If you ask is open for headcannons, how would the AKOTSK men react to their kid(s) coming to them at night saying they had a nightmare. Thank you!
this is so cute!!! thanks for sending this headcanon to me đ„°đ«
AERION would probably not wake up at first. He'd only open his eyes when he'd feel something small crawling between you two. At first he's alert but then he realises it's his little son. You already hold the cover up for him with a gentle smile as you put your finger on your lips to shush him because "daddy is asleep". The boy is visibly scared and Aerion immediately can see that he had a nightmare. A part of him knows he should tell his son to "man up and go back to his room". But a part of him doesn't want to do it. So, he pretends to be still asleep but he moves a little closer so the boy can feel safer.
BAELOR would wake up immediately when he'd hear the floor creak. He'd sit up trying his best not to wake you up and the next thing he can see is his daughter's big, scared and wet eyes. Baelor doesn't need words to know what happened. However, he gently asks her if she had a nightmare again as the girl nods and rubs her eyes while pouting adorably. Baelor takes her in his arms and lets her sleep on his chest, so your sleep is not disturbed.
DAERON wouldn't wake up most likely. He'd only realise in the morning that there are more people in bed than usual with something small and gentle between him and you. He smiles sleepily to himself at the sight of his daughter's soft features and he frowns at the sight of her dried out tears. He leans in to kiss her cheeks as he carefully caresses her hair. He wishes he could protect her from everything, including nightmares. Especially nightmares.
DUNK would wake up pretty fast, when he'd feel something small crawling onto him and struggling as if he was a huge mountain. He chuckles and hugs your son immediately but then his smile drops when he realises the boy is scared and sniffling his tears. Dunk tries to shush him without waking you but he fails and you do wake up. You help him to calm the boy down and your son falls asleep between you. However, Dunk is so terrified of hurting him at night accidentally that he doesn't sleep any longer. He only watches his son to make sure he's safe.
LYONEL would probably not be asleep yet as he sits by the desk with a very small candle so you're not disturbed while he reads or finally answers letters. His little girl pushes the door open and sniffles while he immediately opens his arms for her to run into them. She trust him more than anything in the world and it reminds him that he's responsible for her now. And it is time to go to sleep. He joins you in bed as he carefully puts the girl between you two and you put your arm around her while still asleep. Lyonel finds it the sweetest thing in the world.
MAEKAR would wake up because his precious sleep was disturbed by some noise. When he realises it's his daughter, he huffs at first but the sight of her tears melt his heart in no time. You wake up as well and take her in your arms. She cuddles you but Maekar caresses her hair and back as he tells her stories so the girl finally falls asleep. Despite being grumpy at first, he loves that his daughter always comes to him first when she's in danger and he'd always do anything to protect her.
VALARR would get scared that something serious happened and his reaction wakes you up as well. Thankfully, your gentle boy is not sick or injured â he's only scared because of a nightmare. For him it's very serious, though. And Valarr understands because he was a very soft boy as well when he was a child. You both cuddle him and coo to him sweetly as the boy finally relaxes and falls asleep between you two, clinging to both of his parents.
You didn't wait for the sun to rise, and you certainly didn't care about waking him gently. Lyonel was sprawled naked across the mattress his thick, heavy morning wood standing, twitching against his stomach.
You straddled his thighs, spitting on your palm before wrapping it tightly around the base of his cock. The girth of him always made your mouth water. You leaned over him, parting your lips, and took the head onto your tongue. He tasted like salt, sweat and you greedily sucked him in, letting your lips stretch uncomfortably wide to adjust on his size. You bobbed your head, dragging your teeth lightly against his skin before burying your nose in his dark hair.
At the feeling of your warm mouth his body jerked awake,filthy curse ripped from his throat as his hand shot out, wrapping around the back of your neck.
"Seven fucking hellsâhe groaned, his voice thick with sleep. Lyonel sat upright, dragging you up with him. He shifted his legs, forcing you onto your knees at the edge of the mattress, directly between his spread thighs.
"You want to be a greedy little thing this early?â he growled, his eyes going dark with lust as he looked down at your wet lips"Open up."
You barely had time to part your lips before he completely took over. Lyonel gripped the back of your head and began to fuck your mouth. He drove his heavy cock deep past your teeth, stretching your jaw as he pounded directly into your throat. You gagged beautifully, tears immediately springing to your eyes, but his grip was tight.
"Take itâ he praised roughly, he was completely merciless, using your mouth exactly how he pleased, pulling almost entirely out just to slam his heavy length right back against your gag reflex,âSwallow my fucking cock,Gods, your throat feels so goodâ
You gripped his wrists, whimpering around his meat as you desperately tried to breathe through your nose. You swallowed his pre- cum greedily, your tongue swirling around his shaft every time he pulled back.
âI'm going to ruin that pretty faceâ Lyonel grunted, his breathing turning ragged pants. âFuck- I'm cumming!â
He yanked his cock out of your throat right at the very last second. You fell back on your heels, gasping loudly for air, your chest heaving but Lyonel didn't give you a moment of mercy. He gripped his thick, throbbing cock and jerked it hard, letting out a growl as thick, ropes of his cum shot directly across your face.
He painted your face with his release, hot drops splashing over your cheeks, your nose, and coating your eyelashes. You kept your mouth open, panting, catching the last few thick drops of his climax on your tongue.
Lyonel's chest was heaving as he slumped back onto his elbows. His exhausted laughter filled the chamber as he looked down at the filthy, beautiful mess he'd just made of his lover
"Now that,â he panted, incredibly satisfied grin splitting his handsome face, âis a fucking good morning.â
â„ Rhaenyra Targaryen -
you slipped beneath the silk sheets, making your way down the mattress. As you gently parted her thighs, settling between them, You didn't hesitate, immediately lowering your head and completely covering her sensitive, swollen clit with wet heat of your mouth.
The sudden pleasure completely shattered her sleep.Rhaenyra's beautiful eyes snapped open in the low light. her back instantly arched off the mattress, a sharp, breathless gasp tearing out of her throat.
"Gods"Rhaenyra rasped, her voice thick with sleep.her hands instantly reached down, her long fingers tangling tightly into your hair. She let her head fall back against the pillows, her hips instinctively rolling to forcefully press herself deeper against your mouth.
"Is this how my sweet lady serves her Queen?" Rhaenyra murmured darkly, smirk spreading across her flushed face as she looked down at you working beneath the blankets.
You answered by parting her wet folds and swirling your tongue in a agonizingly slow circle directly over her most sensitive peak.You lapped at her hungrily, the wet, messy sounds echoing loudly in the quiet chamber.
Rhaenyra let out a loud curse, her grip on your hair tightened, firmly holding you where she wanted the most.
"Don't stop" she commanded breathlessly, her thighs trembled, clamping tightly against your ears as you devoured her. "You are so good to me. My sweet girl,keep going. Exactly like that."
She tasted absolutely intoxicating,you didn't hold back, slipping two fingers smoothly inside her soaking wet pussy while your mouth sucked on her clit as you sped up your movements.
She writhed against the sheets, her hips bucking wildly to meet your hands and mouth. She was entirely at your mercy, her chest heaving, orgasm was approaching
"I'm-" Rhaenyra gasped, her fingernails digging into your scalp as her muscles began to clench around your fingersâDon't you dare stop- give it to me!â
You sucked hard one final time, and the Queen completely shattered. Rhaenyra let out a loud cry,her back lifting entirely off the mattress as wave after wave of pleasure went through her. She flooded your fingers with her slick heat, her thighs trembling as she forced you to drink down every drop of her release.
When you finally pulled back, wiping a wet drop of her from your chin, Rhaenyra's chest was heaving, her eyes completely blown wide.
She let out a breathless laugh. reaching down to drag you all the way up her body. She pulled you against her skin, immediately crashing her lips against yours in a messy kiss, eager to taste her own climax on your tongue.
"I am never leaving this bedchamber again," Rhaenyra breathed against your lips, her arms wrapping around your waist. "The council will simply have to rule the realm without me today."
â„ Gwayne Hightower-
Gwayne was sprawled comfortably on his back,completely relaxed and looking at him looking so delicious made your mouth water .
You wanted to savor him. Kneeling between his spread legs, you opened his sleep preeches and leaned down. The thick head of his cock was already flushed and hard, twitching eagerly against your cheek before you even started.
You opened your mouth and slid your mouth down on his cock slowly, letting your tongue wrap entirely around his thick girth. He tasted delicious.You hollowed your cheeks, pulling back before swallowing him down again right to the base.
At the feeling Gwayne let out filthy groan his long fingers lazily twitched against the sheets before he reached down, his hands finding your face.
"Gods above..." Gwayne exhaled, his voice sleepy and raspy ,he tilted his head back, a breathless smile pulling at his handsome face. "What a beautiful thing to wake up to. You are so fucking good to me, darling."
You hummed against his shaft in response, swirling your tongue around his tip.
"Fuck, yes,exactly like thatâhe praised immediately, his hips unconsciously rolling into your mouth, his fingers slid into your hair, gently caressing your scalp as he watched you through heavy-lidded, eyes. "You have the most perfect, talented mouth I've ever felt. So incredibly wet."
You wanted to absolutely ruin his morning composure so you pushed his cock deep in your mouth your nose brushed against the light curls at his base. You bobbed your head up and down speeding up,making him let out a beautiful whimper, his hips bucking.
"That's it, my pretty girlâhe panted, his chest heaving as the pleasure began to completely consume him.
He let out desperate praises with every single thrust, his thumb tracing your jawline. "Such a good, greedy little cock-sucker for me. You look so fucking gorgeous on your knees, taking every inch of it. Take it all, beautiful."
You gripped the thick base of his shaft, pumping your hand in sync with your mouth, completely milking him.
"I'm close, my loveâ Gwayne warned, his voice cracking beautifully as his thighs began to tremble against your cheeks. Gwayne cried out your name, his fingers curling tightly into your hair as he pumped thick, waves of his release directly onto your tongue, whispering breathless, filthy praises as you swallowed every single drop of his cum.
When you finally pulled off licking your lips clean, Gwayne looked entirely disheveled . His chest was heaving, his eyes completely blown out with pleasure.
He reached down gently pulling your face up to his. "If you wanted my attention so badly this morning, darlingâGwayne murmured, leaning up to give you a lazy kiss "you only had to ask."
â„ Alicent Hightower -
Pushing the soft fabric up around her waist,you bared her hips to the cool air of the room. You settled yourself perfectly between her knees, leaning down to press a soft kiss inside her inner thigh. She stirred, letting out a sleepy hum.
You smiled licking your lips, gently parting her wet folds and dragging your flat tongue over her sensitive, pink center in one long lap teasing her.
At the sudden feeling she let out gasp, taking sharp breath in, her wide, panicked eyes flew open in the dark room. Her hands instinctively reached down to grasp your shoulders.
"No- wait, you can't- someone will hear,"Alicent whimpered in a panicked whisper,but your hands caught her wrists, pressing them gently into the mattress beside her hips. You looked up at her, your gaze dark, before burying your face right back between her legs.
You completely silenced her protests by sealing your mouth over her clit, sucking on it gently making her hips jerk up. Alicent squeezed her eyes shut, a flush creeping up her neck and staining her cheeks.
She was already incredibly wet, her body betraying exactly how desperately she craved this. You swirled your tongue over her swollen peak, pressing firmly while smoothly sliding two fingers inside her tight pussy.
Alicent let out a broken sob, immediately biting down hard on her own knuckles to muffle the filthy sounds leaving her throat. Her other hand tangled in the bedsheets, gripping the fabric so hard her fingers turned white as she fought a completely losing battle against the overwhelming pleasure.
"Mother have mercyâshe breathed, her thighs tightening around your ears as your fingers curled inside, stroking her deepest, most sensitive spot.
You didn't give her a single moment to think, worry, or feel guilty. You devoured hungrily,lapping up her sweet taste. "Let go for me, my queen" you murmured softly against her skin, your breath making her shiver. "Just feel it, i've got you."
She simply couldn't hold it back anymore.
With a breathless cry, Alicent completely shattered. clamping down around your fingers. She trembled against your mouth, her chest heaving.
You stayed exactly where you were, gently lapping at her swollen flesh until her shaking finally stopped.
When you crawled back up on top of her,Alicent was a beautifully flushed She immediately reached for you, pulling you down by the shoulders to hide her teary face in your neck.
â„ Daeron Targaryen -
Daeron was dreaming again, letting out broken whimpers ,his hands clawing at the twisted sheets. His skin was wet with cold sweat, his chest heaving.
You knew shaking him wouldn't work, soft words never calmed his nightmares, So, you decided to drag him back to reality with the only way that instantly worked on him.
You shoved the tangled sheet down past his hips, baring him entirely to you.Even caught in the nightmare, the morning hardness was resting against his stomach,ready for you. You didn't hesitate. You shifted between his thighs, opened your mouth, and sank down, taking his thick, twitching cock as deep down your throat as you could manage.
Daeron jolted at the feeling, letting out ragged gasp,his eyes snapping open.
"Fuck- oh gods-" he choked out, arching against mattress.
You didn't give him a second to catch his breath. You pulled back just enough to let your lips pop wetly against the sensitive, slit head, only to slide right back down, swirling your tongue.You coated his thick length in warm saliva, your cheeks hollowing out as you sucked hard making his hips jerk up.
Daeron was a completely needy for you, sobbing your name, his shaking hands sliding desperately into your hair. he held on to you,his hips rutting up into your mouth, desperately thrusting into you.
"Pleaseâ he whimpered, tears mixing with the sweat on his face, "Don't stop, fuck, please keep doing that. Suck it, just like that."
You loved how wonderfully pathetic and eager he was for you. You hummed against his pulsing shaft, your hand wrapping around the slick, base to pump him while your mouth completely devoured the top half.
"I'm gonna- sweet gods, I'm cumming," he sobbed.
Daeron let out a beautiful scream, his fingers tightening in your hair as he pumped thick, cum onto your tongue. You swallowed him greedily, milking every single drop until his trembling hips finally fell against the mattress.
He lay there, completely boneless, tears of exhaustion sliding down his cheeks. When you finally pulled off with a wet smack of your lips and a satisfied smirk, he reached down pulling your face up just to crash his mouth against yours.
"You're the only good thing in my head," he whispered softly against your lips, completely addicted to you.
â„ Cregan Stark -
You had been awake for a while, shivering slightly as you carefully moved the heavy layer of fur back. Moving quietly,kneeling between your husband's strong thighs, exposing his already thick hard cock to the freezing air for only a second before completely covering him with the heat of your mouth.At the feeling Cregan's grey eyes snapped open in the dawn light.
"Fuck.." Cregan rasped, his voice incredibly thick and heavy with sleep. His large hands instantly shot beneath the furs. His fingers tangled deep into the roots of your hair, a heavy, ragged sigh leaving his lips as he let his head fall back against the headboard. he rolled his hips, thrusting up in your mouth,making sure you take every inch of him.
"Is this how the Lady of Winterfell greets the morning?" he murmured darkly, a wicked smirk appearing on his lips as he watched you eagerly slurping on his drenched cock.
You didn't answer, instead swirling your tongue slowly around his sensitive spot before taking him entirely his tip hitting your throat.
"Gods-" Cregan grunted,his grip on your hair tightening just enough to control the angle as he thrust faster making you gag,but didn't stop.
"Don't stop. Take it all. That's it."
His thrusts turned incredibly fast, his chest heaving as he spilled his hot cum deep in your mouth, holding your head firmly in place while you swallow it all down.
When you finally pulled away, breathing heavily,Cregan looked down at you with gaze full of worship. He let out an exhausted chuckle, dragging you up until you were tucked perfectly against his chest, right back under the warm furs.
"You're going to freeze out there," he murmured affectionately, pressing a gentle kiss directly to your lips. He wrapped his arms securely around your waist, trapping you against his skin. "Stay right here, the North can manage itself for another hour without their ladyâ.
â„ Valarr Targaryen-
You had been awake for about an hour, captivated by the sight of your beautiful husband. But when your eyes trailed down to his hips,where you could see his morning arousal pressing against his sleep breeches,your admiration quickly turned into hunger.
You moved slowly and carefully to not wake him, pushing sheets down past his knees, cool morning air kissing his soft skin before you knelt between his thighs, pulled out his thick, hard cock and replaced the cold air with your wet mouth.
A sudden feeling of your warm mouth around him,woke him up from his dreams, letting out sharp gasp his back arching against the mattress. His beautiful eyes snapped open, already blurring from pleasure.
"Gods-"he breathed, his voice a hoarse.
His hand reached down,his long fingers tangling gently into your hair. Squeezing it into a fist as you bobbed your head, sucking his cock agonizingly slow. You swirled your tongue around the sensitive tip, using your hand to stroke the rest, slicking him completely with your saliva.
"My heartâ Valarr whimpered, his hips lifting off the sheets to thrust deeper into your mouth,his chest heaving with every breath.
"You are... you feel too good, my love, please..." Tears of overwhelming pleasure pricked the corners of his eyes as he looked down at you.
You picked up the pace, taking him deeper, the wet sounds filling the quiet chamber. You sucked hard on the tip, pulling a breathy whine from his lips. He tossed his head back into the pillows, his grip in your hair tightening just enough to guide you, his hips snapping up eagerly.
"I'm close" he gasped out, his body trembling "my love, i'm-"
He didn't get to finish his sentence,Valarr's entire body froze, letting out beautiful cry as he came. He thrust up into your mouth, his hips locking as he spilled his seed in your mouth. You swallowed him down, dragging your lips up his length one last time before pulling away licking your lips.
Valarr was glowing. He lay panting,sweat coating his chest slightly, his soft eyes glassy and satisfied.
When he finally caught his breath he reached down, hands sliding under your arms to pull you up his body until you were resting against his chest, cupping your face, his thumbs wiping the corner of your mouth before he pulled you into a sloppy kiss, tasting himself on your lips.
"I am the luckiest prince in the history of the Seven Kingdoms," he murmured softly before rolling over and pinning you beneath him"Now it is time I return a favorâ.
Youâre writing is to goodd oml, youâre feeding my akotsk obsession
I wanted to request about how they react if reader takes a hit for them (+ heavily injured) and how theyâd react/take care of them afterwards
âË⥠HEAVILY INJURED â akotsk men
âË⥠summary how they react to you being heavily injured
âË⥠warnings mentions of blood, injuries, taking of heads and hands.
MASTERLIST
AERION
aerion is obsessive over his things, his house, and most of all, his wife.
so when he had been locked in his solar all day, wanting nothing more than the company of his wife, and couldn't find you, he was miserable.
stopping every serving person in his path, demanding your whereabouts.
it was only when a maid had taken him to your shared chambers, that he found you with a blood-stained skirt and your arm being stitched up.
"what happened to my wife?" he would demand to the maesters before you.
"aerion." you hushed him, placing your hand over the one he had cradled your cheek with. "i'm fine. just an accident."
"and how did this occur if not for the negligence of our serving people?" he would be seething with anger, ready to take the head of anyone involved.
"it was my fault. i was playing with the dagger you gifted me and sliced my arm."
he would not leave your side until you were well, of course scolding you for your carelessness, but content with your wellbeing.
VALARR
you would play it off, getting a fucking arrow through your shoulder whilst hunting with one of your ladies.
one of the things your husband allowed you to do, with supervision.
and the one day he let that rule slip, letting you go alone, you had been impaled. you played it off, blood barely visible through the black and red fabrics of your dress. and you snapped the arrow where it met your shoulder.
you didn't intend to just let it rot inside your skin, but you tried to get help whilst avoiding your sweet husband. who had caught you returning to the castle.
he noticed you were pale, moving stiffly, hissed when he hugged you and brushed against your shoulder. your shawl covered the exposed wood of the arrow.
"my wife," he whispered, steadying your faltering balance with his hands on your arms, "are you well? you look nigh on collapse."
"yes, my sweet husband." you lifted your good arm to caress his cheek, bearing a forced smile that didn't reach your eyes. "i am just tired. i shall join you for supper in due time."
one of the maester's had told on you, valarr sprinting toward the other end of the keep to come to your aid. you were laid on your blood-stained sheets, crying in pain as they removed the remaining arrow from your shoulder.
"seven hells, what happened?" he was staring in disbelief at the maester's, who fussed over your arm.
"one of my ladies," you winced, taking hold of his hand as they pulled it from your shoulder, "mistook me for some prey and fired into my shoulder."
"and why did you hold your tongue on such a thing? you are my wife and you could have died."
"you would have forbidden me from hunting ever again." you countered him.
he only kissed your forehead. "and it would be for your own good."
BAELOR
seven bless your sweet husband, but he did not have time to deal with such a small injury you suffered.
so you did not tell him.
you begged the maesters to hold their tongues and stitch you up, but it seemed you underestimated the gravity of your wound.
the maester had given you milk of the poppy for the pain, dismissing himself and nigh on running toward the small council room.
baelor had left the meeting with haste upon hearing of your wound.
and found you, succumbed to sleep with blood-soaked wraps wound tightly around your arm.
he dismissed everyone, sat at your bedside as you slept, did not move until he saw your eyes flutter open.
he held your hand tight, willing you to wake up, and once you did, felt the weight shift from his chest to his stomach.
"what did you think would come of not telling me?"
you were dazed, barely aware of your husband at your bedside. "husband."
"wife." he would coo back at you, he did not have it within himself to be mad at you. "why would you not tell me of such a thing?"
"i did not want you to worry, you have been so absentminded as of late with your duties."
"and you think that would keep me from my wife being so severely wounded?" he pressed kisses into your hand. "no duty surmounts you."
MAEKAR
okay now he would scold the fuck out of you.
from a place of love, of course.
he would hear of you being wounded, only once you had told him that eve.
you would talk of each other's happenings of the day, and you had mentioned cutting your leg with broken shards of a plant pot whilst tending to your garden.
"let me see."
"no."
"let me see. now."
he would hike up your skirts, spotting the stitches along your calf, his thumb running alongside the warm area of skin.
