⋆˙⟡ summary your husband has been tormented with jealousy at your new sworn shield.
⋆˙⟡ notes this was fun and hot.
⋆˙⟡ warnings sex 18+, p in v, riding, possessive and jealous baelor, dirty talk, pussy eating, implications of a biting kink
MASTERLIST
Baelor knew of your standing amongst the many folk of the Realm. They looked upon you, his second wife, as a young beauty. It seemed both Lords and Ladies alike got lost within your gaze, stammering their House names as you greeted them. Your beauty gained you a vast amount of attention, the good in hand with the bad. Perhaps this was why your guard must double on your tours of the Realm, or why you followed after your Husband as he walked through the Keep.
"Husband," you called out, his pace swiftly outdoing your own, "you must think it as silly as I. A sworn shield?"
"Yes, my dear wife." He did not halt in his trail toward the small council room, wanting this conversation to be brought to an end, though that did not seem likely. The death of most conversation was when you willed it so, not him or anyone else. You had that effect on people, and what was worse, you were aware of it. Used it to your advantage, in fact.
"I am not a Queen. Merely a Princess save by marriage." You reasoned.
Baelor finally stopped, eyes closed to refrain from talking to you as he did his many small council men when they would not listen to him. He held the patience of many Houses of men in his body alone, that would not falter with you. You had picked up your skirts to chase after him, finally stopping as you reached his chest.
A familiar scent. A very familiar scent.
You craned your head toward his neck, standing on your toes to better reach him. "Is that… lemon?"
Baelor felt his cheeks heat at your observation, wanting to run from his sweet wife as you stared up at him, a challenging smirk stuck to your face. "I miss you during my day of many duties, I carry your scent as a reminder."
He said it so casually, as if this was not such a grand declaration of love toward you. Your knees nearly buckled at his admission.
"Baelor Targaryen." You gasped, hands clutching your chest. "I will find this marriage annulled to wed you all over again, if you are not careful with your words."
He breathed out a laugh, reaching his hands to grasp your cheeks within them. "Must I be so careful? I am enraptured by you, even after our many years of marriage."
The scarce moment between you was sweet, innocent, free of any duties that you were both bound to, you did not want to sour it with digging your heels in on the matters of your protection. But you did anyway, you were nothing if not a vessel to keep Baelor on his toes.
"Must it be? A sworn shield for me sounds like utter nonsense." You pleaded, your hands shifted from your chest to his. Your touch waged war between his mind and body, he had little option than to submit.
"You sound much like Maekar." His tone was amused, light, hopeful to sway his decision on this sworn sword. "But your protection is paramount to me, I will not risk your life because you wish to wander the halls alone."
You huffed, stomping your foot like a sulking child not getting their way, before shuffling away from your Husband. "Nonsense."
You were not even permitted to choose your sworn shield. Not a grand moment of the Kingsguard lined before you, pointing below to a particularly beefy one. No, in stead, you had been woken and summoned to the gardens by your Husband, the cloaked guard stood beside him.
"My dear wife," Baelor greeted you, taking your hands into his and bringing them to his lips. His kiss was soft, any firmer and you would be dragging him to your bedchambers. "This is your sworn shield, Ser Caine."
The knight bowed his head before you, your polite smile convincing enough to have him smile back at you. Baelor was contented with his decision as he looked at you, accepting the protection, being safer for it, settling Baelor's heartbeat during his routinely duties. But as he looked at Ser Caine, a familiar sight as he had seen before in most Lords that met with his wife. He had been damned.
You were beautiful, Baelor knew that. He was more than happy with it, to have a wife that was so easy on his eyes, it made his duties as a Husband simpler. But he could not cage the chill in his bones, as it swept through his chest like a wind from the North. Ser Caine's gaze had not left yours, as you rambled innocently about something only you thought so fondly of.
Baelor spent many a day and night listening to your words, how they fell from your mouth in a ramble completely separate from your mind. He entertained it, encouraged it, you were a person of your own will, and felt natural enough with him to carry yourself in such a way. It felt foreign to see it happen so quickly with this Ser Caine.
But Baelor was nothing if not dutiful. This was the happenings from this moment forward, there was little to be done with it.
Baelor could not fault the poor knight, he was exceptional at his duty. He spent every moment at your side, or at the door of the rooms you occupied. Some nights even guarded your bedchambers. He was simply performing his duty, doing as he had sworn to do. So why did Baelor feel so… vexed? He was a busy man, though he wished he was not. When not in small council meetings, he would be at the King's side, aiding him on his authority over the Realm. He did not have the time to give you, even if he yearned for it, so you mostly existed in thought.
He would pass the library, dragging himself to yet another called upon meeting, catching you drifting between the shelves, Ser Caine closely behind you, his own eye upon you. As if the books that surrounded you were any threat. He simply continued on his path, shaking his head free of his poisoned thoughts.
He would venture outside to locate his sweet wife, to take a moment at your side to look upon you fondly, to relax the stiffness in his shoulders. And would see you, blunted steel in hand, sparring with Ser Caine. Albiet lightly, the knight was not a fool. He did not clash your swords, did not attack, only defend from your strikes. His lip firmed, bordering a sneer, at the sight of you both.
Your laugh echoed through his chest, only lifting the smile of your sworn shield. You engaged in your laughter, the swords clattering to the ground beneath you as you played the victor. Baelor was controlled by envy, jealously, this feeling had not yet been named. He had not felt this with Jena, his late wife, only with you, his younger, prettier wife.
"Husband." Your voice was smooth against his ears, melting whatever hardened, sour feelings had gathered within him. You approached him with a simple kiss to his cheek. "Did you see my technique? I feel my call to war is imminent, I must be armoured and horsed immediately."
Ser Caine laughed behind you. Stolen the laughter from Baelor's throat.
"If only, dear wife." He spoke, his fingers reaching to fiddle with your necklace, the gem he had gifted you settled on the hollow of your throat. "The Realm would not lift a sword toward you, for you are too kind."
"And pretty, I hope." You added, allowing Baelor's eyes to shift over your body. Awaiting his answer.
"I need not say it, for you already know what I think of your beauty." He answered, taking hold of your heart as he did every time you spoke. It was simple for him, he need not do much to have you a mess in his hands.
He was not oft so affectionate with you in public view. He saved his sweet words and sweeter touch for the privacy of your chambers, but he was a man at his core, he would not be mistaken for his place at your side. He allowed your hands to rest on his chest, he allowed his hands to cradle your cheeks. He yearned to kiss you, touch you, have you come undone around his fingers. But duty had called him away once again.
"Your Grace," a serving man stood behind him, taking him from your grasp, "The King summons you to his solar."
"At once, Husband." You bowed your head, stepping away as he drifted away from you. Scarcely a look over his shoulder at you, and your heart retired to its sunken place in your stomach. With a deep sigh, your chest felt hollow.
"Ser Caine," you spoke, eyes stuck on the wall your Husband just disappeared behind, "I wish to visit the gardens this afternoon."
"Of course, my Lady." He spoke, taking his place ahead of you and taking the lead toward the gardens.
You would not dare admit it to your Husband, but you were delighted of his appointment of Ser Caine as your shield. He was dutiful, but kind, indulged in your humorous remarks. Made your days less hollow. Of course, when Baelor had appeared to see you between his day, he retired to his role as Guard. Or when Valarr and Matarys would bombard you with excitable happenings of their days. But when your Husband and sons-by-marriage had been stolen by responsibility, you found a friend in Ser Caine.
You sat opposite each other in the library, books open between you. You had reached such new depths of boredom, you had made a game between you. The first to find spilt ink on a page won. Won what, you had not yet gotten that far. But it evolved into a race, who could find the splotch of ink first?
Your fingers dragged over the rough page, assessing between the lines of words for any abnormalities. Ser Caine contained as much vigor as you, flipping between pages faster than you had. You were both so lost in your fun, you had not noticed your Husband enter the library.
Ser Caine raised from his chair with haste, spine straightened and hand atop his pummel. Only then did you look up from your book.
"Do not tighten your guard on my account, Ser Caine." Baelor commented, reaching for his wife to raise you from your seat. "You are at my wife's service, not my own."
The knight did not move.
"Husband." You cooed up at him, an affectionate hand on his cheek. "To what do I owe this visit?"
"I missed you. That is all." He spoke, his next words quieter. "I must speak with you."
As you followed your Husband's path, Ser Caine had shuffled to folow you.
"Stay, Ser Caine." He ordered.
Baelor had taken you through the library's doors leading toward the gardens, seating you before himself on one of the many benches that aligned with the rows of foliage. His hands held yours, cradled them in their vast size over your own, smoothing his thumbs over your knuckles.
"What is the meaning of this, Husband? You concern me." Your eyebrows knotted where they separated, eyes glassy as you looked upon your Husband's uncomfortable face.
"I must go to Oldtown." He declared. "There are trade disputes I must settle."
"And why must I stay here? I can accompany you." You argued softly,
Baelor just shook his head, only tightening his grip on your hands. "There is little need, sweetheart. If I bring you, we would only stop along the roseroad more. It is much swifter this way."
He was right. It would be quicker had you remained here, but you would not be happy. Your heart would be ripped from your chest as he rode from the gatehouse. You knew he would take Valarr and Matarys, too. The boys were ripe for learning responsibility. So you would be utterly without your family.
"I will be back with haste." He assured you, freeing a hand to pull your shoulders into him. "Scarcely a moons passing."
He peppered kisses into your hair, marking you with his love as he prepared to leave. You would feel hollow until his return, it sickened you with grief. You kissed the boys cheeks, cradled them against you to wish them a safe journey. You could not see their horses leave, you could not be near the gatehous as they rode off. In stead, remaining in the gardens, where Baelor had told you of his departure.
You turned blue in their absence. In Baelor's absence. Your bed was a vast wastland of fabric, unnessary for the little room you took up. You did not feel his affection on your shoulders come the morn, nor did you feel it between your thighs. You ate supper alone, duty says not even Ser Caine could be seated with you.
It gave you little option but to spend your efforts talking with Ser Caine. You had grown fond your sworn shield, the knight vowed to make you laugh as much as he did to protect you. He would walk aside you around the gardens, around the Keep, would talk with you through your chamber door as you bathed. It passed the time until your Husband would return.
Baelor was reeling with your absence from his side. His temper was shorter than usual, though still more evident than Maekar's ever would be. He could not believe a moons passing was wasted on journeying to Oldtown to slap the wrists of some Lords, and journeying back. Time wasted away from you, your beauty, your kindness, your touch. His mind would wander to Ser Caine, how he was undoubtedly fawning over your every breath. His gaze steadfast on the curve of your waist, or the bare skin of your sternum. Laced with his jewels, as the knight looked at his wife.
He knew your difference in age was something oft mentioned in his leave, how you were young and beautiful, yet handed to a once-before married Prince of the Realm. He was tormented by how softened the Lords and Ladies gazes upon you were, how sweetly they spoke to you. Of you. His ego was of no concern to him, he took pleasure in the Realm looking so kindly upon you. A match well made for the goodness of your Houses. But seflishly, he wanted you entirely for himself. Only he would be admitted to look upon your beauty.
He nigh on exerted the energy of his horse on the return to King's Landing, the horse scarcely halting before he dismounted. He did not conform to waiting until nightfall for you, the thought of being envious of the fabric you wore had decided it for him. You were to be reclaimed by him. Now.
Not a moment wasted.
He found you, walking aside your sworn shield, and advanced toward you. His footing was firm, his hold on you the opposite.
"Allow me to see my wife, Ser Caine." Baelor was rigid in tone, eyebrows raised in search of defiance, but was met with none. "In fact, you must guard our bedchambers from any person requiring my presence."
You could scarcely keep the pace of your Husband's, who held your hand in his on your movement toward your bedchambers. You were ravenous for him, your mind and body yearned for this very moment. Whatever conversation you held with Ser Caine now forgotten, laid to rest the moment you saw your Husband in his approach.
Baelor closed the door after ushering you inside, a passing glance at your sworn shield as he disappeared behind it. You were already tugging at the fastenings of your dress, cursing your maidens for tying it with such force this morn.
Baelor was busying his hands with his own garments, eyes remained on your frame as it lost your skirts, revealing more of your skin to him. He felt his mouth water, hungry for the taste of your flesh coated in lemon scented oil.
"Did you settle the trade disputes, Husband?" You questioned him, climbing onto the bed on your hands and knees, crawling like an animal over to where he laid.
"I do not wish to talk of the Realm with you." He grunted, taking firm hold of your hips as they settle atop him. He was already hardened beneath you. "I only wish to hear your pretty little sounds."
You giggled, placing your hands onto his bare chest as you lowered onto him. The feeling was familiar, made your toes curl as they settled on his legs. His fingers dug into the flesh of your ass, guiding you as you moved against him. Even as you mounted him, taking most of the range of movement, he still controlled you.
"I have longed for you around me, sweetheart." He breathed, not daring to close his eyes in fear of missing how your eyes rolled back. "So soaked for me, sweetheart?"
You only nodded, fastening your pace as you took him over and over again. The sounds coming from your cunt were just as the ones he dreamt of, in the many nights spent away from you. But the sounds coming from your mouth were new, desperate, whiny. He would not last under you.
He protected your frame against him, turning you both so your back hit the bed beneath you. "So beautiful." He sighed, kissing down your chest, giving his attention to your breasts and how they firmed under his touch.
"The Realm knows it," he kissed down your ribs, your breath shallowing, "I know it."
"But you are all for me." He paused at your hipbones, ghosting kisses at them before lowering himself further. "Isn't that so?"
You nodded, his tongue delving deep into you. The way it danced over you had your stomach tensing, you nigh on pushed him away. But you would not dare do such a thing, when he was so skilled at finding your release. Better than you ever had yourself.
"Say it." He moaned, pausing his tongue just to order it from you.
"I am all for you, Husband." You whimpered, your fingers shook as they cradled the back of his head. He could not be any further inside you, but you wished him to be.
"Louder." He ordered, lifting his head to insert two fingers and to watch your face as they entered you. "I want the Keep to remember that regardless of your beauty, you remain my wife."
"I am your wife, Baelor." You cried, his fingers curling inside you to further chase your release. You felt tears build in your eyes, lost in the haze of desire that Baelor had called upon. He knew your body so well, knew what you did and did not respond to. No other could do as he did. He would remain confident in that fact.
But his gaze was dark, that chill not yet satisfied. He must enstate himself further, in a manner no man would forget.
He tore his fingers from you, and in his gaze was not the soft Husband you were so used to. You saw dancing flames, ash, dragonfire within him. You would hunt it down, find it, assess it, take it for yourself. You hungered for him in this moment.
He gestured you to the edge of the bed, taking you in his arms and lifting you. With a strength you seldom witnessed, the Hand scarcely finding a moment to show such a feat. He carried you to your chamber doors, and your heart quickened as he pressed your back against the engraved oak.
His lips found yours once more, grunting into your mouth, the sounds undoubtedly echoing through to this sworn shield of yours. The worst had not yet come for that poor, lovesick knight. Baelor slammed into you, jolting your bodies against the door, only forcing your moans out of your chest with a volume so unladylike.
"Louder, my wife." He instructed, his forehead colliding with yours. "They all must know. You are mine."
His venomous words in your ear, the oak against your back, the way he thrusted into you, it had all mixed into a mighty charge for your pleasure. He was hunting for it, you could see the embers in his eyes heighten, taken completely by desire. He built a vengeful rhythm against you, his grip tighter than it oft was when he fucked you, consumed by something darker, twisted. You invited it, regardless.
"That's it." He grunted against your jaw, flexing his jaw to refrain from biting at you. Lost in hunger, pleasure, jealousy. "All mine."
His words sent you over the edge, your entrance tightened around him as you welcomed his seed within you. A collision of your pleasure with his, erupted from your mouths against the thick door. You had no concern with who heard you be undone, only the man that cradled you, restored your soul to what it had been before he left.
He chuckled as he held your sweltering skin, lips flush against your cheek.
"What has taken you, my Husband?" You breathed against him, the throes of desire still biting at you. He remained inside you, not wanting to part with the pleasure he brought upon you both. And the satisfying heat he felt sweep across his chest.
⋆˙⟡ summary you cannot move past the loss of your husband, baelor. whilst it seems the world has.
⋆˙⟡ notes sorry.
⋆˙⟡ warnings grief, mentions of death, loss, swearing, reader completely lost in grief, might not fit canon as there isn't much info to use about after baelor's death.
MASTERLIST
It felt like fire. It consumed your skin, burning and rotting your flesh as you wept at the foot of your son, Valarr. Who could only stand there with a stiffened jaw, willing his own tears not to spill onto you.
He could not move, could not bend his knee to comfort you. He was consumed by his own grief, thrown into duty, responsibilities. The crown did not concern itself with Death, even if his Father wore it upon his head.
"Mother." Valarr breathed, his voice scarcely a whisper.
You could not look up, like a believer looking up at the Gods. You would only be looking upon his face, his eyes, his smile. You could not do it. The Gods had taken him from you, relieved him of his duties for better service amongst them.
His body had been burnt. Whilst you sat, unknowing to the shattering of your world and the Realm around you. You absented yourself from the tourney, Baelor promising you it would be but a few days until he would return to you once more.
What a liar he had been.
Even upon hearing the sniffling of your firstborn, the heir to the Iron Throne, you could not meet his face.
You could not do it.
Maekar had not returned to Summerhall, but to King's Landing. To attend his Father, make sense of the shattering of family, faith, and peace amongst his House. He could not find it within him to look for you, to notice your absence from the small council room.
You remained in your chambers. Now yours alone to entirely occupy. The bed, you once complained was too small for both you and your Husband, now felt miles long. The soft sheets you would lay on, whispering to each other until one of you had succumbed to sleep, now felt damp. Cold. Coarse against your skin.
The weather was grey, you noticed. As you sat at your window, overlooking the gardens. Broken patches of grass where you would sit, observing your Husband and your son fighting with blunted steel. Only to join your side moments later and talk of supper, and how they hungered for it.
Further from that spot in the grass was your favored spot. Where stones met the base of the castle. When the summers grew hot and you were at the height of your pregnancies, you would sit against the cool stones, hidden from the rays of sun. No concern for the ruining of your dress beneath you. Baelor would find you there, nigh on slumber with your hair stuck to your face. And would sit beside you, he too had little concern for his garments as the powdery stones stained them.
"I can see to it there is a seat put here, if it please you, my wife." He would coo at you, hand finding the apex of your bump as it always had when you were together.
"The stones are precisely the reason I chose this spot." You laughed. "It does wonders for my heat, growing a Dragon is a sweltering job."
The two of you would laugh, sit there for a long while, hide from your duties and appearances.
And once your sons were born, and of conscious age, the shaded spot had not been forgotten. You would hide with them against the stones, playing hide and seek, with your Husband, who was unaware he was engaging in such a game. Innocently wanting to connect with his family after being sat at the same table for hours, discussing the goodness of the Realm.
He would visit your adored spot, nigh on jumping from his own skin as his two sons cradled in your arms had spooked him, collapsing into fits of laughter between them.
"Here I had thought my Wife and boys had run off and abandoned me." He joked, lifting Matarys into his arms with a firm squeeze of adoration.
Valarr, ever the Mother's boy, clung to your arm.
"We would not do such a thing, my Husband." You professed, taking his hand to raise you. "What would we be without you?"
What were you without him? A widow, nothing more than a Woman relieved of her duties. But you did not want to be. You yearned to be vexed by Baylor's tellings of the other small councilmen's stubbornness. You yearned to be forced to stand for hours at your Husband's side, cheeks aching from your enforced smile as you greeted members of smaller Houses.
And now you were nothing but a vessel for pitying looks, condolences, never a smile upon you unless you wore one first. You ignored the food at your door, not daring to look up in fear of the tears flowing freely once again. You thought it would end at night, but it grew worse. You were cold, shaking, even after requesting for the hearth to be kept alight.
You wandered the keep, sick with grief, no answer for what you were looking for. Valarr would have to guide you back to your chambers, set you in bed, would not leave until you had fallen asleep once more. The Realm had fallen silent since his meeting of the Stranger, everyone too afraid to take the first breath.
In fear for what it could cause. For what could ensue.
Serving people had scattered from your sight, or you had not noticed them when they moved. They did not dare speak to you any longer. Allowing you to roam freely, like an apparition. A ghost bound to an eternity of playing hide and seek with your Husband.
It had not gotten easier. Your cheeks remained wet with tears, you had not spoken, smiled, looked at anyone. Valarr had been ordered to feed you, holding the spoon with his own shaking hand and raising it to your lips.
"Mother." He would breathe. Even his tone was akin to his Father's, his inflections, his softness. It had all been given to him from Baelor. He was his Father's second coming.
"Mother, please." He would beg you, but it had fallen upon deaf ears. Your stomach was hollow. Yet it did not hunger for anything save your Husband.
"You may go, Valarr." Your voice faltered. Speaking your son's name, the name given to him by his Father. "I will be fine. "
"You will not." He demanded, his voice foreign to you now. You wished the memory of Baelor had slipped away with your son's soft tone, but it hadn't. His memory would stain your mind until you met the Stranger.
"We are all suffocating with grief, Mother." He held your shoulder, the contact only breaking your emptiness, filling it with sorrow once more. "I miss Father too, Matarys misses Father. We all do. It is a hole that can never be filled, not even by me. Though I am trying."
His voice wavered, he was not the strong man he tried to be. Beneath his name, his House, his duties, he was just a boy without his Father. And now without his Mother. Orphaned by grief.
Only then had you looked at him. His mismatched eyes, glassy as they observed you. Your gaunt face, body swallowed by your dress, eyes sunken and pitted with insomnia.
"My boy." You whispered, but he had swiftly left.
Grief had no longer held you by the throat, in stead settling into your stomach. Into your mind. Into your soul. Where Baelor once resided. You had taken to the gardens, the unrestricted air against your skin had opened your lungs. You would not dare to learn if you could take a full breath without crying,
"Daughter."
Daeron's voice bellowed, reverbing in your chest as you stood. Staring at the failed patch of grass beneath you. But you could not turn. Baelor haunted you with every conversation, every thought, it felt a part of you now to look at his eyes through other's.
"Daughter. Look at me." He repeated.
Only then did you turn to him, the King. Your Husband's Father. He wore the same courteous smile as you once did, but you could notice grief in people now. It was the only thing that connected you to him, save the blood of your sons.
"It is not fair, your Grace." You cried, feeling as if you were a girl again, stomping your foot at your lessons with your Septa. But you were not a girl any longer, but a wife, a mother, a widow.
"Life seldom is." His arm encased you, encouraging you to walk in the path he did, toward the castle once more. Back to your confinement. "My son was a true knight of the Realm, he met the Stranger with his honor intact. Does this not bring you great comfort? That he did not falter even in dance with Death?"
"No." You exclaimed. "No, it does not comfort me. I know him not as a warrior, or a knight. But as a Husband, a Father to our sons, a softer man than the Realm would see. It is not fair that he shall be taken from us, and the impudent brat who forced this of him be exiled to a... a pleasure house of a city!"
"My sweet daughter." Your movements were halted. "We cannot undo what has been done. Aerion has been sent, at my command, into exile."
"Oh, have some sense, your Grace." You scoffed. "You did make him take the black, you sent him where he will be doted upon."
He shook his head. He would have had some folks' tongue for speaking in such a manner less than you had. But he would allow it. You were sick with grief, and he adored you as much as he did his sons.
"I cannot bring him back." He affirmed, and whilst the truth was plain, you could not accept it. "We can only live with the consequences now, you must live with them. You will not eradicate grief, only learn to live with it."
"I do not want to, Father." You wept, your tears softer now. He had only caught them as they fell. "What am I without him? So much of me was a result of him."
"You are more than the Prince's wife."
Grief had abandoned your stomach, taking more residence in your soul. Its final resting place. You had been turned from your path of purpose, blindfolded and dragged to a place foreign and unknown to you, and left to make your own way home.
The tears did not shift, did not lighten, but grief allowed you to sleep through the night now. Plaguing you with memories of Baelor, the words he would whisper to you when they mattered most, the softness of his touch, the promises he vowed to you that he seldom broke.
You sat against the stones, embracing the shade, but hiding from more than the sun now. You held one in your hand, wondering if this particular one had been touched by the presence of your Husband. Had he sat on this one? Stood on this one? You kept it in your hand regardless, clutching it as if it were the last memory of him.
That would never be the case. Baelor Targaryen would haunt you until you joined him.
You screwed your eyes shut, fighting against the tears that had stung your waterline. You squeezed them so tightly shut, you had lost all other senses. Not aware of your sons who stood before you, sullen and as tired as you felt.
You scarcely raised your arms before they both burrowed beneath them, as they did when they were young. And you played hide and seek with their Father. Now, you were all looking to seek him in stead. They nestled into you, the comfort of their Mother vital, opening their lungs, ripping the dam that built inside them.
You could do it. Maybe not today, or tomorrow, but you could do it. It had only felt a possibility when Valarr turned his face to meet yours, your Husband's eyes looking back at you. But it did not break you as it might have done before, it tightened your chest. You were grateful he left you with your sons, for he had imbued so much of himself into them.
Summary: Cregan Stark claims he is not to be forced to do anything, that is, until his wife speaks. (605 w)
Content: No use of Y/N, no physical descriptions of reader, idk what else.
A/N: This one is a little blurb of Cregan. Oh, my sulking, dramatic, pissy Cregan.
Disclaimer: English is NOT my first language so this may as well be written with my eyes closed and half delusional brain. Hope you enjoy it! NOT PROOF READ AT ALL!!!
Masterlist ✦ Cregan Stark Masterlist ✦
“I have told you many times now, my love" You said, not caring to stop to talk to him while supervising the food stores.
"And I have asked” He stated simply, trailing behind you “Why do we must go to that thing?"
"That thing is a grand feast and it is being thrown because of my father's name day” You murmured while focused on both things "His sixtieth, might I add”
"That does not answer my question, woman” His voice was gruff, sounding like a whining child.
“It is of utter importance that you assist as you are his only Good-son" You pointed out. "And I am his only daughter”
"I still do not see a reason good enough” Cregan murmured, his eyes focused solely on you.
“You will go because I say so" It was the last thing you would say on the matter and he knew it.
"I will not go” He said firmly, standing a bit upright to make it see like the big bad Lord he was.
You pay him no mind, keeping up with your duties. He was stubborn but not as stubborn as you.
“I will not travel for days to sit and watch men eat and get drunk. I have many things to care of here” He kept talking, trying to convince you— and himself.
For a mere second you turn to glare at him, your lips sealed before carrying on with your duties.
"I will not go to the fest and that is final” He said firmly, chin up while staring at you.
…
“Would you stop sulking? You act as if I am forcing you to come” You stared at him with the ghost of a smile, riding on your horse side by side with him.
"You are forcing me” He murmured, looking forward.
“You are acting as if I was taking you to be slaughtered” You quipped humorous.
“Might as well be" He mumbled, looking anywhere but to you.
You could have missed whatever he had said if you did not have the expertise of being married to him long enough to understand his mumbling.
"Gods, my love” you rolled your eyes "Stop being so dramatic, would you?”
“I am not dramatic" He shot you a glare “I merely did not wish to travel South for a stupid feast"
“A stupid feast that is being held for my Father”
“Does not mean we had to travel South" He murmured once again.
Gods, he could act like a child most of the time and still being a stone cold Lord that everyone fears.
“It is not that far South and I recall you did not have a problem when you traveled to get a fresh new bride" You threw at him.
“I had no idea said bride would be as hard headed as you are" He threw back.
Both of you knew it was all playful banter but to anyone who did not knew, it seemed like you were fighting.
Slapping him on the back of the head he merely released a grunt. “Serves you right, you brute" you said firmly “Now, I want you to behave when we get there. Behave"
“I always behave" He defended himself.
"You will behave or you will sleep on the stables when we get back to Winterfell” You said while caressing your horse's mane.
He scoffed while looking at you “You cannot threaten me with banishment from my own home"
You merely met his gaze without a word, letting him know you were extremely serious.
After a few moments of eye contact he broke it, looking away "I will behave”
do not copy, reupload, translate or feed to artificial intelligence.
I have a request for an unexpected wife plot. So here it is, after years of trying and miscarriages, the reader is pregnant but doesn't want to cause a fuss bc she's scared she might lose it but Baelor is always there for her. Comforting her and so are the boys. They are so happy cause theyre getting a new friend. And then they get to the pointy end of it. Baelor and the reader are getting excited but are still wary about the birth. Both of them are convinced it's a girl from the beginning, and Baelor is SO excited for a girl (he’s so girl-dad coded). Her water breaks and they meet their baby girl and everyone is over the moon.
She’s perfect
I’m so hormonal at the moment I cried writing this when it’s not even that sad, also I won’t be posting as much next week as I’m going to Cardiff then I’ve got a rugby festival
Mentions of miscarriages and the anxiety that come with it, rainbow baby, Baelor being the most supportive husband ever, reading the unexpected wife isn’t necessary
Baelor’s Masterlist
“Is she with child?” Queen Myriah asks her eldest son while they sit in the women’s solar having tea. You not attending as you’re having a nap, having been up most of the night with nausea.
“Yes.” Baelor says taking a biscuit of his plate.
“Why haven’t you mentioned it?” His mother asks, having been told every other time you were with child. Even when you lost them shortly after.
“She hasn’t told me yet.” Baelor replies softly, knowing you’re too worried to speak of it. Because talking about it makes it real and real means you might lose the one thing you’ve been craving. A babe of your own.
“Why?”
“She’ll tell me when she’s ready to be happy about it.” Baelor says to his mother, knowing you and knowing that you are happy, you’re just terrified of losing another babe.
“But you’ve been trying?” The queen clarifies, having unfortunately walked past a room you two were occupying at the wrong time.
“We have, she’s just scared to lose them again.”
“Oh, that’s understandable.” Myriah says softly giving her son’s hand a squeeze, knowing he’s also finding the losses difficult. “When she’s ready we can have a nice family dinner. We won’t make it a big event, just a family one.”
“Thank you.”
-
“Muña?” Matarys calls, running into your chambers with a massive smile on his face having just pushed Aerion into a water fountain. His smile dropping when he sees you crying. You try wiping your tears immediately not wanting the boy to see. But all your sweet boy does is walk over to you and hug you. “Are you alright?”
“I’m fine, why were you so smiley?” You ask giving your boy a face smile, wanting him to be happy. Moving over in your cuddle chair so he can join you.
“Are you crying about the babe?” The annoyingly smart boy ask, kissing your cheek like he’s seen his father do when you’ve been upset before.
“How do you know about the babe?” You ask with a slight laugh, Baelor being the only one you’ve told. Him just kissing you and telling you he loves you when you told him the news.
“I overheard Kepa tell Valarr not to say anything when he asked.” Matarys says not thinking anything off it as he starts fiddling with the wool you were using to knit a blanket.
“Valarr knows?”
“Yeah and grandmother, that’s why there’s been so many lemon cakes around but I’m not complaining I love cake.” He says, loving that cake has been at every meal.
“I love you sweetheart.” You say, feeling much better, your worries not forgotten but you’re not dwelling as much. Your energetic boy always putting a smile on your face.
“I love you too, so don’t cry.”
-
“Are you alright Valarr?” You ask your eldest, the boy pacing back and forth holding something in his hands. you wanting to check on the boy as he’s been distracted the past few days.
“This is for baby girl.” The boy says showing you the badly made toy bunny he was holding. “I made it.”
“It’s perfect.” You say pulling the boy into a hug, not caring that the bunny was different colours and had loose stitches that you’ll have to fix before a baby can hold it. It’s perfect because he made it. “You’re perfect, I’m so thankful you’ve let me be your mother.”
-
“This is the longest I’ve been with child.” You say quietly to yourself in the night, Baelor sleeping next to you. Your hand resting on your stomach as you feel the babe kick. She’s been kicking for the past few days but you haven’t told anyone, wanting it to be just yours for a while. You obviously don’t know it’s a girl but Valarr is convinced so you’ve taken to addressing the baby as a girl. “Please be healthy.”
“She will be.” Baelor says quietly, making you jump as you thought he was asleep.
“Did I wake you?” You ask feeling guilty for all the moving you’ve been doing.
“No, has she been kicking all day?” Baelor asks sitting up in the bed and lightly a candle so he can see you properly.
“You know?” You ask, feeling guilty for keeping it to yourself.
“Of course I do, I can feel her when we cuddle.” He says lightly pulling you into his arms as he leans against the headboard.
“I’m sorry for not telling you.” You say hand still rubbing where shes been kicking, you feeling her move in you.
“It’s fine, I know this is difficult.” He says, not holding it against you. He got the firsts with Valarr and Matarys, you can have this to yourself for asking long as you need.
“Do you want to feel?” You ask looking at him, giving him permission. Knowing he’s desperate to properly feel her, but not wanting to push you.
“Of course.” He say giving you a quick kiss before moving down to your stomach. Giving it a kiss while placing his hand under yours so he can feel her. “Hello my little princess, it’s Kepa speaking.”
-
“Are you ok? You look uncomfortable.” Queen Myriah asks when she has you and Baelor join her in her private solar for tea. The woman wanting to discuss Valarrs nameday next moon.
“It’s the babe, I feel uncomfortable.” You say, feeling a shooting pain go through you. It feeling like it does when you have your bloodmoon. “It hurts.”
“I’ll fetch the maester.” The queen says quickly standing while Baelor checks your forehead for fever. Your eyes widening in shock.
“What’s happened?” Baelor asks worried, noting the look on your face.
“I think I’ve wet myself.” You whisper feeling increasingly embarrassed, glaring at your husband when he just laughs. “Don’t laugh.”
“You’re in labor.” Baelor says excitedly standing up, helping you get up with him.
“Now? Isn’t it to soon?”
“No, babe is just on time.” Baelor says kissing your forehead before leading you back to your chambers. “Let’s go have our baby.”
-
“She’s perfect.” You say looking down at the adorable slimy babe in your arms. Her already having little tufts of hair that resembles yours. “I love you so much my baby girl.”
“What are we calling her?” Baelor asks softly, agreeing with you that your daughter is perfect. His lying with you in bed, leaning up against each other.
“You can name her.” You say, knowing he has a list of baby names and all of them are for girls.
“Really?” He asks, just happy you and the babe are safe. Not minding what you name her but secretly happy you’re letting him.
