”
“I received several compliments on it that night,” he says. “You could earn a good deal of coin if you offered your skills to other members of the nobility.”
You feel your cheeks warm.
“Perhaps.” You smile. “But then the one I made for you would not be quite so... special.”
Something softens in his expression. “I see.”
The smile he gives you is enough to make your heart flutter.
He takes a sip of wine before glancing toward the plates. “Shall we eat before our supper goes cold?”
You nod and pick up your knife and fork. You try not to appear too eager, but the meal before you looks better than anything you have ever had the privilege of eating. You cut a small piece of roast beef, rich with sauce, and bring it to your mouth. The moment you taste it, your eyes close. The meat is so tender it scarcely needs chewing, and the flavours are unlike anything served in the servants' hall.
When you open your eyes again, you find Baelor watching you.
“Is it to your liking?” he asks.
A laugh escapes you. “How can you even ask that? It is very much to my liking.” You shake your head. “I fear every meal in the servants' hall will be incredibly disappointing after this.”
“Then I shall simply have to invite you to dine with me more often.”
Your breath catches. His gaze remains fixed on you, one hand loosely wrapped around the stem of his goblet.
“If that is what you wish,” you reply, suddenly finding your plate very interesting.
“It is what I wish.” He says without hesitation. “But is it something you would like?”
“Yes. I would like that very much.” You glance up at him. “And not merely because the food is good.” You add awkwardly.
His mouth twitches. “Oh?”
“I mean...” You look away. “I would happily eat bread and butter if it meant–” You stop abruptly.
His eyebrows lift. “If it meant...?”
Your face feels impossibly warm. You rest your cheek against your palm in a futile attempt to hide it.
“I only meant,” you continue from behind your hand, “that I would enjoy dining with you regardless of what was served.”
His smile deepens. “There is no need to hide your face. I find your flushed cheeks quite endearing.”
You grimace. “It’s not something I enjoy being observed.”
“Well, I fear it’s too late, as I have already observed it.” He says with quiet amusement.
You lower your hand just enough to give him your attempt at a glare, but the expression only makes him look more amused. When your eyes meet, however, the humour softens into something gentler. Something that makes your chest tighten.
His gaze lingers on you for a moment longer before he finally returns his attention to his meal. You do the same, though neither of you can quite stop smiling.
~-~
“Baelor.” King Daeron says with a smile as his eldest son enters the solar. “Come, sit.” He gestures to the chair before the desk, taking his own seat behind it. “You said you wished to speak with me privately. Is something amiss?”
“No, Father, nothing is amiss.” Baelor takes the offered chair. “I wished to speak with you about a family that has served me faithfully. My former attendant, Tom, has shown unwavering loyalty throughout his time in my service. He was especially devoted during my recovery after the injury I sustained at Ashford.”
He folds his hands neatly in his lap.
“Since then, his sister has also entered my service. She has performed her duties with exceptional diligence, and when I fell ill some weeks ago, she cared for me tirelessly. Her dedication went far beyond what was expected of her. I believe their family deserves recognition. I ask that you raise them to noble standing.”
“Loyal service should certainly be rewarded,” the king agrees. “But if I were to grant a lordship to every faithful servant, almost half the castle would be nobility by the year's end.” A small smile touches his lips. “This Tom could be given a more prestigious position. And I am sure something suitable could be found for his sister as well.”
“I believe they deserve more than that.” Baelor says, fingers tightening. “This is not something I ask lightly.”
“I do not doubt their worth, Baelor, but if I was to grant a lordship to your man, others would ask why this family received such favour when so many others have served just as loyally. Were your man a knight who had distinguished himself in battle, perhaps there would be grounds for it. But for a household servant...” He shakes his head gently. “It simply is not done.”
Baelor's stomach sinks. His fingers tighten together, and he twists the ring on his right hand, gathering the courage to say what he truly came here for. The words feel impossibly heavy.
“I wish to marry the sister.”
Silence fills the solar. The king simply stares at him for several moments, as though ensuring he heard correctly.
“Baelor,” he says at last, his voice quiet. “You cannot take a lowborn woman as your wife.”
Baelor lowers his gaze, jaw tightening.
“Father,” he says carefully, fighting the constriction in his throat, “I know she was not born into a noble house. But she possesses every virtue one could hope to find in a wife. She is loyal, steadfast, brave, and kind. Her goodness is genuine – she helps others because it is in her nature to do so, not because she seeks reward or favour.” His voice softens despite himself. “She is better than many noblewomen I have known. She would serve the realm with honour.”
“Good qualities do not make one noble, my son. Birth does. Lineage does. Alliances do.”
Baelor's hands clench together in his lap.
“You granted a lordship to Ser Steffon Fossaway. At the Ashford tourney, he behaved dishonourably at every turn, yet simply because he fought for your grandson during the Trial of Seven – breaking his word to another knight in the process – he was rewarded.”
“Aerion made a promise – publicly – to Ser Steffon. I could not allow a prince of the blood to be seen breaking his word, not when tempers were already inflamed by the events at Ashford.”
“A promise made by an unruly boy who has shamed our house more times than I can count.”
The king inhales sharply, but Baelor presses on.
“You granted his request.” Baelor says, the hurt bleeding through his voice. “Made in impulsiveness and immaturity – to serve to resolve a mess entirely of his own making – yet you will not grant mine?”
“Baelor.” The king says sharply, a flicker of warning in his eyes. “Fossaway was already an established house. I granted a lordship to one man. You are asking me to form an entirely new house so you may marry a commoner. As heir to the throne, a political match –”
“I had my political match.” Baelor cuts in, his voice rising despite himself. “I married Jena. We had two healthy heirs together. I fulfilled my duty. I have fulfilled every duty ever asked of me. I obeyed. I served. I went to war. Time and again I placed the needs of the realm before my own. Now I ask for this one thing.”
“If I granted this, the nobility would be deeply offended. They would see it as a slight against their daughters, women far better suited–”
“When are the nobility not offended?” Baelor scoffs. “They find insult in any decision. It is practically a pastime.”
“Enough.” The single word cuts through the room. “I will hear no more of this, Baelor. It is clear we will not see eye-to-eye on this matter, and my answer will not change. You cannot marry a lowborn woman. That is my final word.”
Silence falls between them. Baelor lowers his head because it is the only way to hide his expression. His throat burns. He forces each breath to remain measured, his jaw clenched so tightly it aches.
“Thank you for hearing me, Father,” he says at last, his voice flat. “Please excuse me.”
He rises from the chair and offers a brief nod. His eyes meet the king's for only an instant before he turns and walks to the door, his hand trembling as he reaches for the handle.
The moment the door closes behind him and he is far enough down the corridor to be out of sight of the Kingsguard stationed outside the king's solar, his composure begins to fracture. The walls feel closer somehow, pressing in from every side.
He reaches out blindly, one hand finding the stone wall. A moment later his shoulder follows, the cool surface bracing him as he struggles to draw a proper breath.
He had prepared himself for refusal. Or at least he had believed he had. He had told himself not to place all his hopes on his request being granted. He had told himself he would endure whatever answer came. But hearing it spoken aloud – hearing his father dismiss the possibility so completely, as though what he felt could simply be set aside – cuts deeper than he expected.
He wanted to do this properly. He wanted you to stand beside him as his wife, not hidden away in the shadows. He wanted your place beside him to be acknowledged, unquestioned. He wanted you to be respected.
Baelor closes his eyes for a moment. Then he draws a long, unsteady breath, pushes himself away from the wall, and straightens.
By the time he begins the walk back to his chambers, the mask has settled into place once more – the calm, dependable prince.
~-~
When you enter Baelor’s chambers with his midday meal, he is nowhere in sight. You set the tray down on the table and glance around the solar.
“Is anyone here?” you call, raising your voice slightly.
A moment later, you hear footsteps, and Baelor emerges from his bedchamber. He looks tired. His movements lack their usual grace, his mouth set in a faint frown. But what stops you cold is the look in his eyes: something dimmed, something wounded. A sharp jolt goes through your chest. Your first thought is that he has fallen ill.
“What’s the matter?” You cross the room in quick strides, and before you can think better of it, your hand is on his arm. “Are you feeling unwell?”
His eyes meet yours. “I spoke with my father today.”
“Oh?”
You search his face, as though the answer might be written there.
“I asked him if he would allow you to be my wife.”
Your lips part, breath catching in your throat.
“But he refused,” he says quietly. “I am sorry.”
You blink. For a moment, your mind goes completely blank. Shock. Confusion. A sudden bloom of warmth so fierce it almost hurts. You had never dared imagine that he would want something so serious, so permanent.
You realise too late that you are simply staring at him.
“I cannot be with you honourably,” he continues.
Your hand, still resting on his arm, tightens slightly.
“Baelor...” you whisper. “I didn't know you intended...”
“I didn't want to speak of it before I knew whether it was possible. I didn't want to give you false hope.” His gaze drops briefly. “I thought I had prepared myself for any answer. But without realising it, I had allowed myself to hope. His refusal felt like a blow.”
“You really wanted to marry me?” The question comes out softer than you intended.
“Of course.” His hand closes over yours where it rests on his arm. “If you had been born to a noble house, I could have courted you properly. We would not have had to spend weeks questioning every glance and every word, wondering whether our feelings were returned.”
