Hi, I'm CJ (she/her), and I am an occasional fic writer and currently a full-time college student who also works part-time, so I just write whenever I can for shits and giggles. I absolutely adore any sort of gothic/classical literature and am a big fan of rock, metal, or any music from the 80s to the 2000s. I am always open to recommendations or chatting about music, movies, or any fandoms I write for.
DISCLAIMER: MDNI 18+. Some of my content will be NSFW or feature NSFW themes, so with that being said, if it makes you uncomfortable or you are a minor, please don't interact.
Current Fixation: AKOTSK/Star Wars
Request's are OPEN
MASTERLIST:
AKOTSK
One-shots
Tension - Baelor Targaryen
Save a Prayer - Baelor Targaryen
The Garden - Baelor Targaryen
Come to Bed - Baelor Targaryen
Headcanons
AKOTSK Men Helping Their Depressed Wife - Baelor, Maekar, and Lyonel (SFW)
GEN RULES: Just don't be an asshole to anyone; really, that's it. Any themes I have listed that I will not write for will also apply to general conversation. As always, I am open to feedback, as I would love to improve my writing. Just don't be a dick about it.
REQUEST RULES:
Who and what I will write:
Any fics that are my ideas will mostly be one-shots or occasionally some multi-chapter fics; it just depends lol. That being said, I will gladly write any requests for one-shots, headcanons, or preferences. I will write for female or gender-neutral readers or from the perspective of the character if it fits.
Note: I do my best to make the characters as similar to their presented personality as possible, but I will likely take some creative liberties for the plot at times.
Themes I will write:
NSFW, angst or anything tragic, some gore, fluff, dark themes,
(If you're unsure about your request, just ask; as long as it's not listed in the themes below, then there's a decent chance I'll be cool with writing it for you).
Themes I will not write:
Anything to do with pedophilia, racism, hate speech, sexism, homophobia, incest, age play, race play, non-consent, or anything overtly gory. If a request is something I am not comfortable with or struggle to write, I reserve the right to decline/not write your request.
It's an idea I just had, I don't know if you'll like it, but it's basically scenarios of how Akotsk's characters would react if their wive had depression/health issues. It's a sensitive but very important topic, you know? It's a mix of a lot of angst and fluff.
A/N: This is such a good idea, big fan of how you think. I only did Baelor, Maekar, and Lyonel but I'm willing to make a part 2 ;) as I wrote this one in one sitting so...apologizes if anything seems rushed or poorly characterized
WC: 2k (I got a lil carried away mb I love dilfs)
.βοΈ έΛ BAELOR
Patience and intuition had always been among Baelor's strongest virtues, especially when concerned with your well-being. He had first noticed your struggles in public. Bright smiles that had once come so easily began to falter behind the rim of your cup, in spite of the laughter dancing through the room. His hand, always carefully entwined with yours beneath the table, would squeeze gently. He saw the way you barely touched your food during the feast, taking only a few bites before pushing the plate aside. He knew it too in the quiet of your chambers when your answers grew more succinct, always offering a placating smile but never stating the true issueβonly insisting it was nothing of his doing while your fingers picked restlessly at your sides.
"Tomorrow," he said calmly, closing the distance between you with careful steps. "We will do anything you desire, even if it is just to rest," he added, one of his hands stilling yours, the other coming to lift your chin to face him.
You nodded once after a moment, your eyes slowly meeting his, finding solace in his mismatched gaze that carried no trace of resentment. His hand shifted to cradle the back of your head, pulling you into his strong embrace. Your shoulders slumped slightly against him as his lips pressed a delicate kiss to the crown of your head.
You allowed him to help you undress after that, his fingers undoing the laces of your dress with practiced ease, his eyes scanning your face for any signs of discomfort as he continued. When the dress finally pooled at your feet, he was quick to help you with your nightgown, helping you step into it before drawing the straps over your shoulders. His eyes rested on you with a quiet adoration, his thumb gently pulling your lip free as he noticed you chewing it, tsking softly.
"Please, they're beautiful as they are," he murmured as his thumb brushed over the plush skin, his eyes following the motion. You chuckled lightly at his words, earning a faint smile from him.
For you never wished to add to his stresses, and so he kept his silence on the matter. Instead, on days you struggled most, he postponed his morning council meetings just so he could have time to share a bath with you. His large, calloused hands scrubbed over your back as you fixed the wall with a tired stare. His voice was soft at your earβquiet reassurances woven between rambles about his work.
"Thank you," you murmured.
His hands drifted over your arms, stopping their half-formed movements. "There is no need to thank me, my love; it is a duty I wear proudly," he hummed, a small, surprised smile tugging at the corners of his mouth as he kissed your shoulder.
He always made sure to have your favorite breakfast waiting, even if he couldn't postpone his meeting. And on fortunate days when the realm didn't demand him so intensely, he would stay and eat with you, offering you any small thing you wished. Whether that meant a trip to the market later that day to pick out new silks or having him read to you in bed that evening when you were too tired for anything else. If you hardly touched your food, he never chastised you, only ever encouraging you to eat more later.
But even on days when his duty demanded more of him than he could spare or when he noticed you wished for some time alone (he would still try to send your handmaiden instead), he always sent word that he would be there for dinner. And afterwards, he would hold you just the same as he had every night since you wed, your body on top of his and your hearts beating against one another in the darkβhis fingers tracing mindless shapes along your back while his gaze held nothing but understanding and the silent promise of a man who would do this a thousand times over.
.βοΈ έΛ MAEKAR
Maekar had never been a man of sweet words, but what he lacked in eloquent declarations and gentle reassurances, he made up for in the simple weight of his hands and the willingness to listen.
He was a man accustomed to stress and was able to recognize your depression worsening before you could. Your hair, usually so meticulously kept, had started to form small knots along the ends in retaliation for its subtle neglect, accompanied by the all too familiar purple shadows under your eyes from the late nights you lay awake, lost in the dark of the ceiling after comforting young Aerion from yet another nightmare. Sleep had been just as cruel to him as it had been to you; he had lain wide awake on his back every dawn in the last week, watching the way you struggled more and more to pull yourself out of bed hours after he first woke, each morning later than the one before.
When you finally found your way to your vanity to begin the day, he approached you with quiet, heavy steps, his firm hands coming to rest carefully on your shoulders. He didn't say anything at first, simply meeting your eyes through the mirror. Your shoulders loosened slightly under his touch. You couldn't help but note the pale shadows that lingered under his own eyes, a sight that caused you to release an exasperated sound between a sigh and a laugh as you ran a tired hand over your face.
"What did he dream of last night?" he asked gruffly, his thumbs rubbing soothing circles into your shoulders, his eyes never leaving your face. You paused at that, a heavy sigh muffled by your hand. Maekar never asked specifically what had made your depression worse, having been met too many times by a short dismissal or a blank stare.
"Dragons, it's always dragons," you said in a resigned tone, pinching your brow between your fingers. Maekar was silent for a moment, his jaw set in its usual stubborn jut, waiting for you to continue. "It riles him up so muchβ¦" you started, soon losing yourself in the telling that you hadn't noticed that Maekar had picked up the brush that rested on your vanity.
He listened carefully, occasionally adding a hum of acknowledgement or a chastening word here and there as he began running the coarse bristles through your hair in languid strokes, carrying the practiced ease of a man who had done this a hundred times before and never tired of it. His ministrations never faltered even when you paused, desperately searching for your last line of thought.
"If he wakes tonight, I will deal with it," he said finally, drawing the brush through the ends of your hair. His eyes watched the last lingering knot unravel slowly under his dedication. Your lips twitched slightly as you felt the final tug.
"There's no need. I can handle it, I justβ"
"It is already done," he stated with a finality you didn't dare challenge, even though you heard the slight softening of his usual terse tone. "You need your rest," he added quietly, setting the brush aside with a hollow thud.
Your eyes found his once more through the mirror, as his hands resumed their rest on your shoulders. "You look beautiful," he murmured, leaning down to place a kiss on the top of your head. Your hand came up to grasp his; a soft smile found your lips before he excused himself to send for breakfast.
He had spent most of the day with you. And true to his word, just as you had finally settled to sleep, you heard your door crack open, followed by a muttered curse as Maekar untangled himself from your embrace.
.βοΈ έΛ LYONEL
Very few things are capable of making Lyonel actually be serious, and one of them is his wife's well-being. Over your years he had learned to expect these moods of yours and had learned to take them in stride. He isn't always the most observant of subtle signs, but he notices immediately when he speaks to you. The way your eyes slowly grow distant at dinner while he regales you with one of his long-winded tales that keeps getting interrupted by his giggling. Tales that you would usually entertain and even chime in with on any typical evening but have only seemed to irritate you tonight. An irritation that only grows as he watches you work on your embroidery by the hearth, fingers poking and prodding against the needle with sharp jerks.
"My dear," he calls from the table with that playful lilt his voice always carries when he addresses you. His fingers stilled their absent-minded tracing along the rim of his glass as he saw your attention remained undeterred, mumbled curses spilling from your lips as you worked.
He let out a huff, a hefty grunt escaping him as he rose from his chair, the legs scraping against the tile in a grating noise that only frustrated your ears and your state even more. He made his way to you with leisurely steps, the half-empty wine glass dangling loosely from his hand as he propped himself on the back of your armchair.
"My dear, talk to me, please," he said with a hint of pleading in his tone as his fingers came down to tuck a stray hair behind your ear. His dark eyes rested on the focused crease of your brow and the firm press of your lips. "I really don't ask for much, my darling; please just look at me and spare me from this cruel dismissal of yours."
In spite of your frustration, you barely stifled a snort at his dry, albeit exaggerated offense. Lyonel's lips quirked in that signature smirk of his as he saw your lips loosen just the barest amount, taking it as an invitation to press further. With a rather theatrical sigh, he set his glass aside, coming to stand in front of your chair before slowly falling to his knees with a groan. His rough hands moved to still yours as he leaned back on his heels, thumbs brushing tenderly over yours.
"Tell me what is wrong, my love. Did I say something unkind about your brother again? If so, I swear it was all in good fun," he said, holding your gaze, his hands moving yours for emphasis. You all but rolled your eyes at this exaggerated display, but you couldn't deny the laughter you felt bubbling in your chest. You knew the sincerity in his ask, something most wouldn't notice, but you knew him well enough and had this conversation plenty enough to know he meant well.
"No, no, not this time," you amended with an amused sigh. He smiled at that, his gaze softening in realization, a rare seriousness creeping into his features. "It's just one of those days," you added quietly, your eyes dropping to your joined hands.
He tilted his head back slightly. "I see," he mused in understanding. "How about we go to bed early, and I will rub your back, yes?"
You raised a brow at his proposition. "Are you trying to bribe me into a better mood with a back rub?" you asked with a tired amusement.
He gave you a wicked smile at that. "Well, if you want more, you could just say so, my dear," he said with a shrug, waggling his brows suggestively. You gave his shoulder a small jab at that, a rare laugh escaping you. A laugh that Lyonel matched and celebrated if the way his eyes lightened was any indication while he clutched his shoulder in mock offense. "I'm only saying I have never known it to harm a dour mood, quite the opposite actually" he added with a hearty laugh, raising his hands up.
After some more teasing he finally managed to get you to relent to bed, holding up to his promise of rubbing your back as you lay between his legs, his chin resting on your shoulder. "Tomorrow will be a better day, and if it is not, then I will personally ensure that it becomes one," he said proudly against your neck, his beard tickling your skin causing you to squirm a little against his hands working along your lower back.
β Summary: determined to prove she needs no help in planning the royal feast, and too proud to accept her husbands offers for assistance, baelor's wife devotes herself to her planning long into the night before baelor stubbornly coaxes her to bed
β Pairing: baelor targaryen x wife!reader
β Content: baelor adores his wife, tired couple, domestic romance/intimacy, mild sexual content, fluff, parital nudity, brief massage, drinking, comfort, some flirting/banter, established relationship, unspecificed age gap, cuddling, tired/frustrated husband
β Word Count: 2.1k
β A/N: I originally meant for this to be kinda an inverse of the tension fic but I kinda got bored with the idea and carried away with planning some other works I have in mind so I apologize if anything seems rushed or under-developed.
The time of year had arrived once more, the season in which you were responsible for planning the royal feast. A duty you had been granted since you and Baelor had wed, one you proudly shouldered alone. His attempts to offer his support had come to nothing, though not for a lack of trying. He had offered practically every day since you began, with that gentle, measured tone that always made it so hard to deny him when he said it would be his honor to help you. Of course, you had declined every time, in spite of the sweetness his voice reserved only for you and the increasing generosity of his offers. He had enough on his plate as it was being his father's Hand. But his offer to help you with the seating chart had been his most tantalizing yet. An offer you were regretting refusing with each moment of the evening that ticked by.