“I know you’ve been desperate for a girl.” You say with a slight grin. Him and Valarr both having been adamant that you were having a girl.
“I wouldn’t say despite.” Baelor teases, brushing some of your hair out of your face. “What do you think of Visenya?”
“Princess Visenya, it’s perfect.” You say smiling down at the perfect little girl in your arms.
“You’re both perfect.” Baelor says, kissing the side off your head, looking at his perfect girls. “Shall I send for the boys?”
I‘m not sure if you’ve seen Bridgerton or the Queen Charlotte spin off but theres this scene I really like where Queen Charlotte finds her husband under the bed hiding from the heavens (https://youtu.be/LoEpi5q3kX4?si=4dsX19dbQpTVib-W)
I kind of see Baelor hiding with his dragon dreamer!wife when she had a vision.
your dreams, are not just dreams
summary: your dreams are proving worse by the day, something that your chambermaids and maesters once foresaw would happen. but you are lucky enough to have someone by your side who thinks it more than ‘madness’.
pairing: baelor targaryen x dragon dreamerwife!reader
warning(s): slight misogyny, violent visions, borderline psychotic state (momentarily), comfort and baelor being the best husband
a/n: i have seen quite a bit of bridgerton actually but i did have to go and take a look at this scene to jog my memory.. and charlotte and george are beautiful together, this would very much be baelor and dragon dreamer!wife.. he’s so soft 🥹💗
The chamber was still all except for the crackle of the hearth. Moonlight spilled across stone, silvering the carved posts of the bed, the curtains barely stirring. You’d been plagued for far too long, night after night you’re awoken again, heart thumping in your chest like being struck by lightning. He wakes to the sound first — soft, uneven breaths, a scrape across the floor and a curse. And then nothing.
Baelor knows that silence.
He rises from the bed without amour, without crown, just bare feet on cold floor, rubbing his dry and tired eyes from the day’s burdens. Sighing as he stalks around the room, tucking in the fallen chair beside the table in the quiet, an aching in his search, yet he already knows where you are.
He crouches at once without another thought, and there you are.
Curled beneath the bed like a frightened child, your knees pulled to your chest, hair loose and wild, your eyes too bright for this hour.
Your dreams always do this.
Not visions like stories make them, they’re not pretty, or poetic.
Instead they come like storms, like a fire burning in your skull, the future clawing its way through you before you can understand it.
“My love,” Baelor kneels softly against the stone floor, pressed onto his fours as he calls out to you, his voice gentle.
You flinch though you recognise the sound.
“It’s me,” he says quickly. “It’s Baelor, your husband. I’am here.”
Your voice trembles as you trace the wooden slats underneath the bed, shaky hands reaching up just in front of your face.
“I saw it again.”
He doesn’t dismiss it, doesn’t sigh, he doesn’t try to claim it to be something it isn’t. And he never has. Not like the rest of them do. They call you mad, odd, worrisome.. some opting to send you away since you were a girl all until you birthed the first child. Yet Baelor refused any of it, from the moment of betrothal he was yours, and he meant his vows through sickness, health and what haunted you in the night.
He reaches slowly, palms flat on the stone so you can see every movement as you looked up at him, tears pricking your vision, unmoving. He hooked himself next to you, the gap tight between him and the bed but he relaxed comfortably next to you.
“Tell me.”
Your breath shudders, leaning into the present you can’t escape any way. The man beside you grounding as you recalled it.
“There was smoke over the river. Dragons screaming, and a crown falling into blood. I couldn’t stop it. I tried but it kept happening — like it already has.”
The tears slide down your cheeks, warm and frantic shaking your head at yourself in shame.
“I’m mad,” you whisper. “They all say dreamers go mad.”
Baelor’s jaw tightens at that, not in anger, but in pain for you. The words you’ve had to endure for far long enough, that even he does not believe.
“No,” he says firmly. “My heart, you see.”
He inches closer, sliding further beside you until he can brush your fingers with his own.
“Just like you saw the storm before it came. Just like you saw my brother’s fall before the maester’s raven arrived.”
You swallow at the mention, you were both only young when his younger brother Rhaegal was said to have gone mad. Plagued by perhaps something like you, or something else, they wouldn’t say. But you’d told them all it was going to fall apart, that brothers would be distanced and crowns would pass to the unlikely.
“It feels so real.”
“Because it is real,” he answers gently. “Or real enough to matter.”
He ignored the cold stone beneath you both, brushing the dust away as he brings his eyes level with yours.
“Breathe with me.”
Slowly, he inhales and exhales, eyes never once leaving you as he does it. Those multicoloured hues you’d remembered, you’d known..
And you mirror him.
Again.
And again.
Every breath until your shaking eases.
“Tell me where it was,” he says softly. “The river. Was it wide? Narrow?”
You blink at him, tracing the line in your memory, grounding yourself.
“Wide… with reeds along the banks.”
He nods thoughtfully, fingers curling around yours gently.
“And the crown — gold or silver?”
“Gold.”
Baelor hums low in his chest, not doubting, but considering.
“Then it wasn’t of today. My father wore silver at council.”
You sniff softly, a fragile laugh escaping at the answer.
“You always do that.”
He smiles back at you, quirking a brow.
“Do what?”
“Make it feel like it can be understood.”
He reaches out to you then, cupping your cheek, thumb brushing your tears away, face angling towards yours.
“Dreams aren’t madness,” he says. “They are messages. Even the cruel ones.”
You finally crawl forward, shuffling on your side until you collide with him, pressing into his chest like you’ve done since you were young. And he wraps you up instantly, strong arms a shield around your trembling body. The way he told you it was alright.
“I’m scared one day it’ll be something I can’t stop,” you whisper.
His lips press into your hair, firm and steady, never wavering.
“Then we’ll face it together.”
A pause. Your vows.
“Did you see yourself?”
You nod slowly against him, “I was standing beside you.”
His breath catches, just a little.
“Good,” he murmurs. “Then I know I’ll never face it alone either.” He rocks you gently, back and forth, calming the storm that was.
Outside, kin and servant alike are fast asleep, but here you are together, and he rests his forehead against yours like he’s never known differently.
“You’re not broken,” he says quietly. “You’re chosen, and you’re mine. And I will always believe you.”
Your breathing steadies as the fear ebbs. The world feeling real again, with every steady thrum of this heart.
And when he finally lifts you, tugging you both off out from under the bed and carrying you back into the silk sheets, he tucks you in like something precious — staying awake long after you drift off, watching over the dreamer who holds tomorrow in her mind.
Because, you are more than just that. You are his love, his wife.. his heart.
Your husband returns to you after discussing the matter of the hedge knight. With the trial ahead heavy on his mind and burdened by responsibility and the weight of the crown, you thought to make him forget, even if it is just for one night. (one-shot)
pairings: Baelor Targaryen x (Targaryen) Reader
warnings: targcest, age-gap, smut(he talks you through it so congratufuckinglations)
words: 5k
•• ━━━━━••⚜••━━━━━ ••
The silver bracelet your husband gave you felt cold against your skin, a circle of braided Valyrian steel that bit slightly into your wrist as you toyed with it. You turned the metal obsessively. He should be back any second now. You watched the shadows stretch across the floor, long and distorted like the necks of the dragons your family no longer flew.
You had wedded your Baelor on a stormy night much like this one, an evening where the very atmosphere felt thick with the scent of ozone and unspent lightning. The ground of King's Landing had been a slurry of mud and anticipation, yet you walked through it with the poise expected of Rhaegal’s daughter. You didn’t know at the time how he would be like, as you didn’t interact or see him much. You thought he would be prideful or cruel, though all your fears were for nought, Baelor was kind and just. He was a prince worthy of song and praise, when he will take the Iron Throne with you by his side there will be no other like him.
King Daeron had been the architect of your union, driven by a feverish desire to "strengthen the Blood of the Dragon" against the rising tide of outside influence. He had beamed at the wedding feast, his smile widening into a triumphant grin when you announced your pregnancy a mere two months later. "The seed is strong," the King had declared, his voice echoing off the vaulted ceilings. He spoke of a future where the dragons would return, lured back by the purity of your line. In his old age he became adamant on the fact that the intermatching of the Targaryen’s blood with the noble houses of Westeros weakened you, made you unworthy of your flying companions and beasts of magic, though you knew better. You knew that the only reason the House of the Dragon was no longer aided by them was because of your pride. Pride and foolishness. Many dragon eggs laid under your grandfather’s watchful eyes, none would hatch. No matter how many nights you prayed, no matter how many tries of bathing them in fire and sacrifices. They slumbered in their cocoons. A mocking gesture that proved time and time again you were no longer the conquerors that brought the known world to heel. You remained a shadow, a whisper spoken by lords who knew better than to shout it. The House of the Dragon was weak.
Maekar was seething when he came back to Ashford Hall and you prayed his anger hadn’t reached his smallest son. He was a man of few words. Few words and lingering glances towards you- on your silver hair, on your face and then your hands that reminded you of how disappointed he was that you were not betrothed to him. You were supposed to be a gift for his valor in the Redgrass Field that destroyed the Blackfyre pretends. King Daeron promised him your hand, but something changed in your grandfather’s mind in the eleventh hour. What it was, either Baelor himself or the king's own foresight, you could not say. Though you thanked the Gods for it. He remained a pillar of silence and exchanged little words akin to grinding stones with you now.
You remembered his son, little Aegon, with his head shaved and his identity hidden, playing at being a squire to a lowly hedge knight. The boy was clever, perhaps too clever for his own safety, but he was still just a child caught in a world he didn't yet understand. You knew Baelor would not allow Ser Duncan to lose his head for a boy’s jest. Baelor understood the difference between a crime and a misunderstanding. The candles in your chamber burned low, the wicks drowning in pools of melted wax. The fire in the hearth cracked, a sudden pop of wood sending a spray of orange sparks against the soot-stained brick.
Your heart ached with the distance between Ashford and King’s Landing. You wished to see your Valarr again. He had only seen four winters, yet he already carried himself with a miniature version of his father’s gravity. He had Baelor’s soulful eyes and dark hair, though your heritage asserted itself in a single, startling lock of silver at the nape of his neck. The blood of the dragon.
You would have stayed with him, tucked away in the safety of the Red Keep, as you regaled him with stories of old and played, but the King’s command was absolute: you were to stand by Baelor’s side at Ashford. You were a living symbol, a reminder to the smallfolk that the next generation of Targaryens was as formidable as the conquerors of old. You smiled softly at the memory of your son's laughter. If the Gods were just, he would grow to be as mighty as his father, mayhaps even mightier. Baelor loved him so much it brought tears to your eyes. Your husband wept as you did when he was brought into the world.
The sudden murmur of voices drifted through the heavy oak door as the Kingsguards took their place outside. The wait was over.
The door groaned on its iron hinges, a sound that seemed to slice through the suffocating silence of the room. Baelor stepped inside and looked older than he had that morning with the shadows under his eyes bruised and deep.
You locked your gaze with his, searching for a sign of the verdict. He didn't speak immediately, instead, he offered a weary, soft smile that didn't quite reach his eyes. He moved toward the table in the middle of the room, his boots clicking rhythmically against the stone, and reached for the decanter. The sound of the wine splashing into the chalice was sharp, like a stream over pebbles.
“What will become of the knight?” your voice broke through the sound of wine being poured. Baelor sighed, the weight of the crown heavy even if he hadn’t donned it yet.
“A trial.” he answered shortly. He brought the chalice to his lips, closing his eyes as if it could wash away the memories of the day’s arguments.
“A trial? Does he stand a chance against Aerion? I can scarcely believe it.” You stood, your dress hissed against the floor as you approached your husband.
He smiled at you and the corners of his eyes wrinkled with a sort of grim irony “Aerion invoked a Trial of Seven. Ser Duncan could not refuse it. Not without admitting to a crime he did not commit.”
The name of the ritual sent a cold shiver down your spine. You had spent countless nights hunched over crumbling scrolls in wonder and inspiration. You remembered the accounts of such trials in bits and pieces.There hadn’t been one in two hundred years, not since the era when dragons still cast shadows over the earth and Aegon the Dragon sat the Iron Throne. It was a relic of a more violent, distant age, a spectacle of slaughter masquerading as divine justice.
“Does he have knights to fight alongside him?” you asked, your voice barely a whisper. You knew the answer before he gave it. A hedge knight without a coin to his name stood as much chance of finding six champions as a beggar did of finding a kingdom.
Your husband shook his head, his expression darkening. You stepped into his space, tilting your head back so you could look him directly in his weary eyes. You reached up, your fingers grazing the stubble on his jaw as you cradled the side of his face. The heat of his skin was a stark contrast to the damp chill he brought in from the hall. Baelor leaned into your touch, closing his eyes for a fleeting second. He brought his own hand over yours, his palm rough and warm, and pressed a lingering kiss into the center of your hand. “I don’t think so, though I can imagine he could muster two or mayhaps three knights wishing for glory to raise up arms alongside him.”
Baelor whispered and his voice was that of the honey most famous in The Reach. You could see in your husband’s eyes the thoughts that plagued him. Reading his expressions and wants came easy to you now, as he did yours.
“His cause is just,” he continued, his thumb tracing the line of your knuckles. “He protected the innocent, just as the vows of knighthood demand. I wonder if there are any left who can see that as I do.”
You remembered the story of the puppeteer in the tent. Aerion was a cruel boy, for he was just a boy in your eyes, a cruel little boy who delighted in making those weaker than him feel insignificant. There were none that appreciated his presence, not even his father. You wonder if that is the greatest punishment the Gods gave him.
“If he has none that will stand to fight then the trial can not proceed.” You mummured and gazed at the fire. Such a shame, that honor has no place in this world anymore.
“I will.” Baelor caught your gaze once more, his eyes filled with a certainty that made you feel like a soldier looking upon a commander “I will take his side. You know that as well as I do.”
“Baelor,” you sighed and toyed with the cold silver Hand symbol he had on his breast “Maekar will not be happy.”
“Maekar is scarcely happy either way.” He smiled a bit at the mention of his younger brother and you returned his expression in kind.
“That he is.” You responded. He smelled of amber and kindness and everything any woman might want in a man.
He brushed your silver hair back over your shoulder and touched your cheekbone tenderly “Has there been word from Kings Landing?” Baelor asked, not in wishing he heard of the cruel whispers of court, but in wish to hear of his son. He looked at you like a father would, with his heart miles away in the Red Keep watched over by servants who swore their life to his wellbeing.
“I’ve been waiting all day long for a letter to hear of how he is terrorizing his grandfather, alas all is quiet.” you answered and Baelor tilted his head as you spoke, smiling at the fond memory of his son running through the halls of the castle with his grandfather following him and trying to stop him from putting his hands on everything that he sees.
“What if something might befall you in combat?” You remembered the strong mace of his brother. Aerion and Daeron posed no threat to the might of Baelor’s sword. His brother was the only one capable, the only one who felled as many men as Baelor himself, the only one who wielded a true challenge.
You wanted to give him many sons and daughters, you wanted to have him with you in health for many moons yet to come. The thought that something, anything- even a slight cut to his cheek might befall him sent you into thoughts too powerful for your eyes. If Baelor was to fall in battle, Gods forbid, for you shuddered at the thought. You would never love again.
“Nothing shall happen to me, my love.” He leaned down to catch your eyes, a silent prayer to calm your nerves and thoughts.He grabbed your shoulders and pulled you into him as you swung your arms around his midriff. His body was a strong tower against your own. He kissed the top of your head and pressed his cheek to it afterwards.
“I am as sure of that as the sun that rises in the east.” His voice, stronger now, to replace yours “Maekar would rather see himself dead than see any harm come to me. Trust me when I say so.”
You nodded against his chest. The fabric of his clothes scraping your cheek.
He let go of you as the servants brought you dinner.
You talked about the future. About Valarr, about dragon dreams and the weight of the crown he will bear. As you took another bite of mutton, Baelor reached over and took your hand, dwarfing yours in his bigger grip.
“In another life” he smiled at you with a glint in his eyes. His heavy demeanor had changed and was now replaced with the comfort your company always brought him “you and I are two farmers worrying about how this year’s season might end. We would be content with only the roof over our heads and each other.”
You smiled at your husband, catching his fingers into your hand “In another life.” The light from the fire danced across his features and he looked impossibly handsome in it.
These moments with him weighed heavier than the solid gold the Lannisters were famous for. He was always busy nowadays, always plagued by thoughts. You wondered how much Valarr will be like his father once he grows, surely he will have his stature and voice, you hoped he carried your love for history and prose.
•• ━━━━━••⚜••━━━━━ ••
The Lord of Ashford had spared no expense for his daughter’s name day, providing a bed of such plush down and fine linens that it felt like a cloud. As the storm outside turned the world to mud and shadow, Baelor left the fire to roar in the hearth, its orange glow painting the walls of the chamber.
He welcomed you in the crook of his strong arm as you two shared stories. Your legs made contact with his own from beneath the cotton blanket and you tangled them together as you settled in a more comfortable position.
You could feel him slowly drift to sleep as you talked.
“Baelor?” You whispered against his chest as his hand went still on your waist and breath became softer.
“Mhhm?” His face was pressed to your own, beard slightly scratching your forehead and he pushed his head into yours.
“If you had a dragon…which one would it be?” You knew that broke his sleep spell as you could feel him thinking about his answer.
“Vermithor” he muttered and his chest rumbled beneath your hand. “He served Jaeherys well enough. Loved him too.”
You paused. Vermithor was a beast of old, a titan that carried the Old King and was his eternal companion. You could see Baelor and The Bronze Fury bonded. They would be quite the match.
“What about you, my life?” He asked you back.
Now, you really had to think.
You knew all Targaryen dragons, knew all their riders. This was a tough decision. The truth was that any dragon would be a blessing to have. A Targaryen without one could scarcely be worthy of their family name. You felt a bitter bite for the mistakes of your past made by hubris. All of your hearts were heavy with longing towards a sky you could never conquer. Not anymore.
“Vhagar.” You felt him chuckle as you answered in kind.
“I should’ve expected that. I’ll leave it to you to make sure order is assured in the realm.” He pressed you even closer to him and you brought your arm across his body to hold him as well. The rain was hitting the castle wall and the fire softly cracked in the hearth. Your belly was full of the best food coin could buy a minor lord and you had your husband in your arms. The only thing missing was you baby, but he was safe and sound, and that was the only thing that mattered.
You raised your face and he was already looking at you, features soft and wondering.
“What will I do without you?” He asked as you raised your foot against the sole of his under the blanket and smiled.
“I truly have no idea.” You kissed his lips and they were soft, his beard rubbed against your chin “Maybe become a farmer?”
His eyes brightened a bit as he leaned his head back and laughed. The sound a blessing to your ears. He pulled you closer to him as he returned your gaze once more.
“Maybe so.” His face was free of worry and emboldened by something sweeter laying underneath.
He brought his face down and kissed you again, stronger this time.
“Baelor.” Murmuring his name beneath his affection was hard, but you managed.
“Yes?” He pressed another soft kiss to your lips then peppered a trail towards your nose as he turned you on your back. The bed made a sound with the weight being shifted on top. In the back of the room, the hearth cracked once more with a hollow sound.
“I’m worried for you.” Your voice was small before you grabbed his face and pulled him to look at you, he stared at you with those mismatched eyes. One from your ancestry, another from blistering Dorne, a gift from his sun-kissed mother.
He brought his head down in the crook of your neck. “Whatever for?” you stifled a giggle as his beard tickled your collarbone. “Aren’t I the Hammer? I’ve broken sturdier things than some knights and my youngest brother.” His strong voice was a whisper that traveled through you. You knew he was right.
“Hammers break, Baelor.”
He pulled back once more and saw the fear in your gaze. He smiled and with tender words answered you “Tomorrow I will return to you and you shall see that all your fears were for naught. We will laugh about this on our way to Kings Landing. I promise you.”
You turned your head to the side, contemplating his words. Baelor never lied to you. His word was law and be it because of the comfortable night or the heat pulling into your own belly at your husband’s presence you locked eyes once more with him.
“I want to be your husband tonight. Can I?” His gaze was tender, albeit laced with a boyish glint you scarcely saw lately. His soft words hit your face and your stomach twisted in anticipation at what he offered.
You nodded as you touched the side of your husband's face, brushing your hands against his beard and pulling him closer to you by the back of his head, soft brown hair in your hands.
Your lips parted and reunited again and again as you brought your arm around his neck and pulled him down on you. His cotton shirt touched your night gown as you tried to be impossibly closer to your love. You felt as if he was the only thing that mattered in the world at that moment, your cheeks aflame and heartbeat quickening under his gaze and affections.
Baelor's lips opened and welcomed yours in familiarity, he touched you everywhere he could get his hands on, on your face, on your waist and finally he brought your leg to lay on his side as he raised your gown up beneath the cotton blanket and caressed your thigh.
He kissed you time and time again as he whispered honeyed words he loved blessing you with: “My life and desire.” Your hands shook like a maiden’s as you suppressed an innocent smile.
He had held you like this countless times over the years, yet it was never dull. His gaze swept into your soul, finding the blushing bride you had been on your wedding night and drawing her out again. He paused to smile at you, his eyes searching your rosy, upturned face, lingering on the way your breath hitched before he continued his quiet confessions.
You wondered, as he was bringing his lips over yours again and softly groaning into your mouth with a sound that traveled right between your legs- if he knew exactly what he was doing.
What a foolish thought, of course he did.
You could feel the hard line of his desire pressing against your hip. Taking a breath that felt like a prayer, you shifted, bringing your leg beneath his body in a silent, desperate order for him to take his place. He obeyed with a moan that sounded like a surrender, settling between your thighs with a slow, heavy drag of his hips that set your nerves on fire. Baelor was not a man who rushed. The lavender pressed linens enveloped you in their warm embrace. You could almost think of yourself a poet for this moment.
Bracing himself on one sturdy arm as to not crush your smaller frame he brought his hands to your neck and then below, grabbing the string that held your nightgown from coming undone at your breasts. When the knot finally gave way, he pushed the fabric aside, his hand sliding inside to cup the warmth he desired. His groan was a physical weight against your skin, and your eyebrows furrowed.
Baelor brought his head down and pressed hot kisses to your chest, then your breasts as you moaned.
“Do you love me?” his breath was hot on your skin.
“Of course,” you managed to choke out, your fingers tangling in his brown hair, holding him there as if he might vanish if you let go. You felt him move then, the rustle of fabric as he removed himself from his pants, his eyes never leaving yours.
He muttered something in High Valyrian, a prayer or vow you could not make out as he touched your flower with his hand. You gave a silent gasp and smiled at his own expression, before settling with his touch. He brushed his fingers again over you and you fought to be closer to him. You wanted him to finally press up against you but he would not relent.
“Baelor.” you pleaded into his mouth, voice breaking. He gave a sound of acknowledgment towards you as he brought his body down, lower and lower.
You chuckled as the realization settled in, then gasped with pleasure as you felt his beard where you were most sensitive. You wished to stay quiet, truly, but caught in the heat of it all you must’ve made the most pathetic sounds of whispers and moans as your husband lavished you with his full attention.
You felt your stomach twist as he tasted you where you needed him most and you brushed your fingers into his greying hair, wishing for something to grab hold of. Whenever a sound would leave him, it would vibrate and set you unconsciously rising up against him. He grabbed hold of your breast with one hand, the other holding your hip gently but firmly down, keeping you pinned to his pleasure.
His love continued until you could barely decide between trying to get away or push your legs close to his ears and keep him there. Sounds leaving you before you could stop. You grabbed hold of his arm and pleaded with him as raised his body up over yours once more.
“Please.” You almost had tears in your eyes, but they were not from sadness. He kissed you and he tasted of you all over his lips and damp beard.
“Please?” Baelor brought your upper lip beneath his own “What?” He smiled into your mouth like the wolf he was and you had half the mind to start crying.
He enjoyed the thought of hearing you say shameful things as you tried to not have your ears catch on fire. It brought him as much pleasure as any grand meal in the capital but you thought words were beneath you now as you reached down, your hand finding the heat of him. His own breath hitched, brows furrowing in a sudden, sharp pleasure. You brought him to the threshold and pressed a quick, desperate peck to his lips as he finally, mercifully, pressed himself inside.
You both gasped in unison and you closed your eyes, every muscle in your body tightening as you adjusted to the fullness of him. He pulled out and then pressed once more, gently, into you. You felt a pleasant pressure in your belly and happiness settled in your heart at finally getting what you desired. You brought your legs over his hips as he moved. Baelor pressed his head down next to yours, the hair on his beard coarse against your soft skin as he gave you sweet sounds of pleasure. The fire in the hearth was dimmer now, but you had all the heat you needed on top of you. Thunder rumbled outside.
He pressed a lingering kiss to your cheek, breath hot on your ear as he told you “Wrap your legs tighter around me,” he commanded, his breath hot against your ear. You obeyed without hesitation, your arms sliding under his to grip his broad shoulders. “That’s it. Just like that.”
You moaned into the crook of his neck, the sound muffled and raw. He raised up on his elbows, the old oak bed complaining in a rhythmic, wooden groan beneath his weight and hips. A thin layer of sweat made his brow glint in the low light, and he smiled down at you, his voice nearly breathless. “You’re so beautiful.”
You were sure you looked a mess, lips and breasts sore from his eager kisses. A mess of his own doing you supposed and he took no greater pleasure than that of seeing you this way.
“Look what you’re doing to me.” His movements became more eager now, the slow patience of the beginning giving way to the frantic chase of the peak. His movements became more eager, more enthusiastic to chase the end of his own pleasure that he forgot his own power and weight for a moment as he allowed himself to press down on you. You turned your head to the side, gasping for the cold air of the room to keep from fainting from the heat of him.
He took the chance to trail kisses down your neck, his thrusts becoming harder, more urgent. Your flower and stomach oscillating between pleasure and the beginning of discomfort from his love making. Your left eye let out a small, incandescent tear of pleasure, which he leaned forward to kiss away.
In that moment, you wanted him to never stop, you wanted to have him on his back, on his side, to feel him in every way possible until the sun refused to rise. He pressed inside one last, devastating time, his body shuddering. You could feel him pulse inside in his climax as he grabbed your face.
“Kiss me.” He said.
•• ━━━━━••⚜••━━━━━ ••
His breath was hot on your ear as he softly snored, finally content with the night. Your body was flush against his, with his arm around your waist and hands embracing one another above the blankets.
The fire in the room was no more as the rain lashed against the cool castle wall. You brushed your thumb across his hand, trying to memorize the pattern of each knuckle and the feeling of his skin. The sun would rise in the east whether you wanted or not, and time passed either way. You had to get your rest. Breathing in the smell of cedarwood and amber you squeezed his hand as you pressed your face to the pillow. Somewhere, the hedge knight that sheltered Aegon was finding his knights between glory seekers and few friends he probably had, completely oblivious he had the heir to The Iron Throne on his side. You knew your husband could tip the scales in his favor, you knew that after this, you would probably return to Kings Landing and have a few months left of peace before the Seven Kingdoms called for his guidance.
His breath hitched, a low murmur escaping his lips as he pulled you closer in his sleep, seeking you even in the deep drift of slumber. You managed a weak, watery smile, closing your eyes to paint the picture he longed for, your husband, not in armor, but in a sun-bleached straw hat and torn down clothes, his hands rough from the plow instead of the sword.
Holding onto the image of the farmer, a man of the earth rather than the realm, a blissful creation that would break the instant dawn broke and the bounds of honor demanded their hero.
You felt sleep claim you as well.
•• ━━━━━••⚜••━━━━━ ••
authors note: idk how they somehow got the DILFiest men ever in this show but here ya go. Baelor ure so hot and ur voice is like silk god i hate you. Thank you so much for reading it, please let me know if you liked it as it makes my whole day reading your thoughts and talking to any of you. THANK YOU <3 have a great day babes
A/N: This was not the idea I was going to write first for Baelor but I just watched the new episode and I needed to write something for the two seconds we got…
Summary: You and your husband watch your nephew’s brutal joust.
Word count: 1.7k
Trigger Warnings: 18+/MDNI, she/her pronouns, AFAB reader, (significant) age gap, younger!reader (20s), brief depictions of violence, AKOTSK EP3 spoiler, some Aerion being into reader, never proofread, (please let me know if I missed any)
Disclaimer: I do not own any ‘A Knight of the Seven Kingdoms’ characters. I do not claim to own any of the ‘A Knight of the Seven Kingdoms’ characters. I do not own any pictures used nor do I claim to do so.
Always appreciate comments, likes, and reblogs :)
You held Baelor’s hand as it rested atop your knee, gently rubbing your thumb over the back of it. He glanced in your direction, smiling a little and gripping your knee a little firmer. You returned the smile, resisting the urge to lean into him and nuzzle yourself at his neck. Propriety was an infuriating thing.
“Are you alright, my fire?” He asked softly, leaning a little closer to your ear so no one would intrude on you.
You had always melted a little when he did that. He had a habit of keeping your conversations between the two of you, for no other reason than that he valued you the most, and wished for you to know it.
You oft found it funny how much Baelor surprised you from the first moment of your marriage. You were his second wife, significantly younger, and significantly lacking in experience of… well, just about anything other than the ‘womanly pursuits’ that had been forced upon you from birth. Your only exposure to marriage had been the lacklustre one between your parents, and the stories you heard from others about how difficult it could be, how a woman must always be careful.
But from the first moment you had met Baelor, every expectation you had once had was shattered. He was kind to you, kind beyond belief, and he treated you as an equal, constantly lifting you up until you were aware of your worth to him. And he never stopped, never petered off in his attentions or care.
You remember the wedding feast, the way he had looked at you all night with soft eyes, and held your hand gently, as if he knew exactly what you needed to ground you. You had been smitten with him from the beginning. It had been far too easy. Now as you looked upon your husband, at the furrow of his brow and the nervous way he spun his ring round and round his finger, you wished to kiss him and soothe him the way he once did for you.
“All is well, my heart,” you responded quietly, allowing yourself to reach up and gently rub his cheek for a moment. “It is only that jousts make me nervous.” His eyebrows raised a little and he gave you that knowing smile he had given you when you insisted on accompanying him on this journey.
“You did not have to attend, you know that,” he told you in that infuriating all-knowing tone of his. You pursed your lips for a moment, mock-glaring at him before smiling again.
“Aye, I know that, but to be parted from you for so long? I can bear a few brutal jousts if it means accompanying you wherever you go.” Your voice was almost a whisper, still a little bashful when confessing your care. Though it was true that time had passed since your marriage, it was not very long, and some things still held that freshness for you.
“You are too kind,” he responded simply, bringing your hand up to kiss the back of it before resting it on your knee again as the herald announced your nephew.
You watched Aerion atop his horse, trotting into the middle of the field, his lance in his grip and his terrifying helmet pushed up to expose his face. He looked up at you and Baelor, watching as your husband offered him a little nod of confirmation and nothing more. Then his eyes flicked to you, his mouth pulling into a sinister smirk, his tongue poking out to run along his lower lip. Baelor tightened his grip on your hand, shifting a little in his seat as he watched his nephew before the boy dropped his helm and made his way to the edge of the tourney ground. You felt cold lick down your spine and you leaned toward Baelor just a little more.
You watched the interaction with Valarr, the clench of his jaw. You could tell that Valarr wished to be Aerion’s opponent, wished to knock him off his horse, and perhaps more. But he refrained from responding to his antagonising cousin and you felt a burst of pride within you. Though he was not your son, and you were far too young to possibly be his mother, you felt much affection for Valarr.
The knight Aerion called upon appeared from his tent, trotting along the tourney ground and stopping at the opposite end from Aerion. They readied for their joust, helms pressed down, and you held tighter to Baelor’s hand. There was an energy in the air, the kind that gathered before every joust and made everything in your body tense. You despised it.
The horn blew and Aerion and the knight began their run at each other. Each thump of horse’s hooves rattled through you, and you jumped a little in your seat as they swerved and the other knight dropped his lance. Baelor, though he did not look in your direction, splayed his hand over your knee, steadying you as he watched the horses turn.
The second run began before you could catch your breath from the first, and then everything happened so suddenly. Aerion’s lance dipped, and the sound of flesh squelching as it dug into the horse’s neck. You saw the blood splatter, heard the violent, pained, neigh, eyes wide in horror. Then Baelor was quick to lift his hand to block your vision, his palm hovering just in front of your gaze before you leaned over and pressed yourself into his shoulder.
You trembled, hands clenching into the doublet at his ribs as he wrapped an arm around your shoulder and cradled you into his body, his hand continuing to hover in front of your gaze in case you blinked and glimpsed something. But though you kept your eyes clenched shut, you could still hear it all, the bones breaking and the screaming, the horse and the crowd.
“Do not look, my fire,” Baelor ordered sternly, keeping you tight to him as he watched Aerion lift his helm and smirk triumphantly, as if he had done something worth celebrating. The boy looked up in your direction, scoffing as he noted how you hid in your husband’s arms. But Baelor was keenly aware of the crowd’s rage, yells of ‘cheat!’ singing through the air. Then there was a rock, pelting Aerion’s helmet, the boy wincing in shock just before his helmet dropped onto his face. Baelor grimaced. He could do nothing else.
“Baelor,” you whispered, and you were trembling violently in his arms, your eyes shut against the skin of his neck, your lips moving against his collar.
“It is alright, my fire,” he said quietly, petting your hair and ensuring his hand cupped over your ear as the slaughterman ended the horse. You whimpered, because even with your eyes closed, you could see the blood, see the poor creature. “It is alright.”
When the crowd broke through and the guard began forcing them back, thunder cracked through the sky. Baelor, who could only watch the chaos unfold, finally unfroze and looked up as the first drops of rain began to fall. He stood from his seat, bringing you with him, only glancing down to make sure your feet were steady on the ground.
“Your grace- my-my sincerest apologies, I-” The Lord of Ashford began to flounder, hands waving in front of him as he looked around at his advisors and tourney master. Baelor simply raised his hand, silencing the man.
“We will return to our chambers,” he told him, eyes hard. “I am sure the day is over regardless due to the rain,” and he looked at the tourney master, eyebrows raising a little.
“Of-of course, your grace, to be sure,” he answered quickly, nodding his head again and again until it became sore. Baelor pursed his lips and nodded once before leading you away.
He walked you back through the keep, one arm at your waist as you kept your hands clenched together at your stomach, eyes filled with tears as you gnawed at your lips. Baelor watched you more than the path ahead, making sure you did not trip as you swayed in his grasp. He was thankful to reach your chamber doors, leading you in quickly and slamming the door behind himself.
