— summary: on your wedding night with baelor, you finally discover from where valarr has inherited that pretty white streak of hair.
— content: +18, smut !!! (minors dni), oral sex (male receiving), happy trails, body worship, praise kink, insecure!baelor, yes his white streak is down there!!!
A/N: shout out to @/vhagars-dementia for putting this idea into my head!
The first time you see Baelor naked, the air catches in your throat and you can sense every inch of your body tingling with thrill.
The atmosphere is electric, heavy with his scent, with longing. He has been lusting after you all through the wedding ceremony, and even worse, throughout the entire time that he has been courting you, so patiently and earnestly.
And finally, the night had come.
Baelor has helped you pull down his pants and smallclothes, and your lips fall open when his manhood springs out, so hard and dripping already, so ready for you.
Sure, the size is remarkable and appetizing to say the least, but the most arousing feature is the trail of little curls that leads to his crotch.
More specifically, the path of white curls that marks the way through his dark hair below his stomach.
Your tongue follows it religiously.
Baelor trembles and moans and grunts in response to your sweet attention, glancing down at you with hazy eyes and a face transfixed with desire and love.
“So this is where Valarr inherited his own little white streak,” you tease, a sly smile peeking out of the darkness as you snuggle closer between his opened legs.
Baelor blushes deeply, suddenly feeling like a shy young boy in love, and is relieved that his embarrassment is obscured by the shadows of the bedchamber.
Even so, his sudden self-consciousness is plain to hear in his low, trembling voice. “You—you don't like it?”
You huff warm air against the sensitive skin of his pelvis, kissing the silvery hairs once again before looking up at him through your lashes, “My Prince, I think it's one of the most beautiful and attractive things you have.”
He flutter his closed eyes, one of his hands sliding down to your hair as your tongue teased the plump tip of his cock, gasping your name under his breath.
“Which one is the most for you?”
You smile lightly at his hesitant question, understanding that the passing of the years and the absence of his former wife has left their mark on him. On his body, on his sense of self-worth. And definitely on his desire to please you, to be worthy of you.
You kiss his tip, greedily scooping up the drops of seed that trickle from his slit, and his thighs twitch beneath your hand.
“Your eyes, your voice, your hair,” you begin to recite, grabbing his cock in your hand so you could drag your tongue all over it, giving yourself extra time to kiss the spot in between his heavy, full balls before heading back up. “And definitely this now.”
Your husband chokes out a small laugh that crawls up from deep in his throat, cutting short the moment when you guide his cock into your mouth, sucking on the tip.
His hand sinks into your hair, tugging gently. “Slowly— slow. That's it. Go easy, yeah?” he pleads in his rough voice, interrupted by pants and grunts. “It's been a while...”
To his pleasant surprise, you do as he asks, taking your time to appreciate him and make him enjoy his own pleasure. Every single time your warm tongue glides over his silver-haired path, you feel a spasm course through his body.
You indulge in the salty-sweet taste of his desire on his skin, feeling his cock throbbing hard in your hand, demanding for more.
And you move up again, tracking the length of his shaft with the tip of your tongue, outlining the veins that bulge beneath the taut skin, all the way back to the white trail that adorns his lower abdomen so beautifully.
You kiss him right there, where the dark hair turns snowy white, a sign of lineage that now belongs solely to you.
“So you do like it...” Baelor teases you from up above, unable to hide the way his back arches and his fingers pull unconsciously at your hair. “Gods—”
“So beautiful,” you keep whispering sweet praises, kissing and petting him. “So pretty, Bae”
When you're finished and you're both trying to catch your breath, tangled up in the mess of bedding sprawled out on the bed, you lean towards him, gazing at him with a dazed smirk, your eyes gleaming with love in the afterglow.
“Do you think my child will have any white streaks in their hair?” you wonder, full of enthusiasm.
Baelor chuckles softly as he looks into your big, bright eyes, and then turns to face you, his hands sliding around your waist to pull you closer to him.
“If they do not,” he coaxes, thumb tracing lazy circles at your hip. “Then, we shall simply have to try again. And again. And again—”
You laugh, breathless, pressing your forehead to his chest affectionately. “Is that your only solution to everything, my love?”
“When the problem is this delightful?” he asks back, delicate lips brushing your hair. “Yes.”
Baelor rolls with you gently until you are beneath him, careful, mindful, his weight supported on his forearms so he does not crush you. And he looks down at you with those beautiful tow-toned eyes, beaming with love and deep affection.
“If the gods grant us a child,” he murmurs drowsily, arms embracing your body as he lets himself fall on top of you, his face snuggling into your chest, “they will be born of love. That much I swear.”
“Then let them have your stubbornness,” you whisper sleepily. “And your white streak.”
He huffs a quiet laugh against your skin, pressing soft kisses on it.
pairing: baelor 'breakspear' targaryen x daughter of a noble house! reader
summary: tensions have been brewing between you and the prince, it is only fair that he does something about it.
warnings / contents: 18+ (minors please dni!), smut under the cut! big unspecified age gap (reader is around her early twenties), virginity loss, praise kink, breeding kink, baelor talks you through it, dacryphilia, dubcon (if u squint), coaxing, mating press, doggy, slight p eating, soft dom baelor, brief mentions of blood, tiny tiny plot- more on smut!
word count: 2.6k
a/n: hellooo! it's been too long since i've written a piece that's as long as this. i do apologize for disappearing, life has a way of distracting you ;w; anyway, i come bearing gifts!!!!! esp for the akotsk baelor targ fans! enjoy °༄ !
Like a moth to a flame.
The sound of droplets followed your steps throughout the castle, hushed and quick. You didn’t set a concrete plan as to what you were about to do; you only rushed with an autonomy you could not quite understand.
There is a tender ache in your chest whenever you lock eyes with him, no matter the distance. May it be across the room, the height of the steps, or the damning closeness of dining tables during feasts. It is wrong, you convinced yourself it was.
It had to be. Who were you compared to the heir of the Iron Throne, the Hand of the King, the future of House Targaryen– Baelor Breakspear?
You were restless, your mind giving up on itself and recounting all the tiny moments you shared with him.
The way he had greeted you– weeks ago, when your father had shipped you off to the Red Keep like some peace treaty– with the Prince’s warm hand bedding your own, and his lips leaving a burning kiss on your knuckles.
The way his hand had clasped on the back of your waist, a reassurance that ended up as a dance during one of the feasts held in his name. His hand had traveled to the side of your waist then, his eyes remaining on you even after the songs had ended.
When you found him in the library, nose-deep in books that keep the history of Westeros. The way his fingers had caressed the pages then, with such reverent care. The way he shared a smile with you, acknowledging your presence in the room.
It was maddening. You thought him oblivious.
You halted at the near half of the steps, trying to catch your breath and give your mind some clarity. The candelabra you held nearly left its pattern on your palm from the way you gripped it so tightly. You assessed yourself, setting the candelabra down and putting your hand on your beating heart.
“My lady?”
You thought yourself mad, now even more so than ever, for materializing his voice. You let out a breathless chuckle, shaking your head in disbelief. “You terrorize my very mind, and now make yourself known?” You say quietly, turning your head away from the voice.
You then hear footsteps, ones that grow increasingly loud behind your back.
“I fear I do not know what you speak of.”
You feel his touch on the small of your waist.
Your eyes snap open.
“My lady?” The voice of your lady-in-waiting brings you back to your mind. You look at her, puzzled at the sudden change of setting. “Were they bad dreams again?” She speaks softly, setting a pillow on your back to help you sit up, “You were mumbling.” She looks at you, handing you a goblet of fresh wine.
“I-” You start, your hand instinctively reaching out for the cup, “I was- he was-” you try to make your words known, but you fail fairly quickly.
“His grace has asked your companionship during a council meeting as a cupbearer,” she helps you up, her hands familiar with the routine of your nightgown, “To assure your House that there is no ill will.”
The council meeting went by quickly. Talks of peace treaties between Houses and trades across the seas, all for ensuring the stability of the Kingdom. Baelor, ever the observant one, took it upon himself to note the gown you were wearing.
A playful light blue color, surrounded by gold accessories and white accents, topped with a bare corset that accentuated your figure.
He lost himself at the sight, taking in a deep breath without any intention to do so. He linked his hands together, his fingers fiddling with the rings he wore.
You thought it a nervous habit, one he does when faced with long talks of peace and courtly duties.
You were completely unaware that you were his undoing.
He gulped out of his cup, one for composure, another for focus. He gulped it like a man with thirst, a drop of wine spilling its way out of the corner of his mouth.
You stepped forward with more wine, pouring it into his cup with practiced ease. He freezes, picking up your scent by the decreased distance between you. “That is quite enough now.” His voice wakes something inside of you, a feeling similar to desperation.
He taps your hand gently, and you retreat the wine with a nod.
Later that evening, you took to the castle gardens after you had dismissed your lady-in-waiting.
The night was cold, and you found yourself clutching to the fabrics of your gown. You breathed in the cold, welcoming it with your warmth.
You hear leaves crunching, accompanied by steps that seem to weigh royalty.
You turned, immediately greeted by his eyes.
“I think it best for you to be at your chambers at such time, my lady.” His hands are behind his back, his voice laced with regality.
“And you, your grace–?”
“Baelor.” He insists.
“Baelor,” you sound it out, cautious and unyielding, “you must rest.”
“I could not find sleep.”
You nod.
He closes the distance between you two with a stride, his figure undeniably real and close. “I–” you start, your eyes shying away from his, “Don’t.” He hushes, his hand reaches out, the tip of his fingers tracing the outline of your throat.
He keeps his eyes on you, the back of his fingers now gently caressing the plush of your cleavage.
“You reside in my thoughts,” he whispers, “and through my actions.”
He tips your chin up, wanting to maintain eye contact before inevitably crashing his lips on yours.
He breaks away.
A beat.
“Do you want to stop?”
You cannot. You do not want to. Not now, not ever.
Not when he has his lips attached to the side of your neck, his hands at your back, grounding you with him.
Not when he has you backed up against a garden wall, with his hands traveling down your gown.
You retired to his chambers by his idea. Who knew that something so sweet would be Baelor Breakspear’s unbecoming?
“You entice me.” He grunts, setting you atop his lap, “You, my fire,” he kisses you, his hands running through your back and unlacing your gown, “You hold my passion.” The gown falls and pools around your hips, revealing you bare in front of him.
He stares. He takes all of it in and commits it to his memory, “You are my undoing.”
His thumb glides through the pit of your stomach before lowering itself on your cunt.
“M-My prince, I am-” You panic, “I have not done this.” Your hand catches his wrist with the shake of your head. He looks at you with a gaze that seems like worship, “Let me guide you.”
He sets you down on the bed made of silk and feathers before undressing his tunic. “I have longed for you.” He lowers his head down to your mound, his breath fanning against your skin. His fingers trace through your folds, “This,” his finger rubs a circle against it, “is where I will lose myself.” He looks at you for any trace of discomfort before proceeding, “And here,” his finger pushes through your entrance, “is where you will feel me.”
“It may hurt,” he cautions, slowly pushing more of his finger inside of you, “yet you take me well.” He praises, his other hand reaching up to cup your breast, “Tell me, my fire,” his tongue lands on your slit before tasting you, “do you long for me too?” he asks, eyes now focused on you. “It– it is wrong.” You whimper, overwhelmed by the new feeling. He rises, detaching himself from your sweet lips. He leans forward, holding your chin up to look at him, “That is not what I asked.” You let out a labored breath when he sets his thigh between your legs, his piercing mismatched eyes looking at you with pure wonder.
“I.. I do.” You stammer out, shying away from his gaze. “I find myself waiting on you,” blood rushes to your cheeks, “so that I may set my eyes upon you.” You now look at him, his gaze remaining still on you, “So that I may meet my desires,” your hand reaches out for his, “but even now I know not what they mean.” His hand meets the expanse of your body, visiting the plump of your breasts down to the curve of your waist. He nods, a small smile revealing itself on his face.
He pulls away, undressing the rest of his cloths. You feel yourself melt at the sight, mouth slightly agape in fascination. He reaches for you, holding you by the waist and setting you on top of him.
He takes a nipple into his mouth, his teeth lightly grazing on the bud. Your hands find themselves on his short-cropped hair, your body leaning towards him a bit more. His hand cups your other breast, his fingers playing and pinching the nipple with skill. You start to let out sounds you have never made before, and lose yourself to his touch.
When you let out a whisper of his name, his eyes open and look up at you.
His cock grows impossibly harder, the length of it resting just by your stomach.
“You will take me,” he whispers against your breast, “As I will you, as my lady wife.”
He props you up slightly, lining himself up to your entrance. “Cry to me,” he kisses your sternum, “I am here, I will ground you.” With that, he sank you on his cock, the feeling burning its course through your whole body. He lets out a groan, his eyes shutting and letting the feeling wash over him. Tears escape your eyes, your arms melting on his shoulders. You lean forward, your head just by his cheek. He tuts, his palm cradling the back of your head, “You are beautiful.” He lets you adjust to his length, his body keeping both of you still, “You are good.”
A rim of blood displays itself on his cock when he moves you upward. You wince, your thighs trembling. “Look at me.” He commands, you do as you are told. He sinks you down once more, his lips pressing gentle kisses on your tear-stained cheeks.
“You can take it.” He reaffirms.
“You will, won’t you?” He asks, his lips attaching to the crook of your neck.
You whine, nodding obediently, “Yes.” You hold on to the blade of his shoulder.
“Pretty thing.”
Your cheek leans in to his touch, your body finding itself perfectly fitted into his arms. “Baelor, please..” Your hands reach down to your mound, your fingers desperately finding where he had tasted you earlier, “More.”
He thrusts up into you slowly, stretching your walls out so that they may accommodate his girth. “Are you certain you know of what you ask, girl?” You look at him, your hands coming up to cup his face. Your eyes are glazed with tears, your lips plump and wet.
You are the very picture of perfection, he thinks.
You nod, an answer to his question.
“Speak.”
“Please, my prince.” You grow desperate, your hips moving with a rhythm you could not control. Both of your hands glide down his chest, a slick feeling pooling at your core. “I need you.” Another tear slips down your cheek, but this time his thumb catches it, wiping it away. He kisses the spot softly, reverently, with a care that makes you remember the time with his fingers on Gods know what book.
“You make a man mad.” he looks at you, hands flat on your back. “With your pretty tears and your honey-laced words,” he thrusts up, the tip of his cock bullying itself right to the deepest parts of your core, “And with this cunt.”
With one swift motion, he lays you down on the flat of your back. His hands find the back of your knees, pressing you down with his weight. His cock is at just the right angle, hitting a spot that makes your breath quicken and your eyes tear up.
He starts thrusting with renewed vigor, the once-gentle prince completely losing his composure and leaving him with only his primal instincts. “You have no idea–” he grunts, pushing you further down on the sheets, “Just what you do to me.” He locks eyes with you, looking all over your features. “You think I enjoy the games we play?” He asks, slamming his cock in you and keeping still.
“I-I know not of what you say.”
He lets out a laugh, mocking or genuine, you cannot tell.
“You make me lose focus,” he starts thrusting, each word paired with a motion. “You look at me with those eyes I cannot run from.” He shakes his head, allowing himself a smile, “Even in sleep, I see you.” His thumb moves towards your cunt, rubbing a sensitive bud. “I want–” he shakes his head, his cock unrelenting and heavy, “I need to see you full of my seed.” He reaches down, taking your lips with his. His teeth bite down on your lower lip, hard enough to make it bleed. To your surprise, his tongue glides on the metallic taste almost in haste, like an instinct he could not falter.
“I can never escape you.” He pulls away, his cock leaving your core. He holds your waist, carefully turning you over to your stomach.
He lines his cock on your entrance, pushing the tip in before leaving a kiss on your shoulder. His hands find your hips, pulling you up with him before finally pushing his cock inside you.
You feel all of him then.
It was all so sweet.
His hands, kneading the soft curve of your hips.
His thighs, slapping against yours.
His words, ramblings that either make or break you.
He feels your walls clenching around him, a plea for release.
“Lose yourself to me.” He coaxes, his hands pulling you up to his torso. Your hand finds his shoulder, gripping it for support. “My heart.” He whispers, his lips ravaging your neck. He doesn’t stop his pace, obedient to what you need.
You feel it building at the pit of your stomach. His thumb rubs against your bud, bringing you closer to release. “Take it, my love.” He says against your neck, his thrusts chasing his own release.
You lose yourself, moaning his name with pure admiration.
He bites down on your shoulder, desperate for his own release. His hands move everywhere– your breasts, your stomach, before ultimately settling on your neck.
A grip, not too tight, but enough to make you understand that you are his. His lips move against your jaw, needy, desperate. All it took was the feeling of you closing in on him, an action done to relieve yourself from the overwhelming feeling of your release.
He breathes your scent in, his nose nudged on the crook of your neck. He delivers the final thrust, your name escaping his lips.
He spills his seed inside of you, his arms keeping you steady.
Both of you collapse on the silk sheets, arms tangled and bodies unbelievably close. His hands stay on you, not wanting to let go.
He pulls his cock out gently, earning a quiet wince from you. He moves, leveling his head in front of your cunt. He spreads your folds open, his eyes intently watching his seed drop from your core. He uses his finger to scoop some, pushing it back inside of you.
You nestle back into his arms, his hands patting you off to sleep.
“Nyke am ñuhor ao ñuhor nyke jēdrar.”
I am yours, my love.
targaryen divider by @feimingo, sword divider by @honeyluvsw ࿐ ࿔*:･ﾟ !
a/n: baelor has completely taken over my every thought ever since he graced my screen in akotsk- he's just sooooo hot uggghhh.. please feel free to correct me about any mistakes i made! i hope you guys enjoy reading it as much as i enjoyed writing it! reblogs, comments, likes, or any kind of interactions are deeply appreciated!! xo, pearl!
no tag list just yet since most of my tags are for pedro fics! do comment if you want to be tagged in baelor smut though!
Can I request Akotsk men with a wife reader who pops out nothing but daughters🙇🏽♀️
akotsk characters as girl dads...
characters: ser duncan the tall, lyonel baratheon, baelor targaryen, maekar targaryen, aerion targaryen, daeron targaryen, valarr targaryen and raymun fossoway
Ser Duncan the Tall
Dunk is a man of humble origins who suddenly finds himself surrounded by little ladies. He feels like a bull in a China shop every time he enters the nursery.
He absolutely adores your girls; he whittles them toy ponies from wood. They climb him like a tree, and he’s big enough to hold all three f them and still go about his day.
When you give birth to a fourth, he stands in the doorway, looking down at the tiny, delicate creature in your arms and then back at his own massive hands. He always looks terrified he’ll break them, even with the three that came before. "She's... she's so small," he stammers, his face flushing with a mix of awe and terror. "Are you sure she’s mine? She’s far too pretty. Gods, I’m going to have to spend the rest of my life scaring off every squire in the realm, aren't I? I’ll do it, though. I’ll be their shield. Always."
As you recover from birth, its Dunk’s responsibility to take care of the girls. Based of the shrieks of laughter you hear coming from the next room, you assume he’s doing just fine.
Dunk is so large that he looks like a mountain being colonized by tiny, sparkling birds. He is sitting on the floor, his long legs stretched out, while his daughters use him as a mannequin. They’ve managed to drape a massive tablecloth over his shoulders like a royal mantle and are currently trying to balance a precarious "crown" made of intertwined willow branches and actual spoons on his head.
When you walk in, your new baby girl bundled up in your arms, you look up and see him. He’s covered in fabrics and your girls are stood around him, deep in concentration balancing spoons, You lose it when you see the silver spoon dangling over his eyebrow.
Dunk’s face turns a shade of red that rivals a Lannister cloak. "Oh, gods," he mumbles, his voice small. "M'lady... please don't laugh. They said I was a knight and I had to look the part. I think the spoon is supposed to be a visor."
Lyonel Baratheon
The Laughing Storm doesn't just accept a daughter; he celebrates her like a victory in the lists. He wanted a house full of noise, and you are certainly providing it.
After the arrival of three girls, Storm’s End has become full of joyful chaos. Pregnant with your fourth, all of Lyonel’s bannermen pray for a boy for you and your husband, but secretly he would love another girl.
When his wishes were answered, as you gave birth to a fourth little girl. He bellows a laugh that shakes the rafters of Storm's End. "Another one! Seven Hells, woman, you’re trying to populate the Stormlands on your own!" He scoops the baby up in one massive arm and kisses your cheek with a loud smack. Part of you feels guilty, as a Lord there’s a lot of pressure to have a son. "Don't you look at me like that. Sons are for war, but daughters... daughters are for making life worth living. Besides, I’ve always wanted an army of girls to keep me on my toes. We’ll teach them to ride before they can walk!"
As you recover from your labours and take care of your new baby, Lyonel is on dad duty to stop the girls pestering you and begging to play with the new baby.
The Laughing Storm’s booming voice is muffled, but as you open the door, babe in your arms, he is most definitely living up to his namesake. You find him lying flat on his back on the rug, three of his daughters sitting on his chest. They have used charcoal and paint made from beetroots to paint your husbands face, which mostly just looks like a confused badger, and they are currently trying to tie little bells and ribbons into his wild beard. And one is trying to braid his curls; the same way her septa taught her.
You lean against the doorframe, howling with laughter. Lyonel lets out a muffled, joyful roar. "Aha! Look at her, girls! Your mother is jealous of my finery!" He wiggles his fingers, which have been adorned with several oversized rings. "Join the fray, my love! I’ve been told I’m the king of the flowers, and I require a queen to help me jingle when I walk!"
Baelor Targaryen
Baelor is a man of the state, but he is a father of the heart. When the midwife announces the arrival of yet another girl, he doesn't look at his advisors or the empty cradle intended for a warrior. He looks at you.
When he looks at you and your girl, he feels an overwhelming sense of pride. Expectations of an heir and a spare be dammed, he adores your girls.
He comes to your side, ignores the congratulations of the court, and kisses your sweaty forehead. He takes the babe and holds her with practiced ease. "Another little queen," he whispers, his voice thick with genuine delight. "She has your fire. Gods help the men of this realm when our daughters come of age; they shall have the Seven Kingdoms at their feet."
To help you recover and take care of the girls, he has Valarr step in to fulfil his duties at court. He waits on you hand at foot, whatever you need he’s there, showing the upmost devotion. When he isn’t with you, he’s playing with your other girls.
Baelor now finds himself sitting perfectly still in his chair, not passing judgement or sitting on the council. His three eldest daughters are swarming him. One is carefully tying bright blue ribbons around her father’s head, while the one is focused on his face with a pot of berry-stained paste. The youngest sits contentedly on his lap, playing with a doll.
When you walk in, Baelor meets your eyes. He has a shaky, lopsided blush drawn on his cheeks, a flower tucked behind his ear and ribbons on his head. He doesn't move, afraid of ruining their art.
"Don't," he warns softly as your shoulders start to shake. "I am a Prince of the Blood, and currently, I am to be the prettiest princess at court.” That statement causes you to laugh even harder, tears welling in your eyes, “If I laugh, the Princess Daenora says she will have to start all over again."
Maekar Targaryen
Maekar is a man who feels the weight of the world, and he expected to raise a line of soldiers to help him carry it. When you give him a third daughter, he gets a specific, terrifying look in his eye, not of disappointment, but of overprotectiveness.
