Summary: You have been tasked with looking after four members of the King's Guard who have stumbled into your Lord's keep in the middle of a stormy night. One of them is the Crown Prince in disguise and he's badly injured.
Part 1 || Part 2 || Part 3 || Part 4 || Part 5 || Part 6 || Part 7 || Part 8 || Part 9 || Part 10 || Part 11 || Part 12 || Part 13 || Part 14 || Part 15 || Part 16 || Part 17 || Part 18 || Part 19
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Notes: Unnamed reader character from Dorne, herbalism background, mysterious circumstances, no physical description, but female pronouns
Content Warnings: discussions of war, death of family members, allusions to violence and mild descriptions of injuries
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Also available on ao3!
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Bonus Content:
Stitchings - Explicit extra scene, post epilogue
Deleted Scenes:
Scars - short deleted scene from between Parts 16 & 17
In Godsgrace - short deleted scene featuring Ser Duncan the Tall and Egg, set between parts 17 & 19
The Portents Had It Wrong | Bonus Content - Stitchings
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Baelor Targaryen x f!reader fix it fic - Complete!
Masterlist
A bonus scene from the main story, takes place a couple months after the epilogue featuring a Baelor that needs to be distracted from returning to work too soon ;)
Content: Smut! Explicit sex, riding, some mild dirty talk, p in v unprotected sex. No physical descriptions of reader, but use of female coded language/terms.
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You come awake in the early morning hush, a soft waking that has become that has slowly become normal for you over the past two moons. Blinking a few times, you reach up and rub at your eyes and then roll over to have a look at the windows to check the time. Dawn's fine and gentle fingers have grasped the sill and are spilling over into the room through the slatted windows. It's later than you were expecting, but you're not surprised.
You turn to look over at the other side of the bed and frown when you find it's empty. You and Baelor were late to sleep last night, having found more interesting ways to spend your time together. He should still be abed with you. You reach out and touch the pillow next to yours and find it cool to the touch. He's been up for a while then.
He won't be far.
The two of you have been as discreet as you can be the past two months, but the fact of the matter is there likely are rumors circulating around. At the very least, the maids that look in on your rooms have definitely noticed that your bed is not slept in very often. You know Nym does what she can running interference for you, but servants learn all eventually. Still, despite that, Baelor has remained very protective of your reputation. When you're in his rooms, he requests that no one disturb him, and will refuse the help of his valet or chambermaids until you've left.
You slide out of bed, and then pad across the tile floor to peek through the open doorway that leads from the bedroom into the small sitting room. Beyond that, through some screened arches is Baelor's solar and sure enough, you can just make out the shape of him through the weave of the screen. He's at his desk of course, head bent reading something.
You roll your eyes a little. He's been feeling much better this past week, his appetite seems to have settled into an actual routine again, and he no longer gets sleepy in the afternoons. His strength has returned too, he's been sparring with the Kingsguard in the mornings and swimming with his sons in the afternoon. However, some things are still a struggle. Reading for long periods of time is the most problematic as it will give him terrible headaches. And if he's pushed himself in that way too much his light sensitivity returns with a vengeance. In that respect you know that it's overall a delicate sort of 'better'. You, his sons, and the Kingsguard all still have to keep a careful eye on him to ensure he's not overdoing his desk work.
Retreating from the doorway and back into the bedroom, you consider your options for a distraction. You don't know how long he's been up exactly. The sun is up, but it is still too early for any of his family to be up yet. You all are due to return to Sunspear at the end of the week, and you want to encourage Baelor to rest as much as possible while still here. Things will be busier in Sunspear, Baelor will likely return to attending official meetings, and take over responding to correspondence from Kings Landing rather than letting Valarr handle most of it.
All this to say, most of the others will still be asleep, so there's no hope of you dragging him off to a family breakfast. You could have him help you with some of your plans for your keep and planting, but that is just a different kind of work. He's been so helpful, but he takes it very seriously - not ideal for relaxing.
The cool morning breeze steals in from the slatted windows, brushing across your skin as you stand in the bedroom thinking. You notice your dress draped over a chair, your underdress half under the bed, and think your chemise is probably lost in the bedclothes.
Baelor's chemise from yesterday is also on the floor by the bed where you mindlessly threw it last night. His hands had gotten caught in the tied cuffs while rushing to take it off. The two of you laughed while untangling him. Learning the art of love with him has been joy after joy. Pleasure after pleasure.