At the sound you crumpled, looking up to him with wide eyes aghast. Your hands shook violently and he gripped them tightly between his own, standing right in front of you as he frowned down at you. He hated to see you like this, wished never to see it again.
“He… he killed that horse, Baelor,” you whispered, voice clogged. “He killed the poor horse and smiled.”
“Hush now, my fire,” he pulled you in, pressing your face to his chest, but you kept shaking your head until you pulled away again.
“Do not let him get to me,” you told him quickly, your breaths heaving in and out of you in a panic.
“What…” his brow furrowed intensely, and he cupped your cheek in his hand, tilting your head up so you would look him right in the eye. His beautiful mismatched eyes that had never failed to soothe you.
“Aerion,” you responded, licking your lips, “do not let him do to me what he did to that horse.” You dissolved into tears again as you saw the blood and the boy’s smirk, the way he had looked at you before committing those crimes. Baelor gripped your face tighter, shaking you a little to ensure you looked into his eyes and listened to what he had to say.
“As long as I am alive,” he breathed out, “as long as my heart beats in my chest and I have power in my limbs, you are safe with me, my fire. Do you understand?” He had never looked at you so intensely before. “Do you understand?” He repeated, running his thumb over the skin under your eye, smearing your tears there as he waited for your response.
“Yes, my heart, yes,” you breathed out, and you did feel a calm begin to settle over you. Your pulse began to slow and you could properly feel Baelor’s warmth, the pad of his thumb against your cheek and the dig of his fingers at your waist. You nodded, closing your eyes as he caressed you again. Baelor leaned down and pressed his lips to your forehead, kissing you softly as you sighed into his chest.
A/N: I am absolutely in love with @idksmtms's fics of Maekar having a young wife whom Dunk confuses with his daughter, and I just kept thinking about how Baelor would react if it happened to him 😭 so I wrote this. Special thanks to @vhagars-dementia for constantly blessing this fandom with her ideas!!! I dedicate this to you <3 And to all my Baelor enthusiasts.
— summary: ser duncan the tall thinks you're just a beautiful girl close to his own age, but his innocence is his undoing when he mistakes you for just another targaryen cousin. the only problem? you are actually the lady of dragonstone and baelor’s wife.
— pairing: baelor targaryen x wife!reader
— word count: 2k
— content: controversial young wife!reader, age gap, humor, mentions of reader's hair length, jealous!baelor, implicit sexual references, pda.
⋆ . ۰˚ ౨ৎ ── series masterlist with different characters’ versions: here!
The hedge knight spends more time than ever with the family, forever trailing after Aegon like a loyal hound, laughing, jesting, and, above all, eating.
It was only to be expected that the prince would invite his dear friend to the feast held at Dragonstone for the celebration of your name day. Your husband, Baelor, had prepared a banquet worthy of you, with an enormous cake and hundreds of servants rushing frantically through the castle, adorning the halls with flowers and colors chosen to your liking. He knew you exceptionally well, so it had been easy for him to decorate precisely how you'd like.
You had told him, of course, that such splendor was unnecessary, that a small supper with the family would have more than sufficed. Yet Baelor delighted in spoiling you, for you were the finest blessing he had been granted in a lot of time.
Whenever Ser Duncan the Tall found himself in your presence, he devoted most of his time to watch you from afar—seeing you laugh beside Baelor, play with Egg, or even speak comfortably with Prince Aerion. Your presence was nothing short of glorious, a magnet for eyes and devotion wherever you went. Your nature was exquisite—kind, gentle, and so unbearably sweet that at times Dunk thought you could scarce be of the same blood as the rest of them.
And your beauty… that was another matter entirely. You were the loveliest sight the humble eyes of a hedge knight had ever beheld. Your form was wondrous, your face celestial, your long hair falling over your shoulders like a silken cascade, and your smile... it stole the very breath from his chest every time. Each time you entered his sight, a sigh would just escape out of him, soft and helpless, like a boy hopelessly in love.
“Do not even think it, Dunk,” Egg warns him, as he had more than once before, quick to notice the besotted look upon his big friend’s face as they sat together at the table. “That's out of your power to reach, Ser.”
But Dunk does not answer. He is far too intent upon you as you appear in the great hall’s doorway.
Today you wear a gown of red, dazzling, adorned with pearls and white embroidery that spreads across your bodice, climbs your shoulders, and trails down the length of your spine, where darker crimson stitching forms the likeness of dragon scales. Your hair lies loose down your back, softly waved, gleaming in the candlelight.
All rise at your entrance.
Dunk is the last. He nearly stumbles over his chair in his haste, its legs scraping loudly against the stone floor as he shoves it back. That alone—and you—turn him red as a summer apple.
Valarr, seated at his other side, watches his brutish motion with poorly hidden amusement.
“My love,” Baelor calls first, his face gentle as drifting clouds, fondness curving his lips as he comes to greet you properly. “Happy name day.”
You accept his embrace, smiling as he presses a tender kiss to your hair.
After him, the others come in turn, forming a line to offer their wishes, their thanks, their gifts—small tokens and letters placed into your hands.
Egg flings himself into your arms, making you laugh and sway back a step beneath the force of him. Baelor, standing close at your side, smiles at the sight. Ever tender are you with the younglings, and for that, he loves you all the more. You shower his children with a devotion so maternal and steadfast that one would never guess they did not spring from your own womb.
“Thank you, my sweet Aegon,” you tell him, stroking the fine, pale silver-gold hair already sprouting upon his head. The boy had even brought you a flower—one of those you cherished most, a silent token of his affection.
Duncan feels painfully out of place when his turn comes. Standing empty-handed while his stomach twists into a tight, miserable knot.
He is already flushed when you lift your gaze to him, your eyes sparkling with amusement at the familiar effect you have upon him—his trembling hands, his stammer, his shy smiles. He's so cute!
“Ser Duncan. I hope you would be here,” you greet him warmly, you know well the bond he shares with Aegon; to have him present is a comfort to your heart. “Aegon speaks wonders of you. It does not surprise me to see you have become each other's shadow.”
“My lady,” Dunk answers you, his voice no louder than a mouse’s squeak. His gaze, much against his better judgment, betrays him, making a swift, helpless journey over the length of your body.
And Baelor notices, of course; his smile fades, slow and certain, as he watches the knight’s every movement like a hawk perched upon your shoulder. A single brow lifts slightly, and a deep, thoughtful furrow begins to cloud his brow.
Duncan clears his throat and casts your husband an apologetic glance before daring to look at you again. “I— I beg your pardon. I would not wish to be an intrusion upon your name day. Your father was kind enough to grant me to attend.”
The hall falls into sepulchral silence. The small conversations that bloom among the Targaryens die at once when Dunk’s words echo through the great chamber, their meaning plain, their offense unmistakable and unashamed. Even the youngest cease their play, and the servants stand frozen right where they are.
All turn to stare at Duncan now, and they look upon him with mortified eyes, as though none dare breathe.
Somewhere, someone fails to smother a laugh—most likely Aerion.
Egg’s mouth falls open in mortification. He looks up at his friend, his expression stricken, willing him to understand—to see—that what he has just said is wrong. Very wrong.
Duncan looks down at him when his small squire gives his shin a furtive kick, meant to draw his notice without the others seeing. He frowns, bewildered, not understanding what offense he has given now to deserve such a blow.
And when he looks back to the grown folk, he finds you watching him with an expression poised in perfect balance between horror and amusement. There is even the faintest hint of a smile at the corner of your lips, one you must press away when you turn your head toward your prince.
Baelor does not look pleased as you do.
His face is uncommonly stern, his brow drawn tight, his lips pressed into a hard, unforgiving line, he is trying to gather every shred of his restraint to keep from striking the foolish knight upon your name day.
“She is my wife, Ser Duncan,” he clarifies, his patience stretched thin, drawn so taut it borders upon offense. His hand comes to curl around your waist as you lean into him, lifting one hand to his chest in quiet reassurance.
You are still trying to hide that treacherous, amused smile.
“Oh—Seven—” Dunk breathes, realization striking him at last. He drops at once to his knees, bowing his head in reverence and shame. “I beg your forgiveness, Your Grace. I—I did not know. My manners are poor—you must understand, I never m–meant offense.”
“Of course not, Ser,” you reply kindly, looking down at him, still leaning against your husband’s chest. He lets out a soft sigh beneath your touch, your hand rising and falling with the steady motion of his breath.
Baelor makes a sharp, dismissive gesture for him to rise. “See that it does not happen again.”
“Of course!” Dunk scrambles to his feet at once, his face burning red with shame. “I only meant that she is so young and beautiful, and you—”
His frantic blue eyes fall upon Valarr, standing just behind his father. The prince shakes his head swiftly, his mismatched eyes widening in urgent warning, bidding him to hold his tongue.
Dunk obeys at once and his jaw snaps shut so hard it almost snaps apart.
“You witless boy,” Maekar rebukes him, his face twisted with disgust and disdain when the hedge knight dares glance his way, standing at your side like some old, ill-tempered hound. “That should cost you your fucking tongue.”
Your soft laughter breaks through the tension of the moment, and all turn to look at you, the heavy air easing when they all realize this offends you not half so deeply as it does them.
“I am certain Ser Duncan meant no malice, Maekar,” you say, seeking to soothe them—most of all your husband. “And I should not like to see any tongues torn out upon my name day, please.”
Baelor’s gaze remains fixed upon the mortified knight, his hand coming to rest upon the pommel of his sword—a blade he carries in quiet defiance of your pleas to remain unarmed this day. He thinks, perhaps, that he shall have a use for it against Ser Duncan.
“... shall we eat at last, then?” Comes Daeron’s unmistakable voice from somewhere within the hall. “I am hungry. And thirsty.”
“Of that, none have any doubt,” Maekar mutters, rolling his eyes as he returns to the table.
The others follow in his wake, granting you and your husband a moment alone.
Ser Duncan gives you another quick, apologetic bow before hastening out from beneath your husband’s gaze.
You cannot hold it any longer.
A breath of laughter escapes you, soft and bright, and you turn in Baelor’s arms to face him fully.
He is still watching the place where Duncan stood, his jaw tight, his shoulders rigid beneath your touch, as if the insult lingers in the air like a foul smell.
Your fingers curl more firmly into the front of his doublet to call for his attention.
“My prince,” you whisper with a smile when his two-toned eyes finally meet yours. “My heart...”
You rise onto your toes and press a gentle kiss to his cheek, his beard tickling against your skin. His body noticeably softens beneath your warm affection.
Another kiss follows, softer still, at the corner of his mouth.
And one more, sweet and lingering, upon his lips.
“Peace,” you plead humorously against his mouth, your fingers toying idly with the Hand of the King’s badge on his chest. “You look as though you mean to challenge the poor knight to single combat over a slip of the tongue, my love.”
“I am not amused,” he manifests, his tone remarkably sullen, yet you press another loving kiss to his lips to chase away his pettish little pout.
“No?” You lean closer, your voice drops into something more playful and teasing, “is it because he thinks you're old, husband?”
His lips tremble at your words, holding back an ironic smile, and his hands tighten at your waist, pulling you closer against him.
Baelor clicks his tongue, and your gaze falls to his lips as he does. “I am not old.”
“Well, considering my own age... truthfully, you are a bit older,” you continue to tease him, biting back a small laugh at his startled reaction. “Should I begin calling you father now, hm?”
His beautiful eyes narrow.
You grin—and steal another quick kiss before he can protest.
“Do not push your luck, wife,” he warns all the same, a playful little smile curving his lips. His hand slides down to the small of your back before he delivers a sharp, scolding swat to your backside, making you jolt lightly against him.
His brow arches slightly. “You are the only one left breathless and trembling like some frail, ancient little thing. Or must I remind you how you clung to me the other night and begged me to—?”
Your hand flies to his mouth, covering it before he can utter another word.
“My prince,” you hiss under your breath, though laughter trembles in your voice, your eyes wide with scandalized amusement. “You grow bold. We are in a hall full of eyes, and your sons sit but a stone's throw away.”
His lips move against your palm, pressing a lingering, heated kiss there that sends a shiver down your spine. Baelor gently pulls your hand away, though he does not let go of your fingers, his thumb stroking your knuckles with a slow, possessive rhythm, grazing your betrothal ring.
“Let them look,” he dismisses, leaning into you to kiss your lips properly, claiming them. And claiming you.
The heated kiss, at last, forces Duncan’s eyes away from you, and Baelor smiles against your mouth as he watches him behind you, finally closing his own eyes to savor the honeyed sweetness of your kiss.
Fic that can be read as a complement to this one: here
— summary: on your wedding anniversary, ser duncan makes a disastrous mistake when he assumes that baelor and maekar are merely your overprotective chaperones rather than your husbands—yes, both of them.
— pairing: baelor targaryen x wife!sister!reader x maekar targaryen
— word count: 2.5k
— content: targcest, polyamory, fluff and humor, dunk being his usual cute himbo self, mentions of reader's hair length, jealous & protective husbands, maekar is a grump, baelor is the sweetest, teasing, implicit sexual references, pda.
⋆ . ۰˚ ౨ৎ ── series masterlist with different characters’ versions: here!
The Great Hall of the Red Keep is a sea of black and scarlet. Tapestries fluttered in the draft, and the smell of roasted boar and spiced wine filled the air.
At the high table sit the Three, the very heart of the realm's stability. Baelor and Maekar flank you like twin pillars. You, their sister–queen, sit beautifully between them, the golden thread that holds their polar opposite temperaments in a perfect, peaceful balance. For a rare moment in the history of the Red Keep, the dragons are at rest, and the hall hums with the contented music of a kingdom in celebration.
Dunk had heard this was a day of great celebration. Seeing the flowers and the finery, he simply assumed it was your Name Day. After all, why else would two such powerful men be hovering over you so protectively?
Among the crowd of polished lords and perfumed ladies, his figure stands out like a mountain in a field of hills. The knight sits uncomfortably in his seat, his massive frame barely fitting the chair provided.
Beside him, little Egg is busy stuffing his face with lemon cakes, looking far too amused by his friend's gaze directed at you, complicitly laughing at some comment Maekar has whispered into your ear.
“Don't look at her too much, father won't like it,” the young prince struggles to swallow the rest of his pastry so he can scold the knight, who eventually turns to look at him, his brow wrinkling slightly in confusion.
“Why are those two hovering over her like guarding hounds?” he ventures to ask once he clears his throat, genuinely interested in knowing.
But as Egg thinks he's just cracking a joke, he rolls his eyes, unamused by his little attempt at humor, and goes back to devouring his plate of food.
When the moment comes for the two of them to go over to the big main table where you're sitting, he can feel his heart about to burst out of his chest.
He had seen high-born ladies before, but not one quite like you, with your silver hair braided with pearls and your eyes ablaze like flames of violet, making him feel as if he is in the presence of a goddess herself.
“Your Graces,” Dunk salutes your brothers, bowing so low his head is nearly level with the table. That brings a sweet smile to your face. “And to you, M–my Princess... a very happy Name Day. May you have seventy more, each as— as beautiful as the last.”
Baelor raises an eyebrow, a flicker of amusement crossing his face. “Name Day, Ser Duncan?”
“Aye, Your Grace,” Dunk responds, his gaze drifting back to you, his expression one of pure, wide-eyed adoration. “It’s only right that the whole city celebrates. I’ve traveled from the Reach to the Wall, but I’ve never seen a wonder quite like the Princess. You’re... well, you’re like a sunset over the Summer Sea.”
Dunk, feeling bold just because he thinks he is merely being a kind knight to a young maiden, looks at Baelor and Maekar with a sympathetic expression.
“It must be hard for you two,” he then says earnestly.
Maekar’s eyes narrow, already irritated by how much the knight has spoken. “Hard? In what way, boy?”
“Well,” Dunk continues, completely unaware of the cliff he is walking off, “having such a sister. You’ll have to beat the suitors off with clubs!” He blows air like a boy in love, “a woman this beautiful is a full-time job for any man—I can see why it takes both of you just to keep her from being stolen away by a better-looking lord.”
He turns back to you, missing the puzzled, frowing looks on the faces of the two brothers by your sides as they both stare at him.
Ser Duncan just gives you a toothy, innocent grin. “You're far too much woman for just any ordinary man to handle, anyway, Your Grace.”
The silence that comes after his words isn't instantaneous; it's a ripple that spreads from the high table and fills the Great Hall like winter itself has just walked in. The strumming of a lute dies on a sour note, and the clinking of glasses stops all at once.
Prince Aerion is mid-gulp when Dunk finishes his little speech. The sheer absurdity of the hedge knight's words—treating both of your husbands like a lowly chaperones—sends the wine straight into his windpipe. A sharp, mocking bray of laughter crawls up his throat, clashing with the liquid.
“A—a sunset...” Aerion manages to choke out between violent coughs and laughs, clearly more amused by the situation than everyone else. “A sunset over the Summer Sea! Gods be good—”
Beside him, Valarr doesn't look nearly as amused. He reaches over and delivers a heavy, bruising slap to Aerion’s back—ostensibly to help him breathe, but in reality, he’s trying to knock the wind out of him to shut him up.
Dunk, still beaming with his big, innocent smile, looks around as he senses a crowd of eyes locked on him and his smile gradually begins to fade from his face.
The murmurs break out immediately after, like a disturbed hornet's nest.
Egg, standing right behind Dunk, slaps a hand over his face, totally crushed by embarrassment. He drags his palm down his features, his fingers digging into his forehead as a flush of crimson heat crawled up his neck, turning his ears the color of a tomato.
At your side, the temperature seems to drop ten points. Maekar becomes so rigid that for a moment you fear he has morphed into a statue beside you. His knuckles, clenched over the table, are white, and his icy eyes, frozen on Dunk, promise a slow and painful execution.
Baelor, ever the diplomat, leans against the back of the chair and lays a hand on your lap, seeking your touch to soothe his own anger and offense and simply staring up at him with the purest of displeasure.
You, for your own part, bit your lip, trying to suppress a laugh. “Ser Duncan, you are too kind. But this is not my Name Day. It is the anniversary of my wedding.”
Duncan blinks again, looking between the three of you, starting to feel a surge of coldness begin to creep up his body from his feet. “Wedding? But... to—to which one?”
“Both, you witless, low-born clodpoll!” Maekar finally snaps, barking back at him and making you wince. “She’s our wife!”
Duncan can definitely feel the tension in the room now, and he takes a moment to look carefully at the three of you, studying the whole scene. Baelor is no longer smiling, and his hand rests over yours on the table now, intertwining his fingers with yours. On your other side, Maekar is glaring at Dunk as if he could somehow burn him out of existence with his fiery gaze, his hand possessively gripping you around the waist.
Dunk’s jaw drops.
He looks once again at Baelor, then Maekar, then back to you and his brain seemed to short–circuit.
“Oh...” He squeaks, his mind scrambling to come up with the appropriate words. “Oh!—that... that certainly is— efficient—Seven hells—”
He drops to his knees before you, bowing his head in supplication, his ears burning with a deep, terrified crimson that matches his surcoat.
“I thought... I assumed— I have no excuse for my ignorance—I am t–truly sorry, I beg your mercy,” Dunk’s voice cracks, resembling more that of a frightened squire than a knight of the realm. He doesn't dare look up.
He squeeze his eyes shut, his massive shoulders shaking as he stammers out a final plea. “Please, Your Graces, it was my mind that was blinded by the Princess’s— I mean, the Queen's... radiance. My tongue simply tripped over my heart.”
Egg, who remains loyal by his side despite all the commotion, gives him a little kick to make him shut up once and for all. He knows all too well that the knight’s ‘compliments’ are sounding more like treason with every passing breath.
You stand up, letting your lovers' hands slide off your body, which makes them even more upset.
“Rise, Ser Duncan,” you urge him, smiling genly as you reach out to him, making a gentle gesture with your hand. “Please, before you burrow a hole through the floorboards.”
Dunk looks up very slowly, his face a mask of pure mortification. When you extend your hand to him, he stares at it as if it were a holy relic he isn't allowed to touch. “Forgive me, Your Grace—Graces”
“We forgive you, Ser. You haven't done anything wrong,” you declare, your eyes dancing with mischief. “In fact, I should thank you. It isn't every day someone tells my husbands to their faces that I am ‘too much woman’ for them to handle. It’s a refreshing change of pace.”
While you are enjoying the comedy, the grumpy men on either side of your empty chair are significantly less amused as they share a single glance behind you at your words, their pride stung by the knight’s clumsy suggestion that any man in the Seven Kingdoms could be a ‘better’ match for you.
Then Baelor stands up as well and he doesn't look angry—he looks disappointed, which is somehow worse.
“You would do well to remember who sits at this table before you start offering advice on ‘better-looking lords’ again, Ser Duncan,” Baelor suggests, his voice calm but carrying a sharp edge of authority. “Some mistakes cannot be laughed away.”
Dunk gulps so loudly it is audible. “Y-yes, Your Grace. Of course.”
But it is Maekar who provide the true chill, naturally. He does not stand; he simply leans forward, with his two hands propped against the table. His eyes are like chips of amethyst ice.
“My brother is a diplomat, you churlish knight,” he hisses, his voice vibrating with a low, dangerous threat. “I am not. If you ever imply again that I can't handle my own wife or that she might be stolen away by some better-looking lord, I will personally ensure you never speak another word. I’ll have that clumsy tongue of yours pulled out and fed to the hounds before the sun rises.”
Dunk turns even paler, nodding frantically. “I understand, King Maekar. I— I'll go now. Q–quietly. Very quietly.”
Dunk backs away, bowing at every step, nearly knocking over a wine bearer in his haste to disappear from your husbands' sights.
Egg follows behind him, looking like he wants to crawl into a hole and suffocate from embarrassment as he offers you three a fleeting apologetic smile, which you are quick to return to him in an attempt to ease his distress.
You could hear the tall knight muttering to your son as they both retreat: “Why didn't you fucking tell me?!”
Finally, you turn your gaze back to your husbands. You lean in close to Maekar, brushing a lingering kiss against his sullen, stone-cold cheek to soothe the fire in his blood. On your other side, you give Baelor’s hand a firm, grounding squeeze, wordlessly urging him to reclaim his seat as you settle back into yours between them.
The tension, once thick enough to choke a whole dragon, begins to dissipate like smoke in a breeze. Seeing the Queen’s playful smile and the way she effortlessly tames the two most powerful men in the realm, the place finally exhales and the musicians scramble for their instruments.
A lively, upbeat tune—The Bear and the Maiden Fair—begins to bounce off the stone walls, the drums kicking in with a rhythmic thump that mimics a heartbeat returning to normal.
“Oh, stop it, both of you,” you tease them. “You’ve terrified the poor man. And besides... he did say I was the most beautiful woman he’d ever seen. Surely that's worth a little mercy?”
Maekar huffs humorlessly, taking a long sip of his wine to quell the rage building up in his throat. “He's lucky he's so fucking tall,” he mutters. “It makes his neck a harder target.”
Baelor blinks, his diplomatic mask slipping for a split second before a soft, disbelieving chuckle escapes his lips. “Efficiency. I don't think I've ever heard our union described as a logistical convenience before.”
“He just didn’t know,” you shrug, not really taking it as seriously as your kings do.
Maekar turns to give you an incredulous glance, but his eyes soften significantly as soon as they lock onto yours. “He didn’t know about the marriage of the rulers of the Seven Kingdoms?”
Then he huffs again and this time makes an effort to convey his feelings—as you usually insist he should. “Better-looking lords... what the fuck does that supposed to mean?”
You can't help the small, knowing smirk that tugs at your lips. You lean back into the space between them, feeling the radiating heat of their possessive energy.
“Oh,” you muse softly, your voice carrying just enough tease to make them both look at you. “I see. It’s the ‘better-looking’ part that truly haunts you both, isn't it? My poor, insecure dragons.”
Baelor rolls his eyes at your silly teasing, however, he is unable to suppress a soft smile as he observes you bring his hand to your lips to lay a reassuring kiss on his knuckles.
“Don't be absurd, wife,” Maekar grumbles and he doesn't pull his hand away when you reach out to him now. “The man is a fool. His aesthetic judgment is as poor as his lineage.”
“Ser Duncan has a point, however,” Baelor whispers, leaning toward you to press an affectionate and all too slow kiss on your cheek. “It is a full-time job, my fire, handling you.”
“Oh fuck yeah,” on your other side, Maekar agrees wish whis older brother and leans close as well, his arm stretching behind your body, his hand running down your lower back. “We'll show them how efficient we can be.”
Baelor chuckles softly, his fingers tightening around yours under the table in a grounding squeeze. He leans in from your other side, trapping you in a cocoon of warmth between them.
“Look at that, Maekar,” he teases gently, his two-toned gaze fixed on your burning face. “Our Queen is as radiant as the sunset the knight described—now she's shy.”
“I am not shy,” you manage to whisper, though your voice lacks its usual regal bite, and you can’t quite bring yourself to look them in the eye.
They have turned the whole teasing on you now. United. And that's truly wicked.
“No?” Maekar hums and his fingers, still resting at the small of your back, trace the faintest, idle line upward along your spine. It is not improper. Not quite. But it is enough to make your stomach tighten. “You're all flushed, our little wife.”
Baelor laughs under his breath beside you, the sound warmer than you have ever heard it.
“She burns,” he agrees softly.
“I do not,” you insist.
Baelor raises a brow at the subtle quiver in your voice, his mismatched eyes glinting.
And Maekar's smirk grows wider, a mischievous gleam flashing in his eyes as he leans closer to you, his lips brushing your earlobe. “Good. Because the night is young, and as the dumb knight so wisely noted... we have a very important anniversary to attend to. And I intend to be extremely efficient.”
You hide your face against Baelor’s shoulder for a fleeting second, the heat of your blush intensifying at the shared, knowing look your husbands exchange over your head.
summary: even with baelor awake, you are lonelier than ever. a meeting with aerion does not help matters.
pairing: baelor targaryen x wife reader
word count: 2.9k
based off of this! | masterlist
your fingers had not stopped trembling since her name slipped past baelor’s lips.
you were not prone to hysterics. you were not attention-seeking. and this moment, however it might feel for you, is still a precious reward.
a blessing from the gods. your husband alive and well, with the maesters speaking of a miracle that they could not have hoped to predict.
valarr and matarys burst through the doors as he asks you to find jena. find his wife.
but your wife is sitting right in front of you, you think sadly.
you are almost thankful for it—you get up quickly, moving away from the bed, allowing his sons to come sit near him and take your place. they embrace tenderly, as the maesters urge them to be careful. both boys are relieved to the point of tears, something they were not afraid to show.
you stand by kiera, who does not know nor understand what has happened. she’s not so far from you in age, and you find yourself hoping that she never has to feel what you are feeling in this moment.
valarr turns to find the two of you, and when you glance back towards baelor, you notice how confused his eyes look, though he corrects himself when matarys begins saying something, focusing on him again.
you wonder what he must be thinking, what he trying not to reveal. that his sons look years older than he last remembers, most likely. that he has no idea what has passed in the years since.
your mind feels sluggish and heavy, eyes wet with new tears that do not seem to stop. the very mention of jena has chipped away at a dam that you have been working so hard to build up these past few months of marriage.
you know your position.
you’re a hopeless, romantic fool but you’re not an idiot. you’re only a second wife, and your husband is years older than you, with two grown sons. he shared a life with jena that you know near nothing about.
he never intended on sharing a life with someone else. you had come as a surprise to him, you’re sure, and even now you still don’t know exactly why he had selected you.
even near death, she must come to the forefront of his mind. and why should she not? they were wed young, you know, with a happy marriage, blessed early with children. theirs, you imagine, was a most joyous union. you know from stories of her lively, good nature and how their match had been made in equal parts of love and duty.
it was a combination not often found in this world.
how could you hope to compare to that? how could his new marriage hold a candle to the sun that you know his previous one was?
of course they were deliriously happy. you cannot, even to this moment, imagine finding any faults with baelor.
he does not argue or fight. if he is stern, it is only because he is concerned and sick with worry. since you were wed, he has always spoiled you, though not only with physical items. you grasp the soft fabric of your skirts to steady yourself, forest green silk and myrish lace, one of your husband’s favorites.
at least, it used to be his favorite.
no, you think sadly, he spoiled me with his affection and kind words and gentleness.
you can only begin to imagine how he will feel when he realizes jena is no longer of this world. something gnaws inside of you, wondering when that will be. the thought feels cruel to even think, and yet, you need to know.
how much longer must you pretend that you are a stranger, a emotional lady of the court, a name he cannot remember, while your husband waits for someone who can never come back?
you stamp it down and bury the thought quickly as though it had caught aflame. it’s selfish and greedy—you want him to know the truth so that you might go back to his bedside and comfort him and be comforted yourself.
in all that has passed in the last fortnight, all you have wanted is to be still and speak with your husband about it and have him do what he always does—make you feel better.
matarys may give you away. he is a little younger and very fond of you, and you have always enjoyed spending time with him. he still has his own memories of his mother, you know, and some of what you have learned about jena has come from his stories. but he still seeks you out when he wishes to complain of something or ask for your advice.
and you have so enjoyed it, the place that you fit in within your new family. the boys are baelor through and through, and though you’d once thought it would be uncomfortable to have step-sons close to your own age, you have had no doubts since you got to know them.
but matarys keeps turning to look at you in confusion and concern. your heart aches, wondering how sad they must feel, with their father bringing up their mother’s name, how painful it must be.
you’d once thought you knew your place in your new family. but now, it seems as though you do not belong in this room.
it’s not until the maesters usher all of you out, that you allow your emotions to take control of you again.
the wail of a woman who hangs in the precipice of becoming a widow to a living man rests in your throat, waiting to come out. you tried your best to hold it together inside the chambers, staying silent against the wall, but you are not strong enough today to keep up the visage.
you and maekar are the last to leave. grandmaester malleon looks at you especially sadly as he finishes speaking with maekar. he shuts the doors and you realize this is the first time you have left the chambers with all the other visitors.
as painful as the thought is, you know you cannot stay. baelor will ask questions that you cannot answer, and if your emotions and tears somehow interrupted the start of his healing, you do not think you could ever forgive yourself.
you stare at the black iron and wood of the chamber doors. behind you, somewhere, you hear valarr speaking to maekar with a fervor you have never heard before.
you can make out bits and pieces. your feet feel frozen to the ground, and you continue staring at the door separating you from your husband. valarr speaks of his father’s memory loss and says his mother’s name and you blink away your tears.
you think you hear your name being uttered as well, though you do not have the capacity to pay attention anymore. your head rings with a singular name—jena—and your body feels numb and empty.
behind the barrier, on the other side of where you are no longer allowed, your husband rests, finally awake. all the realm can release a breath they have been holding for half of a moon’s turn.
you bring a hand to your belly. a renewed fear floods you, traveling from your beating heart all the way through until your hand shakes. if he never remembers you, if he never goes back to being the baelor you knew and loved, what would become of your child? the child you had been praying to the mother for, the child you had thought of every time your husband fell asleep next to you.
baelor would jest that one day, perhaps, the two of you may be blessed with a daughter. that there would be so many years between her and matarys. that valarr and kiera might have children by then, too. and then he would kiss your forehead and hold you tightly until you fell asleep dreaming about a little girl with familiar, lovely mismatched eyes.
you are not certain how long you stand there, lost in your own thoughts, until maekar comes to guide you away.
“let the maesters do their work,” he says, leading you to where daeron sits with aegon. you take a seat across from them, and though they are relieved their uncle is awake, there is a sadness in them you cannot place.
perhaps you do not want to think anymore of the sadness of others. you have enough of your own to fill this entire room, to fill every chamber of the red keep.
maekar stands by his sons. you can no longer hear the voices of valarr and matarys, and you look around for a moment, searching with your wet eyes.
you should wonder where they are, make sure that they are well. that is your duty to them, one of your responsibilities as baelor’s wife. but you think, holding your trembling hand tightly with your other to steady it, that if you speak, the dam may burst altogether.
selfish, you think quickly and meanly. they are living through the death of their mother all over again and all you can think of is yourself.
tears well up again, and you turn at the sound of footsteps, wondering if it is matarys. through blurry eyes you fix your gaze, and when you see him, you do not know what takes over you.
it is as if your body has a mind of its own. you rush to your feet, moving as quickly as you can, the tears streaming down and not stopping, even as you try to will them away.
you’re no longer only filled with sadness, but rather anger. rage and fury consume you—or maybe something else entirely, closer to blood and fire—if only for a moment, as you run to aerion and shove him with all your strength.
he’s twice as strong as you, and you are weak now—weak from not eating and not sleeping and crying, though he stumbles slightly.
you know he was not expecting it from you—quiet and shy as you are, especially around maekar’s family. the only person that truly knew you was baelor, and even he had worked hard to peel away the layers of your armor, made of courtesy and manners and kindness, until he knew the soft flesh underneath like the back of his hand.
only he knew. and now, you do not even have that small comfort.
aerion’s violet eyes fill with flames, but his gaze shifts from you, still thinking you are mostly harmless. you hear maekar’s quick, heavy footsteps behind you, and aerion’s eyes focus on him instead. his father shouts something but you cannot make sense of it, not with your trembling hand resting by your side, shaking more and more.
aerion does not even look at you as he speaks.
“control your hysterics, woman-” aerion begins, and you interrupt him with a slap.
your hand stings. striking him gave you a singular moment of something besides sadness, but it fades as quickly as it came. you sob as aerion grips your arm, holding it so tightly that he’s sure to leave a bruise.
“you dare strike me-” he spits, when he’s interrupted by his father.
“let go, aerion,” maekar says. “now.”
aerion’s eyes flick between you and his father, and he drops your hand as though you had burned him. maekar stands between the two of you. and for another moment, the flames consume you too.
you just want to feel something, anything, besides what you feel right now.
you push through maekar, trying to get to aerion. you don’t know what you intend to do, though maekar is strong enough to restrain you. he does not use his full strength, you know, though you do not know why.
“let go,” you cry out, fresh tears spilling on your cheeks. “it is all his fault, it’s his fault!”