You had lost track of how many hours had passed since you first embarked on the meticulous work of arranging the seating chart. But you knew it was well into the evening, with summer crickets chirping loudly below your balcony. The cold, salty air of the bay billowed through your shared quarters, sealing the rich black ink of your quill into the pads of your fingers as you scribbled down notes. Your wine sat half-empty on the table, chilled, and long abandoned by the dying embers of the hearth. Baelor had it spiced exactly as you liked.
Candlelight had been your sole provider of light for most of the evening. Your tired eyes creased at the corners as you scanned over the various drafts, letters, and requests that had overtaken your dining table, your mind reeling in a dizzying whirl trying to organize it all.
Your husband's own duties had piled up of late, with him leaving your bed well before dawn most mornings and secluding himself in his solar far into the night. And on fortunate days when he returned to your chamber earlier than anticipated, he retired to bed earlier than you, with one of his histories in hand and his wine perched on the bedside table; he sipped it carefully, glancing at you between pages.
"Do you think the Baratheons and the Tyrells would be tolerant of one another?" you asked in a resigned tone, rubbing your eyes with the back of your wrist.
"Mm," he mused into his glass while he turned the page. His mismatched gaze briefly flicked up to where you sat, lingering on the stubborn jut of your jaw as you muttered thoughtfully to yourself. "I think your eyes need rest, and the issue will resolve itself tomorrow."
A grumble of annoyance escaped you. His mouth curved slightly in response as he returned his attention to the book. "I believe Lord Lyonel will find anyone tolerable so long as he has enough ale at his disposal."
"Fair point," you huffed in agreement, eyes dragging up to rest on where he sat atop the deep-red covers of your shared bed, clad in a robe as black and silken as a raven's feather. The ties had come loose in the hours since you helped him into it, allowing you a generous view of his lean chest and the dark hairs that adorned it.
A familiar heat settled low in your stomach at the sight, knowing he would shed it all soon when you both retired fully for the night. The longer the thought lingered in your mind, the more you felt the ache in your neck and the strain in your wrists. And the more you wished to curl up against his chest and bask in his warmth while he read until his own eyes started to tire.
A small draft carried through the room, filling your lungs and snapping you out of your thoughts. You dropped your gaze to the inky cloth you had been using all evening, running it deftly across your hands before you stood, crossing the room to the balcony.
"You won't find the answer out there," he called from where he sat, a hint of amusement coloring his voice.
You rolled your eyes at that, folding your arms against your chest and propping yourself against the wind-kissed stone of the archway. Each slow inhale of night air eased the tension your mind refused to cast aside. Baelor looked up from his novel once more, noting the contemplative distance in your gaze and the way you chewed on your thumbnail, just like you always did when you were nervous or troubled. His watchful eyes moved over every taut line and gentle curve painted by the faint blue gleam of night across your skin.
The fragile silence that had settled between you was soon broken by the soft thud of him closing his book and setting it aside with a sigh. "Come to bed, my love," he commanded quietly, propping himself on his elbow while his gaze dipped briefly to your backside.
It had become rare to even speak to him past noon, much less to have him calling you so sweetly to bed, with only the wish to hold you and savor the few moments unburdened by his duties. The familiar tinge of guilt gnawed at the back of your mind, wanting nothing more than to fall into his embrace and let his strong arms and tender hands soothe your constant pondering and the day's aches. But your mind would not rest until you at least had some semblance of structure for the seating chart.
When you did not answer after a moment, he pressed further, tilting his head to the side. "My love," he said, a slight edge creeping into his tone. The usual stern crease of his brow deepened as he saw you turn back towards the table.
"Hm?" you mused, making your way back to the table. Your hands immediately found purchase against the hard oak, urgently sifting through scattered papers for your quill as an idea popped into your head. The heavy weight of his stare tracked every movement you made.
"Don't make me ask again," he said with that soft-spoken authority that usually made you pause. But in this instance, you had been so consumed by the fleeting idea that you neglected to even hear him rise from the bed with a hushed grunt or notice the unhurried steps he was making towards you now.
"I still need to wash my hands and put out theβ" You stopped when his slender fingers wrapped around your arm, halting your gestures; his other hand snagged your earlier cloth off the table. His eyes met yours instantly; the dying embers of the hearth melted into the warm amber of his left eyeβsilvery gleams of moonlight along the tiled floors reflected into the striking blue of his right. A sight that had never failed to enchant you, even more so when you felt him take the cloth tenderly to your fingers, wiping away every worry and idea you had been contemplating.
"No more excuses," he stated, raising his brows in the barest of an arch. His eyes never left yours, almost daring you to protest while he worked the cloth over your stained fingers with the leisure and practiced ease of a man who had all the time in the world. Never rough, never chaste, just sure in his movements, sure in bringing you comfort. You held his stare for a long moment, letting out a resigned sigh when you realized any protest you made in your defense would be futile.
"Fine," you conceded, as he licked the edge of his thumb, brushing it tenderly over the worn dot of ink on your cheek until it refused to mark your skin any longer. The gentleness of his touch against your stressed form reminded you of the heaviness that had been settling over you all evening, slow and inevitable as a stone finding the bottom of a pond.
"I don't usually have to battle you to get you to lie beside me," he murmured fondly against your forehead, his hand coming to cradle the back of your head as he pulled you into him.
"You're right; I usually have to battle you for the privilege," you said, only partially in jest. He chuckled lightly at that, knowing the truth in your words. Your hands glided to the loose opening of his robe, reveling in the warmth of his skin. He hummed at the notion, pulling away just enough so he could rest his calloused palms on your hips, just a bit too low to be proper in any other instance.
"I will deal with the seating arrangement tomorrow," he said, looking down at you, watching the way your eyes followed your fingers as they came up to thread through the grey edges of his beard. Your arms eventually came to rest around his neck, partially resting your tired weight against him.
"Baelor, pleaseβ"
"No, I will not hear any of it, no more about this seating arrangement tonight," he stated as he hoisted you up with ease, in spite of the fatigue he carried. You yelped in surprise, legs wrapping around him instinctively as he carried you to the bed. He set you down gently against the pillows, placing a delicate kiss on your lips before leaning back to admire the way your hair fanned out along them. The way he looked at you, like he was trying to brand this sight into his mind as a remedy for every hour you spent apart, made your heart flutter against your chest.
"Entirely unfair; I can't pick you up," you grumbled, your eyes lingering on the way he slipped his robe off his shoulders, leaving him in just his small clothes.
"You've never complained about me picking you up before," he said wryly, tossing the robe onto the nearby chair. Your eyes dipped to the gentle lines of aged muscle along his abdomen as he climbed over you, the bed dipping marginally under his weight. His lips lowered to plant slow kisses across your neck before dragging them across the subtle curve of your jaw to nibble your earlobe between his teeth. You giggled, squirming slightly at the soft pricks of his beard against your skin. The retort that had been building on your tongue slowly ebbed away like the dying light of a candle.
A moment later his lips reluctantly parted from your skin as he dropped next to you fully, the bed creaking softly as he rolled onto his back. His arm snaked its way around your side, pulling you insistently into him. The hard planes of his body melted against the delicate frame of yours. Your hand rested along his chest, while his slender fingers caressed the smooth skin of your shoulder through your nightgown.
"I will allow your help under one condition," you hummed, a hint of exhaustion creeping into your tone. His ministrations faltered for the barest of seconds as he swallowed the urge to press the matter; a long sigh left him instead.
"I don't recall saying the matter was up for negotiation," he said simply, his fingers climbing up your shoulder, beginning to rub the stiff muscles along your neck.
You let out a hushed groan as his fingers pressed tighter into a particularly sore spot. "I want you to be here when I wake," you said, your voice strained as you ignored his deflection.
He shifted slightly, devoting his full attention to you. The dim lighting of the room rendered you unable to fully discern his features but you could see enough to notice the way his gaze softened as he registered the stubbornness in your eyes.
"Very well," he relented with a slight bow of his head. You smiled immediately at his words, scooting your body closer to his as you chased his warmth. His lips ghosted over yours in a feather-light touch before sealing them in a tentative kiss. A slow heat spread across your skin, unraveling the tension that still lingered.
"See, that wasn't so hard," you whispered against his lips as you pulled away. The tendon along his forehead flexed in irritation but he simply closed his eyes, reclining his head further back against the pillows. The smile that had plastered your face previously returned even stronger when you moved to roll onto your side. His arm stilled you instantly as you tried to pull away, tugging you back into him. You chuckled softly at the gesture, easing back into his embrace, your eyes tracing his own tired features until you both drifted into a soundless sleep.
summary: you were raised to always get what you wanted. then you married baelor targaryen, who says no to you with the patience of a saint and the immovability of a wall. it was funny, once. it isn't funny now. (5k)
pairing: baelor targaryen x fem!reader
content: canon divergent, reader is from house rowan, grief, fear of loss, stubborn baelor and reader (yikes), protective!baelor, angst with a resolved ending, hurt/comfort, arguing, fluff, and unedited work cause i wasnβt bothered with editing.
Your father had never said no to you. Not in any way that actually stuck.
There had been nos, technically, over the yearsβthe soft kind, the ones that came with a but and a maybe and a let me think on it, the one that always, without fail, ended with you getting exactly what you had asked for. The horse youβd spotted at the marked when you were nine and pointed at until your mother told you to stop pointing. The third puppy from the hunting dogβs litter when your mother had already said two was plenty. The yellow dress with the embroidered hem that your father jad bought you the day before your wedding, because youβd said quite reasonably that you couldnβt possibly get married without something new to wear.
Lord Aldric Rowan of Goldengrove had three sons before you came along, and he loved them well enough. But you were his daughter, and that had always been a different thing entirely, and everyone in the household had understood it without it ever needing to be said out loud. You weren't spoiled in a mean way. You'd never been cruel about it. You simply had a very poor relationship with the word no and a father who had never seen much reason to improve it.
You hadn't known any of this was unusual until you married Baelor.
Baelor Targaryen says no to you like it's the simplest thing in the world. Not coldly, he's never cold about it. He just says it the same way he says most things, quietly and without any indication that he expects it to go differently, and then he waits for you to finish responding to it with the patience of a man who has genuinely nowhere else to be.
In the beginning you didn't believe he meant it. You'd assumed, reasonably enough, that his nos were like anyone else's nos, a starting position rather than a final answer. You'd tried waiting him out. You'd tried rephrasing. You'd tried the look, the one that had worked on your father without fail since you were old enough to know you had it, where you look up through your lashes and say nothing and let the silence do the work.
Baelor had looked back at you with those mismatched eyes of his and said, "No, my love," and that had been that.
It took you most of the first year to truly believe he meant it every time. A few months after that to stop trying anyway, mostly because the habit was so deeply set you did it without thinking. You still try sometimes. It's less about winning now and more about the shape of the thing, the back and forth of it, and somewhere along the way you'd stopped minding as much as you thought you wouldβbecause Baelor's nos always come with something else. He listens. He takes you seriously. And then he finds another way, always, and he delivers on it, and there is something in that you hadn't been expecting and have never quite gotten over.
This particular morning youβd found him in his solar after breakfast, sitting at his writing table with the focused stillness of a man who had a great deal to do and intended to do all of it. He looked up when you came in, giving you a small smile.Β
βI want a thing,β you say, because the preamble with Baelor is pointless. He sees through it before youβve finished building it.Β
βOf course you do,β he says, and sets his quill down.
You come and sit on the edge of his writing table, which he allows from you and nobody else, and he looks up at you with a patient expression, knowing something is coming.
βThereβs a market in the lower city today,βΒ
βIs there?β
βA travelling one. From the Reach.β You fold your hands in your lap. βOne of the kitchen girls said theyβve brought silks.β
"Mm," he says, which is not a yes but is not yet a no either, and you take it as encouragement.
"I want to go."
He sets his quill down. "Alone."
"With a guard."
"One guard is not a proper escort."
"Two guards, then."
"No."
"Baelor, it's a silk marketβ"
"Two guards is still no." He says it the same way he always does, no particular weight on it, just the word sitting there. "You're not going into the lower city today."
"Other women go into the lower city all the time."
"Other women aren't you."
"That isn't a reason."
"It's my reason," he says, with the perfect untroubled calm that you find both deeply reassuring and deeply maddening depending entirely on the day. "When the market comes through the city again I'll take you myself."