"why did you not tell me sooner?" he would argue, cradling your face with his hands.
"it was no trouble, husband."
"where my wife's wellness is concerned, yes it is." he argued, still pouring his affections onto you despite his cold words. "that is a ghastly wound."
"you are much the complainer, husband." you spoke, accepting the kisses he would place on your forehead.
"you are my greatest concern, i have earned the right to complain about you."
DAERON
it had occurred when you both visited a tavern, on the way across the reach for a royal progression.
the two of you enjoying the wine that sat in your cups, too inebriated to be concerned with your surroundings.
a drunkard playing recklessly with his sword, swinging it around with no regard to the slash he had left on your thigh.
he was lucky he hadn't taken anything else from you, or daeron would have his hand.
neither of you noticed it until you had taken a room, undressing yourselves to chase your own desires, and daeron's gaze caught the gash on your thigh.
"seven hells, my wife." it was the most animated you had ever seen him. "are you okay?"
"i am hungry with desire for you, my prince." you would answer, still ignorant to the blood coating your leg.
"no." he held your head in his hands, directing your gaze to your thigh, and only then had your feelings settled.
he had sobered in that moment, desire at the back of his mind, fetching his guards to seek a maester this instant.
he had even pressured the wound with his shirt, stroking your hair as you both awaited a maester.
only when you had giggled at your carelessness, had he joined you.
DUNC
you knew dunk was a sweetheart, but would panic had his sweet, innocent wife drawn blood.
so when you had ventured to the market to admire the selection of foliage, and sliced your palm in collision with someone's exposed dagger, you kept it from him.
of course, the apologetic lord had fetched for his maester and had stitched your palm. a pain you thought would be the worst you'd ever feel.
it was only when it had been hours, had dunk come to find you. wandering around the market for his wife, stopping people to describe you.
he had found you, inside a lord's tent, your palm exposed to his maester.
"what happened?" he was spooked, rushing to your side, fussing over the rest of you to make sure you were okay.
"a simply mistake, this kind lord fetched his maester to stitch me up." you explained.
he was near vomiting at the wound in your hand, the flesh still exposed turning his face a sour green.
"do not worry, my sweet husband." you laughed. "take a seat or the maester's shall be tending to you next."
LYONEL
it had happened at a feast, one of the many your husband had held over the years.
and like most of his feasts, it had always ended with drunkards reaching for their swords and daggers to boast their skill.
and two drunkards had been at each other's necks, swords clashed together to fend the other off, until one had given in. and upon his advancement with his sword, had slashed across your arm.
the wound had weeped quickly, sending the two men into a panic. dragging you out of your husband's tent and toward their own.
you were near collapse, when you heard your husband shouting for his wife. though your voice would not pick up to respond.
the, now sober, lords had ushered him in, quickly being thrown to the side as he charged toward you.
"what did you do to my fucking wife?" he was enraged, it had made you feel equal parts scared and aroused. all this heat for you. his wife.
"i am okay, my husband." you affirmed, taking his hand in your own. "you need not take their heads, though they might deserve it."
"they struck my fucking wife, of course i am owed their head."
âNo. No more fucking children,â He says, thinking of his own. âI thought we discussed this.â His voice shakes. He takes in your pouting figure and the way your lip juts out and immediately his resolve begins to crack
âPlease?â You pull the neck of your dress down expose your breasts, nipples hardening in the cool air
Maekar sucks in a breath as you begin playing with them, teasing him by circling your fingers around the bud
âJust imagine how full Iâll beâŠcarrying your seed. Iâll give you a son. Five more of them if you wish and theyâll have your hair, or my eyes, or whatever so long as they-â
You donât get to finish your sentence. Immediately, the idea of you swollen and pregnant with his child unleashes an animal inside of him. He lets out a growl and crosses the room, already straining hard against his breeches
âGods woman. Seven fucking children - what are you doing to me?â He breathes against your lips. You grin as your fingers come to stroke his face, giggling as his beard tickles your skin
âMaking it eight,â You mumble against his. Your arms wrap around his shoulders as he hoists you up, and you know that youâre not going to be leaving your bed until your wish is fulfilled
Baelor Targaryen
You take Baelor completely by surprise
In truth, he never thought about getting married again, and even less about having more children. He had an heir and a spare and he knew that he should have been satisfied with that. But the moment the thought crossed his mind, he canât get rid of it
It plauges him; the idea of you carrying his child for all to see. It unlocks a dream that he never even considered a possibility. A reality where you share a life together
You watch his mismatched eyes as they darken, lips parting as the image grows stronger and stronger. A surprised gasp leaves your lips when Baelor presses against you, muttering softly in your ear,
âAre you sure?â The words come out as if heâs asking for permission, as if heâs begging you to say it again. His strong hands trail down your body and presses against the curve of your stomach, as if already imagining a bump there. You feel that the words have excited him and you nod, imagining it as well
âYes,â You tell him, and that is all the permission that he needs. Baelorâs mouth engulfs yours, and soon words altogether are forgotten
The two of you tumble on top of his desk, pushing the contents off and not even bothering or able to make it to a bed
Baelor is willing to make love to you there, on the floor, in the garden - wherever it takes to bring the fiery image in his head to life. He knows that it will not leave him until it is true, and thus your husband becomes more insatiable than youâve ever seen before. He will give you a child alright. Heâll make sure of it
Aerion Targaryen
Aerion smirks, and he is on top of you before you can blink
âOf course you do,â He purrs, his voice low and smug. âOf course you wish for me to fill your belly with dragon seed. How could you not?â
Your husband presses you tightly against the wall, not even caring that a maid or someone else could walk by
Heâs too busy staring at you with a crazed look in his eyes, possessive as he trails your body. You gasp as his hands go under your clothing, his calloused digits tracing your stomach
You see his violet eyes darken when he feels no swell there. No heir inside of you as there should have been, but heâs more than willing to change that
âCome,â Aerion tugs you along until the two of you find the nearest chamber. Make no mistake - he wouldâve taken you in the hall but he thought it would be better if he filled you in a more comfortable place
After all, your body would need to be relaxed in order to take his seed and besides - his little dragon deserved to be conceived in an act of fire, not a quick fuck
Once Aerion decides on a room that is good enough, not even caring that it belongs to his smug cousin, he pulls you inside and attacks
There is no part of your skin left unmarked, no area of your womb left untouched by his seed. By the time the sun rises, the dragon has claimed you more times than you can count
You lay beneath him, trembling with exhaustion though Aerion declares that he is not done yet. He is determined to take you until he fills the swell of your belly himself - whether that be today or in three moons
âBe careful what you wish for, my sweet lamb,â He whispers in your ear, sending a chill down your spine. âOnce a dragon gets a taste of flesh that he likes, it is hard to get him to let go.â
Daeron Targaryen
Daeron saw it in a dream. The first dream that did not cause him to wake in terror in years. An image of you - laughing as you carressed a swollen stomach and kissed a babe. Your babe - the one that you have been dying to give him
He denied you at first. He did not think that the time was right, or that he was right for a babe. Daeron knows that he holds many faults and none of them he wished to share with an innocent
But then the dreams came. Night after night they plagued him; and he saw you, playing with his son and then his daughter and then two more. And suddenly, he could not find himself thinking of anything else
They consume him to the point where he seeks you out and accepts your offer
âI will do it,â He tells you randomly, one day when the dreams become too much. When the ache in his chest for a life heâs never known becomes too strong, and suddenly he is craving a child more than anything heâs ever wanted before
Even more than wine, which he stops drinking, you notice. Even before he approached you, you had not seen your husband take a drink in weeks. The alcohol suppresses his bad dreams, you know, but you did not know that they suppress the good ones as well
Daeron could numb the pain. He could numb the terrors in night he faced - but never his son. He wanted to see him. He had to see him, as it was the only thing that chased away the fear
You turn to him and blink, surprise on your face as you lower your knit. It is a blanket, Daeron sees. One that is nearly finished and just the right size for a babe
ââŠTruly?â Your voice is nothing but a whisper. Your lip trembles, and you say it carefully in case this is just a jest. In case you were mislead by your own observations, and your husband is indeed drunk
You certainly think so, but then Daeron nods and tears fill his eyes
âI have dreamed of him,â He says, his voice low and aching. âMy son calls to me. He is stronger than any wine I have ever craved. I want to see him. I need to see him, truly.â
That is all the words you need to hear from your husband. With a nod, you rise slowly and place a gentle hand on his cheek
âThen we will meet him,â You tell him, your voice also trembling. âWe will give him life, and he will be good.â
âGood,â Daeron repeats the word pressing his forehead to yours. âYes. Yes - I can make something good. We will make something good. Together.â
Valarr Targaryen
He is unaware and unsuspecting of these thoughts that youâve been having, so imagine his surprise when you ambush him one night, crawling on top of him and pleading, âI want a babe. Please, my love, give me a babe.â
Desperation is in your tone, and Valarrâs eyes widen when he feels you take his hands and place them on your stomach
The skin beneath his fingers is bare, as is the rest of you. He can feel you rocking against him as you lightly grind on him, staring at him with big, pleasing eyes
All of a sudden, the patience in his bones is gone, and all Valarr can feel is hunger as he looks at you
âTruly?â
He is in disbelief to say the least. The two of you have been married barely a year and at first, you agreed that you would put off on having heirs. You wanted to 'enjoy your marriage' as you called it, and Valarr was understanding enough to wait
He thought the two of you were in no rush, and that was trueâŠuntil you saw one of your ladies holding her babe and started imaging what could be
A little babe of your own squirming in your arms, fat cheeked with Valarrâs features. He would cry and scream but you would nurse him at your breast and care for him more than any creature you had ever cared for before
From the moment the image bloomed in your mind, it is all you could think of. When you tell Valarr of this, it unlocks a longing inside of him as well
Suddenly, the need to wait goes out of the window as he flips you over, his mouth attacking the side of your neck
He finds an eagerness in filling you that has never plagued him before. He is desperate, insatiable almost, as thoughts of his own cross his mind
Ones of you standing in his arms, glowing as you grow his babe. His son or daughter would safe and warm and loved within your womb, suddenly Valarr does not know why you ever decided to wait
He works tirelessly that night to make your dreams come true, and by the morning he rolls over with a smile on his face as he kisses your cheeks
âI prayed all night that my seed will stick,â He confesses. He takes your hands and then presses a kisses to your knuckles, sighing. âLet us hope that the Mother answers.â
TRY A LITTLE TENDERNESS
âââ gwayne hightower
gif creds: @userarmand
summary: you nurse gwayne back to life again when the war leaves him for dead, and he finds himself in no hurry to be rescued from you. (5k)
characters: gwayne hightower / fem!reader
contents: strangers to lovers, hurt/comfort, domestic fluff, mutual pining, canon divergent, not proofread, cw for mentions of blood and injuries, smut 18+ (MDNI): sub!gwayne, unprotected sex, premature ejaculation, face riding (this man has been through enough i just need someone to take care of him okay)
( NAVIGATION ) | ( MASTERLIST ) | ( AO3 )
Gwayneâs heavy eyes open first to a low, timbered ceiling made of clay and dry-rotted oak â certainly not the ornately embellished stone of the Red Keep, which wouldâve suggested that Daemonâs army had won in their ambush and had since taken him hostage; but it wasnât the sagging canvas of a war tent either, which also meant that no green army had yet come to his rescue. This place, wherever this place was, was small and warm and heavy with the scent of a home-cooked meal and the coppery tang of his own blood.
The hurt returns to him as slowly his consciousness does. His body aches in a way that tells him, a bit more clearly than his own memory could, that he had been long in the dying not too long ago. All of his bones feel rusted shut and heavy; each breath feels like gravel in his lungs and blades against his ribs.
âWhere am IâŠ?â Gwayne wonders aloud in a near-inaudible rasp, almost lost beneath the crackle of a fire and the soft hiss of a pot simmering somewhere close.
His heavy head lolls on the thin pillow beneath him. The cushion propping up his stiff neck smells like something floral and sweet, like a woman. As his eyes scan the room, he finds that this quaint house, if it could even be referred to as such, is made of only one room â thereâs a dining nook crowded in the corner by the window, a cluttered living area in the opposite corner by the hearth, and apparently a sickbed in which he languishes now.Â
Through the haze still clinging in his vision, he spots a figure dressed in tatters stirring at a pot with practiced hands â sleeves pushed up to the elbows, faded skirts flowing just below the knee. You do not startle at the sound of his voice, nor do you turn to look at him right away as you crush a handful of dried rosemary into the bubbling water before you.Â
âStarry Hill,â you answer plainly, as though you were talking to an old friend rather than a half-dead ghost in your bed. You turn slowly over your shoulder and watch confusion twist at the manâs handsome features â (heâd studied every keep, holdfast, and port in Westeros his father told him to, and yet heâd never once heard of this one). âAnd no, you havenât heard of it before.â
The grin is evident in your voice as you turn away to wipe your palms off on a rag. You catch the manâs glassy blue eyes darting around your home â over the crooked shelf of clay jars, past the mismatched chairs around the ancient dining table, and towards the narrow window where dim orange light falls in slanted rays. He cannot yet tell whether itâs dawn or dusk, and the notion disorients him further.
âApologies for the mess, my lord,â you sigh. âIf Iâd known I was going to be housing a Hightower for three days, I mightâve tidied the place up a bit first.â
Gwayneâs auburn brows furrow slowly as his face twists in a deeper confusion â both at the thought of having spent three days unconscious in this place, and at the ease with which you seemed to know his name. His house. His blood. âHow⊠How did you know I was a Hightower?â
Your head turns lazily on your shoulder to flash the man a narrow-eyed, almost pitying sort of look. Your gaze falls across his flaming copper hair, the aristocratic slope of his nose, and the inherited Hightower beauty that not even war, nor three days on his deathbed, could manage to take from him. Even halfway ruined, the man still looks like something bred for portraiture. And it would, perhaps, be so easy to tell him as much.
âWell, you were wearing the sigil all over your armor, to be fair,â you deadpan instead and turn back to your cooking.
Only then does Gwayne realize that the heaviness of his armor is long gone from his frame. All of his clothes, in fact, are gone â the pale canvas of his bare chest is on display now, carved lean from a lifetime in the training yard, and now sporting a square piece of plaster across his ribcage. Beneath the heavy quilt thrown over his legs, he can feel a pair of baggy trousers riding low on his hips that do not belong to him.Â
Which means you had to have undressed him; bathed him; patched up his marred skin. The thought alone is dizzying.
Panic wraps its hands around his throat as he rises onto his elbows, grimacing at the ache it puts in his side and somewhere deep in his bicep â where a linen cloth has been wrapped tight.
âHow did I get here?â
âYour guess is as good as mineâŠâ you huff without looking away from the pot ahead of you. âYouâre the one who showed up half-dead on my doorstep, if youâll recallâ So I think I have more questions for you than you have for me, in truth.â
Gwayneâs eyes go glassy and distant as he strains to recollect the events that led him here.Â
He remembers Ser Cristonâs words about a death march, and the sudden screeching of his horse when the first volley of enemy arrows came flying every which way. He vaguely remembers his mare rearing up and tossing him onto his back against the heavy forest floor, and the way the world erupted with the shouting of a hundred men or more all at once. But he does not know what became of any of them now.
âI need to leave,â he announces at once.
âOh, I wouldnât,â you wince as you watch the man fling the quilt from his body, visibly toned from years of knighthood but still pale from his lingering brush with death. âNot on that leg of yoursâ Iâm still not sure I set the bone just right.â
Gwayneâs jaw clenches tight as he swings his legs over the side of the bed. His tired muscles pull taut in protest, though it doesnât hurt him nearly as badly as his left shin does when his bare feet hit the ancient floorboards. A white-hot pain sears from ankle to knee; his chiseled face screws tight as he chokes on a scream.Â
He doubles over in agony and digs his trembling fists into the thin sheets of the down mattress, struggling to take stock of his injuries.Â
Thereâs a plaster just below his knee and a sickly yellow-green bruise blooming just below that, from where the bone came through when the weight of his horse fell on top of him, perhaps. Thereâs a hot, pulsing feeling beneath the plaster on his right arm â a small but concentrated signature that mustâve come from an arrow. And the length of the shallow scrape along his ribs suggests that it came from a kiss of an enemy blade.
All of it is dressed now in clean linen, from the same kind hands stirring supper across the room from him, entirely unbothered by his suffering.
âSeven fucking hellsâŠâ you groan, more to yourself than to him. âI forgot the bloody potatoes.â
Gwayne blinks wildly at your passing figure as you trade the wooden spoon in your hands for the dark, beaten cloak hanging beside the door. âP-Potatoes?â he stammers in response, because he can think of a thousand issues much more pressing than potatoes.
âYes,â you nod, sliding your arms through the thick woolen sleeves gone soft and shapeless with age. âYou canât have rabbit stew without potatoes. It ruins the whole dishâ Iâd think youâd know that, as a pretty little lord and all.â
He perks slightly at the mention of it â of food, and of the thought that some other man must surely live here to have killed and skinned the meat for your stew.Â
âWhere is your father?â he calls to your retreating form.
Thereâs a certain edge of command in his voice that tries to surface past the wavers of pain. He attempts to assert some Hightower authority in the walls of your home, despite being half-dressed and hunched over the edge of your bed and completely at your mercy.Â
âOr a husband, perhaps? Someone I can speak rationally with.â
âNo father⊠No husbandâŠâ you sigh and tie the top of your coat, which is a size or three too big for you. âYou can speak rationally to me, if you wish, though I fear your current hysterics might render conversation somewhat impossible⊠But I require no thanks for saving your life, to be sure.â
Your words carry a certain bite that pierces him straight through the chest; the devastating reminder of a debt he has not yet had any sense to acknowledge.Â
The door opens with a high-pitched creaking sound; the cool breeze that rushes in tells him that the day is ending rather than just beginning. You pause at the threshold, hand on the frame and hood half-raised
âIf youâre going to leave, at least remember to shut the door behind you,â you tell him, detached but not totally unkind. âI donât want the smell of supper bringing the animals down from the hill.â
The door screeches and clicks behind you, punctuating your leaving. The little house â smaller than his bathing chambers back in Oldtown â goes very quiet and very still with your absence. The eeriness unnerves a distant, boyish part of him that wishes most desperately for your return. The rest of him, however, wants nothing more than to be rid of this place entirely â from the strangeness of it and of you most of all.
Gwayne grits his teeth and hauls himself not-quite to full height. Heâs doubled over and bracing his white-knuckled grip on the ancient wooden bedframe as he hobbles the short distance towards the door, fighting through the screaming ache shooting up and down his left leg. He makes it not even five steps before it gives out on him completely.
He crumples to the unforgiving ground in a graceless heap of limbs and injured pride, catching himself on instinct with the arm sporting the throbbing arrow wound going down.
He lies there, groaning and writhing and choking down cries of frustration with his cheek pressed to the cold floor. The sound of his ragged breaths fills the small, empty house as he watches the sunset dip low past the window, quietly waiting for the sound of the door to open â and for your presence to follow.
It opens at last; three minutes or three hours later. A silken breeze rushes in alongside you, as you enter with a basket of potatoes and other vegetables on your hip. You falter in the doorway at the sight of the man sprawled out on your floor, a crumpled puppet with all of its strings cut clean.
A strange, satisfied smile creeps across your face as you swipe your hood back with your free hand. âWellâŠâ you croon lowly. âWhat do we have here?â
Gwayne lifts his heavy head. He looks up at you with watery blue eyes through the strands of wild auburn hair hanging over his brow. He loses every ounce of his composure in that moment, turning into a doe-eyed and pleading thing as his wet gaze peers at you from beneath his lashes.
âPleaseâŠâ he rasps. âHelp meâŠâ
He doesnât learn your name until the second day. He does not stand on his own until the fifth. And he does not bathe himself unaided until the seventh.Â
You do not coddle him for any of it. You clean his wounds and change his bandages twice daily, and scold him for flinching at the sting â telling him that heâd spent too many years being pampered by wetnurses and that was precisely why he healed so slowly. But, after that first week, he learned to walk the length of your small home without his leg buckling underneath him; though he still requires the cane youâd fashioned for him out of a stagâs antler if he plans on taking more than a step or two.
âHere. So you can stop looking like a newborn calf every time you cross the room,â youâd said when you gifted it to him. âItâs starting to get hard to watch, if Iâm honest.â
He is, if heâs being entirely truthful with himself, entirely unused to being spoken to this way. The ladies of his acquaintance back in Oldtown â the soft, sweet-voiced daughters of high lords and ladies â would never have dared to call him hysterical to his face or handle his wounds with such unromantic efficiency. They never would have laughed, as you had, at the sight of him crumpled on the floor.Â
Youâre nothing at all like the ladies he grew up with.Â
You swear like a dockhand; you name your goats like they're your kin; you wear your dead parents' old clothes without a trace of shame and speak of your own life with a bluntness that would scandalize every septa he'd grown up with. It should, perhaps, trouble him a great deal more than it does.
Gwayne knows he couldâve and likely shouldâve left days ago. He suspects that you know it, too. Tumbleton was not far from here, you told him, and his kin held the fortress now â a real castle with a real maester to tend to him â rather than this strange, sharp-tongued woman with rough hands and a rougher sense of humor. But still, he does not go. He tells himself that itâs his leg; that the roads were surely not safe yet and that heâd be long in the dying should he cross Daemonâs army a second time.
So he stays, and he makes himself useful to you in the waiting, in whatever small ways he can manage. He could not do much, at first â he could not chop firewood or carry water; he could barely carry himself, in truth â but he could mend a fence while seated, and feed the farm animals while leaning on his cane, and shell the peas you bring in from the garden for supper.Â
Gwayne quickly discovers, to his own mortification, that he takes a strange satisfaction in it all. This was not a life meant for knights, certainly not one meant for a Hightower, but yet he can picture all the rest of his days playing out exactly like this â utterly unremarkable, but his just the same.