Well, you think to yourself, making love can also be fun distraction.
Naked as the day you were born, you dart over and scoop up his abandoned garment. You pull it on, letting the cuffs hang over your hands, and the gape of the untied collar bare your neck and one shoulder. It's cut higher than the ones you wear usually, skimming the tops of your thighs and just barely covering your bum.
You catch a glimpse of yourself in the mirror that's propped up in the corner. You look indecent. You look like a temptation.
You look happy.
The open neckline catches your attention. It looks nice as is: undone, ruffled, soft and welcome. But, rather than leaving it, you fix the high collar, and tie the ties closed. You take your time to arrange it into a perfect bow. It hides your collarbones and most of your neck. The incongruence of it with how little the chemise hides of your legs is exactly what you want. You push the sleeves up over your hands and tie each cuff around your wrist.
You put on nothing else.
You slip out of the bedroom and through the sitting room. The solar is small, only enough room for the desk, a bookshelf with writing supplies and a couple of chairs. But it sits at the corner of this tower side, and Baelor has the windows on both walls open, letting in the fresh morning air. You'd feel extremely self conscious, but he's kept the light linen curtains drawn to soften the light. They ripple in the wind, making the whole room feel like it's caught in a slow dance to music you just can't quite hear.
Baelor is engrossed in whatever he's reading, which suits you just fine for this moment. You enjoy the times you get to watch him without anyone else noticing. He's dressed down, in just a pair of soft braies and his doublet from yesterday only half done up. His hair is un-styled, still a wreck from your hands last night. His beard is also a little rough around the edges, and you can feel the skin of your thighs, your mouth, your neck, your entire body really - tingle in anticipation.
Now that you're close you can see that he's reading through a stack of correspondence that Valarr has already responded too. Baelor trusts his son explicitly, but he likes to stay informed so he can be ready to provide help or guidance should Valarr need it. You also know that despite Valarr's best attempts to keep Baelor from working, there are letters from the Bloodraven and the King that go to Baelor directly, sealed and encoded for his eyes only. There is no true escape for the Heir to the Iron Throne. You know this. You and Baelor have talked about it at length over the past weeks. But you also know, while there is not escape, there is reprieve. Times when you can hold the whole of his attention. Make him forget, just for a little while, the never ending tasks that turn over and over in his mind.
You steal into the room and you're halfway to the desk before Baelor looks up. You don't pause though, even when his eyes widen in surprise at your clothing choices. He pushes back his chair, automatically making to stand, as any knight would when a lady enters a room - but you reach his side before he can rise. You take advantage of the space he has made and drop sideways into his lap, grateful that the chair he's in is wide enough to accommodate you both comfortably. He rushes to catch you, one arm coming around your back easily, the other draping across your legs to cradle you close and keep you from sliding off. You hook the back of your knees over the arm rest, and loop your arms around his neck and shoulders.
He looks shocked and at the same time, oh so pleased. You revel in it, that even after weeks of learning each other as you have you can still surprise him.
"Good morning, your Grace," you whisper with a voice full of laughter, pressing your own pleasure to his cheek as you lean in to kiss him there.
He shudders, his hand tightening just for a second on your bare thigh. You kick your feet, delighted.
"Good morning, my lady," he says hoarsely back. He seems both at a loss, and yet somehow already plotting a response. It will be wonderfully devastating you know this from experience.
"How long have you been up?" you ask, bringing one hand up to play with his hair. It has gotten longer. He's been keeping the ends neatly trimmed, so it falls in gorgeous waves and frames his handsome face.
"Not long," he answers. You feel his eyes on taking in the little details of his chemise on you. The closed collar, how little it covers of your legs, your hips, where it has rucked up and where it hasn't.
"Hmm," you reply pressing your lips to the hinge of his jaw. "Liar. None of this is pressing, Valarr would have said so."
He huffs a laugh, and drags you half an inch closer and leans back fully in his chair.
"I couldn't sleep," he explains. "Might as well use the time to catch up on the news from the Capital, my love."
"We could have used the time in other ways," you point out.