You kiss your teeth, rolling your eyes. "You say that every time."
"I took you to a market three months ago."
"That was three months ago." You look at him. He looks back at you. This is the part where your father would start to soften β you could always see it happening, the way his shoulders would drop a little, the way he'd look away first and when he looked back his face would have changed. Baelor doesn't soften. He just sits there. "The silks will be gone by the time you find a free afternoon," you say.
"Then I'll send someone down to buy them for you."
"It isn't the same."
"No," he agrees, pleasantly. "It isn't."
You make a sound that's somewhere between a sigh and a groan and slide off the table. He watches you with what you're fairly certain is amusement, though he keeps it mostly off his face. "Fine," you say.
"Thank you," he says, and picks his quill back up.
You stop at the door. "You'll actually send someone today. Not next week."
"Today," he says. "Tell me what you're looking for."
So you tell him. In considerable detail. The colour, a specific dark green, not just any dark green, the weight of the fabric, roughly how much you'll need. He listens to all of it without looking like he finds it tedious, writes something down, and nods. You go back to your morning.
The silk arrives before supper. It's exactly right. You don't tell him it's exactly rightβhe'd only be unbearably calm about it,Β but it is.
The puppet show had been the talk of the keep for nearly a week.
It had started with the kitchen girls, then spread to the stable boys, then somehow made its way up through the household until even some of the younger knights had mentioned it in passing, the way people mentioned things they assumed you already knew about and could simply go and see if you wanted. A travelling group from Lys, apparently, setting up in the square just beyond the main gate every evening after dark. Elaborate puppets, someone said. A full retelling of the Tragedy of Florian and Jonquil, with music.
You had mentioned it to Baelor on the second day, at supper.
"There's a puppet company in the square," you'd said.
"Mm," he'd said, reading something.
"From Lys. They're doing Florian and Jonquil every evening after dark." You'd reached for your wine. "I'd like to go."
He'd looked up then. "Outside the gate."
"Just to the square."
"At night."
"It's just beyond the gate, Baelor, it isn'tβ"
"No," he'd said, and looked back down at whatever he was reading, and that had been the end of it. You'd sat across the table from him and finished your supper in silence and felt the frustration of it sit in your chest like a stone.
That had been four days ago.
That had been four days ago. The group was leaving at the end of the week.
You'd thought about it every day since.
The thing was, you weren't asking for anything unreasonable. It was a puppet show. It was just beyond the gate. Half the keep had already been, freely, without anyone telling them they couldn't, and you had sat inside the walls every single evening watching the candles burn down and listening to people talk about it the next morning and thought about how unbearably unfair it was to be the only person in all of King's Landing who wasn't allowed to simply go and see a thing.
Baelor was in council meetings all day. He was always in council meetings all day. You'd had breakfast alone, which you did most mornings, and then sat with your embroidery for two hours, which you did most mornings, and then walked the same stretch of garden you always walked, and then sat in your chambers and stared at the ceiling for a while, and then it was supper and Baelor came back tired and preoccupied and you had an hour together before he fell asleep.
That was most days. That was nearly every day. Yes he always did make time for you, but you always thought it was merely never enough time.
You'd put on a plain dark cloak, the one with the deep hood that you used in winter, and told yourself you'd be back before the last bell.
The square was everything everyone had said it was.
The puppets were extraordinary, large and intricate, moved by six puppeteers in dark clothing who seemed to disappear into the shadows behind them so that the figures appeared to move on their own. The music was live, a lutist and a woman with a small drum, and the crowd was thick and warm and pressed in close around the low stage, and you'd stood at the edge of it with your hood up and felt, for the first time in what felt like a very long time, like a person who was simply somewhere, watching something, with nobody expecting anything from her.
Florian was wonderful. Jonquil made you cry a little, which you would deny if anyone asked.
You were back at the keep gate before the last bell, which felt like a technicality worth holding onto. Your cheeks were cold and your slippers were damp from the cobblestones and you were in a better mood than you'd been in all week, and you were very nearly back to your chambers with your plan of a hot bath and immediate sleep fully intact when one of the younger serving girls appeared in the corridor looking deeply uncomfortable.
"My lady," she said, not quite meeting your eyes. "His Grace has asked for you in his study."
You stopped walking.
"Has he," you said.
"Yes, my lady." She was very pointedly not looking at the cloak or the damp slippers or your windswept hair. "He saidβhe said as soon as you returned."
As soon as you returned.
You stood in the corridor for a moment and thought about the very small possibility that this was about something else entirely and knew, with the deep certainty of someone who had been married long enough to know things, that it was not about something else entirely.
"Thank you," you said, and turned around.
His study was lit when you got there, many candles flickering in the room, and Baelor was standing with his back to the door looking out the window when you came in. He didn't turn around immediately. You came to a stop just inside the doorway and waited, which was not something you were naturally good at, and the silence sat there between you and stretched.
"Close the door," he said.
You closed it.
He turned then. His expression was not the one you were used to, the patient one, the one that waited you out with perfect equanimity. This was something else. His jaw was set. His eyes were very steady and very still in a way that made something small and cold settle in the pit of your stomach, because in all the time you'd been married you had never quite seen this particular version of his face before.
"Where have you been," he said.
"I went for a walk," you said, which was technically true in the way that most things you said were technically true.
Baelor looked at you.
"Outside the keep," you amended.
"To the square," he said.
You said nothing.
"Three separate people have told me they saw a woman in a dark cloak in the crowd tonight who looked very much like my wife," he said. "Would you like to tell me they were mistaken."
You looked at him. He looked back at you with that still face and those serious eyes and you thought very briefly about saying yes, they were mistaken, and decided against it because Baelor always knew and lying would only make it worse.
"No," you said. "They weren't mistaken."
He was quiet for a moment. "You walked out of the keep alone," he said, slowly, like he was making sure you understood each word. "At night. Into a crowd of strangers. Without telling anyone where you were going."
"I had my cloak."
"You had your cloak," he repeated, as if it were the stupidest thing he has ever heard.
"Nobody knew it was me."
"Three people knew it was you."
"Three people thought it might be me," you said, "which is differentβ"
"It is not different." His voice was still low but there was something in it now that you had not heard before, something tight underneath the surface of it. "Do you understand what could have happened? Do you understandβ" He stopped. Pressed his lips together. Looked away for a moment and then back at you. "You are the Princess of Dragonstone. You walked into a crowd of strangers at night, alone, and you didn't tell a single soul where you were going."
"I was back before the last bell," you said, which came out smaller than you intended.
"That is not the point."
"I know," you said, even smaller.
He looked at you for a long moment. You looked back at him and felt your eyes go wet, which you hadn't been expecting, the sting of it catching you off guard, and you blinked hard because you weren't going to cry about this, it was a puppet show, you were not going to stand here and cry about a puppet show.
"It was Florian and Jonquil," you said. Your voice came out very quiet. "Everyone in the keep has seen it except me and I just β I only wanted to see it. That's all. It was just a puppet show."
Baelor was still looking at you. The tight thing in his jaw hadn't entirely gone.
"I know that I'm not supposed to go outside without an escort," you say. "I know that. I've always known that. But Baelorβ" You stop, and the words that come out next are not the ones you'd planned on saying, are not really about the puppet show at all. "You're in council from morning until supper every single day. I have breakfast alone and I sit with my embroidery alone and I walk the garden alone and then supper comes and I have an hour with you before you're asleep, and that'sβthat's every day. That is every day." Your voice is doing the thing again, tightening somewhere in the middle. "I'm not asking you to change everything. I know you have duties. I know the kingdom doesn't stop because your wife is bored. But I've asked you for things, small things, just to have somewhere to go or something to see, and the answer is always no, and I understand why, I do, but sometimes I justβ" You stop. Press the back of your hand against your mouth for a second. "I just needed to go somewhere."
The study is very quiet.
Baelor looks at you for a long moment. Something has shifted in his expression, the tight thing in his jaw less rigid than it was a moment ago, and he crosses the room and stops in front of you and looks at your face in that way of his, reading all of it.
He's quiet for a moment, the anger in his face settling into something heavier. Then he reaches out and takes your face in his hands, tilts it up toward him. Your eyes are very wet and you're fairly certain at least one tear has escaped, which is embarrassing for reasons you can't entirely articulate. His thumb moves across your cheek.
"I didn't know," he says. "That it was like that for you."
"I didn't say," you admit.
"No," he says. "You didn't." He's quiet for a moment, his eyes on yours. "I'm not going to pretend I'm not angry about tonight. I am. What you did was dangerous and foolish and you know that."
"I know," you say.
"But I hear you," he says. "The rest of it. I hear it."
You look at him and feel the thing in your chest that had been tight since the corridor loosen, just slightly, not all the way, but enough. "Are you very angry," you say.
"Yes," he says, plainly.
"How angry."
He looks at you for a moment. His thumb is still against your cheek but his eyes are serious, no warmth in them yet, not the usual kind. "You had no reason to do what you did tonight," he says. "I understand that you're lonely. I hear that. But when I say no it is not a suggestion and it is not a starting point and you do not get to decide that it doesn't apply to you because you want something badly enough." His voice is low and even. "That is not how this works."
You look at him and say nothing.
"Go and have your bath," he says. He drops his hands from your face and steps back and the warmth of them goes with him. "We'll speak in the morning."
You nod and go.
In the morning he is up before you, which he always is, but he doesn't talk to you the way he usually does. He answers when you speak to him. He isn't cruel about it. But the easy back and forth of it, the morning stories, the complaints about Daeron, the small warm ordinary thing that is your favourite part of the dayβnone of that comes, and you sit across from him at breakfast and feel the absence of it like a bruise.
You don't push. For once in your life you don't push.
You take your embroidery to the garden instead and sit with it and say nothing and wait for it to pass.
You're in the garden some days later with some embroidery you're not making much progress on when one of the serving girls finds you, a letter in hand.
You see your father's seal before you take it. The rose of Rowan, pressed with the same signet ring he's worn your entire life. You break it and read it.
It's short. Much shorter than his letters usually are. His handwriting is shakier than you remember, the lines uneven in a way they never usually are, and you read it once and then read it again because the first time doesn't seem possible.
He's ill. He's been ill for some time, he saysβ in that careful way that means longer than some time but he's chosen not to say so. The maester is doing what he can. He wants to see you, if it can be arranged.
If it can be arranged.
Your father, who had rearranged the entire world on a regular basis to make sure you had whatever you wanted, is asking if it can be arranged.
You sit in the garden for a long time without moving. The sun moves. The letter stays in your hands. The embroidery sits forgotten beside you.
When you finally go inside you go straight to Baelor's solar. He's at the window with a cup of wine, a small frown creasing his brow, and he turns when the door opens. Whatever he sees in your face makes him set the cup down immediately.
"What's happened?"
You hold the letter out. He crosses the room and takes it from your hand and reads it, and you watch his face the whole time. The way his eyes move down the page slowly. The way his jaw tightens. The way a stillness settles over him, the particular controlled kind that means he's keeping something off his face on purpose.
He looks up and meets your eyes and you already know what he's going to say.
"I need to go to Goldengrove," you say.
"I know."
"Then I can go."
"No."
It lands differently than it ever has before. Every other no had been the silk, the market, the puppet showβsmall things, things you'd pushed back on out of habit more than anything. This is not that. This is your father's shaky handwriting on a short letter asking if it can be arranged, and Baelor is standing there saying no and looking at you like he's braced for what comes next.
"Baelor." Your voice is low and tight.
"No, my love."
"He is ill." You take a step toward him. "He is asking for me. Do you understand that? He has never in his life asked me to come home, not once, and he is asking now, and you are standing thereβ"
"I understand."
"Then act like it." Your voice cracks on the last word and you push past it. "He could be dying. He could be dying and you're telling me no like it's the same as everything else, like this is the silk market, like this isβ"
"It isn't the same."
"Then why is the answer still no?" You're in front of him now, close, your eyes burning. "Give me a reason. A real one. Not the roads, not the timing, not whatever careful thing you're about to sayβgive me something real or get out of my way."
Something flickers across his face. His jaw is tight and his eyes are steady and he says, quietly, "The roads are notβ"
"I don't care." The words come out before you've decided on them and you mean every one. "I don't care about the roads. Send fifty men with me, send a hundred, come yourself if you have to, I don't give a damn how it's arrangedβbut you do not get to tell me no on this." Your voice is rising and your hands have curled into fists at your sides and you're aware distantly that this is not how a woman of court is meant to speak to her husband and you cannot bring yourself to care about that either. "This isn't a silk market. This isn't a puppet show outside the gate. This is my father."