It has been three weeks since his arrival, give or take, and his days feel less like exile now and more like routine. He sits propped on the pillows after his bath, milky-white skin glimmering from your homemade oils, with nothing but a pair of borrowed trousers covering his lower half.
You sit on the edge of the bed beside him and redress the stubborn wound on his arm that refuses to heal â the worst of his injuries he came here with, Gwayne insists; a nerve-deep pain that he swears he can feel when heâs dreaming. But even still, weeks into the habit of tending to him, you are no gentler about it than you were that very first night.
âOwââ Gwayne winces when you press too firmly against the wound. You catch his elbow before he can draw it away and urge it back into place with an unsentimental force.
âStop squirming,â you scold and continue to dab the homemade, herb-flecked ointment onto the irritated skin.
âIt hurts,â the man insists.
âIt hurts because youâre squirming.â
Gwayne attempts to glare at you as you reach for the linen cloth on the table beside you. The playful frown softens with a soft smile despite himself. âHas anyone ever told you that your bedside manner is just extraordinary?â
âAll the timeâŠâ you lilt back and slide the fabric around his arm, tying it off with one particularly harsh tug. âUsually right before they tell me that they're feeling much better and no longer require any of my help.â
âWellâŠâ Gwayne croons, pale eyes glittering in the dancing candlelight. âIf I didnât know any better, Iâd think you wanted me goneâŠâ
You glance finally up at him from beneath your lashes, at the handsome knight sharing your house â with bright copper hair gone soft from his bath, and bright blue eyes a little too earnest for someone meant to be teasing â the kind of man that belonged in the fairytales youâd read as a child; not in your own home in your own bed.
Something in your sharp expression finally gives, like The Wall finally weeping after the first warm day of summer.
âYouâre the prettiest thing Iâve seen in years, Ser Gwayne,â you hum lowly. âSo if you havenât realized by now that Iâm keeping you hostage here, then I fear you havenât been paying attention.â
A breathy laugh shakes his toned stomach, and the scar along his ribs no longer pulls to do so. Heâs fairly certain that youâre jesting, but even still, he doesnât think heâd care all that much if you werenât.
âI find thatâŠâ he trails slowly off with a squinted look in his pale eyes, as if the realization were hitting him the moment the words fell from his mouth. His melodic voice carries a sort of airiness in it despite the soft confession. âThat perhaps I wouldnât mind it. Being your hostage⊠Staying here. With you⊠I don't think I'd mind that at allâŠâ
âWell⊠Thatâs a very dangerous thing to say to a woman with nothing to lose, Ser Gwayne,â you murmur, propping your fists on either side of his waist as you lean in close to him â until he can smell the lavender soap on your skin and count the flecks of firelight in your gaze. âYour army has surely presumed you dead by now⊠No one will come looking for you here⊠So if you do not wish to be kept by me, the door is still openâŠâ
Something in his chest flares hot at your words, at the thought of being kept by you.
âFor how long?â he teases with an arched auburn brow, pink lips curling into a slow smile.
Your eyes flit away and back again. ââŠRoughly the next ten seconds.â
âWellâŠâ he lilts as his hand lifts slowly from the blankets to cradle your jaw, urging you that much closer. âThat seems like plenty of time.â
He leans off the pillow to press his mouth to yours. His nose smushes into the side of yours as his plush lips slot with your softer ones. Your tongue darts between them with little warning and a degree too eager, swiping against his like velvet on velvet. Gwayne exhales a heavy sigh through his nose at the taste of you â like supper and wine and something foreign that he chases with each languid kiss.
You kiss him long and slow, like biting into the sweet skin of an apple, and shift on the mattress to straddle his waist. Gwayneâs free hand shoves the quilt down his thighs to accommodate you upon them. Your fingers rest around his neck like a collar as you grind your hips over his, up his lap and down again. A groan rumbles like thunder in his throat.
His hands dart instantly for your waist, knotting his long fingers in the skirts pushed up to your thighs, as he pulls off of you with a quiet smack. âDonât,â he hears himself plead.
âWhy?â you pant, blinking back at him with heavy eyes.
âItâs beenâŠâ His adamâs apple bobs in his throat. âA long⊠long time.â
Your lips curl into a grin before your head ducks down again. Your mouth smears along his pulse in a sloppy kiss. âThree weeks isnât so long, is it?â
A laugh sounds in his throat. You feel it rumbling against your mouth. âThe warâs been going on for a lot longer than three weeks, my dearâŠâÂ
âDonât tell me Ser Gwayne hasnât taken his fair share of whores on the road,â you quip against the milky white tendon of his neck.
He smiles with his nose in your hair. âNot many whores on the battlefield, Iâm afraidâŠâ
âOh, you poor thingâŠâ you croon as you pull slowly back from him, more gentle with him now than you were when he was half dead on your porch; though thereâs still a playful air about you that he doesnât yet miss. âNo wonder youâve been so uptight⊠Youâve just been looking for a little⊠release, havenât you? Spitââ
Gwayneâs eyes widen as they flick between your expectant face and the hand you hold under his chin. Despite his obvious diffidence, he ducks his head and spits a glob of saliva onto your palm â and watches with held breath as your fingers dip under the hem of his trousers. They wrap around his cock, laying half-soft on his thigh, and use his spit to work him the rest of the way hard. He feels like heavy velvet in your fist.
His dizzy head tips back against the wall with a quiet thud. Your quiet giggling melts with his pleasured groan as he hardens slowly in your fist.Â
âIâll bet youâll cum the second I tell you to,â you laugh.
Gwayne nods slowly, adamâs apple moving in his long throat as he fights to keep his lidded eyes open. His breath catches in his chest when your thumb swipes over the sensitive tip of his cock.
âIâll bet youâll do anything I tell you to⊠Wonât you?â
Gwayne nods again, jerking in your fist at your words.
âOhâŠâ you huff a mixture of a contented sigh and a devilish laugh as you squeeze him harder in your fist. âI am going to have⊠so much fun with you, Ser GwayneâŠâ
He has little time to ponder the weight of your words when you shift on top of him again. You pull your fingers from his trousers and tuck the hem beneath his heavy balls. His eyes snap open to find you urging your dress skirts further up your thighs. Heâs left mourning the warmth of your touch only for a moment, before your hand slides between your bodies once more to guide the drooling tip of his cock into your already weeping confines.
Heâs long and slender â not nearly as thick as the butcherâs son in town whoâs been tending to your needs for years, but an inch or three longer still â and made of meandering veins you can feel when you pierce yourself upon him. Your head tips back to exhale a moan at the ceiling, mouth curling into a lazy smile as you adjust to the length of him.
Gwayne chokes on a groan in his throat when your hips sit flush with his again, fingers clutching mercilessly at the plush of your thighs hard enough to etch bruises on the skin. The sound turns into a strangled whimper when you clench absentmindedly around him, warmer than velvet and drooling something fierce.
âI canâtâŠâ the man whines, chiseled features twisting into a pained sort of look as he shifts his hips under your weight â trying to chase his pleasure and run away from it all at once. âIâ I canâtâ Seven fucking hellsâŠâ
You smile down at him when he tries and fails to get the words out. He misses the amusement flashing across your face with his eyes squeezed shut, hard enough to make white stars speckle behind the deep black of his eyelids. You clench around him again, just to hear him whimper for you again.
âCanât what, my lord?â you coo to him, with a gentleness he didnât think you were capable of before now. Your hands smooth up and around his neck until your fingers twist in the short auburn tendrils at the very nape of it. Chills erupt down the length of his spine in their wake.Â
âI donât wanna cum yet,â he protests through gritted teeth. ââS too soonââ
âBut I want you to cum,â you tell him, and punctuate your command with a calculated roll of your hips. You tighten around him once more when your clit brushes the coarse, dark-auburn hair above his cock. You swallow his subsequent groan in a sloppy kiss, more tongue than mouth, and run the tip of your nose along the bridge of his after. âAnd then⊠after Iâve milked your cockââ
âFuckâŠâ he swears, though it comes out more like a sob.
ââIâll let you clean me up with your mouth,â you continue.Â
A moan tears through his throat at the thought â of pressing his mouth to your cunt until his nose is smushed against your clit, of lapping at the mixture of pleasure leaking out of you like honey, of your hands in his hair pushing him further into your pussy. He bursts at the thought, losing himself completely as he draws you into his bare chest with two strong arms wound up and around your back.Â
Gwayne hides his flushed face in your neck as he hugs you against him, meeting your thrusts with weaker ones of his own. He buries each of his pitiful moans into your pulsepoint while his cock jerks wildly within your unforgiving confinesâ spitting ropes of warm cum that your clenching cunt milks from him.Â
âIâm sorry,â he hears himself say as he shudders just against you. âIâm sorry, Iâm sorry⊠Seven hellsâ Iâm sorryâŠâÂ
You pet at his wild hair as he comes down from his high, whispering murmurs of praise in his ear as the pleasure ebbs from his trembling body. âThere you go⊠Good boy⊠Thatâs itâ Give me all of itâŠâ
Gwayne pulls his face from your neck once heâs fully spent. His trembling hands reach for your face again, cupping your cheeks between his calloused palms to meet your eyes with his wide, wet, and pleading ones. âIâm sorry,â he whispers again. âLet me make you feel goodâ I want to make you feel good.âÂ
âI know,â you coo to him, almost sympathetically so. âOn your back.âÂ
Gwayneâs auburn brows knit softly together, but his body obeys like it was designed to submit to you. You remain straddled against him as he descends back onto the pillows. He watches down the bridge of his nose as your hands smooth up his milky white torso â past the fine trail of hair on his lean stomach, over the healed scar on his ribs, and towards his heaving chest.
Your eyes stay locked with his heavy ones as you shift your weight above him, inching up up up. You cage your bottom lip between your teeth as you reach for the hem of your skirt. You drag the heavy fabric of your dress up and over your head. Gwayne has little time to admire your bare body before youâre straddling your knees on either side of his face. His mouth waters instantly at the sight of your glittering pussy as it descends over his mouth â he curls his arms around your thighs to pull you further in.
He groans when the taste of you hits his tongue â a sweet-salty mixture of your combined pleasures â and you feel the vibrations of the sound from your cunt to the top of your spine. You keep one hand braced on the wooden headboard and your other woven through his silken auburn locks, guiding his mouth along your cunt.
âYesâŠâ you sigh when his mouth meets your clit. âRight thereâŠâ
Gwayne moans again at your praise and does everything in his power to make you give it to him again. He focuses on the bundle of nerves â lapping his tongue against it and suckling it between his lips. You make a noise for him heâs never heard before, a high-pitched cry that swells across the quiet room. âKeep going,â he hears you whimper when his mouth wraps around your clit. âFuck yes, keep going like thatââ
Your fingers twist hard in his hair as your hips grind down over his tongue. He moans when you give the strands an especially harsh tongue, and the sound makes you tremble on top of him. You cum for him with a strangled cry, and Gwayne sighs through his nose when a mixture of his cum and yours drops onto the velvety pad of his tongue.Â
He laps at every ounce of it with an eagerness that you can hear, a chorus of panted breaths and muffled suckling sounds.
He doesnât stop until youâre shoving him away by the crown of his head.
You exhale a heavy breath and sit back on your haunches, resting your ass over his chest and propping your weight along his ribs. Your heavy eyes rake over his face â cheeks flushed red, pale eyes glassy with desire, pink lips swollen, chin glittering with your cum, hair wild from the pillow and your fingers alike. An angel carved from in.Â
A lazy smile tugs at the corners of your mouth as you shake your heavy head down at him. âYouâre not going anywhere, Ser Gwayne⊠You understand that, right?â
âGwayne,â he corrects, glittering lips curling upward. âNot ser.âÂ
âYouâre not going anywhere⊠Gwayne.â
âIâm glad to hear it, in truthâŠâ he confesses on an exhaled breath. âI was starting to like it here anywayâŠâ
Maekar seeing how well you do with his kids and wanting to add another Maekarling
and you donât need much convincing
18+ (smut, breeding duhhh)
he watches you from across the courtyard where you sit on a low stone bench, surrounded by blooming spring flowers and a gaggle of excitable children that are not made of your blood. but someone of lesser understanding would not have known that.
the deep crimson of your skirts pool out around you, an unfurling magnolia with velvet petals, as you perch on the seat with rhae curled in your lap, head tucked beneath your chin. aemon sits beside you, his head on your shoulder as he reads softly aloud, and daella sits at your feet, fingers running up and down the smooth expanse of your skirts. aegon stands on his toes behind you, pushing yet another small flower into your hair.
maekar pauses in the doorway, leaning against the stone arch as he observes. his children speak kindly to you, and you speak to them much the same, and as you soothe rhae with one hand, pet daellaâs hair with the other, whilst listening to aemonâs muttering and allowing aegon to turn your hair into a garden, maekar realises something. he realises he wants this life with you.
and when he corners you that evening, his children put to bed and tucked out of sight, he realises you want the same thing.
heâs not gentle.
it had started gentle, as it usually did, but after pulling you apart on the flat of his tongue, followed by the stretch of two thick fingers, he knew exactly what he wanted and how he was going to get it. good thing you liked it like that.
maekar curls you over the edge of the bed, your body completely bare as you bend and lay amongst the silks and furs. a strong, calloused hand holds the back of your neck, anchoring you to the feathered mattress as he stretches your pussy open around the thick of his cock.
he groans, feeling your pussy pull tight around him as he ruts in. silk walls draw inwards, heavy against the ridges along his shaft and the vein, pumping hot with blood, that runs along the underside. his other hand is a vice on your hip, dimpling the flesh as he forces you back onto him, the slapping sounds of skin-on-skin loud in the evening silence of your chambers.
you mewl into the sheets beneath you, a string of saliva already catching out the side of your mouth as your husband thrusts into you, the movements deep and far-reaching. heavy balls nudge against the swollen pearl of your clit, and you mewl again, startled, when the head of his cock punches up towards the plug of your cervix.
âdonât fuss,â maekar grumbles, rutting into you, eyes trailing down the line of your spine and over the curve of your arse as he holds you down by the nape. your pussy drools around him, his flushed shaft slick as he pulls out, then shoves back in. he groans, âfuck, you always take me so well, donât you?â
he doesnât really want a response when he questions you like this, cock splitting you open as he pins you to your shared bed. you gape, breathy moans falling free of your throat as your fingers tangle in the silken sheets and sweat builds tacky down your back and thighs. he listens to you gasp and mewl, a crooked smile on his face as he kneads the fat at your hip.
âhow many timesâŠâ maekar begins, sentence breaking momentarily as the wet squelch of your cunt becomes audible in the flame-soaked silence, the open hearth flickering nearby. you whimper, and your husband groans. âwill i have to spill in this tight cunt before youâre full, huh? how many times will she have to take me before youâre round with my child?â
you let out a pathetic sound, some mix of a gasp and a moan, the syllables showing some semblance of his name, but itâs lost in the heat of your pleasure. a third orgasm sparks at the ends of your nerves, flames flickering across the walls of your womb, deep in your pelvis.
maekar grunts, strands of white hair falling loose over his forehead, cheeks hued with pink beneath the candlelight. he palms the flesh of your arse now as the hand on your neck pushes you deeper against the bed.
âis that what you want, little dove?â he asks as his hips rock, the leaking head of his cock pushing right up against that perfect spot inside you. your back arches and you cry out his name, pussy fluttering as heat fills the base of your tummy. he grunts, continuing as you squirm. âyou want me to fill you? spill deep inside this tight cunt âtil she makes a right mess of herself, yeah?â
âmaekar,â you manage out, and itâs low and tense and strung across a high-pitched moan. you fist the silks and furs for support as he rocks against you, bed creaking.
âiâm right here,â he whispers, barely audible over his hips slamming against your arse. the fingers on your neck give you a gentle squeeze, and you suck in a shallow breath. then, he groans, the thick of his cock sucked in tight as your pussy flutters around him. âoh, she wants it, little dove. wants me to fill herâwants me to make you a mother.â
you cry out at his words, your release strung taut across your sparking nerves. itâs right there, your entire body growing rigid beneath him as he spears you apart on his cock. you grow hot, and hotter still, tension deep through the lines of your pelvis as you angle your hips to meet his thrusts, heartbeat heavy in your clit.
maekar huffs and grunts behind you, his voice breaking across a poorly hidden whine. âfuck, fu-uh-ck, oh, little dove, here we go, here we goâŠâ
he coaxes you through your orgasm as it ignites and overwhelms you. your body shakes, trembles like a picked flower, as heat bursts through your pelvis and the depths of your womb, your pussy squeezing tight around him. you moan, his name and his title up in the air around you, as stars burst behind your lowering lids and your legs threaten to give out.
but heâs not far behind youâas you come, he groans his praises, guiding you through the fissuring of pleasure with âthatâs it, there we goâ and âgood girl, just like thatâ as he ruts his cock towards the base of your womb. with each thrust into you, slick dribbles out around his shaft, and he feels it along the seam of his balls as they draw up, visions of you fat with his child at the forefront of his mind.
maekar groans loudly. âgods, youâll look perfect round with my childâfuck, iâll be good to you, little dove, anâ iâll keep you full allâtheâfuckingâtimeââ thrust, thrust, thrust, with each word, before heâs letting out a hoarse moan of your name and shoving himself to the hilt inside you.
he rolls his hips, sliding against you in lazy movements as he spills right against your cervix. still fizzling down from your own orgasm, you let out a shaky moan as he fills you, seed too warm in the base of your pelvis. his cock twitches, jerks inside you as your walls flutter, then pull him in even tighter as his seed fills you, fills you still, then settles.
he doesnât pull out, but he collapses half way on top of youâthe hand on your neck moving to bracket your head. you shift a little, panting as he plants a wet kiss to the corner of your mouth. you whine, turning your head to slide your lips to his. he grunts into your mouth as your tongues meet, and you taste yourself on him as your heart begins to slow beneath your ribs. he pulls away, resting his dewy forehead against your temple.
âitâll take,â he says like heâs sure of it. like he knows it will.
âand if it doesnât?â you counter through a mumble, limbs lax as you melt into the silks and furs, his body a firm press atop yours.
maekar chuckles. itâs a deep, low sound that vibrates through his chest, and it makes a little whine slip past your lips.
âthen we keep trying,â he mutters, rolling his hips and nudging his cock deeper. you whimper, a shudder racking through you in response. he kisses your warm cheek. âiâll fill you again and again, every fucking night, until youâre too full to even move⊠understood?â
you nod, words evading you as he noses your cheekbone, kissing you softly there too as his cock twitches where it sits deep, plugging you full of him.
âż you become upset when you cannot get pregnant, and your husband makes it his mission to give you what you want (or, you give your husband what he wants).
âż 18+
âż wc: 5.4k
âż cw: fem!reader, secondwife!reader, no y/n and reader is undefined and sexy, possible age gap (not explicitly mentioned), SMUT, some plot (everyone is shocked) but mostly porn, unprotected piv, breeding kink, oral (m!receiving), fingering, praise, maekar is obsessed with you, possessive maekar, baelor being the king he is, menstruation, pregnancy and childbirth (spoiler alert), maekar is a girl dad, strong language, kiera of tyrosh mention because i love her.
You havenât been married to Prince Maekar for very long. A few months, actually. You were wed when the air was warm and the sun spent longer hovering above you. Your days were filled with marital bliss when you could crack open his tough exterior shell like a walnut and access what he had to offer inside. When you got your hands on him, he melted. A puppy, or a lovesick teen, with too much adoration clouding his mind.
Obsessed with you.
Maekar is dutiful and possessive. You didnât see a lot of that when he was courting you, but the moment the both of you were married it seemed to trigger something deep and dark in the depths of his being. Walking down the halls of the Red Keep, or of Summerhall, his hands would be on you: on the small of your back, on your wrist or arm, holding your hand. Sitting surrounded by other lords and princes, he would glower at anyone who looked in your direction for too long, his hand immediately finding the soft flesh of your thigh. You would pat his hand comfortingly, but it would be a lie to say you did not enjoy his attention.
There was one time when you took a tumble from your horse mere days into your marriage. Nothing seriously hurt, but your ankle throbbed with pain after the impact with the hard ground outside the boundaries of Summerhall. And, gods above, you had never seen your husband move so quicklyâleaping from his horse and all but throwing himself onto the ground to cradle you against him, his large hands on your head, your shoulders, holding you to his chest. At the time, you didnât hear how fast his heart was beating. And back inside the royal residence, when the maesters made you hiss and seethe in pain, he stood abruptly from your bedside and uttered a stern, steel-hard, âGet the fuck out.â He wrapped your ankle himself and when he had cooled down, he allowed the maesters to check his handiwork. He had done splendidly.
He had always shown you how much he needed you. How much he wanted you.
But when, without fail, your moon blood wet the inners of your thighs when you awoke early each morning, you couldnât help but feel deflated. Would he still want you now? Even with his six children, you had made it clear to your husband that you wanted some of your own, and he was more than happy to oblige you.
In the months after your wedding, he fucked you anytime you requested him (which was, fortunately for him, quite often). He took you on your bed, your legs wrapped around his hips as he surged into you, over and over, face hovering above yours, his eyes closed in pleasure as sweat beaded over his bare chest. He spread you apart against his desk, rutting into you from behind, your legs quivering beneath you as he pressed a hand flat to your spine, candles flickering nearby at the force of his movements. He let you move up and down on top of him as he lounged in his bath, water sloshing over the edges, splashing against the cold stone floor as his hips shifted upwards to meet your movements, breasts bouncing, his hands groping. And each time, he spilled deep inside you with a groan or a kiss or a bite, and whispered to you that this time, this time it will take.
But it didnât. It hasnât.
So after your fourth bleeding, you sit dejected on your own in the gardens of Summerhall. You havenât seen your husband since early morning, when he placed a gentle kiss on your forehead, departing your shared chambers and leaving you cosy beneath the sheets and furs.