He grunts at the maester talking to him, his jaw set as he cradles your new baby. He looks at the tiny bundle and then back at you, his hand squeezing yours with bruising strength. "Fine," he growls, though his eyes are soft. "I suppose I shall simply have to build higher walls and sharper spikes for the gates. If any boy so much as breathes in the direction of our daughters-" he’s interrupted by your giggles, he is in total awe staring down at your daughter and seeing her bright purple eyes staring back up at him.
Maekar has NINE children now. While most of his sons are disasters to say the least, Maekar is type ultimate "Girl Dad" who will kill for them, he refuses to let anything bad to happen to them.
After Daeron and Aerion turning out the way they have, Maekar has become the most devoted man in of the Seven Kingdoms. Which explains why he is currently sitting on a low footstool, looking like a man awaiting execution. His four daughters have draped him in every silk scarf they could find. He is wearing a delicate lace veil over his head, and his massive, scarred hands are resting in his lap, one hand painted with gold nail polish by Rhae and the other painted silver by your eldest Baela. Daella is trying to figure out which colour scarf matches her father’s complexion the best, while your youngest Daenys plays with the veil over her father’s head.
You burst into a fit of giggles at the sight of the grumpiest man in Westeros wearing a pink silk shawl. Maekar’s jaw tightens, his eyes darting to you with a look of pure, helpless betrayal. "Not a word," he growls, though he stays perfectly still as Daella proudly places and adjusts a flower crown on his brow. "They told me I needed to be beautified. If you tell Baelor about the lace, I will burn this castle to the ground."
Aerion Targaryen
Aerion sees everything as a reflection of his own divinity. If he has only daughters, it’s because only women are beautiful enough to carry his dragon blood. So when you have another, he is secretly delighted.
He struts to the cradle, peering down at the babe with a smirk, taking in her pale silver hair and lilac eyes. "Of course. Another masterpiece. A line of princesses to rival the beauties of Old Valyria." He turns to you, his eyes shimmering with a manic sort of pride. "You do well, wife. Our halls will be filled with the most beautiful girls in the realm; I shall dress them in gold. Let the world tremble at Brightflame’s daughters."
Aerion is often seen as cold and cruel, but with his girls? He adores them. They are his whole world, his whole reason for living, if he had it his way he would raise a whole army of warrior princesses like their ancestors Visenya and Rhaenys, he named them as such.
Aerion is taking this entirely takes it too seriously when the girls give him makeovers. He is standing in front of a mirror while Rhaenys is in his arms, applying "dragon scales" to his face using red and yellow paints. He is wearing a cape made of several silk nightgowns sewn together by your eldest Visenya and holding a wooden toy sword decorated with peacock feathers.
You can't even get a word out; you’re doubled over, clutching your stomach.
Aerion turns, striking a dramatic pose. "Laugh if you must, woman! But your daughters have seen the truth! I am the Brightflame Reborn! A dragon!" He looks at his reflection with a smug, dizzying pride. He was promptly shushed by Rhaenys because his talking was impacting her painting.
Daeron Targaryen
Daeron is a man haunted by visions and shadows. For him, a house full of daughters is a mercy. He doesn't want sons who will be forced to fight for a throne or die for a crown. So, when you have fourth girl, he feels a deep, melancholy relief.
He sits on the edge of your birthing bed, his eyes watery and glassier than usual, this time from emotion, not wine. "Another girl," he whispers, a small, trembling smile on his lips. "Good. She won't have to wear a crown of thorns. She can just be... happy. Like you." He leans his head against your shoulder. "Thank you for not giving me a prince. I don't think I could bear the fear. Let’s just have a house full of girls who laugh at their father’s silly dreams, alright?"
As you recover, Daeron is actually having the time of his life. He’s slumped in a chair, eyes half-closed, while his daughters "dress him for the ball." He has a silk sash tied around his waist and a series of mismatched earrings hanging from his ears (mostly just bits of ribbon).
When you walk in, your youngest is sat on his lap listening to him speak. One of your girls is trying to put your formal shoes on his feet and your eldest is trying to colour match the jewellery she had borrowed from your dresser to your husband’s outfit. He is mid-sentence, telling them a story about a dragon who only ate lemon cakes.
He looks up, his face flushed with genuine, soft happiness. "Ah, look, girls! Your mother has arrived with your sister. Come, sit. I’ve just been informed that my previous style was 'unacceptable' and that I am now a masterpiece. Come teach the girls to braid my hair again, I’ll hold the babe."
Valarr Targaryen
Valarr is the golden prince, and he treats you like a queen. To him, the gender of the child matters far less than the health of the woman he loves. He is entirely devoted to you and your girls.
After your labours, he doesn't even look at the baby first. He goes straight to you, taking your hands and kissing each knuckle. "You’re safe. That’s all that matters to me." When he finally turns to the babe, his smile is radiant. "A daughter. She has your smile. I hope she has your heart, too. We’ll make sure she’s the most loved princess in all of Westeros. She’ll never want for anything, I promise you."
He always kept his promises. He adores his girls, regardless of his duties he always makes time for them, he takes them riding, hunting, to steal cakes from the kitchen. So, as you recover, he’s already well practised.
Valarr is sitting at his desk, but instead of reading scrolls, he has the new baby in one arm and another one of your girls in the other, as she’s stood on his thigh and finger painting on his face. Another one of your daughters have given him "tattoos" up and down his arms. He is wearing a very small, very sparkly tiara perched precariously between his Targaryen features.
You walk in just as your eldest is carefully positioning one of her own tiaras on her father’s head. You lean over his shoulder, peeking at the ink on his face. Laughing as you see the paint covering his face and arms.
Valarr looks up, his odd-coloured eyes dancing with amusement. He reaches out and catches your hand, kissing it, much to your daughter’s dismay who was enjoying cuddles with her father. "I’ve been reassigned, my love. I am no longer the heir. I am now the King of the Ponies. Baela says I must rule all their horses. It’s a very demanding role, but the benefits-" he gestures to the three little girls dressing him up, and the new baby in his arm, “are quite exceptional."
Raymun Fossoway
Raymun is a man of simple, sturdy virtues. Another daughter is a blessing, a fresh start, and a reason to plant more trees.
He beams when he sees her, your new baby, looking from you to the child with a gaze that is entirely too sweet. "Another girl! The orchard is going to be full of laughter, isn't it?" He carefully takes the child, marvelling at her tiny fingers and her head of ginger hair. "I’ll plant a new tree today. Just for her. You’ve given me a perfect family, love. I wouldn't change a single hair on her head for a dozen heirs."
While you tend to the new babe and recover from your labours. Raymun insists on taking care of your girls, and you should only worry about yourself.
Raymun is in the garden, sitting on a blanket in the shade of the apple trees. His daughters have turned him into a literal fruit tree. They’re laughing as two of your girls try balance stacks of apples on his hand, and your other daughter is shouting at her father to “hold still” as she tries to balance an apple on his head.
You stumble into the garden and nearly choke on your tea. Raymun gives you a helpless, bright-eyed grin. "Don't say it. I know. I’m a Fossoway, I should have seen this coming. But they insisted that if I’m a Green Apple, I should at least have some fruit on my branches." He reaches up, trying to keep an apple from falling off his head to keep your daughter happy
After eight days of him riding with his men at the head of the column, you finally convince Baelor to share the wheelhouse with you on the journey from Dragonstone to Summerhall. Cramped together in that small, private space, every glance and touch intensifies the longing that has been simmering all week.
WORDS: around 3 k
WARNINGS: SEXUAL CONTENT — MINORS DNI; p in v, hand job, tiddy sucking, riding, semi-public sex (?)
NOTES: English isn't my native tongue! If you find mistakes, they're yours. 🫶
The wheelhouse rocks and jolts over the uneven cobblestone road, each sway bringing you closer to your husband. It’s the eighth day of your journey from Dragonstone to Summerhall, and the road stretches long and bright beneath the sun before you, each mile carrying you farther from the sea and closer to what awaits you inland.
A fortnight ago, a raven from Summerhall has reached the castle, in which Maekar has written of a fine stag running near his seat. And with Dragonstone holding no forest worth the name, offering little opportunity to hunt, it has been quite clear that Baelor wouldn’t refuse his brother’s invitation.
You’ve spotted the gleam in his eyes at the mention of riding beside his brother again, and knew there was no way you could have denied him this simple joy.
Today is the one day that you’ve prevailed, having persuaded him to set aside his horse to ride in the wheelhouse with you. Valarr and Matarys have taken his place in the saddle, riding at the head of the column, proud to be seen riding where their father would have been.
Watching the scenery outside, you absentmindedly reach for Baelor’s hand, intertwining your fingers and bringing it to your lap. No matter how often you travel with him, there’s nothing better than sleeping in a bed in a place you know – and that’s either Dragonstone, King’s Landing or Summerhall to you.
“I can’t wait to finally reach the castle,” you say, a smile on your lips as you turn your head to look at him.
Baelor brings your hand to his lips, pressing a soft kiss to it. He returns the smile, his gaze lingering on you. “I share your anticipation,” he says. “After eight days upon the road, with six still before us, the sight of Summerhall will be most welcome.”
With your fingers still intertwined with his, you lean your head against his shoulder, enjoying the proximity between you, and the privacy the wheelhouse grants you. “It feels like we’ve been traveling forever,” you murmur, closing your eyes. “All those dusty roads and restless nights, but at least I had you by my side.”
When you tilt your head to meet his gaze again, there’s a playful glint sparkling in your eyes. “Though, if I must endure a fortnight in a swaying carriage, it’s best spent with the most handsome prince in the Seven Kingdoms.”
Amused by your comment, Baelor can’t help but chuckle. He feigns a look of mock offense, raising an eyebrow at you. “The most handsome prince?” he teases, leaning a little closer towards you. “And here I thought you married me for my charms.”
“Oh, your charms?” you gasp in exaggerated disbelief, pressing a hand to your chest. “I fear your modesty outshone all your other virtues.”
As Baelor feigns to swat at you, you duck, before melting into a fit of giggles. You tuck yourself under his arm, nestling against his sturdy frame. “You know very well your charming personality is merely a minor perk,” you add, a hint of sarcasm in your tone. “I married you for your castle, your claim, and your impressive ability to test my patience.”
The banter always flows effortlessly between you two, and you believe that it’s one of the secret ingredients that your marriage to Baelor has been as successful and loving as it is – a stark contrast to most arranged marriages.
Your husband seems to enjoy it, a grin decorating his features as his arm pulls you against his side. “Ah, yes, my irresistible ability to test your temper. That definitely must have sealed the deal.”
He pretends to ponder over it for a moment, stroking the stubble on his chin as if he’s deep in thought. You can’t help but bite your bottom lip, while your eyes flicker between his and his lips, watching him as he speaks: “You know you’re quite the handful as well, my love.”
His hand moves to teasingly poke your side, causing you to squirm against his frame while you already bring a hand to your chest in feigned disbelief. You turn towards him, mock offense written all over your features. “Oh, now you tell me. I am a handful? That has to be a blatant lie.”
“A lie? Perish the thought, my love, I am the picture of candor.” Leaning in closer, Baelor’s gaze meets yours, a teasing glint in his mismatched eyes. His warm breath fans across your features, the proximity forcing you to bite your lips once more. “I am simply stating a fact, although you’re a delightful handful, especially when you’re being stubborn.”
A shiver runs through you as you suddenly feel his hand on your hip, squeezing your flesh softly. It’s distracting you enough to pause for a moment, fighting for the right words. Alone in the wheelhouse, with only the creak of the wheels and the low murmur of the column beyond its walls, you suddenly find yourself weighing the proximity against the risk of being discovered.
“Stubborn? Me?” you ask, your tone is lighter now, tinted with mischief. “You know I scarcely stray from good behavior, Your Grace.” You lean back slightly to create a small space between your faces, the rest of your body still staying close to him.
Baelor follows your movements like a moth drawn to a flame, leaning in once more to keep your face closer to his. Similar to you, his eyes can’t seem to settle on either yours or your lips, flickering between both over and over again. His voice is charged as he speaks, thicker. “I remember several nights where you were very much not on your best behavior, my love.”
A flush of heat rises to your cheeks at his words, the recurring memories of past nights in shared solitude making the small space within the wheelhouse suddenly even smaller. That he’s toying with the silk of your kirtle, rubbing it between his fingers, doesn’t ease the heat that pools in your stomach.
With a grin on your lips, you tilt your head slightly and look up at him through your lashes. “Those instances were merely moments of temporary indiscipline” you breathe, your hooded eyes fixed on his lips. There is a brief pause between you where neither of you speaks or makes any other sound, and it’s you suddenly caving in, bringing your hands to his cheeks to pull him in for a kiss.
Baelor releases a low, amused chuckle when your lips part, and you’re not certain if it’s a reaction to your words or the hastiness with which you’ve kissed him. His hand slides to the back of your neck, holding you close as the carriage rumbles over a rut in the road. “A temporary indiscipline that seemed to happen rather often, if I recall correctly,” he replies teasingly.
Not hesitating a moment longer, you shift on the seat and maneuver yourself onto his lap, straddling him with your knees on either side of his thighs. Almost instinctively, Baelor’s hands find the curve of your arse, resting there and keeping you steady above him. You bring a hand to the back of his neck instead, trailing your fingers through the short hair at the nape of it, before burying them into it to tilt his head back softly.
“You have a remarkably keen memory, husband,” you murmur, your lips brushing against his.
At another gentle tug on his hair, you feel his grip on your arse tighten ever so slightly. As you shift above him, you can feel your husband's excitement between your legs, hard and straining against the fabric of his breeches.
“You know, if we were anywhere else but in this blasted carriage, I’d have put that mouth of yours to better use,” he murmurs against your lips, before claiming them in a slow, deliberate kiss. His thumbs trace idle circles over your arse, enjoying the feeling of your silk skirts beneath his skin.
You melt into the kiss, growing greedier the moment his tongue brushes against yours. Another tug at his hair has him letting out a light groan, and you relish in it, in knowing that he’s putty in your hands right now.
As your hands start to wander down to the front of his tunic, brushing along the expanse of his chest, you trail open mouthed kisses from his lips to the side of his neck, breathing against his skin: “Don’t make promises you can’t keep.”
You feel particularly daring, and grind your hips against his twice, just to gauge his reaction. And when you hear him curse under his breath with his head tipping back against the wall of the wheelhouse, you know he also won’t be able to wait until you’ve reached the next inn.
And as if he’s read your thoughts, Baelor leans forward again, his teeth nibbling along your jawline before his breath fans across your skin, his voice low and gravelly: “You’ll be the death of me, I swear it.”
When his lips move to your neck, his tongue following the path of your pulse point with his beard scraping against your skin, you begin to undo the laces in the front of his breeches, your nimble fingers working eagerly between your bodies.
He doesn’t stop you. It’s as if he grows even greedier the moment your fingers curl around his hard cock, stroking him slowly. A deep groan escapes his lips, fanning right across your skin.
His hands slide from your arse down your thighs, slipping beneath the skirts of your kirtle, and pushing the hem of your chemise up to clasp around your flesh. His touch is prominent, the scrape of his calloused hands leaving a trail of heat on your skin.
“This is–” you pant, stopping mid-sentence with a sharp breath, interrupted as Baelor raised your hips enough to align his throbbing cock with your soaked cunt, the tip impatiently prodding at your entrance.
When you sink down on him, it’s slow, feeling every ridge and vein of his cock as it's slowly filling you to the brim. A shiver follows in its wake, crawling up your spine, and only once you’re fully seated on him, do you inhale a sharp breath, stifling a moan. “This is a terribly improper way to behave in a wheelhouse,” you whimper, closing your eyes as you start to move astride him. You wrap your arms around his neck to pull him in for a kiss, bracing yourself on his shoulders with your forearms.
Grinding your hips against his, you try to find a pace that pleases both of you, although you know that Baelor has never been a man for haste, always finding greater pleasure in gentleness – in savoring rather than seizing. It’s the gentle kind of intimacy he’s drawn to, the sensuality and softness that steady him after days spent bearing the weight of duty. Only around you does he allow that weight to fall from his shoulders, trusting you as his quiet anchor when the world demands he stands unyielding.
The thought of it makes something within you settle and stir at once, because it’s the same to you. It’s not Dragonstone that makes you feel at home – it’s him. You can follow him everywhere and just be at peace for as long as he’s by your side.
“When have we ever been proper, my love?” Baelor rasps against your lips as you draw back to take in a breath, tipping his forehead against yours. His hands find your waist, holding you steady above him. “And you have never complained before.”
Though one ragged breath after the other leaves his lips, you don’t stop swiveling your hips. His head lulls back once more, and Baelor can’t help but watch your movements through hooded eyes. They’re lust blown and drinking in the sight of you astride him. The darkened stare unravels you more than any of his touches could, because it carries affection just as much as desire.
His hands trail down to your arse, but they just rest there, yet you know, would they stop, he’d be quick to squeeze your flesh and guide you along his throbbing cock on his own accord.
“And I am not complaining now,” you pant, closing your eyes as the tip of his cock brushes your sweet spot. “Mere–Merely stating a fact.”
A low sound rumbles in his chest, almost resembling a growl, before he brings a hand to the back of your neck and pulls you towards him, capturing your lips in a searing kiss. Where he had sitten with a rigid posture before, he now adjusts it beneath you – shifting nearer to the edge of the bench, bracing his feet wider against the floorboards, and reclining against the curved wall of the wheelhouse.
There’s a faint sting where the padding of the bench gives too little, your muscles and bones protesting faintly at the sudden pressure on your knees. The aching is mild but insistent, yet it’s completely lost to you the moment he thrusts his hips up into yours.
Blissful moans slip past your lips once you’ve both found a rhythm, and for a heartbeat you’re certain a few of them must have carried beyond the thin walls of the wheelhouse. The possibility of it sends another wave of warmth through you, causing your cunt to clench around his solid weight inside of you.
Baelor chokes out a groan, but seems far too occupied by impatiently tugging on the laces in the front of your kirtle, and dragging down the chemise to free your breasts. One perky bud is immediately captured by his lips, lapping and sucking on your skin like a man possessed. It’s added stimulation, making the familiar knot within your stomach tighten slowly but surely.
“Fuck, Baelor–” you whimper, trying to keep your voice low, the words only meant for him to hear. Your head is tipped forwards, watching him.
While his thrusts grow a bit leisurely with the distraction of your breasts, your hips start to move faster, the grinding turning into bouncing, desperately chasing the pleasure as your hips meet halfway. The tips of your fingers bury themselves into the plane of his shoulders for leverage, allowing you to move with ease.
It must have been the despair in your voice or the slight tremble in your legs that has told him your release is near, because both his hands find the curve of your arse again, holding you steady as he pistons his hips up into yours, bringing you closer to your peak.
The taut string inside of you snaps without a warning, the pleasure within you soaring to the point you would have screamed his name – if Baelor hadn’t placed his hand over your mouth, muffling the sweet sounds you make because of him.
You cling to his shoulders, grinding yourself against him to coax yourself through your high. Your walls spasm around him, clenching tightly as the pleasure grows overwhelming, but you’re determined to steer him towards his own release.
You know his peak is tingling just at the base of his cock, merely needing just a few more thrusts to spill himself inside of you, with grunts and groans and hushed words of praise slipping past his lips like a prayer.
Holding onto him, you steady yourself on your knees and allow him to thrust up into you without much effort, the snaps of his hips relentless enough to make any whimpers catch in your throat.
“That’s–Gods–that’s it,” Baelor groans, head tipped back.
His hips stutter suddenly, and with a hand fisting the skirt of your kirtle, he pulls you down to seat you fully atop of him. You roll your hips, helping him through his peak as his cock spends itself deep inside of you.
For a few moments, you sit like this in silence, the only sounds audible your ragged breathing and the hoofbeats of the horses in the column around the wheelhouse. You feel sated and boneless, your head resting against his with him buried deeply inside of you.
When he presses soft kisses against your jaw and throat do you finally stir, looking down at him as you take in the flush on his cheeks and the mussed state of his hair. He has a sly smirk on his lips, and his fingers gently tuck a stray strand of your hair behind your ear. “If every day in this wheelhouse is spent like this, I might start wishing Summerhall was further away.”
“Is that so?” you ask, cocking an eyebrow, your voice is soft but playful as you speak. “Well, we wouldn’t want you to get bored before we arrive, would we?”
Baelor huffs a laugh at that, his hands settling firmly on your waist. “Bored? With you? I’d sooner expect the Blackwater to run dry.”
You press a chaste kiss to his lips, and lean back to bring some space between you, but Baelor is quick to chase your lips with his own, capturing them in a kiss that is shy of restraint.
He snakes his arms around you to pull you flush against him as he shifts to sit up straighter again, and you use it to nestle against him, revelling in the feeling of his half-hard cock inside of you, becoming more apparent with each sway of the wheelhouse.
At the thought of the night ahead, at the thought of being completely alone with him, a shiver of excitement runs through your veins. Every passing mile makes you ache for the end of today’s journey, counting the moments until yet another inn would be yours alone.
baelor targaryen fingers you with his rings on his fingers while sitting on the iron throne
warnings. smut, fingering | wc. 500
you sit on his lap, your back pressed firmly against his chest as he sits on the iron throne. the heat radiates from him, seeping through the thin fabric of your clothes and settling deep in your bones.
baelor’s arms encircle your waist, pulling you flush against him. you lean back, letting the crown of his head rest against your shoulder, his breath hot and ragged against your neck.
he holds you steady as his hands wander over your hips before he reaches between your legs.
he starts slow, his long fingers rubbing against your clit. the cold silver rings catch on the sensitive bud, sending jolts of electricity through you. you gasp, leaning back into him, your head falling back onto his shoulder.
"so wet for me," he murmurs, his voice a low rumble against your ear. he circles the nub faster, the friction making your breath hitch.
then, he slides his fingers lower, pressing one inside you. you moan as he stretches you, the metal digging into your soft walls. he adds another finger, scissoring them open to prepare you.
"look at how much you take," he says, his hand moving rhythmically inside you.
the cold metal of the rings catches on your inner walls with every thrust. the sensation is sharp and electric, the hard silver digging in just right. he picks up the pace, his breath hot against your neck as he works you open, the sound of wet skin slapping against skin filling the quiet room.
finally, he pulls his fingers out, glistening with your juices, and leaving you empty for a moment. you whine, a protest against the sudden loss, but he brings them to your mouth, tapping your mouth twice to tell you to open.
he watches you, his eyes dark. "taste yourself," he commands, and you obey.
you open your lips, wrapping them around his fingers. you suck on them eagerly, tasting yourself on his skin, the metal cold against your tongue.
then he thrusts his fingers back into you, harder this time. he hits that spot deep inside you, making your vision blur. the pressure builds rapidly, a coil tightening in your belly.
you rock back against him, chasing you high, your breath hitching in your throat.
"i want to see you fall apart on my hand," he murmurs, reaching around to pinch your nipple roughly through your dress.
you whine, the sensation overwhelming. you lean your head back against his shoulder.