Baelor looks at you for a long moment. He doesn't flinch at the volume of it, doesn't step back, just stands there and takes it with that infuriating stillness of his, and the muscle in his jaw works once.
"I know," he says. His voice is very quiet. "I know what it is."
"Then tell me why." Your eyes are filling now and you hate it, hate standing here crying when you're trying to be furious, but you can't stop it and you're not going to look away. "Because I have trusted you every time. Every single time you've said no I have found a way to accept it because I trust you and I love you and I know you don't do things without reason. But you have to give me something, Baelor. You have to give me something to hold onto right now or I swear to you I will walk out of this keep tonight and you will not stop me."
A beat of silence.
Baelor's eyes move over your face. He's reading you the way he always reads you, carefully and completely, and whatever he finds there makes something shift in his expression. The tight set of it loosens, just slightly. He exhales through his nose.
"Sit down," he says.
"I don't want to sit down."
"Please." The word comes out differently than his usual pleases, less patient, more like it costs him something. "Sit down and let me tell you."
You look at him. Your chest is heaving and your eyes are wet and you're still furious but there's something in his face now that wasn't there before, something heavy and careful, and it makes you go still.
You sit.
He pulls a chair across and sits facing you, close, his elbows on his knees, and is quiet for a moment like he's deciding where to begin.
"Your father has debts," he says. "Significant ones. He has been carrying them for years, managing them carefully, and then about eighteen months ago he stopped being able to manage them."
You look at him. "What does that mean?"
"It means he borrowed from men who are not patient about repayment." He holds your gaze. "When the payments slowed, they started taking an interest in Goldengrove itself."
Something cold moves through you. "What kind of interest?"
"The kind that comes with threats." His voice is even, giving you the facts without wrapping them in anything softer. "Specific ones. Against the estate, against your brothers." A pause. "I became aware of it some months ago. I have had men watching the roads to Goldengrove since. That is why I cannot send you there aloneβnot because of the roads themselves, but because of who is on them."
The room is very quiet.
"Months ago," you say slowly.
"Yes."
"You've known for months."
"Yes."
You stare at him. "And you didn't tell me."
"Your father asked me not to." He says it plainly, without apology, but his eyes don't leave yours. "He came to me himself. He asked me to handle it quietly and to keep it from you. He didn't want you to know he was in difficulty." A beat. "He was very clear about that."
You open your mouth and close it again.
"I should have told you regardless," Baelor says. "That is on me. But I want you to understand that he asked me not to, and I thought I was honouring that." His jaw tightens slightly. "I was wrong to keep it from you this long."
You sit there and let it all settle into shape. The cheerful letters. The shaky handwriting on this one. Your father at the door when you left, holding on a beat too long.
"He's been carrying all of this," you say quietly. "This whole time."
"Yes."
"Alone."
"He had me," Baelor says. "For what that's worth."
You look at him and feel something complicated move through your chest that isn't quite anger anymore and isn't quite grief and sits somewhere between the two.
"The debts," you say. "Are theyβcan they beβ"
"They're already being settled." He says it without any weight on it, like it's already done, which it nearly is. "Within the fortnight Goldengrove will be safe. The men watching the roads will be gone." His eyes are steady on yours. "And then I will take you there myself."
You look at your hands in your lap.
The room is very quiet when he finishes.
You look at your hands in your lap. You think about your father's letters, the cheerful ones, the ones about the estate and your brothers and whatever small ordinary thing had happened at Goldengrove that week. You think about the shaky handwriting on the letter in your hands. You think about how long he must have been carrying all of it alone, smiling in ink across the distance, not wanting you to worry.
"He didn't want me to know," you say. Your voice comes out very small.
"No." Baelor's mouth presses together briefly. "He didn't want you to worry."
You look up at him. "Is he dying?"
"I don't know." He holds your gaze and doesn't look away from it. "I think he's more ill than the letter says. I think he wanted to see you and didn't know how to ask for it plainly." A pause. "The debts are already being settled. Within the fortnight Goldengrove will be safe. When it is, I will take you there myself and we will stay as long as you need to stay."
"The fortnight," you say.
"The fortnight." He holds your gaze. "I give you my word."
You look at him for a long time. This man with the grey in his beard and the careful eyes and the particular way he says I give you my word, like it is the most serious thing a person can say.
"I'm angry at you," you say quietly. "For not telling me sooner."
"I know."
"And at him."
"That's fair."
"I'm angrier at you."
"Also fair," he says, without moving.
You look away, at the wall, at your hands. Your eyes are still wet and the anger has gone somewhere quieter now, turned into something heavier that sits low in your chest and doesn't have a clean name.
"I said I would walk out tonight," you say. "I meant it."
"I know you did."
"I still might."
"I know that too." He reaches out and covers your hands with one of his, warm and unhurried. "But you won't."
You look down at his hand over yours. "You're very sure of yourself."
"I'm sure of you," he says simply.
You sit there with his hand over yours in the quiet of the solar and feel the last of the fight go out of you, not cleanly, not all at once, but slowly, like something that had been held at full stretch finally being allowed to rest.
"The fortnight," you say again, more quietly.
"The fortnight," he says. "I promise."
You lean forward and press your face into his shoulder and his arms come around you and he holds you there, and you cry properly, the slow exhausted kind, and he says nothing and lets you.
You believe him. You always believe him eventually, even when you'd rather not, even when it would feel better not to. He has never once said something he didn't mean.
Your father had given you everything you ever asked for and you had loved him for every bit of it. But sitting there with Baelor's arms around you, you think there's something to be said for a man who knew when not to.
omg β well? how do i look? β with LS and baelor please? seeing her in targaryen colors for the first time?
βΉ ΰ£ͺ Λ pairing: baelor "breakspear" targaryen x f!stark!reader
βΉ ΰ£ͺ Λ wc:Β 1.4k+
βΉ ΰ£ͺ Λ notes/content: stark!reader, they're gross and in love as always! last one for the night because i'm tireddd but thank you so much everyone for sending some in. i'll try to do a few more over coming days (since I got some really good ones). apologies in advance if I don't get to all of them since I got way more than expected π
βWell? How do I look?β
Heβs been braced for it, but it still feels like a blow.
Youβre standing in the centre of his motherβs old solar, half turned toward the tall, open window, half toward the mirror, the light from the courtyard catching on black silk and red embroidery and the lean line of your throat. The summer air presses heavily through the stone lattice; down in the yard, someone is shouting for a squire, a murmur of voices passing below.
Baelor hears none of it. His world narrows to the colours on your back.
Targaryen colours. His colours.
Up until now, youβve held stubbornly onto the North, even in Kingβs Landing: greys and deep forest greens, wolf-fur at your shoulders in any room; the Stark direwolf present and sure in silver thread. Even when youβve let the ladies of court bully a scarlet ribbon into your hair or a sliver of rubied fire onto your wrist, itβs always been a Stark in borrowed flame.
This time, itβs different.Β
The gown is black as obsidian, cut clean and spare in a way that is very you and not at all like the extravagant fashion of court ladies. The sleeves fit close to your arms, flaring at the wrist, edges lined in dark red silk so rich it almost hurts the eye. Crimson dragons coil, fine as ink-work, along the bodice: three of them, threads catching fire when you move, their heads meeting just beneath the notch of your collarbone.
He sees the small rebellions, too.
The stitching at your belt is not dragon-scale but a suggestion of runed knots, like the carvings on northern weirwood doors. The metal clasp holding the gown shut at your hip is shaped like a direwolfβs head, its tiny ruby eyes set stubbornly bright. Around your neck, on the simple chain you refuse to take off, the little wolf charm from Winterfell nudges against the new, heavier weight of the red-gold dragon he gave you.
His House. Yours. Lying together against your skin, warmed by your pulse.
He realises, distantly, that he hasnβt answered you.
You turn fully to face him, skirts whispering, letting him see the full effect: the way the black falls from your waist like poured ink, the brief, traitor-quick glimpse of boots under all that silk when you shift your weight. Your hair, mostly tamed into some courtly arrangement, still has that one unruly piece that slips forward to brush your cheek. Your chin is lifted a fraction too high, as if youβre daring him to react in a way that doesnβt please you.
Thereβs a line between your brows you try to smooth with impatience. βSay something,β you demand, a brittle note tucked under the lightness. βYou look as if someoneβs hit you with a mace.β
A stubborn breath loosens from his lungs. It feels like his ribs have been hammered out of shape to accommodate the sight of you.
βForgive me,β he says, finding his voice at last. βI wasβ¦ recalculating the sun.β
Your eyes narrow. βBaelor.β
He crosses the room unhurriedly. The floor is patterned with the red-and-black tiles heβs trodden since childhood; he has never been so aware of stepping between them, of closing the distance between the boy who grew up in these rooms and the woman now standing in them wearing his colours. When he stops in front of you, heβs close enough to see how your hands are not quite as steady as youβd like. Youβve hooked one thumb under the edge of your belt, the other hand smoothing a non-existent wrinkle from your skirts.
The wolf in dragonhide, trying not to fidget.
βHow do you feel?β he asks, instead of answering yours first. His gaze tracks from your eyes to the dragon at your throat, to the way your shoulders are set. βIn these colours. Be honest.β
You huff, but he sees the relief at not being immediately judged. βLike a crow dressed up for a mummersβ show,β you tell him frankly. βEveryone kept fussing with pins. I thought one of them was going to stab me through the heart with a dragon.β
His mouth curves despite himself. βWe generally prefer fire for that.β
Your nose twitches. βThatβs not comforting.β
Baelor lifts a hand, slow enough that you could lean away if you chose, but you donβt. He lets his fingers brush the edge of the crimson embroidery at your collar, then the little wolf charm where it rests, stubborn and sure, against his dragon.
βTargaryen colours,β he says quietly. βBut you still look like you.β
βIs that a kindness,β you ask, searching his countenance for tells, βor a disappointment?β
His eyes drag up to yours, and for once, there is no soft sidestepping in him at all. Thereβs hunger and want, tangling together around his throat, shining outwards as he drinks you in.Β
βA relief,β he answers simply. βI have no interest in you disappearing into my House like a stitch in old cloth, my lady. I asked for you in these colours, not a stranger dressed in them.β
Something loosens in your shoulders.Β
βThen answer the question,β you prod. βWell? How do I look?β
Baelor takes another step in, close enough now that the candlelight picks up the faint sheen at the hollow of your throat, that he can smell rosewater over the iron bite of the dye, that he can see how the black makes your eyes look sharper.Β
Baelor had thought, truly, that before today, heβd grown used to the idea that you were going to be his wife. That he had time to sit with the idea, savour it, to test it from all angles like a sword in his hand, weighing it with expert ease. Heβd been careful, measured, folding his hunger for you into small gestures and softer words, hiding behind the shield of honour to mask what prowls beneath his skin.
None of it prepared him for this: for the way the sight of you in his Houseβs colours hits him like opening a window in winter and having a dragon thrust its head inside.
βLike every vow Iβve ever made is standing in front of me,β he tells you, before he can soften it into something court-gentle and proper.Β
Your breath catches.Β
He clears his throat, tempering it a little for your sake. βYou lookβ¦β His mouth twists, searching for words big enough and failing, so he picks ones that are true. βFierce. Wrong-footed. Mine.β
Your eyes flash at that, heat and warning both. βNot yet,β you remind him quietly, but your fingers skim over the edge of his tunic, head dipping backwards to see him better.
Baelor inclines his head in agreement, accepting the rebuke without retreating an inch. βNot yet.β His thumb brushes once over the little wolf charm, then the dragon beside it. βBut you are already yourself in my colours. That isβ¦ more than I deserved to hope for.β
You look at him for a long moment, some sharp retort you were holding back slowly shedding its teeth.
βYouβre certain?β you ask, softer now. βThey donβtβ¦ swallow me?β
He deliberately lets his gaze travel over you, taking you in from your boots peeking under the hem to the way the red at your collar frames the stubborn line of your jaw.
βNo,β he says. βIf anything, I think theyβve been waiting for something like you to fill them out properly.β
Your mouth curves, unwilling but real. βFlatterer.β
A faint grin twitches his mouth, and Baelor offers his arm then, the old, careful courtliness fitting over the heat in him like a glove. βWalk with me?β he asks. βIf the court is to see you in these colours, I would rather they learn at once that they are looking at their future queen, not a curiosity. And that she does not walk the Red Keep unescorted.β
You roll your eyes, but your fingers find the crook of his elbow with striking ease, sliding into place like something long rehearsed between them, a perfect fit.