You hear youthful giggles, and you know the girls are running around somewhere nearby. The sound makes your heart clench in your chest, and you place the book you have been reading aside and stare wistfully out into the green expanse. Youâre not sure how long you sit like this before another weight is added to the stone bench you sit on, and you snap out of your sulking to find your brother-in-law watching you thoughtfully.
âYour grace,â you greet and smile, hoping he does not see the sadness in your eyes.
He does.
âWhat is worrying you, princess?â Baelor asks, and his voice is so incredibly gentle that it almost makes you burst into tears.
You console yourself, shaking your head softly. âI apologise if I my brooding hasââ
âThere is nothing wrong with your brooding, as you put it,â Baelor interrupts you. âI only wish to know what it is that is making you feel this way.â
You sigh, hesitating. Your concerns no doubt seem so small to what it is the heir of the Iron Throne must deal with on a daily basis. So you shrug his statement off, hands folding nervously in your lap, eyes not meeting his.
âNothing worth mentioning,â you tell him.
He leans over and places a large, warm hand atop yours, his thumb brushing over your knuckles in a soothing display of affection. You look up and find his mismatched eyes to be overrun with empathy, and you canât help the pleasant glow that settles in your belly.
Baelor addresses you by name. âHas my brotherâŠ?â
Your eyes grow wide. âOh, no, your grace! Maekar and I are wonderful. Itâs just⊠gods, itâs just thatâŠâ
The words do not find you, but you withdraw one of your hands from beneath his and press it to the softness of your belly. You frown, eyebrows knitting together, and Baelor knows immediately then what is troubling you.
He squeezes your hand. âThe gods will grant you what you wish, it may just take time, as it has done with Valarr, and many other nobles across the realm.â
His words are tinged with sadness, but they are still comforting.Â
You gaze back at him and smile. âYour comfort means everything. Thank you.â
He bows his head in acknowledgement, still smiling, still holding your hand. And from across the garden, unbeknownst to you, Maekar sees this and finds his heart dropping directly into his stomach. It is not of fear that you are enraptured by another, that you have done anything wrong, but the fact that his brother is sitting so close to you, touching you, saying something to make your beautiful smile split across your face. A red hot anger burns in tandem with that familiar, bitter green jealousy that crawls up his throat like ivy.
Without another word, he strides away from the attendants he was speaking with and cuts quickly across the garden, hands balled into fists at his side, nails no doubt pressing deep red crescents into his palms.
Your laughter nearly clears the anger from his mind when he stops in front of you, but it quickly returns when he spies the way his brotherâs thumb runs over your knuckles, your hands in your lap. Too close.
You look up when he approaches and your smile grows even wider. Maekar canât help the guilt he suddenly feels at the happy sparkle in your eyes.
âMy prince,â you greet him happily.
Baelor is still holding your hands.
Maekar looks at his brother and they exchange a tense glance.
âAm I interrupting something?â Maekar asks his brother, stepping closer to you to run the back of his hand gently down the curve of your jaw. He does it without needing to look at you. He knows every curve, dip, feature of your face by heart.
Baelor slowly, deliberately, withdraws his hand from yours. Maekarâs jaw twitches.
âNot at all,â Baelor says, then stands, dusting his hands over the legs of his trousers. âI was simply comforting your wife whilst you were engaged.â
His words are kind to the untrained ear. But thereâs a twinkle in his multi-coloured eyes that makes Maekar roll his own. He then flaps a hand through the air dismissively at his older brother.
âFine, yes, whatever,â Maekar grumbles, turning to clasp your hand and pull you up from the bench. Slightly too forcefully. You yelp and find yourself being reeled into the hard warmth of his chest. Maekar continues, âThank you for providing her with company, brother, but I will be taking her elsewhere.â
You manage to spare a polite smile to Baelor before you are being hauled in the complete opposite direction. Maekarâs strides are purposeful and wide and you scurry along in an attempt to keep up with him, his hand still enclosed around your wrist.
âMy prince,â you start. âYouââ
âYou are not in trouble,â he tells you.
That makes you puff and dig your heels into the grass just as the doors of the castle loom right in front of you. âAre you certain? Because you are haling me around like a child!â
Maekar stops and whirls around to face you. But he is not angry; the lines across his forehead and around his eyes are deep with worry. He immediately releases your wrist, instead curling his arms around you and pulling you to his chest. You canât help but relax into his touch, the tension leaving your shoulders.
âI did not intendââ He takes a deep breath. âPlease forgive me.â
âOf course, my prince.â
His eyes scan your face. âI⊠what is troubling you?â
You pat your hands across his chest, feeling the beating of his heart beneath his black doublet. He closes his eyes and a soft sound leaves the back of his throat as your hands run up his chest, along his shoulders, and then find his face, fingers smoothing through his white-blond beard.
âI do not wish to trouble you with my concerns,â you say quietly, as to not disturb whatever bliss he was enjoying as your fingers carded through his beard.
âYour concerns are my own,â your husband tells you, voice barely above a whisper, his eyes still closed. Birdsong flitters around the two of you, the gardens quiet, the air fresh and crisp. His hands lay flat over your lower back.
You sigh, painted with melancholy, and his eyes finally open. One of his hands finds your wrist once more, holding your hand still against his cheek. You whisper, âI feel as though I am failing.â
Maekar frowns, clutching your wrist. âFailing?â
âIââ you take a deep breath. âAm failing to conceive. Is⊠is there something wrong with me?â
Your husband looks bewildered at your words. âThere is nothing wrong with you.â The way he says it makes it sound like you offended him.
Your other hand is still on his chest and you grip your fingers around the soft padding of his doublet as if to steady yourself. He is warm pressed against you, your heartbeats falling into sync.
âI just wish to have your child, make you happy,â you tell him. âI want a babe, and I know you wantââ
Maekar silences you by bending and pressing his mouth to yours. The kiss catches you by surprise, but you quickly melt into it. He releases your hand which allows you to throw your arms around his shoulders as he grips your hips, pulling you even closer to him. His tongue runs over the seam of your lips and you part for him. Your tongues meet and you whimper into his mouth, but it is brief, and heâs pulling away before you can properly taste him. He leans his forehead against yours, forgetting he is meant to be the stern, gruff Prince Maekar roaming the corridors of Summerhall like a disturbed phantom.
âAll that I want,â he mutters. âIs for you to be happy.â
Your lips brush lightly.
âHow can I make you happy?â His voice is strained. âWhat can I do for you?â
âIâŠâ You feel hot. Embarrassed, too. Hot and embarrassed. You stutter, âI want aâa babe, my prince, butââ
âThen that is what I will give you,â he says against your mouth. âEven if it that means I have to fill you every hour of every fucking day until youâre dripping with me.â
You open your mouth in a shocked gape and your husband closes the gap once more, sliding his mouth to yours and curling his tongue inside. The kiss is longer this time, full of longing, and you feel him walk you backwards until your clothed back presses to the coarse trunk of a tree. One of his hands finds your face, holding you gently, thumb on your jaw to keep your head still for him. Your hands run over his shoulders, pulling at the material of his doublet with trembling fingers. He pulls away from you, heaving, lips shining with spit. His hand leaves your face once more and begins gathering the skirts of your dress.
âNo,â you tell him, although you donât sound convincing. âNot here, Maekar.â
âI am a prince of the realm,â he growls. âI can have you wherever I wantââ
A childâs voice calls your name from somewhere beyond your line of sight. You give your husband a pointed look as you slip out of his grasp, smoothing your skirts back down to your ankles. He places a hand to the tree, eyes screwed shut as you step away just as Daella and Rhae appear, bounding happily barefooted, giggling.
They greet you, then spot their father.
âOh, hi father!â Rhae beams.
Daella addresses you. âWould you please ride with us? We havenât ridden together in moons and Rhae says she is faster than me.â
âI am!â Rhae exclaims, crossing her arms over her chest.
You laugh. âI would loveââ
Maekar appears behind you, his arm wrapping around your waist. He looks between his daughters with a soft expression. âGo and ask your cousin instead. Perhaps he and Kiera will accompany you.â
Daella frowns. âButâ?â
âDo as I say,â Maekar orders, but it is not very stern. You almost laugh at how unconvincing he sounds compared to the way he speaks to his sons.
Daella mumbles something, turning and hurrying away, Rhae bouncing to follow her. When they disappear back into the gardens, you turn and appraise Maekar with a bemused look. He ignores you, instead leaning down to press a kiss to the curve of your neck and shoulder, his hand tightening at your hip, grabbing a fistful of your dress.
âMaekar.â
âI need you.â
âYou can have me later, but your daughtersââ
ââcan ride with you another day,â he interrupts quickly. âI need to make you happy.â
You roll your eyes. âRiding with your children will make me hapââ
âStop talking and come with me.â
Maekar hauls you inside, whisking you through the corridors of Summerhall, and you manage a few squeaks of greeting to passing servants and kingsguard, all of which look at you with sympathy. Mainly because Maekarâs face is set in that characteristically grim pout he has managed to perfect, and to anyone else, perhaps you are being scolded for something. In reality, his cock is half-hard in his breeches and if he doesnât have you soon, he feels he will kill someone.
When you reach your shared chambers, he is rough in pushing you inside. He barks something at the guards stationed nearby, but you do not make out what as your head swims and you try desperately to rid yourself of your dress. He kicks the heavy door shut, rattling the windows, and crosses the room as he rips his doublet from his body.
You manage to get a few ties undone before his hands are on you, desperately pinning you against him, his mouth surging down to meet yours. It is fast and intense and frenzied, teeth-knocking together as your tongues meet. Your hands find his tunic and yank, a button flying free and clattering somewhere in your large chambers. He grunts, slightly impressed, and parts from you to rip the shirt over his head.
Your hands find his chest and stomach, running over the fine, white-blond hair that trails from between his pecs, down his abdomen to where it thickens beneath his navel and disappears below the waistband of his trousers. Your fingers fumble on the clasp there as his mouth connects with yours once more, repeating his earlier actions in backing you up until you hit one of the canopy posts of your bed.
You finally get his trousers undone and push them down along with his breeches, hand rubbing over the trail of hair, down until you can clasp the hardening length of him in your hand. He feels like warm velvet, soft and flushed against your palm.Â
Maekar pulls his head back and groans, your foreheads resting together as the two of you look down and watch your hand slowly begin to move over the length of his cock. You raise your hand for just a moment, long enough to spit into it, then wrap it back around him, dragging a hoarse moan from his throat. You both continue to watch, breathing into each other, as you stroke him. His cock twitches, head darkening like a bruise, pre-cum beading at the slit as your hand moves up and down.
âSâyours,â Maekar mumbles, almost incoherently. His words are slurred. âSâall yours, princess. Sâall for you.â
You quicken your pace, panting now as, beneath your skirts, your core heats and throbs with need. You can feel yourself dripping, and you squeeze your thighs together. Maekar grunts, muscles in his abdomen contracting. He places a hand on the nape of your neck, holding you firmly, thumb pressing against the side of your throat.
âCan IâŠâ you begin and you didnât realise how breathless you were going to sound. âCan I use my mouth?â
Maekar groans loudly, and the sound makes your clit throb and a tiny whimper escape you. His hand on your neck pulls your head away from his so he can look at you. You continue to stroke him though, feeling him twitching against your palm and fingers.
âWill that make you happy?â He asks.
You nod, eyes glossing over. He groans again and then gently, gently, pushes you down by the neck. You sink to your knees, your feet hitting the wood of your bed as you settle, still clutching the base of his cock in your hand. Your skirts bloom out around you like a red rose, your other hand resting on your husbandâs thigh, the short hair ticklish against your palm. He takes the opportunity to kick his trousers and breeches away as you gather saliva in your mouth before kissing the tip.
âFuck sake,â Maekar hisses, still gripping your nape.
A deep groan follows when you finally take him into your mouth, tongue laving along a vein at the base. You take him carefully, lips stretched around the thick of him as you shift forward, nose soon coming to rest against the thatch of hair at the base. You whine around him and it takes all of his strength not to release straight down your throat.
You move back and forth, eyes on him. He meets your gaze, lips parted, tongue pressed to the corner of his mouth as he guides you over his cock. The tip nudges the back of your throat and he watches your eyes water, your throat bobbing as you withhold a gag.
âSâalright, there we goâŠâ He mutters, petting the back of your head as you take him deeper once more. His other hand grips the post of the bed as he leans slightly forward, towering over top of you. His head is swimming with pleasure.
A pretty moan vibrates around him and his grip on the post becomes white-knuckled, his balls twitching as your hand moves to cup them.
âSweetheart,â he manages to grumble out. âLet me have you now.â
You pout around his cock.
He almost laughs, but the pleasure filling the pit of his stomach is too overwhelming. He says firmly, âIf Iâm going to spill anywhere, itâll be inside your pretty cunt.â
Begrudgingly, you pull away from him with a wet pop, a string of saliva connecting you with the tip. You give him one last lick for good measure before youâre clambering to your feet.
He kisses you tenderly and helps rid your body of your red and black dress. Your chemise follows, and he drags it down your body with a gentleness that makes your heart flutter. When the light material hits the floor, Maekarâs mouth finds your neck. He sucks there as he leads you blindly around to the side of your bed, lowering you down onto it.
âYou are perfect,â he mutters against you, kissing down between the valley of your breasts as he clambers over top of you, settling between your legs. His knee presses against your slick core, and you whimper and press yourself down onto it. He groans as he licks over a nipple. âGods, youâre soaked, poor girl.â
His teeth skim the sensitive skin of your nipple as he removes his knee and replaces it with two fingers. He bends them, gathering your arousal, nudging your clit before bringing his hand to his face. He leaves your nipple and sucks his fingers into his mouth. You watch him with an open mouth, pupils blown wide.
Those same fingers return to the slick heat of your pussy and within seconds are pushing inside of you. Your back arches and his head falls back between your breasts.
âBe a good girl and give me one,â Maekar says against you as he pumps his fingers into you. âOne release and then Iâll give you what you need, yes?â
You grab hold of his shoulders and nod. He smiles to himself and licks over the soft skin of your chest. He curls his fingers just the way you likeâthe way he knows you likeâand relishes in the way you squirm and cry for him. There are tears in your eyes, your pussy clenching around his digits, pleasure a constant weight in your belly. Your toes curl where he has your legs spread and one of your hands finds his hair.
Maekar groans as your nails scratch over his scalp before you take a fistful of the white-blond. He groans again when your slick drips down the back of his hand. He adds a third finger and you sob his name so loudly that it reverberates off of the chamber walls.
âGive it to me,â he whispers, bringing his face up to kiss at the base of your jaw as your head tilts back. Youâre shaking beneath him and he loves it. âGive it to me, my love. I need it.â
Itâs as if your body was trained to his words. Your entire being seems to quake as, blinded by pleasure, you come around his fingers. You pull tight at his hair, your back arching off of the bed, your breasts pushing tightly against his chest. You moan Maekarâs name, again and again, as your release tremors through you and he ushers you through it, fingers slowing as your shaking subsides. He kisses a tear from your face as it rolls down towards your temple.
âThere we goâŠâ He utters as if coaxing a wild animal. âThatâs my girl.â
His now very wet hand finds your inner thigh. As he sits up on his haunches, he spreads your legs, baring your pretty cunt to him. You want nothing more for him to slide his mouth against you, suck the pearl of your clit into his mouth and soak his beard.
He seems to know what youâre thinking, and shakes his head ruefully. Meanwhile, he grabs the base of his cock, still wet with your saliva, and strokes it once, twice, three times as his eyes trail from your dripping core to your beautiful face.
âIf I put my mouth on you,â he says, slowly crawling over you. âIâm afraid I will not last.â
âI donât care,â you whine. You add a pout for good measure.
He chuckles. âI care, my wife. I told you, if I am to spill, it is to be inside you.â
At those words, the head of his cock notches at your entrance and you suck in a deep breath, biting your lower lip. Like he always does, your husband watches your face as he drives his cock slowly into you, inch by inch, your pussy swallowing him with no resistance. It makes some sick kind of pride surge in his chest, rearing its head like a dragon. Heâs pleased that you are hisâthis pussy is his. It knows him so well, takes him so well.
He holds your hips as he bottoms out. âThere we go.â
You pant around a moan, chest heaving, stomach full. âMaekar.â
Carefully, he presses one large hand to the softness of your belly. It makes you moan again, hands running down his arms, gripping at his biceps. A string of please, please, please falls from your lips as he starts to move, hand spanning across your womb.
âThis will be the one, Iâm certain,â your husband says above you, hips building into a deep rhythm, cock immediately finding that tender spot inside you that has stars exploding in your eyes. âThis oneâll take.â
You finally manage to pull him down to kiss you. Your lips part so willingly for him and your tongue is so pliant as his brushes against it that he canât help another surge of pride overtake him.
Most of the kiss is the two of you panting into each otherâs mouths as his thick cock stretches you open, your body rocking with his movements. He has one hand beside your head now, anchoring him above you while the other holds your hip, both as an anchor and a guide to help you shift your hips to meet his pelvis.
âIâll give you what you want,â Maekar says against your lips. âI promise you.â
âMaekar,â you whisper, yearning.
That familiar heat has returned to your body. A bowstring, tight and delicately-strung, sits in the deepest part of your belly as if pressing to the back of your womb. Pleasure pulls it tighter, the rub of his cock against your silken walls, the nudge of his tip towards the base of your cervix, all notching the arrow deeper into you.
The very sight of him seems to draw the bowstring further: his hair falling out of place, hanging over his forehead, the apples of his cheeks pink with exertion. And his lips part too, small, deep grunts dropping out with each thrust of his cock inside you. Trembling, you angle your legs and hook them around his waist, pulling him closer. He growls out, his pace increasing, balls smacking against the curve of your arse.
âMaekar.â It spills from your mouth once more, a desperate plea.
He doesnât answer verbally, but he dips his head to kiss you. You bite at his bottom lip and he hisses, shifting to bite at the curve of your jaw. You cry out, and the bowstring deep in your belly finally snaps and you come around his cock, your legs tightening. You call for him, a deer-like bleat as your orgasm zips along your spine like a flaming arrow, tears falling from your eyes. Your release quakes through your body, head to toe alighting with red-hot pleasure as your husband fucks you through it. Your heart flutters wildly in your chest, pussy clenching tightly around his cock and milking him for all his worth.
He groans deeply, his upper lip curling slightly, exposing the sharp point of one of his teeth as he doubles his pace, concentrating on the thick, wet warmth of your pussy around him. Gods as his witness, heâd spend the rest of his life here if it were to make you happy. He can admit that itâd make him happy, anyway.
You whimper as his thrusts deepen into a series of desperate rucks and rolls, the coarse hair at the base of his cock rubbing against your swollen clit.
âIâll fill you, sweetheart. Fill this pretty cunt with my seed,â Maekar grits out. âStuff you so full youâll be dripping. Youâllâfuckâyouâll be so full of me, wonât you? So full of meâŠâ
The thought makes his balls draw up tight, his release teetering on a daggerâs edge. He looks down at where you lay pliant, tamed by your own release. You continue to release breathy whimpers for him, for his ears only, and his cock twitches inside you at the sound.
âItâll take,â he says like he knows it will. âYouâll be round with my babe before Summerâs end. Youâll give me a daughterâIâll give you a daughter.â
Then, with a groan of your name and a whiny âuhâhaâfuck,â Maekar spills inside of you. Hot spurts, again and again, fill you and you canât help but whine like it pains you. Itâs so warm, so filling, you just lay there with your hands running down his back, over his chest, as he ruts into you. In and out in shallow thrusts until his cock twitches, milked dry, and he collapses down beside you, still buried to the hilt.
You allow him to nestle his face on your chest, and you cradle his head as a couple of small shudders rack through him before he stills, save for the deep rise and fall of his chest. You feel his cock slowly begin to soften inside you.
A minute passes in breath-catching, panting silence. Then, you giggle. âYouâll give me a daughter?â
âYes,â he says simply, nuzzling your cheek.
âYou do not want a son?â
He thinks for a moment. âI⊠will be happy with whatever the gods bless us with. ButâŠâ
âButâŠ?â You smile, brushing hair from his face.
He catches your smile and rolls his eyes. âWhat do you wish for me to say, my lady? That my daughters are perfect and my sons drive me to madness?â
You laugh. âYou implied it, not me!â
He grumbles, but presses a small, tender kiss to the curve of your bare breast. âIt matters not whether our babe is a boy or a girl, I just want to see you happy.â
ââżâ
Your moon blood does not come as the days pass. Nor does it come the following cycle and soon, after a visit from your maester, you find yourself bounding through the corridors of Summerhall, elated. You find your husband in his solar, and when you stand in the doorway with a beaming smile split across your beautiful face, a hand resting on your lower belly, he pauses mid-sentence and stands.
âEveryone out!â He practically shouts, and you shake your head, unimpressed, as several attendants and servants scamper from the room like rats.
He rounds his desk and crosses the room with something burning in his light eyes. He takes your face in his hands, holding you as if you could shatter into millions of pieces.Â
âAre youâŠ?â His voice is so soft, a stark contrast from his shout just moments before.
You nod unable to contain your excitement. âThe maesters confirmed it.â
âYou are with child?â
âI amââ and you taper off in a squeal as Maekar takes you in his arms and pulls you to him. You lose your footing and slam into his chest and he holds you tightly, face burying into the top of your head. You hug him back.
All your worries from before seem so small now as you sink into his touch.
ââżâ
Several months later, Maekarâs possessive nature returns as you labour upon your bed. He curses at the maesters who poke and prod between your legs, gnashing teeth as he holds your hand, chest on fire as he watches your pained expression. A maester approaches with a damp cloth and the prince snatches it from him with a scowl. But as he places it atop your forehead, he coos to you, lips brushing your temple, words of encouragement swirling over the blood rushing in your ears and your own cow-like groans of pain.
Maekar has done this before. Six times before. But dread fills him as you struggle, your rounded belly pulled tight, rock-solid.