“do not blame me for baelor’s foolishness,” aerion says, his voice coated with vitriol. “i did not tell him to don the armor and defend that fool-”
you feel maekar’s grip weaken on your shoulders, where he tries to restrain you. in any other state, you would perhaps recognize the impact your words were having on him.
you have tried your best to console maekar, reminding him that it was, indeed, an accident, when he needed to hear it the most—the late nights in the chamber, when he would come visit baelor after everyone else had left. you had tried your hardest to convince him that you believed it, too, so that he might not lose himself in his grief.
but now… now it was all different. now you have lost your baelor while all the others have gained him back.
“you did this,” you cry back, choked between sobs, unsure of whether you are addressing father or son. “it is both of you. he is lost to me because of you. my child may never know her father because of you-”
you pull yourself away from maekar’s grip. you did not even realize the words had left your lips.
you don’t possess the will to look in his eyes, but you force yourself to regardless, perhaps not understanding exactly the wound your words have reopened.
his lilac eyes are pained as he stares back at you.
time seems to stand still again. you feel as though you have spent the last of your energy acting like a fitful child. you step away slowly, sitting down on the nearest armchair, as you hear daeron move, nudging aegon and ushing aerion out of the room as well. he says something to his father but you do not hear it.
maekar does not sit.
a moment passes, then another. the air is heavy and laden with tension and sadness.
“you are with child?” he finally asks, and you blink. you expect tears but find there are none to be shed. you still rub your eyes, the skin sensitive and painful.
“i had my suspicions before we left for the tourney,” you admit quietly, feeling strange to hear the words aloud for the first time. your throat is dry. your hand stings from where you met aerion’s skin. “the grandmaester confirmed it just two nights ago.”
“does…” maekar trails off, his own voice strained. you grip your skirts again with the tight fist, feeling your hand begin to shake again. “does he know?”
you almost let out a laugh. a cruel, twisted sound.
no, you want to shout. he does not know. and if i told him, he would not care. i am no longer his wife. i am but a stranger to the only person who has ever loved me. and it is because of you and your son.
you swallow the sound and blink again, meeting maekar’s eyes. they are anguished as your own.
and despite whatever you feel, you would never hurt him intentionally. you feel regret seeping into your skin at what you said previously—realizing how easy it is to fall into anger’s tricky web.
baelor was always cool-blooded. he had control of his emotions like no other. he did not harm others accidentally with his words. you would have learned to do the same, you’re sure, with more years spent by his side.
“i am sorry,” you finally say, the words coming out quiet as a whisper. “i… did not mean to be hysterical. it is only that i am afraid.”
you want to say more—that you should not have struck aerion, that you know it was all a horrible accident, a cruel, twisted game that the gods are playing on your family. that you have no idea of what will happen next. that you do not want your child to grow up without a father.
that you do not want to be a stranger to your husband for a moment longer.
you stay silent, staring at your betrothal ring, and wait for maekar to speak.
“be not afraid. he will remember, i am sure of it.”
he pauses, and you look up quickly. something feels strange in the way he is speaking.
he is not angry at you, not even upset at your outburst, though you know how he feels about such things—you have heard the way he curses and shouts when his children have done something wrong.
and isn’t that what you are now? acting as a petulant child, like one of his brood that he always has to chastise? where is it now—his anger and intolerance for such behavior? where is your speech about controlling your emotions? the half-hearted quips that reveal the truth—that underneath all of that, true concern and emotion lies behind everything maekar says?
there is something afoot, and your body feels it before your mind recognizes it. a terrible ache begins rolling through you, pain as though someone has struck you with a mace.
“but i must tell you the truth. the maesters… they say we should not do anything to impede baelor’s healing. i… i have told him that jena is north of dorne and that she will be returning soon.”
SE JORRĀELAGON HEN ZOKLA; baelor targaryen x stark!reader
marriage for targaryens is pure politics and purity, so much so when the breakspear weds the descendant of the great house of stark, it sends a controversial message about the house of the dragon.
warnings: canon divergence (reader is valarr & matarys’s mother and baelor’s only wife + replaces asra stark & maekar is irish twins with aerys), unrequited love triangle (maekar and baelor pine over the reader *mentioned*), smut smut smut, premarital sex (the horror), canon typical violence, time period related misogyny, hinted eugenics (targcest talk & superiority), direwolves are domesticated with the starks pre-got.
word count: 5.2k
notes: i’ve been craving to make a targ x stark fic for AGES. oh how i missed writing for asoiaf.
“They say he is stronger than the Kingsguard” Jeyne whispered to you in the hallowed halls of Winterfell, the maidens and cooks prancing aimlessly as they prepared for a day bigger than accounted for in the histories, Targaryen princes and royalty were to be hosted by the Starks of Winterfell. “That he is more Martell than Targaryen… you can’t help but wonder what his bastard un—“.
“Daemon Wat— Daemon Blackfyre, is a great… bastard” you whispered curtly, making sure no one heard the words uttered from the mouth of Jeyne, “My grandsire would have struck you if he heard those words” you warned, breathing in deeply. Your nerves were shot to say the least, running on a pure high the past week as the Targaryen’s were set to arrive via carriage within a few aggravating hours, King Daeron, his wife, Myriah, and his children, most notably his heir, Baelor. You looked back at Jeyne, as she sensed your nerves, there was no feasible reason for your general worry, there’s never been a Stark to be betrothed to a Targaryen— despite your grandsire Cregan’s pact to then Prince and heir, Jacaerys Velaryon, and the whispers of your bastard-born great-aunt’s relations with the Prince. “Do you believe he can speak Valryian?”.
A crude smile grew on Jeyne’s face, “Let us hope he can roll his R’s, those men know how to please women” she laughed as you smacked her arm playfully, praying to every God, old and new, that Jeyne’s words fell upon deaf ears. “If he is anything like his grandsire, you may just never leave your bedchambers” she remarked after the silence grew, earning a pinch on her arm.
Baelor Targaryen was a handsome man, with a crooked nose from past breaks, he looked closer to common folk than God like the Targaryen’s have been esteemed to be. Baelor, by all accounts, was an outlier of his family just as his father, seemingly as heir, the realm looked up to him to be just as great as Aegon the Dragon. As he stood in front of you as your father treated Daeron and Myriah to introductions, both Baelor and his younger brother Maekar stared endlessly at you and your own brothers, with Aerys seemingly lost in thought and Rhaegel picking the skin off his fingers. There was an unspoken potentiality that loomed over you, one of them may just be your husband one day.
“And this is my daughter, Y/n” your father introduced, his hand finding its way to your shoulder to signal you forward, a curtsy donning the court as you showed dutiful respect to the King and his Queen. “She is six and ten” he told the King, who met his gaze knowingly, perfect for either of his four sons for betrothal. It was written in pact a generation past for your house, a Targaryen daughter is to be wed to Stark son, preferably the heir to Winterfell, your grandsire never explained the semantics of it.
“A woman grown,” Myriah smiled, signalling you upward from your knees, “Quite an example of Stark beauty as well my Lord, you and your wife should be proud”.
Your father, bashful as can be, snickered, nodding in response to the Queen’s compliment. “We shall prepare the hall, I hope your sons are fond of dancing” he showed them away as the court dispersed, leaving you, your brothers and Jeyne to entertain the sons. You looked to your brothers, long gone to interact with their own friends leaving you and Jeyne to bear witness to the Targaryen boys unabashed side, their neutral state.
Aerys was easy to please, set off to the maesters to learn more about the histories of your great house. As for Maekar, Rhaegel, and Baelor, pleasing them seemed trivial. What were two northerner girls to do with boys with dragon blood? Your eyes met hers as you both settled on treating the boys to the crypt, grim yet somewhat entertaining for any notion of intrigue. A torch was braced in both yours and Jeyne’s hands, a source of light yet the flame raged, nearly burning your hair.
“Is it true that Starks were once able to become beastlings?” Maekar asked beneath his breath as your ancestors’s graves stood inches away.
You shrugged, “Were Targaryen’s true dragon riders or is that just a tall tale?” you challenged, “Starks are wargs, able to bond with their direwolf. Same as how Targaryen’s were once bonded to their dragon” you told, licking your lips to look at Jeyne, “My brothers are bonded to their wolves, as I am bonded to Lynara”. It wasn’t custom to reveal house secrets, especially your wolves. Yet you felt no harm in telling them about your own. “She’s not keen on strangers, or even our own constituents”.
“Who is she keen on?” Baelor spoke up, his voice was new to you, having not spoken once. You looked back, sparing Jeyne yet another glance, biting your lip before responding.
“Spouses… family, Jeyne of course” you answered, your eyes holding his gaze. “Even then she needs proof of loyalty, direwolves can sense farces, lies, and deception. Eventually, she’ll warm up, yet she still is protective at all times”.
Dancing was an art form within itself, the way your feet stomped told stories of culture, whether your hips swayed or remained stiff told everyone around you how you perceived the arts, whether it was your bawdy brothers and their betrothed, Jeyne shamelessly dancing with the Lord Commander of the Night’s Watch, your parents fancying a dance alongside their vassals, or you and Baelor challenging each other to see who will stomp on one’s foot first.
“I thought Starks were known for their cunning tactics” he breathed out, labored and humorous as sweat beaded on his forehead from the sheer amount of body heat. A smug smile grew on his face as his foot stepped on yours, the pain wasn’t too great, feeling the Prince control the pressure to be gentle. “Gotcha” he teased, earning a playful shove from you as you immediately stepped on his foot with your pointed heel. The pain was radiating from his toe to the entirety of his nerves, you would not hold back to spare him, there he felt intrigued, eyes meeting yours. Could it be? Baelor Targaryen, heir to his father’s throne, Prince of Dragonstone, set to be just a great leader than that of The Conqueror, a man more Martell than Targaryen, his mother’s favorite, falling in love with a Stark?
“Your daughter seems to be taking a liking to my son” Myriah spoke to your mother as they sat down, their breaths catching their own, a fond smile grew on her face.
“Maekar seems like a good gentleman, quite timid he is however” your mother responded, struck for surprise as her head lifted to see you treating with Baelor.
“Not that son” she said, “If she chooses, she’d be a great Queen”. Your mother studied the smile on your face, exuberant, it marked a bountiful moment in both senses of her soul, the political, and the mothering. She bit her lip, apprehension riddling her body within second thought, you could leave with the Targaryens by the end of their treatment.
“The stables are empty at night” you whispered in Baelor’s ear, your breath tickling his ear, “No guards… or lords or ladies…” the hint was obvious to the young prince, his lip being gnawed between his teeth. Your heart beating against your chest, Targaryens hate the cold, the blood of the dragon makes their stagnant state of temperature warmer than the average Stark beneath their cloaks, layers, and by the fire. Yet as the hay scratched the back of your body, your skin burned from the touch of Baelor. Naked beneath him, the cold pricked your skin as his body warmed yours, his lips capturing yours sloppily and feverishly. Your nipples hardened beneath his skin, tiny whimpers escaping your mouth each breath as your hand went to the man in front of you’s trousers, palming his hardened cock, leading a breath to be sucked in.
“I can’t besmirch you” he groaned, kissing you yet again, “Your husband deserves your honor”.
You licked your lips before chasing his again, grabbing his hand and leading the palm to your breast, “A prince could never sully a lady” you whispered, “Dishonor me, my prince”.
“Let us hope he can roll his R’s, those men know how to please women”.
Baelor’s tongue was assaulting your clit, two fingers in your hole, one of your hands was flayed out, gripping the pointy hay, the other being gnawed by your teeth in order to keep silent. A squeal left the gap between your hand and mouth, Baelor’s spare hand gripped onto your thigh. Sinful. Purely sinful, as if a heart tree wasn’t a walk away. He rose from your mound, a glistening chin and mouth, you nodded as your eyes met as he aligned his cock with your hole, teasing your clit with his tip. The girthy head made you ache, wondering if the prince would hurt you.
The entrance led you to moan louder than you would’ve anticipated, leading your head to lull away, to see a body move, white hair leaving your field of vision. Not a care in the world led you to warning Baelor as he pumped into you, your eyes rolling back, blacking out from the pleasure. Defiled. You, one of Brandon and Alys’s prized heirs to the name of House Stark of Winterfell, and Baelor, the heir to the Iron Throne, the Prince of Dragonstone, were defiled before marriage, before betrothal.
Maekar avoided your gaze the morning that followed, the Targaryen treatment lasted as quick as it started, only to be the solidifier of the Pact of Ice and Fire. Myriah and Alys saw a liking in the match between you and Baelor, your father begrudgingly obliged to your mother’s proposal, as Daeron was happy to see his heir marry a kind young lady, especially one so responsible and poised in his eyes. The ride back to King’s Landing went in two factions, you with your father and brother, Rodwell as an escort as well as support for Lady Daenerys’s wedding tourney. Baelor gained the title of Breakspear, Daemon’s predilections against his brother’s line grew as a Stark carried a quarter-Targaryen in her belly.
“The blood of the Dragon runs thin through your line brother” Daemon spoke in court, the young prince is to be born today as your groans and yelps littered the halls of the Red Keep, “A Stark is birthing your heir’s heir.”.
Daeron sighed, looking at Brynden to the left of him before responding to Daemon, “It is a blessed day today, yet you speak of disrespect to my heir, his wife, and my grandchild”.
“We’ve lost our dragons, now you wish to both dilute and poison our great house with… northern blood”.
Daeron stopped in his tracks and your screams echoed in the halls, groaning louder than imaginable. He flinched from the noise as did Brynden, nurses scouring back and forth for cloth, blankets, hell, even another maester. Daeron looked at his bastard brother, biting his tongue and walking off to the quarters, seeing his firstborn son in the hall, blood staining his hands, he looked defeated.
“How is she faring?”.
“Nurses say well, they do not wish to sedate her but it seems he’s stuck in her canal” he sighed, his father saw the look in his eyes, exhausted since this earliest hours of the morning, flinching yet again as a scream erupted from your bedchambers, one so violent he nearly charged in the room.
“A dragon would’ve barely groaned” Daemon whispered, insultingly, Daeron stared daggers into his half-born, bastard brother.
“Hold your tongue. Even Targaryens have met the Stranger in birth” Daeron squinted, pushing his brother away.
Then came a cry, a sigh of relief dawned on Baelor as he saw a child in the maester’s hand, immediately going to your aide as the workers taught to take care of Valarr. Sweat beaded your forehead, relief, beyond relief, words of a feeling you could not quite name. Baelor’s lips came to your forehead, congratulating you as your babe was cleaned. Valarr was a fierce yet gentle child at birth, he only took your breast for milk, unknown as a custom of the highborn as noble children had wet nurses.
Valarr’s first night grew colder by the hour, the babe asleep in his cot as you and Baelor snuggled up next to each other, Baelor’s nails grazing your skin as you two were enamored at your creation.
“There’s talk of a rebellion” he breathed out, looking off distantly. “Daemon did not take lightly of the tourney… or our match and of course our child”.
Your brows knitted together, “Then fuck him” you cursed, your babe cooed gently. “Did not know there was such a sanctity of purity amongst your family still”.
“Daemon has had his issues with the standing of our house since I was born” he sighed, raising his empty hand to teasing Valarr in his cot, the babe cooed, near formed a smile, “It’ll die down as it always does, father usually mitigates these issues with Brynden”.
You lift your body up by your arms, straining just a tad, a jolt of pain went through you. “Maekar wanted to see Valarr up close” you diverted the conversation, “Told him on the morrow, poor babe cried from the sight of his hair” you smiled, looking at your child in his cot, “Wonder how he’ll fair with Aerion”.
Baelor ticked his tongue humorously, “May the Seven be so kind to them both”. Baelor was enamored by you, to him, it was as if a halo was around you, you were glowing in his eyes, holding up half the sky. “I am proud of you, ñuha jorrāelagon”.
You smiled, “Ah! The Young Prince speaks his mother tongue”, the slight change of your babe’s coos that became cries led your nipples to harden and lactate. You cringed, your teeth grinded each other as Baelor reached over to grab Valarr from his cot, even more enamored by you as you fed your son from your own breast.
Valarr and Aerion were odd cousins, due to Valarr’s mere rank leaning over his presence, it led formidable opposition during playtime and training. The cousins were stark differences from one another, Aerion favored his father, Valarr favored his father. Yet the two brothers the cousins were mirrors of each other to held love and respect for one another, as brothers do, traditionally speaking, the cousins… not so much. Yet Valarr got along just well with Daeron, Daeron was always a timid yet friendly lad who had no qualms with challenging him in the Keep.
There was a gloom in the air, something felt off as the year was just supposed to end. Your belly was swole, pregnant with yet another babe, it felt as if you needed to catch up with Dyanna, for every one babe of yours, she had two. As you watched over your sons sparing with wooden swords, your suspicions were confirmed. Lynara’s growl grew ever present in the Keep, catching the attention of the young boys and Dyanna aside you.
“I thought she was fine with the boys?” Dyanna asked, protectively, believing the direwolf to be hostile to her sons for playing with her bonded warg’s son.
“No it’s not that,” you clarified, the hairs behind your neck stood up, there was commotion coming from the inside. “Lynara, yield” you warned as your suspicions grew, you held a hand up to Dyanna who wanted to advance through the doors as Lynara snarled. “Ser Quentyn, I believe you may be needed inside the Keep” you apprehensively spoke up, trying your hardest to not alert the boys who have ceased their training, you gave a cold look to Dyanna, one only a worried mother would give.
“There’s a passageway from the side, it’ll direct us to several tunnels to Maegor’s Holdfast” Dyanna spoke up as you both quickly led yourself down the steps to your boys. Your hand encased Valarr’s shoulder to guide him as Dyanna opened a door you never knew existed, allowing Lynara to lead the way, you swiftly put Valarr on her to mount, knowing she would protect your boy valiantly.
You walked in the back, Daeron just in front of you, the boy was shaking with fear. Halted, you stood there confused, concerned even, “What do you see my love?” you shouted ahead and Valarr held a torch, your hands went to Daeron’s shoulders to ease his worry.
“There’s two passageways,” he squeaked out in reply.
Dyanna thought for a moment, she knew these tunnels from when her and Maekar were children, yet the recall was horrid. One way could lead to the council another to the Holdfast, “Take the left route child”.
The council room’s air was thin, as Lynara snarled slightly from the erratic atmosphere, relief dawned upon Valarr as his father stood in the room alongside his grandsire and uncles. Quentyn was nowhere to be found, sending a sour taste in your mouth. Lynara refused to let anyone get near Valarr, except his father who she hardly became accustomed to. Once you entered the room, pieces started to come together. Ser Quentyn Ball just aided in the most heinous act upon the crown— upon the realm itself— he committed treason, to release Daemon Blackfyre.
“It’s best we all stay here, who knows who else could defect and rally for Daemon’s banner” Baelor reasoned, petting Lynara as a means to communicate gratitude before dismounting Valarr, the boy hugged his father tightly as you met the two in a group hug.
“He was training with the boys, I was the one who told him—“ you began to whisper as a confession to Baelor.
Baelor interrupted, refusing to let you cast blame on yourself, “You did not make the traitor to defect, he had every intention to do so, he only needed the time and place” he reassured, one hand resting on your belly, the other combing through Valarr’s hair.
“What of supporters?” you spoke up, the King directing his attention to you, “Surely they are organizing with the houses, bannermen with the utmost contempt for Dornishmen”.
“I believe it won’t be needed Lady Stark” Daeron assured, “My brother is a prideful man who believes himself to be pure, he never agreed with my marriage or my children, he certainly never agreed with my children’s own marriages…” he sighed, heavy is the head that wears the crown, “But assuredly, I could barely even find the words or reason to actually care for my brother, need it be his madness, his namesake, or the fact that no amount of purity will make him true born”.
Brynden nodded beside his brother, “We are strong on own Lady Stark, the realm mustn't face another infighting turn war over our family especially something so trivial as a fucking title”.
“You have the support of my house regardless, even if they pledge outright. My children are Stark by blood, you will always find our allegiance”.
Daeron nodded earnestly, the room was shaken, waiting for the signal that Daemon and Quentyn had fully fled, only then was there a semblance of peace that only lasted as short as it encountered.
Your family made their place to their quarters later, only for Valarr refusing to sleep in his own individual room. He rested on yours and Baelor’s marital bed as Baelor changed into his nighttime clothes, you were restless, staring at your son intently, his face was serene, calm, yours concerned and riddled with apprehension.
Baelor let out a breath, looking back at you, in a daze. He smiled, a proud man who looked at his love, the mother of his children. Yet it felt bittersweet, fleeting. He stepped towards you, reaching to embrace your body, his hand snaking his hand around your belly, you went slack from his embrace.
“They’re going to send you to war” you muttered, biting your lip in an attempt to ease your nerves. “Fighting another fucking succession claim a near two generations later”. Your head instinctively shook itself, you were angry, at the realm, at Daemon, at even your husband and his family. Part of you cursed the Conqueror, the “traditions” that began to breed the system, the fact that your son was seen as unworthy of his last name and place at court due to be part of you, one that bled from his father, as he was seen more of his mother than his father, and that to Daemon and one of the worst kings to reign, was enough to disavow him.
“It’s a duty to serve” he whispered, you could only let out a simple tsk. Your body left his embrace, as much as you burned for your great husband, you knew war loomed, and you were not a fool to worry that your children’s father may perish as collateral.
“It is the duty of a father to be present,” you replied with grit teeth, a slight venom lingered, not for your husband, for the situation at hand. “You don’t think Daemon wants you dead? Your father? Your brothers— your son?” Arguing for the sake of being heard, “I carry your child, his hatred extends to me”. The room witnessed a pregnant silence, your husband ate his words yet, you couldn’t be mad at him, if he rejects his call, people will perish.
It had been several moons since you spoke via raven to the garrison for Baelor, your belly swelled up more and more night by night, the grand maester spoke of a harsh birth to your second son, leaving you bedridden for the time being. The air grew thin as sweat beaded on your face, your body ached, Valarr stood by your bed as you vehemently pressed against him being there.
“Take my son to his grandsire” you breathed, your chest burned, heaving with agony, “Please,” you pleaded once more with your ladies, “Take him.”.
Valarr was escorted out of your chamber, his hand gripped on your garments, pleading on his own to stay. His ears flooded with your screams as your labor began. Just enough time to hear the trumpets, bannermen flooded through the gates. Your groans went through the stones of the walls, the trumpets fell upon deaf ears in your chamber.
“The Prince is back!” a servant spoke up, opening your door to reveal the sight of blood. Erupting in a gritted groan as a contraction hit your body.
“Bring him,” you told the young lad, your teeth gritted together from the soreness, “Now!” you shouted just before a contraction took your breath away.
Baelor brushed through the halls despite the pain that radiated through his body, aching bones and all, he nearly ran through the halls just to get to your chambers, your screams echoing through the halls only made him sprint. It was a sight for sore eyes almost, despite the pain, you still radiated beauty and the Prince could not be more in love.
You chuckled under your breath as Baelor’s body odor evaded your nose, “You reek of sweat” you first spoke, the smell took your mind off the pain. Baelor let out a laugh just before taking your hand, kissing your knuckles. There was blood on his hands, blood soaked in his breeches that nearly stained his clothes over. “You’re injured” you breathed out, your eyes widening from the appearance of the stains, riddled with anxiety for your husband. “You should go… have a maester attend to you and stay with Valarr…”.
Baelor shook his head, groaning with exhaustion and pain as he went to his knees, his eyes not leaving yours. “I’m not leaving you,” he affirmed, shaking his head whilst speaking, he was not about to be challenged by your stubbornness, he would not allow it.
Matarys came quicker than Valarr had in childbirth. As the brothers met each other for the first time just as you were being cleaned up, Baelor took the liberties of excusing the maesters and ladies, dealing the sponge bath to clean you, every crevice and part of your skin. Matarys was a quiet babe, taking after your appearance as Valarr looked identical to Baelor.
“Perhaps we could take the boys north… have Lyanara return home with her brothers for a bit, my father would love to see the boys… home” you proposed to Baelor, your voice was small and riddled with exhaustion. Baelor looked to Valarr who held Matarys in his arms, careful and attentive to the babes' every move.
“Valarr, take your brother to see your grandsire, I am sure he would love to meet him” Baelor told the boy who was more delighted and honored, “Take Lynara with you as well”.
Valarr happily obliged, holding the babe with utmost care, calling Lynara who was waiting just outside the chamber to familiarize herself with her family’s newest member. As Baelor stood you up to guide you towards a chair, you felt a weight pull you down nearly, whether it was exhaustion or your afterbirth, you truly did not want Baelor to witness what felt shameful to bear.
“My love you cannot be here for this” you told Baelor feel a light sting leading you to grip his hand for leverage as your body constricts within itself just for relief to soon follow. “I’m bleeding,” you whispered, feeling warmth cascade down your legs.
Baelor was a prideful but humble man, the antithesis of men in his family, of even the average Westerosi man. He cleaned his brother's blood, he felt offended when you nearly didn’t want him to clean yours. Yet he did anyways, your body spent and beyond the realm of tiredness, swiftly fell asleep in Baelor’s arms as you situated on the couch thereafter the cleaning.
“The Targaryen’s lost their dragons now we… attend tourneys of little girls’ namedays” Maekar joked, falling as sarcasm due to his monotone voice yet you laughed still.
“I have spent a few in the Reach, my grandsire Cregan always believed in being cultured and familiarized with the regions of Westeros” you told Maekar beside him on your own horse as Lynara stood with Matarys.
“I am sure the Old Wolf of the North was keen on his descendants experiencing culture as he did,” Maekar joked yet again.
You snickered before you caught a glimpse of Baelor in front of you. He knew you felt a pang in your chest upon the even shy of a mention of your grandsire, who had perished before you were able to take Matarys to meet him. Valarr knew distantly of your grandsire, with sparing memories of when he was only three of age, being able to touch your house’s most prized sword, Ice, with the supervision of your grandsire. Yet something was different about Baelor’s tenseness.
Tourneys were always a gander, your sons enjoyed the absurdity as you held your breath whilst Valarr mounted his horse with all his glory and armor. Matarys kindled with the smallfolk, he always was a gregarious spirit. Baelor and his sons were truly anomalies of his house.
As the night roared over with celebrations, you and Baelor made your way to rest your head, onto the next day celebrations will continue. Your husband in all his glory, beneath your body as you mounted him. Sexual chemistry was what birthed your relationship and love, it is what made your sons, and now, it is what satiates your hunger for your husband.
Baelor’s hand forged its way between your clit and his stomach, pudgy from age but toned from battles fought. Your husband was part-Dornish, a fact he made certain whenever you took him to bed. It was the northern fierceness in you and the southern warmth of him that made you and him a formidable match, equally riding your highs out— over and over.
Spent and subdued, you panted as you rested on your husband’s chest, your sweat sticking you both together. One of your hands sprawled on his hairy chest, feeling his heartbeat pounding against your palm, as the other decided to toy with his cock, you made the Prince whimper beneath his breath.
“You and Maekar seemed at odds today” you spoke up beneath the chambers that reeked of sex between you and your husband. Baelor rolled his eyes; you nearly killed the mood.
“You speak of my brother as my cock is in your hands” he responded, letting out an animalistic groan as your hand pumped quicker. “Fuck” he breathed out, as you became fixated, deciding to mount your husband again just before he finished, allowing his warm seed to spill into you. His hands held a bruising grip on your hips, forcing you further down on his cock as he came, you littered kisses all over his face as he rolled his eyes back again but this time out of pure ecstasy.
Again, you found yourself resting on your lover's chest, his seed spilling out of you as your thighs clenched shut. “I only spoke of him because… I know you’re not telling me something”.
Baelor sighed, his hand resting on your arm, scratching your skin gently to soothe you. “You and his bonding reminded me of something…” he waited to continue, your curiosity being evident on your face, “During the rebellion, just before our own accomplishments and fears in battle, Maekar decided it would be best to confess his… intentions on marrying you before we were betrothed”.
“And?”.
“And?” he quipped, quirking a brow as your impassive response made him feel as if he was overreacting, “My brother confessed he once held love for my wife… the mother of my children—“.
“My love, he and Dyanna had several kids, a bountiful amount akin to a pack. I doubt the confession was genuine rather than a means of telling you a guilt he held on to his conscience” you reassured him, “I take comfort in knowing I got the hung brother” you levied a joke as Baelor gruffly chuckled. As the silence occupied the room all you could speak into the abyss was, “I love you…”.
“Nyke rāelagon ao” he repeated to you, his R’s smoothly being rolled off his tongue.
And for that night, filled with pleasure and laughter, was the contentment enough to compensate for the grief that followed as the Stranger breathed upon your family and suffocated you in all its might.
General Synopsis: Sneaking into the grand kitchens under the cover of night, with four children in tow and a baby balanced on your hip, mischief is inevitable. The thrill of it all brings back memories of your own childhood, slipping into the kitchens of Winterfell alongside your brothers. You want your children to have those same stolen, magical moments…even if it means risking trouble. But the adventure comes to an abrupt end when your husbands catch all of you in the middle of devouring freshly made blackberry tarts.
pairing: Husband!Baelor Targaryen x Wife!LS!(fem)reader x Husband!Maekar Targaryen
word count: 9.5k
content: Fluff, lots of it! Sweet family moments, a grumpy Maekar being his usual self, and Baelor as gentle and warm as ever. Slightly suggestive
Writers note: English isn’t my first language, so please excuse any mistakes. This LS! story is loosely connected to my main series, The three headed dragon, feel free to check it out!
Today was an exhausting day.
The Red Keep was packed with guests, visitors and courtiers from all over Westeros in preparation for the King and Queen's wedding anniversary, now only four days away. Everyone was stretched thin and fraying at the edges, desperate for the day to go perfectly.
You couldn't remember the last time you had felt this bone-deep tired, perhaps the birth of baby Aemon, not even six months ago. That had been exhausting in a different way, more than your previous births.
Thankfully, both your husbands had been as supportive as always, but still.
There was a six-month-old Aemon who demanded your full and constant attention.
There was Aerion, who followed you everywhere like a small, extremely confident shadow.
There was Matarys, who always had something to show you and dragged you everywhere, trying to outbest Aerion in that regard.
And then there were your eldest, Valarr and Daeron, who were at that age where their fathers had become the whole world, gone before you'd finished your morning tea, swallowed up by training yards and council antechambers and whatever else their fathers deemed important for the making of men. You were proud of them. You also hadn't seen them since breakfast, and you missed them with a dull, quiet ache you hadn't quite expected motherhood to produce.
You stood near the window of your shared chambers, little Aemon cradled in your arms, bouncing him gently in the way that seemed to please him.
He squealed and you looked down at his round, cherubic face, wrapped in soft northern linen, a gift from Benjen and his wife, pale blue and so light that the southern heat wouldn't trouble him and felt the tired loosen slightly in your chest.
His small arms reached toward your face and you caught both his little hands and pressed them against your cheek, kissing them. He squealed again.
The chamber doors opened and Aerion strutted in, his short hair bouncing with each step, the full weight of his nearly six years of life behind him. He moved like he owned the palace.
"Aerion, my sweetling, what did I tell you about knocking?"
"I know, mother, but I had to show you something." He opened his cupped hands. Inside sat a beetle, its shell a deep, jewel-bright blue.
"Aerion."
"I know you said no insects inside." He looked up at you, utterly unrepentant. "But it looked very pretty. Like a dragon scale."
"My sweet little pup." You looked at the beetle seriously, giving it its due.
"I am very impressed with your find." Aemon squealed upon hearing his brother's voice and stretched his chubby hands toward him, grasping at air.
"Look, mother, even Aem thinks it's a dragon scale."
Aerion stepped closer and held the beetle up toward Aemon's face. Aemon went very still for a moment, studying it and then squealed so enthusiastically that you had to tighten your hold on him.
You shook your head softly.
"Aerion, my sweetling, put the beetle back outside before your father sees it." You fixed him with the look.
Aerion pouted magnificently. It was a Targaryen pout, you had decided long ago. No Stark had ever looked quite so aggrieved at being told no. "But mother—"
"Outside. Now. And gently, it hasn't done anything wrong."
The pout deepened, but Aerion cupped the beetle carefully and shuffled back toward the door. He pulled the door shut behind him with a decisive little click, not quite a slam, but close enough to make his feelings known.
Aemon made a sharp, displeased sound at his brother's retreat and you bounced him once, twice.
"He'll be back," you promised. "He always comes back."
Aemon did not seem convinced. His little face scrunched magnificently.
The chamber settled into quiet then, briefly, the way it only ever did in the stolen moments between one small disaster and the next. You pressed your lips to Aemon’s temple and breathed in the warm milk-and-soap smell of him.
"Your brothers cause so much trouble, little one," you whispered.
Aemon cooed softly in response, and you turned to look out at the afternoon sun, burning bright and golden over King's Landing the way it never quite did up north.
The gardens were visible from your shared chambers, and you watched a procession of courtiers and planners making their way along the paths below.
At their head walked Baelor, composed, calm, every inch the prince with Valarr close beside him, eagerly drinking in every word. Daeron walked to his left, and even from this height you could tell he was somewhat less enraptured with the proceedings.
Baelor stopped and gestured toward a cluster of trees, said something, and walked on. Then one of the planners stopped in front of the weirwood tree, the one both your husbands had gifted you on your wedding day, still small and slender, but its leaves already red as fresh blood and lingered there a moment too long.
Baelor turned back and shook his head with quiet, unmistakable disapproval. Both your sons fixed the man with identical glares before falling back into step behind their father.
You laughed softly to yourself.
Then, as though you had somehow sensed it coming, the chamber doors flew open and Matarys and Aerion crashed through them, hitting the floor in a tangle of limbs, Aerion's fist knotted in Matarys's dark hair and Matarys's fingers digging into his cheeks, both of them shrieking at each other in High Valyrian.
A chambermaid stumbled in after them, flushed and desperate, and dropped into a curtsy while simultaneously attempting to pull them apart.
"Y-Your Grace, I am so sorry, they were, I couldn't— "
Your sons continued to brawl on the floor, indifferent to her efforts. You caught fragments between the screaming, you put that in my hair and other things rather less fit for polite company.
You looked at them and looked at Aemon, who was watching the chaos with wide, violet fascinated eyes.
I wonder how mother put up with my brothers and me.
"Boys," you said. Softly. Evenly.
They stopped.
Matarys's dark hair stood in every direction, his nails were dirty, and his robes were half pulled from his shoulder.
Aerion had scratch marks across one cheek and looked no better.
They both stared up at you from the floor with the particular expression of children recalibrating very quickly.
You said nothing. You simply looked at them.
"What happened?" you asked, when the silence had done its work.