"You were sleeping, I didn't want to wake you," he turns his face towards you, trying to find your lips with his. You tilt your face away so he misses, kissing your cheek instead. He turns it into a path of step stone kisses from your cheek to your ear where he sets his teeth gently to the lobe.
You don't hide your gasp, you always let him hear every noise that he draws from you.
"You can wake me up for anything, my Prince" you breathe. "For a kiss, to listen, to hold you, to distract you."
"What if I just miss you?" he asks, trying to kiss his way down your neck but the high collar of his chemise stymies him. Before he can reach for the tie, you pull away just enough that you can look at him directly, using your hand in his hair to grip and turn him to face you properly.
"Especially if you miss me," you say, looking into his beautiful eyes. He won't do it, you know. He loves you too much to disturb your sleep for anything less than the palace being on fire. He wants you happy, safe and content. You are learning again what it means to be loved. And you have never, even been loved quite like this. Baelor Targaryen is not a man that does anything by halves.
It is a heady and wonderful thing, being loved by him. You hope you make him feel the same. It isn't in you to love in parts or pieces either.
"You are always welcome to wake me if you miss me" you continue still breathless from the just way he looks at you, his heart, his desire so plain in his mismatched eyes. You let your desire, your love be equally plain on your face. Leaning forward to let your lips hover tantalizing over his you whisper: "Or even if you just miss being inside me."
"Is that so?" he asks in a rough voice. The hand on your thigh slides up and up under his chemise and he presses his thumb to the peak of your sex, drawing a single agonizingly slow circle around it. You let your right leg fall open, almost falling off the edge of the armrest.
"Yes, gods, yes." You mutter your voice breaking halfway on the second affirmation when he presses in tight on you before rubbing in a circle again and again.
"Would you like that?" he queries, his voice could almost be read as calmly curious but you can feel his heartbeat racing, the way his breathing is anything but measured.
"I'd love it," you confess. You arch your back a little, pressing more of your weight directly on top of his lap. You feel the shape of him growing hard against your ass.
"Maybe you catch me in the middle of a dream," you say, unspooling the thought as easily as you would thread. "Maybe I'd feel your touch in that dream. Maybe it blurs the edges of what is real and what isn't. I'd be so easy for you, my love. My Prince. Still open, still wet from earlier in the night."
He changes his grip on you, putting both hands on your waist to guide you off him, trying to turn you as he does. You know exactly what he wants without having to ask. You slide your knees off the arm rest, drop your feet to the floor so you can turn and climb into his lap facing him directly this time. He pulls you in close again, your chests pressed to each other. You are grateful once again for how wide the chair is, because it means you can kneel with a knee on either side of his hips. Your unbound hair falls forward over your shoulders as you lean over him.
"You'd let me," he pants, looking up at you, "You'd let me just have you like that. Half in dreams, half in my arms."
You kiss him properly, mouth open, desperate. He meets you with the same. You kiss, and kiss, and kiss scarcely breaking for air taking all you need from each other instead.
"There is no moment where I am not longing to be in your arms," you say. His grip on you goes tight, then both arms move and wrap around you.
"I want to live in you," he confesses, like it's a secret. "I want you to carry me around with you always. I want to carry you around with me. I want for every time someone looks at me, they see you."
"I do," you say unable to catch your breath. "I do carry you. Everywhere. Every when. I'll never set you down, Baelor. I will never want to."
One of his arms unwinds from your back and instead reaches down between you to find the center peak of your sex again. You're wet, easy, open, just like you said you would be. He rubs over your slit with his fingers, making sure, before dipping one, then two gently inside you. He uses his other hand to press to your lower back, guiding you in a rolling grind against those fingers. Your heart is racing, and you can scarcely keep from panting as he works your body with pleasure. He watches you, eyes searching your face, your heaving chest, the dip and dance of your hips.
"Baelor," you beg on a whine as his fingers crook in you sending you shuddering, and your hands gripping the back of the chair to try and stay upright. "Please, Baelor, please."
"You're so beautiful," he whispers. "I love this. I love seeing you in the daylight."
You look at him with the same amazement, realizing that he's right - seeing him in the warm light of dawn is an incredible sight. There is sweat gathering at his hairline, the longer strands catching there. In the daylight you can see every detail of how his eyes have dilated, the purple edge of his one lighter eye blazing such a bright and incredible lavender. It reminds you of the lighting that forks across the sky on stormy nights. The soft brown of his other eye is the color of good whiskey, the edge an even lighter amber that glows like the sunlight pooling on the floor by the desk.