Hours pass and he never leaves your side.
And heâs still there, lips pressed to the back of your hand, when your babe is born screaming and wriggling and bursting with life.
The midwife and maester move to take the baby away, but you lift your weakened arms, a plea dying on your lips. Maekar sees this.
âGive the babe to my wife. Now,â he orders loudly. And when the child is placed on your chest, he mutters as they retreat, âIdiots.â
But his grumpiness subsides when he sees youâthe happiness that washes over your tired face as you hug your newborn to your chest. Pride fills him like liquid gold as he kisses along the side of your face, reaching to allow tiny fingers to grasp one of his own.
âMany congratulations, your graces,â the midwife says from the edge of the room, voice hesitant. âIt is a healthy girl.â
You donât have to look at your husband to know he is smiling.
âââ
omg congrats on the baby guys ! she totally has your eyes :)
fern i need you to write the most nastiest smut for daddy baelor like toe curling, sweat inducing, cum loading smut i need to ride him like a dragon
toe curling⊠sweat inducing⊠cum loadingâŠ
Ride Your Dragon
Baelor Targaryen x wife!reader
âż after your husband dismisses your words of comfort, he works hard to win back your favour the best way he knows how (or, you ride your dragon to feel better).
âż 18+
âż wc: 3.6k
âż cw: fem!reader, no y/n and reader is undefined but hot (you), baelor is obsessed with you, SMUT, not a lot of plot i'm gonna keep it real guys, unprotected piv, riding, praise, strong language, the softness and desperation we all need from a man like him (so not super duper nasty i'm sorry đ)
The golden light of the sinking sun illuminates your path through the Red Keep as you hurry through the vast network of halls, your heavy skirts whipping against your ankles as you move. Servants stop when they see you, bowing their heads or casting their eyes downwards in respect, and ever the dutiful princess, you respond with the same kind smile that has earned you quite the positive reputation across the kingdoms.
A kind, amiable consort to match the justness and integrity of the great Baelor Targaryen. A gentle hand beside him to lessen the load, to calm him of his dayâs struggles and guide him tenderly through the reddened corridors of the royal residence. Whispers whirl of how your smile can subdue any man, reallyââlesser lords notice the relief that seems to wash off of Maekar when you enter any room, and the ladies-in-waiting spot how tension leaves the faces of Valarr and Matarys when you place your hands upon their shoulders in comfort.
Some say it is magic. Some say you are an enchantress, primed with the ancient knowledge of some kind of dark ritual that enables you to calm even the most tempestuous of storms (these rumours began when you calmed the raging Aerion one night, several moons ago, and he, to everyoneâs utter shock, listened and obeyed).
But it is not magic.
Nor are you always successful.
You continue briskly down the warmly lit hallway, head level and eyes fixated onto the opening space in front of you. You can hear equally hurried footsteps behind you, and you huff to yourself, making it to your favourite wing of the castle and throwing open the door to your chambers. You slam it shut behind you and it seems the bones of the castle rattle with the force, the heavy wood appearing to rock on its hinges. With an exasperated sigh, and in a considerably unladylike manner, you fling yourself down onto the furs of your bed.
There is a gentle knock on your door.
âNo,â you respond simply.
âI have yet to speak a word,â the voice of your husband travels quietly through the thick wood. Despite these being his chambers too, he did not open the door. Instead, when greeted with your silence, he continues with a gentle, âMy love?â
âLeave me be,â you say loudly, lifting your faces out of the plush furs.
âI do not wish to,â Baelor replies quickly. âMay I enter?â
He asks for permission to enter his own chambers. The chivalry of it all makes you sigh as you roll onto your back, picking yourself up to sit on the very edge. You let him wait for a few long moments, watching sunlight dance through the large, reticulated windows adjacent to your bed.
âMy love,â he says again, somehow even more gentle than before. His tone has something twisting bitterly inside your stomach, something tasting of guilt when it rises like bile into your mouth. You shake away the feeling, pressing the tip of your tongue to the backs of your teeth as you withhold a pout. Baelor continues, âI will leave if youâââ
âYou may enter,â you say quickly before you regret it. Not that you ever would.
The door creaks open slowly and your husband enters your shared chambers. He closes the door softly behind him before he remains adjacent to it, mismatched eyes finding yours across the room, a deep crease in his brow. Thereâs something heavy there, in the way he holds your gaze, his own guilt manifesting itself in the space between you like some kind of spectre. You yearn to bat it away and make him feel right again.
He takes one step closer. âI did not mean to speak to you in such a way.â
His curt words from earlier echo around your skull as if he were shouting them at you right at that moment. Frustrated and tired, Baelor had dismissed you tersely from his solar when you attempted to peel the stress from his body with your kind words. Paired with a flick of his hand through the air in obvious dismission, his words cut through you like a knifeââand he knew it. You were offering him such sweet words, such (usually) welcomed comfort and support, and he had all but cleaved your heart in half for it. A short moment after the words had been said, he looked up in surpriseââsurprise and shock at himselfââas you withdrew from him, hands leaving his shoulders and warmth vanishing, extinguished like a candle. You had backed away and then fled the room, leaving Baelor to fumble over the papers before him, inkwell toppling over and splashing ink across the parchment as he moved quickly to get up from his desk.
You notice the ink stains on a couple of his fingers, black smudged into the crevices of his skin. His face appears calm, but he fidgets with a large silver ring on his ring finger.
âYet you did,â you mutter in reply, crossing your arms over your body. âYou spoke to me as if I was little more than⊠than a servant.â
You pause, then scoff out: âActually, you are always so courteous to our servants, so I believe you spoke to me with even less courtesy. Perhaps you would speak to a hound like that, or perhaps a Blackfyreâââ
Baelor huffs loudly, but he wasnât angry. âDo not pain me, my love.â
You raise a brow in his direction.
âI apologise for the way I spoke to you. It was unbecoming and unjust of me, and I stand here before you, as your husband, to ask for your forgiveness,â Baelor says carefully, taking another couple of steps towards you. He stops, just out of arms reach. âFrom sunrise to evenfall I have been continuously called upon, but I know that does not excuse the insolence of my actions.â
âNo,â you whisper. âIt does not.â
âPlease, my love.â Baelor steps forward once more and brings a large hand to the side of your face, cupping your cheek and touching his thumb to your cheekbone. âI am deeply sorry. May you forgive me?â
You notice the glassiness of his mismatched eyes and immediately melt beneath his gaze, a surge of remorse flowing through you as his other hand finds the other side of your face, cradling you. His eyes scan over you and you let your frown slip away.
âYou are forgiven,â you begin.
Baelor smiles, the lines around his tired eyes deepening. âThankâââ
âOn one condition.â
Baelor cuts himself short, slowly closing his mouth. You smile innocently at him as he continues to cup your face in his warm hands. He leans forward and presses a gentle kiss to your forehead and you feel butterflies in your stomach as if you were some simple maiden.
âAnything,â he whispers against you.
You take a step back (which requires considerable strength considering the warmth and gentleness and familiarity of his hands on your face). His arms drop to his sides and he peers at you curiously. You point at the bed behind you.
âNo more work for the rest of the evening,â you say. âAnd youâre going to get on that bed and not move unless I tell you to.â
Baelor opens his mouth to say something, but decides against it. Not wanting to spurn anymore wrath from his wife, he keeps eye contact while he discards himself of his royal wear, his tunic falling away to reveal the strong expanse of his chest. Silently, you turn and he understands immediatelyââyour clever, observant princeââand makes slow, careful work of the intricate knots on the rear of your dress.
You feel him against you. So warm and solid, his hands skim the heavy fabric as he unravels the backing with deft fingers. His breath fans over your shoulder too, which you can feel when it bares to him, the sleeve of your dress slipping down as he works. Warm lips press to warm skin. Over and over, Baelor takes the time to trail tender kisses along the shoulder, over the junction of your neck and up the side of your throat. He peels your dress down past your waist as he kisses the pulsepoint right below your ear, and you are aware that it is practically jumping out of your skin to meet him.
You lean your head back against his shoulder, your skirts hitting the solid ground with a resounding thump as his hands find the soft linen of your shift, clutching your waist.Â
His nose bumps the shell of your ear as he whispers, âIâm sorry.â
Then, his hands move, and you sigh out wistfully as his hands cover your breasts, palms burning-hot even above the thin material. He kneads you there as he sucks the skin at the curve of your neck, humming quietly to himself. You reach a hand behind you to loop into the band of his trousers, pulling him closer, feeling the imprint of him against your backside. You arch into the feeling and his quiet hum turns into a low groan.
You step forward and bring him with you with your finger hooked into his trousers still. He followers willingly, hands reaching for you as you spin out of his grasp, laughing. You stop at the edge of the bed.
Baelor quickly makes work of his trousers, and you canât help but giggle at the desperation he shows in rucking them down his legs and then ridding himself of his breeches like a lovesick lord. You bite your lip as his already hard cock bobs out, and you have a moment where you wish to reach forward and grasp it (but you realise that would likely end up with you on all fours on the groundââgood in any other situation but this).
You nod to the bed.
âSo demanding,â he chuckles warmly, clambering onto the bed before turning to rest against the multitude of pillows at the top. He puts one arm beneath his head, smiling over at you as you slowly begin to remove your shift.
He watches you as if heâs being rewarded, free hand wrapped around the base of his cock. The head is ruddy with blood already, precum pearling at the slit as his eyes darken.
Your shift finally, finallyââtaking too fucking long, Baelor thoughtââhits the floor, leaving you exposed to the cool air of the room. Golden sunshine illuminates your body in such a way that Baelorâs mouth drops open: you were a vision from the gods themselves.
âSeven aboveâŠâ He mutters, fisting his cock. The pearl of precum drops and rolls alongside a dark vein prominent on the underside.
You crawl towards him, breasts on full display as you settle up between his legs, and you hear his breath quicken, see the paced rise and fall of his chest. You make a point of swooping in low as you slink over his abdomen, the flushed head of his cock brushing between the swell of your breasts. Baelor groans loudly, the look of victory on his face mere moments ago completely gone. His pupils are blown wide with lust and his cock twitches as he rucks his hand shallowly over the base.
âMy love,â he breathes out. âGods, please, I need you.â
You straddle his hips, cock a hairâs breadth away from the heat of your core. You lift yourself and ignore the slight tremble in your thighs.
âDo you know how wet you make me?â You ask him in a whisper, and the groan that elicits from his chest was as strong an aphrodisiatic as anything you could find in Lys. You continue, âHow soaked I am, simply from your touch?â
Baelor swallows thickly. âShow meâââ
âHow much I ache for you?â You lift yourself higher until the head of his cock, flushed a painful, bruising red, presses softly to your slick core.
âOh fuckâââ Your husband draws in a sharp breath.
But you donât sink down. You simply begin to rock yourself back and forth, nudging the head of his cock through the wet folds of your cunt while you whine and whisper questions at him that he most definitely cannot answer. He could reach forward and take your hip in one large hand, slamming you down onto him. He has the power to do it, the nerve to do it, but he holds firm. Doesnât move. Obeying his princess while she takes what she needs.
âDo you know how often you work late into nightfall, leaving me here, alone? How I have to touch myself to the thought of you because you are not here to satisfy me.â
The prince curses again and screws his eyes shut, relishing in the wet heat coursing down the length of his cock. He imagines you lying in your shared bed, your fingers crooked deep into the silken warmth of your cunt, moans drawing from your lips including a loud lilt of his name into the emptiness of the chambers. He envisions the pads of your fingers working desperately over the swollen bud of your clit, your back arching, nipples straining against the thin white fabric of your shift, pussy bared to the room and clenching around nothing.
His cock twitches and he groans.
âLet me taste you, my love,â is all he can think to say as he opens his eyes. He lets go of his cock to reach for your hip, squeezing gently and caressing the skin, as if that would help strengthen his case.Â
If you were a weaker woman, it would have.
Instead, you angled yourself to pry his hand away from his cock. He held you still, but let you move his fist away, watching with hooded eyes. All thoughts of work left his mind as you dragged his cock back and forth along the dripping seam of your cunt, nudging your clit and pressing against your hole. Again, and again, andââ
âGods, sweetheart, please,â Baelor whispers, tone strained, his free hand gripping the furs of the bed tightly, knuckles white. âIâm sorry, Iâm sorry, Iâmâââ
It takes the power of all Seven above for you not to smile in victory at his incessant pleas before youâre slowly sinking down onto his cock. His head falls back against the pillows and he moans your name, loud and clear into the golden glow of your chambers as his free hand snaps to your hip to mirror the other.
Your cunt opens perfectly for him and you whimper at the stretch. He splits you open, sinking deep inside you in one fluid motion like a sword into its scabbard. The perfect fit. And he lets you know it, tooââ
âThatâs it, thatâs it, so good,â Baelor mutters his praises when he finally opens his eyes to look at you again. âSo good for me, my love. So goodââyeah, there we go.â
You start to move, your thighs tightening as you lift yourself and shift back down, cock rutting deep towards the plug of your cervix. The angle is torturous, and you can feel the vein on his cock inside you. It makes you moan, and then whine when his hands brace against the flesh of your hips. Heâs pulling you down onto him before he can stop himself, panting as he watches your pussy take him like something out of a dream.
A spark ignites deep in your belly, your body heating. That fierce, intense heat that seemed to roll off most Targaryen men was the same heat that settles now inside youââinside your womb as you ride a dragon. Your dragon.
And he was never one to play on that too much. Never one to flaunt the fire that ran wild in his veins. Until, of course, he had you over top of him like this. Riding his cock so well, taking him so deep, drawing growls from a hidden part within him.
âThatâs a good girl,â he says darkly, his cold rings a biting presence against your waist. âKeep goingââride your dragon, sweetheart.â
You moan, and you couldnât find it in yourself to care that the sound probably penetrated the castle walls around you. You focus on the blooming pleasure in the bottom of your belly, the tingle building in the base of your spine, and the heat of his gaze on your face and breasts as you ride him.
Sweat builds up on the back of your neck and down the curve of your spine. Youâre panting like a hound, toes curling against the soft furs, hands gripping at the softness of his stomach and chest, feeling the hair there. Baelorâs hands are strong on your hips, rolling you against him, his own hips shifting upwards with each of your movements, meeting you in the middle and thrusting himself deeper inside you. Your cunt is drooling out from around him, and he canât help but stare at the thin, white ring that is slowly building at the base of his length. Maybe you are magic.
âBaelor,â you whine.
The wooden bedframe is creaking, the candles on a nearby table are flickering, and the setting sun has morphed from a resplendent gold to a blood red. Your chambers were bathed in the colour, your skin drenched in it, matching the ruby that sparkled on one of Baelorâs rings.
He huffs deeply. âMy love?â
âIâmâŠâ You taper off on a whine, head flopping forward as your legs begin to cramp and the tension in your belly grows tighter, pulling taut like a bowstring. You manage to whisper out a desperate, âOh gods, pleaseâŠâ
âI know, I know,â Baelor shushes you gently. âFeels so good, doesnât it?â
âYes,â you whine. You lasted in your conquest for a good amount of time, but ultimately, you can never stay strong when your husband is involved.
He feels you clench around him and he almost loses his sanity, his next words dying on his tongue. They were honey-sweet, though, and so he quickly conjures up, âNeed to feel you come around me,â before a low moan rips from his chest.
The hair at his temples has darkened with sweat, his chest flushed. He can feel the desperate tension in his cock, his balls tightening with every wet thrust into the tight clutch of your cunt. Heâs fucking you roughly now, chasing the highs that crest upon an imagined horizon like the blazing sun beyond the Keepâs walls. It feels like there is smoking billowing from him, his grunts deep and bordering animalistic, eyes swimming in a red haze as night creeps into the room. The red streaming in is dying out, slowly, slowlyââ
He moans your name. âCome on, sweetheart, let me feel you.â
You gasp out. âFu-uck!â And then come around his cock with a drawn-out moan.
Your pussy draws tight around the thick of him, squeezing and pulsing with your rapid heartbeat. It leaves you breathless, heart hammering against your ribcage as you slump forward, arms liquifying as your pleasure rocks through you. But Baelor catches you, presses you firmly to his chest with one hand while the other retains its grip on your hip, fucking you down onto his cock. He kisses you like this. When youâre pliant in his arms, the qualms of the day banished from your pleasure-hazed mind, he places wet kisses across your face, your throat. He sucks at your neck and tastes the salt of your sweat, and then he licks into your mouth and tastes the saccharine remnants of blood oranges imported from Dorne.
Laying here with you, moving together, his mouth on yours, his cock inside you, Baelor forgets about everything he needs to complete today. He forgets about what had stressed him, and forgets the inkwell likely still dripping onto the stone floor of his solar.
His thrusts become sloppier, less coordinated. He pants into your mouth, kissing the corner with a surprising tenderness in contrast with his manic thrusting.
âBaelorâââ You sob out through a tired whimper.
âSâalright, my love, just be good for me,â he replies quickly, and you can hear the tension strung between each word. âBe good for meââfuck, yeah, thatâsââoh gods, take it for me, sweetheart, take itâââ
With one last rut of his hips, Baelor pulls your arse tightly onto him, practically melding you to his hips as his cock twitches once, twice, and then spills inside you. The sensation draws a strained groan from the prince, and the feeling of his cum filling you shoves an involuntary gasp out of your parted lips.
The two of you lay together, heaving chests pressed against one another, your raging hearts falling into sync, sweat slick between your burning bodies. Like glowing embers, the heir to the iron throne and his beloved wife settle and fizzle out just as the sun finally vanishes behind the distant horizon.
Now only a few candles cast light on where the two of you remain intertwined, Baelorâs softening cock still nestled inside you, your combined slick and cum slowly dribbling out and onto the furs.
Baelor presses another characteristically tender kiss to your forehead as he strokes your back with his large, worn hands. âI am truly sorry for the way I spoke to you earlier, my love. I will never cause you such distress again, gods believe me.â
He nuzzles against your cheek as you reply, âI forgive you, my prince. I know how much of a dragon you become when you are overwhelmed.â
He grunts against you, but says nothing more, knowing that, once again, youâre right. And being with you has extinguished the dayâs burdens and he feels utterly content.
âż you and baelor are married. now it's time for your wedding night (or, your first time together as husband and wife).
âż 18+
âż wc: 6.1k
âż cw: fem!reader, no y/n and reader is not physically defined, reader from an unnamed but powerful House with non-specific colours, age gap (unspecified), blood!!! and valyrian wedding ritual type stuff (they cut each other's lips but nothing major i promise), SMUT, plot if you really squint, unprotected piv, fingering, oral (f!receiving), praise!!!, pet names (sweet girl, etc), multiple orgasms, mating press, slight breeding, possessive!baelor, the valyrian blood stuff has him going crazy for you ngl, baelor speaking high valyrian (translations under sentences), strong language, maekar mention bc i love him, title taken from no ordinary love by sade
a/n: i used this translator for the high valyrian so don't attack me if it's wrong or whatever lol. i also took the valyrian wedding stuff from hotdâ it's not the exact same (mainly for porn purposes) but i hope you enjoy anyway!
You stand before the Great Sept of Baelor, sunlight glancing from the white stone as you peer down at the crowd at the base of the tall stairs. There has to be thousands of people packed between the surrounding buildings to catch a glimpse of you.
The young woman now married to Baelor Targaryen, the Prince of Dragonstone, Hand of the King, Protector of the Realm, Heir to the Iron Throne. All of these lavish titles, and then there was suddenly youâthe young woman of a small but powerful House, known for the strength of her will, her defiance, and her generosity. Why the prince married a simple lordâs daughter was unknown, but the thousands of eyes glued to you could see the expression on his face.
Baelor gazes at you gently, his cloak draped across your shoulders, blood-red flowing down your back and pooling at your feet. His hand clasps yours, his thumb moving across the back in soothing circles as you inhale a shaky breath. The roar of the crowd echoes in the air around you, the tolling of bells loud and melodic, the sun hot on the bare skin of your face.
Kingâs Landing looks so much different than your home, feels so much different, smells so much different. But this is your home now. And as you turn your head, meeting your husbandâs soft, mismatched eyes, you realise that if heâs there with you, it might not be so bad.
âThey love you already,â Baelor whispers to you, leaning in close. His nose presses to the warm skin of your cheek, his lips ghosting across. He says your name quietly, âYou will make a fine queen one day, I know it.â
You shift your head to capture his mouth with yours, and a chorus of cheers and whistles meet your ears as Baelor pulls you to him, returning the kiss.
ââżâ
The feast was extraordinary.
Tables seem to stretch for miles, piled high with foods you had only ever dreamed of. The grand hall fills with the savoury smell of meats and pastries, air thick with the murmur of conversation and the jovial ballads of a nearby troupe as you sit at the very tip of the large table. Baelor sits beside you, his hand completely engulfing yours, pressed to the fine red silk of the tablecloth. He has not let you go since the moment your marriage was sealed with a kiss before the High Septon.
Mere weeks ago, you were practising archery in the back field of your home, roaming the halls at night and snacking on Marlaâs honeycakes in the kitchens. You were sneaking out to town and gambling with dragons, riding astride through the forests near your castle, spending hours with the commonfolk and purchasing their produce in the markets on your own. Now, you sit within the thick walls of the Red Keep, adorned in the colours of blood and ash, the three-headed dragon fluttering high above your head as the heir to the Iron Throne holds your hand, occasionally lifting it to press a chaste kiss to your knuckles.
Baelor is locked in conversation with his youngest brother, and you take a moment to admire him. His dark hair and beard, speckled with grey, and the sparkling colours of his eyes, his gaze firm and calculating. His wedding wear is neat and trim, fitted perfectly to his body, doublet and tunic dyed in blacks and reds. The hand that holds yours is strong, veins running along the back, silver rings decorating his fingers. You can nearly see your reflection in the mirror-like surface of the ruby on one of them. But your eyes linger on his fingers, the bumps of his knuckles, the clean, blunt crescents of his nails.