Matarys scrambled upright and immediately levelled a finger at Aerion, who was gingerly patting his scratched cheek. "He put the beetle in my hair. He knows I don't like them."
"Matarys was being mean to me first! He made fun of me for catching it."
"He's lying!"
"He's lying!"
You sighed, quietly, to yourself. Aemon had begun to fuss at the screaming, his small face crumpling with displeasure, and you gestured the chambermaid over and settled him carefully into her arms. Then you crossed to your boys, crouched down, and let your linen dress pool around you on the floor.
"Boys."
They both turned away from each other simultaneously, arms crossed, chins lifted, pouting in a way that was so perfectly matched it almost made you smile.
You waited.
The silence stretched. And then as it always did when you simply stayed close and said nothing, the argument began to lose its shape. Aerion slid a sideways glance at his brother. Matarys kept his chin up a moment longer, then let it drop.
"I did not mean to put it in your hair," Aerion muttered, grudgingly, at the floor.
Matarys considered this with great seriousness.
"You still did. But I accept your apology."
He extended his arm, and Aerion grabbed it, and they performed the northern clasp with all the solemn ceremony of men three times their age. You pressed your lips together to keep from laughing.
They had watched your brothers do it so many times, and they had never once done it without looking deeply, earnestly proud of themselves for knowing how.
You looked at them both and felt something soft and tired move through your chest.
"The last few weeks have been very hard on everyone," you said gently. "I am sorry, my sweetlings, that I haven't had more time for you."
They both turned to you with identical expressions of outrage, as though you had said something deeply unreasonable.
"Mother—" Aerion began.
"Don't be silly—" said Matarys at the same moment.
And then Aerion's arms were around your neck, warm and a little too tight, and Matarys piled on top of him a second later, and the three of you swayed together on the floor in a heap of rumpled linen and unwashed little boy smell, and you held them both as tightly as you could and breathed them in.
"You are the best mother," Aerion announced into your shoulder, with great authority.
"The very best," Matarys agreed. "Better than anyone else's."
"You haven't met anyone else's mother," you pointed out.
"Doesn't matter," said Matarys firmly. "I know."
You laughed then, quietly, your face pressed into the tangle of their hair, one silver-pale, one dark and for a moment the exhaustion lifted just enough to let the warmth underneath it show.
Then you became aware of a presence in the doorway.
Maekar stood there , in his dark robes, watching the three of you with an expression that was something close to tender.
By the time Aerion and Matarys noticed him and scrambled upright, straightening their backs with the automatic posture of boys who knew better than to slouch in front of their father, it had already settled back into its usual strictness.
"I wondered where the two of you had gone," he said, his eyes moving over them both with the calm, unhurried assessment of a man cataloguing exactly how dishevelled his sons had managed to become since he last saw them.
"I lost you in the gardens."
He crossed the room and took your arm and drew you to your feet with a firmness that allowed no argument. "And do not kneel on the cold floor," he added, directing this at the boys rather than you, his tone making it very clear whose fault your kneeling had been.
Aerion and Matarys looked down.
"Husband," you said mildly. "They were simply keeping us company." You nodded toward the chambermaid, where Aemon had spotted his father and erupted into immediate, happy chaos, both arms outstretched, grabbing fistfuls of air trying to reach him.
Maekar looked at him, something in his expression shifted, that same softening, there and gone, like light moving across water.
He lifted Aemon from the chambermaid's arms without ceremony and settled him against his chest, and Aemon immediately seized his beard with both hands and pulled at it.
"Their septa could not find them this afternoon," he said, looking at you. "Apparently they missed their lessons."
You turned to your sons slowly.
Matarys and Aerion were both suddenly discovering something very fascinating about the pattern on the floor.
"You had lessons today?" You let the words sit for a moment.
"No wonder the two of you have been causing mischief since midmorning." You shook your head, pressing your lips together to keep the smile from showing.
"What do you have to say for yourselves?"
Aerion looked up with the expression of someone assembling a very reasonable explanation. Matarys, wiser, said nothing at all.
"We were going to go," Aerion tried. "We simply... forgot. Briefly."
"Briefly," Matarys confirmed.
Maekar looked at them over the top of Aemon’s head, and the look alone was enough. They both straightened another inch.
"You will apologize to your septa in the morning," Maekar said, "And you will attend every lesson this week without fail."
"Yes, father," they said, in unison, with the particular tone of boys who were very relieved not to have received a worse verdict.
You caught Maekar's eye over their heads. He said nothing. But there it was again, that brief, quiet softening and you knew it for what it was. You turned away before he could see you smile.
"Now. Return to the library." His voice dropped half a register. "Or I will take you there myself."
They nodded, inclined their heads with the hasty propriety of children who had pushed their luck far enough for one afternoon, and fled. Maekar watched them go, then turned to the chambermaid. "See that they arrive."
She curtsied and followed without a word, pulling the door shut behind her.
The chamber settled into quiet again. Maekar turned back to you, Aemon still bundled against his chest, and the baby celebrated his father's full attention by lifting both hands and patting Maekar's jaw with the confident imprecision of someone who had not yet mastered the difference between a pat and a slap.
Maekar did not so much as blink. After four children, you suspected very little could rattle him physically anymore.
He studied your face with the same attention he gave everything.
"You look tired. Have you seen the maester today?"
"I don't feel unwell enough to trouble him."
He made a low sound in his throat and reached out to tilt your chin, turning your face one way and the other, closely examining you. "If you will not go to him, I will bring him here."
"That is completely unnecessary—"
"Then go to him."
"Maekar—"
"You are the most stubborn woman I have ever known."
"You say that as though it surprises you still." You laughed softly and stepped closer, resting your hands against his chest, careful of Aemon between you. You could feel the steady warmth of him through the fabric.
"You worry too much."
"I will always worry." He said it the way he said most true things, plainly, without decoration, as though it were simply a fact of the world.
You tilted your head and looked up at him. "I remember a time when you told me you would never love me." You let that sit for a moment. "And now look at us. Five children. Two husbands who cannot seem to let me out of their sight for more than an hour."
"We have obligations to you," he said. "It is our duty to—"
"The last time you told me it was merely duty," you said, dropping your voice, "little Aemon was born."
The tips of his ears went red.
You remembered that afternoon in vivid detail. The solar of the Hand of the King, the late light coming gold through the narrow windows, both your husbands with their careful composure thoroughly dismantled, and you pressed between them with absolutely no complaints about your circumstances.
Aemon was very much a testament to how little duty had to do with it.
Aemon blissfully unaware of the subtext, slapped his father's chin again and cooed with satisfaction.
Maekar's jaw tightened almost imperceptibly. "See the maester tomorrow," he said, his voice returned to its usual steadiness, "and I will stop fussing."
"You will never stop."
He said nothing to that, which was as good as an admission.
He turned and carried Aemon to the crib at the foot of the bed, settling him down with a gentleness entirely at odds with the rest of him, and drew a soft linen blanket over the baby's small, round body.
Aemon blinked up at his father and decided this was acceptable.
Maekar straightened and turned back to you. "Rest. And if he gives you trouble," a small tilt of his head toward the crib, "call your lady-in-waiting. You are no use to anyone if you run yourself into the ground."
"How very romantic," you said.
The look he gave you was deeply unimpressed. Then he crossed to you, tipped your chin back with two fingers, and kissed you, deep and passionate. You sighed into it and brought your hands to his face, your fingers tracing the line of his jaw, the soft scratch of his silvery beard beneath your fingertips.
He pulled back. Pressed his lips once to your temple, firm and brief. And then he was gone, the door closing quietly behind him.
You stood in the warm afternoon light for a moment, your fingers still resting at your lips, and smiled to yourself like a complete fool.
The sun set quickly after that. Little Aemon fell into a deep sleep, and you used what remained of the afternoon working through a considerable pile of letters from the northern houses. Questions about grain stores, disputes over borders, requests for guidance that only you could answer in the particular way they needed answering. The north had not forgotten you were theirs, and you had not forgotten either.
Your lady-in-waiting helped you dress as the last of the light left the sky, easing you into your nightgown. A gift from a Lyseni merchant, silk so soft it felt like cool water against your skin, in a deep, warm red that pooled around your feet when you stood.
You had settled back at the writing desk with the last of the letters when a knock came, and Baelor stepped in. He had changed from his day clothes, his beard freshly trimmed, dark red robes falling neatly around him, and he looked at you the way he always looked at you, like finding you in a room was the best part of whatever he'd been doing before.
He crossed to you and pressed a kiss to your hand with a small, courtly little bow that was entirely sincere and entirely him.
"My love." He dropped into the chair across from you, "How are you faring? Maekar said you felt unwell."
You gave him a look. "Maekar decided I looked unwell. The conclusion was entirely his own."
Baelor smiled, warm and slow. "Ah." He reached across and plucked one of the letters from the pile, turning it over idly. "So you are well."
"I am tired. There is a difference."
“Hmm.” He didn’t comment further, but you immediately sensed the same worry your other husband shows, only softer, more gentle in its expression.
He set the letter down and leaned back, watching you with that particular fond attention of his.
"I heard a whisper this afternoon. From several very curious sources." He folded his hands. "That Aerion and Matarys were seen causing what might generously be described as a scene somewhere in the east wing."
"They argued over a beetle," you said, without looking up from your letter.
A pause. "A beetle."
"Aerion caught one. It was, admittedly, very beautiful. He put it in Matarys's hair. Matarys took issue with this." You set down your quill. "By the time they reached me they had already conducted a full trial by combat on the floor of my chambers."
Baelor pressed his lips together very firmly.
"And what became of the beetle?"
"Released, unharmed. Aerion was very careful about that part, at least." You shook your head, but you were smiling.
"He is so rough and then so gentle, that boy. I never quite know which one I am getting."
"He takes after you," Baelor said.
"Everyone keeps saying that." You gave him a look. "He takes after Maekar in that regard and you know it."
Baelor smiled and said nothing, which meant he agreed entirely.
He stood then, unhurried, and crossed to the crib at the foot of the bed. He stood over it quietly, watching Aemon sleep, the small chest rising and falling, the baby's lips slightly parted, one fist curled loosely beside his cheek.
Baelor's face in profile was still and unguarded, that particular proud softness he never tried to hide the way Maekar did.
You watched him for a moment. Then you stood up and went to him slipping your arms around him from behind, resting your cheek between his shoulder blades. He covered your hands with his without looking away from the crib.
After a while he turned, and took your face in both his hands, his mismatched eyes warm, the way they always were when it was just the two of you and there was nowhere else either of you needed to be.
"Has he been giving you trouble?"
"Never," you said honestly. "He is the easiest of all of them."
"Don't tell the others that."
"I would never."
Baelor kissed gently the tip of your nose. Then he drew you close, tucking your head against his chest, your hand pressed flat over his heartbeat.
"How have Valarr and Daeron been faring?" you asked against his chest. "These past weeks must have been a great deal for them."
"They have been exceptional," Baelor said, and you could hear the quiet pride in it, "Better than I expected, if I am honest. Valarr has taken to everything with that terrifying focus of his. He asked questions today that made two of the council's planners look at their feet." A warmth crept into his voice. "I was very proud of him."
"He gets that from you," you said.
"He does," Baelor agreed easily. "And the charm he uses to soften it, that is yours."
You smiled against his chest. "And Daeron?"
Baelor was quiet for a moment, "Daeron keeps pace. He always keeps pace. But he is quieter than usual these past days." A pause. "His headaches have been troubling him lately but he does not speak to me about it. "
You lifted your head to look at him. "You noticed too."
"I notice everything about our children," he said simply. "I simply don't always say so."
You held his gaze for a moment, something settling between you, that quite understanding that didn't need words, the kind that came from years of watching the same people and loving them the same way.
You opened your mouth to answer but was interrupted by the chamber door opening.
Maekar came in like a weather front, already unbuckling his doublet, muttering something under his breath.
He shed the doublet, then his outer shirt, until he stood in only his linen shirt and trousers, and ran a hand through his silver hair with the expression of a man who had spent the last several hours in the company of people he found profoundly trying.
"Absolute bloody fools, the lot of them—"
"Brother." Baelor's voice was perfectly pleasant. "Trouble seems to follow you as well this evening?"
"Shut it, Baelor. I didn't ask." Maekar crossed toward the hearth, paused, and looked at it with an expression of fresh outrage. "And which one of these useless servants—"
"Maekar." You stepped forward, your voice firm, "Aemon is asleep."
He stopped. Looked at the crib. Looked back at the hearth. The outrage didn't leave his face entirely but it compressed itself, folded down into something more manageable. He crouched and began building up the fire himself.
A beat of quiet. Then his eyes landed on your writing desk, and the considerable stack of letters still waiting there.
"Seven hells," he said, with feeling, though quieter now. "I will personally write to every one of these lordlings and explain, in plain terms, that you are not their personal—"
"Maekar," you said again.
He pressed his mouth shut. The look on his face suggested the letter-writing remained very much on the table.
Baelor caught your eye from across the room. His expression was one of deep, barely contained amusement. You pointed at him once in warning and he looked immediately at the ceiling.
You shook your head at the both of them and crossed to the bed, pulling back the covers and settling in with the particular relief of someone whose body had been waiting for this moment since approximately midmorning.
You pulled the blankets up to your chin and watched them from the pillows. Baelor had taken the chair by the fire, one leg crossed over the other, perfectly at ease, a letter from your desk open in his hand. Maekar was still standing, because Maekar always needed several more minutes of being upright and aggrieved before he could contemplate sitting down.
"Do you know what one of them asked me today." It was not a question.
"I imagine I'm about to," Baelor said, without looking up from the letter.
"Whether Aemon could be dressed in red lamé and placed in a basket." A pause that contained multitudes. "To look like a dragon egg."
Baelor lowered the letter.
"I nearly relieved him of his head on the spot," Maekar continued, with the tone of a man who considered this response entirely proportionate.
"That does sound like something Desmor would suggest," Baelor said, after a moment. "That man has always had a weakness for the theatrical." He folded the letter and set it down. "Though I will say, in fairness, that Aemon is round enough to pass."
"We are talking about our son, Baelor."
"Yes, I know. I'm simply saying—"
"Not a decoration."
"Agreed. Completely agreed." Baelor pressed his lips together in a way that suggested he did not entirely disagree with the visual, but had the good sense not to say so.
Maekar resumed pacing. A full circuit of the room, then half of another. Then Baelor spoke again, his voice dropping to something more measured.
"I was asked today by one of the planners whether the weirwood tree could be moved." He let that sit for a moment. "Aesthetically inconsistent with the rest of the arrangements, apparently."
Maekar stopped pacing.
"I will personally relocate his hands," he said, "if he goes anywhere near that tree." Maekar spat.
"I thought something similar." Baelor's voice was mild. "I told him it was not open for discussion." A beat. "Valarr, for his part, found the man in council this afternoon and embarrassed him rather thoroughly in front of the others."
Maekar's expression shifted, the hard lines of it easing into something that was not quite a smile but was adjacent to one. A short exhale through his nose. "Good boy."
"Very good," Baelor agreed, and there was real warmth in it.
Maekar finally dropped into the chair across from Baelor with the heaviness of a man setting down something he had been carrying since dawn. He pressed two fingers to the bridge of his nose. "Have you spoken to Merser about the seating arrangements?"
"Not yet."
"Half the lords are refusing to sit within ten feet of the other half. It landed on my desk this morning as though I have nothing better to do than arbitrate the wounded pride of men who cannot manage a banquet without supervision." He leaned back. "I told them to sit down and be grateful for the invitation."
Baelor considered this. "How was that received?"
"Poorly."
"Mm."
"Baelor, these people have been in this Keep for four days." Maekar looked at him with complete seriousness. "I have aged four years."
"You look the same to me," you offered from the pillows.
They both looked at you.
"You are supposed to be resting," Maekar said.
"I am resting. I am resting and listening. It is entirely possible to do both."
He made a sound that communicated his position on this without requiring any further words. Baelor looked back at the fire, the corner of his mouth tucked in with quiet amusement.
They kept talking for a while after that. Maekar listed all the annoying things that had happened to him that day, and Baelor listened with his usual calm patience, occasionally offering a dry observation that made Maekar's mouth do that thing it did when he was trying not to find something funny.
At some point the fire became embers.
Baelor set aside the last of the letters. Maekar rolled his shoulders and both stood up.
They went to the crib first. You watched them from the pillows, this thing they did every night without discussion or ceremony, each of them leaning over to press a kiss to Aemon's small head, careful not to wake him.
Maekar straightened and looked down at the baby for a moment longer before stepping away. Baelor tucked the corner of the blanket back with two gentle fingers.
Then they came to bed.
Maekar settled in front of you, solid and warm. Baelor curved in behind you, and for a moment you were simply aware of being entirely enclosed, the warmth of them on both sides pressing out the last of the noise and the endless weight of the day.
Maekar said something low and indistinct. Baelor made a sound of agreement.
Then Baelor's hand settled over your hip, his fingers drawing slow, idle circles against the silk of your nightgown. He pressed his lips once to the back of your neck, warm and unhurried.
Maekar found your hand beneath the blankets and lifted it, kissed your knuckles, and tucked it back down again, his fingers loosely threaded through yours.
Both of them stilled.
"Goodnight," Baelor murmured.
You closed your eyes and let the warmth of them pull you under.
You surfaced from sleep gradually, pulled up from the dark by something quieter than sound. A moment passed before you understood what had woken you.
Then you heard it.
The small, fussy catch of Aemon's breath from the crib at the foot of the bed, not yet a cry but heading there.
You were already moving before you were fully awake.
Both your husbands hands were on you, you noticed it as you began to stir. Maekar's hand lay heavy across your stomach, and Baelor's rested just below it, their fingers nearly touching. As though even in sleep the two of them had known you might try to leave and had unconsciously, decided against it.
You smiled in the dark and began the careful work of extracting yourself.
Maekar had rolled onto his stomach at some point in the night, one arm flung wide, his face pressed into the pillow, breathing with the deep, slightly aggrieved cadence of a man who even in sleep managed to be annoyed. You lifted his hand by the wrist, slow and deliberate, and set it gently down against the mattress. He didn't stir.
Baelor had stayed exactly as he'd fallen asleep, on his side, his expression smoothed into something younger and unguarded. His hand you moved with equal care, and he made a small sound, his brow creasing briefly before releasing. You held your breath. He settled.
You slipped out from between them, bare feet finding the cool floor, and stood for a moment in the dark making sure neither of them had woken.
Maekar snored once, softly and with heavy breath, you moved to the crib.
Aemon's eyes were open and fixed on the dark as if he was searching something, his mouth was working.
Another few moments and he would have announced himself properly, but for now he only looked up at you as you leaned over him, and his whole small body seemed to relax at the familiar shape of you against the dark. He smiled at the sight of your face and softly cooed.
"Hello, little one," you breathed. "I heard you."
You lifted him with effortless care, settling his small weight into the crook of your arm before lowering yourself into the chair by the window.
When you loosened your gown, he latched at once at your breast and the quiet rhythm of his feeding filled the room.
Your gaze drifted upward, past the glass, to the sky beyond. It was impossibly clear, one of those deep, breathless hours of night when the world seemed to pause, when even the city surrendered its noise.
Nothing stood between you and the stars. They burned sharp and steady, scattered across the dark like something eternal and watchful.
And just like that, you were thinking of Winterfell, of home.
The cold came first, not just the bite of it, but the way it settled into stone and bone alike. Grey walls rising stark against the sky. In winter, sound behaved differently there, softened and drawn close, as though the castle itself were holding its breath. You could almost walk those halls again; the vast stretch of the Great Hall, the quiet hush of the godswood, the warm, waking scents that drifted from the kitchens at dawn.
You saw your mother in motion as she passed through torchlit corridors. Heard your father before you ever saw him, his heavy steps echoing through the stone, as if the walls themselves knew him and answered back.
You had been five, perhaps.
Benjen eight, already carrying himself with a kind of quiet responsibility. Rickon seven and utterly chaotic in all matters. It had been his idea, of course. He’d shaken you awake in the middle of the night, finger pressed to his lips, eyes alight with the fierce excitement of a plan long decided.
The kitchens, he had mouthed. Old Nan made blackberry tarts today. I saw them.
You had been out of bed before he’d finished.
At night, the kitchens felt cavernous, strange and unfamiliar, swallowed in shadow in a way they never were by day, when they roared with heat and voices. The three of you had paused in the doorway, small and silent, simply staring into the darkened space as if you’d crossed into something sacred.
Then Benjen spotted them, the tarts, set out along the long table, hidden beneath a cloth and that was the end of hesitation.
You’d eaten them sitting cross-legged on the cold stone floor. By the second, Rickon’s face was stained deep with blackberry juice, his triumph as vivid as the mess. Benjen had tried, with grave seriousness, to portion them out evenly, calculating what could be taken without notice. And you had eaten yours slowly, carefully, stretching each bite for as long as you could. You always did, when you loved something.
The stone had been bitterly cold beneath you. The air thick with the scent of woodsmoke and sugar. And you had felt it then, with the fierce, unquestioning certainty only children possess, that this was one of the best nights of your life.
Your father had known, of course. He always did.
He said nothing the next morning. Only looked, across the breakfast table, at Rickon’s still-stained mouth with an expression of deep, enduring patience.
Benjen had bent over his porridge.
And you had found the ceiling endlessly fascinating.
Aemon’s suckling slowed, softened, until it became little more than a drowsy rhythm. You looked down at him, eyes fully closed now, his cheek warm and heavy against your arm, the small fist at your breast finally loosening, uncurling. Something in your chest shifted, slow and deep, a warmth that settled and stayed.
You bent your head and pressed your lips to his hair, breathing him in.
And then a thought rose, clear and sudden.
A memory from only a few days past. A kitchen maid, flour on her hands, curiosity bright in her voice:
“My lady, why blackberry tarts specifically?”
“There will be many northern lords present. Blackberries are something of a delicacy in the North. Hardy fruit. They thrive in the cold.”
Your gaze lifted, drifting to the bed where your husbands slept, two shadowed forms, their breathing slow and even in the dark. Then back to Aemon.
Half-asleep as he was, he seemed determined not to be entirely forgotten. A faint shift, a soft sound, as though he sensed your attention slipping.
The corners of your mouth curved.
“What do you say, little one,” you murmured, voice barely more than breath. “Shall we go and find your brothers?”
Aemon blinked, slow, uncertain, but present.
You gathered him closer, snug against your arm, then reached for the robe draped over the chair by the door. The fabric whispered as you pulled it on. Carefully, quietly, you eased the chamber door open.
The guards outside startled.
One of them actually stepped back.
“Y—Your Grace.” The taller recovered first, though his voice came out a touch too loud for the hour.
You lifted a finger to your lips and inclined your head toward the chamber behind you.
Both men stiffened at once, voices dropping to urgent whispers.
Their eyes flickered downward and then snapped resolutely upward again, fixing somewhere far above your head with the rigid concentration of men who valued their continued existence.
You suspected, with amusement, that if either of your husbands stepped out now and found their guards looking at you, there would be fewer guards come morning.
“My lady,” the shorter one said carefully, gaze anchored above your left shoulder, “where are you going?”
“I need to walk a little. Stretch my legs.” You shifted Aemon lightly on your hip, offering a pleasant, untroubled smile.
They exchanged a look.
“We cannot leave you unguarded. If either of the Princes were to—”
“I order you to remain at this door,” you said, gently but with a finality that had stilled council chambers. “If anything happens, I will scream. You will hear me well enough.”
Another glance passed between them. A conversation entire in its silence.
And then you turned the corner, moving just quickly enough that neither could gather a proper objection before you were gone.
You made your way down the long corridor, your steps soundless against the stone. Aemon gave a soft, pleased coo, catching your finger in his small hand and promptly guiding it to his mouth when you brushed his chubby cheek. You huffed a quiet breath of laughter and let him have it.
The keep slept around you. Tapestries loomed in shadow, doorways dark and still, the air cool against your bare feet as you passed.
At the first door, you paused.
The guards there reacted much the same as your own, startled, eyes widening before darting anywhere but at you once they registered the nightgown. You lifted a hand at once: stay, quiet, not a word. They obeyed without hesitation.
You slipped inside.
Valarr’s chamber was exactly as it always had been, orderly, composed, every detail in its proper place. Even when he was very young, he had kept his space this way. You had always found something quietly endearing in that.
He was fast asleep, one arm thrown over his face, dark hair loose across the pillow. That single strand of silver lay against his temple, catching what little light there was.
You crossed the room and rested your hand lightly on his shoulder.
He woke slowly, gently, as though rising through water rather than being pulled from sleep.
He blinked once, then focused on you, taking in the robe, his little brother, the hour. His mismatched eyes, so like his father’s, the very thing that had made half the court catch its breath at his birth, were soft with sleep, warm and steady.
“Mother… is everything all right?”
“Everyone is perfectly well,” you murmured, smiling. “Get up. Put something warm on.”
He studied you for a moment.
“Are we doing something we shouldn’t?” he asked, his voice threaded with genuine curiosity.
“Absolutely not,” you said lightly. “We are simply going for a walk.”
The smile that spread across his face was so entirely his father’s that, for a moment, it caught at your breath
"Give me a moment," he whispered, already pushing back the covers.
He crossed to the chair where his linen clothes were draped and pulled them on, his arm catching in the sleeve. You reached over and guided it through without a word, and he gave you a small, grateful smile.
Leaving his chambers, he simply fell into step beside you as you slipped back into the corridor. Aemon reached out to his brother and Valarr took his small fist and held it for a second. Aemon happily bounced at his brothers attention.
The guards watched you both go with the expression of men who had decided, collectively, that whatever was happening was above their station to address.
Daeron's chamber was next.
The reaction here was considerably less serene. He jolted upright the moment the door opened, already half out of bed before he was fully awake, violet eyes wide and scanning the room for whatever disaster had sent his mother to his door in the middle of the night. You watched his gaze move from you to Valarr to Aemon and back to you, working through the evidence.
You said nothing. You only smiled.
Daeron stared at you for a long moment, his longer silver hair sticking in several directions, looking deeply uncertain about every single aspect of this situation. Then he pressed his mouth together, exhaled through his nose, and reached for his clothes with the air of someone who had decided to reserve judgement until more information became available.
He shuffled out into the corridor still tucking in his shirt, and fell in behind Valarr.
"Any idea what Mothers doing?" he muttered, low enough that he presumably thought you couldn't hear.
Valarr considered this with great seriousness. "No," he said. "But she looks pleased with herself."
"That's what worries me."
You did not dignify this with a response and led them both down the corridor.
Aerion and Matarys's chamber was last. You eased the door open to find them both deeply, thoroughly asleep. Matarys on his back with the composed stillness of a small bat, Aerion face-down and diagonal, one leg hanging entirely off the bed. You went to Aerion first and touched his shoulder.
He was awake in an instant, blinking up at you with those quick, bright violet eyes that never took long to arrive at full alertness. He took one look at your face, the hour, the assembled brothers visible in the doorway behind you and something in him simply knew. He sat up without a word, shoved his feet into his shoes and grabbed your hand.
Matarys required rather more encouragement. He surfaced from sleep slowly and with great personal offense, squinting at you with an grumpy expression. For all that he was Baelor’s son, there was no doubt he had inherited something unmistakable from Maekar.
And so you went, down through the long, torch-lit corridors of the Red Keep, all six of you, Aemon riding high on your arm and looking back over your shoulder at his brothers, smiling at them. Every guard you passed did a visible double-take. Every servant you encountered stopped and stared. You smiled at each of them in turn with the serene pleasantness of a woman who had done absolutely nothing wrong and intended to continue doing so.
You stopped at last before a wide, weathered oak door, its edges dark with years of kitchen smoke, warmth bleeding faintly through the wood even at this hour.
You turned to face them.
Four children looked back at you. Valarr composed and curious, Daeron suspicious but present, Matarys still half-asleep and Aerion practically vibrating, feeling something.
You bounced Aemon once and let the silence build just long enough.
"I heard," you began, "that the kitchens have been preparing the most extraordinary sweets for your grandsire and grandmother’s wedding anniversary. Heaps of them. Every kind imaginable." You tilted your head thoughtfully. "Now. You all know how your grandsire feels about things that are too sweet."
A pause.
"It would really be a terrible shame," you continued, "if something were served that didn't suit his palate. Someone really ought to go and check."
The silence lasted approximately one breath.
Aerion's face split into a grin so wide it threatened to leave his face entirely. Matarys, sleep forgotten, straightened with sudden and complete attention. Daeron looked at the ceiling briefly and then looked back at you with the very beginning of a smile pulling at his mouth despite his best efforts. Valarr simply looked at you with his warm, delighted eyes and said nothing, because nothing needed saying.
You put your free hand on the door.
"We are, of course, doing this purely in service of your grandsire," you said gravely.
"Of course," Valarr agreed, equally grave.
You pushed the door open, and the warm smell of sugar and woodsmoke and blackberries rolled out to meet you all.
The kitchens at this hour were vast and still, the great fires banked low, the long tables scrubbed clean and waiting for morning. Copper pots hung in rows along the walls, catching the ember-glow, and the air was thick and warm and sweet in a way that settled in your chest like a memory before you had even fully stepped inside.
You stood in the doorway for a moment, all of you, just looking.
It was Aerion who moved first, naturally, already padding toward the long central table with the focused intent of a hound that had caught a scent. Matarys followed a half-step behind, equally determined.
"Quietly," you murmured after them, though you were smiling.
Daeron drifted in behind you, his eyes moving around the kitchen with the alert. He spotted the far shelf almost immediately. "There," he said, low, and you followed his gaze.
Three wide trays, covered in cloth, sitting on the long shelf above the bread boards. The smell coming from them was extraordinary.
Valarr was already pulling a stool across without being asked, he set it below the shelf and looked at you.
"Allow me," he said, with a small courtly incline of his head that was so thoroughly Baelor it made something squeeze warmly behind your ribs.
He climbed up and lifted the cloth.
The blackberry tarts were arranged in neat rows, small and perfect, their crusts golden, the dark filling catching the low light like gemstones. There were other things too. Honeyed almonds in paper twists, small spiced cakes dusted with sugar, candied orange peels in a shallow bowl, and sugar filled dates; but it was the tarts that held the room.
Aerion made a sound of profound satisfaction.
"Go on," you said again, and sat yourself down on the wide kitchen bench with Aemon in your lap, bouncing him up and down.
Valarr passed out the tarts with careful precision, one to Daeron, one to Matarys, one to Aerion, and then two to you. Aerion, impatient as ever, bit into his before fully receiving it, earning a sharp, amused look.
Then Valarr climbed down and settled beside you on the bench. He handed you one tart, keeping the other in his own hand. Together you sat in the warm, quiet darkness of the kitchens, the great sleeping castle looming above, and ate.
Aemon watched with rapt fascination, reaching toward the tart and fussing a little. You smiled at him, dipped your finger into the center of the tart, and brought it close. He eagerly grasped your finger and suckled, delighted by the sweet taste.
For a few beautiful minutes there was nothing but the sound of quiet chewing and the occasional delighted sound from Aemon, who it seemed loved the sweet taste.
"Well?" you asked, after a moment.
Aerion considered his tart with great professional gravity. "Too sweet," he announced. "Definitely too sweet. Grandsire will hate it."
"Terrible," Matarys agreed, and took an enormous bite.
"We should try another," Aerion said. "To be thorough."
"For grandsire," Matarys said seriously.
"Purely for grandsire," Valarr agreed, already reaching for one.
Daeron said nothing. He was on his second tart and leaning against the table with his ankles crossed and the most relaxed expression you had seen on his face in a fortnight, so you decided that counted as endorsement enough.
Then Aerion reached for the tray and his elbow caught the edge and a tart slid off and landed filling-side down on Matarys pants.
Everyone looked at it.
Matarys looked at Aerion.
"That," Aerion said carefully, "was an accident."
A pause that lasted precisely long enough for Matarys to decide it was not.
He picked up the fallen tart, weighed it for a single, deliberate moment and pressed it firmly into Aerion’s cheek.
The kitchen erupted.
Aerion retaliated instantly, scooping up a fistful of tart and smearing it across Matarys’s shirt with wholehearted enthusiasm.
Matarys lunged.
Aerion ducked under the table and reappeared on the other side.
You were on your feet at once, “boys, boys, boys”, hissed in urgent succession as you turned in a slow circle, keeping Aemon lifted safely above the chaos while the two of them waged war around you, their fierce whispers rapidly abandoning any pretense of quiet.
Daeron, who had withdrawn to the far table with folded arms and the expression of someone firmly committed to non-involvement, took a stray piece of crust to the side of the face.
He went very still.
There was a brief, visible moment in which he reconsidered his position.
He revised it.
Reaching out, he caught Aerion by the collar and, with calm precision, deposited an entire tart squarely atop his head.
“Daeron—”
“He had it coming,” Daeron said simply.
And then Valarr, your composed boy, all grace and good sense, leaned past you, dipped his hand into a jar of blackberry jam, and flung it neatly into Matarys’s face as he rushed by.
“Valarr,” you said.
“It seemed fair,” he replied.
What followed was pure chaos.
There was jam, everywhere.
At some point, an entire tart sailed through the air.
Aerion seized a tray and began distributing its contents on every one of his brothers, sparing only you and Aemon.
Matarys lost a shoe.
A careless flick sent jam across your cheek, your robe marked beyond saving and somehow, impossibly, Aemon, who had remained tucked safely against you, acquired a bold smear of purple across his face. He was delighted by it, shrieking with laughter each time another tart went flying.
All four of them chased each other through the kitchens, shouting and laughing, slipping on stone and grabbing at sleeves. At one point Valarr and Daeron turned on each other, hands in collars, smearing jam across one another’s faces with breathless indignation.
Aerion and Matarys collapsed laughing at the sight.
And you laughed with them, openly and without restraint, forgetting entirely the hour.
You had just opened your mouth to speak—
—and the door opened.
Every child in the kitchen froze.
The silence fell so fast it rang, broken only by Aemon, who had no understanding of consequence and cooed happily into it.
Maekar filled the doorway.
He had come as he woke: linen shirt, linen trousers, bare feet, silver hair disheveled. His expression made it very clear he was not amused.
His gaze moved slowly across the room, taking in everything with deliberate care. The overturned trays. The ruined tarts. Jam smeared across stone and wood alike. Matarys. Aerion. Daeron. Valarr. Each of them marked with evidence. Aemon with purple staining his cheek.