A small ache stirs inside you. He notices it at once.
“I do not mean to make you ashamed of where you come from,” he says quickly. “I only mean that if things were different, I would have known what to do. I would have known what was possible.”
You nod. “I understand.”
For a moment, neither of you speaks. Then he exhales slowly.
“I do not know what to do now.”
“What do you mean?”
“I cannot offer you what you deserve.” His gaze holds yours. “People will talk if you stay.”
“People already talk.” You say. “I don't want to leave, Baelor. Not now. All this time, I scarcely dared hope you felt the same way I did. And now I know you do… I can't walk away from that. If you'll have me, I want to stay.”
His expression softens. Slowly, he lifts a hand and cups your cheek.
“Of course I would have you.”
The tenderness in his voice makes your chest ache. His thumb brushes lightly across your skin.
“And I swear this to you: I will never cast you aside. Whatever happens, I will be true to you.”
You raise your own hand to his face, the soft brush of his beard grazing your palm.
“I know,” you say, smiling.
He closes his eyes briefly at your touch. Then he gently guides your hand to his mouth, pressing a kiss to the inside of your wrist. The warmth of his breath and the soft touch of his lips send a shiver through you.
When he lifts his head, neither of you moves away. Your hand remains against his face, your thumb resting near the edge of his cheekbone, his fingers still loosely encircling your wrist.
His gaze drops briefly to your mouth, and your breath catches. When his eyes return to yours, there is a question there. You don't pull away. Instead, you find yourself stepping a fraction closer. Something flickers across his face, so fleeting you almost miss it. Relief. Wonder. Perhaps even disbelief that this is finally happening.
Slowly, carefully, he lifts his free hand to your cheek. His thumb brushes your skin, and he leans in. Your heart pounds so hard you're certain he must hear it. You have imagined this countless times in quiet moments, in foolish daydreams, while lying awake at night. Yet none of those imaginings compare to the reality.
His lips meet yours softly, the kiss gentle and tentative. You feel the faint brush of his beard against your skin, the warmth of his breath, the careful way he holds you, as though you are something precious.
He tilts his head slightly, deepening the kiss just enough to make your knees feel weak. You have wanted this for so long. Wanted him for so long.
When he finally draws back, it is only by a few inches. Neither of you lets go. His forehead nearly touches yours, and for a moment he simply looks at you, his mismatched eyes bright with an emotion so earnest that it makes your chest ache.
“Will you take supper with me again tonight?” He asks.
“Of course.” You say breathily, eyes not leaving his.
“I only wish you didn’t have to fetch it yourself. After everything that has happened, it feels wrong to have you waiting on me.”
“I don’t mind.” Your hand trails lightly down his arm. “It’s no burden to me, especially if it means I can spend time with you.”
~
You step into Baelor’s chambers that evening, supper tray laden with meals for two.
Baelor rises from behind his desk and comes to meet you, taking the tray from your hands. He carries it to the table and begins setting out the plates and goblets.
“I can do that.” You protest.
“Please, allow me.” He looks up with a smile, then gestures to the seat nearest his. “Sit.”
You hesitate only briefly before taking the offered seat. Baelor pours wine into your goblet, then fills his own before settling beside you.
For a while, there is only the quiet clink of cutlery and warm glances exchanged across the table. Yet you notice a distance in his eyes, and the faint crease lingering between his brows.
“Are you alright?” you ask, setting your fork down.
His gaze lifts to yours, and he hesitates.
“My conversation with my father keeps returning to me.” He exhales softly. “We have never disagreed so bitterly before.”
Your heart aches for him. Reaching across the table, you place your hand over his.
“I don't want to be the cause of conflict between you.”
“You aren't the cause.” His fingers close gently around yours. “Tradition and expectations are the cause. Rules that were written long before either of us were born.” His expression softens. “I am sorry.”
“There is nothing to apologise for.” You give his hand a small squeeze. “Things may not have gone the way you'd hoped, but I'm still here.”
The corner of his mouth lifts into a faint smile. After a moment, you both return to your meals.
When supper is finished, you gather the dishes onto the tray.
“Will you come back after Arnol has attended to me?” Baelor asks. “Perhaps with more wine?”
The hopeful note in his voice makes you smile.
“I can do that.”
You pass Arnol in one of the lower corridors as he heads toward the Tower of the Hand to attend to Baelor.
After leaving the dishes in the kitchens, you return briefly to your room, filling the basin on your washstand so you can wash your face and freshen yourself. Then you make your way to the wine cellar, fill a pitcher, collect two goblets from a nearby cabinet, and begin the climb back upstairs.
When you enter Baelor's chambers once more, he is just stepping out of his bedchamber.
His outer garments have been removed, leaving him in only a shirt and breeches. Your heart gives an embarrassing little flutter.
He crosses the room and takes the pitcher and goblets from your hands, pouring wine for each of you before taking his seat.
“I spoke with Maekar this morning,” he says, passing you a goblet. “I've arranged to return to the training yard tomorrow with Egg, and I've informed my brother that he isn't to speak to me until training is finished.”
A laugh escapes you. “And how did he take that?”
“I think he regretted disappointing Egg. He wants to make amends.”
“I'm glad to hear it.”
He takes a sip of wine. “You seem fond of my nephew.”
You smile into your goblet. “I believe I am. He's a pleasant boy. Clever, too. And he has a mischievous streak.”
“That he does.” Baelor's chuckles. “Would you like to come to training tomorrow? From the beginning, I mean.”
You blink in surprise. “I wouldn't be in the way?”
“Of course not. Though now that I think about it, it may not be the most entertaining way to spend your afternoon.”
“I would like to come.”
His smile widens. “Then I shall be glad to have you there.”
Conversation drifts easily after that. You speak of small things, exchange stories and observations, and share several quiet laughs.
With every smile he gives you, something warm unfurls inside your chest. More than once, you catch yourself watching his hands curled around his goblet. And more than once, your gaze drifts to the open collar of his shirt, where the fabric parts just enough to reveal the faintest glimpse of bare skin beneath.
You quickly look away. Lifting your goblet to your lips, you fix your gaze on the wine pitcher sitting between you. Or at least, you pretend to. In truth, your thoughts have wandered elsewhere entirely.
To the night of Baelor’s name day. To your bedchamber. To all the feelings you had finally surrendered to when you believed they would never be returned.
Heat rises immediately to your cheeks, and you are suddenly very grateful that your goblet hides part of your face.
-
He listens when you speak – of course he does – but he finds his attention wandering all the same.
His gaze lingers on your face, on the way your lips move around each word. When you absentmindedly moisten them with a quick flick of your tongue, something tightens low in his chest.
A few loose strands of hair have escaped whatever effort you made to tame them, framing your face in a way he finds distractingly beautiful.
Then your hand drifts upward. Your fingers slip beneath the opening of your shirt as you scratch lightly at your neck. The movement draws the linen aside, revealing a glimpse of skin, and the soft curve of your bosom above the neckline of your kirtle. Heat creeps up the back of his neck. He knows he ought to look away. He doesn't.
When your hand withdraws and smooths the fabric back into place, you seem entirely unaware of the effect you've had on him.
You lift your goblet to your lips. Your eyes are distant. Thoughtful. And there is a faint flush colouring your cheeks. His heart stirs. Is it the wine? Or are your thoughts wandering somewhere similar to his own? He wishes he knew.
Then your gaze flicks toward him and you offer a shy smile. The pink in your cheeks seems to deepen.
Unable to stop himself, he speaks. “Are you feeling alright? You look a little flushed.”
Your eyes widen slightly before you let out a soft laugh.
“I’m not used to such strong wine,” you say. “The one they serve to the servants must be watered down by at least half.”
Perhaps it is the truth. Perhaps it is an excuse. Perhaps it is both. Baelor doesn't press further.
“I hope you will not suffer for it tomorrow.”
You smile. “I suppose we'll find out in the morning. If your breakfast is late, you'll know why.”
A laugh escapes him. Though in truth, he does hope you wake without a headache.
Far too soon, he notices how late it has become.
“The hour grows late,” he says softly. “I should let you rest.”
The words leave a bitter taste in his mouth. He does not want you to go.
You nod and finish the last of your wine before rising from your chair.
“Thank you for a pleasant evening.”
Baelor stands as well, moving around the table toward you.
“And thank you for your company.”
The lingering flush remains on your cheeks. A loose lock of hair has fallen across your jaw. Without thinking, he reaches for it. His fingers brush your cheek as he tucks it gently behind your ear. The touch lingers, his hand sliding along your jaw before settling beneath your chin. His thumb grazes your lower lip, and your eyes lift to his, before dropping to his mouth.
It is all the encouragement he needs. He leans forward, head tilting slightly as he closes the distance between you. One hand slips to the back of your neck, steadying you as his lips meet yours.
The kiss is gentle at first. Tender. Yet beneath that tenderness lies weeks of longing that neither of you has been able to voice. When you relax into the kiss and return it, your hand rising to his chest, fingers curling into the fabric of his shirt, something inside him gives way.