βWell?β you wonder as he leads you toward the door. βDoes your conscience rest easier now youβve draped a wolf in dragonhide?β
Baelor glances sideways at you, a brief, private look as the door swings open, the sounds of the keep rushing in.
βNo,β Baelor answers lightly. βBut my heart does.β
β summary: on your wedding night with baelor, you finally discover from where valarr has inherited that pretty white streak of hair.
β 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.
βSo this is where Valarr inherited his own little white streak,β 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. βYouβyou don't like it?β
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, βMy Prince, I think it's one of the most beautiful and attractive things you have.β
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.
βWhich one is the most for you?β
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.
βYour eyes, your voice, your hair,β 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. βAnd definitely this now.β
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. βSlowlyβ slow. That's it. Go easy, yeah?β he pleads in his rough voice, interrupted by pants and grunts. βIt's been a while...β
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.
βSo you do like it...β Baelor teases you from up above, unable to hide the way his back arches and his fingers pull unconsciously at your hair. βGodsββ
βSo beautiful,β you keep whispering sweet praises, kissing and petting him. βSo pretty, Baeβ
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.
βDo you think my child will have any white streaks in their hair?β 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.
βIf they do not,β he coaxes, thumb tracing lazy circles at your hip. βThen, we shall simply have to try again. And again. And againββ
You laugh, breathless, pressing your forehead to his chest affectionately. βIs that your only solution to everything, my love?β
βWhen the problem is this delightful?β he asks back, delicate lips brushing your hair. βYes.β
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.
βIf the gods grant us a child,β he murmurs drowsily, arms embracing your body as he lets himself fall on top of you, his face snuggling into your chest, βthey will be born of love. That much I swear.β
βThen let them have your stubbornness,β you whisper sleepily. βAnd your white streak.β
He huffs a quiet laugh against your skin, pressing soft kisses on it.
β Summary: During a bath earlier in the morning, Baelor, who is tired of being stuck inside because of his injury from the trial, convinces his wife to walk the gardens with him that afternoon. He later reveals he had a surprise waiting for her all along.
β Pairing: baelor targaryen x wife!reader
β Content: canon divergence, domestic romance/intimacy, mostly fluff, some angst, sweet romance, humor, banter, some flirting, reader is a bit of a smart ass again, comfort, mild sexual content, baelor absolutely adores his wife, injured baelor, mentions of stitches, established relationship, unspecified age gap, baelor is an assman (i said what i said)
β Word Count: 2.6K
Part 2 of Save A Prayer (can be read as a standalone)
β A/N: I wrote this in one sitting, so I apologize for any mistakes or if anything seems underdeveloped. The last part of this fic was inspired by a headcanon I saw, but I forgot the person who wrote it, so if yk then pls lmk and I will credit it. This was also my last fic idea currently, so I am open to some shorter requests for one-shots, headcanons, etc. and as always, any and all feedback is appreciated ;)
The last remnants of the morning's dew beaded on every shaded leaf and petal that framed the gardens. Pale, rain-sodden cobblestones stretched in a winding path before you both. His firm arm linked with yours as he led you along with languid steps. The garden's cool afternoon air carried the smell of dampened blooms and fresh salt that drifted in from the rolling tide of Blackwater Bay.
"You picked a lovely day," you conceded as your eyes scanned along the tapestry of vines and greenery that spanned the old walls. He hummed in acknowledgement at your words. You could see his gaze drifting over the dark red gown you had chosen for the day out the corner of your eye. It had always been one of his favorites of yours, you recalled the way he eyed you earlier that morning when you slipped into it after your shared bath. He always claimed it was because you looked so beautiful in his house's colors, the exact reason he had given you that morning. But judging by the way his gaze always strayed to the curves of your backside, you'd wager it was another reason.
His lips came to place a tentative kiss to your shoulder. Your grip tightened on his arm as you felt him falter briefly at the gesture, his first of the walk. Neither of you acknowledged itβbut your heart gave a familiar anxious kick regardless.
A gentle silence settled between you both as you walked, the heavy steps of the Kingsguard trailing behind you. No doubt they saw his stagger and had come closer; he cast a placating glance back to them before he began guiding you down a less traveled path. Birdsong occasionally punctuated every unhurried step you made. When a brief draft washed over the gardens you caught the familiar hint of cedar-wood and fresh linen. It was the scent that usually tinged his skin, now mixed with the traces of lavender from the morning's bath.
Eventually, he led you to a reserved canopy perched above the bay. He turned and dismissed the Kingsguard, who seemed hesitant at first but ultimately nodded; heavy metallic steps marked their exit. When he turned back around to where you stood, you had moved to stand before the stone railing. His mismatched gaze traced every gentle waver of the strands that framed your profileβa soft, golden gleam resting along the edges.
You could feel the weight of his gaze on you, casting a sidelong glance at him over your shoulder. A delicate smile landed on your lips, one that he matched shortly after. His eyes lingered over you for a moment longer before he unclasped his hands from his back and made his way to you with careful steps and an appraising once-over.
His calloused hand slid to the small of your back, gently drawing you to him. Your hand drifted over his other one that rested on the railing. The cold wind-kissed metal of his rings burned against your fingers.
"You look beautiful today," he said quietly, his eyes tracing over every delicate crease and faded shadow you had acquired through your years together. His hand came up from the small of your back to hold your chin, his thumb brushing across your chilled skin in a gentle caress.
"You said that already," you murmured back, a familiar warmth settling in your heart and blanketing your skin. A warmth that always consumed you when he looked upon you, as if you were the only thing in existence.
"I know, and I would say it again because it is true," he said with a small chuckle. His lips pressed a tender kiss to your forehead before he turned to rest his gaze out onto the bay, hands coming to rest on the stone railing.
This time, your eyes lingered, admiring the shift from quiet adoration to his usual stoic thoughtfulness. Your fingers toyed with the warmed silver that his rings had taken from your hold. His gaze clouded in mimicry of the overcast that rolled in the distance, speaking of an evening storm. A fragile silence stretched between you both, enveloped by the distant crash of waves against the rocks and the occasional rustling of trees catching in the wind.
"It's healing nicely," you said softly, your gaze drifting to the back of his head. The short, neatly kept, graying hairs were scattered around the dark seams woven into his skin. Your thumb slowly swiped across the nape of his neck and up into his hair, careful not to touch the sutures. "I just hope it doesn't scar."
If he had heard your whispered prayer, he didn't speak of it. He let out a slow breath as he felt your hands in his hair, leaning just slightly into the touch. You could see the faint outline of the whitecaps in the dark amber of one eye; the other's bright blue melded with the deeper shades of the lulling tide. His thumb pinned your fingers atop the back of his.
"I have been fortunate," he murmured, his eyes dropping to your joined hands. "The gods have blessed me with a patiently elegant, albeit insufferably stubborn, wife who has ensured my recovery."
You all but huffed at his dry remark, retracting your hand from his. A rich, full chuckle escaped him as you pulled away, his hand quickly reaching for yours once more in protest.
"I'm starting to think I liked you better when you were bed-bound," you grumbled, although you found yourself chuckling alongside him. The sound of his laugh was so lively, so free, so unusual to hear, even before the events at Ashford. He had always been so consumed by his work, scarcely making time for things he enjoyed outside of his books. A notion that made you savor these stolen, unburdened moments all the more.
He raised his brow at your comment, that familiar stoicism returning to his features even as his lips barely rose into a wry smirk. His hand gripped your wrist securely, just enough to keep you from pulling away any further.
"And here I thought you were glad to see me back with my usual wits," he mused, tugging you closer once more, placing an intricate kiss on the inside of your wrist, his beard tickling against your soft skin.
"Oh, I am, though; your usual wit has nothing to do with your offhand comments," you countered as you watched his gentle ministrations.
"I fail to see the issue; I called you 'patiently elegant'β"
"Alongside 'insufferably stubborn'βa bit backhanded, wouldn't you agree?"
"I'd say it depends on who you askβ" he started, but immediately paused, seeing the glare you were giving him. With a heavy sigh, he relented, his lips once again finding purchase against your wrist. "Fine, perhaps a little backhanded, albeit with good intentions."
You couldn't stifle an eye roll at his half-assed concession; releasing yourself from his grip, you moved to loop one of your arms around his neck, the other coming to rest on the opposite shoulder. His firm hands naturally settled on your hips before sliding lower to squeeze your backside as he leaned in to kiss your cheek.
"Don't try to butter me up now," you hummed, your hand coming up to trace the expertly shaved edge of his beard against his neck, which you had watched him line up this morning. A cold draft billowed through your hair into his face slightly, and he carefully tucked your hair aside.
"I have absolutely no idea what you mean," he said wryly into your skin as his lips began moving slowly along your neck. "Though there is one thing I wish to show you before the storm comes." He hummed against your skin, only pulling away to nod to the dark clouds that gathered over the bay.
You followed his gaze before turning back to him. "Oh, so that's why you wanted to walk in the gardens today? You had something planned," you asked with raised brows. "And here I thought you were just tired of being inside, as you said."
He cocked his head to the side, giving you a look of exaggerated offense. "What I said earlier was true; I was starting to go mad from being insideβ¦but it is also true that I may have arranged something," he huffed, his grip tightening on your hips affectionately.
You hummed, your eyes narrowing slightly in skepticism. But before you could reply, he was already leading you back out to the gardens.
His arm didn't take long to find its way linked back with yours as he guided you back down the cobbled path. The lush, honeyed fragrance of the flowers fanned over both of you. Your gaze followed the delicate climbs of ivy and the elaborately crafted stone urns that carried dainty stems. The petals ranged from the finest shades of a Dornish red to the gilded yellow of a coin.
Baelor eventually to steered you to the end of the path marked by an expansive and aged fountain, which you had passed earlier. The soft trickle of water cascading from the small spouts into the large basin echoed in the small clearing. The two Kingsguard he had dismissed earlier perked up from their conversation as you approached, inclining their heads slightly in greeting. In return he dipped his head, and they took up a loose follow as before as he guided you along the circular trail and to a new path.
You knew better than to ask him for any hints, but you couldn't stop your mind from flicking between possibilities as you approached an area of the gardens you had seldom visited. He looked upon you, noting that familiar furrow of your brow and slight distance to your gaze as you walked.
"I assure you, it is not what you think it is," he said simply, giving you a knowing look. The sound of the fountain faded in the distance, replaced by the heavy steps of the Kingsguard, who trailed several feet behind you.
"That implies I even have an idea of what it is; you haven't given me any hints," you mused, noting the subtle shift to paler tones along the flowers.
"Well, we are in a garden; I don't think there are many hints I can give to your benefit," he said thoughtfully, guiding you towards a narrow archway. As you neared the impressive stone arch, you looked back, having heard the stopping of the Kingsguard, who now stood at the far end of the path. Baelor paused, you both under the archway, following your gaze.
"You got the Kingsguard in on this too?" you teased, your eyes finding his.
"I merely told them not to ruin the moment with their unceremoniously loud armor," he said in that soft-spoken jest you always adored. You laughed and gave him a playful smack to his shoulder. He laughed with you, gently urging you forward with a tug of your looped arms.
"Bad-mouthing me to the Kingsguard, I seeβ" you started as he tugged you along but stopped when your eyes landed on the sight before you.
It was a small courtyard draped with the finest lilies you had ever seen. Long, slim petals that opened in a rich plum at the centerβbleeding into a striking garnet and ending in a burnished crimson that radiated against the afternoon sun. Remarkable and proud buds resembling the ardent orange of a pumpkin rested at the center, complemented by small, blackened freckles that stretched out to the middle of the petals.
You found yourself rendered speechless at the sight, your mouth dropping slightly in awe. As your eyes scanned over the small space, they stretched along the edges of the walls to the worn bench that sat tucked in the corner shaded under a trellis. Your feet carried you by their own accord as you neared a secluded pair.
"During our trip to the Stormlands, you had mentioned they were the most stunning flowers you had ever seen," Baelor said, the soft timbre of his voice finding you through your surprise. His eyes followed yours as he approached you with tentative steps. "I had them planted before we left for Ashford."
You paused at that, stilling your reach to the delicate flower. The bitter memory of the tourney brushed through your mind. Slowly, you addressed him over your shoulder, and he met your gaze head-on.
"It was meant to be a gift, a thank you for being so understanding of my duty." You knew exactly of the duty he spoke of. The duty that kept him from your chambers late at night. The duty that would keep him hunched over the desk of his solar for so long he forgot to eat at times. You opened your mouth to retort but he continued,
"It wasn't my intention to enter the tourney, but they would have been waiting for you when you returned even if I hadn't," he finished, offering a tender almost apologetic smile. You felt the familiar heat of tears welling in your eyes at his words, a sound between a scoff and a laugh left your chest.