"can you come for me, my love?," he asks, pounding into you with his hand. "come on my fingers."
the wave crashes over you, your body arching against him as you cry out his name, your walls clamping down around his hand, the rings digging in as you ride out the intense pleasure.
summary: you did not want to marry prince baelor targaryen. you had heard the stories your entire life and none of them had made you want to be anywhere near the man they described. but the crown owed your father a debt, and debts in king's landing were paid in daughters.
pairing: baelor targaryen x fem!tyrell!reader
content: canon divergent, arranged marriage, non-implied age gap, angst, slow burn, jealousy, yearning, court politics, mentions of past character death (Baelor's first wife, vague insecurity, implied smut (18+ MDNI)
You did not want to marry Prince Baelor Targaryen. You had known it the moment your father summoned you to his solar with a particular stillness on his farce, one that meant a decision had already been made and your presence was a courtesy rather than a consultation. You had sat across from him and smiled and said nothing, because it was your duty to not say anything, and just obey. You loathed the thought of such.
The maester read the terms of the arrangement over supper, as though he were reading a list of household accounts. Even now at the Red Keep, after quite the travel from your home, your father sat across from you with his hands folded on the table and his eyes fixed on the tablecloth, and you sat very still and still thought of nothing at all, because that was the only way to keep yourself from doing something foolish.
You had the urge, briefly and vividly, to stand up from the table and walk out the room and keep walking, out of the Red Keep entirely, out through the gates and down to the harbour and onto the first ship that was going somewhere your father hadn’t already arranged. But you knew better than that. They would drag you back before tide turned. They always found a way too.
“The betrothal will be formalized within this moon period,” the maester said, glancing up from his scroll to look at you with the mild apologetic expression of a man delivering weather. “The wedding is to follow swiftly after. Prince Baelor has agreed to it, so I do not see why it shouldn’t go forward without trouble.”
Without trouble. As though trouble were something that lived in logistics. As though the trouble had nothing to do with you sitting in this room and being talked about like a parcel to be sent on.
Prince Baelor. You had heard the name your entire life. Everyone had. You grew up on the stories the way other children grew up on songs. Baelor Targaryen, who had held the line at Ashford when lesser men had broken and run. Baelor Targaryen, who had ridden through a burning village to pull three smallfolk children from a collapsed roof, and emerged the other side with his cloak in flames and not a word of complaint about it. Baelor Targaryen, who had put down the Blackfyre Rebellion with cool efficiency that men still talked about at feasts, their cups raised and their voices hushed with something that sat right at the border of reverence and fear.
They called him Breakspear. They called him that because no one had ever broken him.
You thought about that even after the maester excused himself and your father finally looked up from the tablecloth with the expression of a man who believed he was being generous.
"You'll be a princess," he said. "You understand what that means."
"Yes," you said, and your voice had no happiness in it, no solace, nothing that could be mistaken for either of those things. "I understand."
He took that as agreement, because he always took silence and stillness as agreement, and perhaps that was your fault too.
You lay awake in the guest chambers they had assigned you, the ones you would occupy until the wedding made you someone’s wife, and you turned your father’s ambition over in your mind like stones you already knew the shape of. He wanted children from this union. Heirs who carried Tyrell blood and Targaryen blood. Not giving any mind that Baelor already had two sons by his first wife, the one who had died in her labours years ago, giving birth to Prince Baelor's youngest son. Your father made it clear to you that he wanted his blood in the line of succession. He wanted to be able to look at the Iron Throne one day, and say, somewhere in that, there is something of mine.
You did not want that. You did not want any of it. You did not want to be near the prince, did not want to give him heirs on top of the ones he already had, did not want to spend your life in service of an ambition that had never once asked what you wanted from your own.
Two sons was enough for any man.
That night, sleep did not find you.
You saw him for the first time in the courtyard of the Red Keep, three days after your party had arrived. He was speaking to two knights in riding gear, his back half-turned to you, and your first thought was that he was taller than you had expected. Your second thought was that he looked like a man who had never in his life needed to raise his voice to make a room go quiet.
He turned when your footsteps scraped the stone, and you caught the full measure of him at once. The grey decorating his beard in patches. The broad set of his shoulders, built for armour even in plain clothes. The mismatched eyes, one brown and one blue, that settled on you with an attention so direct it was almost physical.
"My lady of Highgarden," he said, and there was a small smile on his lips, something measured and polite, as he tilted his head slightly down to look at you.
"Your Grace," you answered, almost too quickly, and kept your eyes down for a beat longer than you needed to, studying the worn stone at your feet like it might offer you something useful.
He waited for you to look up. You got the sense he was patient at waiting. You got the sense he had waited out many things larger than this.
"You've come a long way," he said.
"Indeed," you said, because you had to say something. "The road was kind. We had good weather, by the gods' grace."
"Did you."
"Yes."
A silence settled between you that felt less like discomfort and more like he was simply observing you, cataloguing something at a pace you couldn't rush. You smoothed your skirts with both hands, a nervous habit, and hated yourself for it almost immediately.
"I hope you are pleasant with having to wed me," he said, pausing briefly, watching you twist your fingers together in front of you. "Are you?"
No. The word arrived in your mind before anything else did, clean and immediate. No, I am not pleased, I am frightened and resentful and I have not slept properly in two weeks and every story I have ever heard about you ends with someone not getting back up.
But you could not say any of that. Your father would have your tongue before the sentence was finished.
"Do not do that to your fingers, my lady," Baelor said, interrupting the spiral before it could swallow you whole. "You'll do harm to them."
You stopped instantly. The command was not unkind, but it was a command, and your body obeyed it before your mind had finished deciding whether to. The smile that had been on his face when he first turned was gone now, though the faint softness underneath it remained, held carefully in place.
"I'm starting to wonder if you aren't pleased with the match," he said, his voice entirely calm, the way deep water is calm. "You still haven't answered."
"I apologize, Your Grace." The words came out smooth and easy, rehearsed without meaning to be. "I am pleased. It is my duty to be, and if our union strengthens the bonds between our houses, then I am glad of it."
A lie. A very good one. You had been practicing variations of it for weeks.
He looked at you for a moment longer than felt comfortable, long enough that you wondered if he knew, long enough that you felt the specific heat of being studied by someone who was accustomed to reading situations accurately and quickly. Then he exhaled slowly through his nose and looked out across the courtyard, giving you the small mercy of his profile instead of his full attention.
"A diplomatic answer," he said.
"I've been told I give those."
"I don't doubt it." He glanced back at you, brief and measuring. "I've been told you paint."
The change of subject was abrupt enough to unsettle you, which you suspected might have been the point. "I do," you said carefully. "Sometimes."
"What do you paint?"
The question was so plain and without ceremony that it caught you off guard. You had been braced for something political, something that required a careful answer, and instead you got this. "Flowers, mostly. And the water. We have a lake at home, on the south side of the grounds. I've painted it perhaps a hundred times."
"And it still interests you?" Not sarcastically. Genuinely curious in the way of someone who finds focus in other people interesting rather than puzzling.
"Every season it looks different," you said. "Every hour of the day. I don't think I could exhaust it."
Something shifted in his expression then, small and real, the faint softening of a face that held itself deliberately composed as a matter of long habit.
"I have kept you long enough," he said, and inclined his head to you. "I'll see you at supper, my lady."
He walked past you back into the keep, and you stood in the empty courtyard with your hands still at your sides and tried to decide what you made of that, and found that you couldn't. The wind came through and lifted the loose edge of your sleeve, and somewhere above you a bird crossed the grey sky, and you stood there until the sound of his footsteps had faded entirely.
Then you went inside, and sat with your ladies, and smiled, and said nothing at all. Because that’s the order of the way things were here.
The feast was loud and long and you drank your wine too fast and smiled until your face ached. Baelor sat at the head of the table to your left in the same dark cloth he had been married in, the three-headed dragon embroidered at his chest, and you had been a wife now for approximately six hours and you could feel the full weight of it settling over you like armour you hadn't been measured for.
You had married a man who had killed people.
Not cruelly. Not without cause. But he had, and the stories were very clear on that, and they did not try to soften it, not even for the women who were being handed to him. He had done what needed doing and done it well and the realm had benefited and all of that was true and none of it made a difference to the part of you that was sitting at this feast watching the candlelight move across his hands and thinking about all the things those hands had done before they had touched your jaw this morning.
You did not know how much wine you had drunk. Enough. Not enough. Somewhere in between. You had lost count around the third cup and stopped caring around the fourth, and the noise of the feast pressed in from all sides, laughter and music and the scrape of chairs on stone, and somewhere in the middle of all of it you sat very still and rethought your entire life from the beginning.
Merry found you eventually, your cousin with her pretty laugh and her gift for making any room feel smaller and warmer. She dropped into the seat beside you and took your hand under the table and squeezed once, and you squeezed back, and neither of you said anything about it.
"He keeps looking over," she said quietly into your ear, after a while.
"Does he?"
"He's been watching you all evening."
"He's probably worried I'll knock something over," you said. Merry laughed. Across the table Baelor said something low to the man beside him and did not look up from his cup, and you watched him for one unguarded moment before you looked away.
You watched him sometimes, after that, in the spaces between conversations. When he wasn't looking. You tried to read him the way you read the lake, the way you looked at a thing from different angles until it gave you something. He did not gesture when he spoke. He did not laugh loudly. He listened more than he talked, which among men of his station was genuinely unusual, and when he did speak the people around him leaned in without seeming to realize they were doing it. Like plants toward light. Like something involuntary.
What surprised you, later, was the bedding ceremony. Or rather, the absence of one.
Baelor had refused it. Quietly, without spectacle, in the way he seemed to do most things, and the court had no choice but to fold around his decision and pretend they had never expected otherwise. You heard it from Merry, who had heard it from one of the Kingsguard, and you stood there absorbing the information with a feeling you didn't immediately have a name for. Relief, you decided. It was relief. Strange and unexpected and slightly humiliating to feel so strongly, but there it was.
Even so, when the door to your new chambers clicked shut behind you both and you heard the latch catch, your chest tightened all the same.
The room was full of candles, dozens of them, casting everything in soft shifting gold. Someone had arranged fresh flowers near the window, roses among them, and turned down the bed with the kind of careful attention that made the whole thing feel more deliberate, more inevitable. You crossed to the window and stood with your arms folded loosely at your waist and looked out at the dark city below and tried to remember what breathing was supposed to feel like.
Then he said your name.
Not my lady. Your name, and it sat differently in his mouth that it did in anyone else’s. Lower, somehow. More considered.
You turned from the window. He was watching you with that same quality he always had, the direct unhurried attention, but there was something else underneath it now. Something careful. Like a man approaching a problem he didn't want to make worse.
"You don't have to worry so much," he said, and moved to the table across the room, pouring wine with his back half-turned to you. His hands were steady. Of course they were. "We won't consummate it tonight."
The words landed and your stomach dropped, but not from relief. From something closer to dread, the specific crawling dread of a daughter who could already hear her father's voice somewhere in the back of her skull telling her she had failed before she had even begun. It had only been a couple hours of being a wife and you already failed short. You dropped your gaze to the floor. Your fingers found each other, and you started pulling at the skin around your knuckles without meaning to.
"Did I do something, my prince?" The words came out smaller than you intended. Quieter.
He set the goblet down. You heard him turn.
"You don't have to keep calling me that," he said. "We're married now."
"What would you prefer?"
"My name," he said. "Just my name."
You pulled in a slow breath. "Have I done something wrong, Baelor?"
His name in your mouth felt foreign and right at the same time, like a word in a language you had been studying a long time and had only just spoken aloud.
He crossed the room toward you, not quickly, not with any urgency, just steadily, and he stopped when he reached you and put two fingers under your chin and tilted your face up. His touch was warm. Dry. Unhurried.
You were not expecting the kiss he pressed to your forehead. Soft, brief, almost nothing, and yet it stayed on your skin after he pulled back, like the impression of something.
When you looked up at him your lips were parted and you had nothing to say.
"No," he said, simply. "You haven't done anything wrong." He searched your face for a moment, his mismatched eyes moving between yours. "I don't want my wife drunk and anxious the first time. I'd rather you come to it because you trust me enough. Not because the court expects it of you before morning."
A silence opened up between you. Outside, the city murmured on, indifferent.
"That could take a long time," you said, and you meant it lightly but it didn't come out quite that way.
"I know," he said. And then, without any particular weight to it, like a man stating a fact he had already made peace with: "I can wait."
You looked at him standing there in the candlelight, large and steady and entirely serious, and you thought about all the stories, all the things they said about him, the battles and the efficiency and the men who had not gotten back up, and you thought: none of them mentioned this part. None of them thought to.
In the weeks that followed, you learned that baelor woke before dawn, every morning, and could be found in the training yard before the light had fully come. You learned that he ate simply and without fuss and that feasts bored him, that he tolerated them because they were required and endured them the way another man might endure a long sea voyage.
You were still frightened of him. Not in the way you had been that first night, with your arms crossed and your heart hammering. You didn’t know how he made you feel.
Baelor noticed your distance, of course. How could he not. You were always in bed before he came to the chambers, feigning sleep or close enough to it that he never tested the difference. You declined his invitations to share supper with excuse after careful excuse, a headache, correspondence from home, fatigue from the afternoon. He accepted each one without comment, and somehow that was worse than if he had pressed you. You were grateful, most of all, that he had not yet commanded the marriage to be consummated. That was the thing you held onto.
You felt guilty about it sometimes. In small quiet moments, when you were honest with yourself. But guilt was a feeling you could set down and pick back up. Fear sat differently in the body.
Every other day there was a new rumour. Your ladies brought them to you the way birds bring things back to a nest, little bright pieces of nothing that accumulated into something. You had no choice but to sit and listen, just as you were doing now, in the small solar off the main hall where the afternoon light came in sideways and made everything look warmer than it was.
"He is a great man," said Elayne Hightower, in the tone of someone conveying information she believed you were too simple to already possess. She was one of the ladies assigned to you upon your arrival, and in the weeks since you had arrived at a quiet and absolute conclusion: you did not like her. Not even a little. She was the kind of woman who delivered cruelty with a smile and then looked confused when anyone minded. "A great man in every sense of the word, if you take my meaning."
She let the last words hang there and looked at you sideways, watching for a reaction.
You took a slow sip from your goblet and gave her nothing.
"Surely you've consummated the marriage by now," she said, leaning forward slightly, dropping her voice in the conspiratorial register of someone who wanted an audience but pretended otherwise. She set her goblet down on the table and smiled at you with all her teeth. "Do tell. How was it?"
The bluntness of it made your eyes go wide before you could stop them. "I do not wish to speak of such matters with you, Lady Hightower."
She rolled her eyes, the gesture practiced and a little bored. "No need to be so shy about it, princess. Virgins always get so delicate when someone brings it up. It's rather sweet, really." The word sweet landed the way a small blade lands, point first. The other ladies around you had gone very still, a few of them hiding their mouths behind their goblets. "It's nothing to be ashamed of, not knowing what you're about."
"Mind your tongue," you said, and you meant it to come out firm and it came out soft, which was worse.
She made a small sound with her teeth, a dismissive little tsk, and waved her hand as though you'd said something tedious. Then she tilted her head at you, her smile going thin and sharp at the edges.
"Well. If you won't share, I suppose I'll simply tell you how he spent the remainder of the evening. Once he was done with you, that is." She paused for effect. Let the silence do its work. "He came to me."
The room went very quiet.
You sat completely still. You were aware of every person in that room, every averted eye, every carefully controlled expression. You could hear the city outside the window. You could hear your own pulse.
You thought about the night of your wedding. Baelor helping you out of your dress without making anything of it. Baelor sitting with you until you had went into a dreamless sleep, after the many wines you had that evening. You had thought, lying there in the dark, that whatever he was, he was at least that. Decent. Trying.
But then. A man of his station and appetites, refused by his new wife night after night. It was not hard to imagine. It was, in fact, very easy to imagine, and you hated how easily the picture assembled itself.
You felt the anger arrive before you'd decided to feel it. It was different from the distant background dread you'd been carrying for weeks. This was sharp. Immediate. Something with edges.
Your brows pulled together without meaning them to.
"I can tell you the particulars if you like," Elayne said, pleasantly. "He talks you through it, I'll say that much. Very thorough. He did write me this morning, actually, to say he'd be visiting again soon." She glanced at the other ladies with a little lift of her chin, a performer acknowledging her audience. "I suppose things between you two haven't quite found their footing yet."
You stood up.
It happened before you had finished deciding to do it. One moment you were sitting and the next you were on your feet, and the room seemed to go even quieter somehow, the way rooms do when something shifts.
"That is my husband you are speaking of," you said. Your voice was very even. You were rather proud of how even it was, given that your hands were trembling slightly at your sides and you could feel the humiliation pressing up behind your eyes like water behind a dam. "Whatever the circumstance, whatever your history with him, you will not speak his name to me in this manner again. If you do, I will take the matter directly to His Grace the King. Do you understand me?"
Elayne looked up at you from her seat with that same thin smile, and said, "I've hurt you. I'm sorry for it, truly," in a voice that contained not one single grain of apology.
The lady beside her pressed her lips together to hide something that was almost certainly a smile.
You did not say another word. You turned and walked out of the room, and you did not wait for your knight to fall into step behind you. You walked until the corridor bent and the solar was out of sight, and then you stopped and pressed your back against the stone wall and breathed and looked at the ceiling and thought about absolutely nothing at all, which was very hard to do, and which you forced yourself to manage anyway.
You stayed there until you trusted your face again. Then you went back to your chambers and sat at your window and watched the world outside until the light faded, and you did not want to think about Elayne Hightower, and you certainly did not want to think about Baelor.
You didn't hear the door open. Your eyes were distant, fixed on nothing in particular beyond the glass, and your meals had come and gone untouched all day, the chambermaids cycling in and out like tides, and you had let them. Appetite required a kind of presence you did not currently have.
Without meaning to you, as Baelor spoke your name, as you turned to face him you glared at him, a pouty look on your face.
"Is it true?" The words left your mouth before you had decided to say them. You didn't know where the nerve came from. Only that the jealousy had been sitting in you all day like something swallowed wrong, and underneath it the thing you had been less willing to look at: that somewhere in the weeks of distance and avoidance and careful politeness, you had grown fond of him. Quietly. Without meaning to. You had been seeking him out even as you pulled away. Maybe that was why he had gone elsewhere. Maybe the fault was yours and you hated that thought most of all.
You hated her. You were certain of it now.
Baelor looked confused. More than confused, actually. Surprised, in the specific way of a man who had learned not to expect much and was recalibrating in real time. You were always the one who waited to be spoken to first, who answered in half-sentences and agreeable nods. You speaking first, and like this, meant something was wrong. His brows drew together. "What's true, princess?" he said quietly, his eyes moving over your face.
"Do not make me say it." Your voice was unsteady and you resented it. "It hurts enough to think about. Let alone say it to your face."
He took a step toward you and you looked down and that was when he noticed your hands, your fingers picking at the skin around your nails the way they always did when you were trying not to cry.
"How many times," he said, and his voice was very calm, "have I told you to stop doing that."
"Do not act as though you care," you said, and your voice cracked on the last word and you hated yourself for it. You looked up at him. "Did you care when you went to Elayne Hightower on the night of our wedding? Did you think of me at all? People call you honourable. They say it like it is the truest thing about you."
Something moved across his face. Something small and quick. He pressed his lips together and the corner of his mouth shifted, barely, the suggestion of something that in any other moment might have been amusement.
"What is funny about this?" You stared at him. "Do you know what it felt like, sitting there while she told me in front of everyone. While they smiled behind their goblets and thought I couldn't see."
He closed the distance between you. "What did she say." Not a question. A quiet command.
"Vile things. Things I don't wish to repeat." Your voice broke properly then and you turned away and walked toward the window because you needed something to look at that wasn't his face. You could feel the tears and you refused them, crossing your arms over your chest.
You startled when his hands found your shoulders. His fingers gathered your hair and moved it aside, and then the scratch of his beard against the slope of your neck, the press of his lips there, warm and deliberate, and his hands settling at your waist, drawing you back against him. You let him, because you were tired and hurt and his hands were warm, and some part of you had been wanting something like this for weeks without knowing how to say so.
"Tell me what she said," he said against your hair.
You told him all of it. The smile on Elayne's face. The details she offered without being asked. The letter she claimed he had sent that very morning. Your voice stayed mostly level and only broke once, near the end. His hands did not move from your waist the entire time.
"She said you'd promised to see her this evening," you finished. "It was humiliating. I never want to see those women again. You have made me friendless in a court that was never mine to begin with."
You pulled away and turned to face him. He looked down at you with an expression so steady and intent it was almost hard to hold.
"Were they laughing," he said.
"Smiling. Murmuring. Close enough."
"Then why would you call them your friends."
You opened your mouth and closed it. He had a point and you hated that he had a point and you were not going to let it distract you. "That is beside the matter. You still haven't answered me." The next words came out low and laced with something that surprised even you. "Whether you truly found comfort between her legs on the night you wed me."
You lifted your chin at him. "If you promised to see her this evening, then go. I won't keep you."
He held your gaze for a long moment. And then, very quietly, "do you think I would do that to you."
You stared at him.
The question sat between you, very quiet, and he did not move while he waited for you to answer it. He just looked at you the way he always looked at things, with that patient undivided attention that had unnerved you from the beginning and unnerved you still, though differently now. Less like standing in the path of something and more like being seen.
"She said you did," you said finally. Your voice came out smaller than you wanted. "She said it very plainly."
"And you believed her."
It was not an accusation. It was not even a question, quite.
"I didn't want to," you said. "I tried not to. But I sat in that room and I listened to her describe you and I thought about all the nights I've gone to bed before you came in, and all the suppers I've refused, and I thought—" You stopped. The words felt too honest. Too much of something you hadn't meant to say out loud.
"You thought what," he said.
"I thought that you would have every reason to." You lifted your eyes to his. "I have not been easy. I know that. I have not been what a wife is supposed to be to you and I have known it every day and done nothing about it because I was frightened, and I—" Your voice broke on the last word and you pressed your lips together hard and looked at the ceiling and refused to cry in front of him. Absolutely refused.
His hand came up and curved around your jaw, tilting your face back down toward his. His thumb moved once across your cheekbone, slow and deliberate, the way you might steady something fragile.
"Look at me," he said.
You did. You had no choice when he held your face like that.
"I have not touched Elayne Hightower," he said. "Not on our wedding night and not since. I’ve never done so, and I have no intention of doing so ever." He held your gaze, not blinking, not letting you look away. "I don't know what she told you or why she told it, but it was a lie. Every word of it."
You searched his face the way you searched paintings, looking for the thing that was not right, the detail that would give the lie away. There was nothing. There was only Baelor, steady as he always was, telling you something plainly and without performance, the way he told you everything.
"Why would she say it then," you said. "She had details. She said you wrote to her."
"She is a woman who enjoys the particular power that comes from making other women feel small," he said, without heat or drama, as though he were noting the weather. "And you are new here, and a princess, and a considerable threat to people who were comfortable before you arrived. She said it because she could and because she wanted to see what it would do to you."
Your mouth was dry. "And what did it do to me."
Something shifted in his expression. Softened, in that way that still caught you off guard when it happened.
"It made you speak to me," he said. "First. Without waiting to be spoken to."
You hadn't thought of it that way. You hadn't thought of much of anything clearly today. You became abruptly and uncomfortably aware of how close he was, his hand still at your face, the warmth of him in the cooling room.
"I made a fool of myself," you said quietly.
"You were jealous," he said. "That's not foolish."
You felt heat climb your neck. "I wasn't—"
"You were." And there was that near-smile again, the one that lived at the very corner of his mouth and barely made it further than that. "I'm not saying it to embarrass you. I'm telling you because I'd rather you know that I noticed and that it mattered to me. That you mattered enough to be jealous over."