The kiss deepens naturally, no longer burdened by uncertainty. His hand trails from the back of your neck to the front, his fingertips gliding down the hollow of your throat, before slipping under the opening of your shirt, his hand flattening as it glides along the bare skin of your upper chest. His other arm slips around your waist, pulling your body flush against his.
You sigh against his mouth, your hand coming to rest at the nape of his neck, your fingers threading into his hair. He shudders at the sensation, heat flooding between his legs as he hardens at your touch, at your warm, wet mouth on his.
-
He guides you gently backward until the backs of your thighs meet the edge of the table, your breath catching at the impact. He follows you, one hand braced beside you against the tabletop while the other remains firm at your waist.
You lower yourself onto the edge of the table, your feet lifting from the floor. Your hand drifts from the dark curls at the nape of his neck to his throat, slipping beneath the collar of his shirt. His pulse pounds beneath your fingertips. He presses closer, and you feel him against your thigh, through the fabric of your skirts, hard and unmistakably aroused.
You throb between your legs, aching and desperate, and with your free hand, you glide your fingers down his torso until you feel the waistband of his breeches. He groans into your mouth, and you continue, moving your hand further down.
Then he suddenly stills. He pulls back and the kiss breaks, his darkened eyes meeting yours for a brief moment before flicking away. He steps away, your body suddenly cold from his withdrawal. You slip from the table, your feet finding the floor once more.
“Is everything alright?” you ask, chest tightening with worry.
“Yes, everything’s fine, I –” He exhales shakily and runs a hand across his jaw. “We’ve both had rather too much wine, I think.”
You lower your gaze. “I’m sorry.”
His head lifts immediately. “No, no, please.” He closes the distance between you, cupping your cheek. His thumb brushes softly across your skin before he presses a tender kiss to your forehead. “You have nothing to be sorry for. I take the blame entirely. I let myself get carried away.” He studies your face. “Are you alright?”
“Yes, I’m fine.” You assure him, though you can’t ignore the sinking feeling in your chest.
“Forgive me,” he murmurs, resting his forehead lightly against yours.
“There’s nothing to forgive.” You say, and you mean it.
You do not blame him for changing his mind, but you hope that’s all it is, and not something you may have done to put him off.
After a moment, you draw a slow breath. “It’s late… I should go.”
You lean forward and press a soft kiss to his cheek. “Goodnight, Baelor.”
His eyes close briefly at the touch. Then he takes your hand and raises it to his lips, pressing a lingering kiss to your knuckles.
“Goodnight.”
-
The door clicks softly behind you, leaving him alone where you left him. His lips still tingle from your kiss, his breath still uneven as everything that just occurred runs through his mind: the feel of you still lingering on his skin, your effect on him still evident between his legs.
He moves to his chamber, shutting the door quietly. He knows he cannot go to sleep like this, with you still clinging to him in every sense except physically.
He drops onto the edge of the bed, and before he knows it, he is already reaching for the laces of his breeches, freeing his hard length from its restraints. He bites down a groan as he takes himself in hand, unable to hold back the wave of longing and need that crashes through him.
It doesn’t take long before he’s hastily fishing a handkerchief from his pocket, barely in time, his release spilling hot and thick into the linen as a shudder racks through him. His breath breaks on a soft, helpless moan as pleasure crests and fades, leaving his muscles trembling.
But any satisfaction he feels is quickly replaced with shame.
What unsettles him most is not his desire for you. It is how completely his restraint had begun to crumble. How easily he had forgotten himself. How close he had come to abandoning caution altogether.
The moment he felt the evening slipping beyond his control, another face had risen unbidden in his mind. His grandsire. The man history now calls Aegon the Unworthy. A king remembered for his appetites, his mistresses, his bastards, and the chaos left in his wake. A man who took what he wanted and expected the realm to bear the consequences.
Tonight, for a few dangerous moments, Baelor had wanted nothing more than to lose himself – utterly, completely – in you.
He bows his head. I cannot be like him.
The thought settles heavily in his chest. No matter how deeply he cares for you, no matter how desperately he wants you, he cannot allow desire to govern his actions. He cannot be reckless. Not with you. Not ever.
anyone ever think of a baelor lives au where by some magic he and dunk end up sharing each other's thoughts. but not like completely, just like the general vibes and whatnot. and baelors like wtf do I keep feeling sad about some horse called sweetfoot, and dunks like I'm thinking about books and shit and it makes my head hurt. anyways so then of course egg would be involved, and he'd be like oh sweetfoot that was ser duncans horse, and baelor would send him to go buy the damn thing back bc he can't get any work done bc he can't stop thinking about some fuck ass horse.
anyways, I'm not going to write it but I sure spend a lot of time thinking about it (plz someone ask me about my 1000 ideas for baelor lives fics, I'm begging)
(Some shorts from various projects featuring my fave brothers. Some will be HammerAnvil others will be platonic, I will tag appropriately)
(Not Omegaverse, AU where Baelor has a third son)
Baelor does not wake for four days after the Trial.
It is the morning of the first day when Maekar finds his smallest nephew at his elbow, his star-filled eye piercing the darkness of Baelor’s room. A little hand wraps around his wrist, and Maekar tears his glassy gaze away from his brother to his brother’s favourite son.
It is an odd thing, he thinks, to have a favourite. All his own sons are difficult in their own ways, and he loves them as much as he can, but he can’t ever recall the same joy crossing his own features as when Baelor’s twin toned gaze lands on his little dragon. He hopes to see it again soon.
“Uncle,” Draekon says quietly. “Can you help me, please?”
Maekar blinks. “With what, nephew?” He asks. His nephew looks small, still in his clothes from the day before, mud on his boots and trousers
Draekon’s eyes go to the floor. “Valarr is gone home, to grandfather,” he says, upset. “And Kepa is…”
The guilt already settled like lead in his chest doubles in size. Draekon had likely seen him strike his dear father, had been there when the blacksmith wrenched the helm from Baelor’s head and exposed the horror beneath caused by Maekar’s mace. What does that do to a boy? To see his father so injured?
“I’m hungry,” Draekon tells him, like it’s something shameful.
“Then ask the servants for a meal,” Maekar explains.
“Baelor does everything for you,” Maekar realises, feeling something terrible crack open in his chest at the boy’s nod.
Oh, Baelor, he thinks. When his father had voiced concern that Baelor was spoiling his youngest son, he hadn’t thought it this severe.
Maekar stands with a wince, stepping out into the hall to catch a maid.
“My nephew has not been served his meals since the night before last,” he says, perhaps more severely than he intends. His brother would be furious to know they had all neglected his little son to the point of starving. “Have a fresh meal brought up immediately, with citrus cakes if you have any. Orange, preferably.”
The maid nods and scurries off, and he returns to his brother’s room to find Draekon curled up next to the still form of his father, tiny and trembling.
“Draekon, come off there,” he says, and slides his arms under the boy despite the ache in his own shoulders and chest. Draekon curls into him, beginning to weep quietly into Maekar’s shoulder. He’s so small, lighter than even Rhae at this age. No wonder his brother never seems to tire of carrying him. “Your Kepa needs his rest, little one. Come, sit with me while we wait for your meal.”
I turned them into individual transparent pngs if anyone wants those premade!
(Op lmk if you want me to take this down, I'd totally understand—on the other hand, I'd love to do it for the other public domain pieces you've done if that's ok!)
Pairing: Maekar Targaryen x f!lady in waiting!reader
WC: 9.9k
Warning(s): +18 MDNI, Explicit sexual content, oral sex (giving and receiving), P in V sex, AFAB reader, power imbalance, touch-starved, mutual pining, argument to lovers, emotional vulnerability, size difference, praise kink (light, reader to character), rough sex (consensual, explicitly negotiated), scar worship, dirty talk (mild), male restraint / loss of control, confident reader, oblivious/avoidant pining, second person / reader insert (no use of y/n), no beta we die like Viserys
The hour had grown shamefully late by the time you decided you were done waiting.
Three weeks. Three weeks of turned backs and engineered absences and the particular cruelty of a man who could fill a room with his presence even while pretending to be entirely unreachable within it. Three weeks of watching Prince Maekar Targaryen look straight through you with those violet eyes and finding nothing in them that acknowledged what had been building between you for months.
You found him at dusk.
The armoury sat quiet at that hour, the training yard beyond it emptied of squires and knights alike, nothing remaining but the last copper light bleeding through narrow windows and the distant sounds of the castle settling into evening. Torches guttered softly along the walls, catching the dull gleam of hanging steel and leather.
Maekar stood at the far end with his back to the door, methodically checking the edge of a blade with the focused attention of a man determined to be unreachable.
He had been unreachable for weeks.
“You have been avoiding me,” you said. The words landed flat in the quiet. Maekar did not turn around.
“I have been occupied.”
“You walked out of a room yesterday because I entered it.”
“I had somewhere to be.”
“Maekar.” His name left you with enough weight that his shoulders stiffened visibly. “Look at me.”
He set the blade down with deliberate care and turned. His expression was exactly what you had expected — closed, guarded, wearing that particular blankness he deployed when he wanted to be mistaken for someone who did not feel things.
You knew better. You had always known better when it came to him.
“Whatever you believe you need to say,” he said flatly, “I would ask you to reconsider.”