"I'll find you in the daytime again," you promise. "I'll sneak into you solar one afternoon after your meetings are done. Tell The Captain to not let anyone in. Have each other across your desk, so that you can never be there without thinking of me."
"I'm always thinking of you," he says.
"Like this?" you ask with a sly twist to your hips. He presses his thumb against your peak again just to watch you lose the rest of whatever you were going to say on a moan.
"Like this," he agrees. "Like this, like how you are in my bed, like you are laughing with my family, like you are when stand in your river - a blessing the gods made just for me."
"Rivers," you swear at him as he keeps working you over with his fingers, his words, his eyes.
"Ask me," he says, his voice half entreaty, half order. "I'll give you anything you want, all you have to do is ask me."
You lean forward and kiss him, taking the taste of his promise from his mouth. When you break apart to breathe you kiss his cheek, his nose, his forehead. You cradle his head in your hands.
"In me?" you beg. "I want you in me."
He pulls his hand free of you and you mourn the loss. He frantically opens the placket of his braies and pulls his cock free of his clothing. You need no other encouragement or guidance, he holds himself still and you drop onto him as slowly as your shaking knees and thighs will let you. You try to draw it out, but once the head of him slips past the opening of your cunt the breach feels too good to go slow. He seems to agree because his hands are on your hips pulling you down. You have to let your knees fall over the edge of the chair on either side, the stretch isn't an easy one for you, but gods is it worth it.
Like this you can feel every inch of him pressed up in you, the curve of his cock firm against your inner walls, especially against your belly. You don't have much leverage to move beyond a shallow rocking, but at present you think anything more than that would be so overwhelming it might drive you to madness.
Pressed close like this, if feels as if you're sharing everything, body, soul, the depths of your heart. Pressed close like this while in the warm daylight feels like a sacred rite, a hushed and precious secret. You feel as though you could stay like this for hours, holding him close, and being held in return.
He reaches up with one shaking hand to touch the bow you've tied the ties of the shirt shut with. You feel him take the end of the tie and pull it just enough that the collar goes taunt around your neck. That tiny bit of tension, barely there, just a teasing touch makes you feel as if every stitch of your body pulls tight too. You can scarcely take in a full breath. He watches, his eyes fixed on your face while he draws the tie free of its bow. You can hear the fibers whispering against one another and it holds you in place, as though you were the one tied in knots.
When the loop finally passes through the knot the taunt press of the collar loosens just a little. You feel one of his fingers pass under the last of the cross and when he draws on that last bit of the knot he draws you in for a kiss at the same time. You fall into it. Your cunt pulses around his shaft and he groans into the kiss. He slides his hand under the collar pressing it back, pulling it away from your neck. Breaking free of your kiss, he scrapes his mouth against your jaw, your neck, letting the rough texture of his beard leave you gasping.
You hang on as best you can, but spread as you are over his lap you've given up any leverage or height you had previously. You keep one hand on the chairback and the other you return to clutch at his hair. Your back bends over his arm as he tips you just a little so he can continue to press kisses down your neck, across the top of your chest as he impatiently pulls the chemise down as far as it will go. Meant for his larger frame it gapes obligingly for him, almost uncovering your breasts.
"Touch yourself," he murmurers in a heady voice. His free hand rubs at one of your nipples, using the rough texture of the linen to scrape and tease the sensitive skin into a stiff bud he can then bite through the shirt. There is no holding back the moan that draws from you. You follow his order, mindless with the pleasure he's already brought to you, letting go of his hair to dip your own fingers to your clit.
You can feel him too, where he's thrusting into you in shallow, tight thrusts. Each one raises you up on the chair a few centimeters, the skin of your inner thighs scraping deliciously against the edge of the chair. You rub your clit in slow, hard circles, just as he did earlier, because gods you want this to last forever. Every pass of your fingers at the top causes your cunt to clench and pulse, and he pants open mouthed against your skin in reply.
It's a slow build from an already lofty height the pleasure the two of you are making together, and you both enjoy every inch of the climb. He drops his free hand to the armrest and uses it to press you both up a little on each thrust, giving himself just a little more room to fuck you as deeply as possible in this position.