You didn't have anything to say to that. You had prepared for denial and deflection and a polite dismissal, you had not prepared for this, for him standing in the candlelight holding your face and telling you plainly that you mattered, without ceremony, without asking for anything back.
"You should have told me," you said finally, because you had to say something and it was the truest thing left. "If she had said those things to you about me you would have told me. You wouldn't have let me believe it."
"No," he agreed. "I wouldn't have." He studied you for a moment. Then: "I'll speak to her."
"Don't." The word came out quickly. "It will only make it worse. It will only give her more to say."
He shakes his head in a silent no. “She won’t, I’ll make sure of it.”
"Baelor, please." You moved after him as he turned, reaching for his arm without thinking. "I'm asking you not to. She will humiliate me further for it. She will talk about me behind my back to anyone who will listen, she'll make my life a living—"
He kissed you.
Not gently. Not the way he had kissed your forehead on the wedding night, careful and brief and almost impersonal. This was something else entirely. His mouth pressed to yours with a kind of fierce certainty, one hand cradling the back of your neck, his thumb tilting your jaw up, and the sheer unexpectedness of it emptied your mind of every word you had been about to say.
For one stunned moment you simply stood there. Then, without deciding to, your eyes closed and you leaned into it. It was not a polite kiss. It was not the kind of kiss a man gives a woman he is merely fond of. It was hungry and deliberate, all heat and pressure and the slide of his tongue against yours, the faint graze of teeth at your bottom lip, his beard rough against your skin, and it tasted like wine and something underneath it that was just him, and it stole the breath from your lungs so thoroughly that when he finally pulled back you had to remind yourself how lungs worked.
You looked up at him. Your mouth was still parted. You had nothing at all to say. He did not step back. He did not look remotely apologetic. He simply watched you absorb what he had done.
A faint thread of warmth lingered between your lips when he pulled away, and his thumb came up to swipe it from your skin almost absently, eyes never leaving yours.
“That is what you were afraid of,” he said quietly.
You swallowed. “Of being kissed?”
“No.” His thumb pressed once against your lower lip. “Of wanting it.”
Heat climbed your neck.
Before you could answer, he leaned in again, but this time the kiss was slower. Not an interruption. Not a silencing. His mouth moved over yours with intent, coaxing instead of claiming, and when you softened beneath him, when your hand tightened at his chest and your body leaned into his without instruction, he made a low sound of approval in his throat.
“Good girl,” he murmured against your mouth. “That is honest.”
His hands slid down from your shoulders to your waist, broad and steady, and then lower, settling at your hips. He pulled you flush against him, slow enough that you felt the full press of him between you, solid and unmistakable even through layers.
Your breath caught.
He noticed.
“You feel that,” he said, not asking.
“Yes.”
“And you thought I had no appetite.”
The corner of his mouth lifted faintly.
When he called for Elayne Hightower before the small council that evening, the scratches at his throat said everything he did not need to, and every lord present saw them just as clearly as she did.
tw: spanking, corruption and praise kink, not beta'd
words: 2k
Baelor could tell something was on your mind. Frantic pacing and fidgeting being the biggest giveaway, though he had an idea what caused it. He had started noticing it a few days ago, subtle at first but increasing with every passing minute.
You had married Baelor only three moons ago, coming from a small noble house yourself, and so far you've only had small appearances together - nothing too grand, living in relative privacy. But there was a big gathering coming with lots of new lords and ladies and all the gossip that will follow. It made you nervous. Nervous, because you were new in your role of princess and wife. People were surely going to judge you for any missteps or your appearance.
The first event of the gathering would be tonight and your nerves were hitting its peak. You could scarcely even breathe. Baelor had tried talking to you, reassured you with calm and soothing words but none of it worked.
You were in your shared chamver, either sitting at a table and tapping your fingers or foot against various surfaces or you were up and pacing back and forth.
It was the latter you were doing when Baelor placed himself in your path, effectively stopping you.
"My dear, everything will be all right," he spoke while looking deep into your eyes, rubbing his thumbs over your knuckles.
"I will be by your side the entire night, I swear it."
You had no doubt about it, he had told you many times over the last few days, but the fear of the night ahead sat so deep in your bones, mere words didn't seem to be able to shake it. Still, you nodded and took a few breaths.
"That's it, just breathe,” he murmured and the way he said it reminded you of your wedding night, having used the same words when he slowly pushed inside you for the first time.
He had bedded you on your wedding night, so there would be no doubts about the legitimacy of your marriage. Baelor had tried to make it as enjoyable as possible for you with the circumstances at hand — essentially bedding a stranger that was also quite a bit older than you and not having had very many sexual experiences before. It had hurt at the beginning, but by the end you had found pleasure in the way he moved inside of you.
For a few weeks after, he wouldn't touch you, though. Not until trust had been established and a certain physical attraction could no longer be denied. Nights together became more frequent as you became more acquainted with him and your own sexuality and he always put your pleasure above his, with his hands, his mouth or his cock.
You calmed down for effectively five seconds, desire flooding your body at the memory, before your thoughts started spiraling again, becoming restless once more, fingers fidgeting in his hands.
Baelor took you in. He had tried calming you with words and reassurances, but none of it seemed to work, nothing seemed to be able to take your mind off of it. But where words seemed to fail, maybe something else wouldn't. Maybe you simply needed a more physical approach and an idea took hold in his mind. He guided you both towards the bed, you standing in front of him, the bed behind him.
He let go of your hands and placed on the sides of your face instead.
"Do you trust me?" He asked and you only nodded, wide eyed, not knowing what to expect.
"I want to hear you say it," he said before asking again.
This time you breathed a quiet "yes" that seemed to please him. He sank down to sit on the bed.
"Come, lay yourself across my lap," he spoke, patting his thigh with one hand as he looked up at you. You hesitated which only made him raise an expectant brow at you, but there was also a hint of a smile tugging at the corner of his lips. It felt a little awkward, but you did as you were told, your middle over his lap with your arms and legs resting on the plush mattress. One hand resting on your shoulder blade, while his other hand smoothed over your back and down the swell of your bottom. You could still feel the heat of his hand through the many layers of fabric and it almost immediately made you relax a little, body growing less taut, head lowering to rest on the bed, too.
"Good girl," he said, voice barely above a whisper. He could probably see it and feel it too with the way you were draped on top of him. It was then one of his hands slowly slid under the fabric of your skirts, pushing them up as he trailed his hand over your calf and thigh until your ass was bared to him. You were wearing smallclothes but it did not make you feel less exposed, even if you had been naked in front of him numerous times now.
"Baelor," you breathed, not really knowing what he was going to do to you, but feeling a strange sense of arousal from being in this position.
"Relax." His hand kept gliding over your exposed skin, the heat of it more noticeable now, only interrupted by the cold metal of his rings. "Tell me if you want me to stop."
You nodded, but right now, this felt good - soothing - and you didn't want him to stop.
And neither did Baelor.
He knew he had some more unconventional appetites, but when you came to him with your innocence intact and almost untouched, he knew he had to take it slow. And he had dreamed of having you like this.
His big hand sliding over your skin, soft and unmarked — and gods — he couldn't wait to leave his.
It didn't take long for him to notice your fingers absentmindedly tapping on the blankets again, drumming a random rhythm. This time however, he wasn't going to use words to distract you. Instead he lifted his hand and brought it down on your ass in a swift movement.
You let out a gasp, it didn't hurt but it took you by surprised and you turned your head to look at him. Again there was only that raised brow of his, so you dropped your head again. To his satisfaction he also noticed your fingers had stilled and he didn't wait for them to start again before he brought his hand down a second time a little harder. The first one had been measuring, wanting to see how you'd react. The second one had a little more impact.
Another gasp escaped as he soothes the sting with his hand, the skin already having reddened slightly. It was a third spank which had you bite your lip to stop the noise that threatened to come out of your mouth and you weren’t quite sure if it was going to be a moan or a yelp. That last one having sat on the edge of painful, but the way his hand immediately went to rub over the sting made it bearable. It was a combination of pain and pleasure you had never felt before.
“Now I’d like you to count every hit,” he said with gravel in his voice. “Do you think you can do that?”
“Yes. Yes I can,” you breathed while nodding, you would’ve said yes to almost anything if it meant he kept going, the feeling of his hand on you almost addictive.
He didn’t start right away, instead he made you wait a few more second before he struck again.
“One,” you said, suppressing a moan.
“Good girl,” he hummed and the hand that wasn’t on your ass pet the top of your head in gentle strokes and you wallowed in his praise before he continued.
You had counted five slaps and your ass was red in earnest now with heat radiating from it and it was an even prettier sight than Baelor had imagined and the way you took to it so easily, so eager to please him, he couldn’t help but get hard.
He wanted this to be about you, to help you stop thinking for a bit, but he was also only a man of flesh and blood. And if you took to this so well — he could only imagine all the other filthy things he could get you to do.
By the sixth, you were squirming in his lap again, but this time for completely different reasons. You were trying to rub your thighs together to get some relief for the ache that had begun at your core, which also made you aware of his hardness pressing against your abdomen.
The anticipation between each hit, paired with the sting and the soothing hands after, as well as all the muttered praises that made for an intoxicating combination you could see yourself getting addicted to. You were craving to hear how well you were doing for him, how pretty you looked with your ass red and how perfect you were.
But you also had to focus, not wanting to lose count with all of that, so there was no space for any more thoughts in your brain. You could barely even remember what got you into this situation.
It was number eight when Baelor could see the wetness seep through your smallclothes and he had to suppress a groan himself. He wanted to glide his fingers under the fabric and feel the wetness there and have you come around his fingers, but he restrained himself.
You counted ten spanks when you were almost close to tears. From the pain, from the pleasure, from the overwhelming feeling of it all.
Baelor knew he had to stop. He could tell it was almost getting to be too much but also because if he didn’t stop now, he’d have you on your back and there would be no chance you’d make it to the gathering tonight. So despite himself, he glided his hands over your dark red, hot skin some more and then brushed the layers of your skirts down again. A soft whine of protest left your lips, but he only helped you up and you winced slightly as you came to sit on the edge of the bed.
Tears were gathering in your lash line and your skin was flush all over and Baelor thought you have never looked more beautiful.
He wiped a single fallen tear from your cheek and then leaned in to capture your lips with his own. It was hungrier than usual and held a promise of more.
“You did so well for me,” he whispered against your lips, so close that they touched with every word he spoke.
“And now every time you sit down or the fabric of your skirts brush against your ass, you’ll be thinking of me.” He kissed you again and you practically melted into it, his kiss, his touch, his words. But you also wanted more, the ache between your legs still present and growing.
“Fuck me, please.” You could barely believe the words you were saying with your mind fogged with lust, never having spoken like this to him or asked for it so directly. This time he couldn’t help but groan at how wanton you were and how quickly he got you there.
“After the gathering,” he said between kisses, which was not at all what you wanted to hear and you whined in response. He tutted at you, but a smirk on his lips betrayed him.
“Only good girls get rewarded.”
You pouted slightly, but tried to pull yourself out of the lustful haze.
You were praying this evening would go by quickly, but this time for a completely different reason than only a few hours ago.
➥ banner by @vase-of-lilies | ➥ divider by @firefly-graphics
Summary: He told you that he could smell the change in you, could smell your body calling him and begging him to claim it.
♱
Prince Baelor was watching you again.
Those dark eyes of his always seemed to be watching you these days, and while it was not something you particularly minded, you had never been one to enjoy too much attention, and while he was one man, having the attention of the heir to the throne was the attention of one man too many. You picked at your food, appetite long lost, in the hopes that it would bore him and his gaze would stray elsewhere.
Deep down you knew this hope was futile.
The dark-haired prince did not seem to find interest in any interesting thing you chose to do but instead in you. You supposed that you could be staring into a goblet of water and you would still find his deep gaze on you. Were you any other woman, you would have been flattered, but as it were, you hated attention, and you almost chuckled at that.
The gods certainly had an interesting sense of humor to place you into perhaps one of the most attention seeking houses in Westeros. You guessed they could not help it if you believed like Aerion believed, that dragon blood ran through their veins—your veins. Perhaps that was why you hated the attention so much, only half the amount of dragon’s blood coursing through you unlike Aerion.
Your brother never missed an opportunity to remind you that you were a mere halfling, only half as worthy of calling yourself a Targaryen and even less so because you were a bastard. That was a word that stung less in your adulthood, and you remembered hearing whispers of it growing up, eyes stinging as if the word was a blade meant to harm you.
You accepted now that it was a descriptor like any other—an insulting one, but a way to describe you and categorize you nonetheless. Not everyone said it with the same vitriol that Aerion carried when he said it, and your eyes found his just as he was on your mind. He ate obnoxiously and pointedly, and you swallowed down a sigh at his ever persistent attempts to get some sort of reaction from you.
“I have had my fill,” you suddenly said, standing. “I think I will retire for the night.”
You did not linger to see if your father was okay with that, hurrying to make your exit and find sanctuary in your chambers. The feeling of a dark gaze still heavily weighed on you as you made your way down the corridor, and you desperately wished that you were none the wiser to your uncle’s watchful eye.
“She is well past maturity,” you heard him quietly say one day. “Do you not find it worrisome?”
Your father’s response had been immediate.
“Of course it worries me,” the other man had almost snapped. “...but our house is no stranger to the odd late bloomer or two.”
The white-haired man was being nice, of course, recalling only one Targaryen to ever live well beyond their sixteenth name day with no presentation in sight. You were well beyond your twentieth and yet you still walked around with no presentation in sight. No heat, no rut nor anything to classify you, and when these thoughts plagued your mind, you would think on Aerion’s hurtful words and perhaps the truth in them.
You did not belong.
There was something wrong with you.
He all but uttered it the first time your father brought you home, introducing you to your siblings whose hair was just as white as yours. An eighteen year old halfling bastard with no scent, and years later nothing had changed, and you had the nerve to hate attention. Attention was all you drew, but not once had it ever been from him.
Prince Baelor—your uncle Baelor—had never been anything but kind to you from the moment your existence was no longer a secret. Where one brother regarded you with borderline contempt, and the rest took a moment to get their footing about how to take your sudden presence, the dark-haired Targaryen welcomed you immediately. You were far from naive, knowing that he most assuredly had an opinion or two about his brother and his parentage of you, but if he did, you never heard it.
For years prince Baelor had only ever made you feel comfortable and like family.
Now, all he ever did was watch you.
In the years that you came to know him, you recognized that he was an observant man. Perhaps that was why he was so different—so kind—because he was always watching. Watching the things people said, watching how they reacted, and watching and seeing what people tried to hide. Only you had nothing to hide, and yet he watched you as if you did.
As if he was waiting for you to reveal it.
“Prince Maekar demands your presence at supper tonight.”
Your chambermaid stood at your bedside with an even expression, though her eyes betrayed her. Your father could behave unkindly at times, and there was no doubt in your mind that the brunette before you had been on the receiving end of said behavior. You hated that whatever treatment she endured was because of you, but it was not enough to pull you from your chambers.
For days now you felt unwell.
…and that was what you told her…again.
“Yes, I made that clear to him, but he is insisting and…made it a point to remind me to tell you that it is not up for discussion.”
A break in her expression betrayed what her words did not, and you swallowed, guilt consuming you. There were many suppers and such you chose to miss due to your tense relationship with your brother, but for once, you really were sick. You knew that your father would not believe you, and yet you could not muster the strength to obey him.
Truthfully, you worried about just what was wrong with you.
You heard nothing of a deadly illness passing through the small folk, and as it were you were hardly one to leave the keep. Even still, you found your stomach twisting into knots at times so badly that you thought you would be sick. Two nights in a row now you awoke covered in a thin sheen of sweat, bed damp and body hotter than it has ever been.
Not only did you not want to be around your family, you were afraid to be, and just as you were about to reiterate that you did not feel well, there was a knock on your chamber door. You exchanged a glance with the other woman before she answered it, and something in your gut stirred at the familiar voice.
You were sitting up and swallowing down any bad feelings just as Baelor brushed past her. His eyes were on you immediately—like always as of late—and you resisted the urge to avoid his gaze. With a small nod from you, your chambermaid left you and the silence in her absence felt incredibly heavy. You pretended not to know why as he approached you.
“You do not look ill,” was the first thing he said to you.
A reply was on your tongue, but it was momentarily forgotten as he stopped just at your bedside where your chambermaid once stood, and your lips parted. A scent surrounded him that you had never smelled before, and it stumped you for multiple reasons, but most of all for how good it smelled. The dark-haired man was standing over you and looking down at you with the slightest curve to his lips as if he thought you were acting like a disobedient child yet again.
…and the entire time all you could focus on was the scent that invaded your senses.
“I assure you, uncle” you said after some time, finally gathering your thoughts. “I am.”
“My brother already has much to deal with where Aerion is concerned,” he hummed, reaching out and touching your cheek. “He does not need any trouble from you.”
It was the faintest of touches, and yet your whole body felt as if it was lit aflame. A brief sudden urge filled you to lean into his touch, and the thought was so uncharacteristic that it broke you out of whatever mental fog you found yourself in. Leaning away from him, you cleared your throat, and when you chanced a look at him, Baelor was staring down at you as he had been for months now.
Waiting.
He always looked as if he was waiting.
For what? You did not know, and telling yourself that you had enough problems without making any up, you swiped your tongue between your lips to speak.
“I know I have cried wolf many times before, but I am entirely serious when I say I have not felt well,” you told him, gaze pleading as you looked up at him. “Please get that through to my father. He always listens to you best.”
The handsome prince looked down at that with a fairly quiet chuckle.
“Only when he feels like it, I fear.”
Before you could respond to that, he continued.
“Come to dinner tonight,” he hurried to elaborate before you could refuse. “Appease him and plead your case, and I guarantee he will let you be for at least a few days more.”
His expression was comforting, and his soft eyes held a command there that you did not want to go against. Baelor had always made you feel safe and heard, but there was something different about it, now, and the calmness that washed over you in his presence desperately made you want to listen to him.
You did not have time to linger on that, watching as he offered his hand to you, and you took it without thinking. His palm was rough, the hand of a skilled knight, and you did not hate it. You never had, but in this moment, the roughness appealed to you in a way it never had before. The feeling against your soft palm made you curious, and before you could press that curiosity, he was pulling you to your feet and letting you go.
“I will send for your chambermaid,” he told you, but your mind was somewhere else entirely. “Your father has already been angered by one of his children today.”
You watched him go, and you watched her replace him, and still your mind remained on the feeling of his hand in yours. You felt as if you could have held it for the rest of the night, and the thought made you frown. It was not unheard of—especially in your house—to find comfort with one’s own blood, but you were not raised in the Red Keep nor Dragonstone or around any Targaryens before your eighteenth name day. These feelings did not feel natural to you, and doubly so because they were coming out of nowhere.
Your uncle Baelor has always been a safe space for you, and now…
Now something stirred in you that felt like a little more than mere comfort.
The walk to the dining hall was long, the walk to the table even longer, and somehow dinner felt even longer than those torturous walks. You sat across from your uncle, and if you did not know any better, you would have sworn he was right beside you.
The scent of him reached you from all the way across the table, and there were times you had to physically harm yourself to bring your mind back to the present instead of his hand in yours and his comforting gaze holding yours and his presence in your bedchamber. The thoughts made your skin warm, and yet even after you forced such thoughts away, you were still warm.
Hot even.
You ate as best as you could, and contributed to the conversation enough to be deemed polite, and still…your mind and body were in two separate places. A heat was taking over you like no other, and the food that once satisfied you was making you feel even more sick. It twisted within your gut like a fist, and at some point you found yourself abandoning your utensils and the pretense of eating altogether.
Your brothers’ and your cousins’ voices blended together and faded into the background all at once, and you weighed the ramifications of abandoning supper early after all the trouble your father went through to get you here. You considered whether or not it was worth it, and just as you started to swallow down your discomfort and stay, you chanced a glance up.
Your gaze connected with a dark one—a familiar dark one—and you blinked at Baelor as he stared at you as he had many times before. Conversation flowed around you, but it did not touch either of you, and you felt trapped. You looked between his eyes as he stared at you, and your uncle did not break eye contact as he reached for his ale, bringing it to his lips and holding your gaze the whole time.
You did break eye contact, however. Your gaze falling to his throat, watching—transfixed—as the sweet liquor traveled down it, watching it bob as he swallowed. It hypnotized you, as did every move he made, and you watched him pull the cup away, your lips parting at the stray traces of drink on the pink skin. Movement pulled your gaze away from his mouth, and you suddenly found his fingers—and the way they stroked the rim of his cup—more interesting than anything going on at the table.
The gentle back and forth of them piqued your curiosity just as the rough feel of his palm did in your bedchamber, but unlike before, you could linger on it. Watching their movement made something pinch deep in your stomach that was unfamiliar to you, and you felt the tip of your tongue touch the inside of your bottom lip, wanting a taste of something wholly unfamiliar. You could not place it…and then the heat all over your body concentrated in one place…and your heart dropped…
Your eyes met his again, and there was a look of knowing in Baelor’s gaze that could not be mistaken for anything else.
An uncontrollable heat was growing between your legs, spreading throughout your whole body until you could feel dampness on your forehead. The air on the back of your neck felt entirely too cool, telling you that the light sheen was not just contained to your face. You wanted a myriad of things all of a sudden, but most importantly you wanted Baelor to stop looking at you like he knew exactly what was wrong with you…because he did, and now you did too, and you were stumbling to your feet and out of the dining hall without a glance back at your father’s irate baritone.
Your late presentation was all anyone was talking about.
At least, that was how your chambermaid told it. Through the fever and the pain of your first heat, she murmured to you about your father’s simultaneous relief and disappointment. Relief that there was indeed nothing wrong with you, but his unmet hope of you presenting as an Alpha like literally every single one of your siblings. You could just hear Aerion’s voice now, mocking your bastard lineage as the reason for the fuck up.
“I told you,” he would say in that low mocking tone of his, full lips pursed. “You are not right.”
It momentarily brought tears to your eyes, and you squeezed them shut as she held a cool damp cloth to your forehead.
You were always told that the first heat was the worst, lasting for far longer than any that would follow, and in those moments where you found yourself alone and sweating through your clothes, you wondered… Why you? You could probably count the number of times on one hand—possibly six fingers if you thought long enough—that a Targaryen presented as an Omega.
It was humiliating, and this was a thought that plagued you even as you stumbled down the corridor in the middle of the night to a scent that had not left your mind and senses for days. You knew where it was taking you, and you only wanted to be near him, only wanted to indulge in the smell of him as you fought through this misery.
You were in the worst pain of your life and your nightdress was so soaked in sweat that you looked as if you had gone for a swim in it, but the moon was high in the sky and the halls were empty of anyone to witness your desperate plight, and no one else was awake. At least, that was what you assumed, but your assumptions were incorrect as the familiar door was opened before you even approached it.
Baelor could smell you coming.
“You should be resting,” were the words to greet you as you stumbled into his arms.
He said this, but it did not stop the older man from twisting his fingers into your hair and pulling you against him, your nose pressed into his chest. You deeply inhaled, lashes fluttering and eyes rolling into the back of your head at his scent. It was the scent that triggered all of this, and it terrified you how he could smell like all of your favorite things at once.
“Do you wish for me to retire to my chambers?” you quietly wondered, lips brushing against his thin shirt as you said this.