Warmth blooms in your stomach, and you bite your lip and look away as the heat begins travelling into your chest. Feeling you move, Baelorâs head shifts, and he peers down at you curiously, a small smile spread across his lips.
âYou grow restless,â he comments, eyes flitting over your seated form, lingering for a moment on the low neckline of your dress.
You smile at him. âNo, my prince, of course not. I apologiseââ
Baelor leans in closer, his words meant for you and you alone. âYou must not lie to your husband, my love.â
You suck in a breath as he presses a delicate kiss to your cheekbone.
âNo,â you tell him quietly. âI⊠am restless, I admit.â
âYou are a princess of the realm,â Baelor tells you, squeezing your hand. âIf you wish to take momentary leave, you may do soââ
His voice was deep and so incredibly gentle in your ear. The heat in your belly triples, and you find yourself clenching your thighs together beneath the thick material of your skirts. Baelorâs sentence dies on his lips, his eyes flicking downwards for a quick second, before they find your face again. You sink your teeth into your bottom lip, casting a searching look around the room, aware of the hundreds of eyes that could possibly observe you.
âOh.â Baelor smirks. âYou are restless because you are impatient.â
You huff as he releases your hand. âI am not impatientââ
Baelorâs hand finds your thigh, heavy atop your skirts, and you attempt to strangle a yelp that leaps from your throat. One of your hands clenches tightly around your goblet, the other digging fingernails into the tablecloth to steady yourself.
Baelorâs head shifts, lips brushing the shell of your ear. âYou are needy.â
âI am notâ!â
âI know your body,â he whispers. âI know you, my dear wife.â
Heat washes through you, lashes fluttering as the warmth of his breath and the closeness of his body acts upon you like an aphrodisiac. The clamour of voices around you keeps you grounded to reality though, and your eyes pass, once more, over your guests.
âAnd I know youâve worked yourself up⊠gotten yourself all wet and wanting for your prince,â Baelor mutters, his words making your thighs come together tighter. The hand on your leg dips, pressing along the curve of your thigh until the tips of his fingers press to the gap between them, pushing between the space through your dress. He chuckles. âBut you must be patient. Good girls are patient, arenât they?â
He pulls away and you let out a breathless whimper as you nod. His hand leaves your thigh too, reaching up to pat you gently on the cheek, before heâs grasping your hand again and turning back to his brother. You look up and catch Maekarâs gaze, who just rolls his eyes and reengages with his brother as if nothing had happened.
You sink into your chair, body humming with heat.
This was probably going to be the longest feast of your entire life.
ââżâ
You were married in accordance with the Faith of the Seven, your union blessed and sealed within the grand old sept, but something was clawing inside Baelor. He delighted in hearing you repeat the needed phrases, the words that bound you to him. He enjoyed the way your eyes shone with unshed tears as he cupped your face in his hands before he pressed his mouth to yours. Husband and wife.
But he needed something else.
There was a primal sort of need within him. Something ancient and old that had clung to his bloodline for thousands of years. A whisper of High Valyrian from the depths of his mind. He had an urge to honour his lineage he had never felt so strongly before.
ââżâ
After the feast and resulting festivities, there was no parade of you back to your new chambers. There was no crowd of men urging you down the hall and straight beneath the sheets of your new marital bed. Instead, the sea of people you had gazed upon from the head of the table, full of many faces you did not recognise, trickled from the Keep as the sun set. Baelor gently takes your arm in his, and as the servants light the torches mounted to the hallways, he leads you towards his wing.
Not much word was spoken between the two of you as he opens the door of his chambersâyour chambersâand guides you inside. The room is grand but cosy, a fireplace crackling on one side, and a large, four-posted bed on the other. Plush chaises sit in front of the hearth, and a small writing desk is situated beside one of the large windows. Moonlight spills through the latticed glass, and paired with the glowing yellow of nearby candles, the room appears resplendent as you take it all in.
Baelor closes the door and bolts it shut behind you. You feel one of his large hands come to rest on the small of your back.
âI have never seen chambers quite as grand as this,â you speak quietly as you look around the room.
Baelor leans down to press a kiss to your shoulder. âThese are your chambers now, my sweet girl. Anything you wish to change can be arranged.â
You shake your head. âNo⊠no, itâs lovely the way it is.â
Baelorâs lips trail from your shoulder to the junction of your neck, finding bare skin. His mouth is hot against you, and you tip your head to the side to grant him better access. You feel him smile against your skin as his hands circle your waist, chest pressing firmly to your back as he continues to pepper a line of kisses up the side of your neck.
âMy wife,â Baelor mutters as he plants a kiss to your hammering pulse below your ear. âThere is one last wedding tradition I wish to share with you.â
One of his hands splays across your belly, flattening against the mound of your womb. His other hand travels up your waist, brushing over the side of your breast and curving over your shoulder and throat. His thumb finds your bottom lip and presses down.
âIt is Valyrian,â Baelor tells you, thumb swiping across your bottom lip. Your eyes flutter closed as he sucks a kiss to the supple skin of your neck. He continues gently, âWe need not fulfil the entire ceremony, but I wish for our blood to mix.â
You bristle slightly against him, and he feels this. Your eyes snap open as he turns you around to face him, his hands shifting to cup either side of your face.
âThe bride and groom cut a small wound to each otherâs lips, and place a bloodied mark to their loved oneâs forehead,â Baelor says. âThe palm is usually cutââ
You cringe. âBaelorââ
âBut I will not ask that of you,â Baelor is quick to interrupt and takes a step towards you. You take a step back, blinking up at him coyly. He smiles. âThe lip heals quickly.â
Thereâs a sparkle in Baelorâs eyes you donât quite recognise. Predatory, maybe, as he surges forward as you stumble back. Your arse bumps into the edge of the writing desk, and suddenly Baelor is leaning over you, his hands slamming down onto the wood and caging you in. Heat blooms through you, skin sticky beneath your dress.
âYou may decline,â he utters, head lowering to press his lips, feather-light, to your temple. Your hands shoot out to grip his doublet, desperate for his touch. The hair of his beard tickles the side of your face as he moves, settling his lips beside your ear. âI will take care of my sweet girl whether she bleeds for me or not.â
You let out a small whimper, shifting your head to make him kiss you. But Baelor pulls back, the tips of your noses brushing before he pulls back. His pupils are wide, his brows lightly furrowed as he attempts to read your facial expression.
Then, you find yourself nodding. âI will do it, my prince.â
Baelor smiles, and he allows you to lean forward and press your mouths together. The immediate rush of heat to your core makes you moan into his mouth as he presses you against the edge of the writing desk. One of his hands finds your waist, pinning your hips to his as his tongue flicks into your mouth. You taste the spices of Dorne as he kisses you, and he tastes you for what you are: honey-sweet and ripe, just for him.Â
His other hand dips to one of the deskâs drawers. He opens it and blindly retrieves the onyx dragonglass blade from the wooden depths. He pulls away from you, his hand moving to your cheek to hold your eye contact. Your eyes find the sharp blade and you swallow thickly, sucking your bottom lip into your mouth subconsciously.
âWill you have me?â Baelor whispers, thumb caressing your cheekbone.
âYes,â you whisper back and your voice sounds foreign. âPlease, my prince.â
Baelor holds the side of your head gently as he raises the shard of dragonglass to your lower lip. You suck in a deep breath as he traces the flat side across your lip first, the blade cold and forcing a shiver down your spine. Then, you feel him flip the blade onto its side. He applies pressure directly to the centre of your bottom lip, the dragonglass biting down and slicing through the flesh. A tiny whimper leaves your throat at the sharp jolt of pain, but it subsides quickly, making room for a dull ache to overtake you.
And heâs speaking in a language you donât understand. High Valyrian, you know it, but the words are lost in your ears. His tongue shifts and rolls with the words you cannot decipher.
Baelor watches with dark eyes as blood pearls from the wound and rolls down your chin in a perfectly straight line. Something twists low in his stomach, his cock stirring in his breeches as he takes his thumb and fixes it against the cut, collecting your blood. Another small sound leaves you and his heart stutters.
He breaks his quiet ritual with words you understand. âThatâs my girl.â
Then, the words resume, and he pushes his bloodied thumb between your brows, marking your forehead. Your eyes are glazed over, your lower lip pumping as he carefully encloses the dragonglass blade in your palm. You hold it tightly, and Baelor guides you with a hand around your wrist, touching the tip of the blade to his own lips as he utters.
His words break only for a moment to allow you to cut his lip, and you canât help the gasp that escapes you as you watch the wound well with blood. Bright, fiery red. He takes the blade from you and places it on the writing desk as you raise your hand, mimicking his earlier movements, and put your thumb to the blood. You marvel as it expands beneath the digit, swelling like ink.
You firstly trace a line down his chin, and you feel his breath hitch in his chest as he resumes his murmuring. The stripe of blood is rich against the neat, dark hair that grows across his chin. You collect more blood with a trembling hand and then place your thumb to his forehead. His eyes flutter closed for just a moment as he stumbles over one of the words.
He opens his eyes when your hand retracts.
He stops talking.
His eyes trail across the smear of blood on your forehead, down the lines of your face, to your lips. Blood continues to collect there, the line down your chin glistening on your skin.
âIksÄ Ă±uhon, se iksan aĆhon,â Baelor utters, and you look up at him curiously as you withhold the urge to lick the pooling blood from your lip.
(You are mine, and I am yours).
You wait for the translation, but it never comes, because Baelor is seizing your face with two hands and slamming his mouth to yours. Your lips press together, blood mingling, mixing, smearing. His tongue finds your lip too, laving across the wound and licking into your mouth. The taste of copper is strong as your tongues meet, the ache in your lip mellowing into a faint throbbing as Baelor begins to move you.
He guides you away from the writing desk and towards the bed. You pull away when the backs of your knees hit the mattress, and you find yourself turning to expose the ties of your dress to him. Baelor makes quick, practised work of the knots and bows with blood-stained fingers. He draws his lower lip into his mouth in focus, sucking your blood and his into his mouth as he tugs at the ribbons. After a quiet moment, he notices your bodice loosen enough for him to push your sleeves off of your arms and help you step out of your dress.
His hands caress your sides through your undergarment, and your chemise is soon thrown over your head after he settles a blood-hot kiss to the back of your neck. Baelor spins you back around, ripping his doublet off of himself before he claims your mouth forcefully. This kiss is filled with longing, paired with the clashing of teeth and curling of tongues. Your trembling fingers find the buttons and ties of his tunic and you unfasten them as quickly as you can, your desire building, heat throbbing within your smallclothes.
When the last button comes undone, Baelor shucks the tunic from his shoulders as your hands drag up and down his strong abdomen. Your fingers dance across the trail of hair beneath his navel, skirting across the waistband of his trousers. You find the clasp there and pop it, and Baelor groans into your mouth as your hand dips inwards. His cock is hard and straining against his breeches, tenting the front of his trousers as he, one-handed, wriggles them down his hips as you untie his breeches. Youâre proud of yourself, locked in his kiss and trusting the movements of your fingers.
But the pride doesnât last when you lose the feeling of the drawstring.
You wrench yourself out of the kiss to peer down and find the strings again. Baelorâs lips descend down the side of your neck, no doubt leaving a trail of blood as you finally undo the knots of his breeches. You push the soft material down and wrap your fingers around the base of his cock and give him a firm stroke.
Baelor hisses against your throat, teeth skimming over your skin. âOhâñuha dĆna ÄbrazÈłrys.â
(My sweet wife).
The foreign words and the conviction with which he speaks them has heat spreading rapidly through your body, your heartbeat settling low in your core as you arch into his touch. His hands pinch the flesh of your hips beneath blood-stained fingers, and he pushes you back onto the plush sheets of the bed. You let out a gasp, hand withdrawing from the base of his cock as you topple backwards, Baelorâs body moving immediately to cover yours.
He bullies your legs apart as you sink deeper into the sheets, one of his hands moving to cup the back of your neck. He holds your head in place as his hand slips beneath the waistband of your smallclothes.
âBaelor,â you whisper, breathless, fisting the sheets beneath you.
Baelor coos gently as two fingers dip into your slit, spreading you open beneath the linen of your smallclothes and finding your aching clit. âThatâs it, just like that. Say my name again, sweet girl.â
You taste blood as your tongue darts to lick across your bottom lip, a small sting shooting through you. His eyes never move from you, watching the movement of your tongue and mouth, and the flitting of your eyes and the expansion of your pupils.
âBaelor,â you whine, slightly louder this time. Your husband smiles down at you as he draws circles over your clit, the pressure firm and unrelenting. It makes your legs lock up either side of him, your hips twitching.
âYeah, thatâs itâŠâ The fingers on the back of your neck tighten as he stares down at you, your faces inches apart as he grinds the rough pad of his finger against your swollen clit.
You watch with glazed eyes as a small bead of blood slips free of the thin cut. It falls and lands at the corner of your mouth, and you canât help yourselfâyour tongue flicks it away, tasting iron and ash.
Baelor groans loudly, a desperate growl of your name, before his head is falling and heâs swiping his tongue across the smear at the edge of your mouth. His tongue pushes past your lips, and you moan into the kiss as he claims you again. Your teeth knock together as he grips your neck, pulling you closer to him, controlling the kiss, while his fingers shift from your clit. They slip through the slick pooling between your folds and circle the rim of your hole. You release a little mewl as, without warning, two thick fingers depress inwards, stretching the gummy walls of your pussy apart as he kisses you.
âGods, youâre a good girl,â Baelor mutters against your mouth, panting. You can feel the press of his warm, hard cock against your inner thigh. Heâs rutting against you lightly as his fingers move, sinking right to the knuckle and curling upwards. You suck in a breath, and Baelor groans as your pussy clamps tightly around the digits. âAhâva moriot sÄ«r Èłrda syt nykeâoh, gods.â
(Always so tight for me).
Your body racks with tremors as he fucks his fingers into you. The hand on the back of your neck is burning hot, branding and possessive as he holds himself above you. He presses his tongue to the cut on his lip as he watches your eyelashes flutter and your lips drop apart in puppy-like pants.
Baelor lowers his head momentarily to press his lips to the smear of blood across your forehead. When he resumes his position, hovering over you once more, he speaks. âLet go for me, my sweet girl. Let go for your husband.â
Your eyes shut as pressure bears down in your pelvis, but a squeeze to the nape of your neck has them flying open.
âEyes on me,â Baelor orders, his voice firm but even. âI want you looking at me when you let goânyke jorrÄelagon ao naejot jurnegon rÈł nyke.â
(I need you looking at me).
A small whine slips from your throat as his words pierce straight through you. You arch off the bed, breasts pressing tightly to his warm chest as your orgasm peaks, higher and higher, until you finally let go. An echoing moan of his name rattles through the large chambers as you come around his fingers, pussy clenching tightly as his digits curl against the perfect spot inside you over and over. Your legs tighten and lock around him, fingers fisting the sheets as pleasure courses through you like an electric current. Baelor watches you with a pleased smile, close-lipped and observant, tasting you still in the grooves of his molars as he thrusts his fingers deeper, slower.
He pulls his fingers from you. You huff around a small whimper as your slick oozes from you like molasses, down the curve of your arse. Baelor can feel it webbing between his digits, sticky between his knuckles as he slips them out of your smallclothes before pulling them down your legs, revealing your pussy to him.
âOh, Iâve missed this pretty girl,â Baelor whispers, and with tired eyes, you watch as his head lowers immediately between your legs.
He blows a strong puff of air against you, making you keen, before one of his hands finds the flesh of your thigh and gives it a reassuring squeeze. His mouth finds your core quicklyâmuscle memoryâand his tongue curls inside you. No small kisses, no licks, no preparation. His thick tongue pushes deep into your cunt and you moan, hand shooting down to clutch a fistful of his short, dark hair. His cock leaks, trapped between his abdomen and the sheets, as he shoves his face into you, his nose knocking hard against your swollen clit.
You yowl, hips jerking. âMy prince, pleaseââ
Baelor growls into you, the vibrations splicing right through your womb and pulling a knot of pleasure tight into your belly again.
âIksÄ Ă±uhonââ It comes out muffled where heâs pressed into you, tongue curling deep. Blood, slick and spit collect across the hair of his beard. ââÄȘlÄ va moriot meant naejot sagon ñuhon.â
(You are mineâYou were always meant to be mine).
The Valyrian blood letting, or whatever it was you just did, must have awoken something in him. Both his arms wrap around your thighs and he tugs you closer, your hips lifting slightly as he buries his face against you. You yelp as he licks over you, nose hard against your clit, the pressure in your tummy increasing with the slight change in angle.
As he laves his tongue inside you, you are transported back to the day he took you in your kitchens. The way you perched at the edge of the table, shaking and whiny and so desperate as you parted your legs for him, a prince of the realmâthe prince of the realm. You remember the way he so happily sank to his knees and placed his mouth upon you, and you remember returning to bed that night, alone and buzzing with post-orgasmic bliss. You remember touching yourself to the thought of his mouth on you, the little grunts that escaped his throat, the way his eyes went black with desire. And you came beneath your sheets, chanting his name like a prayer.
Now, you can have this whenever you wish.
He is your husband.
Your second orgasm is quick to creep up on you, muddled with overstimulation as your hips jerk in time with each thrust of his tongue. His eyes open when the muscles across your abdomen tense and your pussy shuts like a vice around the thick of his tongue.
âOh, Baelor, fuck, fuck, fuckââ You curse through a whimper as you release into his mouth, head falling back against the soft pillows. Your body spasms in his hold as you gush around him. Heat floods through your veins, your pulse a manic clattering against your ribcage, and you wonder if he can feel the throbbing of your femoral artery in your groin.
When Baelor pulls away, your eyes settle on his kind face. He looks sick with desire, cheeks tinted red, eyes glossy, beard sparkling with slick and spit. The blood on his lip has been wiped off, but a watery pink collects across the skin like a gloss. He surges forward, prompted by your eyesâdoe-like, begging, pleading for your princeâand slams his mouth to yours a lot rougher than he meant.
You gasp as your noses knock together. The taste of you was heavy on his lips and tongue. Copper and ash and rosewater.
âBaelor, please, I need you,â you plead, breaking the kiss to reach down and take his cock in your hand. You swipe your thumb delicately over the sensitive dip of his frenulum, then across the slit, smearing his precum in a small circle around the flushed head. He groans and you kiss his cheek. âPlease, my prince.â
âI know, I knowâŠâ Baelor places one last kiss to your lips before sitting back on his haunches. He peers down at your drooling cunt before his hands are on your thighs once more. He strokes the soft skin. âMy poor, needy wife⊠Iâve kept you waiting for too long, havenât I? How selfish of meâŠâ
You whimper quietly as his hands find the backs of your thighs, splaying out fully before pressing them inwards. He pushes your thighs and knees towards your head, and the breath is knocked from you as you moan, cold air hitting your wet core.
âPleaseâŠâ You drawl out.
Baelor takes one of his hands and guides his cock to your cunt. He runs the tip up and down your slit as he talks. âPlease, what?â
Your head is swimming, thighs aching where he folds you in half. âPlease putâplease put your cock inside me.â
He coos down at you as he presses the tip of his cock at your entrance. âOh, such good manners, my sweet girl. See? I was right, wasnât I? You just needed a firm hand and some guidance to set you on the straight and narrow.â
Your husband slowly feeds his cock into you as he speaks, your breath catching deep in your chest as he sinks in. Both of his hands find your thighs and he holds you tightly as he rucks in with small thrusts. You take him all.
His mouth drops open in a thick moan of your name. âOh, youâre perfect.â
His hips flick in, giving an experimental thrust, the head of his cock nudging towards your cervix. The angle sucks him in deeperâso deep you feel him lying in your stomach, or maybe heâs settled deep in your womb. Wherever he is, it forces a string of pathetic whimpers from your blood-stained lips, paired with small calls of his name that get lost beneath the wet squelches being drawn from your cunt.
âIâm right here, sweet girl,â Baelor utters, pulling out until less than half of his length rests inside of you. âIâm right here, and Iâm going to look after you, okay? SepÄr sagon sÈłz syt nyke se gĆ«rogon ziry.â
(Just be good for me and take it).
He thrusts back in with a bear-like grunt and it knocks the wind from your chest.
âOhhhââ you choke on a moan as his cock reaches deep inside you. It stretches you open, the angle hitting deep against the perfect spot inside you.
His hands are hot against the pliable flesh of your thighs, his strong abdomen pressing against you tightly as his cock splits you open. A solid mass of pleasure forms deep in the marrow of your bones, a weight along your spine, a theft of your breath as you slide against the sheets beneath him. The knot ties in your lower belly too, heat tingling at your lower back, pinching at your lower vertebrae as he continues to bend you in half, huffing as he fills you over and over.
âMy beautiful wife.â His tone is soft, contrary to the brutal thrusts that slap against your thighs and backside.Â
Thereâs a gleam in his eyes as he gazes down at you. Filled with longing, of need. Of love.
Baelor Targaryen is looking at you with love in his eyes and pride takes root deep inside your chest.
âMy beautiful wife,â he repeats around a grunt, balls smacking against the curve of your arse as your cunt takes him, slick dribbling with each thrust. A frothy white ring begins to build thinly at the base of his cock and he groans when he spares a glance down at it. âGods, you were made for me, werenât you?â
You nod against the pillows. Your hands grip uselessly at the sheets around you, stomach and breasts squished between your folded legs as he rails into you. The headboard clacks against the stone wall, wood groaning, stuffed mattress shaking with the force of his movements.
This is so much different than the first time he had you. This wasnât gentle and caring and guidingâthis is a rally of strong emotions, springing free from an open wound like a gush of blood, crimson-red with need, longing and desire. Heâs still Baelor: still a gentle hand, still an even tone. But his eyes are sparkling, his teeth are glinting, his blood is running hot.
Heâs Baelor, but heâs still a Targaryen.