"They're beautiful," you said with a quivering lip and a trembling hand that wiped the stray tears away. He closed the distance between you quickly, his strong arms embracing you as he held you for a long momentβlips pressed against your hair as he shushed you gently.
Your fingers curled into the fine material of his black tunic, tears staining his chest. His hand held the back of your head, the other rubbing soothing circles along your back. A few minutes passed before he pulled back, lowering his head to meet your gaze. The soft pad of his thumb stole away the last tears that threatened to fall.
"Thank you," you whispered with a soft melancholic laugh and a sniffle.
"They are the least I could do, there is no need to thank me," he stated solemnly, bringing his lips to yours in a reassuring kiss, before slowly guiding you to sit with him on the bench. Your eyes shifted to his features, recognizing the hint of pride that resided in his expression. His arm came to rest around you.
"Once I find more flowers you like on our travels, I hope we can have dinner here one night," he suggested, giving your arm a light squeeze. You looked at him at that, his eyes filled with nothing but fondness and determination.
"I would like that," you said, bringing your lips to his cheek. Your hand sliding to the nape of his neck, coasting around the stitches that fused his pale skin along the back of his head. "Just don't leave me a widow with nothing but flowers to remember you by."
His eyes fluttered briefly at that, "You would sooner drag me back from death's gates yourself. That much I am certain."
You chuckled at that, an almost bittersweet sound, that he matched. His hand found your chin, tilting it up slightlyβlips sealing yours in a tender embrace. The distant rumble of thunder rolled through the sky, your pulse quickening as he deepened the kiss. His hand tangling in your hair as the clouds began to blot out the sun, and when the rain began to drizzle, you finally broke away.
β Summary: During a bath earlier in the morning, Baelor, who is tired of being stuck inside because of his injury from the trial, convinces his wife to walk the gardens with him that afternoon. He later reveals he had a surprise waiting for her all along.
β Pairing: baelor targaryen x wife!reader
β Content: canon divergence, domestic romance/intimacy, mostly fluff, some angst, sweet romance, humor, banter, some flirting, reader is a bit of a smart ass again, comfort, mild sexual content, baelor absolutely adores his wife, injured baelor, mentions of stitches, established relationship, unspecified age gap, baelor is an assman (i said what i said)
β Word Count: 2.6K
Part 2 of Save A Prayer (can be read as a standalone)
β A/N: I wrote this in one sitting, so I apologize for any mistakes or if anything seems underdeveloped. The last part of this fic was inspired by a headcanon I saw, but I forgot the person who wrote it, so if yk then pls lmk and I will credit it. This was also my last fic idea currently, so I am open to some shorter requests for one-shots, headcanons, etc. and as always, any and all feedback is appreciated ;)
The last remnants of the morning's dew beaded on every shaded leaf and petal that framed the gardens. Pale, rain-sodden cobblestones stretched in a winding path before you both. His firm arm linked with yours as he led you along with languid steps. The garden's cool afternoon air carried the smell of dampened blooms and fresh salt that drifted in from the rolling tide of Blackwater Bay.
"You picked a lovely day," you conceded as your eyes scanned along the tapestry of vines and greenery that spanned the old walls. He hummed in acknowledgement at your words. You could see his gaze drifting over the dark red gown you had chosen for the day out the corner of your eye. It had always been one of his favorites of yours, you recalled the way he eyed you earlier that morning when you slipped into it after your shared bath. He always claimed it was because you looked so beautiful in his house's colors, the exact reason he had given you that morning. But judging by the way his gaze always strayed to the curves of your backside, you'd wager it was another reason.
His lips came to place a tentative kiss to your shoulder. Your grip tightened on his arm as you felt him falter briefly at the gesture, his first of the walk. Neither of you acknowledged itβbut your heart gave a familiar anxious kick regardless.
A gentle silence settled between you both as you walked, the heavy steps of the Kingsguard trailing behind you. No doubt they saw his stagger and had come closer; he cast a placating glance back to them before he began guiding you down a less traveled path. Birdsong occasionally punctuated every unhurried step you made. When a brief draft washed over the gardens you caught the familiar hint of cedar-wood and fresh linen. It was the scent that usually tinged his skin, now mixed with the traces of lavender from the morning's bath.
Eventually, he led you to a reserved canopy perched above the bay. He turned and dismissed the Kingsguard, who seemed hesitant at first but ultimately nodded; heavy metallic steps marked their exit. When he turned back around to where you stood, you had moved to stand before the stone railing. His mismatched gaze traced every gentle waver of the strands that framed your profileβa soft, golden gleam resting along the edges.
You could feel the weight of his gaze on you, casting a sidelong glance at him over your shoulder. A delicate smile landed on your lips, one that he matched shortly after. His eyes lingered over you for a moment longer before he unclasped his hands from his back and made his way to you with careful steps and an appraising once-over.
His calloused hand slid to the small of your back, gently drawing you to him. Your hand drifted over his other one that rested on the railing. The cold wind-kissed metal of his rings burned against your fingers.
"You look beautiful today," he said quietly, his eyes tracing over every delicate crease and faded shadow you had acquired through your years together. His hand came up from the small of your back to hold your chin, his thumb brushing across your chilled skin in a gentle caress.
"You said that already," you murmured back, a familiar warmth settling in your heart and blanketing your skin. A warmth that always consumed you when he looked upon you, as if you were the only thing in existence.
"I know, and I would say it again because it is true," he said with a small chuckle. His lips pressed a tender kiss to your forehead before he turned to rest his gaze out onto the bay, hands coming to rest on the stone railing.
This time, your eyes lingered, admiring the shift from quiet adoration to his usual stoic thoughtfulness. Your fingers toyed with the warmed silver that his rings had taken from your hold. His gaze clouded in mimicry of the overcast that rolled in the distance, speaking of an evening storm. A fragile silence stretched between you both, enveloped by the distant crash of waves against the rocks and the occasional rustling of trees catching in the wind.
"It's healing nicely," you said softly, your gaze drifting to the back of his head. The short, neatly kept, graying hairs were scattered around the dark seams woven into his skin. Your thumb slowly swiped across the nape of his neck and up into his hair, careful not to touch the sutures. "I just hope it doesn't scar."
If he had heard your whispered prayer, he didn't speak of it. He let out a slow breath as he felt your hands in his hair, leaning just slightly into the touch. You could see the faint outline of the whitecaps in the dark amber of one eye; the other's bright blue melded with the deeper shades of the lulling tide. His thumb pinned your fingers atop the back of his.
"I have been fortunate," he murmured, his eyes dropping to your joined hands. "The gods have blessed me with a patiently elegant, albeit insufferably stubborn, wife who has ensured my recovery."
You all but huffed at his dry remark, retracting your hand from his. A rich, full chuckle escaped him as you pulled away, his hand quickly reaching for yours once more in protest.
"I'm starting to think I liked you better when you were bed-bound," you grumbled, although you found yourself chuckling alongside him. The sound of his laugh was so lively, so free, so unusual to hear, even before the events at Ashford. He had always been so consumed by his work, scarcely making time for things he enjoyed outside of his books. A notion that made you savor these stolen, unburdened moments all the more.
He raised his brow at your comment, that familiar stoicism returning to his features even as his lips barely rose into a wry smirk. His hand gripped your wrist securely, just enough to keep you from pulling away any further.
"And here I thought you were glad to see me back with my usual wits," he mused, tugging you closer once more, placing an intricate kiss on the inside of your wrist, his beard tickling against your soft skin.
"Oh, I am, though; your usual wit has nothing to do with your offhand comments," you countered as you watched his gentle ministrations.
"I fail to see the issue; I called you 'patiently elegant'β"
"Alongside 'insufferably stubborn'βa bit backhanded, wouldn't you agree?"
"I'd say it depends on who you askβ" he started, but immediately paused, seeing the glare you were giving him. With a heavy sigh, he relented, his lips once again finding purchase against your wrist. "Fine, perhaps a little backhanded, albeit with good intentions."
You couldn't stifle an eye roll at his half-assed concession; releasing yourself from his grip, you moved to loop one of your arms around his neck, the other coming to rest on the opposite shoulder. His firm hands naturally settled on your hips before sliding lower to squeeze your backside as he leaned in to kiss your cheek.
"Don't try to butter me up now," you hummed, your hand coming up to trace the expertly shaved edge of his beard against his neck, which you had watched him line up this morning. A cold draft billowed through your hair into his face slightly, and he carefully tucked your hair aside.
"I have absolutely no idea what you mean," he said wryly into your skin as his lips began moving slowly along your neck. "Though there is one thing I wish to show you before the storm comes." He hummed against your skin, only pulling away to nod to the dark clouds that gathered over the bay.
You followed his gaze before turning back to him. "Oh, so that's why you wanted to walk in the gardens today? You had something planned," you asked with raised brows. "And here I thought you were just tired of being inside, as you said."
He cocked his head to the side, giving you a look of exaggerated offense. "What I said earlier was true; I was starting to go mad from being insideβ¦but it is also true that I may have arranged something," he huffed, his grip tightening on your hips affectionately.
You hummed, your eyes narrowing slightly in skepticism. But before you could reply, he was already leading you back out to the gardens.
His arm didn't take long to find its way linked back with yours as he guided you back down the cobbled path. The lush, honeyed fragrance of the flowers fanned over both of you. Your gaze followed the delicate climbs of ivy and the elaborately crafted stone urns that carried dainty stems. The petals ranged from the finest shades of a Dornish red to the gilded yellow of a coin.
Baelor eventually to steered you to the end of the path marked by an expansive and aged fountain, which you had passed earlier. The soft trickle of water cascading from the small spouts into the large basin echoed in the small clearing. The two Kingsguard he had dismissed earlier perked up from their conversation as you approached, inclining their heads slightly in greeting. In return he dipped his head, and they took up a loose follow as before as he guided you along the circular trail and to a new path.
You knew better than to ask him for any hints, but you couldn't stop your mind from flicking between possibilities as you approached an area of the gardens you had seldom visited. He looked upon you, noting that familiar furrow of your brow and slight distance to your gaze as you walked.
"I assure you, it is not what you think it is," he said simply, giving you a knowing look. The sound of the fountain faded in the distance, replaced by the heavy steps of the Kingsguard, who trailed several feet behind you.
"That implies I even have an idea of what it is; you haven't given me any hints," you mused, noting the subtle shift to paler tones along the flowers.
"Well, we are in a garden; I don't think there are many hints I can give to your benefit," he said thoughtfully, guiding you towards a narrow archway. As you neared the impressive stone arch, you looked back, having heard the stopping of the Kingsguard, who now stood at the far end of the path. Baelor paused, you both under the archway, following your gaze.
"You got the Kingsguard in on this too?" you teased, your eyes finding his.
"I merely told them not to ruin the moment with their unceremoniously loud armor," he said in that soft-spoken jest you always adored. You laughed and gave him a playful smack to his shoulder. He laughed with you, gently urging you forward with a tug of your looped arms.
"Bad-mouthing me to the Kingsguard, I seeβ" you started as he tugged you along but stopped when your eyes landed on the sight before you.
It was a small courtyard draped with the finest lilies you had ever seen. Long, slim petals that opened in a rich plum at the centerβbleeding into a striking garnet and ending in a burnished crimson that radiated against the afternoon sun. Remarkable and proud buds resembling the ardent orange of a pumpkin rested at the center, complemented by small, blackened freckles that stretched out to the middle of the petals.
You found yourself rendered speechless at the sight, your mouth dropping slightly in awe. As your eyes scanned over the small space, they stretched along the edges of the walls to the worn bench that sat tucked in the corner shaded under a trellis. Your feet carried you by their own accord as you neared a secluded pair.
"During our trip to the Stormlands, you had mentioned they were the most stunning flowers you had ever seen," Baelor said, the soft timbre of his voice finding you through your surprise. His eyes followed yours as he approached you with tentative steps. "I had them planted before we left for Ashford."
You paused at that, stilling your reach to the delicate flower. The bitter memory of the tourney brushed through your mind. Slowly, you addressed him over your shoulder, and he met your gaze head-on.
"It was meant to be a gift, a thank you for being so understanding of my duty." You knew exactly of the duty he spoke of. The duty that kept him from your chambers late at night. The duty that would keep him hunched over the desk of his solar for so long he forgot to eat at times. You opened your mouth to retort but he continued,
"It wasn't my intention to enter the tourney, but they would have been waiting for you when you returned even if I hadn't," he finished, offering a tender almost apologetic smile. You felt the familiar heat of tears welling in your eyes at his words, a sound between a scoff and a laugh left your chest.