You both heard and felt him deeply inhale, and you could feel his nose in your hair. It felt strange to just stand there breathing each other in, but you decided that you did not care when Baelor gently leaned your head back, his nose dragging along the expanse of your throat. All you could focus on was his scent and how much you wanted to suffocate in it.
“All you have to do is command me, and you know I will struggle to disobey,” you breathed.
When his lips met the corner of your mouth, that was answer enough you supposed, but then he spoke, and his words traveled straight to the pit of your stomach, and you clenched down on nothing.
“Your father will be less than pleased…”
The cool metal of his rings against your warm skin soothed you as he kissed you, and you clung to him as he forced you to follow him inside of his chambers.
“Would you like for me to make you feel better?”
You started to nod, but Baelor interrupted you.
“Use your words,” he firmly told you, nipping at the place where your neck and shoulder met.
“Yes,” you pleaded. “Please.”
Every touch of his fingers on your skin soothed you, and Baelor seemed to understand that you did not want him to stop touching you. Ever. The fur on his bed made you feel even hotter, but it was of no consequence as he peeled your damp attire off of you, the cool air hitting your naked frame making you shudder.
The dark-haired prince was focused on soothing your heat, and he was only partially undressed when he pushed you to your knees, a hand on the small of your back while the other wrapped around himself. The slick between your legs was dripping down your thighs, and his thick cock stretched you out with ease because of it.
The noise you let out was unlike anything you ever heard escape from yourself, and with your forehead pressed to his bed and your fingers twisting into the fur, you could hear him using the time to completely disrobe. When you felt his bare chest pressed to your back, you could not hold back the soft mewl that climbed from your lips.
Baelor pulled his hips back until the head of his cock was just brushing against your folds before surging forward and filling you once again. You struggled to catch your breath at his pace, the hand on your back holding you down for him and keeping you in place to take him. Every push of his hips against yours soothed that fire within you, alleviating some of that discomfort deep within your gut.
You felt…animalistic.
Your teeth were sinking into your lip, and your nails were scratching at his plush bedding, and his Alpha pheromones were making you feral. You wanted to taste him and be as close to him as possible and be in him if you could. His face pressed into the crook of your neck as he rutted into you, and when his teeth grazed your skin, you could not swallow down your small yelp. It felt like a thousand bees in your neck, and you reached back to pull his head closer.
“I could smell the change in you,” Baelor calmly told you. “I could smell your body calling to me and begging me to claim it before you even knew what was happening.”
His words caused a shudder to travel down your spine, and he ran his hand down it as if he knew. When Baelor sat up, he forced you to your hands as well, and they shook as they struggled to keep you up as he continued to steadily thrust into you. The wet sound between your legs reached both of your ears, and you sighed when one of his hands gently twisted at your scalp again.
“You have always been so obedient for me,” he hummed.
You sighed a soft ‘yes’, weakly nodding.
“...always so agreeable, always looking to me for comfort,” he deeply said to you, a hand tracing over your sweat soaked skin. “Always looking to me to protect you.”
His cock stroked that fire in you, making it hotter and hotter.
“Even now, it was I who you ran to tonight to get you through your first heat,” his hand tightened in your hair. “...and it will be I who takes care of all of them. Is that understood?”
“Yes,” you breathed, recalling that he liked for you to use your voice.
“Do you understand what that means?"
His voice was getting closer, and you breathed another soft ‘yes’. Baelor’s nose grazed against your neck, followed by his lips, and when they parted, then his teeth. Your whole body shivered as they pressed into your skin, not enough to break it, but enough to make your heart skip a beat. Baelor did not ask nor did he warn you, and when his teeth sank into your neck fully, marking you and claiming you as his, your whole body convulsed.
Your arms gave out and you collapsed beneath him as you came around his cock, nails scratching and pulling at fabric as he fucked you through your peak. His entire frame pinned you between himself and the bed, and you could not stop gasping and moaning at the feeling of his cock sliding against your walls, the length of him covered in you, wet and glistening no doubt.
His facial hair scratched against your skin in the best way, and the ring on his finger was pressed so firmly against your hip that you knew it would leave a faint impression. Your toes curled as you struggled beneath him, eyes watering just a bit from the pain in your neck, and when Baelor finally pulled his teeth away from your skin, a gentle kiss soothed the irritated flesh.
You were still coming down from your high when he slowed his thrusts, fucking you gently and slow, and you leaned back into him in an attempt to get closer. One of his hands came around to your mouth, and you absentmindedly parted your lips to allow two fingers inside, sucking on them when he gently told you to.
His lips were at your ear now, and he deeply inhaled.
hiii could i request a 'how would the akotsk characters act when you're in an arranged marriage but with someone else'
because i was thinking about that with Dunk and would love to read that since it'd be more realistic for him, how it would be to love him but being forced to marry a prince like Baelor or Aerion (typical but i love that) or loving Baelor or the others and having to marry someone else
thank u, i love your writing <3
how would the akotsk characters react if you’re in an arranged marriage with someone else?
— baelor loves his brother, but he knows maekar is a hard, prickly man.
— he actually spends the weeks before the wedding trying to "soften" maekar, telling his brother of your favorite things in hopes of ensuring your future home is at least peaceful.
— he accepts the match as "stable".
— he puts his duty to the realm and your family’s alliance above his own heart every time.
— stands tall and stoic at your wedding, offering a perfectly composed toast that never betrays his private grief.
— ensures that your husband treats you with the absolute highest respect. even if it is his own brother
— avoids being alone with you to prevent any "dishonorable" lapses in restraint.
— he becomes strictly formal.
— he calls you "princess" before the vows are even said, using the title as a shield to keep his own feelings from leaking out.
— if he sees you unhappy, his eyes go dark with a quiet, helpless fury he can never act upon.
— when dunk hears you are to marry aerion, he physically recoils. he knows the prince’s cruelty better than anyone and feels a crushing sense of failure for not being able to "rescue" you from a monster.
— he thinks himself a fool for ever thinking a knight of his station could keep you.
— on your wedding day, he stands at the back of the sept, looking down at his boots because he can't bear to see you in another man's colors — especially when it is the red cloak of house targaryen belonging to aerion
— avoids looking at your silk gown, remembering you instead in the simple clothes you wore when you first met in the rain at ashford.
— if you try to comfort him, he’ll just ruffle his hair and tell you that "a lady belongs in a castle, not on the dusty road."
— he spends more time training or with egg just to keep his mind from wandering to what could have been.
"my lady, if he ever... if he lays a hand in anger... you send for me. no matter where i am, i will come."
maekar targaryen
— maekar has spent his life in baelor’s shadow; losing you to him is the final, bitterest blow. he becomes even more reclusive, snapping at any servant who mentions the wedding.
— but he’s so mad. ofc his brother baelor got the wife he always wanted. ofc you’d be arranged to marry the heir of the iron throne.
— he hates that he begrudges his brother’s happiness, but he hates the "perfection" of the match even more because it leaves no room for him to protest.
— he still views the marriage as a cold necessity that took you away from him.
— he offers a stiff, formal nod to you both, his eyes like flint. he won't look at baelor’s face for a month.
— stays far away from the festivities and rather sits alone on the battlements of maegor’s holdfast, preferring to drown his frustration in wine, staring at the stars and drinking until the sun rises.
— he never speaks of his feelings, but he watches you from across every feast with a heavy, longing gaze.
— he finds reasons to visit the court more often, claiming "official business" just to see you’re well.
"you'll be a great lady, and he’ll be a great king. you’ve won the prize. why do you look so miserable?"
valarr targaryen
— he is heartbroken in a very visible way, though he tries to maintain his dignity.
— he would actually go to his father to beg for the match to be broken, only to be told that the alliance is essential for the realm’s peace.
— he genuinely wants you to be happy, even if it kills him to know he isn't the cause of it.
— he tries to spend every waking moment with you before you leave, dragging out "lessons" or "walks" just to steal time from your future husband.
— when you prepare to leave, he gives you a book of valyrian poetry, his fingers trembling as they brush yours.
— tries to be "friends" with you and your husband, though the tension makes it incredibly awkward.
— he spends a lot of time sighing or looking wistfully at tokens you might have given him in the past.
— will still dance with you at every ball, holding you just a few seconds too long before handing you back.
— writes you letters that are technically "proper" but filled with subtext and nostalgia for your time together.
— the laughing stops for a while; he becomes uncharacteristically somber and prone to outbursts.
— "that sot? that wine-soaked dreamer? you know that i like to drink as well but i’m no drunkard like him," lyonel roars. he thinks it’s an insult to your beauty to be paired with someone who prefers a bottle to a bride.
— he begins to openly mock daeron.
— he treats daeron with a terrifying, patronizing "friendship," essentially warning the prince that if you aren't treated like a queen, the stormlands will march.
— at the wedding feast, he claims the longest dance with you, twirling you until you’re breathless, laughing loudly to hide the fact that he's heartbroken.
— he remains a fierce friend, often showing up at your new home with gifts just to check on you.
— he tells you that storm's end will always have a seat for you at the table, "should the wine in king's landing ever run dry."
— daeron doesn’t hate lyonel, which almost makes it worse. "at least he's a man of action," he’ll mutter. "better than a man of bad dreams like me."
—he drinks even more than usual, claiming he saw this tragedy coming in one of his dreams.
— becomes a fixture in the darker corners of the tavern, avoiding the wedding preparations.
— he’ll joke about how you're trading a "shaking dragon" for a "roaring stag," but his eyes are glassy with unshed tears.
— he shows up late for the feast, looks at you once with a heartbreaking smile, and disappears back into the shadows before the cake is even cut.
— shares his wine with you whenever the pressures of your marriage become too much.
— he apologizes for not being "man enough" to be the one the father chose for you.
— he’ll never try to "win you back," believing himself to be too much of a mess for you anyway.
"he's loud, but he's true. there aren't many true things left in this world."
— he reacts with pure, narcissistic rage, viewing your marriage to someone else as a theft of his property.
— he views valarr as "weak" and "unworthy" of the dragon’s blood—and certainly unworthy of you.
— would throw a tantrum and even tries to convince his father that he would be a better choice than valarr.
— acts incredibly possessive of your time and attention whenever you are in the same room.
— will try to force his way into your company, acting as if the engagement doesn't exist.
— during a squire's match or a hunt, he’ll try to "accidentally" hurt valarr, hoping to prove his cousin's weakness in front of you.
— makes cruel, public remarks about how you would have been better off with a "true dragon."
— creates a toxic environment where you feel like you have to manage his ego to keep your husband safe.
— he’ll whisper to you in the halls about how valarr will never satisfy you, and how you’ll eventually grow bored of a "perfect prince."
— on the wedding day, he is standing in the front row, staring you down as if challenging you to change your mind at the altar.
"he might wear the crown one day," aerion hisses, "but even kings can die. you made the wrong choice."
fern i need you to write the most nastiest smut for daddy baelor like toe curling, sweat inducing, cum loading smut i need to ride him like a dragon
toe curling… sweat inducing… cum loading…
Ride Your Dragon
Baelor Targaryen x wife!reader
✿ after your husband dismisses your words of comfort, he works hard to win back your favour the best way he knows how (or, you ride your dragon to feel better).
✿ 18+
✿ wc: 3.6k
✿ cw: fem!reader, no y/n and reader is undefined but hot (you), baelor is obsessed with you, SMUT, not a lot of plot i'm gonna keep it real guys, unprotected piv, riding, praise, strong language, the softness and desperation we all need from a man like him (so not super duper nasty i'm sorry 😔)
The golden light of the sinking sun illuminates your path through the Red Keep as you hurry through the vast network of halls, your heavy skirts whipping against your ankles as you move. Servants stop when they see you, bowing their heads or casting their eyes downwards in respect, and ever the dutiful princess, you respond with the same kind smile that has earned you quite the positive reputation across the kingdoms.
A kind, amiable consort to match the justness and integrity of the great Baelor Targaryen. A gentle hand beside him to lessen the load, to calm him of his day’s struggles and guide him tenderly through the reddened corridors of the royal residence. Whispers whirl of how your smile can subdue any man, really––lesser lords notice the relief that seems to wash off of Maekar when you enter any room, and the ladies-in-waiting spot how tension leaves the faces of Valarr and Matarys when you place your hands upon their shoulders in comfort.
Some say it is magic. Some say you are an enchantress, primed with the ancient knowledge of some kind of dark ritual that enables you to calm even the most tempestuous of storms (these rumours began when you calmed the raging Aerion one night, several moons ago, and he, to everyone’s utter shock, listened and obeyed).
But it is not magic.
Nor are you always successful.
You continue briskly down the warmly lit hallway, head level and eyes fixated onto the opening space in front of you. You can hear equally hurried footsteps behind you, and you huff to yourself, making it to your favourite wing of the castle and throwing open the door to your chambers. You slam it shut behind you and it seems the bones of the castle rattle with the force, the heavy wood appearing to rock on its hinges. With an exasperated sigh, and in a considerably unladylike manner, you fling yourself down onto the furs of your bed.
There is a gentle knock on your door.
“No,” you respond simply.
“I have yet to speak a word,” the voice of your husband travels quietly through the thick wood. Despite these being his chambers too, he did not open the door. Instead, when greeted with your silence, he continues with a gentle, “My love?”
“Leave me be,” you say loudly, lifting your faces out of the plush furs.
“I do not wish to,” Baelor replies quickly. “May I enter?”
He asks for permission to enter his own chambers. The chivalry of it all makes you sigh as you roll onto your back, picking yourself up to sit on the very edge. You let him wait for a few long moments, watching sunlight dance through the large, reticulated windows adjacent to your bed.
“My love,” he says again, somehow even more gentle than before. His tone has something twisting bitterly inside your stomach, something tasting of guilt when it rises like bile into your mouth. You shake away the feeling, pressing the tip of your tongue to the backs of your teeth as you withhold a pout. Baelor continues, “I will leave if you––”
“You may enter,” you say quickly before you regret it. Not that you ever would.
The door creaks open slowly and your husband enters your shared chambers. He closes the door softly behind him before he remains adjacent to it, mismatched eyes finding yours across the room, a deep crease in his brow. There’s something heavy there, in the way he holds your gaze, his own guilt manifesting itself in the space between you like some kind of spectre. You yearn to bat it away and make him feel right again.
He takes one step closer. “I did not mean to speak to you in such a way.”
His curt words from earlier echo around your skull as if he were shouting them at you right at that moment. Frustrated and tired, Baelor had dismissed you tersely from his solar when you attempted to peel the stress from his body with your kind words. Paired with a flick of his hand through the air in obvious dismission, his words cut through you like a knife––and he knew it. You were offering him such sweet words, such (usually) welcomed comfort and support, and he had all but cleaved your heart in half for it. A short moment after the words had been said, he looked up in surprise––surprise and shock at himself––as you withdrew from him, hands leaving his shoulders and warmth vanishing, extinguished like a candle. You had backed away and then fled the room, leaving Baelor to fumble over the papers before him, inkwell toppling over and splashing ink across the parchment as he moved quickly to get up from his desk.
You notice the ink stains on a couple of his fingers, black smudged into the crevices of his skin. His face appears calm, but he fidgets with a large silver ring on his ring finger.
“Yet you did,” you mutter in reply, crossing your arms over your body. “You spoke to me as if I was little more than… than a servant.”
You pause, then scoff out: “Actually, you are always so courteous to our servants, so I believe you spoke to me with even less courtesy. Perhaps you would speak to a hound like that, or perhaps a Blackfyre––”
Baelor huffs loudly, but he wasn’t angry. “Do not pain me, my love.”
You raise a brow in his direction.
“I apologise for the way I spoke to you. It was unbecoming and unjust of me, and I stand here before you, as your husband, to ask for your forgiveness,” Baelor says carefully, taking another couple of steps towards you. He stops, just out of arms reach. “From sunrise to evenfall I have been continuously called upon, but I know that does not excuse the insolence of my actions.”
“No,” you whisper. “It does not.”
“Please, my love.” Baelor steps forward once more and brings a large hand to the side of your face, cupping your cheek and touching his thumb to your cheekbone. “I am deeply sorry. May you forgive me?”
You notice the glassiness of his mismatched eyes and immediately melt beneath his gaze, a surge of remorse flowing through you as his other hand finds the other side of your face, cradling you. His eyes scan over you and you let your frown slip away.
“You are forgiven,” you begin.
Baelor smiles, the lines around his tired eyes deepening. “Thank––”
“On one condition.”
Baelor cuts himself short, slowly closing his mouth. You smile innocently at him as he continues to cup your face in his warm hands. He leans forward and presses a gentle kiss to your forehead and you feel butterflies in your stomach as if you were some simple maiden.
“Anything,” he whispers against you.
You take a step back (which requires considerable strength considering the warmth and gentleness and familiarity of his hands on your face). His arms drop to his sides and he peers at you curiously. You point at the bed behind you.
“No more work for the rest of the evening,” you say. “And you’re going to get on that bed and not move unless I tell you to.”
Baelor opens his mouth to say something, but decides against it. Not wanting to spurn anymore wrath from his wife, he keeps eye contact while he discards himself of his royal wear, his tunic falling away to reveal the strong expanse of his chest. Silently, you turn and he understands immediately––your clever, observant prince––and makes slow, careful work of the intricate knots on the rear of your dress.
You feel him against you. So warm and solid, his hands skim the heavy fabric as he unravels the backing with deft fingers. His breath fans over your shoulder too, which you can feel when it bares to him, the sleeve of your dress slipping down as he works. Warm lips press to warm skin. Over and over, Baelor takes the time to trail tender kisses along the shoulder, over the junction of your neck and up the side of your throat. He peels your dress down past your waist as he kisses the pulsepoint right below your ear, and you are aware that it is practically jumping out of your skin to meet him.
You lean your head back against his shoulder, your skirts hitting the solid ground with a resounding thump as his hands find the soft linen of your shift, clutching your waist.
His nose bumps the shell of your ear as he whispers, “I’m sorry.”
Then, his hands move, and you sigh out wistfully as his hands cover your breasts, palms burning-hot even above the thin material. He kneads you there as he sucks the skin at the curve of your neck, humming quietly to himself. You reach a hand behind you to loop into the band of his trousers, pulling him closer, feeling the imprint of him against your backside. You arch into the feeling and his quiet hum turns into a low groan.
You step forward and bring him with you with your finger hooked into his trousers still. He followers willingly, hands reaching for you as you spin out of his grasp, laughing. You stop at the edge of the bed.
Baelor quickly makes work of his trousers, and you can’t help but giggle at the desperation he shows in rucking them down his legs and then ridding himself of his breeches like a lovesick lord. You bite your lip as his already hard cock bobs out, and you have a moment where you wish to reach forward and grasp it (but you realise that would likely end up with you on all fours on the ground––good in any other situation but this).
You nod to the bed.
“So demanding,” he chuckles warmly, clambering onto the bed before turning to rest against the multitude of pillows at the top. He puts one arm beneath his head, smiling over at you as you slowly begin to remove your shift.
He watches you as if he’s being rewarded, free hand wrapped around the base of his cock. The head is ruddy with blood already, precum pearling at the slit as his eyes darken.
Your shift finally, finally––taking too fucking long, Baelor thought––hits the floor, leaving you exposed to the cool air of the room. Golden sunshine illuminates your body in such a way that Baelor’s mouth drops open: you were a vision from the gods themselves.
“Seven above…” He mutters, fisting his cock. The pearl of precum drops and rolls alongside a dark vein prominent on the underside.
You crawl towards him, breasts on full display as you settle up between his legs, and you hear his breath quicken, see the paced rise and fall of his chest. You make a point of swooping in low as you slink over his abdomen, the flushed head of his cock brushing between the swell of your breasts. Baelor groans loudly, the look of victory on his face mere moments ago completely gone. His pupils are blown wide with lust and his cock twitches as he rucks his hand shallowly over the base.
“My love,” he breathes out. “Gods, please, I need you.”
You straddle his hips, cock a hair’s breadth away from the heat of your core. You lift yourself and ignore the slight tremble in your thighs.
“Do you know how wet you make me?” You ask him in a whisper, and the groan that elicits from his chest was as strong an aphrodisiatic as anything you could find in Lys. You continue, “How soaked I am, simply from your touch?”
Baelor swallows thickly. “Show me––”
“How much I ache for you?” You lift yourself higher until the head of his cock, flushed a painful, bruising red, presses softly to your slick core.
“Oh fuck––” Your husband draws in a sharp breath.
But you don’t sink down. You simply begin to rock yourself back and forth, nudging the head of his cock through the wet folds of your cunt while you whine and whisper questions at him that he most definitely cannot answer. He could reach forward and take your hip in one large hand, slamming you down onto him. He has the power to do it, the nerve to do it, but he holds firm. Doesn’t move. Obeying his princess while she takes what she needs.
“Do you know how often you work late into nightfall, leaving me here, alone? How I have to touch myself to the thought of you because you are not here to satisfy me.”
The prince curses again and screws his eyes shut, relishing in the wet heat coursing down the length of his cock. He imagines you lying in your shared bed, your fingers crooked deep into the silken warmth of your cunt, moans drawing from your lips including a loud lilt of his name into the emptiness of the chambers. He envisions the pads of your fingers working desperately over the swollen bud of your clit, your back arching, nipples straining against the thin white fabric of your shift, pussy bared to the room and clenching around nothing.
His cock twitches and he groans.
“Let me taste you, my love,” is all he can think to say as he opens his eyes. He lets go of his cock to reach for your hip, squeezing gently and caressing the skin, as if that would help strengthen his case.
If you were a weaker woman, it would have.
Instead, you angled yourself to pry his hand away from his cock. He held you still, but let you move his fist away, watching with hooded eyes. All thoughts of work left his mind as you dragged his cock back and forth along the dripping seam of your cunt, nudging your clit and pressing against your hole. Again, and again, and––
“Gods, sweetheart, please,” Baelor whispers, tone strained, his free hand gripping the furs of the bed tightly, knuckles white. “I’m sorry, I’m sorry, I’m––”
It takes the power of all Seven above for you not to smile in victory at his incessant pleas before you’re slowly sinking down onto his cock. His head falls back against the pillows and he moans your name, loud and clear into the golden glow of your chambers as his free hand snaps to your hip to mirror the other.
Your cunt opens perfectly for him and you whimper at the stretch. He splits you open, sinking deep inside you in one fluid motion like a sword into its scabbard. The perfect fit. And he lets you know it, too––
“That’s it, that’s it, so good,” Baelor mutters his praises when he finally opens his eyes to look at you again. “So good for me, my love. So good––yeah, there we go.”
You start to move, your thighs tightening as you lift yourself and shift back down, cock rutting deep towards the plug of your cervix. The angle is torturous, and you can feel the vein on his cock inside you. It makes you moan, and then whine when his hands brace against the flesh of your hips. He’s pulling you down onto him before he can stop himself, panting as he watches your pussy take him like something out of a dream.
A spark ignites deep in your belly, your body heating. That fierce, intense heat that seemed to roll off most Targaryen men was the same heat that settles now inside you––inside your womb as you ride a dragon. Your dragon.
And he was never one to play on that too much. Never one to flaunt the fire that ran wild in his veins. Until, of course, he had you over top of him like this. Riding his cock so well, taking him so deep, drawing growls from a hidden part within him.
“That’s a good girl,” he says darkly, his cold rings a biting presence against your waist. “Keep going––ride your dragon, sweetheart.”
You moan, and you couldn’t find it in yourself to care that the sound probably penetrated the castle walls around you. You focus on the blooming pleasure in the bottom of your belly, the tingle building in the base of your spine, and the heat of his gaze on your face and breasts as you ride him.