You can hardly get the words out, but he has to know, he has to know how makes you feel.
"I want you close like this always," you gasp, your voice pitching high as he pushes into you so hard on his next thrust you almost lose your balance. "Asleep, awake, it doesn't matter. This is where you belong, just like this."
"Then I'll keep you right here," he groans out. "Always right here. We'll scandalize everyone. My family. The court. I'll rule from my throne with you perched just like this."
A shudder wracks you from your toes to the tips of your hair at that harrowing and thrilling picture. You've never seen the Red Keep, but you try to picture it. You try to picture his solar in the Tower of the Hand, riding him in front of petitioners. The Great Hall, the steps up to the Iron Throne. The altar in the Sept that he shares a name with. Let everyone see. Let everyone see how he loves you. Let everyone see how you love him.
After so many years in hiding, of being forced to disappear, you let yourself be drawn into the fantasy of never having to hide a single thing about yourself ever again. Not your history, not your faith, not your loyalties, not your body, not your heart. To be free completely of anything and everyone - except him. Except your beloved Prince, who you have chosen for your own. You will never love another the way you have come to love him.
"I love you," you tell him, because it is oh so easy, and oh so true. Baelor smiles so sweetly at you, once again shocked and pleased. As though it's a surprise every time that you still love him.
His arm around you tightens and your hand that's pressed against your clit is trapped between his belly and yours. He holds you there, rolls his hips up into yours once, twice, thrice and that's all you can take. All the threads of you snap at once, and the stitching comes undone. You ride the rush of pleasure never taking your eyes off him.
"Gods, I love you," he rasps watching you come and rolling your tightening cunt on his cock while you tremble and shake through your peak. He manages just two more rough twists before you feel him come in you in turn. The two of you rock together back and forth, letting the last of your shared pleasure wash free of your bodies, draining away in tandem. He lets go of the armrest and settles, shaking in the chair. You ease up your grip on it too, and pull your other hand free. Your fingers are sticky. You wipe them on his chemise that you are still, somehow, mostly wearing. He watches you do it, his gaze still heavy with desire and hunger.
His attention is intoxicating, and even though you have both just come you find yourself unwilling to let this moment end. Inspired a little by his words and yours, you press back in his arms until you feel the edge of the desk against your mid back. Smirking just a little you rest against it, trusting it to hold up your weight. You close your eyes and stretch, dropping your arms on the desk top and scattered letters.
He has not pulled out of you. In fact he leaves his hands on your waist, keeping himself fully sheathed inside you. You feel him staring. Memorizing you. You let him.
He leans forward eventually, pressing his face to his chemise again. You pick up one hand and run it through his hair. He hums, content. You let the quiet aftermath rest on the two of you like a blanket. Let the breeze brush over you, cooling the sweat on your skin. He turns his face so he can lay his ear against your heart. You keep petting your fingers through his hair.
As your heartbeat slows, you can just barely make out the sound of the beach in the far, far distance. The papers on the desk catch in the wind some and it sends them fluttering drawing your attention.
"So what were you reading, anyways?" you ask, innocent and curious, but also a little smug.
He laughs and it shakes through you in delightful ways.
"Rivers take me, I have no idea."
You laugh too. He pulls you up and to his chest once more. You go happily back into his arms - it's where you belong after all.
Please more portents or more Baelor 😮💨 your writing is GORGEOUS. Also that scene of Baelor being lowkey jealous was so sweeeeeet
Thank you so much! I do have more from the Portents universe, I'm sorry it has been so slow with posting what I have. T.T
It's such a weird little collection of little snippets, I feel like I need to at least expand them some more to make them feel a little less like cast offs.
Thank you again for this message, y'all are the best and so sweet! These really do help me stay motivated. <3
the portents had it wrong is my favorite fic of all time <3 it's truly so good & literary. it really blew me away. i saw you say that it was your first fic. do you have a different background in writing?
oh wow thank you so much! that's a hell of a compliment! I'm so happy that you enjoyed it. <3
portents was my first asoiaf fic! and my first foray into writing second person. but i have written for other fandoms for years - i have stuff floating around on LJ, fanfiction.net and ao3. i've also been a beta for other writers on and off.
thank you so much for this message, it really made my day! I hope you stick around, I'm hoping I'll have more to post for portents in the near future. <3
Visual from Daeron's dreams kept nudging my brain, so. He's not dead, I swear, just unconscious 😭 A fix-it of sorts, because I really need something hopeful. Oil on metal pendant, I have more shield-shaped ones and it keeps giving me ideas👀
The Portents Had It Wrong | Deleted Scenes - In Godsgrace
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Baelor Targaryen x f!reader fix it fic - Complete!