"They're beautiful," you said with a quivering lip and a trembling hand that wiped the stray tears away. He closed the distance between you quickly, his strong arms embracing you as he held you for a long momentβlips pressed against your hair as he shushed you gently.
Your fingers curled into the fine material of his black tunic, tears staining his chest. His hand held the back of your head, the other rubbing soothing circles along your back. A few minutes passed before he pulled back, lowering his head to meet your gaze. The soft pad of his thumb stole away the last tears that threatened to fall.
"Thank you," you whispered with a soft melancholic laugh and a sniffle.
"They are the least I could do, there is no need to thank me," he stated solemnly, bringing his lips to yours in a reassuring kiss, before slowly guiding you to sit with him on the bench. Your eyes shifted to his features, recognizing the hint of pride that resided in his expression. His arm came to rest around you.
"Once I find more flowers you like on our travels, I hope we can have dinner here one night," he suggested, giving your arm a light squeeze. You looked at him at that, his eyes filled with nothing but fondness and determination.
"I would like that," you said, bringing your lips to his cheek. Your hand sliding to the nape of his neck, coasting around the stitches that fused his pale skin along the back of his head. "Just don't leave me a widow with nothing but flowers to remember you by."
His eyes fluttered briefly at that, "You would sooner drag me back from death's gates yourself. That much I am certain."
You chuckled at that, an almost bittersweet sound, that he matched. His hand found your chin, tilting it up slightlyβlips sealing yours in a tender embrace. The distant rumble of thunder rolled through the sky, your pulse quickening as he deepened the kiss. His hand tangling in your hair as the clouds began to blot out the sun, and when the rain began to drizzle, you finally broke away.
β Summary: Following the Ashford tourney, you tend to Baelor through his recovery at Ashford and later King's Landing, and eventually, your life begins to return to normal.
β Pairing: baelor targaryen x wife!reader
β Content: canon divergence, gore, mentions of violence, humor, comfort, angst, fluff, honestly a bit of everything, mild sexual content, nudity, baelor adores his wife, sweet romance, domestic romance/intimacy, established relationship, unspecified age gap, reader lowkey hates maekar (it was fitting), injured baelor
β Word Count: 2.5k
Part 2: The Garden
A/N: A true fix-it fic. This took me longer than I originally intended (college is kicking my ass). I plan to do a part 2 to this, which can be read as a standalone and will hopefully have that done within the next week π€π€. I don't much care for this one, but as always, any and all feedback is appreciated! <3
You remember the first sight of him after the trial. The dull fogginess that clouded his mismatched eyes when they found yours, followed by the soft timbre of his voice as he reassured you he was fine, even as he stumbled slightly with every slow and guided step towards the bed. And most of all, the sight of the gaping, gruesome pit in the back of his head that the maester had hurriedly stitched up through the congealed blood matting the short strands of his dark hair and staining the nape of his neck. A grim reminder of the fate that almost befell him when he had taken arms that day. The very sight that haunted the back of your eyelids still.
Once they had him in the bed, they asked you to keep him talking while they began cleaning him. You took his hand in yours and started telling him how proud you had been of how he fought and how he had been a true example to the realm. In return, he just smiled softly at you between strained breaths of denials, his eyes often growing distant, while he aimlessly rambled about how gallant Ser Duncan and Ser Fossoway had fought.
And yet, nothing made your stomach churn more than to hear him speak of Maekar with such fondness, even now, knowing his own brother's mace had smashed that grisly hole into his head. All in a desperate attempt to save his wretched son, who had started this. You couldn't have concealed the disdain that betrayed your features if you had tried, and you were fortunate he was too delirious to recognize it as you brushed past the subject.
By the time they finished cleaning his wounds, his rambling had reduced to short, occasional murmurs. The grip he had been holding on your hand slowly began to slacken as sleep overcame him. When his breathing shifted into heavier, slower breaths, you looked to the maester, who only gave you a small nod. A threatening silence encompassed the room after he left, leaving you with nothing but stillness and worry.
You hadn't slept that night; you couldn't have if you tried. Instead, you prayed, prayed to the gods with wavering hands and tears soaking into his bedside, that he would make a strong recovery, that the gods would grant him this mercy for the honorable man he was. And when he stirred that next afternoon, you all but cried again, this time in relief as you felt the small twitch of his hand in yours.
"Save your prayers and your tears, my love," he said, those same words he had always offered you before he'd left for battle. His half-lidded eyes found yours as a labored breath escaped him. His hand slowly untangled from yours to rest on your cheek, thumb swiping away the stray tear that fell. Your fingers wrapped around his wrist at the gesture, and a strangled sound halfway between a sob and an exhausted laugh left you.
The first breath you had truly taken since hearing the sickening crack of Maekar's mace to Baelor's helm during the trial.
In your last days at Ashford, you had kept a watchful eye over him, refusing to leave his bedside unless it was absolutely demanded of you. He had spent the first couple of days mostly asleep, with your hand in his, your fingertips absentmindedly brushing over the calloused pads. His small snores and slow, sleep-filled breaths echoed through the room, giving you quiet reassurance of his recovery.
In the few hours of his waking, he often complained about any light that reached his eyes, resulting in your quarters being draped in blacked-out curtains and only illuminated by the faint, flickering glow of a single candle that perched on his nightstand. The very light you found yourself transfixed with every night, while sleep continued to elude you, with your hand resting above his heart. His chest rose and fell in a gentle rhythm that reminded you of the waves of Blackwater Bay, each breath washing away your worries as you felt his warmth bleed into your skin. At some point during the night, he would shift, his arms instinctively tugging you closer, his breath ghosting over your ear in a quiet lull that rendered you unable to fret any longer.
In between visits from your sons and meals, you would do your best to read some of his histories to him in the dim lighting. Your hands hovered the book over the faint amber glow, squinting to make out the name of Prince Qoren of House Martell. You had barely finished a sentence before he corrected you without opening his eyes, the name leaving his lips with an effortless precision that only made your butchered attempt sound all the more graceless. Your gaze lifted to find the faintest suggestion of a smile on his lips, and despite everything, you found yourself smiling in return.
A few days after your return to King's Landing, he began to improve dramatically, his sensitivities fading, and your bedside readings turned from histories to ledgers, tax reports, and requests. In spite of the maester's advice to make a gradual return to his work, he had thrown himself back into it fully. He spent the afternoons and evenings at the table in your quarters, reforming it into a makeshift desk, with papers askew and ink stains along the fine wood from his unsteady hand. Much to his protest, you would come to sit beside him and help when you noticed his fingers pinching his brow and the constant fluttering of his eyes, a sign you had come to recognize as him being plagued with a pounding headache.
You had ushered him to bed early the night before, despite his prideful protests; his body displayed his gratitude. The gentle streams of morning sun crept across the dark red sheets long past the hour he normally would have risen, bathing him in a faint golden glow. He had rolled onto his side with the silken covers pooling at his waist, a quiet, drowsy sigh escaping him. Your gaze drifted up from your tea as you heard the sound, admiring the softness only sleep could grant to his usual, stoic expression. It was rare to see him in such a restful manner, and you had only wished it had been under better circumstances.
You stayed just like that for several moments, pacified by the light chirping of birds just outside your balcony and appreciating how peaceful he looked as you sipped the last remnants of your morning tea, savoring the earthy flavors on your tongue. With one last fleeting glance his way that made your heart kick, you stood and made your way across the room to the bath you'd had your handmaiden draw shortly after you awoke.
A thin, white mist curled up from the water's surface as you approached, and the delicate aroma of jasmine and cedarwood filled your nose as you began shedding your silken nightgown. Your legs made their descent into the heated water first, sinking into a blanket of warmth that consumed you to your waist. A sense of tranquility began to envelop you in the water's embrace, the first you had let yourself feel all week. Your head fell back to rest against the cold, wooden edge of the tub, eyes closing of their own accord.
Your fragile silence hadn't lasted for but a few minutes before you heard the familiar sound of sheets rustling. He lazily sat up in the bed, wiping a drowsy hand over his face. The bright golden rays drew a few determined blinks from him before his eyes landed on your bare figure in the tub, raising one of his brows.
"How is your head, darling?" you asked as you turned your attention to him, your eyes drifting to the silver threads along his beard and tousled hair that caught in the light.
He reclined back slightly, resting his weight on his elbow as he gazed upon you with utter enchantment β a look he had given the first time you were undressed before him and every time since. Finally, he cleared his throat, his gaze sliding to the balcony, but he immediately returned to your figure when he heard you shift in the tub.
"Fine, for now. I imagine the ache will return once I set myself to work," he stated. You paused at his reply, exchanging a glance with him. Slowly, he made his way to the edge of the bed, and with a small grunt, he found his way to his feet, clad in only his small clothes as he neared the table where you sat earlier.
"You shouldn't be pushing yourself; you're still recovering. It has been hardly a week, after all," you sighed, your gaze lingering on his lean figure. The bruises that scattered along his upper body had faded to the muted colors of fallen leavesβ light yellows and ruddy browns bleeding into one another where the deeper purples had once been.
"The realm does not pause because their Hand has taken a blow to the head," he said with a sigh of his own, reaching for the grapes you abandoned earlier and popping one into his mouth.
"Your brotherβ"
"My brother, as capable as he may be, has enough on his shoulders," he interrupted firmly, his voice never rising in its authority. "While I am grateful for his temporary assistance, our father entrusted me with the duties of the realm, and that is the way it should be," he added, his gaze resting on you with a quiet conviction, one you knew better than to challenge, his fingers turning the grapes absentmindedly.
You looked at him for a long moment as you snatched the cloth perched on the edge of the tub. Your jaw clenched slightly in irritation at the direction the conversation had taken. His earlier conviction faltered into a knowing look. He tilted his head to the side and came to stand beside you.
His eyes paused on your profile, a soft silence settling between you, filled only by the lingering calls of birds outside and the quiet trickle of the bathwater. Then, his hand came to your shoulder, his lips pressing a kiss to the crown of your head before he undressed and stepped into the bath behind you.
"Although, I do have one request before I yield to the day's demands," he said as he slipped into the bath behind you, a heavy sigh escaping him as the heated water washed over his skin. His hands immediately slid under the rippling waves to find purchase on your hips, tugging you back to rest between his firm thighs.
You hummed quietly in satisfaction, prompting him to continue as you ran the soaked cloth down your neck and over your shoulders. His eyes followed the small droplets that coasted down the nape of your neck and your shoulder blades, leaving a gleaming path he soon began to trace with his slender fingers.
"I want to walk the gardens with you this afternoon," he stated with that beautifully soft-spoken voice of his that always made it so hard to deny him. His hands leisurely slid their way to your front, one coming to rest just under your breast and the other gently setting your hair aside to place a reverent kiss on your shoulder. "As much as I love our chambers and our bed, I fear if I have to spend any more time here, I will start to go mad."
You chuckled slightly, easing into his touch. "I will have to check with the maester first," you said wryly, running the cloth over your arms before dipping it into the water.
"You worry too much about me," he hummed softly, his nose brushing against the side of your cheekβtrailing down your jaw's delicate curve to the tender slope of your neck and over your shoulder. His lips left little nips and kisses in their wake, the soft strands of his beard tickling your flushed skin, eliciting a small giggle from you as your head reclined to grant him more access.
His lips only stopped their ministrations as he leaned back to move your hair forward over your shoulders. The warm rag that you cast adrift in the tub moments ago was now sliding across your upper back in a tender worship.
"One could argue that a man who is well enough to wash his wife's back is capable of walking with her," he said, his eyes lingering on your profile.
"You drive a hard bargain," you hummed thoughtfully, basking in his touch for a moment longer before you turned around to face him. "Though, I don't recall refusing your request," you said as you grabbed the washcloth from him and began rubbing it over his lean chest.
"You didn't accept it either, my dear," he said simply, tilting his head to the side, one hand bracing on the edge of the bath as he watched his fingers trail down your arm in the barest of touches that sent a chill over your skin. A tiny smirk flickered across his features when he saw you lean into his caress. His eyes rose to yours, holding you captive with silent reverence in the quiet contrast of his gaze.
"Very well," you huffed in mockery of defeat, your movements precise and filled with the practiced ease that you had gained over the past week. The thin, graying hairs on his chest further clung to his wet skin with each attentive wipe.