“I have reconsidered for three weeks.” You closed the door and stepped further into the room. “I am done reconsidering.”
“Then be brief.”
“Why are you pulling away?”
“I am not pulling away. I am exactly where I have always been.”
“You are a liar.”
Something dangerous flickered in his violet eyes. “Mind yourself.”
“Or what?” You crossed your arms. “You will glare at me? You have been doing that for months and I am still here.”
“Clearly.” The word came out clipped, almost cruel. A deliberate blade.
You refused to flinch from it. “Something happened. Three weeks ago you were—” You stopped, steadied yourself. “And then suddenly you were gone. Present in body and completely absent in everything else. I want to know why.”
“Nothing happened.”
“You are lying again.”
“I am not accustomed,” he said with cold precision, “to being called a liar repeatedly.”
“And I am not accustomed to being deliberately shut out by someone who—” You stopped again.
Maekar’s eyes sharpened immediately. “Someone who what?”
The silence stretched taut between you.
“Someone who matters to me,” you finished quietly.
Something moved across his face so quickly you almost missed it. Pain, naked and immediate, there and gone before he could fully suppress it. His gaze dropped briefly to the floor.
“You should not say that.”
“Why not? It is true.”
“It is—” He stopped. Started again. “Unwise.”
“Unwise.” You stared at him. “That is what you have for me.”
“It is the honest answer.”
“No.” You took another step closer and watched him resist the instinct to step back. “It is the coward’s answer, and you are not a coward. Try again.”
Fury crossed his face instantly, the way it always did when he felt cornered. “You presume too much.”
“Then correct me.”
“I am correcting you by telling you this conversation is finished.”
“It is not finished.”
“I say it is.”
“And I say you are running away and dressing it up as dignity.” Your voice had risen now, heat climbing through your chest. “For weeks, Maekar. Weeks of barely a word, barely a look, and you cannot even give me the courtesy of an honest reason—”
“The honest reason,” he said sharply, “is that this—” his hand moved between you, a short furious gesture— “should not continue.”
“What should not continue? We have done nothing—”
“Exactly.” The word came out ragged at the edges. He turned away from you immediately, a hand pressed hard against the nearest table. “Exactly nothing. And it should remain that way.”
You stared at the rigid line of his back.
“Why?” you asked quietly.
“Because I am not—” He stopped.
“Say it.”
“Leave it alone.”
“Say it, Maekar.”
“Because I am not built for this.” The words came out low and furious and slightly broken at once. “Is that what you wanted to hear? I am the fourth son. I have been trained since birth to be useful, to be the sword, to stand behind better men and serve the family’s purpose. That is what I am for.” His shoulders had drawn up tight beneath his doublet. “Not—” A rough breath. “Not this.”
The silence that followed was enormous.
You stood inside it and felt something build in your chest that you did not immediately have a name for. Hot and painful and expanding outward until your hands had begun to shake with it.
“Not this,” you repeated softly.
“No.”
“You are not built for being cared for.”
“I am not built for—”
“You are not enough.” The words came out barely above a whisper. “That is what you mean. That is what you actually believe.”
Maekar said nothing. Which was its own answer.
And that was when it happened.
Something white and furious ignited behind your ribs entirely without permission. Not sadness. Not heartbreak. Pure blazing rage on his behalf, at every person who had ever let him believe that, at every comparison and every dismissal and every moment that had carved this particular damage so deep into him that he recited it now like scripture.
You crossed the distance between you before thought intervened.
Your hands hit his chest and pushed.
Maekar’s back met the stone wall with a dull impact, his eyes flying wide with pure shock — not at the force, though that seemed to surprise him too — but at you. At the fact that you had done it at all. That the person standing before him with their hands fisted in his doublet and fury written plainly across every feature was you, someone half his size, someone he could have moved aside with one arm—
He did not move at all.
“Do not,” you said. Your voice shook with it. “Don't you dare say that to me.”
“I—”
“No.” Your hands tightened against the fabric of his doublet, knuckles pressing hard against the solid warmth of his chest beneath it. “You do not get to stand there and tell me you are not enough. You do not get to decide that. You do not get to spend weeks pulling away from me because some ancient cruelty convinced you that you were made only for function and nothing else—”
“You do not understand—”
“I understand perfectly.” Your eyes were burning now. Furiously. “I have watched you for months. I have seen what you are when you stop performing severity for long enough to simply exist. And you are—” Your voice cracked slightly. You pushed through it. “Maekar, you are extraordinary. Not despite what you are. Not in comparison to anyone. Yourself. And the fact that you cannot see it—”
“Stop.” His voice had gone rough. Unsteady.
“The fact that you have been standing in this family your entire life believing yourself a sword and nothing more—”
“I said stop.” Rougher now.
“It makes me want to—”
“Stop.”
He kissed you.
Not gently. Nothing like gently. His hands came up and caught your face and his mouth found yours with the sudden desperate urgency of a man who had simply run out of other options — who had used every deflection available to him and found you still standing there, furious and certain and refusing to let him be small, and had no idea what to do with that except this.
It lasted one stunned breathless second.
Then he pulled back.
His hands still cradled your face. His breathing had gone ragged. Those violet eyes searched yours with something almost panicked in them — the expression of a man who had just done something irreversible and was only now calculating the consequences.
“I should not have—” he began roughly.
You kissed him back.
Not as apology. Not gently either. You pulled him down by the front of his doublet and kissed him with the full force of everything you had just said and everything you had been holding quietly for months and felt the exact moment the last resistance went out of him completely.
Maekar made a sound against your mouth that you felt in your spine.
His hands slid from your face into your hair, tilting your head back, and suddenly he was kissing you like a man discovering water after a drought — not with careful reverence but with something rawer and more desperate beneath it, like he could not quite believe this was allowed and intended to have all of it before someone told him otherwise.
He broke the kiss with a ragged breath, forehead dropping against yours. His hands were shaking. You could feel it where they cradled your head.
“I have been—” His voice was wrecked completely. “Gods. I have been trying—”
“I know,” you breathed.
“You should have let it be.”
“No.” Your hands slid up his chest, feeling the hard planes of him beneath the fabric, the rapid thumping of his heart betraying every bit of composure his expression had ever pretended to. “I should not and I will not.”
A rough sound escaped him.
His eyes searched your face in the torchlight — violet and open and utterly unguarded in a way you had never seen from him in any council chamber or training yard or castle corridor. The severity was gone. The careful blankness gone. Just a man, terrified and wanting and finally, catastrophically out of excuses.
“You mean this,” he said quietly. Not quite a question.
“I have meant it,” you said, “for a very long time.”
Something in his expression broke entirely open.
His mouth found yours again, slower this time, deeper — and gods, the difference of it. Still hungry but the panic beneath it easing now into something that felt dangerously close to wonder. His hands moved through your hair with a care that contradicted every rough and prickly thing he had ever said or done, like beneath all of it, beneath the sword and the severity and the practiced distance, there had always been this.
Someone who simply needed to be told he was allowed.
“Maekar,” you murmured against his mouth.
A shudder moved through him at his own name spoken like that.
“Gods help me,” he said roughly. “I do not know how to—” He stopped. The admission visibly cost him. “I do not know how to do this.”
Your heart turned over completely.
“Yes, you do,” you whispered. Your hands found his face, thumbs brushing the line of his beard, the old scars beneath it. He exhaled shakily at the contact, eyes falling briefly closed. “You already are.”
That alone seemed to cost him — you could feel it in the rigid tension held through his entire body, in the way his hands remained carefully at his sides where he had lowered them despite the kiss deepening between you. Like he had given himself permission for this much and was terrified of reaching for more in case it proved too much to ask.
So, you decided for him. You took his hands. He went completely still as you lifted them from his sides and placed them — slowly, deliberately, holding his gaze the entire time — against your waist.
Maekar stared at you like you had done something incomprehensible.
“You are allowed,” you assured quietly.
His throat moved. His fingers remained motionless against your waist for one suspended moment, barely making contact, as though the fabric between his hands and your skin was the only thing keeping him tethered to composure.
Then, haltingly, his grip tightened.
Just slightly. Just enough to feel the warmth and solidity of his hands spanning your waist, large enough that his fingers nearly met at the small of your back.
The breath that left him was unsteady.
You rose onto your toes and kissed the corner of his jaw. Felt the muscle there jump immediately beneath your lips. His hands tightened further at your waist, involuntary, like his body was responding entirely without his permission.
You kissed along the sharp line of his jaw toward his ear, unhurried, feeling the roughness of his beard against your lips and the warmth of his skin beneath it.
“You are—” His voice had dropped to almost nothing. “You should not—”
“Maekar.” You pulled back just enough to look at him. His face was flushed, violet eyes dark, every line of him radiating the strain of holding himself still. “Stop telling me what I should not do.”
His jaw tightened. But he said nothing.
You kissed his cheekbone. The high plane of it, just above the beard, where the old pox scars tracked faintly beneath your lips. He made a sound so quiet you almost missed it. Something helpless and involuntary swallowed almost before it could exist.
Your hands moved to the front of his doublet, working the fastenings with steady fingers while his breathing deepened above you. Each button gave way and Maekar stood and let it happen, stood and watched your face with those dark eyes like a man waiting for the dream to end.