Masterlist
A deleted scene from my fic, set sometime between Parts 17 and 19. I hope you all enjoy! <3
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Of all the ridiculous things that have happened to you in your life, you think that this one is truly the strangest. Which, at this point, is really saying something. Obviously, most people would think that meeting the Crown Prince of Westeros is the really remarkable thing, but you'd disagree. After all most people on the continent have at least heard of Baelor Breakspear. Comparatively few have ever heard of Ser Duncan the Tall.
And yet, here you stand in the market, your ears having pricked at the call of a young bald headed child who darts around several people in order to run up to a truly towering knight holding the reins of a horse.
"Ser Duncan!" The child yells, arms full of sweetbreads and a cheerful smile on his face.
"You don't got to yell so, Egg, I can hear just fine," the knight grumbles, but takes the small burdens from the child quickly enough.
"Do you know them?" Nym asks from next to you, startling you from your staring. She and The Captain had stopped at a market stall just up from the one you're browsing because the merchant was selling materials for weaving. Your handmaid, who you know is a talented tablet weaver, was distracted by the myriad of colors the dyer had managed to create and was asking the man about his processes. While she was distracted, The Captain was purchasing a small lap loom from the other stall keeper and you wandered a little away so Nym wouldn't hear you laughing. You're pleased your friend is going to get a nice gift later, and don't want to ruin the surprise.
"My lady?" your friend asks again. You glance behind her and see The Captain hastily stuffing a wrapped, awkwardly shaped package into the bottom of the shopping basket he insisted on carrying for Nym that has all your purchases so far. He gives you a conspiratorial grin and a wink while he tries to rearrange the other things you have bought to hide his present.
"Oh, no I don't know them, but I have heard of the knight." You say quickly, wanting to keep Nym's attention forward.
"Really? He looks like a hedge knight," she asks, curious.
"I think he is one," you admit. "But I was told about him by someone who fought with him at the Ashford tourney."
"Truly? Was he one of the ones that participated in the trial?"
"Yes, I believe he was." You say, turning to watch as the knight in question puts some of the food away in the saddle bags, and he and his squire split the rest between them. Both are dusty and clearly well traveled. The young squire is wrapped up in some light layers to protect his pale skin from Dorne's merciless sun, while the knight seems to willing to suffer the constant sunburn. You feel deep sympathy for the hedge knight, sunburn is tortuous, especially when it covers so much of your skin. No way to get comfortable, since some part of the burn is likely always pressing on something.
The stall you're at is for all kinds of household supplies, from soap, sewing needles and on down. And of course, because it's Dorne, they sell vials of aloe, collected from the desert plants to help with sunburn. You turn and hand over a silver piece for one of the bottles of the gel and thank the stall keeper for their time.
The knight and his squire are leaving the market, guiding the horse down a side street heading off into the small town. You hurry down to the corner they've turned down and call out.
"Ser Duncan the Tall?" you ask. The man in question spins around, clearly surprised. His eyes flick over you, a fast assessment and a worried one. You watch as he almost unconsciously tucks his squire behind his towering form, safe between him and horse. You're not sure what threat you pose, but you suppose you can't fault him for being cautious.
"Yes, my lady?" he asks politely, but clearly confused.
"Apologies, ser. I didn't mean to startle you. I recognized your name."
"Recognized it from where, my lady?" he asks, still cautious.
"I met one of the knights that fought with you at the Ashford tourney," you explain gently. That relaxes him a little. The squire peeks out from behind Ser Duncan, clearly curious.
"Really?" Chirps the child, "Which one? I cannot imagine any of them being in Dorne."
"Egg," the knight hisses. "Where are your manners? That's a lady, you know better."
The squire, to his credit, immediately dips into a picture perfect bow and apologizes. When he pops back up though, his eyes go wide in shock. So wide in fact, that you can see his eye color is not actually blue, but instead a dark violet. Before you can put more thought into that observation, you realize that The Captain has finally rejoined you and Nym, in his Kingsguard whites. Ser Duncan also appears to be just as startled as the squire.