"Then it is settled," he hummed as he closed the distance between you, his lips meeting yours in a slow, sensual exchange that sent a wake of flame up your spine and consumed your every thought. The water lapped against the corners of the tub as he pulled you onto his lap, tangling his hand in your hair as he tilted your lips to better meet his. Your hands wrapped around his neck, careful not to hit the back of his head, even in your passion. A hushed moan escaped you as his tongue slid past your soft lips, working your bottom lip between his teeth in a gentle tug. And just when you began to lose yourself completely in the sensation, you both pulled away for air. Cheeks flushed, lips swollen, as your breaths mingled together, filling the fragile silence.
After a moment, the water began to calm, and you moved to rest your head against his chest. His chin came to the top of your head as his arms wrapped tightly around you. The quiet thumps of your hearts settling together echoed through the small room.
"Lunch first," he said quietly after a moment, brushing a hair back across your temple. You huffed a laugh at that before you nodded in agreement. Though, neither of you moved just yet.
β Summary: frustrated by aerion's dishonorable actions during the ashford tourney, and annoyed by a futile argument with maekar, baelor surrounds himself in his work for hours before eventually he finds his way back to his waiting wife.
β Pairing: baelor targaryen x wife!reader
β Content: baelor is broody but has a sense of humor, tired/frustrated husband, massage, mild sexual content, partial nudity, mostly fluff, some flirting, reader is a bit of a smart ass, baelor adores his wife, drinking, reader and baelor share wine, sweet romance, comfort, domestic romance/intimacy, established relationship, unspecified age gap, humor,
β Word Count: 2.5k
A/N: this is my fix it fic (well kinda ig, since the scenario is before ep5) and for all of us widows. this is also my first post on tumblr and my first ever fic so any and all feedback is greatly appreciated! <3
The moon was high in the dark sky, casting a pale glow on the interior of you and Baelor's shared quarters. Night was calm in Ashford. A delicate breeze drifted in from the balcony, sending a small shiver down your spine in spite of the warmth the dark-stoned hearth and your nightgown provided.
Your tired eyes grazed over the faded ink along the book you had initially found solace in. It was an older novel, one Baelor had insisted you read to familiarize yourself with house genealogies. One you had pretended to enjoy for him, though, as the hours passed, your opinion of it only soured further. That was what the wine was for, remedying your boredom and dulling the wait until his return.
You knew him well enough to know that he had spent the last few hours poring himself over his ledgers, reports, and books in a vain attempt to put the abysmal display Aerion had made in today's joust out of his mind. Even the dinner you had shared earlier was met with a rigidity that was unnaturalβhe had kept his replies short, often glaring his brother and nephew across the table with a noticeable irritation.
You could see it every time you had looked at him during the meal, that slight frown upon his lips and the bunched muscles of his jaw, that look of disdain that only his family could instill in him when he had to clean up yet another one of their dishonorable spectacles.
Afterwards, he excused himself to deal with matters relating to the situation. You didn't ask for the specifics, as you knew he wouldn't tell you. But you knew he would argue with Maekar about the ordeal, and you confirmed your suspicions when you heard their familiar voices bickering from the hall some hours ago on your way back to your shared chambers. Their arguments always left them both in intolerable moods, with Maekar hating being ridiculed and Baelor hating being dismissed. Both often withdrawing in their own way after, and that was what you figured had been the case for the last couple hours.
But as the hours had ticked by, your restlessness only grew. And just when you considered going to check on him, he entered the chamber without a word, his jaw set in a stubborn jut you had only seen a few times prior in your years together. The door shut behind him with a soft but resounding thud, though he carried himself with less frustration than earlier. His fingers were already working on the buckle of his belt, which soon landed on a nearby chair with a metallic clink as he made his way to you. His mismatched eyes shifted to where you sat, hand coasting over your upper back as he leaned down to press a small kiss to your forehead.
"Enjoying it?" He said with a knowing tone, nodding to the worn book in your hands. A brief smirk twitched at the corners of his mouth in preparation for one of your inevitable smart replies he always enjoyed.
"Oh yes, it's absolutely riveting," you said dryly as you swirled your glass before taking a long drink.
He chuckled at that, a quiet, tired sound that signaled it was likely his first of the day. You smiled at his laugh, but as your gaze lingered, you could see the slight hunch to his frame and the small vein that always peeked out along his forehead when he worked himself up so much it resulted in a headache.
He, in return, smiled at you softly, his calloused thumb caressing your cheek briefly in a lingering adoration before he pulled away to stand before the hearth.
A soft sigh found its way free from your chest as your gaze landed on his brooding form. You had grown accustomed to his silences over the years. He had never been one for rash actions when confronted by anger, even if it would serve to benefit him more in releasing the tension he so often carried. Slowly, you stood, setting your glass aside with a soft clink.
"I take it your talk with Maekar went as well as could be expected?" You asked softly as you came to stand beside him, hand resting on his arm. The warm glow of the fire cascaded across his face, softening the stern lines of his nose and brow.
"Maekar is headstrong; he would sooner drink poison than heed my advice on discipline and honorable pursuits," he stated, his eyes trained forward on the hearth. You let out a huff that was halfway between a laugh and a sigh.
"Yes, well, I believe most of what anyone says to him falls upon deaf ears anyway. I wouldn't take it to heart," you said gently as you watched his hand run through the silver threads along the edge of his beard. He didn't quite laugh, but his lips twitched in a wry smile.
After a long moment, filled only by the soft crackle of the fire, he turned to you, his mismatched gaze softening marginally. And for the first time in a long while, you saw the tiredness that had etched its way into thin cracks along the corners of his eyes.
Your hand slowly came to his chest, gradually unbuttoning the collar of his tunic. A gesture not of passion but of care.
His hands drifted to your waist of their own accord, pulling you slightly closer to him. The tight frame of his shoulders already beginning to waver under your touch.
"You are one of the few of your family who does not harbor a penchant for bloodshed. It is part of what makes you such a good man," you mused, fingers tracing a slow path down his tunic, your gaze lifted briefly to meet his, just long enough to glimpse the hearth-fire flickering in the warm amber of his eye. He exhaled through his nose, rolling his head back slightly before meeting your gaze once more.
"You shouldn't speak to me as if I am some shining example," he said, his voice holding that soft but authoritative timbre you had always adored. "I am just a man, like any other."
A heavy exhale escaped you at his deflection. "Always so humble," you quipped softly, hands now gently pushing his opened tunic slightly off his shoulders. "Even in the face of your anger."
Any retort that he'd gathered quickly began to crumble like ash on his tongue as he relished in the almost reverent feel of your hands moving over his taut shoulders. The dark fabric of his tunic slid to the floor in a soft heap, leaving his bare skin exposed to the cold night air that swept in.
His gaze shifted to your nimble fingers, and when they met the hardened planes of his chest, a breath escaped him, one he didn't know he had been holding. His eyes briefly fluttered shut when your fingers caressed the thin dust of graying hair there. Your hands then continued their careful exploration, finding purchase on his neck and shoulders as you began slowly kneading the stiff muscles.
"You shouldn't be the one to soothe me, you know," he said quietly, breaking the fragile silence, wincing slightly as your fingers found a particularly stubborn knot. His grip along your waist tightened, the cold silver of his rings bleeding through the thin silk of your nightgown as he tugged you even closer.
"I am your wife," you stated, tilting your head slightly. "It is part of my duty, is it not?" You hummed, thumb pressing harder into the tight coil of muscle along the side of his neck.
He let out a huff and reached for your abandoned glass of wine on the table, feigning an answer, as you both knew you were right. He took a slow sip, and you took the opportunity to press your fingers a little deeper, drawing the tension out of him. He barely stifled a sound of protest when you paused to guide him toward the nearby chair.
The chair creaked slightly under his weight as he took the seat with a sigh. His eyes drifted to the balcony while he slowly sipped the wine, waiting for you to begin again. The soft pads of your fingers trailed from his arm up to the back of his shoulders, sending gooseflesh across his skin. As you resumed your ministrations, you found yourself held captive by the way the faint glow of the moon spilled across his lean form, the subtle slants of light accentuating the faded scars of old battles that marked his pale skin.
The tender warmth of your hands against his chilled skin and the gentle rustle of wind against the trees enveloped you both in a soft tranquility. The half-empty wineglass on the table was soon forgotten once more as his head reclined back to rest against your stomach. Each pass of your hands gradually melted away the last vestiges of his frustration in a way no wine or book could do. An occasional soft groan or labored breath left him when your skilled fingers alternated between firm presses and soothing circles that kept him teetering on the edge of pain and relief.
Your fingers soon took their careful attention to another knot, his breath hitching slightly. "If you keep this up," he murmured, "I may never let you leave."
You chuckled, leaning down to press a tender kiss to the crown of his head, the neatly trimmed hair brushing against your lips as a small breeze billowed your hair back across your shoulders.
"Your neck and shoulders are like a rock, my dear," you said, your voice slightly strained with exertion. He winced slightly as you found the tautest part of the coiled muscle, a sharp pain shooting down the blades of his shoulders and curling around his spine, causing his grip to tighten involuntarily on the arms of the chair.
"You should see how tense my back is," he said, only partially in jest. The tension in his frame loosened with each pass of your reassuring fingers, and his eyes drifted shut on a sigh of relief. "I'm a lost cause, truly."
"If I weren't the wiser, I'd say you just want me to rub your back," you said knowingly, one hand resting on the side of his neck, thumb moving in slow, soothing swipes.
The barest hint of a smile tugged at the corner of his mouth at your reply, his grip gradually loosening on the arms of the chair as he turned his head to youβeyes now half-lidded. "Do you think me so scheming, my dear wife?" he chuckled softly, shifting in his seat, straightening a little to provide you better access to a tense muscle in his shoulder. "I am wounded."
"Wounded?" you echoed, rolling your eyes. "I shall have to tell the maester; we cannot have our crown prince so troubled. Perhaps he'll send you for a massage." With one more harsh press against the knot, it popped under his skin, the adjacent muscle rippling in response. A pained groan escaped him but soon melted into a sigh of relief.
"Gods, that feels better," he exhaled with a slow roll of his neck and shoulders, his own calloused hand coming up to rub at the tender spot. The sight of him finally at ease made something warm settle in your chest. You leaned down to press a quick kiss against his temple as you reached over him for the wine. The bitter red liquid washed over your tongue as you began finishing the glass. His free hand ghosted down your side to squeeze your hip affectionately before snatching the almost-empty glass from you.
"That was helping my headache," he said dryly before downing the rest, a small smile pulling at his lips.
"That was curing my boredom before it was solving your headache," you shot back with a small huff. "It's a good thing there's more. You just have to pour it," you said, nodding to the crystal decanter that sat on the table in front of him.
He chuckled at your witty reply, holding your gaze for a long moment until you turned around. He let out a huff of his own as his eyes met your back, reaching for the decanter. You approached the small basin across the room, taking the small rag in hand you began to dip it into the water. A soft trickle echoed through the room as you wrung out the cloth.
His gaze darted up briefly as he heard the sound, his hand stilling on the decanter as his eyes landed on your figure. You spotted his stare out the corner of your eye as you worked.
"You're staring," you stated with a small smirk, casting a glance at him over your shoulder, your hands wringing the cloth tighter, the cold water washing over your fingers and dribbling down your wrists.
"Admiring," he corrected, setting the decanter aside, his eyes never leaving you even as he tasted his newly filled glass of wine. "I don't believe it is a crime for a man to admire his wife."
"No, no it isn't," you affirmed as you approached him once more with the damp cloth in hand. He took the opportunity to pull you onto his lap. A noise of surprise escaped you as your legs hugged his hips, your hand landing on his chest, catching in the soft hair there. He laughed at that, a full sound, one that made your heart flutter.
Without hesitation, you guided the wet cloth over his chest and shoulders, leaving a glistening trail along his skin. He jumped slightly at the sudden coldness but after a moment he closed his eyes at the sensation, lifting his chin to give you better access to his neck. His ringed fingers toying with the fabric clinging to your hips as you worked.
The soft sizzle of the fire dying down filled the room, you let the cloth trace down to his stomach, following the darker trail of hair that started at his navel until it disappeared under his waistband. He hummed softly at the gesture, the muscles of his abdomen briefly clenching against the cloth before relaxing in its wake.
"Do you want me to rub your back?" you asked quietly, as you brought the cloth over his biceps. His eyes opened leisurely, finding yours with a softness you had come to recognize as his quietest adorationβthe kind that words would only hinder.
"Tomorrow," he said softly, his fingers coming up to tuck a loose strand of hair behind your ear. That familiar tiredness crept back into his eyes. You nodded, looping your arms around his neck.
"Tomorrow," you affirmed, your lips finding his in a delicate kiss that had you both melting into each other and the night ahead.