You pushed the doublet from his shoulders. It fell in the narrow space between his back and the wall, behind him. Beneath it, linen stretched across broad shoulders and a chest that rose and fell with increasing unevenness. You spread your palms flat against it and felt his heart hammering beneath them, rapid and entirely beyond his control.
Something deeply fond moved through you at that.
“Still with me?” you murmured.
“I think so,” he said roughly.
You laughed softly and felt him exhale shakily in response, his hands sliding fractionally further around your waist like they were making decisions independently of him.
You kissed his throat then. Open mouthed, slow, just below his jaw where his pulse beat rapidly against your lips. Maekar’s head tipped back slightly, an involuntary concession, his fingers pressing harder against your waist.
You kissed lower. The rough scrape of his beard gave way to the warm skin of his neck, and you felt the shudder that moved through him at the contact, felt his grip on you tighten to something that was no longer gentle—
You bit him.
Not hard. Not cruelly. A deliberate scrape of teeth against the curve where his neck met his shoulder, your lips pressing warm against it immediately afterward.
The sound that left Maekar was nothing like anything you had heard from him before. Low and rough and dragged from somewhere entirely beyond his composure. His entire body went rigid for one suspended second—
Then it was like watching a dam break down.
His hands moved.
Suddenly, completely, with a decisiveness that stole the breath from your lungs. One arm swept around your waist and hauled you flush against him with a sureness that made the floor feel uncertain beneath your feet, the other hand sliding into your hair and tilting your head back, and then his mouth was on yours and gods—
Gods.
Nothing hesitant in it. Nothing careful. He kissed you like the last three weeks of distance had been a physical pressure he had been holding back with both hands and your teeth against his skin had finally, catastrophically, released it all at once.
You made a startled sound against his mouth. Maekar just swallowed it and kissed you harder.
He walked you backward through the armoury with complete certainty, steering you through the low torchlight without breaking the kiss, one hand spread wide and immovable at the small of your back and the other still tangled in your hair. The back of your thighs met the edge of the long wooden workbench, and he lifted you onto it without apparent effort — large hands spanning your waist and depositing you there like you weighed nothing of consequence — and stepped immediately between your knees.
The new height brought you almost level with him and he took immediate advantage, cupping your face in both hands and kissing you with a thoroughness that made rational thought extremely difficult.
“Maekar—” you managed between kisses.
“No.” The word came out low and absolute. “You had your turn to talk.”
You laughed and he caught the sound with his mouth and made a rough noise against your lips that sent heat rushing straight through you.
His hands left your face and began moving — not hesitantly now, not waiting for guidance. Large and warm and entirely purposeful, sliding from your jaw down your throat, tracing your collarbones with a focus that suggested he intended to learn every inch of you and had decided to begin immediately.
When his fingers found the lacing at the back of your gown he paused for just a moment, just long enough to pull back and find your eyes. The question was there without words. Still him beneath the urgency. Still that fundamental core of a man who needed to know he was not taking something without being allowed to.
“Yes,” you said before he could ask it.
Something moved across his face. Raw and unguarded and painfully honest.
Then his hands resumed with steady, certain fingers, unlacing slowly at first, then faster as the fastenings gave way.
“You have no idea,” he said roughly against your temple, voice low enough to vibrate through you, “what you have done to me.”
“Tell me,” you breathed funnily.
His hands stilled briefly at your back. “Months.” The word came out almost pained. “I have spent months trying to—” He exhaled roughly. “And you simply—” A sound of frustration. “You walked into a room and I forgot how to be sensible.”
The confession hit somewhere directly behind your sternum.
“Good,” you whispered.
A rough laugh escaped him. Short and startled and entirely real. You felt it against your cheek and stored it somewhere permanent.
His hands resumed their work.
“You are,” he muttered, the lacing finally giving way entirely, “the most inconvenient thing that has ever happened to me.”
You pulled back to look at him. The torchlight caught the flush beneath his beard, the dark intensity of his eyes, the silver threaded through pale hair falling slightly over his forehead. He looked thoroughly undone and absolutely furious about it and so devastatingly his that your chest ached with it.
“Likewise,” you said softly. The look he gave you afterward nearly stopped your heart.
Because beneath the urgency and the feral edge of finally having broken loose — there it was. What lived underneath all of it. What had been living underneath all of it for months in training yards and castle corridors and cold battlements at dusk.
Not just wanting. Something far more dangerous than that.
His forehead dropped against yours.
“I do not know,” he said quietly, the roughness in his voice now carrying something almost bewildered beneath it, “how to be careful with you.”
Your hands rose to his chest. “Then don’t be.”
The breath that left him was long and shaking.
“I may not be able to stop,” he warned lowly.
“Maekar.” You held his gaze. “Do not make me bite you again.”
He stared at you for one moment.
Then something shifted in his expression — the last fragment of restraint dissolving into something that was equal parts exasperated and consumed and desperately fond — and he kissed you again with the full and undivided attention of a man who had just been given permission to stop pretending he wanted anything else.
The lacing gave way beneath his hands with gratifying speed.
Maekar worked with focused single-mindedness, fingers steady now where they had mildly trembled earlier, the fabric loosening incrementally as the fastenings came undone. You sat on the edge of the workbench and let him, your hands resting against his chest, feeling the heat radiating through the linen still covering him and the rapid thumping of his heart beneath it.
The gown loosened around your torso.
Maekar’s hands moved to your shoulders, sliding beneath the fabric to push it downward, and then his patience — which had already survived considerably more than it was built for tonight — ran completely out.
The sound of tearing fabric split the quiet armoury like a small thunderclap.
Maekar went absolutely still.
You bit the inside of your cheek against the laugh trying to escape you.
A beat of silence.
“I—” he began.
“Don’t,” you said.
“The seam—”
“Maekar.”
He looked at you. The expression on his face was genuinely extraordinary — caught somewhere between mortification and the barely contained urgency of a man who had not actually stopped wanting what he had been reaching for, the two things warring openly across his features in the torchlight.
“I will have it mended,” he said roughly.
“I am sure you will,” you agreed pleasantly.
His eyes narrowed slightly at your tone. Then the fabric shifted and his gaze dropped and every coherent thought visibly left his head at once.
You were bare beneath it.
Completely. Deliberately. The torn gown pooled at your waist, the torchlight warm and gold across your skin, and there was absolutely no question that this had not been accidental.
Maekar stared. The silence stretched long enough to become something else entirely.
“You,” he said. His voice had dropped to something low and rough and barely functional. “You planned this.”
“I have absolutely no idea what you mean,” you said serenely.
His eyes dragged slowly back up to your face with an expression that suggested he was reconsidering everything he thought he knew about you and finding the revision both alarming and catastrophic in equal measure.
“You came here tonight,” he said slowly, “without—”
“Maekar.”
“Deliberately.”
“The armoury can get quite warm,” you offered.
Something shifted in his expression then. The mortification burned away entirely, replaced by something darker and more focused, and the look he gave you was nothing like anything you had seen from him before. Not the prickly severity. Not the careful blankness. Something that had been living underneath all of that for months, patient and hungry and entirely done waiting.
“You,” he said quietly, “are going to be the absolute death of me.”
Then his hands were on you.
No hesitation this time. None. Large and warm and completely certain, sliding up from your waist and cupping your breasts with a directness that dragged a sharp breath from your throat. His thumbs moved and your head fell back immediately, a sound escaping you that echoed faintly off the stone walls.
Maekar made a low rough noise in response.
“Gods,” he breathed. The word came out reverent and wrecked at once, his eyes moving over you in the torchlight with an intensity that felt almost tangible. His hands moved with growing urgency, learning the weight and warmth of you, and you could feel in every touch the months of restraint finally broken loose — not gentle, not careful, just present and consuming and entirely focused on you.
His head bent.
His mouth found the curve of your breast and your fingers flew immediately into his hair, loosening whatever order remained in it and sending pale silver-threaded strands falling forward as he pressed an open mouthed kiss against your skin.
The groan that left you was embarrassingly immediate.
Maekar responded to it like a man receiving confirmation of something he had suspected and filed carefully away — his mouth moving with sudden purposefulness, tongue warm against your nipple while his hands held you steady against him.
Your grip tightened in his hair.
He groaned against your skin and the vibration of it shot straight through you.
“There,” he murmured roughly against your breast, the word low and satisfied in a way that was entirely new from him. Like he had discovered a language he had not known he spoke. “I want to hear that again.”
You gave him exactly what he asked for.
His mouth moved across your chest with growing confidence, learning what made you gasp and returning to it with focused intent, his large hands spanning your ribs and holding you exactly where he wanted you with an ease that made you feel impossibly, wonderfully small against him.
At some point his mouth travelled upward again, kissing the curve of your throat, the line of your jaw, finding your mouth with sudden renewed urgency while his hands remained occupied and his thumbs moved in ways that made coherent thought genuinely difficult.
You broke the kiss with a rough breath. His forehead dropped against yours, both of you breathing unevenly in the warm torchlit dark.
“The dress,” you managed. “You owe me a dress.”
A sound escaped him. Short and low and startled — that real unguarded laugh again, the one you had been collecting like something rare.
“Add it to my debts,” he said roughly against your mouth.