"Captain!" The squire greets with joy, clearly recognizing him. You are now having very strong suspicions about the identity of this dusty child, and are struggling to understand how in all the hells a member of the Targaryen royal family is traveling as a squire of a hedge knight. Baelor definitely didn't mention anything about this!
"Prince Aegon?" The Captain asks, sounding just as bewildered as you are.
"Shush!" Ser Duncan hushes both of them, frantically looking about for anyone paying too close attention. You do the same, casting your eyes back to the market behind you. Thankfully no one appears to be interested in the five of you conversing down the side street.
"We can't do this here, Egg. We gotta go somewhere else." Ser Duncan says quietly, his grip on the reins of the horse tight and nervous.
"Why don't we return to the ship, Captain?" You ask. "I've finished my shopping, and we can wait for his Grace to join us."
"His Grace?" Both Ser Duncan and Prince Aegon ask at the same time. They both look tentatively hopeful. You smile at them.
"We're traveling with Prince Baelor," you explain gently. "He's up speaking with the Lord and Lady Allyrion. But he should be finished soon."
He's negotiating for additional supplies for the rest of the journey. That morning you'd spent up at the keep, being introduced again to Lord and Lady Allyrion. You had met both of them as a child, traveling with your parents to a festival when you were young. They didn't recognize you perse, but Lady Allyrion had gasped at the sight of you, and called you by your mother's name.
Prince Baelor helped you explain what happened, and had informed them that the noble house which had been their closest neighbor on this side of The Scourge was being restored. The two of them were vocally excited and pleased for you. You felt a little out of place, in only your blue gown, which was not very Dornish, but Baelor's presence had soothed many of your anxieties.
"He's…well?" Ser Duncan asks hoarsely, clearly struggling with something.
"He is," you assure him. "Would you like to come and wait with us? Truly, he should be along shortly. We will be leaving before the tide changes."
Ser Duncan and the Prince glance at each other, speaking wordlessly for a spare few heart beats and then look back up at you.
"Yes, please." They both chorus.
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Part 2??? Maybe???
I do really like the idea of Duncan and reader getting to have a longer conversation about second chances, near misses, healing, and what makes a good pasty. I think they'd get on like a house on fire, ya know?
lol, we'll have to see if the spirit of The Scourge moves me.
Shout out to @meepingmeep for the prompt!
I hope y'all are having a great week! Stay safe out there, <3
A somewhat rambling post that's got extra information and inspiration for my Baelor x Reader story: The Portents Had It Wrong
Hello all!
Apologies for the loooooooong pause in posting and all, May was a beast of a month for me and any free time I had was spent either asleep, or frantically trying to preserve my sanity by mainlining Project Hail Mary fanfic. Such is life, I suppose.
Anyways, I promised I'd put together a post about my inspiration for my fic, as well as music I listened to while writing, so here we are. I also wanted to a place to drop little tidbits of information that never made it into the fic. So without futher ado, please enjoy this random infodump.
INSPIRATION
For the tone, mood and vibes of my fic I leaned heavily on media that I have enjoyed immensely in the past that is of a similar type (aka: medieval-esque shenanigans).
Movies: Ever After and A Knight's Tale
Books: The Saint of Steel series by T. Kingfisher (seriously, if y'all liked The Captain, Tarly and Godwin, you NEED to read this series, just TRUST ME. click here for a non spoiler review that hopefully will convince you)
For music, here is a list of random ass songs that got me through writing 80k+ words inside five weeks (in no particular order):
"samhain" by Gwenno Morgan
"Where Were You" by Vicky Sometani
"Click Clack Symphony" by Raye
"The Hand" by Annabelle Dinda
"Wind" by Akeboshi
"Burning House" by Julia Wolf
"Kyiv" by Apashe and Alina Pash
"Storm Warning" by florence road
"Cosmic Love" by Florence and the Machine
"River" by Leon Bridges
"Someone to Stay" by Vancouver Sleep Clinic
"Orpheus" by Vincent Lima
"Marianelli: Your Hands are Cold" by Jean-Yves Thibaudet
"Feed Us Your Girls" by Lydia the Bard
I also listened to the Main Title of Game of Thones on repeat a lot, lol.