He said nothing.
Baelor stepped in behind him, looking over his brother’s shoulder. His expression followed the same path but where Maekar’s expression became strict and controlled, Baelor’s faltered, catching on something close to laughter.
His mismatched eyes found yours. Moved, one by one, across each of your children. Then returned.
No one breathed.
Baelor stepped forward.
He crossed the kitchen came to your side, and without a word, bent to Aemon, pressing a kiss to his jam-smeared cheek. The sound was soft and distinct.
Aemond squealed.
“Blackberry,” Baelor said, “Excellent. Very good filling. Not too sweet.”
Aerion broke first.
A sharp, breathless laugh escaped him, quickly smothered, unsuccessfully.
“We were,” you began, with impeccable dignity, “conducting a quality inspection.”
“At the third hour of the night,” Maekar said.
“Sweets can change considerably after dark,” Valarr offered, helpfully, from his position of perfect composure at the edge of the bench.
Maekar looked at him.
Looked at the others.
Looked at you.
Something shifted in his expression, he turned away without a word and crossed to the shelf above the breadboards.
He lifted the cloth from a third tray.
Selected a tart and turned back, leaning lightly against the shelf as he took a measured bite.
“Too sweet,” he said flatly and took another bite.
And the kitchen, in one long, helpless exhale of relief and laughter, fell completely apart.
The atmosphere settled like something warm being poured into a cold room. Your sons arranged themselves across the benches in the kitchen, voices dropping to the low comfortable chatter.
Matarys was attempting to explain to Daeron, with great conviction, the precise aerodynamics of a thrown tart.
Aerion had helped himself to another and was eating it untroubled contentment. Valarr sat on a counter in front of you, occasionally contributing a dry observation that sent Daeron into muffled laughter.
You sat in the middle of it and felt something in your chest so full it almost ached.
Baelor settled on your right, Maekar on your left, and the bench, already crowded, the three of you pressed close in the warm ember-lit dark. Aemon drowsing now in your arms, finally running out of night.
You felt fingers at your collarbone.
Maekar, lifted a streak of jam from your skin with two careful fingers and brought them to his mouth. His eyes were on your sons. His expression revealed nothing.
You felt the warmth of it all the way down.
On your other side, Baelor leaned forward and pressed his thumb gently to Aemon’s cheek, collecting the last traces of purple there, and tasted it with the same quiet seriousness he had given his verdict earlier.
Then he settled back and both of them drew closer to you, until you were pressed entirely between them.
Then lips at your ear, warm breath, Baelor's voice dropped to something that was for you alone.
"Don't slip away in the middle of the night like that." The words were soft.
The tone beneath them was not.
"Maekar woke first and found you gone, the bed empty, Aemon’s crib empty. We thought—" A pause, brief but weighted, "The guards told us you had gone yourself, with the children. You cannot imagine what the moments before that information felt like."
You shivered despite the warmth of the kitchen.
On your other side Maekar said nothing. He didn't need to. His hand had found the back of your neck, large and steady, his thumb tracing slow along the nape in a way that made it very difficult to think clearly about anything at all.
"I'm sorry," you said quietly, meaning it.
Baelor's lips moved to just below your ear, "You will make it up to us," he murmured, so low it barely qualified as sound. "When the children are back in their beds."
The warmth that moved through you had nothing to do with the kitchen fire.
Maekar's thumb stilled at your neck. "Next time," he said, low and even, "you wake one of us." His fingers pressed fractionally tighter, just once, deliberate enough that it could not be mistaken for accident.
You turned to look at him. He was watching your sons, jaw set, the firelight catching the silver of his hair and beard. But his hand remained at your neck and the tips of his ears were very slightly red.
"Next time," you agreed softly.
He gave a single nod. His hand did not move
Baelor pressed his lips once to your temple, slow and deliberate, and then leaned back and surveyed the kitchen. He exhaled a long quiet breath that had the shape of a laugh living somewhere inside it.
"Your grandsire," he said, raising his voice just enough to carry to your sons, "is not going to be pleased."
All four of them turned to look at him with varying degrees of guilt.
Then Baelor glanced at Valarr and tipped his chin toward the tray. “Pass me one.”
You stared at him.
Valarr, without hesitation, chose a tart with careful consideration and held it out. Baelor took it and bit in as if nothing at all were amiss.
Daeron looked at Maekar.
Maekar, already on his second, a trace of blackberry at the corner of his mouth.
And something in your chest gave way.
You thought of your brother back in Winterfell, stolen nights and sweet desserts.
This, you thought. This is exactly what I wanted.
You did not realise you were crying until Maekar's thumb came to your jaw, tilting your face toward him. He said nothing. He simply looked at you, and then pressed his lips to your forehead, firm and quiet and sure.
On your other side Baelor turned and found your hand under the bench.
You sat between them in the warm dark and let yourself have it, all of it, the laughter still ringing in your chest, the ache of it, the sweetness.
The faces of your children. The weight of Aemon sleeping.
The smell of blackberries and woodsmoke and the particular warmth of the people you loved.
That night you would keep. You would fold it up and put it somewhere safe and take it out again on the days when everything was loud and exhausting and too much, and you would remember it, the way you remembered your childhood.
And you would be alright.
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Summary: The North suffers due to the invasion of the Blackfyre heirs. After a brutal assault that leaves you with recurring nightmares, you pray that the Targaryens will read your letters and help you and your brother save the innocent. Trapped between nobles seeking war and an overprotective brother, you had imagined many endings for that story, you certainly did not expect a marriage proposal from Baelor Targaryen himself. But to bring peace, you would have done anything. Even marry a man much older than you, who would soon become king.
“The house has two floors and one side painted with colorful flowers.”
Four red petals, seven yellow petals, five blue ones, and a few scattered leaves here and there.
The footsteps were heavy, muffled in the snow, the door was open, the keyhole was crooked, repeatedly struck with something hard from the inside to deform the opening, the windows had broken handles, with the climate growing harsher some panes had cracked, perhaps from the constant battering of the wind, the snow had come in and spread across the wooden floor, leaving damp patches that had already begun to mold into an unpleasant smell that seeped into the bones.
A deep weight churned your stomach, it was a depressing sight, families fleeing their homes leaving behind everything but their primary necessities, children torn from their bedrooms, parents afraid they would find nothing upon their return, you could see the attempts to hide some secondary belongings, like cutlery at the back of a cupboard drawer, smaller rugs left in corners of the house where the elements would be less likely to reach them, but worse still was seeing the rooms of the youngest. No parent carried more than one toy per child, sometimes they didn’t even let them hold onto that, and so the rooms remained as if frozen in time, with plush toys and little dolls resting on shelves, walls covered in drawings, cribs gnawed by baby teeth, stories of people who were giving you everything they had in the hope of a better future.
That was why you were there after all, to recover what you could and what was useful to the cause, robbing farmers, carpenters and doctors of everything that had been left behind and that their arms had not managed to carry.
“-The house with the flowers- we have a cellar for distilled grapes.”
The passage was exactly where they had described it to you, in the small kitchen between the cupboard and the table, under the rug there was the trapdoor leading to the underground space, a long rectangular room as large as the house itself with various farming tools and vacuum-sealed food inside.
You went down the steps with your hands trembling, lowering your head to avoid hitting the edge with the hook- this too broken as had been ordered.
The air was electric, your hands and feet tingled as if an entire anthill were crawling beneath your skin, you lit the torch left at the entrance with a pair of flint stones to better look around. The marks where numerous jars of food had once been placed were still visible on the shelves, but nothing of value had been left, the tools had been snapped in half- left in a corner, the cupboards were empty, only old worn blankets remained, used for who knows what, the smell was stale and the air as heavy as it was cold.
You passed a couple of shelves, feeling short of breath as if you had been running for miles, your hand tightened around the torch as you headed toward the end of the room.
“-we had gathered wood for the winter”
And there it was.
A pile made of cut stones stacked carefully in the dark corner, a cloth had been laid over it and pulling it away you coughed a couple of times, feeling the dirt and dust irritate your eyes, an ethereal sight in such harsh times, but not the only reason you were there.
“-it’s among the wood-”
You were running out of air. Every step increased that tingling you felt at your fingertips, along your heels and up to your ankles, threatening to make you fall, the hand holding the torch trembled unnaturally as you raised the flame to better look at the pile tall enough to reach your chest.
It was a tall dark mass held in place by some hand-woven ropes.
“-at the bottom- at the end-”
A smile slipped from you as you accidentally kicked a lone log out of the pile, but more than a laugh it sounded like a breath forced out, because your lungs were painfully contracting in your chest, trapped in a strange feeling between fear and safety, like an animal in a trap that needed to escape that cramped space, but also confused by that tingling sensation in your limbs- of course the cold was enough to make your fingers fall off, but you were well covered, with the fur coat over your head and several layers of clothing on you.
What was it called- what had they called it?
“-at the bottom- you might-”
At the bottom right, a gap was between the logs, where that one had been pulled out and left on the floor, now a small space remained, you bent down on one knee to get a better look and immediately saw what you were looking for.
An orange paw now so dirty it looked brown, with your free hand you pulled the toy out from its hiding place, it was a small hand-sewn thing, a stuffed tiger, soft and frayed at the edges in some places, it reminded you so much of the toys from your childhood, the ones you used constantly until they wore out, you recognized the thicker stitches where thread had mended holes and tears, the little black eyes were polished dark stones probably glued onto the snout with heat.
“-I think he feels very lonely-” the little girl had told you in tears, “-please bring him back to me, my lady-”
Oh you were a foolish sentimental person, of course you would bring it back to her.
After all, you were there for the wood anyway.
You just had to call the others and tell them to prepare the carriages, there was no reason to be so anxious over a bit of darkness.
And besides, you were not afraid of the dark.
That was when doubt struck you- making you lift your gaze- just a few inches from the wood, your heart pumped blood through your veins too fast, an annoying ringing made its way into your head like a root pulling at your nerves, the tingling had now reached your chest and you realized you couldn’t stand up.
You were not afraid of the dark.
Cold shivers shook you to the bone, acid rose from your stomach threatening to make you vomit, you turned to look behind you with a strangled cry caught in your throat, then you saw white.
And finally black.
The first breath was always the worst, your body contracted and pain flared like a flame through your whole body, you screamed but had no strength to do so, so you sobbed out confused sounds that resembled an animal’s whimpers, you brought your hands to your chest clutching at the blankets and shook them, pulling them off you, you kicked at the air throwing your neck back, it was hard to tell just after waking how long it took you to regain clarity, it was a constant, unrelenting pain that made you feel meters underwater.
Then you finally opened your eyes and the story repeated itself.
Reinmod was the tallest and most robust man you had ever known, he was the closest thing you could compare to a giant, forced to duck whenever he passed through any doorway, with custom-made clothes and a lot of iron to build his armor. His sword was a long thing that looked much like a spear, he wore no cloaks- too uncomfortable according to him, but the jacket on his shoulders was entirely lined with fur, leaving him with a white halo on his head that intertwined with the long dark hair he usually kept tied in a tail. His beard was unkempt, with a mustache that covered his upper lip and thick brows, he always looked constantly frowning.
Even when in the morning you woke shaken from nightmares and he rushed into your room to hold you still.
Even that morning, with concern marking his aged face, with all that beard it was hard to tell, it was more a feeling born from all those years spent together, after all you had known him your whole life.
“You will reopen your wounds this way, my lady.”
You clutched the fabric of his sleeves, relaxing your body as much as you could, the burning in your leg was the first thing you felt when you truly began to come back to your senses, the sweat on your skin, your body perceiving the cold after having uncovered yourself, the pajamas you had been wearing for days smelled terribly and that familiar stench had absurdly become comforting.
Better than going back to that cellar anyway.
“What time is it?” you asked hoarsely, his hands left you now certain you wouldn’t roll over yourself, standing beside the bed he seemed even taller as he gathered the blankets to place them back over you with a care that clashed with his figure, he leaned over the bedside table to extinguish the candles that had melted into a white mass on the tray, then he opened the curtains, outside you could glimpse the tops of snow-covered trees and other buildings not far away.
“Early morning.”
You took a deep breath before gently rubbing the sleep from your eyes, you gestured for him to come closer and then grabbed his gnarled hands to have him pull you up into a seated position, just enough to rest your back more against the pillows, focusing better on your surroundings you heard the familiar sound of birds outside the room, the morning murmur of the servants and a bit farther away the shouts of men at work, nothing unusual, those hours of light were the most coveted in the north after all, now that winter had arrived the afternoon darkened far too early making any move difficult, all that morning activity was a good sign.
“Where is my brother?”
Reinmod paused beside the door, shrugged almost imperceptibly.
“I have stayed here the whole time. I do not know where he is.”
You had to bring your hand in front of your face to cough a couple of times, your chest contracting painfully, you tried to speak again, but you were interrupted by the sudden opening of the door that made you jolt at the loudness compared to the calm of the room.
A whirlwind of blonde hair entered the room, passing your loyal guard who did not protest, by now well used to the woman’s habits and manners.
“You have to stop him! That idiot will get himself killed!”
Lucilla Lannister was- like the rest of her family, a terribly spoiled and loud woman.
You could hear her coming from afar with all the trinkets she wore, metals and precious stones she put on even in harsh weather, heeled shoes in the snow, and intricate embroidery even on coats-flashy colors, a shrill voice and an unrestrained character. Your brother loved to joke that for a lioness she sounded more like a duck, she would then angrily hit him calling him a pig, yet, by all accounts they were happily married.
“Please-” she reached your bedside with her hands clasped in prayer, she smelled of soap and some strong perfume, it was a stark contrast with your purplish figure beside her, she took one of your hands in hers shaking you slightly “-he’s having his horse prepared, I don’t know what else to tell him to stop him. And Dorman with Ube want to go with him, you had promised me he would listen to you-” she babbled quickly, with impeccable accent and refined vocabulary despite seeming to swallow one word over the other, that familiar ringing was making you deaf, but you had understood enough to grasp the gist.
You cast a glance at Reinmod who immediately understood, bowing his head before leaving the room in long strides.
“Where are the maids?” you asked with a broken voice as you once again threw off the blankets, now under the daylight you could clearly see the bandages stained with blood, the bruises peeking out from the pajamas and the dried sweat that left dark lines of grime in the folds of your skin, you felt miserable and you did not have the courage to say it out loud.
But you had had enough of that room.
Lucy leaned out, shouting at a poor girl who happened to be passing through the corridors at that moment, meanwhile you had sat on the edge of the bed, technically it wasn’t the first time you had gotten back on your feet, but it would certainly be the first time leaving the bedroom.
It was a bit embarrassing to be helped while getting dressed, the loose, soft trousers held up with a double knot and the shirt with the long coat over it. She tried to help you stand, but you refused to take her hand. Lucy, however, was by now used to the stubbornness of the Starks and shot you a glare worthy of your mother. Ironic, because you were older, if it weren’t for the fact that you looked much younger than her, both in clothing and bearing, even now that she had grown used to the local winters she still managed to maintain that air of a little queen wherever she went, eyeing with disdain the local “fashion.”
“If you fall down the stairs you’ll surely manage to make him stay a few more hours, but I would rather you spoke to him.”
You crossed the corridor arm in arm, you weren’t sure she could support your weight if you fell, and the maid would not have been of much help either, but you clenched your teeth and went down that flight of stairs slowly, with one hand against the stone wall and the other gripping the blonde woman tightly, passing along the main nave beyond the servants and a few patrolling knights there was the stable where that foolish brother of yours was shouting some confused words.
You ignored every glance, every whisper as you passed, the light hitting your face at every window made you shiver thinking about what a sight you were at that moment, and absurdly you found comfort in the yelling of your twin that grew louder with every step you took toward him.
Opening the door, a strong smell of horse and shit hit you, the animals neighed restlessly in their stalls, the servants had stopped to watch the scene nervously, in front of the doors that opened onto the courtyard your twin stood face to face with Reinmod who remained expressionless in front of such fury, standing still in his position, one hand resting on the hilt of his sword as a warning.
“Sigfrid.” you called him in a faint voice.
As if by magic your brother shut his mouth, turning with a frown, behind him Dorman and Ube seemed just as surprised to see you on your feet, everyone present turned to look at you and for a moment bile rose in your throat.
You stepped out of the corridor to walk on the straw and past the stalls, you cleared your throat several times struggling to speak more than two or three words in a row “you are behaving like a fool. What does all this mean?”
Sigfrid was the classic northern man.
Despite being twins you looked nothing alike and he was the copy of your father- not particularly tall, but stocky and muscular, as thick as a stone wall and with a murderous look even when drinking tea in the morning. He was gruff in speech, in walking, even in breathing- with his dark cloak and long black curls on a clean-shaven face he had a strange combination of youthful and mature appearance, around the age of fourteen his voice had dropped into a well and from a rebellious boy he had turned into hoarse, sometimes incomprehensible sounds, he loved shouting and always seemed to want to remind everyone of it.
You, on the other hand, were the opposite. Composed and silent not because it was the norm for a noble lady, but because you had always preferred peace and quiet since you were young, where your brother brought chaos you calmed spirits, where he shouted you whispered, and where he was asked to lower his voice you were asked to raise yours. It seemed like a tense relationship on the surface, but (to Lucy’s surprise) Sigfrid loved his family terribly and all that upheaval he caused was only the reaction of a simple man who wanted to defend those he loved in the way he knew best.
By raising his hands.
“You should be in bed.” he thundered, coming toward you, the look he gave his wife was explicit, but he added nothing else “Did the healers not warn you enough? At the very least you must have made your wounds bleed again. You’ll drive me mad.”
You let go of Lucy who took a couple of steps away from you pretending to give you some privacy, you held onto one of the central wooden posts, just to shift your weight from one foot to the other. “Let’s not make a scene now-” you murmured hoarsely, looking him in the eyes, height was perhaps the only thing you had in common, yet he still managed to make you feel small (or perhaps it was everything in general that made you feel that way).
He made an irritated face, turning to look at the servants nearby before grabbing his axe and slamming it hard against the shield tied at his side causing a loud metallic sound that made everyone jump, including the poor horses.
“Out!”
No one dared to speak, Lucy passed by you giving you a small glance, her lips moved imperceptibly murmuring a thank you before the stable emptied, leaving finally only the two of you- and Reinmod, who instead of leaving moved closer to your side, keeping his arm out in case you needed to lean on him.
The look your brother gave him once again was icy, even though officially the man had been your bodyguard since childhood your twin had demanded an independence typical of any child who wanted to become a knight, so where he ran ahead you stayed behind- you knew how to fight but it was not your first choice and so you had an undeniable need to have your back covered, the bond that tied you was almost familial, you perceived him as a second brother, the older brother you had never had.
And so he stayed by your side, in silence, carrying out Sigfrid’s orders, but only after having your confirmation and deep down your brother was fine with that, it reassured him to know you had a large dark shadow by your side.
You knew he felt guilty.
Everyone in there had an unspoken thing burning in their stomach.
“The storm has calmed. I will be there in a couple of days- I will find that bastard and tear his head off-” he tried to lower his voice, but it lasted only a few words in a crescendo of volume fueled by his repressed anger, you tried to place a hand on his chest, but he stepped back causing a pang of disappointment deep in your stomach.
“Maybe that is exactly what he hopes. He knows you are hot-headed, maybe he’s waiting for you there with the whole army. You cannot move in this weather- we must be cautious-” you tried to reason with him, but he would not listen, shaking his head and snorting like an enraged bear, he began to pace back and forth in the stable venting as best he could.
“You are too cautious. He’s tricking us. We must move now-”
You coughed a few times interrupting his flow of words, between the strain of the walk and engaging in active conversation there was a sea of effort your body could not sustain at that moment, your brother was far too aware of it and it only fueled his anger.
“I thought you wanted revenge. How can you not be furious?! How-how-”
Unable to shout back at him, imitating his earlier gesture you slammed a horseshoe hanging there on a nail, drawing his attention once more “Do you really think I’m not angry? Sigfrid. I am tired-humiliated-” you spat the last word with a contempt that burned in your loins, but you went on “-but all of this we are doing for our land. We’re the lords of the north- the people here seek counsel, they want us to solve this problem. Everything I have done so far is to ensure that the people suffer as little as possible. I cannot continue without you-”
You rubbed your bruised face, your chest hurt so much it made your body tremble with every breath, it was a harsh blow to realize that even that small effort you had allowed yourself was becoming too much for you.
“Sigfrid.”
You murmured again.
Faint, but he heard you, stopping a few steps away, his hands clenched into fists at his sides.
“The other nobles will never listen to me without you. We have already talked about it, all of this works thanks to us. Us. Understood?” you gestured between your bodies “I speak. And you act. And may the old gods punish me if I speak false, I will never be grateful enough for the trust you place in me, but we must remain united. If anyone even for a moment suspected that you want to act without my consent everything would fall apart.”
You gently ran your hand over your chest to ease some discomfort, “It is already deep winter, we do not have enough men to send around, we risk an ambush, last time we had to kill about ten horses because of bear traps- you do not understand what I am trying to sa-” he huffed waving his hands, “I understand. I know. But Lucy’s father will send us supplies and men-”
“Yes, when the weather calms!” you snapped, raising your voice, a fatal mistake for your chest which contracted in revolt at such effort, you bent forward shaken by violent coughing fits, you took the hand Reinmod offered you to keep your balance, it was a long terribly embarrassing moment before you could stand upright again, your brother had reached out to grab you, but had stopped halfway, concern written all over his face.
“Fine.” he finally said.
“I’ll wait a little longer. We’ll talk about it when you’re better.” you did not miss the bitter tone with which he said it, but you did not scold him, the shame you felt was something you had to deal with on your own, getting angry at him would be cruel.
“Anyway. The weather has calmed, many of the knights are growing impatient and some letters have arrived about problems beyond the forest-” he huffed “I will not stay here doing nothing.”
He returned to his horse that had been left tied near the exit, took the reins and placed the shield on the saddle, the sharp, quick movements spoke more than any words you had exchanged up to that moment.
“What?”
you asked, moving forward slowly, you let go of the hand that had been supporting you to stroke the muzzle of the white horse that flattened its ears contentedly, “I will take a small group and we will go help the fishermen along the rivers. They are terrified of being caught in an ambush, now almost all the rivers have frozen and it is easy to locate them. I will be gone a few days.” he replied.
You murmured a positive response, but you grabbed his hood shaking the fur slightly to get his attention again “Take Bolton with you.” you murmured, making him roll his eyes.
“Okay, mother.”
Then you pulled a lock of his hair, he flinched turning to finally look you in the eyes.
“Say what you want, Stark.”
He shook his head irritated once more, a smile on his face as he opened the double doors of the stable, not far away Bolton and Dorman who had been with him took it as a signal to approach and retrieve their horses, as did the servants who had gathered patiently in other tasks while giving you space, the daylight had not been much for quite a while, it had snowed until the evening before forcing everyone to shovel the piles of snow from the main roads to allow those in need to pass, the heavy clouds had moved over the woods not far away granting a moment of respite, but you knew it would not last long.
“Rest. And burn that damned letter. Because I’ll not allow anyone to deliver it.” Sigfrid snapped as he mounted his horse, you did not even look surprised that he knew about the letter itself, he had probably ordered every servant and not to watch you like a hawk.
“The Targaryens will not come to help us, do you understand?” he pulled his hood up over his head before spitting onto the hay, you stepped back a few paces letting him turn the horse so as not to risk getting kicked in the face “Those white bastards are too busy with their bullshit to fix this mess. How many letters have you already written- two- three? We don’t need their help, damn it. We’ll endure this winter and kill that bastard ourselves.”
You held back from saying that that was exactly what worried you more than anything else, he seemed less angry than before and that was enough for you not to continue that conversation “Say goodbye to Lucy before you go.” you replied, ignoring his outburst, he huffed.
“And you take a bath. You look like shit.”
He nudged the horse’s side and it began to trot away, the other men greeted you with a nod murmuring a “Lady Stark” before moving away in his wake, leaving you behind with a dull pain in your legs.
You accepted Reinmod’s suggestion to return to your chambers and went back inside, away from the light that highlighted all the colorful bruises on your exposed skin.
The hours passed slowly and relentlessly, you swallowed herbs, pastes, various liquids, a mix of anti-inflammatories and treatments meant to prevent the wounds from becoming infected. Still, the worst part were your feet, you had risked amputation and the threat of losing some toes was still in the air despite the fact you were recovering with a speed that was almost unbelievable.
The healer had been furious upon learning that you had gotten out of bed to reach the stables, you should not even have been standing, and yet despite the pain and the skin sticking to the bandages bleeding heavily you did not feel that bad. Maybe they were the signs before death, after all those who died of cold tended to fall asleep before losing all their heat, you felt a similar sensation in the soles of your feet, they hurt, yes, but in a dull way, as if you could no longer feel them at all.
And yet they said you were healing.
That the gods had blessed you.
You struggled to believe it. If they were truly blessing you, then why had they allowed all of that in the first place? Was it a punishment? Had you sinned out of presumption? Had your vow to protect the people of the north sounded false to their ears and they had wanted to warn you?
Or had the gods listened to the prayers of others? Lucy had told you at lunch how every morning people gathered to pray for your recovery.
“You should show yourself around a bit. I think it would lift everyone’s spirits.” she declared at the table, she was much more relaxed than you had seen her hours before, she swallowed fish like wine, the pregnancy had ruined her etiquette with cutlery, it was a good sign nonetheless.
“I can barely stand. And I am a map of colorful bruises. Not to mention the-” you gestured to your neck in a low voice, every bite you swallowed burned down your throat, but you were tired of soups.
“A warrior’s scars are something to be proud of-” she raised her fork lightly, but you could not imitate her carefree manner “But I am not a man. And I am not a warrior.” you replied in a murmur not entirely convinced, you let go of the cutlery into the empty plate before setting it aside on the desk, you appreciated that she had wanted to keep you company in your room, but she too had to play her part as a noble there and you should remind her of it more often.
“Anyway-” she cleared her throat eyeing the wine in your glass with a disheartened look, then shrugged returning to a stiff posture, you noticed the change in her bearing without batting an eye, it only meant trouble.
“I couldn’t help but… overhear part of the conversation you had with my husband.”
Of course.
Days in bed and you had almost forgotten how annoying this woman was.
“Please- you began, gesturing to the maid standing at the door to take everything away, leaving you only drinks before closing the door behind her.
“I spoke with my father- in the last letter-” you turned to look at her properly, a wide chair had been brought for you with cushions behind your back, it was impossible to turn it, but at least you could partially recline. “Tell me you didn’t ask him for anything else- Lucy- we’re at war, this marriage makes us a family, but you cannot keep asking your father for resources- he’s already promised too much-” now you really felt like a mother, after all the Lannister was barely nineteen, promised at eighteen like many other noble women and already pregnant, but not particularly mature or far-sighted for that. Especially since she had declared from the beginning that she understood little of court matters, perhaps that was precisely why she had not minded the alliance with the north, your land was simpler and more isolated, not inclined to court drama and so she could continue to act the lady skipping all the drama and arguments, everyone had been surprised to see her so cheerful in the dead of winter, you had thought you would have to deal with a spoiled girl every day.
And technically she was, but the complaints were more contained and easier to resolve than you had imagined.
“I know. I am not stupid. I mean about the Targaryens. And he agrees too- I mean I haven’t spoken to him about it yet, but I know him well. I am sure he could push them to move-” you let yourself sink back into the chair closing your eyes, exhausted, while she rambled in the background. A light buzzing in your ears that threatened to snap every nerve, it reminded you that you had to organize another meeting with the nobles, more discussions, more problems, probably fights, letters to read, reports to go through, oh and that damned nettle infusion to drink before going to sleep.
“Lucy.” you finally answered after a few moments of silence, you had not listened to a single word she had said and did not feel the slightest guilt.
“Do I smell?”
She remained with the glass in front of her lips, looking you up and down in silence, the judgment weighed more than an axe over your head.
“A little.”
An entire day passed before you decided to defy the healer, you would be careful, but you desperately needed to wash.
The days were strangely calm and in the evening it had snowed moderately giving a moment of relief to all the inhabitants of Winterfell, as well as to the refugees in the city, you decided that there was a need to brighten the evening, so helped by five women you washed where possible at least, cleaning what remained of your hair and finally you walked through the keep with a bit more confidence, feeling judged in part, but also loved.
Stepping outside the walls you walked along the crowded markets of the winter town accompanied by Reinmod always silent at your side, every few steps someone stopped you offering their greetings declaring how terribly happy they were to see you on your feet, at the stalls you were given goods of all kinds which you tried to refuse as politely as possible, in the end one of the patrolling guards stepped forward to carry back some bags since Reinmod already had his arms full. Little snow was truly a moment to celebrate and seeing so many happy faces in such a time distracted you from the imprisonment of your room, from that bed that felt like a cell and from the sleepless nights where you fell again and again to the ground tasting blood from your split lips.
You ordered the great hall to be made available if the sky did not darken with clouds and so it was. For some time now the place had become even more crowded than usual to host more people than it should, it lifted spirits in such a harsh time for everyone and gave you the chance to “show yourself” as Lucy had said.
There were no nobles left in Winterfell due to the constant duties and the concern of the lords for their respective houses, but some sons had remained to help with direct orders, still the raised table was half empty and at the head of the table you had eaten little as usual, focusing on the laughter and chatter of the hall. Your brother would not return for a couple of days and if there was one thing the men of the north brought from their homes it was wine. A lot of wine. Enough to make Lucy whine, unable to drink more than half a small glass, but she made up for it with salted meat and juice.
You drank as well, with far too much on your mind, you tried to drown that burning in your body with high alcohol before moving away with an unsteady step accompanied by what you thought was a particularly bold prostitute attempting to approach you.
You moved away into the glass gardens to ease the headache growing amidst all that festivity, the greenhouse was the warmest place in the entire fortress and at that late hour with everyone eating no one tended to the crops allowing some privacy.
In hindsight you did not know what had gone through your mind, disappearing with a prostitute in the greenhouse was not like you, but there was much you had not wanted to admit to yourself for some time and you had no one to talk to about it anyway, as much as you loved your brother admitting that you had been shaken by that assault would only have rubbed salt into the wound and fueled his anger. You tended to heal your wounds in solitude and so you would continue for your mental health. You simply hoped that one day the nightmares would fade and that was enough for you.
You lay down on the small couch at the entrance letting the woman braid your hair while the wine finished dulling your senses, allowing you to rest for a few hours in a silent limbo of half-sleep.
If you could honestly tell someone the beginning of that absurd story you would start from that moment.
You, a greenhouse and a prostitute.
It almost sounded like the beginning of a joke, and yet little of that evening brought you amusement in hindsight.
You did not know at what hour that peace was interrupted, like every other time you woke tense as a violin string you jolted, but the cause instead of being internal was external. With your head resting on the woman’s legs and your hands clutching the fur of your sleeves you were blissful in the silence and the scent of flowers when the door was opened roughly, slamming against the wall and making you both start.
You opened your eyes confused, the colored glass filtered the moonlight giving a bit of brightness to the greenhouse, from the corridor Lucy’s blonde head appeared with more than one strand out of place and a suspicious flush on her cheeks, the glassy wide look of someone who had seen a ghost.
“Gods. Have you been drinking?” you muttered, relaxing your shoulders again, the woman behind you seemed to have just woken as well because she yawned rubbing her eyes.
“the’re here.” she murmured almost squeaking, she entered holding onto the door with an unsteady step, a glance cast around, then at the woman, finally at you.
“What? Lucy- gods- I’ll have someone called to take you back to your room, okay?” you muttered now almost awake, scratching the only eye that was not black, the prostitute helped you push yourself into a seated position, but Lucy shook her head “No. No. You don’t understand. They’ve arrived- the Targaryens.”
You remained still for a moment staring at the ground before huffing, then seized by a tired hilarity you could not help but start laughing. Oh you were still terribly drunk, enough to find that poor-taste joke amusing, with the braids falling in front of your face tickling your bruises, you laughed softly because the shakes in your chest were still terribly painful, but the wine helped loosen your bones as well as your nerves.
Beside you the prostitute instead jolted, quickly moving her legs off the couch and standing up, sniffing you turned to look at Lucy again certain you would find her fainted on the ground given the poor girl’s reaction, but instead you too were seized by a strangled jolt.
Behind Lucy Baelor and Maekar Targaryen stood with their arms crossed behind their backs.
In the flesh.
“I’m drunk too.” you blurted without thinking, almost as an excuse for the scene you had just made or more a justification to the gods who seemed to have punished you by giving you hallucinations. Or another nightmare.
You did not want to believe they were really there. It could not be real, it was all too absurd.
“That is clear.” the reply of the white-haired man was final, the tone hoarse like thunder in the ethereal calm of the greenhouse, the brother beside him instead held back a smile making you sink even deeper into despair.
If it was a nightmare you wanted to wake up immediately.
You would almost have preferred to return to the cellar.
You stood up abruptly, flinching at the sudden movement, the soles of your feet protested, but you were too panicked to care, Lucy on the other hand seemed ready to leave all her insides at their feet, so you took the woman by the arm and pushed her into the arms of the prostitute who looked like a hunted animal “Take the lady to her chambers. You will be paid tomorrow.”
She did not need to be told twice, dragging them both out of there and leaving you alone.
You still had not woken up.
“I- I’m Lady Stark.” you muttered offering your hand for a handshake, inside your head you punched yourself, everything you said and did seemed to worsen your situation in a bottomless pit, yet Baelor did not react negatively, taking your hand in return, his hands were frozen and the rings burned your skin from the contrast with your warmth, a shiver ran down your body. It was the first time you saw him, he bore little resemblance to the usual description of Targaryens, but that did not make him any less real in your eyes.
No, you were not dreaming, you did not have enough imagination to picture him like that.
“It is a pleasure to meet you, Lady Stark. We apologize for arriving at such an hour- but the journey has been long and particularly tiring once we reached the north. We hoped to speak with your father, but Lady Lannister sent us to you-I suppose to act as an intermediary until there is a more appropriate time.”
You swallowed bitterly, a cold shiver tightened your insides.
“Yes. I- I apologize, I’m not really lucid right now.” you murmured unable to look him in the eyes, Maekar instead stared at you so intensely it made you feel physically ill.