“Your debts are mounting, my prince.”
His right index and thumb pinched the sensible mount of your breast and stole whatever you had been planning to say next directly from your throat.
“Then,” he murmured, low and certain and devastating, “allow me to begin repaying them.”
Your hands found the hem of his linen shirt. Maekar pulled back slightly at the contact, just enough to look down at your hands, then back up at your face. Something flickered briefly in his expression — that old reflex, the instinct to stop this before it became something he did not know how to carry.
You held his gaze and pulled the shirt upward.
He let you. Lifted his arms without being asked, a concession so simple and so enormous from him that something ached sweetly in your chest at the sight of it. The linen cleared his head and you dropped it somewhere behind him without ceremony.
Then you looked at him and forgot, momentarily, what you had been about to say.
The torchlight caught him gold and shadow — broad shoulders, the hard planes of a chest dusted with pale hair, the evidence of years of training written into every line of him. A scar crossed his left side, old and long-healed, another at his shoulder. Marks accumulated quietly over years, worn without comment, without complaint.
Your hands rose before thought intervened.
You pressed your palms flat against his chest the way you had through the fabric earlier, except now there was nothing between your skin and his and the warmth of him nearly stole your breath.
Maekar went very still beneath your hands. You felt his heartbeat. Rapid and entirely beyond his control, hammering against your palm with a candour the rest of him would never willingly allow.
“You are—” He stopped. Something worked in his jaw. “You should not look at me like that.”
You dragged your gaze up to his face. “Like what?”
“Like—” The words seemed to cost him. “Like you find something worth looking at.”
The ache behind your ribs sharpened immediately into something almost painful.
“Maekar.” Your hands slid slowly upward across his chest, feeling the warmth of him, the solid reality of all that restrained strength beneath your palms. “I have found something worth looking at since the first time you glared at me on a battlement.”
His throat moved.
“That was not—” He stopped again.
“You are breathtaking,” you said quietly, a faint smile accompanying your words.
Something shifted in his face. The vulnerability flickering through before the familiar impulse to suppress it could fully engage. Your fingers traced slowly across his shoulder, following the line of the old scar there with deliberate gentleness. Maekar’s breath caught.
“Does it bother you?” you asked softly. “When I touch them?”
A long pause.
“No,” he said roughly. Then, quieter, “That is the problem.”
Your heart turned completely over. You leaned forward and pressed your lips against the scar at his shoulder. Felt the sharp intake of breath above you, felt the hands at your waist tighten convulsively.
Then you kissed across his collarbone. His chest. The old, healed line at his ribs, your lips warm and unhurried against each mark while Maekar stood and endured it with the expression of a man being quietly and thoroughly dismantled and lacking any remaining means of defence.
“You are doing it again,” he said. Strained.
“What?”
“Being—” A rough exhale. “Kind. About things that do not require kindness.”
You looked up at him from where your lips rested against his ribs. “They require it from me.”
The flush that climbed his face was immediate and violent, spreading beneath his beard and straight to the tips of his ears. He looked furious about it in the way he always did when caught feeling something he had not prepared for.
You rose back up at the workbench’s edge and kissed the line of his jaw, his cheekbone, the corner of his mouth.
His hands slid up your bare back, warm and spanning and pulling you closer against the heat of his chest, your skin against his now with nothing between you and the contact stole a soft sound from you both simultaneously.
Maekar pressed his mouth against your temple.
“You are going to ruin me,” he said quietly. Not an accusation. Something far more honest than that.
Your arms wound around his neck.
“I think I already did,” you murmured against his jaw. Then you found his throat again — the place you had bitten before, still faintly marked — and pressed your tongue there deliberately.
The sound that left him resonated through his entire chest as his arms tightened around you completely.
“Again,” he said. Low and immediate and entirely without shame this time. The commanding quality back in full force, the vulnerability of a moment ago folded back underneath it — except now you knew it was there, now you had seen it, and no amount of authority in his voice could fully conceal it from you anymore.
You smiled against his throat and obliged.
His hands had been moving through your hair, your mouth still warm against his throat, when you leaned back from him and slid slowly, deliberately, from the edge of the workbench.
You felt the exact moment he realised what you intended when he looked down and saw how your knees met the stone floor.
The expression that crossed his face was unlike anything you had ever seen from him. Not the flush of embarrassment. Not the guarded severity. Something rawer than open shock, moving through every feature while his hands remained suspended where they had been, hovering uselessly in the air where your hair had been a moment ago.
“What are you—” His voice came out entirely wrong. Rough and halting and stripped of every trace of the commanding certainty of moments ago. “You do not have to—”
“I know,” you said simply.
Your fingers found the laces of his trousers.
“I want to,” you added, and looked up at him while you said it, held those violet eyes deliberately while your fingers worked the fastenings loose, and watched the words land somewhere so deep inside him that his jaw tightened against whatever sound tried to escape.
“You—” He stopped. Tried again. Failed again.
The laces gave way.
Maekar inhaled sharply through his nose, a sound so controlled it betrayed exactly how much effort the control was costing him. His hands had found your shoulders now — not pushing, not guiding, simply resting there as though he needed something to hold onto and you were the only solid thing available.
You freed him slowly.
The rough sound that left him at that alone nearly undid you entirely.
He was already hard — he must have been for some time, you suspected, given the considerable evidence — and warm and heavy and when you wrapped your hand around him and simply held for a moment, looking up at his face, the expression you found there stopped your breath completely.
Wrecked did not cover it.
Maekar looked like a man who had been struck. Colour high beneath his beard, eyes dark and blown wide, chest heaving with the effort of breathing evenly. His hands on your shoulders had tightened to something that might leave marks and you found you did not mind that even slightly.
But beneath all of that — beneath the hunger and the shock and the barely contained urgency —
Something bewildered. Something terribly, painfully young. Like he was genuinely unable to comprehend that you were here, on your knees, looking up at him like this. Like the image of it did not fit inside any version of himself he had ever been allowed to imagine.
“You do not—” he tried again, jaw working. “I am not—”
“Maekar.” Your thumb moved over the tip of his cock and his entire sentence dissolved instantly. “Let me.”
A shaking breath left him.
You held his gaze one moment longer. Making sure he saw it — the intention in your eyes, the complete and utter absence of reluctance, the certainty that this was chosen and deliberate and wanted.
Then you leaned forward and took him into your mouth.
The sound he made was immediate and violent and nothing like anything that had left him all evening. His head fell back against the shelving behind him with a dull impact he seemed entirely unaware of, a rough broken noise tearing free from his chest as his hands flew from your shoulders into your hair — not gripping, not guiding, just holding, fingers tangled and shaking against your scalp like he needed the contact to confirm this was real.
You took your time. Deliberately. Thoroughly. The way you had kissed his scars earlier — with a focused attention that communicated unmistakably that this was not obligation, not performance. That you were here because you wanted to be here, on these cold stone floors, with this impossible prickly furious man coming completely apart above you.
“Gods—” The word came out shattered. “Gods—”
His hips shifted forward fractionally, involuntary, immediately arrested as though he had caught himself. Still trying to restrain even now. Still terrified of taking too much.
You took him deeper in direct response.
“Seven hells—” The curse left him in a rough exhale, every muscle in the hand tangled in your hair tensing simultaneously. “You— I cannot— gods, you have to—”
He did not finish the sentence. Could not, apparently. You looked up at him through your lashes and that was what finished it.
Meeting his eyes from where you knelt — watching the full devastating wreckage of his composure written openly across his face, the flush and the parted lips and the shaking jaw and the violet eyes looking down at you with an expression that contained hunger and wonder and something so much larger than either that it had no clean name—
Maekar made a sound that came from somewhere entirely beyond dignity.
“Please,” he said roughly. Barely audible. The word seemingly startling him as much as you, like it had escaped without permission — Prince Maekar Targaryen, the sword of the family, the prickly unmovable fourth son, pleading to the ceiling of an armoury with his hands shaking in your hair.
Something triumphant and tender and desperately fond moved through you simultaneously.
You gave him everything.
He lasted considerably less time than his pride would probably prefer, which you found entirely endearing. The hands in your hair tightened with sudden urgency, a rough warning that was also half a question, and you answered it by staying exactly where you were and he broke apart above you with your name leaving his mouth like something torn free from the centre of him.
Not gods. Not a curse. Not a prayer. Your name. Just your name, rough and wrecked and reverent all at once.
The silence that followed was enormous.
Maekar stood against the shelving breathing like he had run a considerable distance, chest heaving, one hand still tangled loosely in your hair and the other against the wall, almost as if he needed it to keep balance. You rose slowly from the floor, brushing stone dust from your knees with the composure of someone who had absolutely planned all of this, and looked up to find him staring at you.
The expression on his face nearly made your heart stop.
Not the satisfied blankness you might have expected. Not even the lingering hunger. Something bewildered and open and completely undefended, sitting raw across every feature in the torchlight. Like what had just happened had rearranged something fundamental inside him and he was still taking inventory of the damage.
His mouth opened. Closed.
“You,” he said finally. His voice was completely destroyed. “You are—” He stopped. Seemed to genuinely lose the words.
His hans moved to your face, slowly, cupping your jaw with fingers that still trembled slightly. His thumb traced once beneath your cheekbone.