âI need you one last time, sweet girl,â he tells you through breaths. His hairline is dark with sweat, his chest flushed as his hips work. His cock twitches heavily inside you, the ridges of the veins on his underside dragging against your posterior wall. It draws a strung-out moan from the back of your throat as he continues speaking. âNeed to feel you come undone before I fill you. Can you do that for me? Yeah? Can you do that for your husband?â
The thick burn of pleasure seeps into your spine, his words sparking the embers of another orgasm. Never did you think releasing more than once was possible, yet here you were. He really was rightâyou did need a guiding hand. You flourished like a flower beneath his touch, petals bright, nectar sweet.
âYeah,â you reply breathlessly, rambling as your release builds. âYeah, I canâmâgonna⊠gods, Baelor, youâre so deep.â
The bedâs headboard slams against the wall harder. Candles on nearby tables flicker, the wooden posts of the bed scraping against the stone floor.
Baelor huffs out a small laugh. âIs that right? Feeling nice and full?â
He chastises you, and the smallest bit of shame curls inside you. But itâs largely overwhelmed by the pleasure it spurs through your belly as your cunt spasms around him. You whine a high-pitched âyessss.â
His movements are deep and rolling, knocking up against your g-spot. The sharp pleasure stuns you, your toes curling, eyes threatening to roll as your mouth parts, gasping through a moan of his name.
âCome on then, sweet girl. Come for me,â Baelor leans down and whispers to you, pressing a kiss to your lips, skin tacky with drying blood. This pushes your legs harder into your tummy and you groan at the added pressure. He rights himself before his cock can slip out, rutting back into you quickly. âCome around your husbandâs cock. UrnÄptre nyke skorkydoso sÈłz iksan verdagon ao feel.â
(Show me how good Iâm making you feel).
Your ears ring with his name as you moan it freely into the thick air of your chambers. The ball of pleasure, lit with fiery desire, bursts inside you like the sun. Your entire body shakes with your orgasm as it shoots through you: your muscles tense and tremble, your fingers grip the sheets, your back attempts to arch beneath the fold of your legs.
âYeah, there we go,â Baelor hisses through a clenching jaw. âYou look so pretty when you come.â
His thrusts grow erratic, his breaths leaving him in huffs as you fizzle down from your orgasm. You can feel the twitch of his cock inside you as it drags between your walls, pleasure clawing up his chest. His brows furrow, the bloodied mark on his forehead seeping deep into the divots of his frown. He starts muttering in Valyrian, but you canât understand him. You donât know what heâs saying as his grip on your thighs becomes white-knuckled and the muscles of his abdomen begin to tense.
âTaking me like a proper princess, arenât you?â He purrs, breaking his High Valyrian muttering momentarily, looking down at where your cunt takes his cock, wet with slick. Oh, ñuha gevie riña, kesan dĆrÄ« henujagon ao.â
(Oh, my beautiful girl, I will never leave you).
Your brain is a mess, thoughts scrambled as he plows into you, his own orgasm rearing. You search desperately for the words you want to say, but they fall flat on your tongue. You recall the last few weeks spent exploring your new home, and your outings to the library. You remember the High Valyrian across the parchment, the patience of your betrothed as you mouthed around the foreign words you did not quite know the meanings to.
You remember a couple of helpful words though, even beneath the orgasmic veil that obscures most of your working brain.
You moan, trying to catch your breath as he fucks into you. âBaelor. Ohâuhâk-kostilus, ñuha dÄrilaros.â
(p-please, my prince).
The words are slightly clumsy, but Baelorâs eyes crack wide and a deep moan falls from his lips as his royal language stumbles from your tongue. His cock pumps inside of you, stuffing you over and over.
âMy best girl,â Baelor whispers. âGods above, youâre perfect. Let me fill you. Letâahâlet me fill you with my child.â
Your husband groans and then buries himself to the hilt inside you. His cock twitches once, twice, ruddy head pressed tightly to the plug of your womb, before he spills, hot and thick. Your name drops from his lips as his hips jerk, pumping you full. The heat that floods you has you calling out to him.Â
He places a gentle kiss to your knee before he allows your legs to drop either side of him, his cock still nestled deep inside your pussy. He crawls over you, tucking himself into your side and curling his arms around you.
Baelor strokes the back of your head as your hands run over his warm, sweat-slick chest. Tenderly, he places a kiss to the bloodied mark on your forehead.
âI love you,â he says honestly. âYou⊠you are the best thing that has happened to me in a very long time.â
You nestle into his side, smiling. âSay it in High Valyrian.â
You feel Baelorâs chest vibrate as he chuckles.
âAvy jorrÄelan,â he whispers, kissing your forehead again.
âAvy jorrÄelan,â you echo, and you mean it.
âââ
yeahhh ok this is the best i got
also no cutting of the palms cause how would he have folded her into a mating press ??? and he would never cut his wife like that tf ??? exactly guys come on now
âż the heir to the iron throne is a man of great honour and virtue, but he can't help the feelings that overtake him when he meets you (or, baelor falls for you during your nameday tourney).
âż 18+
âż wc: 8.8k (damn)
âż cw: fem!reader, no y/n and reader is not physically described, reader from an unnamed but powerful House with non-specific colours, age gap (unspecified), SMUT, guys there's a bit of plot in this one! but also porn bc what else do you expect, unprotected piv, oral (f!receiving), fingering, praise!!, multiple orgasms, baelor is down baddd, lowkey possessive baelor, yearning, reader is THAT girl, strong language, alternating povs, title taken from the beautiful sade song :)
part two here !!
Two days before your nameday, when the sun swam amongst an ichor of oranges and reds along the line of the horizon, your father informed you that Prince Baelor Targaryen was to attend your nameday tourney.
You had stared at him, utterly dumbfounded, from the reflection in your mirror as you readied yourself for bed. The hand of the king, heir to the Iron Throne, the Baelor Breakspear was to attend your nameday tourney? You werenât sure whether to be thrilled to have such an esteemed guest attending your event, or petrified that a prince of the realmâthe prince of the realmâwas to be within your castle upon the morrow.
At daybreak, you still werenât sure how to feel, let alone several hours later, when you stand before the lush gardens of your home as the unmistakable black and red banners approach from between a pair of willow trees. Nerves twist in your stomach as the convoy comes to a stop before you, your father standing just in front. Sweat builds out of fear along the back of your neck as the prince dismounts his horse and approaches your father like an old friend.
âSeven blessings, your grace,â your father says, bowing politely before clasping Baelorâs hands firmly.Â
The pair share an amiable smile before Baelor gestures to the beautiful stone castle you call your home. It is not the largest, but it is clean and warm and dry, and thatâs all that matters to you.
âI appreciate both your invitation and your hospitality,â Baelor tells your father, diplomatic and courteous. Exactly the man you have been told he is.
You watch the exchange timidly, hands balling at your sides in an attempt to prevent yourself from fidgeting. Fidgeting is unladylike, your father had told you once. You were able to distract yourself, however, by slowly appraising the prince as he engaged in conversation. You had seen him once before, many years ago, when you were much younger and your memory was blurred at the edges. It was from a distance then, but now you could see him so much closer.
There were always whispers of his Dornish features that differentiated him from the typical Targaryen, and seeing them up close, they made him even more handsome than you can begin to describe. The dark hair, wisped with grey, and the mismatched eyes. A subtle confidence in his posture, a pride in his broad chest, an undeniable strength in his arms and handsâyou see the rings there, and the veins that run along the back, and find yourself feeling slightly light-headed.
You hear your name.
You jump slightly, blinking yourself from your daze to find that your name was spoken by Baelor himself. He is facing you, his entire body turned in your direction. You grow warm as you drop into a curtsy, one you have tediously practised, and set your gaze on the ground as you do so.
When you rise, Baelor is still looking at you. His gaze is as soft as the early morning sun, and you find yourself wondering if this Targaryen is as much a dragon as the rest of them are.
ââżâ
You are the prettiest thing he has ever seen.
And it makes his chest swell tightly with shame because you are so much younger than himâtoo many years younger than him.
But yet, his eyes linger from his position at the window of your fatherâs solar. He can see you through the paneâs lattices, ambling slowly through the gardens with a couple of your ladies. Your skirts flow like water around your heels, your face pressed into a serene smile as one of your ladies says something to you. From this angle, too, he can see the lines of your shoulders and the top of your breasts, the curve of your jaw as you tilt your head, peering at something further afield.
âYour grace?â
Your fatherâs voice forces Baelor to turn from the window, shaking his head slightly. What baser instincts have overtaken him that he is spying on a young woman through an upper-floor window?
âYour daughter,â Baelor begins casually, leaning himself against the stone lip beneath the window. âShe is unbetrothed?â
Your father makes an annoyed face, and Baelor suddenly sits up a little straighter. There is something heavyâlike disappointmentâin your fatherâs eyes. Baelor clocks it immediately, the muscles in his jaw flexing as he awaits a response.
âI have attempted to find her suitors, but she is rather⊠recalcitrant. I blame that on her mother,â your lord father says from his desk, reclining back in his chair and folding his arms over his chest, an exasperated look on his face. âI had no problem securing betrothals for her siblings, but she is proving to be more difficult.â
Baelor responds calmly. âHow so?â
Your father sighs. âShe spends too much time with the commonfolk for her own good, she is much too engaged with political discourse, and she spends most of her time engaging in activities I explicitly tell her not to do. Not to mention her needlework is unrefinedââ
âWhat do you mean by that?â Baelor continues, spinning one of the rings around on his finger. âWhat kind of activities, I mean.â
The prince was thankful his younger brother wasnât here, for he was certain that Maekar would have picked up on exactly what it was he was trying to achieve.
Baelor wanted to get to know you. He wanted to know why exactly a young woman as stunning as yourself remained holed up within this castle. Why there were no suitors clamouring around the halls in pursuit of you. He places his hands on the stone lip of the windowsill to stop himself from playing with the garnet-encrusted ring on his finger.
âI have caught her gambling, using dragons, in local inns, participating in mock sword fights with her cousins, using real blades. Gods above, she has recently taken a penchant for archery, of all things,â your father says almost embarrassed. He looks over at Baelor. âBut, I will not give up. I hope that whoever the victor of this little tourney will make an appropriate match for her.â
The grip Baelor has on the stone turns white-knuckled.
ââżâ
That afternoon, you successfully avoid your father and return to the fields at the rear of your home. Here, a stack of hay bales sit across the grass, fashioned into a crudely made target. You grab your bow and bundle of arrows, hidden in a nearby shrub, and align yourself with the target, the middle of the topmost bale painted with a couple of red rings.
You knock your arrow with shaky arms, elbow dropping too low as you aim, fire, and proceed to watch the arrow fly high above the bales.
âSeven give me strengthâŠâ You mutter, annoyed but undeterred.
You take a deep breath, rolling your shoulders as you prepare to notch another arrow. You find it difficult to keep your elbow bent the way itâs supposed to, and all the help you received from your fatherâs best archer was nothing, other than informing you he was a right cunt. Women arenât natural archers, itâs a manâs weapon, he had said.
âFucking idiot,â you say angrily to yourself and let the second arrow fly. It wobbles as it zips through the air, but manages to clip the corner of the top bale, sending a puff of straw into the air.
âAh, what did the hay ever do to you?â
You whirl around with a yelp at the unexpected voice behind you. Baelor chuckles at the fright that passes over your face as he approaches, footsteps dulled in the soft grass. You blow out a breath, quickly gathering yourself and bowing your head as he reaches you.
âMy prince,â you say quietly. âI apologise, I did not meanââ
âNo, no, do not apologise,â Baelor interrupts you gently, then gestures at the bow clutched in your hand and the pile of arrows at your feet. âI did not mean to intrude on your practice.â
You grow warm, stomach fluttering as you poorly attempt to hide the bow behind your back. Bashful, you stutter, âIâm notâitâs notââ
Baelor laughs quietly and reaches a strong hand in your direction. He gently takes your forearm and slowly pulls it back around until the bow rests before you once more. His touch is warm atop the soft fabric of your sleeve, but you flinch when his thumb presses against a bruise forming beneath your skin.
He notices this, eyes dropping. Then, he tuts. Tuts, like you were a child suddenly caught stealing cakes from the kitchens.
âMâlady, you must wear a bracer for such activities,â Baelor tells you, bringing his other hand to push away your sleeve and reveal your forearm. His fingers brush against the inside of your wrist with a tenderness that makes your legs weak.
You pray that he cannot feel your pulse quicken. âI do not need one.â
Thereâs a sparkle in Baelorâs mismatched eyes when he meets yours. Then, his thumb presses just a little bit harder on the tender flesh of your armâs ventral side. You hiss out as he blindly pinpoints a steadily blooming bruise from the previous daysâ practice, and you withdraw your arm from his hold.
His hands drop. âEvery good archer needs a bracer because every good archer has arms in need of protecting.â
You canât help but roll your eyes, head turning to look at the untouched hay bale target several dozen yards away. âI am not a good archer, your grace.â
Baelor peers at you curiously. He notes the dejectedness in your tone, and the subtle sadness in your beautiful eyes. He has always wanted to help, to solve, to be of service, but the feeling triples as he rakes his eyes over you, a honey-thick possessiveness filling his chest. He takes another step closer.
âYou are practising,â he says. His tone is so soft. Even softer than the way you hear the stableboys easing the skittish mares. Baelor continues, âThe best archers in all the realm were not simply born as such. They had to practise.â
You chew your lip thoughtfully, turning back to face him. You feel slightly embarrassed, not just at the fact that the heir to the Iron Throne is being so candid with you, but also because you are finding it so hot. The butterflies in your stomach increase tenfold.
âHere.â Baelor lifts his arms. âIf youâll allow me, Iâll direct you.â
Tentatively, you allow the prince to guide you into positionâslotting an arrow into place and holding the bow and arrow like you usually would before release. This time, however, Baelor places his palm to your elbow and lifts it. His fingers reach over to brush against your shoulder too, forcing a subtle change in your posture.
âHere we go,â he says, circling you. You can feel the warmth of his chest against your back as one of his hands finds the bow, altering your aim, whilst the other skims over your ribs, guiding your body to change direction just slightly. âKeep an open stance, shoulders straightâyeah, there we go, thatâs a good girl.â
Youâre sure he doesnât mean it like that, but you have to bite your lip hard to stop yourself from whimpering involuntarily. It also takes the strength of an entire army to keep you from squeezing your thighs together.
âAnd we want to keep our core engaged,â Baelor finishes, and suddenly his hand is pressing lightly against your tummy. Big palm, wide-spread fingers, pushing enough for your breath to hitch. His voice skims past your ear. âThis keeps a solid foundation. Now, try pulling back and taking a shot.â
You take a deep breath and set your eyes on your target across the field, acutely aware of his hand still ghosting across your stomach and the heat of his body against your back. You wonder, just briefly, what would happen if you stepped back into him.
Focus.
You pull your arm back just a little bit more and then let go. You donât bother wincing at the pain that snaps across your exposed forearm, instead watching as your arrow splits through the air with a light whistle before penetrating the second red ring of the target. You push away from Baelor to jump up in victory, skirts bouncing around you as you pump a fist into the air like an excited child.
âYes!â You exclaim, breaking off into a sprint across the field.
Baelor smiles as he watches you examine the arrow embedded in the hay bale. However, the cool air that hits him makes him miss the warmth of your body, the smell of your skin.
âSeven forgive meâŠâ He mutters to himself as he watches the way you bend, the curve of your arse rounded by the heavy fabrics of your skirts.
ââżâ
As the sun sets, you find yourself sneaking out through a servantâs entranceâlike you so often doâand heading down into the tourneyâs encampment yonder. Colourful tents are pitched, crowded beside one another, with people milling about, talking and shouting and drinking. There are banners that you recognise fluttering softly in the breeze, and there are some you have never seen before. The market is bustling too, and oil lanterns light the faces of vendors selling their goods.
âMâlady!â One of the vendors calls to you as you wind your way through the crowd.
You approach with a smile, and the older woman who had called to you gestures at the array of fruits stacked along a wooden table. âApples and peaches, fresh from the Reach, or âve got the more exotic choice âere: pomegranates, from Dorne.â
You pluck a round, brilliantly red pomegranate from a small crate. âWhen I saw you in the village a moon ago, you didnât have pomegranates. How did you get these?â
The older woman points at you, grinning. âI have my ways.â
You shake your head, passing the woman a few coins and taking a sack of pomegranates and peaches. You then make your way through the market, still humming with people even as the sky steadily darkens and the shadows beneath the nearby trees grow larger.
Soon, you find yourself in front of a stall lined with daggers, the blades glinting in the light of an overhead lantern. You spy a few with handles carved from bone, others made of steel and wrapped in leather, even one chiselled into a serpentâs head with rubies for eyes.
âFirst it was bows and arrows, now it is blades? You have dangerous pastimes, mâlady.â
You flinch at the sudden noise, turning to find Baelor sidling up beside you. Only now do you notice the hush that has fallen over the nearby crowd, and how the vendor of the stall you stood before stands up straighter. You notice, too, the presence of the kingsguard lurking amongst the shadows in your peripheral vision.
âYour grace,â you greet, bowing your head.
You donât curtsy, but offer him a small smile instead. He returns it, and then peers down to where your fingers brush over the ornately carved hilt of a silver dagger. You withdraw your hand.
He chuckles, hands behind his back. âDo not fret.â
You swallow, nervous. âIs my fatherâ?â
âNot here,â Baelor says immediately. Then, he nods back to the daggers. âGo on. Choose one.â
You grip the sack of fruit tightly in one hand, your other hand fidgeting with the softly braided belt at your waist. You can feel his eyes on you as you look between the daggers laid out neatly on the table before you. Hesitantly, you reach for one with a smooth, straight-edged blade. The hilt is simple, wrapped in ridged leather that matches the colour of your house, but the pommel flares out a little into a sphere, a small gemstone glittering in its centre. Itâs a solid, comforting weight in your hand.
âBeautiful,â Baelor remarks, but his eyes havenât left your face.
You canât help but smile as you spin the dagger slowly against your palm. You look up at Baelor after a moment, gesturing to the daggers with the point of your own.
âAnd you?â You query.
He shakes his head, hand moving to rest at his side where a dagger sits comfortably in its sheath on his belt. âNo, Iâve my own.â
You hum, eyes dragging back down to the table. They immediately find the dagger with the serpent-head pommel. You place your dagger down to pick up that one, examining it beneath the lantern light, the rubies in the eyes sparkling. Baelor watches you curiously as you hold it out towards him, a warmth in your eyes he hasnât seen in a woman in a very long time. It just about renders him speechless.
âNow this,â you say quietly. âIs very Targaryen, donât you agree, your grace?â
He eyes the dagger, mouth curving into a smile. âCertainly.â
âAnd do you like it?â
âI do.â
âThen consider it a gift,â you say finally, urging the prince to take the dagger from you. He does, his fingers brushing yours, and you feel butterflies returning to your stomach.Â
However, before you can speak any further, he is shaking his head and reaching for a small coin purse hidden on the other side of him and handing several dragons to the vendor. The vendor gapes as he gratefully takes the coins, and then you gape at Baelor as he gently leads you away from the market stall, grabbing the dagger you had placed down before doing so.
âThat is not how gifts work,â you comment with surprise.
In the shadows of a towering willow nearby, Baelor stops and turns to you. Carefully, he hooks a finger into the braided belt at your waist and pulls you forward slightly. Your heart skips a beat as the distance between the two of you narrows, the heat and masculine smell of him engulfing you. With great tenderness, Baelor slots your blade into the belt, hand brushing across your hip as he does so.
âThat is exactly how gifts work,â he utters, voice rich and dark. âI gifted the dagger to you, and you have accepted it.â
Your eyebrows draw together. âButââ
âI am prince of the realm,â Baelor interrupts you easily. His hand is resting on your hip now, and his tone makes the words in your mouth dry up instantly. âI have gifted you this dagger, and you have accepted it, havenât you?â
You canât speak. Words fail you, throat closing up around a soft whimper. So, you nod. And then Baelor, Prince Baelor Breakspear, reaches up and pats one large hand against one of your warmed cheeks, thumb brushing your cheekbone.
âThatâs a good girl.â
Fuck.
ââżâ
In the middle of the night, you find yourself tossing and turning amongst the soft sheets of your bed. Your chambers are dark around you, cooled since your fire died out, but you were too hot. Sweat clung to the backs of your knees, the base of your spine, up along the nape of your neck. It was almost feverish the way your body thrums with heat, and you sit up in your bed, sleep evading you.
Maybe a drink of water and a cake of some sort will quell your restlessness.
You push yourself out of bed, rubbing your eyes as you pad across your chambers. From a table near the door, you grab your chamberstick, light it, and head out your door.
The corridors of your castle are lit with the soft orange glow of mounted torches, and it is rather quiet save for the distant clanking footsteps of guards on patrol. Your footsteps are muffled against the carpet that rolls through the middle of the hallway as you make your way down the large, winding staircase and towards the kitchens.
You find the large kitchens empty save for one maid, Marla, who is sweeping the floor beside the ovenâs hearth. She looks up as you enter, then curtsies with the broom still in her hand. She has worked here since before you were born.
âYou need not greet me as such at this hour,â you tell her as you approach the large table in the centre of the room. You gesture to yourself as you walk, dressed in your thin nightgown. âEspecially when I look like this.â
Marla laughs softly, then nods towards a foot-long wooden box on the table. âYou are still the lady of the house, even at this hour.â
âHa,â you laugh, slightly spiteful. You place your chamberstick nearby, the flame adding to the low glow from the torches on the upper walls. âDo not remind me.â
You open the lid of the box and find neatly lined rows of honeycakes, dusted with sugar. Excitedly, you take one, still slightly warm to the touch, and take a large, rather unladylike bite, groaning blissfully as you chew. Marla shakes her head in amusement, smiling softly at you as she stores the broom away.