And of course, this story would not exist without the-darklings fic Holy Waters. Which is astounding and fantastic.
EXTRA INFORMATION
Reader's house is never named, but their motto is "Still I Rise". I thought it very fitting given reader's past and the themes of the story. It is also the title of one of my all time favorite poems, by Maya Angelou.
In the first draft of Chapters 1-3, Valarr was actually a part of the group that got lost in the storm. He distracted the Lord and Lady Havarn so that Baelor could pass as just an injured knight. I eventually scrapped this idea, and went back through the chapters removing mention of him as it just made things waaaaaaaayyyy more complicated.
I completely forgot that the kingsguard is only ever seven dudes. By the time I remembered this, Godwin, Tarly and The Captain were so fimly entrenched in my mind as kingsguard I didn't change it. This does mean that if three were with Baelor, and two were with Maekar, that the actual king of Westeros only had two of his kingsguard doing their actual job of king guarding. Oops.
I also forgot that 'Captain' isn't a rank in the kingsguard. So we're making it a nickname/honorary title. He earned it while fighting in the Battle of Redgrass Field. He took command of a group of Baelor's calvary that had scattered during the charge by stealing an enemy's horse and getting everyone back into formation. These actions are what got him nominated to become a kingsguard.
Nym is not Nym's real name. She was brought to the motherhouse by her father, and just like reader was forced to take 'vows' to the Silent Sisters.
The ring in the picture set for this fic is a real ring that I own, and it is indeed of a tea plant!
Lady Havarn introduced reader to Baelor and the kingsguard off screen and used reader's first name only. This is why they assumed that she was not nobility. This also means that later, when Baelor is back with his family and recovering at Summerhall he has to tell Maekar that he has no idea what reader's family name is. Because reader never actually tells him! He doesn't find out what it is until he's back in King's Landing and can check the library. (Which he does immediately. He didn't even bother trying to sleep after they arrived in King's Landing. He waited for everyone else to go to sleep and went straight to the library.)
Baelor got the opinions of The Captain, Godwin and Tarly on his courting gift for reader before giving it to her. Captain thought that the size and shape were good picks. Nothing to ostentatious, since reader has been used to keeping a low profile. Tarly told him that going with reader's house colors was a great idea. And Godwin saw the red and black subtle elements to it and was instantly: I see what u did there sire. nice.
Baelor did NOT tell his sons that he was planning on asking to court reader before he left Sunspear. However, neither Valarr nor Matarys are stupid and had Suspicions. When Baelor returned with reader in tow those Suspicions turned into Conclusions. So by the time Baelor informed them privately they had reached acceptance of this change and are geninuely happy for their father.
Goodwoman Manse absolutely gave Baelor the shovel talk. I know that makes zero sense given their social statuses but I do not care. And neither did Goodwoman Manse. She 1000% threatened the Prince of the Realm with real bodily harm if he broke reader's heart. And she meant it too.
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And that's all I got for now! Thank you all for coming on this ride with me. I still have a couple of 'deleted scenes' that are kicking around as snippets in my files. I will be cleaning another of those up this weekend and posting either tomorrow or Monday.
The deleted scene !! Omg !! It’s a like a freaking sugar overdose !!!! Obsessed with this fic obsessed with reader obsessed with your perfect Baelor
Hahahaha, thank you! I'm glad you enjoyed it. I couldn't stand letting that little scene just waste away in my files. There will be a couple more coming! Hopefully the next one will be ready tomorrow or Monday. :)
From what I remember of back when Millennials were outpacing Boomers at internet and tech stuff in general, this is going to cause a lot of issues for companies angling to use slop in marketing because the younger set are always going to be better at spotting it than the older, but the older are going to be the ones approving marketing campaigns and ads and etc. Meaning, the older people will not ever be able to tell what might actually convince the younger.
The good news is that if it persists and Gen Z and Gen Alpha continue to scoff at the generated stuff, then marketing departments aiming at them will just have to give up on using it because they won't be able to figure out how to fool their targets with it.
The bad news is that this won't apply to scams and campaigns aimed at older people, so once again we're going to have a situation where the kids will be the ones lunging across the coffee table to stop Mom from giving her financial info to that really obvious fake scam mom oh my god do NOT buy that it isn't even a real thing.