“We were told the children of the Lord of the North were two boys.” he said while watching you walk not too steadily toward the door, meanwhile you gestured for them to follow you out into the corridor where the evening air was more perceptible “I don’t know what to tell you. My brother and I are twins. There is no one else to confuse me with, I don’t know what is said about us outside the north.” Along the corridor, at the end a small cluster of heads caught your attention, Baelor beside you gestured for them to approach and soon under the torchlight you understood who stood before you, four boys, two with white hair and two brown, the sons of the Targaryen princes, they too very confused and dressed in layers.
“Our sons.” he called them one by one and they bowed their heads politely, you softly said your name, holding yourself in an embrace to avoid collapsing right there in front of everyone.
You doubted your lucidity once again.
Perhaps it really was a nightmare.
“I don’t even know if any of the servants are sober- you caught us on a- particular evening.” you cleared your throat looking down the corridor uncertainly and as if summoned by your silent plea Reinmod appeared from the opposite side followed by a couple of servants- somewhat unsteady in their steps, but decidedly more lucid than you- who bowed respectfully to the princes.
“Yes-” you muttered to yourself, why the man was not drunk you did not know and preferred not to ask at that moment in front of everyone, but you were terribly grateful for his presence. He still had his usual stoic expression in stark contrast with the Targaryens who looked at him puzzled perhaps because of his size. “My lady. I met Lady Lannister near her chambers. I tried to keep an eye on her until the end, but a brawl broke out in the courtyard and- she must have taken advantage of my absence.”
You shook your head before clutching his arm for stability “It’s not your fault. I should have guessed- but it’s late. All this is already strange enough-” leaning on him you tangled in your own feet nearly falling, but the man held you by the free elbow, behind you the two adult Targaryens had leaned forward to catch you and you had to fight the deep sense of shame to lift your head again.
“My lady. In your chambers the mixtures to take before going to sleep are prepared. Allow me to help you return to your room. You have strained yourself too much today.”
Meanwhile the servants had turned to the royals, you could hear them speaking, but you struggled to focus, perhaps because of the sudden surge of stress your body had begun to tense irritating your wounds, that dull pain had returned stronger than before and threatened to make you collapse along with a sensation of itching.
“Yes-” you finally turned to Baelor again (whom you recognized only thanks to the descriptions you had heard about his hair color) and apologized once more “-tomorrow morning we will speak. It is late and I am sure you also wish to sleep. Apologies again for- this.”
Perhaps they answered you, but you did not hear them.
Teetering between unsteady steps, the wine and the pain you let yourself be dragged to your room, swallowing bitter infusions before fainting onto the bed under the attentive gaze of the only man who had not drunk that night.
You woke up late, still dressed from the day before, with a terrible headache that had little to do with alcohol. Outside the window, a light snowfall could be seen, the omen of a future storm that would once again trap the fortress.
A maid was already in the room tidying things up nearby; seeing you awake, she stopped and came closer to your bedside.
“My lady- shall I call someone to assist you? We were told not to disturb you-”
You hid your face in the pillow, yawning. It was the first night without nightmares, and you didn’t know whether to take it as a good sign or not. You were beginning to understand why people drowned themselves in drink- it really did seem to work.
“What? Who said that? What time is it?” You held out your hand for her to help you up. Your hair was still fully braided, and you realized you had spilled wine on yourself at some point because there was a very obvious dark stain near your chest.
“Prince Baelor-”
You looked at her, dazed. “Oh- so he is really here?”
She nodded. “Breakfast has been prepared- they’re downstairs- we moved out those who had passed out from the night before, everyone is up now- they asked for your father-” you got to your feet, bouncing slightly on your toes before heading to the washroom. You still couldn’t properly bathe anyway, so it was a matter of using soap on the only two patches of skin allowed between the bandages. You undid the braids, finally looking at yourself in the mirror after all those days in which you had avoided your reflection like the plague.
You had a black eye, and bruises in green, yellow, red, and purple across one side of your body, starting somewhere between your neck and shoulders and extending beneath the layers of clothing. Thankfully, they were all high-collared, but uncovering them, ugly finger marks were clearly visible decorating you like a necklace. Fortunately, the worst was mostly hidden- between the stabbed leg and the bandaged feet that made you limp, the whole picture was as well-contained as it could be, given the state of your hair. It was made of uneven strands, broken and disordered; you tied it into a sort of tail to hide it from view, though your face already told the whole story. There was no way to present yourself decently before the royal family.
Gods, you didn’t truly care, honestly- but you carried a title with you. Your brother was already far too loose in his manners, considering he would soon become the future Lord of the North.
You were helped into your clothes and took something for the pain before heading down to the hall. The headache had eased because of the anxiety; memories of the previous night played before your eyes again and again. You had longed for this day like air itself, but now you had so much to explain, and you could only hope the prince truly was as patient and wise as they said. You had already told far too many lies. It was a one-way ticket to being executed.
Outside the doors, Reinmod and Roderick were waiting for you. The latter (family advisor) had a stunned look- he knew nothing, of course. You had told only your brother about the letters, and for good reason.
“My lady, what-” he pleaded uncertainly, but you stopped him. “Write a letter to the other lords. Inform them that the Targaryens are here. I don’t care what you write- whatever happens in my conversation with them, we’ll have to deal with the consequences afterward.” He raised his hands in defeat, eager to flee as soon as possible, and didn’t need to be told twice, leaving you alone with your guard.
“Do I look awful?”
You asked him uncertainly, pulling your sweater higher over your neck. He huffed quietly.
“You look like the Lady of the North. My lady.”
Whether that was a compliment or not was debatable.
You entered the great hall, trying at least to keep your shoulders straight. The place had been cleared and hastily cleaned; the smell of food and alcohol still lingered far too strongly in the air, but everything faded into the background when you saw the white heads at the long raised table. Near the head, Lucilla sat comfortably among them, far more accustomed than you to high-level conversations with dangerous people. Even if she cared little for the content of their words, she was still a stage creature, and chatting with royals was just another day in the park for her.
When you reached the step, Baelor recognized your presence and stood, followed by the rest of the family. You bowed your head before climbing up. The woman rose as well to meet you.
“There you are. I was just telling the princes what formidable warriors you and your brother are-” she hesitated when she saw the murderous look you shot her, lowering her voice. “You won’t tell Sigfrid I drank, will you?”
You swallowed the urge to roll your eyes. Two boys at the table held back smiles- she had not been subtle at all.
“I need you to behave today. There’s a list on my desk of orders that need to be given- find Roderick and keep this place running while I’m occupied. And no, I won’t tell him. Because I don’t want a headache. You will.” She opened her mouth to protest but had enough sense to realize it wasn’t the right place. She greeted them and left, leaving you there.
“Prince Baelor. Prince Maekar-” you clasped your hands in front of you, trying to hide your nerves and speak without hurting your throat and chest too much. You glanced at the others- you vaguely remembered their names, but you wouldn’t risk it, so you only gave them a quick look. “I sincerely apologize for yesterday- I couldn’t have imagined-”
But the future king gave you a gentle smile. “There’s no need to apologize. As I told you yesterday, we arrived at an unfortunate hour, and we hadn’t even managed to inform you of our coming. There is no need to explain anything. We are happy to be here.”
You would have said the opposite, judging by the annoyed looks of the other men, but you couldn’t judge. People from the south tended to take the first days in the cold poorly, especially them, having arrived at the start of winter.
“I- I would let you have breakfast before we talk-” but they shook their heads. “No, we already have, we would prefer to speak with your father, if possible.”
You swallowed hard.
Yes. Your father.
“Would you follow me to the study? Your sons can look around in the meantime, Reinmod can accompany them. The city outside should be quite lively by now.”
They did not comment on your pace as you led them to the study you hadn’t entered in weeks. Indeed, everything had been left as it was when you had last been there: a few papers about the estate’s resources scattered across the desk, the inkwell still open and now dry, a few books on the floor, the chair with its back draped in a couple of cloaks.
Order was not your greatest virtue.
You pointed to the two chairs before the dark wooden desk, where Baelor and Maekar sat neatly. You moved behind the chair, holding onto its back, almost as if to hide from them.
“Yes… I don’t know how to say this without making it sound bad. But… you have never spoken to my father.”
“What?” Maekar burst out loudly, his brother beside him just as surprised.
“I mean- well, he read the first letter before I sent it.” You walked around the chair before sitting down with a thud; the old thing creaked unpleasantly. You wondered how many more embarrassments you would manage before those men- and it was only morning. Assuming they didn’t simply decide to leave you there.
They waited in silence for you to continue, so you gathered your courage.
“My father is over sixty now. He is very ill.” You glanced at the door before looking back at them. “He no longer speaks. Honestly, I don’t think he will survive the winter.”
You had sent three letters to the Targaryens since the beginning of the war, the first with the initial attacks, the second before winter, the last about a month ago. It had started as a warning about what was happening, nothing alarming, but you believed the royals should know. After all, the man invading the North was a Targaryen, it was their responsibility, and the Battle of the Redgrass Field had become famous across the realms. You thought it unfair that your people should suffer because of the whims of a dissatisfied heir who had nothing to do with you.
Your father had not agreed. He was a hard and proud man- but he trusted you, and the idea of “reprimanding” the Targaryens amused him. So he had read the letter, snorted an “okay,” and allowed you to send it.
But then the deaths piled up, resources were stolen, people came seeking counsel in fear.
So you wrote a second letter.
Your father would never admit it, your brother would rather cut off a hand than say it- but Maelys was a beast, and he was beating you at your own game.
“The rebellion may be over for you. But Daemon’s heir is slaughtering us. He has gathered a small army and hides in the woods. You’ve read the letters, my people are suffering. We are a proud people- my brother would never have wanted you here.” you rubbed your face, trying to gather your thoughts. You had too much to tell them and couldn’t find a sensible order without sounding pathetic. And your appearance didn’t help.
“Let me understand, you wrote to us without telling anyone, to beg us for help-” Maekar began, raising an eyebrow. A flash of irritation struck you. “Help? This whole situation is your fault-” you leaned forward over the desk, confronting him. Baelor had to place a hand on his brother’s shoulder before he could respond.
“We are aware that Daemon’s heirs are still causing trouble across the realms. We are taking measures- but we did not imagine things were this dire here.”
A long silence followed as the three of you looked at one another. Outside, the snowstorm had worsened, the wind howled, and the sky darkened, cutting off the few hours of light that had managed to filter through those days.
“He’s burning us at our own game.”
You murmured softly.
“But that’s not even the real problem.”
You opened one of the drawers filled with letters from the northern lords and tossed them onto the desk before them.
“In my last letter- which you did not answer, I requested an audience with the king-” you began, but Maekar laughed, interrupting you. “Of course you did. You’re not even the Lord of the North.”
You bit the inside of your lip before you could slap him across the desk. The reply came naturally. “Well, you’re not the king either, so I’d say we’re even-”
The air grew tense once more. Maekar looked at his older brother, stunned, but he did not seem equally bothered. “Leave us.”
You both looked at him, surprised, but Baelor’s eyes remained fixed on the letters. He hadn’t touched them, but one lay open before him.
“Maekar.”
That was enough.
He huffed like a child, but rose and left without another word, finally leaving the two of you alone.
You remained silent, hands in your lap, while he picked up the letters. They weren’t long or detailed, communication had become difficult as the weather worsened, but the message was clear: the northern lords were dissatisfied with how the war was progressing and loudly blamed the Targaryens and their bastard heirs.
“Rumors spread everywhere.” You drew his attention with a faint voice.
“Some say you will be a great king.” You took a deep breath.
“And I want to believe it. Now I do.”
The man set the paper aside and folded his hands, back straight, gaze attentive.
Baelor Targaryen was much older than you, but like many other men you had met, you tended to forget the age difference when they opened their mouths and proved themselves beasts, rude, ill-mannered, childish.
Your brother was proof enough. You loved him deeply, but at times he seemed like a child. Your father before him, and all the nobles you had dealt with in recent months, forty, fifty, sixty years old, still whining like boys. And yet, in front of this man, for once you felt uneasy, and you didn’t know how to interpret it.
You thought it might be due to his status, or the fact that he was a Targaryen and your last encounter with one of them had not been pleasant. But there was something else in his eyes that unsettled you. They were serious and thoughtful, yes, but you sensed no malice in them.
Had the world disappointed you so much that you felt fear when a man did not seem like a monster?
“Allow me to ask you to tell the story from the beginning.” He stood and began walking through the study, his gaze falling on the shelves filled with ancient tomes. You had never touched one, and you believed this was the first time anyone had looked at them in centuries.
“Why lie? I admit my ignorance regarding your family situation, the North tends to remain closed, and information filters through only partially. I understand why you might be wary of us, but I believe I have missed more than one piece that led you to want this conversation today.”
You pressed your lips into a hard line. Your heart tightened in your chest, now that you could truly speak with the heir to the throne, the words failed you. After all, here you were exposing yourself completely. Yes, the royals were at a disadvantage, even in the worst case, they would not be able to escape, but everything you were doing was to avoid further wars. The truth was, you had had enough. And the assault you had suffered had made you realize you were not suited for war. No one was- no one should be.
“I heard what happened at Ashford.” You blurted, standing as well.
“You nearly died, Targaryen heir.”
He turned to look at you, surprise in his eyes, but once again, he let you continue. It was a pleasant change compared to the discussions you usually had with the men of the North.
“I’ve heard many versions of what happened. But now, if possible, I would like to hear yours.”
He gave you a small amused smile. Without his brother’s irritability, the atmosphere between you had relaxed, and even if the reason for your meeting was not the best, you could almost enjoy the conversation.
“I admit I’m curious to know which version has reached the gates of Winterfell.”
You were beginning to see the pattern in his words, the elegant way he moved, like a dance, as he carried each sentence forward, a kind of waltz with which he tested the waters around you, keeping you alert while also allowing you moments to breathe.
You could play that game too, but you had to keep your goals firm. Gods, how old was he? Forty or so, you should have had nothing in common.
“There are many versions. Your miraculous recovery is told like a bedtime story now. They say you lay in bed only a few days before rising again. That you didn’t bleed. Oh- and-” you lifted a hand, waving it in the air, “there are even versions claiming you never truly fell. That they saw you walk out of that stable on your own feet, and that your convalescence was merely a façade for some intricate political scheme.”
He chuckled softly, turning back to the shelves before picking up a book and examining its cover, something about cooking, from what you could see.
Why there were books about cooking in the study, you had no idea.
“And which version do you believe?” He set the book down and returned before you. Only when his hips brushed the edge of the desk did you notice his eyes were two different colors, one dark brown, the other an intense blue.
You felt cornered by the question. You suspected he was asking something deeper, but you couldn’t grasp it. So you simply chose honesty.
“I believe… your brother did not intend to wound you so severely. But these tournaments cannot be controlled as we would like. And we are speaking of a man worried for his children. I-” you cleared your throat to avoid coughing, “I don’t know how deep the wound was. But the realms trembled for a moment when they nearly lost you. And so- you were saved by the gods, who heard the prayers of the people.”
It was difficult to speak with someone who held a different faith. You didn’t know how religious he was, nor how tolerant he might be. Balancing between the two was nearly impossible. Saying nothing would have been wiser- perhaps that was the trap he had set, hoping to unsettle you by speaking of higher beings. After all, the Targaryens considered themselves closer to gods than men.
“It is difficult to speak of something I do not remember-” he began. “I was in the stable- then I fainted. From there, I have only a few blurred images. But when I awoke, I felt well. Light.” He shook his head gently, smiling at you warmly once more. “I do not know if the gods spared me. Some say they punished me and that I escaped their judgment, angering them even more.”
You couldn’t help but ask, “What do you think? If you had to choose, was it a punishment or a blessing?”
He took time to consider. His gaze drifted outside, where the shapes of the nearest towers were barely visible. Once again, you were in the middle of a snowstorm. There was so much to organize and do, but you did not want to leave. You could have spoken with that man for hours.
“I believe the scar I will carry will be enough of a warning for the rest of my life. But I do not regret my choices. And I hope the gods can sense the sincerity in what I did. Whether it was a punishment or not, when my body failed me that afternoon, I closed my eyes in peace. But-” he smiled, “I think it was a punishment. The healers warned me that my hair will likely never grow back over the scar. I will have to walk around with a patchy head for the rest of my life.”
You couldn’t help but chuckle, then immediately stopped, realizing it wasn’t very proper. But he said nothing, clearly having intended to provoke that reaction.
“If it makes you feel any better, for a while I won’t have the best haircut either.” You cleared your throat, but this time you couldn’t suppress the coughs, giving way to a long, embarrassing moment in which strangled sounds filled the quiet of the study. Your chest ached, contracting and stretching your muscles; ironically, speaking was still the greatest strain you could put on your body, and you had to sit again to relax the muscles shaken by those unpleasant spasms.
When your eyes returned to the man’s mismatched ones, you noticed a hint of poorly concealed concern behind a smile that looked more like a grimace. He sat down as well, perhaps so you wouldn’t be forced to look up at him.
“May I ask what happened? Lady Lucilla was telling us that you and your brother actively take part in the defense of your people. I assume those are wounds from some recent battle?”
You murmured a little to clear your throat before speaking; the first words came out far too hoarse. You didn’t want to talk about it, you hadn’t really spoken about it with anyone, in fact. Even when your men had recovered you, you had only said in broad terms where you had been struck. Knights tended to speak with pride about their wounds, and you had every right to hold your head high after being struck from behind, but all you felt was shame, and you didn’t know why.
“Oh, no battle. This war has been poorly handled from the start. It’s even wrong to call it that, we were invaded, and they thought we wouldn’t lift a finger. But you Targaryens are hard to kill.” You tried to make it sound like a joke, but the resentment seeped from every pore of your skin.
“We were in a village recovering some resources left behind, I believe I wrote about it in a letter. With the arrival of winter, most of the people move into the city outside these walls, or to other nobles. People leave their homes closed and return in spring. But with an invasion, we ordered everything taken and their houses left unguarded so that no one could find shelter from the storms.” You let out a deep sigh. “I had to retrieve some dry wood, and Maelys was there. Hiding in the dark. We didn’t expect him to be there- he shouldn’t have been there.”
A shiver ran through you; the image of that man over you, the cold air on your bare legs, made bile rise in your throat at the mere thought. Your fingers trembled, so you intertwined them to hide it. “He struck me from behind. We rolled around a bit- well, anyway, he ran.” You murmured, skipping over the worst part of the story. Baelor did not miss that you had omitted something, but he did not press you further.
“Every year winter kills thousands. The elderly and children are the easiest targets. We are a proud people- we have an army- but we cannot unleash it in the middle of storms against a guerrilla force hiding in the snow. They came here to steal our resources- we have food and drink suited to last for months in storage, clothing resistant to any kind of weather. I don’t think they’ll remain once the worst has passed, but in the end we’ve been attacked repeatedly, robbed, and humiliated by a Targaryen, son of a bastard.”
The conversation tightened once more, but that unpleasant tingling had returned, making your body tremble, and you could not hide the bitterness you felt over the whole matter.
“I lied. A lot. No one but my brother knows about the letters. You can accuse me of deceiving you, but in the eyes of witnesses I am trying to avoid another war. You can stay, help us, make a good impression, and calm tensions. Or you can leave. Leave us to handle this on our own, widening the gap between Targaryen and Stark.”
You grabbed one of the many letters on the desk, waving it in the air before reading a portion aloud: “-we lost good fishermen today, fathers of families, because of a rebellion that was never even fought in the North- how much longer must we suffer for the actions of a Targaryen?” You let it fall and picked up another. “-they call him Maelys the Monstrous, and now we know why. I pray the Lord of the North hears me- we have been humiliated enough by these heretics with inhuman traits.”
A bitter smile escaped you as you dropped the paper, then opened another drawer, locked. Inside lay a long letter, signed by several northern nobles, delivered to you personally by a knight, son of one of those houses whose name you could no longer even remember. Baelor seemed to sense the gravity of it, because he leaned forward in his chair, as if the weight of the world now rested on his shoulders.
“In the name of every lord of the North, blah blah blah-” you muttered the opening, carefully avoiding pronouncing the surnames before continuing, “-we demand a swift and decisive response. While our people prepare supplies for winter, they are attacked by a Targaryen and his band of fools. Our homes plundered, our pride wounded, while the royals mock us a second time by waging their own petty wars in foolish tournaments- and again blah blah… you must surely have heard what happened at Ashford-” Baelor let out a heavy sigh, his head lowered as if struck “-we do not know if Baelor Targaryen will survive his wounds, nor do we care. But we are tired of dealing with other people’s bastards. The North was a great kingdom before these incestuous outsiders came to conquer us. And now they have neither claws nor fire to spit, and… blah blah blah blah.” You closed your eyes, gripping the letter tightly, fighting the urge to tear it apart.
“I can keep reading, but I think you understand what is being suggested in the end.”
You let that letter fall as well, but the man did not touch it, staring at it cautiously, as if it might burst into flames before your eyes.
“I am no one to tell you how you should act, but this is your chance to reclaim the North before it’s too late. We did not take part in the Blackfyre conflict, neither as allies nor as enemies, but we were burned by it nonetheless. You have no idea what I had to do to be heard by these people. They will turn against my family if I deny them conflict and can you really blame them? What have you given us in these past years? Aside from more problems. The last time, when was it? The Dance of the Dragons? And how much did we lose then as well?”
Baelor was thoughtful. Even if he didn’t look directly at you, he listened carefully. His long, slender fingers played with the rings on his hands; his knuckles were marked with small cuts from the cold. When he finally answered, his tone was grave, slow, tired.
“I agree that the crown must act to help you. But I do not believe there is an easy solution to this problem.” He raised his eyes to yours again; now both of you were leaning over the desk, murmuring like thieves. “I know you already have the support of the Lannisters and their gold. I have also received their communications on the matter, they were our allies during the uprisings and expect the same in return. But of course, they cannot move many resources along the borders without risking attack, which leaves you trapped here until the end of winter. I could gather the royal army, but it would only waste time. And the southern knights are not accustomed to this climate they would become another problem to manage.”
You sighed.
“I know. But staying here talking won’t calm tensions. These people want results, not words. And the worst has yet to come.” You gestured toward the door. “My brother should return soon, and he can’t stand you. And the great houses of the North will want to know what we discussed and they will demand an agreement. And if it doesn’t satisfy them, they will want war.”
Silence filled the study once more.
“May I ask you something? Outside of this matter.” he finally said, adjusting the front of his jacket, returning to a posture more fitting of a man of his rank.
You nodded.
“Did you pray for me?”
You were caught off guard by the question, but you didn’t show it, searching for the right words, once again balancing between different gods.
“I laughed at you.” you blurted before you could filter your thoughts. “What happened is ridiculous. I almost thought… that perhaps war was the only solution if this is the level of our royals. I don’t know how accurate the story about the puppeteer is, but… it’s serious. And two brothers waging war on each other in a tournament? Everything here stands thanks to the cooperation between me and my brother, to the trust we have in each other, what kind of man strikes his brother on the head with a mace? There is a great deal of pressure now on every choice you make. But. I did pray.” you murmured at last.
“I prayed that what is best for the realm would be done. And you survived. I want to believe it was the will of the gods. I believe in the old gods, Baelor Targaryen. I don’t know whether you were spared by my prayers or by those beyond the North. I believe very few in these lands hoped for your survival. But faith is the only thing I have left.”
You stood again, feeling that for the moment there was too much to process, and that the man needed time to think on his own, perhaps to discuss it with his brother.
“Soon I will no longer have power in this council. When my father is gone, my brother will officially take his place with his wife, they are already expecting an heir. I am old, Baelor. My family has kept me close for my intellect, but rumors are already spreading, accusations of incest I will not repeat aloud. I will be married off to who knows whom and lose the Stark name, at least politically. You will meet my brother soon, he is a good man, but emotional, and a victim of his own anger, easily manipulated by that pack of hyenas who have been waiting far too long for me to make a mistake. I just want… that when I am given away, everything here in the North will still function without me. And I need your help. I need you.”
You whispered the last words like a prayer, and for a moment of heretical doubt, you hoped that man truly was kin to the gods.
The first time baelor sees his mistress, his little dove, in the finest silks he had commissioned for her he can’t hold himself back
you fit so perfectly into his arms he cannot help but keep you in his lap and his face buried in your neck, inhaling your scent
he loves caressing your skin and massaging creams into your calloused hands and feet until they are soft and all traces of your hard work as a former servant are forgotten
he teaches you to read, softly guiding your hands onto the letters and makes you pronounce them, guides your hand when practicing your writing
dances with you in his chambers to teach you the steps and it always ends in a fit of giggles and kisses on your face, sometimes you two don’t even make it to the bed to make love, you just stumble to the floor and he ravishes you
i can romanticize the SHIT out of them <3333
HAHAHAH romanticise it alllll you want girl, I'm never gonna stop you! that's exactly what this page is for hehehe
I can def see him going coocoo over her when he sees her in fancy clothes for the first time. He's only ever seen her in her maid's garb. It's all cotton and linen and threadbare and quite harsh on the skin. It's all smock style or too big, nothing shapely or trendy or remotely attractive.
So when he sees her wearing a pretty silk dress, he goes blank in the brain. It's probably something very simple, maybe in pink or powder blue, nothing too embroidered or over done, but it's beautiful in its simplicity and he LOVES it. He just has to stand there for a little while and take it in. He reaches out and holds your hands but keeps you at arms length, slowly spins you around, admires you from every angle, just spends time appreciating the sight in front of him.
The thing is, I think after the accident and the start of this affair/relationship between you two, he definitely becomes a lot more overbearing/clingy as a person. He wants to be around you at all times, wants you to be in his arms or in his vicinity, which leads to things like you becoming the cupbearer at council meetings, you being required to sit in his study with him as he works, and your evening routines becoming severely intertwined.
If you are someone who needs alone time, good luck to you because he gets sooo stormy if he's away from you, and people tend to avoid him in those moments. He doesn't really want you to be away from him, but if you have to be for whatever reason, then he'll first try to convince you not to be, and then he'll be very grumpy and grouchy and just serious-faced until you are back with him.
But your nightly routine is definitely undressing each other, if you're bathing then you're bathing together, no handmaids/attendants/stewards, nothing. He'll help you undress and do your routine, but he wants you to do his for him. He still struggles with some fine motor skills sometimes, especially when he's really tired, so you have to undo clasps and buttons for him, retie laces if need be. You take off his rings for him, listen to the little clinks as you drop each one into the little dish that holds them.
His hands have a tremor in them now sometimes, especially when he's tired, so you feel them shaking against your back as he undoes your laces for you. He wants to do your earrings and necklaces but sometimes he can't undo the necklace and it really frustrates him but you just bring your hands up and have him guide your hands instead. Then you turn around, holding his hands in return now, look up into his eyes, and just gently kiss over his knuckles until his eyes flutter shut and his breathing slows down again.
He loves moisturising you. You had never thought about it before, or if you had, you knew you could never afford the fancy stuff the ladies had so you didn't bother. But after being with him, he gets you whatever possible things you could want, which means getting you rose or flower scented creams and gently rubbing them into your hands and feet, into your legs and arms until you're basically melted into your bed and begging him to clamber in so you can go to sleep.
He wants to be the one that does everything for you, wants to be the one that elevates you from your position into the new lady who fits perfectly into his life, which means he is def doing all these things for you, but especially teaching you how to read and write. For you he will have all the patience in the world, which means he will just sit with you when you get frustrated because you can't understand something or aren't doing as well as you want to.
As you start to get better, he will leave little notes for you in your rooms for you to find and read as the day goes on (and he cannot be there with you). You'll have woken up late that day, he's already gone to council, and you find a little bit of parchment on your vanity.
"Th- The mirrrr... mirr-oh-r is luc-ck-y to look up-on yo-oh-er be- be- be-you-ty"
And then you just sit there feeling blushy and warm because how the hell is this your life now? How is this the crown prince of westeros writing this for you?
And there's always more. You'll have a message delivered halfway through the day from some messenger boy and the parchment simply says "I love you" or "I think of you always". Or he'll quote poems and novels for you, and eventually, when you start working on your own writing, you start doing it for him in return.
You feel really giddy as you sneak around his study, tucking little prepared parchments into random places and corners so he'll always be finding little notes of love from you.
When you finally manage to write yours and his name for the first time, the two of you are so ecstatic. He kisses you silly and the two of you just hurry in the direction of your bed and just sort of stumble onto the edge in your haste and end up sliding onto the floor in your excitement, basically rabid for each other.
I actually love them... I need to come up with more stuff like this hehehe
Baelor Targaryen's wife losing her temper awakes some unexpected possessiveness in the prince...
word count: 4.2k+
“What if war comes?”
It was a cunning question, asked with something vicious in the lord’s eyes. It was a spark that could start a ruinous fire, and it all seemed like the man would enjoy its heat.
You could feel your cheeks burning too, but you wouldn’t give him the satisfaction so easily. Anyway, you always thought about yourself as a composed woman; you never expected your nerves to be brought so close to their end, especially after all the horrors that you’ve been through.
“What then?” You answered like you would to an unruly child, but trying to sound respectful at the same time. It was a hilarious matter to speak of, too hypothetical to approach seriously. “We have remarkable generals and strategists, my lord. If, as you imply, the council will suggest against his grace leading the army, I’m sure he will choose someone equally suitable as himself. Perhaps his brother, Prince Maekar.” You nodded at the youngest of King Daeron’s sons, who grunted under his breath.
Your brother-in-law refused to look up, apparently biting his tongue and fighting to remain silent. You preferred it that way too. The king asked you directly to watch over the peace of the dinner that you were sharing with a significant guest. It would be much more challenging if you had Maekar running his mouth, unable to control his building fury.
As much as you liked him silent right now, you wouldn’t blame him if he snapped. Truth be told, you wouldn’t even mind if he stood up to drag the lord out of the room… The man stabbed the cake on his plate with unnecessary force. You could see Maekar’s grip on his goblet tighten. The faces of his children were warmed with small grins that they tried to hide. The little menaces awaited some action: perhaps someone being yelled at, punched if they were lucky.
You would mutely cheer on that too if you weren’t the main person responsible for the conversation with the guest. A man who was speaking against your husband ever since the meal was served. He balanced on the line of fake concern for the realm and open objection to Baelor being his father’s heir.
After the events of Ashford, he was intrusive enough with his letters that the king finally agreed to hear him out. He expressed his worry that the prince, who recently recovered from his life-threatening injury, wasn’t the right choice. It boiled your blood, truly. Not out of hunger for power, the crown… You couldn’t care less for that. It was the audacity and rudeness of the man that made you furious.
The accident clearly and visibly affected your husband’s health and life; there was no question about that. He spent long weeks in bed under the watchful eyes of maesters, with you and his sons by his side. Even longer until he was finally able to sit or walk on his own. He sometimes complained about his eyesight failing him, and his hearing in one ear almost disappeared. He spoke of it like it was his own fault, with embarrassment and distress that you assured him were unnecessary. A grimace appeared on his face whenever he became too aware of his limping walk. Something that was connected to the damage of his spine that the injury caused. Yet, he recovered.
The long path of coming back to health earned him many silver strands in his hair and beard, and he felt overwhelmingly lightheaded when tired, but except for that, you couldn’t tell that the man almost faced death. You sometimes still teared up, watching him during normal daily duties. There was no sight more beautiful than Baelor sitting at his desk, back straightened like you would expect from a prince, doing his work while humming under his breath from time to time. You always pointed out he worked too hard and too much, but now you couldn’t even forbid him that. On some days you spent hours sitting with him, watching the view that you missed so greatly despite hating it before.
And now this—this fucking cunt dared to ramble against Baelor while looking you deep in the eyes. Audacious bastard, you thought probably for the sixth time during this damn dinner.
“Fine…” he muttered as an answer to your words, making you want to stand up and slap him. Then he smiled again in that planned way, fakely respectful and expressing the worry he held. “And what if our friends, an ally country, send their proxy here one day? Let us say that the prince – then king – has one of his worse days. Because you admitted, your grace, that he has ‘worse days,’ am I correct? How will that make us look if he passes out or feels too weak to attend the council?
You clenched your jaw and cursed your father-in-law, the old king, for being too tired today to join you. None of this would happen if he were here, listening to the lord. On the other hand, you weren’t surprised that he needed more time to prepare himself before he would call for the audience that the guest could express his thoughts on. Baelor was currently attending to his urgent duties. His absence was better for the situation, actually. Better for the world. You were sure you would stab him with your fork if he dared to speak like that in the prince’s presence.
“It’s not me you should speak about this to,” you said sharply, and yet still more calmly than you would like to. “I am not in a position to make those choices, and to put it simply, your words cannot make me think differently of his grace.”
You always referred to Baelor as ‘your husband’ or ‘the prince,’ but now you felt the need to mark his superiority over rascals like the man. It made the air around the room heavier. Even Maekar’s kids stopped in their hushed bickering, sensing the built-up tension to finally break.
“They will simply think we are ruled by a cripple,” he said, like you didn’t hear your words at all.
That was when the first person at the feasting table broke. Maekar’s hand hit the table, making the plates clatter. “You will be a cripple by the end of your visit here if you don’t start watching your tongue,” he said from between his clenched teeth.
“My prince, I just…” he tried, silenced by you but only for a moment.
“Not another word from you, my lord.”
But you had enough. The expectation, Baelor’s tendency to work himself to death, Maekar’s moods, the king’s demands, and the memory of the maester’s words that your husband’s condition is fatal… All of it. The bastard was just one more pull to the thin string that held your composed nature in check.
“My lady…” he tried, making you stand up from your seat abruptly.
He was lucky he sat away from your place at the top of the table. He was also lucky that you had some mercy left in you, because the thrown goblet of wine crashing nearby him and not on him certainly wasn’t your bad aim.
A deep breath sounded between everyone, making you more aware of what you have done. There was not even one bone in your body that would regret it, though. Daeron moved from his seat with painfully little grace to reach the pitcher of wine that stood in the middle of the table and keep it close to him as if you would come for it next.
“You have been insulting and speaking against our house ever since you showed up in the Keep,” you said in a hoarse grunt that surprised even you.
“Princess,” he spoke up again, reconsidering how he should address you. “I’m sure we can come to an agreement with calmness, my princess,” he muttered, but you could hear his voice growing more and more unsure.
“You will achieve no agreement with me,” you announced firmly. “Perhaps the king will be more understanding of your vituperations.”