Sweat builds up on the back of your neck and down the curve of your spine. You’re panting like a hound, toes curling against the soft furs, hands gripping at the softness of his stomach and chest, feeling the hair there. Baelor’s hands are strong on your hips, rolling you against him, his own hips shifting upwards with each of your movements, meeting you in the middle and thrusting himself deeper inside you. Your cunt is drooling out from around him, and he can’t help but stare at the thin, white ring that is slowly building at the base of his length. Maybe you are magic.
“Baelor,” you whine.
The wooden bedframe is creaking, the candles on a nearby table are flickering, and the setting sun has morphed from a resplendent gold to a blood red. Your chambers were bathed in the colour, your skin drenched in it, matching the ruby that sparkled on one of Baelor’s rings.
He huffs deeply. “My love?”
“I’m…” You taper off on a whine, head flopping forward as your legs begin to cramp and the tension in your belly grows tighter, pulling taut like a bowstring. You manage to whisper out a desperate, “Oh gods, please…”
“I know, I know,” Baelor shushes you gently. “Feels so good, doesn’t it?”
“Yes,” you whine. You lasted in your conquest for a good amount of time, but ultimately, you can never stay strong when your husband is involved.
He feels you clench around him and he almost loses his sanity, his next words dying on his tongue. They were honey-sweet, though, and so he quickly conjures up, “Need to feel you come around me,” before a low moan rips from his chest.
The hair at his temples has darkened with sweat, his chest flushed. He can feel the desperate tension in his cock, his balls tightening with every wet thrust into the tight clutch of your cunt. He’s fucking you roughly now, chasing the highs that crest upon an imagined horizon like the blazing sun beyond the Keep’s walls. It feels like there is smoking billowing from him, his grunts deep and bordering animalistic, eyes swimming in a red haze as night creeps into the room. The red streaming in is dying out, slowly, slowly––
He moans your name. “Come on, sweetheart, let me feel you.”
You gasp out. “Fu-uck!” And then come around his cock with a drawn-out moan.
Your pussy draws tight around the thick of him, squeezing and pulsing with your rapid heartbeat. It leaves you breathless, heart hammering against your ribcage as you slump forward, arms liquifying as your pleasure rocks through you. But Baelor catches you, presses you firmly to his chest with one hand while the other retains its grip on your hip, fucking you down onto his cock. He kisses you like this. When you’re pliant in his arms, the qualms of the day banished from your pleasure-hazed mind, he places wet kisses across your face, your throat. He sucks at your neck and tastes the salt of your sweat, and then he licks into your mouth and tastes the saccharine remnants of blood oranges imported from Dorne.
Laying here with you, moving together, his mouth on yours, his cock inside you, Baelor forgets about everything he needs to complete today. He forgets about what had stressed him, and forgets the inkwell likely still dripping onto the stone floor of his solar.
His thrusts become sloppier, less coordinated. He pants into your mouth, kissing the corner with a surprising tenderness in contrast with his manic thrusting.
“Baelor––” You sob out through a tired whimper.
“S’alright, my love, just be good for me,” he replies quickly, and you can hear the tension strung between each word. “Be good for me––fuck, yeah, that’s––oh gods, take it for me, sweetheart, take it––”
With one last rut of his hips, Baelor pulls your arse tightly onto him, practically melding you to his hips as his cock twitches once, twice, and then spills inside you. The sensation draws a strained groan from the prince, and the feeling of his cum filling you shoves an involuntary gasp out of your parted lips.
The two of you lay together, heaving chests pressed against one another, your raging hearts falling into sync, sweat slick between your burning bodies. Like glowing embers, the heir to the iron throne and his beloved wife settle and fizzle out just as the sun finally vanishes behind the distant horizon.
Now only a few candles cast light on where the two of you remain intertwined, Baelor’s softening cock still nestled inside you, your combined slick and cum slowly dribbling out and onto the furs.
Baelor presses another characteristically tender kiss to your forehead as he strokes your back with his large, worn hands. “I am truly sorry for the way I spoke to you earlier, my love. I will never cause you such distress again, gods believe me.”
He nuzzles against your cheek as you reply, “I forgive you, my prince. I know how much of a dragon you become when you are overwhelmed.”
He grunts against you, but says nothing more, knowing that, once again, you’re right. And being with you has extinguished the day’s burdens and he feels utterly content.
Warnings: Character death. Some description of murder.
Summary: Baelor stumbles across a strange woman in Aegon's Garden.
Word Count: 700+.
A/N: This is more of a drabble thing. I just couldn't be bothered to write it out properly.
Prince Baelor Targaryen who was married once before to you.
No one dared talk about you in front of him due to the tragedy and violence of your death.
The bright and beautiful Lady of Dragonstone who was hunted and slain in Aegon's Garden by a Blackfyre loyalist during the Blackfyre Rebellion.
So brutal the attack that some said they were not able to remove all of your remains from the garden.
Named Hand of the King at the end of the rebellion, Baelor returned only to Dragonstone to see that all entrances into Aegon's Garden were sealed and access forbidden.
Anyone found attempting to enter the gardens was to be thrown in the cells beneath Dragonstone.
Left untended, the once magnificent garden was left to grow uncontrollably and unruly as seen from the high-above windows of Dragonstone that overlooked the expanse of the garden.
Those who still occupied the Targaryen stronghold that had been shaped and re-shaped again by dragon flame and sorcery whispered of a woman's wailing that could be heard on the howling wind and the crash of sea against stone on some nights.
Some even swore they saw a woman in the gardens when they rushed past the windows above, only to conclude it must've been a trick of the light when they looked again and found no one.
As the years went by, Baelor found it harder to keep your face in his memories but his quiet devotion to you remained, marked by the golden brooch inlaid with sapphires that he pinned to the inside of the sleeve of his doublet every morning.
Baelor was forever marked by your death and refused to step foot onto Dragonstone again despite being the heir to the Iron Throne and Prince of Dragonstone… until thirteen years later when he finally returned for the first time.
-
Footsteps muted by the layer of needles that carpeted the once grassy floor of Aegon's Garden, Baelor took in the overgrown and unruly forest that the garden had become when he came to an abrupt stop.
An unfamiliar woman stood before him, half-hidden behind an overgrown rose-bush.
She was younger than him, her hair a tangled wind-swept mess and dressed in a deep-blue gown.
Baelor couldn’t help but notice an odd spot in particular on her chest that was coloured darker than the rest of her dress in the shape of what might’ve been a brooch.
She seemed vaguely familiar and yet he was unable to place her.
They stared equally stunned at each other until she broke the silence.
"Baelor…" the woman whispered. "Wh- what are you doing in here?"
Baelor tilted his head.
Even her voice was familiar but no matter how far he reached into the depths of his mind he could not figure out who she was.
His head felt foggy but still, he squared his shoulders and attempted to appear more confident than he felt.
"I could ask you the same thing, my lady. This garden was sealed thirteen years passed."
"And I was sealed within it…" the woman spoke so softly Baelor almost didn't hear it.
Eyebrows furrowing, Baelor didn't understand what she meant by that and felt even more confused by her presence.
Weighing up his next words, he watched her carefully, confusion touching the space between her own brows then understanding seemed to dawn on her - of what, he did not know - and finally pity and a deep sadness as she stepped out from behind the rose bush and edged carefully toward him.
"Do you not know who I am…" she said, then added. "… my lord?"
She stopped just within his reach, head tilting curiously up at him, her scent washing over him gently— pine and sea salt.
Reaching a careful hand toward his face, she gently cupped his jaw, thumb running over his cheek.
Unable to stop himself, Baelor took a step toward her and leaned into her touch, eyes closing at the familiarity.
There was something about her that brought him great comfort and warmth.
Then suddenly memories seemed to rush toward him in fragmented piece until realisation set in, teary eyes snapping open at the same as she said-
"Baelor, it's me, my love."
Tears fell from Baelor's eyes as he gathered you in his arms, gauntlet covered hands holding your face as he drank you in, touching his forehead to yours.
"How is this possible?" he whispered.
You returned your own watery smile.
Equal parts joyful and sad for you had long awaited this day but never thought it would come so soon.
"I will explain it to you soon, my love but, let us first remove this ill-fitted armour."
-
All fics are my own work - I have not posted my work anywhere else.
Disclaimer: I do not own any characters/places mentioned above.
Warnings: Overstimulation, spitting, Baelor is a munch, minors DNI
Words: 3700
"Good girl," he says quietly. His hand moves from your chin to cup your face. "Now I cannot do it just as you asked, not before our wedding, but there is something quite close I can do for you."
"What?" Your eyes widen.
He extends his hand to you, helping you to your feet as he walks back and sits down once more, now pulling you into his lap. Baelor hooks his hands behind your thighs so that they’re parted on either side of him, then places his palms on your hips and pulls you closer, until you can feel the heat from him between your legs and your chest presses against his on every breath you take.
"There," he murmurs against your ear. "Better, isn't it?"
A/N: This is the Baelor version of this story, though they are not that similar to each other
Divider by @dingusfreakhxrrington
No amount of reading could have prepared you for what it is like to be in King's Landing during summer.
You have been told it was warm, yes, but not that the heat is almost a living thing, that it presses into the stones of the Red Keep and they give it back at night with renewed fervor, that there is no hour in which it entirely relents. Winterfell's summers are brief and still colder than the harshest winters south of the Neck.
You had never wanted to come.
This is the truth of it, stripped of the diplomatic language your father used when he summoned you to tell you that none other Baelor Targaryen had made a proposal for your hand, that the family had accepted before even informing you, that you were to travel south to King's Landing to become acquainted with your future husband before the wedding.
You had long passed the age at which women of your station were expected to be settled, which made the offer from a Targaryen bewildering. Your family had not thought twice.
Since then, you have thought about it an unmeasurable amount of times, but that did not matter as the arrangement was set between both parties and Stark always honour their oaths.
So you had come south, willing to not let it strip you of your essence, eager to show the court what the northern grit is made of.
You have been surviving the scorching heat the only way available to you, which is by staying inside as often as you are permitted. The royal library archives are cool until mid-afternoon and demand nothing of you except that you return what you borrow.
Throughout your time in the Red Keep, you have not seen your prince as much as you expected. He is busy running the realm and advising the king and aside from dinners with the royal family, where you sit next to Baelor, you did not have many opportunities to get acquainted with him.
Prince Baelor finds you absorbed in a Dornish history book in the library for the first time weeks ago. He looks at what you are reading and asks questions and listens to your answers with his full attention, which you had never been given until that day, heart leaping in your throat at the way it settles on your lower belly.
Three books arrive the following morning in your chambers, with a note in his hand recommending the order in which to read them.
The next time you meet, he finds you again in the library and it dawns on you that he is carving some time in his day to seek you out. He discusses the books he had sent you, a slight smile gracing his lips as he takes in your opinions. You begin selecting books with some consideration for what he might find worth asking about and even suggesting some to him, particularly on the story of the North and the First Men.
Every week, without fail, books are delivered to your quarters. Three books, sometimes four, always selected with a care that tells you he has thought about what you said the last time and chosen accordingly, always carried by the same page with the same neat note in Baelor's hand.
Soon after, the gifts start arriving.
A length of fine wool in Stark grey. It is without a doubt not a southern fabric; it is warm, not at all suitable to wear in King's Landing, which means it is purely for your admiration, to honour the cold you carry with you from the North. You hold it and feel the specific chill of being known and seen by someone you have been trying to keep at a distance.
After that they come regularly. A journal with your house's direwolf pressed into the cover. A vial of perfume that smells, inexplicably, of pine and cold water, nothing that grows south of the Neck. A pair of gloves in the softest leather you have ever handled, made for hands your exact size.
The third gift is a set of maps, detailed and beautifully rendered, of the North, its rivers, mountains and coastline, the shape of home rendered in ink on vellum and sent to you wrapped in a fine silver fabric, embroidered with wolves and snowflakes.
You sit down on the floor between the shelves and do not leave for some time, eyes wide as you flit through the pages, fingers tracing some of the illustrations. Your legs grow weaker as the bodies shift and transform in your mind’s eye, taking the form of you and Baelor.
You sit with the maps for a very long time.
It is sometime after this that the librarian stops tracking your movements through the royal library, some unspoken permission extending itself into the further reaches of the collection, and it is there, in the unlabelled shelves behind the worst kept sections, that you find books that would surely scandalize a septon.
You take some of them with you back to your chambers and they go into the chest at the foot of your bed, tucked beneath the wool dresses and the heaviest cloaks you brought from Winterfell, the things your maids know better than to touch.
A few weeks into your time in King's Landing, the days have settled into something almost bearable. What Baelor lacks in physical presence in your day to day life he makes up with his books and gifts, which turns every moment you manage to see him in person more precious and you find yourself burning for his attention.
You had stayed up too late with Baelor’s books again.
A volume on the history of Valyrian steel swords kept you up before sleep took you mid-chapter and the candles guttered out on their own. You wake slow and heavy-headed, dress without urgency, take breakfast at your window, as numerous books are spread over the table where you are supposed to sit.
The page enters and you hand him the volumes you wish to return, pleased at how the table looks neater. You feel briefly competent. It is two hours later, when you mean to put the book from your personal collection away that you cannot find it. You look for it again as though the second time might produce a different result, which it does not.
You have been holding onto some of the books from his personal collection, meaning to return for days and have been delaying it because the annotations reveal the inner sharpness of his mind that you long to get to know more of. They lie beside another of your special books that you brought from the unlabelled shelves a few nights ago.
The state of your chambers is beginning to feel deplorable and so you call for the page before you begin to organise the books, sorting quickly, stacking without looking, your mind still snagged on a marginal note that Baelor made in the third chapter of the book that you have been turning over like a coin.
You sit down on the edge of your bed as the realisation dawns upon you.
The truth is simple and terrible: you handed the page an indecent book alongside Baelor's history ones and the page delivered both to Baelor and Baelor has, at some point this morning, opened a parcel containing his books and a text that would empty a septon's face of all its colour.
Well, you think. That is that, then. Now you imagine the letter. The journey north. Walking back through Winterfell's gates as the daughter who lost a Targaryen prince over a book. Standing, you decide to seek Baelor out yourself and sort your mishap, but before you can do anything, a maid comes with a note for you, in Baelor’s neat handwriting: “Please join me for supper at my chambers tonight.”
His chambers are lit warmly when you enter, the candles numerous and low and Baelor rises from his chair when you are announced with the courtesy he extends to everyone. His eyes find yours immediately.
Nothing in them tells you if he is displeased with you.
He guides you to your seat, supper is brought, and he asks about your week with the focused attention he gives everything, and you tell him with great effort, a pure exercise in sustained dread that you compress into several observations about the library's eastern collection, and he listens and asks questions and refills your wine and says nothing otherwise out of the ordinary.
You begin, cautiously, to hope.
"I have been reading," he says, when the second course arrives, "since this morning."
You set down your fork.
"Extensively," he continues, something pleasant in his voice that was not there a moment ago. "I’ve recently acquired a book like no other and it has been quite—" a pause, the word selected with care, "—illuminating. I must thank you, my lady."
“Your Grace, I’m so profoundly sorry—"
"I did not say I was displeased." He takes a sip of wine, watching you over the rim with the mismatched eyes that you have never quite learned to look at directly. "There is a particular passage I found myself returning to."
Heat rises in your face as you imagine him reading what you have read, wondering if his eyes were drawn towards the same pages, sentences and illustrations as yours were.
"Your Grace—"
"There is no need to use such formalities when we are alone. Do call me Baelor."
He eats his supper and watches you do it and says nothing further about the book, which is worse than if he had, because the book sits between you like a third presence at the table that you most certainly cannot forget.
When the plates are cleared he moves to the sofa by the fire and gestures to the one across from it. You sit, folding your hands on your lap as you try to remain tall under his piercing gaze.
He reaches to the table beside him and produces the book.
Your book. The broken spine, the pages soft at the corners from handling. He holds it with the ease of a man who has spent time in its company and you look at it in his hands, noting how they span across the entire cover.
"I thought I might return it properly," he says, opening it, a hand moving to scratch his greying beard.
"That’s very kind, Your Gra— Baelor. You could simply hand it to me," you ask with a tinge of hope in your tone.
"You went to such trouble to share it." The warmth is in his voice but underneath there is a promising edge to it, something that has been there all evening and he is no longer troubling himself to conceal. "It seems only courteous to return the favour."
"You may stop, my prince," you say.
He begins to read.
The words come alive in his voice; rich and unhurried, the voice of a man who knows precisely what it does to a room, and he applies it to the page with the same complete attention he applies to everything and the effect is catastrophic. You grip the arms of the sofa and maintain your expression through an effort of will that costs you considerably.
He turns a page.
"This is unnecessary," you say.
"You have read it," he says, without looking up.
"That is different. I was alone."
"And now you are not." He pauses, looks at you over the top of the page. "Does that change how the words affect you?"
You look at the fire and say nothing, which he takes for the answer it is.
He reads on. Through passages that make your jaw tighten. Through descriptions that make it very difficult to maintain any pretence of indifference, and you try your hardest to distract yourself by thinking of anything but this moment, but his voice is too tempting, the chance of staring at him with no one else around to judge is too tempting and you find yourself almost hypnotised by the lilt of his voice as he reads on.
When he finishes the page he closes the book and looks at you.
"The third chapter," he says. "You have read it several times. The spine makes that clear." He tilts his head, unhurried, certain of his ground. "Is that what you desire for, ñuha jorrāelagon?"
Your throat works, but no sound emerges.
"I asked you a question." His voice remains gentle, but there's steel beneath it. "I would have an answer."
"I do not—I cannot—"
"You can." He sets the book aside with deliberate care. "You've been reading about it. Thinking about it. Marking the passages that affected you most." His eyes hold yours. "Now I'm asking you to speak it aloud. What do you want?"
Heat floods your face. "This is improper—"
"We're betrothed. Soon to be married." He stands, moving closer with that same unhurried certainty. "There is nothing improper about a man wishing to understand his future wife's desires. In fact, I'd say it's rather practical."
Your hands twist in your lap. "I do not know how to say it."
"Try." He reaches out, tilting your chin up with gentle fingers. "Use the words from your book if you must. Tell me what you want."
"I want—" The words stick in your throat.
"Yes?" Patient. Waiting.
"I want you to—" You stop again, mortification warring with something else. Something darker.
"To what?" His thumb strokes your jaw, encouraging. "Say it clearly. I won't judge you, but I will require honesty."
You close your eyes, unable to look at him while you speak. "I want to sit atop your lap and—"
"And?" The question is soft but inexorable. "Be specific."
"Baelor—"
"Specific," he repeats, and there's something almost commanding in his tone now. "If you want something from me, you'll ask for it properly and I shall burn the Seven Kingdoms to give it to you. But you must ask."
Your breath comes faster. This is torture. Sweet, terrible torture.
"I want—" You force the words out. "I want your hands on me. On my skin. I want you to—what was described in chapter three."
"And what happened in chapter three?" His voice drops lower, intimate. "Remind me."
He knows. Of course he knows. He just read it aloud. But he's making you say it anyway, making you voice the desire you've kept hidden.
"He fucked her." Your voice barely rises above a whisper.
"Ah." Satisfaction colors his tone. "There it is. Was that so difficult?"
"Yes," you admit, eyes still closed.
"Look at me."
You force your eyes open, meeting his gaze. There's fire there, but also something softer. Approval, perhaps.
"Good girl," he says quietly. His hand moves from your chin to cup your face. "Now I cannot do it just as you asked, not before our wedding, but there is something quite close I can do for you."
"What?" Your eyes widen.
He extends his hand to you, helping you to your feet as he walks back and sits down once more, now pulling you into his lap. Baelor hooks his hands behind your thighs so that they’re parted on either side of him, then places his palms on your hips and pulls you closer, until you can feel the heat from him between your legs and your chest presses against his on every breath you take.
"There," he murmurs against your ear. "Better, isn't it?"
You cannot answer. Cannot think. The intimacy of the position steals your breath—straddling his lap, your skirts bunched between you, feeling the solid warmth of him through layers of fabric.
"I'm going to kiss you now," he says, giving you a moment to refuse. When you don't—when you can't—his mouth finds yours.
The kiss is nothing like you expected. His lips move against yours with purpose, with heat, coaxing a response you didn't know you had in you. When his tongue traces the seam of your mouth, you gasp, and he takes advantage, deepening the kiss until your head spins.
His hands tighten on your hips, and slowly, deliberately, he rocks you forward.
The friction makes you break the kiss with a sharp intake of breath. Even through all the layers of clothing, the sensation is overwhelming—pressure exactly where you need it.
"Feel that?" His voice is rough now, control fraying at the edges. "Is it indeed what you have been wishing for?"
You nod, incapable of words.
"Then move, my lady," he instructs, his hands guiding your hips. "Rock against me. Take what you need."
"I do not know how—"
"Yes, you do." His mouth finds your throat, pressing kisses along the column of it. "Stop thinking and just feel."
“Your Grace—” your voice dies in your throat as Baelor’s hand wraps around it, a low fire burning in his multi-coloured eyes as his expression hardens.
“I have already commanded you to address me by my name or ‘my prince’, ñuha dārilaros. Please remember that, if you’d be so kind,” he says, an edge behind his words befitting one of the blood of the dragon.
“Yes, Baelor,” you whisper, leaning to kiss his jaw as an apology.
His hand eases the pressure it held over your windpipe, now moving to caress your face. He keeps rutting against you, his brows furrowing as he listens to your gasps.
“Do not fret, sweet wolf, I will take care of you.” He runs his thumb across your cheek as he takes in your half open eyes, pride rising in him at your almost overstimulated countenance. “Let me do all the thinking for you, just focus on how you are feeling in my arms.”
You nod weakly, eyes fluttering shut as his hands coast down your body, ghosting over your nipples for a second before roaming even lower.
“Please, my prince,” you say in a low whine.
His fingers curl around your hips and you feel a pinch as his numerous rings catch on your soft flesh. Baelor rocks you back and forth, somehow knowing exactly where to apply pressure so his hardened cock nudges against your clit.
Your breath comes out ragged as you try to brace for the coil that wounds tighter and tighter in your core.
He shifts his weight to the side, moving you so that you are now straddling his thigh. He coaxes you into grinding against him, whispering sweet praises as you begin to move out of your own accord.
You let out an almost pained whimper as he flexes his muscles, your hands grasping at the collar of his doublet for purchase. Baelor cradles the back of your head, pushing you forward until your face is nestled against his neck and your moans are breaking against his skin.
“You are doing so well, dove. Keep moving for me as you are,” Baelor says, his voice warm, encompassing, vibrating over your skull as his chin rests atop your head.
“Baelor,” you cry out, the words strained—your hands curl even tighter on his doublet and your hips stutter as your release crests and then breaks, sapping all the tension from your body. You let your weight fall completely against him, shuddering when he presses a kiss to the side of your head, his hand cruising down your body until his thumb glides against your clit.
“Hush, my wolf,” he silences your cries with a kiss, groaning into it when he feels a burst of wetness soaking his fingers. He brings them to his lips, licking them clean and then tapping them against your cheek, prodding your mouth open.
Your tongue sticks out, your eyes wild as they gaze upon him, your body still going through the aftershocks of your release. Baelor then cocks his head to the side, his blue-and-brown eyes fixed on your parted mouth as he inclines towards you and spits. He does not do it harshly, it is a slow trail of saliva that drips from his lips to yours and you can feel the combined taste of you and him as the liquid falls on your tongue.