“I did not know,” he said quietly, “that someone would—” He stopped again. Jaw tight. “That I could—”
“You can,” you said softly.
His eyes closed briefly. You rose onto your toes and kissed the corner of his mouth. Maekar exhaled shakily against your cheek.
Then his hands found your waist with renewed purpose and he walked you backward toward the workbench again. The look in his eyes when he pulled back to find yours was nothing like the bewildered wreckage of a moment ago.
Certain. Focused. Warm beneath the hunger in a way that was entirely new from him.
“Your turn,” he said quietly.
He lifted you back onto the workbench like you weighed nothing.
The ease of it still sent heat rushing through you — the casual certainty of those large hands spanning your waist, the complete absence of effort, the way he stepped immediately between your knees and looked at you in the torchlight with that focused unhurried attention that had migrated from training yards and council disputes and settled here, on you, with its full undivided weight.
“Maekar—”
“No,” he said. Quiet and absolute. “You had your turn.”
“You said that already.”
“And I meant it both times.”
His hands found the fabric pooled at your waist — the ruins of your gown, the torn seam still hanging where his impatience had destroyed it — and pushed it further down your hips with steady purposeful fingers. You lifted slightly to allow it and the fabric fell away entirely, leaving you in nothing but the torchlight and his gaze.
Maekar looked at you.
Slowly. Completely. With the focused thoroughness he gave everything — as though you were something that deserved to be properly examined before anything else could proceed.
The flush climbed your own face this time.
“You seem to be gaping, my prince,” you said conceitedly.
"Perhaps," he said lowering his mouth again to your sternum and upwards. "Or perhaps I am simply wondering how you manage to be so insufferably, distractingly beautiful," he murmured against your lips and closed the distance again.
His kisses were slower than before. Deeper. With the particular quality of a man who has just had something enormous confirmed and is no longer in any hurry to pretend otherwise. His hands moved across your bare skin with a thoroughness that suggested he intended to learn every inch of you and considered this a reasonable allocation of his evening.
His mouth left yours and travelled downward yet again.
Your throat. Your collarbone. The curve of your breast where he had been earlier, returning with renewed focus, and the sound you made when his mouth found your nipple again was immediate and entirely undignified.
Maekar made a low satisfied noise against your skin.
“There,” he murmured. The word vibrated warm against you. “I have been thinking about that sound.”
“You—” Coherence was becoming genuinely difficult. “You have?”
There was no response to your question, him being entirely focused on savouring your breasts to a point where you thought he would devour them entirely,
“Maekar—” you pressed whining.
“Mm.” Not really listening. Occupied.
His hands slid down your sides, your waist, the curve of your hips, with an attentiveness that made your skin feel oversensitive everywhere he had not touched yet. He took his time. Deliberately. Like he was paying something back with interest and intended to be thorough about it.
His mouth followed the same path downward, pressing open kisses across your stomach while you sat on the edge of the workbench and tried to remember how breathing worked.
When he lowered himself to his knees in front of you the sound that escaped you was involuntary and immediate.
Maekar looked up.
The sight of him there — this enormous severe prickly man, on his knees, violet eyes finding yours from below with an expression of complete and utter focus — nearly stopped your heart entirely.
“Consider it returned,” he said quietly.
Then he pulled your thighs over his shoulders and lowered his head to tour core, and every coherent thought you possessed simply ceased to exist.
He was not tentative. Not uncertain. Maekar approached this the way he approached everything — with complete commitment and zero interest in half measures — and the wet, filthy sounds filling the quiet armoury within moments were yours and entirely beyond your control.
His hands held your hips with firm certainty, keeping you exactly where he wanted you with an ease that made you feel helplessly, wonderfully at his mercy. His mouth and tongue moved with focused intent, learning what made your breath catch and returning to it immediately, cataloguing every reaction with the same attentiveness he gave a training yard or a tactical problem.
“Gods—” Your hands flew into his hair, fingers tangling in the pale silver-threaded strands. “Maekar—”
He made a sound against you that vibrated through your entire body. Your grip tightened. He did not seem to mind even slightly.
“Look at me,” he said against your inner thigh, pulling back just enough to speak. His voice had dropped to something rough and low that resonated somewhere in the base of your spine. “I want—” A brief pause. Something working in his jaw. “I want to see you.”
You looked down and found his eyes already waiting.
He held your gaze and resumed and the combination of it — those violet eyes watching your face with naked focused intensity while his mouth worked with devastating thoroughness — unravelled the last remnants of your composure completely.
The tension coiled so tight it became almost unbearable.
“Maekar—” His name came out broken. “Please—”
Something moved in his eyes at that.
He pressed closer, arms wrapping around your middle and pulling you against his mouth with sudden decisive urgency, and the tension snapped apart all at once. You came with his name on your lips and your hands fisted in his hair and your entire body shaking with it, and Maekar held you through every tremor with steady certain hands like he had always been built for exactly this.
Like he had been built for you specifically and simply not known it yet.
The silence afterward was soft and golden and full of your uneven breathing. Maekar rose slowly from his knees.
He stood before you in the torchlight, flushed and thoroughly dishevelled, pale hair falling loose around his face, and looked at you with an expression so open and unguarded that it nearly made your eyes sting.
Not the bewilderment of earlier. Something that had moved past bewilderment into something quieter and more settled. Like a man who has just understood something he had been refusing to look at directly for a very long time.
You reached for him.
He came without hesitation — no flinching, no deflection — and let you pull him in until his forehead rested against yours and his hands settled at your waist and the warmth of him surrounded you entirely.
“Still think,” you murmured softly, “that you are not built for this?”
A long pause.
“No,” he said roughly. The word came out almost wondering. Like the answer had surprised him.
Your hands found his face. Thumbs tracing the line of his now wetted beard, the scars beneath it, the high flush still colouring his cheekbones. He closed his eyes briefly the way he always did when you touched him there.
“Good,” you whispered.
His hands tightened at your waist.
“We are not finished,” he said. Lower now. The commanding quality returning beneath the softness, threading through it rather than replacing it.
Heat rushed through you immediately.
“I thought so,” you agreed.
He pulled back to look at you, something certain and hungry and devastatingly focused sitting in those violet eyes. He had you on your back against the workbench before you had fully processed the movement.
One moment upright, the next flat against the worn wood with Maekar’s hands braced on either side of your head and the full commanding weight of his attention pinning you as effectively as anything physical could have managed.
The torchlight caught him from above — flushed, breathing hard, pale hair falling forward around his face, every trace of the prickly guarded prince burned away entirely — and gods, the sight of him like this did something catastrophic to your ability to think clearly.
His forehead dropped briefly against yours.
“I want—” He stopped. Something working visibly in his jaw. “I need you to tell me.” His voice came out rough and strained and carefully controlled. “If I—”
“Maekar.”
“I am not—” Another stop. The flush deepening. “I do not want to hurt you.”
The vulnerability beneath the urgency hit somewhere directly behind your sternum. You reached up and took his face in both hands.
“You will not hurt me,” you said clearly.
“You do not know that.” His eyes searched yours with an intensity that had nothing to do with desire and everything to do with that bedrock quality of him — the thing that made him reposition himself between danger and others without thinking, that made him remember injuries, that made him protect fiercely everything he considered his. “I am—” A rough exhale. “It has been some time. And I—” He stopped completely. The flush had reached his ears. “I do not do things gently when I—”
“Good,” you said. He blinked. “I do not want gentle,” you said. Plainly. Clearly. Holding his gaze so he could see every word landing true. “I want you. All of it.” Your thumb traced his jaw and felt the muscle jump beneath it. “Do you understand what I am telling you?”
Maekar stared at you.
“You are—” The words seemed to fail him entirely.
“I am certain,” you said. “I am telling you I want it rough. I am telling you I have been waiting weeks for this and I am done waiting.” A beat. “I am also telling you that I am considerably less fragile than you seem determined to believe.”
Something shifted in his expression so completely it was almost visible as a physical thing — the last protective restraint dissolving, replaced by something dark and focused and entirely done being reasonable.
“You are certain,” he repeated. Not a question this time.
“Maekar.” You held his gaze. “I came here tonight practically naked.”
A sound escaped him that was almost a laugh and almost something else entirely. Then his mouth found yours and whatever he had been about to say disappeared completely.
He kissed you with the full pent up force of weeks of deliberate distance, of every turned back and every carefully engineered absence and every moment he had spent convincing himself he was not allowed — and you felt every single day of it in the urgency behind it, in the hands sliding beneath your thighs and repositioning you against the edge of the workbench with sudden decisive purpose.
He settled between your thighs and you felt him — all of him — and the sharp breath that left you was immediate and involuntary.
Maekar stilled.
“Still—”
“Yes,” you said firmly.
His jaw tightened. His hands gripped your hips. And he pushed forward slowly, carefully despite everything, a concession to that bedrock protectiveness that apparently even weeks of pent up wanting could not fully override—
The sound you both made simultaneously when his cock went smoothly into your dripping cunt echoed off the stone walls.
“Gods,” he breathed. Barely audible. The word stripped of everything except pure involuntary honesty. His forehead dropped to your chest, both hands gripping your hips hard enough to anchor you both to reality, every muscle in his body held in rigid check while he gave you a moment to adjust.