He nodded and looked at his lap for a moment, apparently gathering his thoughts. “I have no doubt that he will hear me out with fairness and will be able to acknowledge the truth. It would mean a lot to me, though, princess, if I could call you my friend in this matter.”
“You fucking can not.” The yell was the final thing that made him drop the sure face he tried to keep. You pushed your chair away and leaned more over the table, pointing him out with a finger. “I almost lost my husband to The Stranger, and look at him now. He’s fine. Not unaffected, yes, but healthy and in good spirits. He’s a victorious survivor, not a victim as you put him.”
“Not unaffected, that’s my point…”
You had to stop yourself from stealing Maekar’s cup and also throwing him at the man. This time pointing it straight at him. Luckily for your dignity, you were able to hold back from the fantasy of his bloodied face.
“Shut up, bastard,” you ordered harshly.
It was his turn to stand up with anger. He could handle even the worst scolding from a royal, but a woman? Oh, that’s something he was very unused to and never planned to change. “Gods, woman! You are blinded by your desire for a higher position!”
Prince Maekar’s deep voice broke the silence that rang in your ears after the lord’s scream.
“Insult the princess once more, I dare you,” he warned. “Then you won’t walk away as a cripple. You will be carried out.”
He was never very fond of you, you imagined, but when it came to protecting the good name of his family, he knew no measures.
This calmed the lord, scared him enough that he sat again.
“I am merely a simple man concerned for the future of his land and country,” he muttered under his breath.
You scoffed in irritation.
“A blithering idiot is what you are.”
It was a loud remark that made him sit back in his chair. Daeron snorted in his drunken state, quickly being hit with his father’s murderous gaze.
But you acted upon your frustration and turned to him at once. “Shut the fuck up, Daeron.”
The loud thud of the doors sounded in the room long after you left.
All that you felt bad for was screaming at your husband’s nephew and doing it not only in front of a guest but also his siblings. If you were honest, you wished to banish the memory from your mind, even if worse words escaped your throat that day. You didn’t regret anything said to the lord.
With your husband busied by his duties, you were left to linger around your room, unable to focus on anything. After seeing the hours pass with no mercy and being left with no choice, you walked out of your chambers to find Daeron. He was probably too drunk to be bothered by your scream. All that caused him was a headache, but even for that you felt wrong.
You found him with his young siblings outside the castle, lying in the grass. He threw a hand behind his head to make the hard ground more comfortable and let out quiet snores while the others played around. Daella and Aegon stayed on their backs too, pointing out certain clouds and giggling about their shapes, while Rhae tangled the grass into numerous braids before connecting it together. Pretty convenient for Daeron, you thought. If only they could always be so well-behaved when he was ordered by his father to watch over them.
Rhae smacked her eldest brother straight in the face when she saw you approaching. “Wake up!” She demanded in a pitched voice.
“Wha–” Daeron almost sat up before his back hit the ground again. He had hair all over his forehead, and he looked up at you, upside down, before letting out a relieved sigh. “Oh, it’s you.”
“I’ve come to apologize,” you said after clearing your throat but weren't given a chance to speak more.
Daeron waved his hand dismissively and closed his eyes again. “That’s nothing, aunt. No offense taken. It was… rather entertaining, anyway.”
“It was,” Egg agreed loudly. “Especially when you threw that gobble his way!”
The siblings agreed in a mutual, excited hum. You felt the need to massage the aching space between your eyebrows.
“Come, watch the sky with us,” invited Daella.
“Yes, auntie!” Rhae was quick to grab your hand and drag you down to the grass, putting all of her little body’s strength into it. “Sit with us!”
Well, how could you say no to them? Sometimes it felt like the children were the only genuine creatures in this castle, even if they could also be the most cruel ones.
You laughed out loud, forgetting about the awful feeling left in you after the dinner. Just before you approached the kids, it struck you that the news would eventually reach Baelor’s ears, and you would have to face him. The mere thought made you dizzy. Now you could abandon the worry for a while, almost choking on your giggle when you noticed that Daeron was making up the shapes he ‘saw’ in clouds at the demands of his sisters, while his eyes were still closed.
“That one looks like Uncle Baelor,” claimed Rhae, nudging her brother’s shoulder.
Her sister deeply disagreed, snorting under her breath. “Perhaps when his head was all swollen,” he mocked.
You knew she was a child who probably only meant to hurt her sibling a bit, but you couldn’t feel your breath stop for a while. You stayed still, not very trustful of your own reactions today. Thankfully little Egg, the kindest boy you knew, sat up immediately and threw his sister a look of utter disappointment.
“Daella!” He screamed at her, making her blush and look your way as if she just realized you were there.
“I didn’t mean… I’m sorry,” she said to you, looking at her feet.
“It is alright,” you said quickly, certainly not wanting to cry in front of them. “I must go back to my occupations now. Have fun and… try not to walk away far from your brother.”
You looked at Daeron, snoring and asleep again, for the final time before getting up.
It wasn’t alright, not at all. The memory of Baelor’s suffering was a horror you would never forget. All the moments when his sons woke up at night were engraved in your mind. When you didn’t keep watch over your husband, you often sat by their side, holding them in your arms when they needed it. They were almost men, and yet they called for their father like children because of the worry for his life.
Ashford was about to stay with the four of you forever, and you knew it was better to accept it. Just sometimes, in moments like this, when your husband was locked in his room, you felt the overwhelming burden of it. It was like a force that could break your shoulders, your spine, and bend you in half just so you could hide your aching head between your knees.
When you reached your bedroom again, you gripped the goblet of wine like it was your only salvation in life. Gods, you really couldn’t handle it sober today. It made you feel even more pathetic when Baelor came in the evening, forcing you to turn around to hide your face reddened from crying and drinking. You banished the memory as much as you could when he left, forced by your desperate please.
If only you knew how much it broke his heart to leave you with all of it alone.
The pain was unbearable when you stood in front of his study the next day. It was midday, and you could still feel like sleep didn’t free you from its paws.
You entered slowly, recalling all the words you had prepared. The door didn’t squeak; your steps didn’t betray you.
“I pray…” you spoke without proper greeting, but your voice broke. It was so pitiful you wanted to scream. “All I can hope for is that you see my behavior as humiliating only for myself and not for you too.”
Baelor's head snapped up, and his expression turned from surprise to something gentle.
“My wife…” he whispered like he didn't hear your words at all, just taken aback by your presence itself. You knew he had problems with hearing, but you also knew he did that deliberately now. “How do you feel, heart?” He asked, rising from his chair, not daring to step closer to you.
That was the worst; you screamed at him too last night, and now he resented you. He must have. You were almost scared of yourself too, especially after how you behaved towards him when drunk.
Moments after your fury and your vulgar, uncontrolled speech, you were partially proud of it. With time came the questioning. You decided you couldn't bear the embarrassment.
You refused to open the door when Baelor sought you, but he entered anyway.
“Please, please…” you sobbed in your drunken state. “Leave me alone. I am deeply sorry, husband, but I cannot– Scold me all you like… all I deserve, but tomorrow. Let me have tonight…”
“Are you certain you are good to stay on your own?”
“Fuck, just leave!”
He had awful remorse for leaving you alone, but you also never looked at him with such fright. He didn't know how to react and fled, feeling more like a coward than ever.
“Baelor…” you whispered, making him return his thoughts to now.
You didn't answer his question, but he saw you were swaying on your feet. It wasn't something he would ever blame you for. He remembered his youth well; he had drunken nights with his brothers and tried to drown his sorrows in wine as well in the past.
He wished to take you in his arms and rock you calmly but didn't wish to overstep. There was deep doubt in him that your wish from last night would ever leave his memory. To him it wasn’t about your behaviour, though. It was about how much he failed as a husband, which made you feel like you had to hide.
Left with no choice, straightened his back and took a deep breath. “I could never think of your acts as humiliating. To neither of us, never.”
It made your breath hitch.
“But I…”
“It was… unexpected, I admit.” He nodded his head and stood up slowly, allowing you to step away if you wished to.
He prayed you wouldn’t. It would be unbearable if you backed away to the wall, fleeing from him like that. His fists tightened and loosened as a way to distract himself from the need to have you close.
You teared up again, trying to fight it, but your head ached, blood buzzed in your ears, and you felt like collapsing in front of your husband.
Baelor broke his promise to not do anything against your wish. He ignored it and closed the distance between you, pulling you to his chest.
“Do not cry, my love,” he said softly, brushing the top of your head with his lips. “Shhh… I'm so sorry it happened to you.”
You allowed your hands to move up and grip the material of his clothing over his chest.
“I let him provoke me,” you explained, trying not to sound hysterical. “It's my fault…”
You could hear it in Baelor’s voice that he smirked. “Even if you're not the first and not the last.”
“I'm so sorry.”
He moved away just to have a proper look at you. With his thumb, he brushed your tears away. Then it collided with your shivering lower lip and pressed a little. When he leaned in and you felt his warm breath all over your neck, you couldn’t help but think that some part of him enjoyed all of it. You decided to ignore it, not wanting to leave things unsettled.
“Why are you apologizing to me, sweet?”
“I never meant to rush you outside our bedroom,” you explained, ignoring his question. “I didn’t want you to see me looking so pitiful. Certainly not when I expected you to be ashamed of me.”
“I could never be ashamed of you,” he assured you without the need to think about it. “And besides, from what Maekar told me, there is nothing I or you should feel bad about.”
You smothered the material over his chest from the crumples your grip left. You looked up at him again with worry. “Did he tell you what caused it?”
“He refused to, but don’t take me for a fool, my wife. I know this lordling’s belief better than I would like to,” he muttered with a grimace.
Not wishing to see him like that, you moved onto your tiptoes and tugged at the collar of his shirt. Your lips merely brushed over his, but you felt him smile and chase you chastely when you meant to pull away. His touch was warm, and a big hand placed over your back made you shiver.
“What he did mention, though,” he spoke up, parting from your lips swollen from your own biting, “was that you fought like a true dragon. It’s a grand compliment from my brother.”
“I am no dragon…”
“Well, I guess you take from people you surround yourself with.” He played with your hair before brushing it behind your shoulder. The path of his finger that traced your face made you realize he missed you as much as you missed him. “Now answer my question, wife. How are you feeling?”
The tension suddenly left you, making you sigh deeply. You were happy to lean into Baelor’s strong arms more, supported by him.
“Awful,” you admitted. “Disgusting…”
That's what he figured. A night like that couldn’t leave you with anything good, especially when the remorse that caused it was unnecessary.
“Will you allow me to take care of you?”
“I don't want to be a bother,” you murmured quietly, hiding your face in his chest, but he gently made you look at him again.
“Nonsense. And when you feel better, perhaps tomorrow, I would like to take you for a ride. Would that be appealing to you?”
You hesitated for a while, knowing how much worse Baelor’s anger could make the situation. Still, you placed his good name above everything, and it felt like your chore to remind him of that.
“Baelor, I think it would be better if I stayed out of sight for some time. I certainly shouldn't show up next to you anywhere. At least for a few days. I…”
Baelor's eyes darkened dangerously. You felt him cupping your face tighter. Still gentle enough to call it sweet, but it was slowly turning into a touch of urgency. Made from the need to keep you close even against the wishes of others.
“Are those your thoughts, or did someone suggest that to you?” His voice turned lower and quieter. He always spoke his warnings like that. But it wasn’t meant to intimidate you, certainly not.
“They are mine,” you promised. “I only meant what's good for you…”
Baelor stared at you, his face barely over yours, and you would swear he didn’t even breathe. You could no longer recognize if his expression was a grimace or a smile, but there was something wicked in it. Something that you could only see on Baelor when he was furious or led by desire. It made you feel warm.
With thrill settling in the base of your spine, you wrapped your arms around Baelor, settling yourself more comfortably against him.
“Husband?”
“Say it again,” he dared. “Say that your wish is to stay away from me.”
“Oh, you know that it's not like that.”
“Say it,” he repeated, placing his big hand at the nape of your neck like he needed to support your head. He forced you to look up and throw your head back a little.
You watched him eye your bare neck like a man starved for what was his to take.
“I don't want to say it.”
He brushed another strand of hair out of the way. Your noses almost touched before he leaned in closer. A lazy kiss was placed on the side of your neck, dragged on for too long to consider it proper. Baelor’s warm lips traveled up to your ear, settling there for a while and playing with your earlobe before he spoke up again.
“If anyone says something about it again,” he spoke up in a serious, quiet voice that sent shivers down your body, “tries to pursue you into staying in the shadows…”
“Baelor,” you didn’t want him to end that sentence, even if your less rational part was thrilled with it. Enough harm was done already.
But would Baelor think the same if he were there with you, hearing the lord speak all of those sick words? For now he looked shaken only by the idea that you could be pushed away from your place by his side.
“Whoever tries to keep you away from me will have to face something much worse than your screams. Not that they weren’t scary enough, from what I’ve heard.”
a/n: this was such a pleasure to write. just me, wine and my dear friend baelor break-my-back… oh i mean–
sorry for baelor being so eerie (i’m not sorry) but peter steele was moaning into my headphones almost all the time during writing and that’s the reason
PAIRING — Prince Baelor Targaryen x fem!Reader // Baratheon!OC
SUMMARY — For the first time ever your brother fights by the same side as your husband and you have to worry about losing them both. The tragic incident might finally bring the family together.
AUTHOR’S NOTE — Not requested but you know me... I love Baratheon!Readers more than anything else. 🦌 The Reader here is Lyonel's sister but I didn't focus on her looks. Lyonel despises Baelor and the Targaryens so I thought the dynamic could be interesting. BAELOR LIVES but it seems at first he will not, so be warned. 😅
WARNINGS — Reader is Baelor's first wife, Reader is Valarr's mother (but I only described his eyes), I changed Matarys for a daughter named Baela (sorry, Matarys)
WORD COUNT — 4,440
ENGLISH IS MY SECOND LANGUAGE.
FAMILY AFFAIRS
“You must be out of your mind.”
The night was rainy and dark as if the skies knew what a gloomy morrow was coming. You had a cloak wrapped around your nightgown while you were standing under a wooden and leaking rooftop of the Ashford Castle’s stables.
Lyonel chuckled at you and shook his head, his earring sparkled in the moonlight and so did his eyes. You furrowed your brows as you took a better look at your brother. Suddenly it hit you how much older he was now. So were you, of course. But it was something you had been refusing to think about for a long time now.
“I can’t lose you,” you added.
“You will not lose me,” he rolled his eyes.
“You’re only doing that to spite Baelor,” you sighed. “To publicly fight against the Targaryens.”
“No. I’m doing it because what your nephew did was outrageous and I know that you agree with me deep in your heart,” Lyonel’s face went serious now as he cleared his throat. He reached for the brooch holding your coat together. A silver three-headed dragon with eyes made of red rubies that was crooked now. He fixed it. “Do you?” He asked as if he was not sure anymore.
“You are asking whether I still have a Baratheon heart,” you snorted. “As if it was something I could get rid of.”
“Then you know why I must stand by Ser Duncan’s side,” Lyonel explained. “I know that you do.”
“They will not go easy on you just because you are my brother. Especially not Maekar… and especially not Aerion,” your lower lip trembled.
“I will not go easy on them either just because they are your family now,” Lyonel laughed.
He always laughed no matter how serious the situation was. It was something that had been always driving you mad. But it was also something you had always loved about your brother.
The Laughing Storm.
“They are not my family. Not like you are,” you assured him. “I’d rather lose them ten times over than lose you once.”
Lyonel smirked at those words.
“That’s my girl,” he nodded, making you feel as if you were a teenager again, arguing with him at the Storm’s End courtyard as you two had always done. “Your heart is in the right place. Still.”
“Just promise me that you will not die,” you sighed.
There was no point in trying to convince him to change his mind. Lyonel was as stubborn as a mule.
You knew because you were the same.
“I will not,” Lyonel promised. “But if I do, promise me that you will not cry at my funeral but tell everyone angrily in that charming fashion of yours that you were warning me and you were fucking right.”
You chuckled at that.
“Of course I will,” you nodded and squeezed his arm.
He nodded at you and walked away, leaving you alone in the pouring rain. You took a deep breath in and went back to the castle.
You were running late, trying to find the pair of gloves. You didn’t want to be late for the Trial of Seven but your nervousness most likely made you the most unorganised woman in the whole Realm. Here, at the Ashford Castle, you had only one humble servant instead of a whole group of handmaidens like at the Red Keep, therefore you felt as if you had to do everything on your own, cursing under your breath.
“Mother!” Your son’s panicked voice made you nearly jump in your place as you turned your head around.
His mismatched eyes found yours immediately, widened with fear.
“Mother, help me,” he pleaded.
“What is it, my heart?” You asked him.
A young man now he was. But your heart he would always remain. Your pride and your blood. Half-dragon and half-stag. Yet his nature was so gentle as if he was not yours.
“Father has gone mad. You must help me,” he informed you.
“Mad?” You raised your eyebrows. “Mad how?”
You finally found your gloves as you grabbed them to put them on. It was hard to believe your husband was going mad. He was the calmest and most honourable Targaryen that has ever existed. He was the furthest away from the madness as possible.
“He demanded I give him my armour. He wishes to join the Trail of Seven,” Valarr said and your heart stopped beating in your chest for a moment.
“No.”
“Yes.”
“Take me to him,” you followed him out of your chambers in a rush.
You nearly ran down the hall and into the stables where you had spoken to your brother the previous evening. Now you witnessed your husband there, cursing at the armour your son’s squire was attempting to put on him.
“My Prince, but it is too small,” you laughed at him, trying to approach the matter with a light-hearted attitude.
Baelor turned around and rolled his eyes at you.
His beautiful mismatched eyes just like your son’s.
“Father, please. Your head is too big,” Valarr picked up your mood and played along with it.
“No. It is yours that is simply too small,” Baelor answered and Valarr sighed.
“His head is perfectly measured,” you caressed Valarr’s hair gently before approaching your husband. “Yours is large because it is full of stupid ideas like this one. Undress this instant.”
“My Lady, that was improper,” Baelor teased.
“Baelor!”
He sighed.
“All he needs is one more man. I cannot leave Ser Duncan like this. He will be executed if no one joins him,” your husband explained. Honourable as always. “You know that it would be unfair.”
“So you must dress up and play a hero?”
“That accusation hurts me deeply,” Baelor said, half-teasingly but you knew he meant it.
“You are the most powerful man in this Realm after your father, you will find a way to save this man’s life that does not put yours at risk,” you insisted, putting your hands on your hips. “Baelor, no. It is not even your armour.”
“I will be the most protected man on that field,” he explained to you. “Do you think the Kingsguards sworn to me would even attempt to hurt me?”
“That is not honourable then.”
“No, it is not. But it looks good in the eyes of the smallfolk,” Baelor grabbed the helmet from the squire’s hands, determined to push it onto his head once more.
You took a deep breath in and exchanged looks with your son.
“So it is all for appearances?” You inquired.
“No. Not all,” Baelor shook his head with the helmet finally on. “Come on, sweet wife, you would lie if you told me it does not feel good to see me and Lyonel fighting together on the same side.”
“It would feel better if none of you were on that field. Stubborn old men,” you let out an exasperated sigh.
“We are not that old.”
“You are.”
“So are you then.”
“I am younger than each of you.”
“Barely.”
A short silence occurred and you two eventually let out a laugh.
“Just promise me that you will not die,” you sighed.
“I will not,” Baelor assured you and you approached him closer to kiss the forehead of his helmet.
“There. My blessing,” you told him. “Now go and bring it back to me in glory.”
You watched him mount a horse as you took your son by his elbow to walk with him together to the boxes so you could take your seat and watch the Trial.
“You allowed him to participate?” Valarr asked, surprised.
“My dear boy, your father is not a horse for me to command him. I cannot allow nor forbid anything,” you chuckled and pinched his cheek.
Valarr huffed at that.
Your fingers dug into the edge of your chair as you leaned in and watched while holding your breath. Your father glanced at you from the corner of his eye.
“Your brother is an excellent knight, he will be alright,” he assured you. “Besides, he is wearing your favour.”
“What?” You looked at him. “Ah, yes, yes…”
Your father chuckled as he realised it was not his son you were worrying about.
It was Prince Baelor Targaryen. A young man with mismatched eyes that inherited his mother’s Dornish looks more than his father’s Valyrian traits. An honourable knight that made your father realise not all Targaryens were the same.
But Lyonel was not convinced. He despised Baelor for the simple fact he was a Targaryen. A conqueror. A tyrant.
He had forbidden you to speak to that man the moment he had realised the way you had been looking at him was… seductive, as your brother had called it.
But you were a Baratheon Lady and you would not be commanded. Not at your own home. Therefore, without caring if Lyonel could see it or not, you were openly courting Prince Baelor.
Well, you were talking to him and making jokes together. It was others that interpreted it as courting. But Prince Baelor didn’t find you invasive. He was watching you from the moment you would enter the room until the moment you would walk too far away for his mismatched eyes to follow you.
You were a storm, you were a challenge, you were the fire. And the fact your brother hated him was making it even better because he found himself in the middle of some courtly game that excited him.
He was looking at you now as well from the grounds. Right before Lyonel charged at him but Baelor blocked the blow. They duelled for a short while before your brother’s sword fell from his hands and onto the ground. When he leaned in to grab it back, Baelor pointed his at the young Baratheon Lord.
“It is over now. I won,” the Prince announced and Lyonel’s eyes filled with fury as his cheeks flushed.
The crowd cheered for the winner. You did as well and so did your parents. After all, your brother was safe and unharmed except for a few cuts and bruises. The fight had been excellent and fair. There was no need to hold any grudge.
Baelor lowered his sword and offered Lyonel his hand but your brother ignored it.
“You won then,” he announced. “What is it that you want from me now? My horse? A piece of my armour as a prize?”
“Just the ribbon,” Baelor said.
Lyonel felt as if he had been slapped. It was worse than any other demand the princeling could have had.
“You will not get it, my Prince. Over my dead body you will wear my sister’s favour,” Lyonel stood so close to him that their helmets nearly crashed. The tension made everyone stop cheering.
“My son, my Prince! The duel is over now,” your father reminded them from his seat.
“You will not get that ribbon unless you tear it out of my cold, dead hands,” Lyonel spat out, ignoring his sire as his eyes sparkled with anger.
Baelor’s eyes remained calm but they were determined now.
“I demand to have it,” he insisted. “And you owe me, Ser.”
Lyonel pushed him and everyone gasped.
“Lyonel!” Your mother exclaimed. “Stop that, this instant!”
Baelor stood still but when he saw the young stag charging at him again, he pushed him away as well.
Soon enough they were beating each other with their fists in the mud like two children.
“How embarrassing!” Your father hid his face in his hands.
“It is your fault,” your mother pointed out.
“Mine?!” He asked.
“Yes, yours! It is your Baratheon blood. Both of our children are this way.”
“Excuse me?” You asked her.
“You heard me well.”
“Well then, I must join,” you stood up to leave the box.
“Seven Hells!” Your mother cursed as she watched you run down to join the few servants trying to separate your brother from the Prince.
You dragged Lyonel away with his squire’s help. He took off his helmet, nearly poking your eye with it and then he laughed. You slapped his face and he froze, looking offended.
“Give it back to me,” you tore the ribbon off of his armour with an angry look.
You approached Prince Baelor who was now coughing from the dust as he dropped his helmet onto the ground.
“My Prince,” you walked up to him. “There is the ribbon you have asked for,” you handed him the torn and dirty piece of fabric that looked rather pathetic now.
He took it from you, gently.
“I am willing to give you a new and pretty one if you wish,” you batted your eyelashes at him and he smirked. Lyonel scoffed behind you.
“I shall take it myself,” Baelor smiled and you held your breath as he approached you to untie one of the ribbons from your corset.
Not a sleeve, not a braid.
A corset.
“That is a bold move, my Prince,” you breathed out, your eyes looking intensely into his.
“That is a statement,” he nodded. “A claim.”
Your lips curved into a smile. He caressed the new ribbon with his fingers and smirked back at you.
“My brother would call it a conquest.”
“I seem to have it in my blood,” Baelor teased.
The crowd began to clap again, slowly and awkwardly but they quickly realised what they had just witnessed.
You looked up to meet your father’s gaze. You expected him to be furious but he only nodded with a gentle smile. After all, it was an honour to marry the future King. Even a Targaryen. Even as a Baratheon.
When you looked around to glance at your brother, he spit with blood onto the ground.
For him it was betrayal.
But he still loved you. And you still loved him.
It felt as if you were watching everything from the outside of your own body. Squeezing the pair of gloves in your trembling hands as you stood there, petrified, in the corner of the room.
They put him on the fresh linen and the pillow was soaked with blood a minute later. The maester glanced at you worryingly.
“Let me pass!” Valarr’s panicked voice brought you back to reality.
“No!” You turned around sharply to block his view. “No, don’t go inside.”
“Mother, I am not a child anymore.”
“Yes, you are!” You raised your voice and then you flinched at how harsh the words had sounded. You didn’t mean that.
But Valarr turned around already and walked away, humiliated.
You would deal with that later. Now all that mattered was Baelor.
You dropped the gloves and rushed to the bed to hold his hand. His breath was faint and he was unconscious. The wound on his head was serious and the maester was fighting with time itself to save his life.
“You fucking fool,” you muttered against the cold palm of his hand as you cried.
“My Lady… I don’t think I will be able to help much more,” the maester confessed with widened eyes as he glanced at you, his hands soaked with blood.
But Baelor was still breathing. And as long as he was breathing, there was still hope.
“You better be fucking able to,” you snapped at the maester. “Because if he dies here, I will have you executed!”
You didn’t mean that and everyone knew you did not. It was just your infamous awful temper that people were gossipping about.
But at that moment it felt real.
“Let me try again…” The maester approached your husband’s body carefully and you took a step back to let him do his work.
Muffled noises from the outside brought your attention as you stood up again to walk into the corridor.
Valarr was back, a few shades paler. His sister Baela was sobbing with her face pressed to his chest. Aegon was standing next to them and behind him… Maekar.
“You…” You hissed out at him. “Don’t you fucking dare to show up here.”
“(Y/N)...” He whispered.
“No,” you cut him off and approached your children to hug Baela. “You might go inside,” you looked at your son. “I’m sorry for earlier.”
Valarr nodded and swallowed thickly.
“I’d rather wait here,” he decided and you pressed your forehead to his before kissing him there. Then you placed a kiss on top of Baela’s head.
The sound of footsteps caused you to turn around. It was your brother.
“Lyonel…!” You gasped and hurried to him, clashing into his arms like a little girl yourself.
Just like Baela needed Valarr, you needed Lyonel.
He wrapped his arms around you and squeezed you tight.
“Why didn’t you watch over him?” You asked but there was no accusal in your voice, only sadness.
“He fought against his own guards and his own kin. Who would have thought he should have been watched,” Lyonel chuckled. “Perhaps it is the gods’ punishment.”
Everyone looked at him angrily, including you. You took a step back.
“Even now?” You asked him. “You are heartless, brother.”
“One more thing you have in common with your Prince. A heartless brother,” he glanced at Maekar.
“What is wrong with this fucking family?” You asked, shaking your head.
Without a word, you went back to the chamber where Baelor was laying. You looked at the maester.
“The bleeding stops,” he announced. “But he might not wake up. And if he does… He might not be himself anymore.”
You nodded with a heavy heart.
“I will deal with that. I will deal with anything. As long as he wakes up,” you stated before sitting down beside your husband, holding his hand. “Just wake up, you old fool.”
You hadn’t slept for the whole night, too scared that if you drifted off to the land of dreams, Baelor would have died in the meantime. And you wanted to be present in case he’d draw his last breath. That was all you could do.
The morning sun was rising slowly outside, shining shyly through the window’s glass. As it lit up his exhausted and pale face, you sobbed quietly. He looked so… old.
Through the tears, you smiled fondly at the memory of the young Prince who had untied a ribbon from your corset at the Storm’s End Tourney. The smallfolk had written a song about it.
You untangled your stiff fingers from his and caressed his cheek.
“Come back to me…” You pleaded. “Turn around from the road I cannot follow and come back to me.”
A quiet knock upon the doors. You looked in its direction as they creaked while opening.
It was Lyonel with his head hung low. He was still wearing the same clothes as yesterday and the bags under his eyes were a sign he hadn’t slept either. You saw the rest behind him, napping on the cold ground.
Something moved deep inside of you. You were a messy family, that was for sure. But they had spent the whole night on that cold floor outside Baelor’s chamber. Maekar with Aegon and Baela with her head on Valarr’s shoulder.
In that moment, your tired heart filled with love instead of anger at the thought of them. Even your brother-in-law.
You couldn’t imagine how he must have been feeling.
Your tempers often clashed because they were similar. The mistake Maekar had made – the awful, awful mistake – it could have been you. It was something you or your brother could have done as well.
Perhaps the Baratheons and Targaryens were a deadly match together.
“Come,” you whispered and Lyonel nodded, closing the door behind him.
Then he glanced at Baelor and looked at you. His eyes filled with nothing but worry and love. No playfulness. No teasing.
“I shouldn’t have said that.”
“You shouldn’t have.”
“But I have.”
“You have. Because you are a Baratheon,” you nodded, looking up at him. “Those were only words. They meant nothing. Words cannot kill or heal.”
“If I had known what would happen, I would have guarded him every second of that tourney,” Lyonel assured you. “Because I love you.”
“I know,” you said and reached out to squeeze his hand. “And he would watch you for me.”
“He did,” Lyonel confessed. “When the Kingsguard charged at me, it was your Prince who stood between us,” he admitted with embarrassment.
Embarrassment because his words from the last night sounded even more cruel now.
“For what did the gods punish him then?” You asked but without any anger or reproach, letting go of his hand so you could wipe your tears.
“It was fixed from the beginning against Ser Duncan. Baelor’s presence protected us and helped us win. Perhaps it was unfair to fight Kingsguards sworn to protect you but it was only balancing out the injustice of the whole system,” Lyonel admitted. “If there is any way I can help…”
“There is,” a raspy voice interrupted you two as you looked down with widened eyes. Baelor coughed a little and fluttered his eyelids before opening his hazy eyes. “Just shut up, Lyonel, I’ve a terrible headache,” he breathed out, making you and your brother laugh.
“Oh, my love!” You gasped and cupped your husband’s cheeks as you leaned in to kiss him on his dry lips. “My darling Prince, how do you feel?”
“As if a herd of horses ran over me,” he admitted.
“Go tell the rest,” you told Lyonel and he nodded before opening the door to announce his brother-in-law had woken up.
“Papa!” Baela’s cry filled the room and Baelor hissed a little at the sound but he smiled and reached out towards the source of it. “Oh, papa! I prayed to all the gods,” she sobbed and wrapped her hands around his neck as she cried into his chest.
“Careful, Baela, daddy’s head is hurt,” you gently adjusted her hands to make sure they were not making him feel worse.
“It is alright,” Baelor whispered. “My sweet girl,” he cooed to her.
Valarr stood above you, his pretty eyes all red from tears. Your heart clenched inside your chest at the sight.
You stood up to cup his cheeks and kiss them.
“My heart… Thank you for taking care of Baela when I could not.”
“It comes naturally,” Lyonel assured you with a smile and Valarr nodded.
You took a step back so he could sit where you had been sitting and be close to his father.
You glanced at Maekar. Your brother-in-law was standing in the corner, unsure if he was welcome. You approached him and finally did something you had wanted to do since the previous night but had been too focused on your husband.
You smacked him. Hard. The sound echoed through the chamber.
A silence occurred. After a short while he rubbed his reddened cheek and you let out a relieved laugh.
“Bastard,” you chuckled. “Go to him now if you wish. I will fetch the maester,” you patted his arm and walked out of the room.
You took a deep breath in as the sun warmed your skin through the windows in the hall. Tears of relief and joy streamed down your cheeks as you walked towards the maester’s chambers.
“Mummy, can Ser Duncan take me to the market?” Baela whined to you for the tenth time that day.
You glanced at her and then at her new sworn Kingsguard. Ser Duncan looked away, pretending he was not part of the conversation.
“What for, my sweetling?” You asked her.
“Simply because I enjoy doing so,” she stated.
“And what did your father say?”
“Papa said I could go if you agreed,” Baela huffed.
“Very well then,” you nodded and she smiled widely.
“Thank you, mummy!” She hugged your waist before grabbing Ser Duncan by his elbow. “Hurry, come!” She pulled him
A huge knight dragged by a girl of two and ten. It was an adorable sight but you were glad he was her sworn knight. You worried much less about her ever since he had become her protector.
You went to your chambers and froze at the sight of Baelor spread out on your sofa.
“What are you doing here, my Prince?” You chuckled.
“Hiding,” he admitted with a gentle smile.
“From whom?”
“Baela. She has been asking me fifteen times today about going to the market.”
“She is gone now. I agreed to it,” you smirked and laid next to him, spreading your body on top of his lazily to lay your head on his chest, wrap your arms around his waist and tangle your legs with his. “Valarr claims that she likes the market so much because Ser Duncan buys her as many sweets as she wishes for.”
“We should pay him less,” Baelor chuckled and so did you, hiding your face in the crook of his neck, breathing in his scent. “Your brother wrote to me.”
“Lyonel?” You raised an eyebrow as you looked up at your husband.
“Thankfully you have only one. Yes, Lyonel.”
“What did he say?” You inquired.
“He invites us to Storm’s End for a hunt.”
“We can go but you will not participate,” you said.
“It is just a hunt.”
“Your wound is still not properly healed. I said what I said,” you insisted, furrowing your brows to look more serious.
Baelor looked down at your face and laughed as he shook his head.
“Alright. I would be a fool not to listen to you again.”
“You would be.”
“I don’t want to scare you like this anymore… Never,” he admitted and swallowed the lump forming in his throat. He reached out to fix a hair strand falling onto your face.
“I nearly executed the maester.”
“I know. He filed a complaint to my father.”
“He did?” You laughed and so did Baelor as he nodded. “What did your father tell him?”
“To get over it.”
“Good.”
You sighed and closed your eyes, listening to his steady heartbeat now. His warmth made you sleepy and you decided to treat yourself with a little nap in his embrace. He could feel that, too, as your body relaxed on top of his. Baelor wrapped his arms around you and pulled you closer and tighter.
“I love you,” he whispered when you were already too sleepy to answer.
He was not tired, however. Baelor simply laid there to be with you while you rested and he put his hand into his pocket to squeeze an old ribbon he always kept there as he smiled to himself.
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