Baelor’s stare remains one more moment on your lips before it tracks across your face until his eyes meet yours and then he nods, angling his hand to support your jaw and nudging you to close your mouth.
“Swallow.” His thumb moves to prod at the soft part at the bottom of your jaw, a deep groan leaving from him as he feels you do as he commanded. “Very good, my sweet wolf.”
He pulls you from him, moving you to sit at his side before standing, his fingers tracing the damp spots on his breeches. A wide smile is splayed across his face, and the firelight plays across the sharp lines etched onto it.
The whole time you are focusing on the bulge in his trousers, eyeing it with hunger as you struggle to keep your hands to yourself. You decide not to, but before you can reach him, his hand grasps your wrist and pulls it away.
He shakes his head, “Not now, my lady.”
Baelor then kneels, his hands guiding the hem of your gown upward until they can slot at the back of your knees so he can push your thighs to your chest. He moves your smallclothes to the side, running the bridge of his nose across your inner thighs before nudging his face against your bare cunt, his beard scratching you.
When his mouth finally reaches its destination, the first touch of his tongue makes you cry out, your back arching off the sofa. Nothing in your book prepared you for the reality, or the heat, wetness and devastating precision of his mouth against your most intimate flesh.
"Baelor—" His name escapes as a plea, though you're not sure what you're pleading for.
He hums against you in response, the vibration sending shocks through your system. His grip becomes harder on your thighs as he keeps holding you open and still as he continues to finally give you his undivided attention. Your fingers find his dark-and-silver hair, gripping tight as pleasure builds upon pleasure, wave after wave until you shatter completely, his name the only word you remember.
saw your tags and pls pls pls can we see verminthor sensing lady stark is pregnant and baelor losing it™
⊹ ࣪ ˖ pairing: baelor "breakspear" targaryen x f!stark!reader
⊹ ࣪ ˖ wc: 3k
⊹ ࣪ ˖ notes/content: stark!reader, dragons survived the dance!au, smitten!baelor, verminthor is still a grump, pregnancy mentions, quite fluffy really. It's been a rough day or two, but here's a little something warm for you guys. I appreciate you and all your support massively <3 hoping to get another short piece done tonight due to an ask I got making my brain itch (aerion this time sowwy), but I'll likely queue it up.
read on ao3. ⊹ series masterlist.
You know something is wrong long before you know what.
It starts as a treacherous little flutter under your ribs when you climb the keep stairs too fast, a sour twist in your stomach at the smell of stewing onions, a weariness that clings to your bones even on days you haven’t ridden or walked the walls.
Baelor notices. Because he notices most things. He lives half his life in the space between your breaths these days, charting the small shifts as if they were changes in the wind before a battle. Each one measured and treasured, he would tell you simply.
“You look weary,” he notes one morning, brows knitting as he eyes you push bits of bread around on your plate with dejected indifference. “Wearier, at least,” he corrects himself, lips quirking despite his palpable worry. “Even for a northerner in a southern court.”
“I’m fine,” you say, because you are a Stark and the world does not stop turning because your stomach is a little mutinous today. “Perhaps your cooks are trying to poison me.”
“Then I’ll have them thrown in the dragonpit,” he mutters, entirely serious.
You roll your eyes. You do not tell him that the thought of the dragonpit is more appealing right now than the thought of another mouthful of food.
—
Verminthor is the first to lose his patience.
You go to him because the stone halls feel too small and the eyes on you feel too many all at once, and in the Dragonpit, at least, the dangers are more honest. Fire, teeth, ancient temper—things you can see and understand and stand your ground against on a good day. The heat embraces you as it always does, smelling of ash and hot iron. Baelor’s hand is firm around yours as you descend the ramp, that quiet, familiar gravity in him settling your jangling nerves.
“Rytsas, ñuha vēzos,” he calls, voice rolling out into the dimness.
The Bronze Fury is awake before the words finish echoing. He shifts in his hollow with a long scrape of scale on stone, great head lifting, smoke blossoming from his nostrils. His eyes crack open, twin coals burning gold in the light.
You are ready for that. You are not ready for what he does next.
He doesn’t look at Baelor. Not at first.
He swings that massive head towards you as soon as you step onto the blackened floor, nostrils flaring sharply. The chains above your heads shiver as he uncoils, dragging his bulk closer with ponderous care, talons carving new grooves in stone older than your great-grandfather.
“Easy,” Baelor says automatically, hand tightening on your fingers. “He’s only—”
Verminthor inhales. You’ve seen him scent the air before, curious or dismissive, a lazy gust that ruffles your hair. But this time, something is different about the nature of his regard. This is a drag, a deep, purposeful pulling of air that seems to empty the world around you and straight into his large chest instead. Your hair moves with it, your skirts tug towards him, rippling with a rustle. You feel the pressure in your ears, the breath stolen from your lungs for half a heartbeat.
Then he exhales, right over you. It’s hot, but not the scorching blast of true anger. It’s a… testing heat. An unanswered question.
You gag anyway, eyes watering. “Hells—”
Verminthor ignores your swearing. He drops his head until the great scarred ridge of his muzzle is level with your torso, and nudges. Not a shove—he is too old, too experienced to risk knocking you sprawling by mistake—but a firm, insistent push below your ribs.
Your hand flies to your stomach on reflex. Baelor’s breath stutters behind you.
“Verminthor,” he says, warning and confusion tangled together. “What are you—”
The dragon rumbles.
It’s a sound you’ve never heard from him before. Not the thunder-growl of annoyance, not the deep, pleased purr you’ve coaxed from him once or twice when you scratched just the right scar. This is… sharper. Shorter. Almost offended. His pupils blow wide, swallowing most of the molten gold. He inhales again, shorter this time, right against the front of your bodice, then huffs a hot breath over the same spot, as if trying to clear away some obscuring scent.
You take a step back, instincts screaming too close, too much, but he follows you, relentless, until your back almost bumps Baelor’s chest.
“Baelor,” you say tightly. “Call him off.”
Baelor doesn’t answer you.
His fingers slip from your hand to your waist instead, steadying, anchoring you. You feel him lean around you, his attention gone utterly, completely still. He is staring at Verminthor with a look that makes the tiny hairs at the back of your neck stand up.
“Daor,” he says under his breath. “It can’t be—”
Verminthor cuts him off with a snort that sends dust sifting down from the arches. The dragon’s gaze snaps to Baelor for a beat—sharp, irritated, as if to say of course it can, little two-leg—then returns to you.
He rumbles again, deeper this time. The sound reverberates through your bones, centred oddly in the hollow where his muzzle presses, gentle and inexorable, against your midsection. When you flinch, his breath huffs out sharply, almost chastising, and he nudges again, softer.
Your hand is still splayed there, fingers spread over the thin layer of wool and linen and whalebone. Baelor covers it. His palm is warm even in the heat of the pit; his fingers dwarf yours, closing over them with a kind of reverent care that robs you of speech.
“Verminthor?” he prompts, and there’s something raw and choked in his voice you’ve heard only a handful of times. “Skori issa?”
The dragon answers with a long, low sound that is almost a hum. His eyes drift half-closed. He shifts his great body, slow and deliberate, to curl in closer around you both, tail dragging in a new arc, wingbones creaking. Not trapping you—just enclosing, the way a mountain range encloses a valley it protects.
“Baelor,” you say again, throat tight. “What does he—”
He doesn’t make you finish the question.
“Dragons smell… things,” he says roughly, still staring at Verminthor as if he’s seeing him for the first time. “Change in the blood. In… in bodies.” His hand tightens over yours on your stomach. You can feel the tremor in it, the way Baelor’s fingers flex and curl as if desperate to hold onto something there; some dream perhaps. “There are tales. Old tales, really. Of a she-dragon who would not let her rider mount while her belly was full with a child, of another who suddenly refused to range over open sea when his rider’s wife quickened. I thought they were just that. Stories.”
Verminthor huffs at him, seemingly offended by the implication.
Baelor swallows, and you feel the movement against your back. “He’s not curious,” he says after a moment, almost absently, to himself. “He’s certain.”
Everything in your world suddenly constricts to here and now, sensations so dizzying they overlap with almost frightening intensity inside your mind: the moist, soothing heat of Verminthor’s breath against your cheeks, Baelor’s hand over yours, trembling, and a small, wild hope you’re almost too terrified to examine for more than a breath.
“That’s impossible,” you breathe out. “I would know.”
“Would you?” Baelor’s voice turns gentle, thoughtful. “You’ve been tired. Sick at certain smells. You were dizzy on the wall-walk last week.”
“It was hot,” you protest weakly.
“It was winter by southern measures,” he counters. “And you, who sneers at Dornish summers, suddenly growing weak at the edges of my sight—”
His words fade off, suddenly cut off. Under your joined hands, Verminthor’s muzzle presses again, very, very lightly, as if he knows exactly how much pressure your flesh and the fragile things inside can bear.
You feel, abruptly, ridiculous tears burn at the backs of your eyes.
“Baelor,” you choke out, helpless.
He moves then.
He steps around you, between you and the dragon’s face, though Verminthor snorts and shifts to keep his nose tucked against your side. Baelor drops to one knee on the scorched stone without ceremony, heedless of ash and old soot staining his riding leathers. His hands come up towards you, all but drifting—not to your waist, not in some practised courtly gesture, but to cradle your hips like he’s discovered a new religion in the shape of your body.
He rests his forehead against the spot where Verminthor has been fussing. The breath that escapes your lungs is an unsteady rush.
“Are you certain?” he asks the dragon, voice muffled in your skirts, raw and ragged in a way you have never heard before. Baelor is not the prince right now, future ruler of a realm; he’s not even the fearsome warrior they tell gallant tales about. Right now, he’s just a man kneeling in the shadow of an ancient god given flesh and asking, pleading, please.
Verminthor’s answer is unambiguous.
He gives a short, rumbling roar that makes the Dragonpit’s bones shiver. It’s not loud by his standards, but the message is clear all the same. Chains rattle abovehead, dust dancing in muted rays of light.
Yes, it says, as surely as words: You little half-blooded fool, of course I am.
Baelor laughs.
It’s a broken sound, caught somewhere between a half-sob, half-joy, and it shakes his whole body. Baelor’s hands glide from your hips to your stomach, fingers splaying possessively right there over the fabric, covering as much as they can.
“You hear that?” he whispers, voice wrecked, breathless, not sure whether he’s speaking to you or to whatever might be listening to him under your ribs. “Even the oldest of us knows.”
“Baelor,” you manage, just barely. Your fingers find his short hair, fingernails smoothing over his scalp. His eyes shine brightly when they find yours, wet at the corners. “We don’t know—”
“We will,” he shoots back immediately, lifting his head higher. “We’ll have the maesters and every old crone who’s ever delivered a babe in Flea Bottom check if needed. If they tell me I’m a fool, I’ll bear it gladly.”
His mouth curves, soft and tender all at once.
“But if they don’t,” he goes on, voice dropping to a muted whisper between you, a dragon’s promise wrapped in a man’s words in each syllable, “if they tell me Verminthor is right, if they tell me you’re carrying my child—”
Baelor breaks off, voice catching once more. The words hang between you anyway, heavy and shining and too full of possibility that steals your breath. Your heart thuds, too fast in your ears.
If it’s true—if this old beast, this Bronze Fury who’se seen kings rise and fall during his long life, is right—then there’s a life folded small and secret under your hand. Flesh and blood that is half Stark, half dragon, tied to you and Baelor and the realm in ways you cannot yet see.
“I’ll build a pit in Winterfell,” Baelor says suddenly, the words spilling out, wild and half-serious. “We’ll fly north. I’ll freeze my royal arse off. Verminthor will bully Blackwind. The old gods can stare at us from their trees and decide what to make of it all.” His hands flex, gentling again. “Just… let this be true.”
Verminthor, whose patience for speeches is limited at the best of times, decides he’s had enough.
He shifts once more, hauling his bulk closer still, until the curve of his chest is a warm bronze wall at your back. One great wing unfurls—not fully, but just enough to sweep around you in an arc of tattered, heat-scorched membrane and scarred bone.
The world narrows to a pocket of dim, dragon-shadowed warmth and the man on his knees before you.
Baelor stills. You feel his fingers tighten on your stomach in some unconscious echo of the way Verminthor’s wingtip tucks closer, as if wrapping the three of you tight against anything that might try to reach in.
“Soft old brute,” Baelor whispers, fondness wrapping around each syllable. His free hand finds the wing’s leading edge, stroking a callused thumb over an old, puckered tear. Verminthor hums, low and satisfied.
“He’s… pleased,” you observe with a strangled laugh, bewildered and lightheaded in equal measure, because there are no other words for the mood settling over the pit, in truth. Verminthor’s breath has slowed, deep and even in your ears, a steady rumble through the ancient stone surrounding you. His eyes glow faintly in the dimness of the keep, watching you with a heavy, proprietary calm of a creature who has lived a long life and has seen many things beyond your comprehension.
“Grumpy as always but content, yes,” Baelor says with a huffing laugh that fans over your inner wrist, because Verminthor is still scowling at you both like he’s irked it took you this long to realise something he figured out the moment you walked in. “He’s already angry at the world on your behalf. Look at him.”
You do.
For the first time, you notice the way he’s angled his body. Not just around you like you first thought, but between you and the pit mouth, the ramp, the door. Any threat that comes in will have to go through bronze and fire and ancient rage before it can touch you.
“He’ll be worse than Blackwind,” you say faintly.
Baelor’s smile is pure, helpless adoration. For you, for the dragon, for the unseen little future nestled between your bodies. “Good,” he says, voice still frayed. “Old gods know I need the help.”
You snort, the sound dissolving into something suspiciously like a choked-back sob. You bend, awkward with his hands and Verminthor’s wing and the tangle of your own feelings, and press your forehead to Baelor’s.
He tilts his head, nose bumping yours, the barest brush of his mouth at the corner of your lips. His breath smells of smoke and the apple he didn’t finish at breakfast.
“We’ll make certain,” he murmurs. “We’ll be careful. You won’t so much as set a foot on a saddle without three dragons and a wolf snarling about it.” His thumb moves in small, soothing circles over the spot Verminthor keeps nudging. “Until then…”
“Until then?” you echo.
“Until then, humour an old dragon and a foolish prince,” he says softly. “Let us pretend, just for today, that he’s right.”
Your eyes flutter shut. Under your palm, under his, under the careful pressure of Verminthor’s muzzle, your body feels… the same. No quickening, no sudden flutter, just your own heartbeat, loud and scared and too hopeful. But there is a sense, sudden and fierce, that you are not as alone inside your skin as you once were.
“All right,” you exhale, voice rough. “Just for today.”
Verminthor huffs, as if deeply insulted by the “just”. He pulls his head back enough to fix you with a molten stare that says very plainly: this is not pretending, little wolf.
“See?” Baelor says, a touch smugly, brushing a kiss against your temple. “Already taking your side over mine. Traitorous beast.”
The dragon snorts in his face. Baelor laughs again, more ragged now, and drops one more kiss—lighter than a breath—just above where your hands rest.
“Ñuha tresy,” he whispers so quietly you almost don’t catch it. My child. Then, after a beat, softer still, “Ñuha zaldrīgona ha ñuha direlītsos.” My little dragon-wolf.
You don’t have it in you to stop him or tell him to wait, that is seems unwise to name what isn’t certain just yet. That, on the off chance it’s not true, your heart could not bear to see the disappointment on Baelor’s face. Yet under Verminthor’s powerful wing keeping you tucked away from the world, and Baelor’s arms secure and unmovable around your middle, it feels less like tempting faith.
When you finally leave the pit, Verminthor lets you go with obvious reluctance, wing drawing back slowly, head following you up the ramp until the last possible moment. He huffs one final warm breath against your back, an old god’s blessing in dragon form, then settles again, curling in on himself with a satisfied grunt.
As the heavy door thuds shut behind you, Baelor’s hand finds yours once more. His fingers lace through yours, protective, possessive, entirely unashamed of his inability to be parted from you.
“You’re not wandering anywhere alone,” he declares decisively, giving your fingers a gentle squeeze. “Not until we know for certain. And even then, we…”
“Baelor,” you interrupt him, half-exasperated, half-fond. “I’m pregnant, not made of glass.”
“We don’t know you’re pregnant yet,” he says loftily, and you almost laugh, warmed by the unadulterated happiness you see shining out of him like Dornish sun that seems to love him so. “But until my maesters swear otherwise, I will be treating you as if you are made of the finest glass in the Seven Kingdoms.”
You snort. “And if they swear for it?”
Baelor’s grip tightens again, his voice tumbling towards something that thrums in your bones like a distant roar, all intent and heat.
“Then you’ll never again doubt that you carry a dragon’s child,” he replies huskily, his head bowing towards you. “Because every dragon in this city will know, and they will all look at you the way Verminthor did today.”
You think of molten eyes, a wing curled like a sheltering hand, the strange, gentle way a creature of fire and fury pressed his nonse against your belly.
“And you?” you ask softly.
He glances at you from the corner of his eye, a slow, crooked smile spreading across his handsome face, tender and fierce in equal measure. “Me?” he wonders. “You will be sick of the feel of my hands on you before the first snowfall in the North, my wolf.”
You squeeze his fingers, sliding your other hand unconsciously, protectively, over your midsection.
“We’ll see.”
Behind you, unseen beyond stone and soot-blackened arches, Verminthor shifts, settling his old bones with a pleased, rumbling sigh that vibrates all the way up through the hill.
Summary: As a servant at castle Ashford, you're not used to being noticed. You're wallpaper, and sometimes, just a pretty face to look at. And yet, when prince Baelor comes to visit, he can't seem to take his eyes off of you...
Pairing: Baelor 'Breakspear' Targaryen x servant!reader
Warnings: hints at harassment, mentions of death, sexual innuendos and themes towards the end of it
Words: 6.3k
A/N: it was meant to be a bit longer and end up with the angstiest angst that has ever angst... but I choose peace for once, so enjoy!
\_/
It's easy to be invisible.
It always came natural to you, like second nature.
“Keep your head low and don't raise your voice,” your mother taught you from the youngest of age. “Hood always up outside, and never look around. Be sensible. Don't draw attention to yourself.” She caressed gently your cheek, her hands rough with callouses as a smile pulled her lips while her eyes welled up with tears. “You'll be safer this way.”
It's hard, though, to be safe in a world made by men.
The night always seems darker when you step outside. The streets always dirtier, filled with starved eyes that linger on you; hungry dogs that haven't tasted flesh in so long, that would be ready to do anything for just a bite.
But you've learned to be invisible, to walk quickly through those muddy paths, eyes stuck to the ground beneath your feet. Learned to ignore those eyes, and for the most part, they've ignored you as well.
Perhaps you should consider yourself lucky to work at Ashford Castle.
You have a place to stay inside those sturdy walls – a small room you share with another of the servants there, twice your age and a loud snorer. You don't get much sleep at night, and your feet never seem to get warm with all those drafts, but you also don't have many reasons to go outside.
You have enough food to survive.
And you have work, money to send back home to your siblings.
It's a decent life, you think to yourself every night, in those few moments before your body simply passes out from the exhaustion of the day. One you've grown accustomed to.
The eyes still linger, though.
And they're closer; harder to ignore.
When you pour wine to a lord visiting, his eyes may trail your figure while a smirk cracks his features. When you cross paths with another in the halls, while he's talking with Lord Ashford, his whole body turns to you, the hunger in his stare burning the skin under your clothes.
Cleaning the plates and pots, those nights, you scrub harder the surfaces: fingers clenching around the cloths, nails scratching the wooden surfaces, the boiling water burning against your skin up until your elbow.
It's not always enough to shake off the dirty sensation those eyes leave on your body.
You can't help but consider it a blessing then, that the royals visiting seem so busy with their own family's issues: after all, who would notice a servant when two of Prince Maekar's sons have disappeared into thin air?
“Fuck me... 'Delayed', they're not delayed.”
As Prince Maekar passes by, you reach to take off his cloak as you're used to. Unsurprisingly, he entirely ignores you and throws the garment on the other side of the room. You should be glad about this, and yet there is still a sort of annoyance that builds in you every time someone dismisses you in such a manner. You pause for a moment in your step as he moves out of the way, then you quickly move to retrieve the cloak from the floor.
“Do not curse our gracious host.”
Prince Baelor speaks calmly, with more calm than his brother should be treated, you find yourself thinking as you brush some dust off the cloak and fold it in your arms. You quickly push away the thought. These are dangerous thoughts, and in the past few weeks you've found they've been springing more often in your mind, unwanted and uncalled for, catching you off guard and threatening to slip past your lips.
You press them tighter as you turn around to leave.
“I said 'fuck me', not 'fuck him'.”
You can't help the smile that pulls the corners of your lips upwards as you step out of the hall.
—
“Oi!”
Looking up from the basin with still a couple of plates in it, you find Prudence standing in front of you. She's worked here longer than you, shown you all the ropes, even though you've learned long ago that her work can be a little... lacking, at times. You don't really hold it against her: working inside all day drains her, as she's told you many times, so you try your best to fix her mistakes whenever you can.
“Going out?”
She looks quite dressed up, a shawl around her shoulders and, even in the dim light of the candles, her cheeks look rosier than usual.
“I will, if you help me.”
You sigh, stretching your back and drying your hands in the apron tied around your waist. “What do you need?”
“Prince Baelor's manservant just asked me for some warm wine,” she explains, looking to the door with impatience. You briefly wonder who she's going to meet this time: the butcher's son? Or the candlestick maker's daughter? “Can you bring it up? I'm already late.”
“Don't worry,” you assure her, taking off your apron and shooing her away. “Go, before I change my mind.”
“You're a blessing from the Seven!” she exclaims, blowing you a kiss before disappearing into the darkness of the keep.
Taking a long deep breath, you retrieve some wine from the cellar and warm it up above the fire with some spices, just enough to warm the spirit and not burn the tongue. Then, you prepare a tray with a chalice and a jug filled to the brim with the warm red liquor, its exhilarating fumes reaching you with their fruity and floral scents as you take it up the stairs to the rooms that have been arranged for the royal family's stay.
You've spent the past few weeks scrubbing and dusting every surface of those rooms, which remain mostly unused for the greater part of the year, so you know perfectly which of the doors of the corridor to head towards to find the heir to the throne.
However, outside you find no sign of a manservant waiting for the wine.
You look around, unsure of what to do with yourself, but there's no one in sight. Just the empty corridor and the flickering light of some torches.
After a few more minutes, you take a deep breath.
I hate to do this.
You knock on the door.
“Who's there?”
“The wine, your Grace.”
A moment passes.
“Where's Tristan?”
“I don't know, your Grace. There was no one outside when I arrived.”
More silence comes from the door, until you hear the latch unlocking from the other side.
“Come in.”
Balancing the tray and its content, you push the heavy door open with one shoulder.
Warmth embraces you, a warmth that you're not familiar with. It's not suffocating like the kitchens when all the fires are turned on, nor a mere hint like in the big halls, where even two fireplaces barely help raise the temperature in the winter time. It's a loaf of bread just taken out of the oven, heavy blankets to hide under during a storm, a gentle hand resting on your cheek.
The ice that's been set in your bones for so long seems to finally be melting.