You felt— full. Completely. Wonderfully overwhelmingly full, the stretch of him settling into something that sat on the precise edge between too much and exactly right.
“Maekar.” You wrapped your legs around him. “Move.”
Something in him simply let go.
He drew back and thrust forward and the workbench scraped against the stone floor with the force of it and you cried out into the quiet armoury with absolutely zero remaining concern for who might hear.
Maekar groaned low against your throat.
“Again,” you managed.
He obliged.
And again. And again. The careful deliberateness of moments ago burning away entirely as the rhythm built — deep and certain and relentless. The workbench protested steadily beneath you while his hands held your hips exactly where he wanted them with a grip that would leave the memory of his fingers on your skin for days and you found you wanted that. Wanted the evidence of it. Wanted to carry it back to Queen Myriah’s chambers tomorrow like a secret pressed beneath your skin.
Maekar was not quiet about it.
That surprised you — this man who guarded every reaction, who suppressed every sound, who had spent a lifetime performing composure — coming apart above you with rough broken noises pressed against your throat that he seemed entirely beyond managing. Low and urgent and devastatingly real, dragged free by every movement, every sound you made in response, every time your hands gripped the back of his neck and pulled him closer.
Like he had been holding all of it for so long that now the dam had broken there was simply nothing left to hold with.
“You feel—” His voice came out wrecked and wondering against your jaw. “Gods, you feel—”
“Don’t stop,” you breathed.
A rough sound. “I could not.” Said with complete and utter certainty. “I physically could not.”
Your back arched off the workbench.
His hand slid beneath it immediately — that same instinct, even now, even like this — supporting you, keeping you from the hard edge of the wood while the other gripped your hip and his rhythm deepened into something that stole rational thought entirely.
“Look at me,” he said roughly.
You found his eyes.
Violet and dark and completely unguarded, holding yours with an intensity that had nowhere left to hide — every wall down, every practiced blankness burned away, just Maekar looking at you like you were the only solid thing in the room and he was holding on accordingly.
The expression on his face finished you.
Not the hunger, though that was there, overwhelming and undeniable. But underneath it — wonder. Still wonder. Even now. Like he still could not entirely believe this was real and had decided to look at you directly until it became impossible to doubt.
“I see you,” you whispered. His rhythm faltered for one broken moment.
Then his mouth found yours and he kissed you with everything he had left and the hand at your hip tightened, the workbench scraped and you stopped thinking in words entirely.
The tension had been coiling for weeks — through every turned back and every engineered absence and every moment of deliberate distance — and when it finally broke it broke completely, your whole body arching against him while his name tore free from your throat in a way that would absolutely echo and you found you did not care even slightly.
Maekar followed you over the edge moments later, his cock throbbing inside you and filling you up so deliciously.
Your name again. Just your name, the same as before — rough and broken and said like it was the only word he had ever been certain of.
The silence afterward was vast and golden and full of ragged breathing.
He did not move immediately. Simply rested his forehead against yours, both hands gentling from their grip to something that was almost cradling, chest heaving against yours while the torchlight flickered its slow indifferent commentary across the walls.
You lay on a workbench in an armoury with a discarded torn dress and a thoroughly dishevelled prince and the distant sounds of the castle carrying on entirely without you.
“Maekar,” you said eventually. Soft, nails gently caressing his scalp.
“Mm.” Not fully returned yet.
“The workbench survived.” A long pause.
Then that laugh. Low and startled and utterly real, resonating through his chest and into yours where you were still pressed together.
“Barely,” he said.
You smiled into his shoulder. "Think this thing is sturdy enough for a second assault?"
His laugh deepened against your throat where his face had finally landed. His arms tightened around you once — brief, fierce, communicating something he did not yet have words for — before he pulled back enough to look at your face with that new expression. The one that had moved past bewilderment into something quieter and more permanent.
“You are—” He stopped. Looked almost frustrated by his own inability to finish the sentence.
“I know,” you said gently.
He looked at you for a long moment.
“No,” he said quietly. “You do not.” His thumb traced once across your cheekbone. “But I find myself— wanting to explain it to you.” A pause in which he seemed to surprise himself. “Eventually.”
Your heart turned completely over.
“I am not going anywhere,” you said.
Something settled in his face at that. Deep and slow like a foundation finding solid ground.
“No,” he agreed. “You certainly are not.”
The next morning, you had managed the dress. Barely.
The torn seam had required creative pinning in places that would not have survived close examination, which meant you had changed entirely before dawn and disposed of the evidence with the focused efficiency of someone who had absolutely thought this through.
You had not, however, thought about what your face could tell.
Queen Myriah’s chambers sat warm and bright in the morning light, the fire already built up against the early chill, and her grace herself sat composed and unhurried before her mirror while you worked through the familiar ritual of her morning hair with hands that were almost entirely steady.
Almost.
You had been telling yourself for the better part of an hour that you were perfectly fine. That nothing in your bearing communicated anything unusual. That you were a consummate lady in waiting with complete command of your own expression and the events of last night were entirely invisible on your person.
You were doing very well at believing this.
Until the door opened and Maekar stepped into the room.
He had managed himself considerably better than you — composed, dressed, every trace of last night’s dishevelment erased, only the faintest shadow beneath his eyes suggesting the hour at which he had eventually sought his own chambers. His gaze found you immediately, the way it always did now, and something shifted briefly in his expression before the careful blankness reasserted itself.
Your hands stilled in Myriah’s hair for exactly one betraying second. Heat climbed your face with the subtlety of a siege engine.
You resumed immediately. Smoothly. Professionally.
In the mirror, Queen Myriah’s eyes moved from her son’s face to yours. Then back to her son’s. Then back to yours.
The silence lasted approximately four seconds.
“Maekar,” she said pleasantly. “How unexpected. You rarely visit before council.”
“I had correspondence to discuss.” His voice was admirably even. “If you have a moment.”
“Of course.” Myriah’s eyes returned to her own reflection, her expression settling into something that was almost serenity and was in fact the most dangerous thing you had ever seen on a human face. “Though you look tired, my son. Did you sleep poorly?”
A beat.
“I slept adequately.”
“Mm.” Her grace examined her reflection with great interest. “And you—” this to you, in the same pleasant tone— “you look rather flushed this morning. Are you well, my child?”
“Perfectly well, your grace,” you said. With tremendous composure. “The fire is just warm.”
“It is, isn’t it.” A pause. “Maekar, does she not look remarkably well this morning?”
The silence that followed was catastrophic.
You did not look up from her hair. You focused on it with the complete and total dedication of someone whose life depended on a particular arrangement of pins.
“She looks—” Maekar stopped. Cleared his throat. “Fine.”
“Fine,” Myriah repeated thoughtfully.
You could feel her smiling in the mirror without looking at it. The specific quality of it radiating outward like heat from a particularly self-satisfied fire.
“Your correspondence,” you said to her reflection. Firmly. “Shall I fetch it after I have finished your hair, your grace?”
“There is no hurry.” Her grace was the picture of morning leisure. “Maekar, sit. You are making the room feel crowded standing in the doorway like a man who wishes to be somewhere else.”
He sat. With the expression of someone accepting a siege they know they cannot win.
You finished the final pin with hands that were absolutely trying not to shake.
“There,” you said. “Your grace.”
Myriah examined her reflection. Turned her head slightly left. Then right. The gesture of a woman entirely satisfied with her hair and entirely unconcerned with that being the subject under discussion.
Then she looked at you directly in the mirror.
“You may take a moment as well,” she said pleasantly. “You have been standing since dawn.”
“I am perfectly—”
“It was not a suggestion, my dear girl.”
So you sat.
The three of you existed in the warm morning quiet of the solar for one extraordinary moment — Queen Myriah composed and radiant, you studying the middle distance with tremendous focus, and Maekar to your left apparently finding the grain of the table deeply fascinating.
“Well,” said Myriah eventually. In the tone of a woman setting down a winning hand at cards. “This is very pleasant, is it not?.”
Maekar’s ears went red. You became very interested in your own hands.
Her grace looked between you both with the expression of a woman who had navigated the politics of two great houses, raised four sons, and survived the court of King Daeron with her dignity entirely intact — a woman, in short, who had seen absolutely everything and could not currently be less surprised by any of it.
The smile she was not quite suppressing was the most Dornish thing you had ever witnessed.
“I always did think,” she said lightly, returning to her own reflection and touching one pin with a satisfied air, “that the armoury at dusk was terribly romantic.”
The silence that followed had texture.
“Mother—” Maekar began.
“The correspondence can wait,” said Myriah serenely, already rising from her seat and making for the door. “Enjoy your morning, children.”
I just had to make Maekar's version more reader-domineering, I could not resist myself. So, what are your thoughts on this one??
I think there's something weirdly tragic about Maekar being a good king. Because the man we meet at Ashford would not be a good king. Which suggests that when he does take the Iron Throne, he makes a tremendous effort to play against his character, and do the boring work of keeping the peace and tolerating people that he doesn't like. And it's hard not to read that as Maekar trying to be as like Baelor as he can be, because it should be Baelor on the throne, and it's Maekar's fault that it isn't.