Closing the door behind you, your gaze wanders in the room. It glosses over the open chests and garments thrown around, and settles on the small table near the fire and the armchair next to it. Baelor stands behind it, in his night robes, looking at you with his head slightly tilted to the side.
You immediately lower your gaze.
“Your Grace.”
You try your best to curtsy, even though the weight of the tray messes with your balance.
“There’s no need,” he says, raising a hand to stop you. “It would be a waste to risk that wine over a mere formality.”
You stand back up and, despite the protests of your entire body, move closer to the table.
There's not one soul in the seven kingdoms that doesn't consider Prince Baelor an honourable man. But you know well that there's a difference between the way men carry themselves in public and in private. You've seen it many times with Lord Ashford's guests, and just as many at home, every time your father stepped through the front door and left his cheery facade to the outside world.
You place the tray on the table, on which you spot a small bowl with dried fruits you don't recognize, and set down both jug and chalice with a soft metallic thud against the oak wood. As you do, you keep your eyes focused on the movement of your own hands, but you still feel your skin tingling under Baelor's gaze.
When you're done, you take a step back, holding the tray behind you, head still bowed. “Can I do anything else for you, your Grace?”
For a moment, all you can hear is the crackling of the wood as the flames devour it, and for a moment, you’re tempted to consider that silence as an answer and leave without another word.
“Take a sip of the wine.”
Before you can stop yourself, your head shoots up, eyebrows furrowed. “Pardon me?”
The faintest smile graces his lips. “I would've asked Tristan, but he's nowhere to be found.”
Your eyes move between the wine and the prince in front of you a couple of times before it dawns on you. “I didn't poison it, your Grace. I swear on everything I hold sacred.”
He bows lightly his head, without averting his eyes from yours. “Then you will have nothing to worry about. Please,” he gestures firmly to the wine, “pour yourself a cup.”
Perfectly aware you cannot deny his wishes, you bow your head and move closer once again to the table. The handle of the jug is cold when you wrap your fingers around it, but the rest of the metal – that you hold to stabilize the jug as you pour – has been warmed up by the liquid inside.
The wine falls swiftly into the cup, the light of the fireplace glimmering through its rich, red colour. You pour about half a cup, less than you would normally drink, but enough to cherish the taste. When you take the chalice to your lips, your gaze flickers for a moment to Baelor.
His gaze’s still on you.
As you move your eyes away, you feel a sudden warmth tingling along your neck and cheeks. You blame it on the wine, which flows on your tongue in a harmony of taste. First the grapes, then the cinnamon, and at last the lightest hint of star anise and orange. You close your eyes as you savour it until the last drop.
When you lower the cup, your fingers start tingling and a warm heaviness sets in your limbs.
“How was it?”
You look up to the Prince in front of you and a weird lightness fills your head. A small smile pulls your lips as you nod. “Good, your Grace.”
“Very well.”
Baelor sits back down and reaches for the jug. With the cup still in your hand, you reach for your apron to quickly clean it, however you're met only with the fabric of your gowns.
Fuck.
You look around, hoping to find a forgotten towel in a corner of the room, but your eyes are only met with rich fabrics and exquisite garments unfit to clean a cup.
“What is it?”
“Your Grace,” you start, trying to keep your voice steady but you feel every inch of your body shaking in fear. “I don’t have anything to clean the chalice with.”
The silence that follows is thick and heavy for just a moment, before the prince huffs out a laugh.
“I… can go to the kitchens and–”
Before you can finish, his hand has reached for the cup and pried it gently from your grip. “That won’t be necessary.”
You stare wordlessly as he takes one of the wide sleeves of his robes and cleans the inside of the cup. A red stain darkens the already red fabric, as he then pours more wine into the cup, spilling a couple of droplets on the table. He cleans those few drops with a couple fingers, his rings catching the light of the fire, and brings them to his mouth. When his lips wrap around the tips, you force your gaze away.
“Is there anything else I can do for you, your Grace?”
His rings clink lightly against the chalice. “You were in the hall when we arrived, weren’t you?”
You stand silently for a moment, taken aback partly by the question, but mostly by the fact that Prince Baelor, heir to the Iron Throne and all his other dozens of titles you can’t be bothered to learn, seems to have remembered you.
Terrified, you nod, head still low. “I was, your Grace.”
“You laughed at my brother’s remark.”
Your head shoots back up again. “I didn’t laugh, your Grace! I barely smiled!”
His lips pull upwards into a grin, his eyes glimmering with amusement. “But you did smile.”
“Well, yes…” you admit, lowering your gaze again. “It was quite unexpected… and funny, your Grace.”
Baelor laughs softly and takes a sip of his wine. As he gulps down, he closes those inquiring eyes that seem so set on staring at you, and you take that moment to really look at him for the first time. He’s nearing his forties, and it shows: streaks of grey paint his dark hair and beard, so unlike a Targaryen, and lines surround his eyes and mouth even when his expression is relaxed.
Slouched on the armchair, you think his back will probably kill him tomorrow and the thought brings you another smile.
However, even in that relaxed position, wearing only his night robes, there’s an undeniable power to him. A firm confidence, which is very hard to ignore.
Quite handsome...
You silence the thought.
When he opens his eyes again, you don’t immediately lower your gaze.
You stare back and, even in the dim light, you notice the subtle difference of colour in his irises.
“Did you make this wine?”
His question brings you back to yourself, and you lower your gaze once again. “I didn’t make the wine, your Grace.” You hear a scoff come from his direction. “But I warmed it up with some spices, yes.”
“Which ones?”
“Cinnamon and star anise, your Grace.”
“Star anise?”
“And a couple dry orange slices. It’s my mother’s recipe.”
He swirls the wine around in the chalice. “One I should tell my kitchen staff to also adopt.”
You bow your head. “It would be a great kindness to my mother’s memory, your Grace.”
“My condolences.”
“It’s been a long time ago.”
Despite the learnt ease with which you say those words, you clench your teeth. You don’t mention how much it still hurts, knowing she’s gone. How you can tell your memories of her are getting more and more blurry by the day, and how much that tears you apart. He doesn’t need to know, not that he would even care.
“I lost my wife many years ago.”
You look up. The prince is staring into his cup, but you can tell his eyes are focused on something else. Something further away from the chambers you’re both in. Something that sheds a shadow of pain on his features.
Something you know well.
“Time can ease the pain,” he mutters, twirling one of his rings around his finger, “but it doesn’t always heal the wound.”
The minutes go by, while you wait for him to dismiss you. The warmth of the fire is melting away any anxiety you had stepping into the prince’s room and you feel yourself grow tired and tired by the second. The wine is spreading through your body, weighing down your eyelids after one of the longest days you’ve experienced in a while.
“Your Grace, may I be excused?”
The prince turns to look at you, and he seems to only now realize you’re still standing there. “Of course.” He puts down the cup and stands up. Now that he’s close, you realize he’s much taller than what you had first realized.
“You must forgive me,” he says, bowing slightly his head, “I’m used to my servants leaving my rooms without the need to be dismissed. I’m sure you have other things to attend to.”
“There’s no need to apologise, your Grace.”
It’s my job.
I’m just a servant.
I don’t have anything else to do.
Any other thought, you bite it down before it can leave your tongue. You curtsy, this time with no effort whatsoever, and head towards the door.
“Good night, your Grace.” One foot out the door, you turn back a moment to see he’s still looking at you. “And I really hope you enjoy the wine.”
—
“What did you put in that wine?”
Sitting at the small desk in your room and starting to get prepared for bed, you turn towards Prudence, who has just appeared in the door. “What?”
“Prince Baelor asked for some warm wine again, early this evening,” Prudence explains, leaning against the doorframe. “And he requested it to be made ‘just like last night’. The cook, of course, made it like he always does, and the prince sent it back.”
“Fuck…”
“Fuck indeed,” Prudence agrees. “Cook’s now looking far and wide for the ‘fucker that changed his recipe’... the prince is still waiting and the cook looks ready to skin anyone who crosses his path.”
You groaned, taking your head in your hands. “I don’t want to deal with that…”
“And you won’t have to,” she assures you with a grin, “I’ll take the fall.”
You look up at her through your fingers, relief flowing over you. “Really?”
“Aye… after all, I was supposed to be the one to take it up… but you must tell me what spices you put into the wine.”
“Fair enough…”
“And I’ll leave you to bring it up to the prince.”
“What?” you almost shout, a sound so strange coming from your lips.
“He’s the one that specifically requested ‘just like last night’,” she shrugged, “I’m just following his orders.”
You take a wooden brush and throw it towards her, but she catches it with ease and a laugh.
“So?” she asks, dangling the brush as if it were a treat. “The recipe?”
—
Bringing the tray up the stairs, you realize it’s quite earlier than yesterday.
There are more servants coming and going, taking away empty jugs and bringing them back filled to the brim with boiling water. In the corridors you catch the sight of the bright, candid armor of a Kingsguard, and a white-aired young man almost crashes into you.
You almost yelp when he appears in the way, stopping briskly in your step and spilling some of the wine on the tray, but Prince Aerion doesn’t seem to even notice your presence. He keeps his head high as he heads down the stairs. You wonder where a prince like him might be going to entertain himself, but you soon realize it’s truly better not to know.
When you arrive at Prince Baelor’s door, there is a manservant outside. Red hair, freckles and a poorly hidden disdain resting on his face.
“You must be Tristan.”
“Aye?”
“The wine,” you say with a polite smile, “for the prince.”
He takes the tray and looks at the spill on it with a puzzled look.
“I am very sorry about that, I–”
“It’s no matter,” he interrupts, pointing with a nod to the corridor you came from. “You can leave now.”
You bow your head. “Of course.”
He enters the room swiftly and closes the door behind. Standing there for a moment, you feel a strange feeling churning in your guts. It should be relief: being alone with any lord always feels like torture to you.
Instead, disappointment fills you.
You try to ignore the feeling and head down the corridor in quick steps. When you hear the door opening, you keep walking.
“Oi, you!”
You turn around to see Tristan, his head sticking out from inside the room. “You took up the tray yesternight as well?”
“Yes.”
“Then come,” he says, gesturing you inside. “The prince would like to speak with you.”
—
Baelor is where you left him, slouching on the armchair near the fireplace, his nightrobes wrapped around his body – a spot of red on one of his sleeves.
His back is to you, as you stand next to the door while Tristan tastes the wine, just like you did yesterday. Unlike you though, he’s more methodical: he takes the smallest sip from a cup he carries on his belt and moves the liquid in his mouth – looking for any weird taste, any tell that the wine has been poisoned.
Luckily, he finds nothing, despite the disgusted look that crosses his face as he gulps down. He must not be a fan of spices… or alcohol.
After pouring a glass to the prince, Tristan bows his head and leaves the room.
When the door closes behind him, your hands start to fidget with the front laces of your corset. You had – of course – complied with the prince’s request, but you had no idea what he wanted.
Yesternight, your being there could be excused with a series of unfortunate events. Tonight, there’s no such misunderstanding. He wanted you there, one way or another. And you aren’t sure what that means; or what it makes you feel.
After another few moments of stillness, Baelor moves in his seat, until his face appears from the back of the armchair – a smile gracing his lips. “Would you care to join me?”
You feel a traitorous jump in your chest, but you ignore it.
“It would be my honour, your Grace,” you say, bowing your head and moving closer.
Step by step, you walk to the other armchair near the table – which you hadn’t noticed the previous night. It’s smaller than the one Baelor’s sitting on, but looks equally comfortable. As you sit down, the cushions adapt to your weight, drowning you in a fabric softer than anything you’ve ever laid on.
“Do you want some wine?” he asks, and only now you notice the second cup on the tray – even though it doesn’t look like the ones from the kitchens.
You nod silently.
As the prince pours you some warm wine, the absurdity of the situation finally hits you.
You’re drinking warm wine.
With Prince Baelor, heir to the Iron Throne.
In his private chambers.
This is the kind of situation that would’ve given you nightmares just a few days before.
Now, instead, you have to force down your laughter. You try to compose yourself, act like a noble would do – straightening your back and locking your hands in your lap, but a small smile still pulls your lips upwards.
“You always seem quite pleased with yourself.”
The words from Baelor transform the smile on your face into a thin, pressed line. You should’ve known that he was watching, yet again! This man... – because, under the precious silks and fabrics, every prince and lord is only a man – truly has a staring problem…
You take a deep breath and meet his gaze. “It just doesn’t take much to please the likes of me, your Grace.”
His head meets the backrest as his eyebrows furrow. “The likes of you?”
“I’m just a servant,” you shrug, as you take the cup he’s handing you. You wrap your fingers around the metal, already warmed by the liquor inside. “We’re easily impressed.”
The prince watches you as you take a sip, fingers slowly drumming on his cup; his gaze growing harder to ignore by the minute. You try to focus on the wine and its taste instead, on how it differs from yours in the slightest ways, however the warmth of the fire seems a mere ember when compared to the way his mis-matched eyes seem to capture your every move.
“Were you impressed by me?”
You choke, not so elegantly, on the wine. A few drops spill out of the cup and onto your apron that you – bless the Seven above! – did not take off today. While you cough, you curse yourself for your disproportionate reaction to that question. And while you’re at it, you curse the man in front of you as well, and his annoying habit of taking you by surprise.
You’ve always considered yourself as someone who isn’t easily taken aback by sudden – and mostly inappropriate – comments. And yet, in Baelor’s presence, you feel strangely helpless.
A feeling you’re unsure what to do with, yet.
The prince has fallen silent, so you look up at him.
He’s – of course – watching you, with a smug smirk on his face. A peculiar expression to see on a man that, at first glance, doesn’t seem the type to relish in… flustering a woman.
“I don’t understand the nature of your question, your Grace.”
“Interesting,” he mutters, tapping his fingers on his lips in an enchanting movement that you force yourself to look away from. “I had taken you to be quite perceptive.”
“A common quality between servants.”
He shakes his head. “Not in my experience.”
“Because you took the time to get to know the strengths and weaknesses of many servants,” you ask, taking the cup to your lips, “your Grace?”
As you take another sip, you wish you could disappear this instant. How dare you speak in such a way to a prince of the Seven Kingdoms? Other lords that stayed as guests at the castle have hit you for far less.
But when you look back at Baelor, his expression is unchanged. Amusement dances in his eyes, and you find it easier to hold his gaze now.
“That’s a good point,” he simply utters, his suave voice low, as he drinks from his cup without losing your gaze, a smile ever-present on his lips
The corners of your lips pull upwards, as a thought crosses your head.
“You seem to be often pleased with yourself as well, your Grace.”
“With myself? No...” He shakes his head, scrunching his face. “No, I’m not as easily pleased as you think.”
“You always look pleased when I’m around.”
“Do I?”
He slightly tilts his head into his hand, drumming one of his ringed fingers along his jaw. His eyes drop for a moment on your figure before moving back to meet yours. “I wonder why that is.”
You lower your head, blood pumping in your every vein at the speed of a prancing horse, breath catching in your throat.
Fuck.
Springing up from your seat, you turn your back to Baelor. You need to escape from his gaze, at least for a moment. You’re not used to being seen anymore, having spent so long hiding in the shadows and the stony backgrounds of halls and corridors you almost became a thing made of stone yourself.
You take a few steps and move closer to the fireplace. The warmth of the flames is a comfort to your aching muscles, and a better explanation to the growing heat that runs beneath your skin.
Sometimes, you forget that you have a body of your own, that exists outside of pouring wine and cleaning dishes and getting harassed by drunken lords.
A body that breathes, lives and thinks.
And this body, that you’ve neglected for a while now, has wants and needs… that grow by the minute as his gaze rests on you.
However…
Your fingertips press against your cup.
“What’s on your mind?” he asks in a whisper above the crackling sounds of the fire, with a softness that helps relieve some of your tension.
Taking a deep breath, you turn around and face him once again.
Baelor isn’t slouching anymore: elbows on his knees, he sits leaning forward towards you, a worrisome expression on his face as he inspects yours with the utmost attention.
“What do you want from me, your Grace?”
He raises his eyebrows. “What do I want from you?”
You nod.
He lowers his head for a moment, staring into the half empty chalice in his hands, his rings clinking against the metal. Then he puts it on the table and stands up with a low grunt. You think you hear a crack or two as his joints extend, but any rational thought leaves your brain when he steps closer to you.
Your breath catches in your throat as he stops, a few inches away.
Your eyes fall for a moment on the sight of chest hair that you catch from the cleavage of his nightrobes, but you're quick to bring your attention back to his face.
If he noticed, you can't tell. His eyes – probably for the first time since you met him – avoid yours, focusing instead on his own movements as he reaches for your cup. His fingers linger on yours as he takes the metal object from you and places it next to his on the table, and suddenly the warmth of the fire behind you is nothing compared to the flames set ablaze by that simple touch.
“I apologize if I didn't make it clear enough,” he whispers, taking your hand in his and bringing it to his lips. “Courting has never been my strong suit.”
He kisses every scraped knuckle, dry from the cold and the rubbing from scratchy towels. When he's finished, he devotes himself to your calloused palm. With every kiss, his eyes never waver from yours.
And you?
You remain still, your eyes wide in awe and terror, almost unable to comprehend the gentle sight displayed in front of you. It feels so alien, something you're not sure you deserve, and yet there's a certain familiarity in that touch, like the warmth left behind by a sweet dream you can't quite remember.
“This is not courting, your Grace,” you point out, almost breathless. “If it were, I'd be a noblewoman and my hands would be softer than the fabric of your nightgown. Softer than the clouds themselves.”
After your comment, his lips linger even longer on your rough skin, the scratching that his beard leaves behind alleviated by that soft, devoted touch.
You take another deep breath, gulping down your desire. “And we wouldn't be in your chambers alone at night.”
“Baelor…”
The word rumbles against your palm and shakes you to your core. His eyes meet yours against, something raw glimmering behind them as his pupils dance on your every feature. “Call me Baelor…”
A shiver runs down your spine when his mouth lingers on your wrist, pushing slightly up the long sleeve of your working dress.
You close your eyes, wanting to relax into his touch, to melt away into his arms and forget everything outside of that chamber for the night. Who you are and who you’re supposed to be…
And yet, instinctively, your body tenses up and pulls ever so slightly away.
Baelor stops his motions. His lips leave your skin – the most terrible loss – but doesn't let go of your hand. “Is everything alright?”
You shake your head, eyes still closed as you try to tell your body that everything’s fine. That, for once, you want this. “It doesn’t matter.”
His other hand sneaks under your chin, and gently pulls your face towards him once again. When his eyes meet yours, you witness a gentleness in them that you’re not sure you deserve. He tilts his head with his eyebrows furrowed, a silent worry in them.
And care…
You can't help the smile that flashes across your face.
Slowly, you pull your hand from his and rest them both on either side of his face. As your thumbs circle his cheekbones, he closes his eyes for a moment and lets out a sigh.
His empty hand finds its way to the small of your back, pulling you closer until his forehead meets yours.
His other slides down your chin following the curve of your neck, his fingertips ghosting over your collarbones.
A giggle escapes your lips and his features pull into a smile under your palms.
“Ticklish?”
“That's new to me as well,” you admit. After all, how would you know? No one has ever touched you like that.
Baelor’s grin widens as he tips his head forward.
You tense again as he moves closer, your fight or flight instinct waking up again like a helpless prey, while your heart jumps in your throat with anticipation. However, instead of meeting your lips, his mouth meets your neck, leaving a trail of kisses along its length. The light touches and the scratching of his beard earn more giggles from you, and you can feel Baelor smiling against your skin.
“You have the most beautiful laughter,” he whispers next to your ear, his lips lingering on the spot just below your ear. “I want to hear it for the rest of my life.”
Whatever words you were about to say, you swallow them when his mouth wraps around your lobe and you feel his teeth biting the flesh. It’s light, and yet it flushes with warmth your entire body as an aching grows between your legs.
A sensation you’ve felt before in your room at night, after confusing dreams of sweat and flesh you never quite remember. A feeling you’ve never quite explored, given the inability of never being truly alone in the castle.
As Baelor’s mouth works his way along your jaw – a symphony of lips and teeth against your skin – your hands leave his face and slide along his neck and lower. Your fingertips run across all the bare chest that they can find, slipping under the lapels and then up again, grabbing the back of his neck and fondling his short hair.
He takes a sharp breath against your skin. “You sure know how to drive a man mad…”
“Must be a natural talent,” you whisper with a smile.
There's a certain pleasure in seeing a Prince of the realm – righteous, unshakable – so… helpless. Turning your head to look at him, you realise just now that his face's a mere inch from yours.
And so are his lips, as your eyes dart to them.
His hands tighten their grip around your waist, digging into the fabric and grabbing a handful of it as if he wanted to tear it apart. When you look up, you find him staring at you, a pleading look in his eyes.
“May I?”
You take a deep breath, heart pounding in your ears and fear screaming in your head. Deaf with all these contrasting emotions, one of your hands moves back to his cheek.
Then further, your fingertips brushing on his lips.
Then, before any thought in your head could dissuade you, you lean forward.
You kiss him.
You press your lips against his, and as soon as you do, a sudden silence fills you. Calm washes over you, and you revel in that feeling. Is that what it feels? To feel safe? To feel at peace?
Baelor breathes in when your lips meet, pulling you closer – if possible. Then he tilts his head, and his lips move over yours, deepening the kiss as you hold onto his neck. His beard tickles you once again, and that’s one of the many reasons you smile against his lips.
“Are you impressed with me now?” he whispers into the kiss, while one of his hands pulls at the laces of your corset.
You giggle softly. “Quite,” you whisper back, running your hand in his hair.
“Quite’s not enough.”
His lips crash once more on yours and you’re glad to melt into his embrace. Stepping back towards the armchair, he pulls you with him. It’s a messy dance of feet and fabric, and he bumps into the small table on which the cups still stand, half empty. A soft clatter of metal accompanies you both as they fall to the ground and on the carpet with a soft thud.
Your eyes dart to the wine stain spreading on the fabric, thoughts immediately racing. Did anyone hear that? Will they storm in to find you there? How will you clean the stain away? Will you have to pay for a new carpet?
Baelor’s hand finds your chin and pulls your gaze back to his.
“Don’t worry about that now,” he whispers, placing a kiss on the corner of your lips. “Just look at me.”
You nod, and you do exactly as he says. You watch him closely as he sits down on the armchair and pulls you down with him, across his lap. You watch as he loosens up your corset, slowly, pulling every lace with a care that drives you crazy. You watch as his lips press against your breast, sucking the air out of your lungs.
You watch as the hand that’s not holding your waist moves down your leg, over the fabric until it finds the hem of your skirts.
And then you watch as it disappears under them.
After that, you can only feel the warmth of his palm on your skin as it moves up, above your calf, over your knee, along your thigh. You hold your breath as you follow its climb. Every now and then, you feel a shiver of cold when his cold ring touches your skin.
And when it’s so close to ease your building ache, he stops.
You turn to him, and there it is again. That begging look, like he would be ready to crawl on his knees through mud and fire just to get to you.
A fleeting memory crosses your mind.
Be sensible.
Words spoken by a loving mother who taught you everything she knew. A worried mother that always knew best.
You should really listen to them…
You cradle his face in your hands, spreading your legs ever so slightly with a mischievous smile on your lips. “Still want to impress me, your Grace?”
After all, though, what’s life without a little bit of fleeting fun?
“𝐋𝐢𝐠𝐡𝐭 𝐨𝐟 𝐦𝐲 life” @mymoonsunandstars - Tumblr Blog | Tumgag