âLeftover from supper,â she tells you as you finish your honeycake. Itâs perfectly sweet and soft and reminds you of your childhood.Â
As you help yourself to another cake, Marla disappears momentarily and returns with a cup of water. She places it in front of you.
âThank you,â you say through a mouthful of cake. Then, you point at the box with sugar-coated fingers. âWill you have one?â
Marla hesitates, peering over her shoulder through the shadowed doorway that you know leads to the servants quarters. âI shouldnâtâŠâ
You swallow your mouthful then push the box towards her with your free hand. You drum your fingers against the side as she looks between you and the door.
âAs you said, I am the lady of the house,â you tell her pointedly. âHave a cake⊠please.â
Marla smiles timidly, but approaches the table anyway. She brushes her hands across her flour-dusted apron and plucks a golden honeycake from the box. You offer her your half-eaten one, and she laughs as she taps hers against it before taking a bite. The moment is quiet before she speaks again.
âIt is your nameday.â
âNot until the morrow.â
âIt is the morrow, my lady.â
You stop chewing. âGods, what hour is it?â
âWe have long since passed the hour of ghosts.â
âOh.â You swallow, then suck on one of your fingers in thought, cleaning it of sugar. âThen I shanât keep you any longerââ
âOh, my apologies, mâlady.â
You whirl around, finger still in your mouth, to find Baelor in the doorway of the kitchens. You faintly hear Marla squeak behind you as she drops into a deep curtsy, her mouth stuffed full of honeycake. The sound makes you snort as you take your finger from your mouth, shooting her a look as she hurries to swallow.
âDonât choke,â you joke, and she gives you a stern look.
You turn back to Baelor, who watches you thoughtfully, eyes shadowed where he stands beneath the warm light of a nearby torch.
âArchery, sneaking out, and now pestering servants for cakes? You really are troublesome, arenât you?â Baelor chuckles softly, crossing into the kitchen.
You scoff, folding your arms over your chest. The movement causes your nightgown to rise slightly, the fabric fluttering near your knees. âI am not stealing. I was spending time with Marla.â
Baelorâs eyes find Marla for a split second. Marla hangs her head, slowly edging towards the servantâs door.
âAt this hour?â Baelor cocks a brow at you.
You scoff again, then turn to Marla. Now, sheâs in the doorway and giving you a pointed look. No longer bashful with Baelorâs attention away from her. Sheâs looking at you with a quirk in her brow and a subtle smile on her lips.
Then, she quickly says, âIâll take my leave, your grace, my lady.â
She vanishes, and you turn back to find Baelor staring right at you and a lot closer than you had originally thought he was. So much so that you can see the colours of his eyes through the shadowed darkness. They shift downwards, and you realise youâre standing in your sleepwear, the material of the nightgown thin against the dips and curves of your body.
âThe last time I checked, I was the lady of this house, meaning I can do whatever I want within its walls,â you tell him, returning to the earlier conversation. âYou, on the other handâŠâ
Baelor takes a step forward, and you take a step back. The small of your back hits the large table, your chamberstick trembling beside you, the small pan rocking against the wood.
He looks around the kitchen. âSleep evades me.â
âSo you decide to wander a foreign castle on your lonesome?â You note the absence of the kingsguard following after the wake of his shadow.
He nods, looking back to you now. Thereâs a tenderness in his expression that makes you feel slightly dizzy. Perhaps itâs the lack of sleep, but you find yourself gripping onto the edge of the table in fear your legs will give way, knees weak.
âI do not usually have such freedoms at home,â Baelor tells you honestly, taking another step forward.Â
A small bit of fear passes through you like a phantomânot fear of him, but the fear that he, a prince of the realm, is suddenly too close to you, a lady, dressed only in her nightgown and delicate smallclothes beneath. Out of instinct, you raise one of your hands and he walks into it, your fingers and palm pressing to his chest.
His tunic is warm with the heat of him, as if heâs only just rolled out of bed.
âYour graceâŠâ You warn him as he stops, head cocking to the side as if trying to get a better read of your facial expression.
He watches you. You look angelic in the soft orange glow of the torches, the flickering flame of your chamberstick distorting shadows across the exposed skin of your neck and throat.
âYour father intends to wed you to the victor of this tourney,â Baelor says to you suddenly. The words make your mouth go dry with shock. He continues, âHe says you are recalcitrant. Says you are difficult to manage.â
As he speaks, one of his hands encircles your wrist where your hand is still pressed to his chest. He holds you there, feeling the rhythmic thrum of your pulse beneath his fingers.
âI am,â you reply defiantly.
âI donât think thatâs true.â
You watch as he slowly lifts your hand away from his chest. His mismatched eyes examine your fingers, and your mouth drops open slightly when you realise youâve pressed a few fingerprints of dusted sugar onto his tunic.
Mortification flushes through you. âMy princeââ
âI think,â Baelor begins, raising your hand to his face. âYouâre a young woman in need of some guidance. Need a firm hand to set you on the straight and narrow, hm?â
The prince presses his lips to the tip of your middle finger, kissing the sugar from the grooves of the print. Your lips part further, a breathless huff leaving you as he repeats the action on your ring finger, practically sucking the dusted sugar off of your skin. Heat blooms beneath the linen of your smallclothes, and you whine quietly, clenching your thighs together. His lips brush across the base of your fingers, then over the lines of your palm, before he finally presses a kiss to your wrist. Your pulse jumps to meet him, the heat there burning against the softness of his lips.
âIs that what you need?â He asks you softly as he turns your hand in his hold. He presses a kiss to the back, then your knuckles, then up to the joint of your wrist.
âYeahâŠâ You reply. Itâs winded, quiet, desperate.
The heir to the Iron Throne is kissing your hand right now.
âAnd whoâs going to do that for you?â Baelor lowers your hand but follows the movement, stepping closer and shrinking the space between you.
You look like a doe staring up at him.
âYou,â you manage to whisper. âYou, my prince.â
Baelor leans forward and your breath hitches heavily in your chest. Still gripping the table, you remain still as he crowds your space, head dipping. His lips, as warm as they were on your hand and wrist, skim across the curve of your cheek, and then press to the very corner of your mouth. You subtly angle your head, presenting more of yourself to him, but he pulls back, and you catch sight of a small bit of white sugar across his lips. He licks it away.
âSuch a sweet girl.â He leans back in again, this time his mouth finds the curve of your jaw, accepting the way you shift your head for him. He nips at the skin as his hands find your hips, lips travelling to your ear, where he whispers, âWill you let me guide you?â
Your hands fly away from the edge of the table and circle around his shoulders, pressing him to you.
âYes,â you say quickly. âPlease, my prince, I needââ
His head moves, and suddenly his mouth is on yours. You whine the second his lips slot against you, the sound making him grunt as the hold he has on your hips tightens. You part your lips for him, his tongue pressing in the moment you do so. A warm, wet slide over your bottom teeth, licking across your bottom lip. You taste the tiniest sweetness of sugar on his tongue, as he tastes the honey-sweetness cloying across your own.
ââżâ
The thoughts he has of you are unbecoming of a future king, but he canât help himself. Not with you. Not when you look at him with glossy eyes and a little pout in your lips. Not when your pulse flutters with each brush of his hand against you. The Seven may judge him but he knows, deep within his psyche, something chiseling into his bones, that you are meant to be his. Why else would your body be reacting this way?
Why else would you be hoisting yourself onto the table to wrap your legs around his waist, the linen of your nightgown riding up your thighs? Why else would the heat of your core press against his hardening length, separated by barriers of material, grinding and pushing? Why would you be whining and whimpering into his mouth as his hands caress your hips, and why would your hands be gripping the muscles of his shoulders like a feral cat?
âMy prince,â you call for him softly as his mouth drops to suck kisses down the supple skin of your throatâthe same skin he had been admiring just moments before.
You taste of roses, of clean water and the musk of sweat. The softness of your voice and the sweetness of your skin seems to pull at his invisible strings, his hips rocking forward to nudge the tent of his trousers between your legs.
ââżâ
He pulls back, hands shifting from your hips to rub down your thighs. You shiver at the touch, clutching his shoulders still, as the heat of his hands passes through your nightgown. His fingers find the hem, toying with the stitching there, as his eyes rise to meet yours in an act of consent. You nod, and the prince continues, pushing the fabric up towards your hips.
You groan, tone dulcet, as the soft skin of your thighs is revealed to the shadowy kitchens. Baelor hums low in his throat, and then heâs dropping to his knees before you. The action makes you gasp and teeter slightly at the edge of the table. Your hands find the ledge once more as the prince presses a kiss to the inside of your knee, one of his hands massaging over the fat of your thigh and dipping to the edge of your smallclothes.
âPlease,â you whisper, and Baelor knows there are men out there who would go to war if a pretty lady like you begged them like this. He knows he would. âPlease, my princeââ
âBaelor,â he corrects you gently, hooking his fingers into your smallclothes and pulling them. You lift your hips slightly with a moan, allowing him to pull the material down past your knees, then your ankles, and then away.
He tucks them into the pocket of his trousers as his eyes find your core, slick with arousal and already drooling. Another low hum leaves the back of his throat. Pressing forward with his large hands holding your thighs apart, Baelor places a kiss to your clit. You keen against the table, hips bucking, hand shooting down to thread your fingers into his hair.
âOh, fuck, Baelor.â
His cock throbs heavily in his breeches at his name on your lips. He continues placing kisses down the wet slit of your cunt, spreading your folds open as he descends lower until he can push the tip of his tongue inside you. His eyes flick upwards to watch your reaction as he does this, and pride fills him as your head rolls back on your shoulders, a breathy whine escaping you, echoing around the empty room.
The prettiest thing heâs ever seen.
Pleasure is already pulling back like a bowstring in the base of your tummy as Baelor, a prince of the fucking realm, curls his tongue into the wet heat of your pussy, the slope of his nose rubbing perfectly against your clit. Gods, no one has ever put their mouth on you like this, and as you grip his hair and rock your hips into his movements, you wonder how much practice heâs gotten over the years.
âMmm,â you hum out, trying to suppress your sounds.
Theyâre loud as they bounce against the stone walls of the kitchens, and youâre aware that the castle beyond these walls is suffocated by the nightâs silence.
Baelorâs movements are firm and quick, the perfect rhythm. His tongue curls and flicks deep inside you, and the heat of embarrassment lies beneath your skin as you can feel yourself dripping around him. The scratch of his beard against your thighs, the curve of your arse, against the sensitive skin of your folds is an added pleasure you didnât know you needed. The sensation punches moan after breathy moan from you as the bowstring in your belly pulls tighter.
Your pussy clenches around him as his nose digs particularly hard against your puffy clit, and the sound it elicits from his throat makes the wood of the table creak in protest by how hard your hand grips it. The vibrations are rough against you, a pleasant buzz as white-hot pleasure continues to build up your veins.
âBaelor,â you call to him. âBaelor, fuck.â
One large hand drags away from your thigh, and just as you feel his tongue retract, two thick fingers find your entrance. They crowd into you, thicker than his tongue, pushing between the slick walls of your cunt as he wraps his lips around your clitâbut not before mumbling out, âSuch unladylike language.â
His fingers scissor inside you, the pressure forcing you to squirm against the table. Your chamberstick quakes as you roll your hips into his touch. His hair between your fingers is soft, clean, but the hair of his beard is coarse and continues to rub harshly against your inner thighs. The bowstring in your lower belly pulls tighter, and when he curls his fingers deeper into you, thick and blunt, you cry out his name once more.
âBaelor, mâgonnaâoh, gods, mâgonnaââ
Baelor feels the tight channel of your cunt squeeze around his fingers, your thighs tightening either side of his head, and he groans with his mouth on your clit as you come around the digits. He fucks you through it, tongue dipping low to join the movements, lapping the slick the drools from you in syrupy strings. You sob his name, your orgasm shuddering through you, the bowstring snapping and splintering the pleasure through your arteries.
But he continues. The princeâs fingers continue to move, thrusts lazier, less hurried, but he continues to curl them deep inside you, his tongue still furling through your folds. You finally look back down at him and tug gently on his hair, trying to get his attention. He grunts, eyes wrenching open and peering up at you, pupils so large his eyes almost appear the same colour.
âI need you,â you whisper, finally managing to pull his face away. His mouth and beard shine with your slick.
âManners,â he replies simply, fingers still rucking in and out of your dripping hole.
The sound is wet and obscene and you canât help the soft sigh that escapes, pin-pricks of overstimulation beginning to pierce the post-orgasmic veil draped over you. Slowly, Baelor gets to his feet, still fucking his fingers into you, pressing a kiss to your knee as he rises. He continues, âGood girls use their manners.â
You huff, hips twitching.
A flicker of a smile ghosts across the princeâs face. âAnd youâre a good girl, arenât you, sweetheart?â
He adds a third finger, pushing it in torturously slow, and you choke on a gasp, keeling forward until your head rests against his chest. He kisses your temple, then the tip of your ear. His free hand moves to cup the nape of your neck, stroking his thumb as he holds you to him, three thick fingers spreading you open.
âY-yeah,â you finally manage to stutter out, abdomen clenching, a mix of pleasure and overstimulation spreading through you. âYeah, Iâm a good girl.â
Baelor grips the back of your neck and pulls your head away, angling your face to get a good look at you. He leans down and plants his lips on your forehead.
âMy good girl,â he utters against your skin, his fingers picking up speed.
You gasp at the change, and he seizes the opportunity to duck his head and slot his mouth back to yours. The kiss is messy: too much saliva as your tongues meet, your slick heavy on his. Your teeth clash as he drives his head forward, hand wide across your neck. Staking his claim, taking what he wants.
Quickly, another orgasm builds, the base of your spine tingling as your legs begin to shake. You attempt to hook them around his waist again, but youâre not strong enough. Baelor feels this though, and removes the hand from your neck to grab the back of your knee, hooking your leg around his hip. He drives his fingers deeper, and deeper still, as you clutch him tightly, balling the fabric of his tunic between your fingers.
âLet go for me, sweet girl,â Baelor pants against your mouth, your lips brushing.
Your entire body is trembling, a knot of tension too tight in your belly. You whine, a pathetic little mewl that bounces around the empty kitchen. âI canâtââ
âUh-uh, none of that. Good girls do what theyâre told,â Baelor interrupts your whining as your head tilts back. He presses a kiss to your chin. âAnd youâre a good girlâyouâre my good girl. So let go for your prince. Let go for me.â
Heâs corrupting you. Heâs stealing your virtue. Heâs a prince, youâre a lady.
But the sight of you coming again wipes his princely thoughts from his mind. They are replaced by you. You, you, youâyour head falling back as your hands grip his tunic, your kiss-bitten lips parting as a moan of his name fills the space. A pleasure-strung Baelor! as he ruts his fingers into the dripping heat of your cunt. His name has never sounded so good.
Nipping lightly at the curve of your neck, beard brushing your skin, Baelor curls his fingers and slows his thrusts until you eventually unclench around them and your thighs quit their trembling. When you whisper his name, he pulls his fingers away and holds them up between the two of you. He spreads them, your slick interconnecting in glossy webs, and you pant around a whine, your chest heaving.
Baelor examines his fingers. The curiosity in his mismatched eyes fuels your embarrassment even further. The feeling whips through you even more when he takes two of them and slides them into his mouth.
âBaelor,â you groan, frowning and reaching for his wrist.
He lets you pull his fingers from his mouth, but not before heâs holding his ring finger in your direction. âHave you ever tasted yourself?â
Your jaw hits the floor.
Baelor chuckles, taking that for his answer. His left hand shifts from your leg, travelling over your abdomen, caressing your clothed breaths, before planting firmly on your jaw. He holds your chin as he presses his ring finger to your lips. You watch him with glassy eyes.
âOpen,â he instructs simply.
You do.
Baelor smiles and feeds his slick ring finger into your mouth. Instinctively, you wrap your lips around his knuckle as the digit presses down onto your tongue. You suck then, tasting yourself, and you grip his wrist firmly as you moan around his finger. Baelor watches you carefully, the smile gone from his face. Your lips press to the cool metal of his ring, and the way your eyes stare up at himâglossy, expectant, so goodâhas his cock pressing even harder against the seam of his trousers.
âSeven above,â he hisses too quietly for you to hear and pulls his finger from your mouth.
Youâre about to complain when heâs driving hard against you, caging you atop the table edge as one of his hands shoots down to untie the knots of his trousers. Wrapping your legs around him, youâre eager to help: hands leaving his wrist to pull at the ties and help shuck the material down his hips. His breeches move with it, and his cock bobs free.
âOh, gods,â you whisper as Baelor fists himself.
You admire the thick patch of hair at the base which narrows towards his navel, as well as the ruddy head bruised with trapped blood. He swipes his thumb over his slit, smearing away a pearl of precum.
The hand he has on your jaw moves back to the nape of your neck. The prince holds you there, forcing your head down to watch as he guides his cock to your drooling cunt. He runs the head up and down your slick folds as you bunch your nightgown further up your waist to get a better look, whimpering at the feeling. Finally, the head of his cock notches at your hole, and you suck in a breath as he presses in.
A low groan leaves him.
âBaelor,â is your whispered response as you hold him.
Heâs a gentleman as he feeds his cock into you, but youâre so wet that he slides in languidly, bottoming out in seconds with a pained grunt.
âPleaseâŠâ You lean forward to press a kiss to his neck as he lifts his head from where he had been transfixed on where your pussy swallowed him.
âYeah, Iâve got you, sweet girl,â he says, both of his hands moving to your hips now.
He anchors himself to you as his hips pull back, dragging his cock out slowly, before thrusting back in. The table creaks as he repeats the action again and again, and you pull away from sucking a mark onto his neck to moan at the ceiling.
Your chamberstick rocks against the table, the pan clanking across the wood as the heaviness of his thrusts lurch your arse against the surface. Strong fingers hold you firmly, calloused by years of swords and reins. The thought has your mind wandering to a younger Baelor, with longer hair and less of a beard, with large hands and fierce eyes. You whimper at the vision of him wielding his longsword, or pulling at the reins of a rearing horse.
His grunts are brutish, unbefitting of the heir to the Iron Throne. But he canât help it. Youâre so beautiful and soft beneath him, your pussy so tight and warm and wet, the noises clearing from your throat so sweet and alluring. You call for him like youâre already his, and he canât help but think as such.
âSee? Such a good girl,â Baelor pants, watching as your face contorts with pleasure, eyes fighting to stay open. The sound of your wet cunt is loud over the creaking of the table, and sparing a glance down, he sees a thin, creamy-white ring building at the base of his cock. He groans as he puts his eyes on you once more. âJust need a little guidance, hm?â
You nod deliriously, not quite deciphering his words as your third orgasm begins to build in your belly. The bowstring is back, the fingers of pleasure notching the arrow and pulling. Tighter, tighter, tighter.
His cock is a thick stretch inside you, curving up to nudge towards the base of your cervix. The gummy walls of your cunt are tight around him, squeezing with each thrust against your g-spot, a blooming heat enveloping your lower body.
All thoughts of decorum gone, Baelor reaches a hand from your hip to the neckline of your nightgown. He tugs it down, allowing your tits to spill out, nipples soft in the heat between you. Groaning again, he dips his head to suck one into his mouth as he continues to rock his hips. An electric shock passes through you as his teeth scrape against the sensitive skin. He switches sides as you moan his name, one of your own hands finding the hemline of his tunic and pushing beneath the material. He lifts his head finally, slamming his mouth to yours as your hand moves up. You feel the softness of his abdominal muscles, the hair that trails softly there. The muscle shifts with each thrust of his hips.
He moans your name when you bite his lip. You never thought youâd hear the hand of the king say it like that. It makes you dizzy.
âBaelor,â you whine, as he fucks you towards your release. Itâs tight and hot and heâs moving so fast that you barely have enough breath to speak. âP-please, my prince.â
âSâalright, sweetheart,â he coos, hands pulling you harder down to meet his hips. âYouâre feeling good, hm? You want to finish for me?â
Bowstring pulling taut, it has nowhere left to go.
He slips a hand away to rub a firm couple of circles across your swollen clit.
Tension building, buildingâ too tight.
âAre you going to be a good girl and show me how pretty you are when you come on my cock?â
It can only snap.
You cry out his name, hands scrambling for purchase as your third orgasm overwhelms you. It burns hot inside youâa feverish heat that spreads through your stomach and chest, delves down into your pelvis and courses through your legs. Your cunt draws in tightly, pulsing with your racing heart, squeezing around the thick of his cock as you sob his name. A couple of tears roll from your eyes as your entire body is overcome with tremors, and you faintly feel him lean forward and kiss them from your skin.
âThatâs it, thatâs a good girl,â Baelor whispers as his thrusts falter. He rolls his hips, movements sloppy and desperate.Â
Clinging to control, the tight clutch of your pussy draws him in and his mind goes blank. His mouth drops open to release a strangled âahâoh, fuck, sweet girlââ followed by your name, before heâs doing exactly what the heir should not do and spilling inside you.
He pulls you to him as he fills you, seed pumping hot against the plug of your cervix. His strong arms wrap around you, your nightgown sticking to your sweat-licked spine as he buries his face into your neck while he comes in warm spurts. Hips twitch, balls pulling up tightly as he empties himself completely into the tight clutch of your pussy (the first time heâs done so in what feels like eons).
Then, silence.
The kitchen is deathly quiet if you ignore the ragged panting leaving the both of you as you clutch each other. It remains like that for a moment until Baelorâs head clears, and he gingerly pulls back, cock softening and flopping out of you. You both look down and groan simultaneously as your cunt drools milky-white.
âGods, what have I doneâŠâ Baelor mutters, but he doesnât sound regretful. Moreso shocked as he takes two fingers and collects the seed that drips from you, preventing it from splattering onto the stone floor below.
âExactly what I wanted you to do,â you sigh, seizing him by the jaw and bringing him forward. You kiss him, and itâs gentle. It reminds you of the kind of prince he is.
Youâll need moon tea, he should say. Youâll need to forgive me, and forget this ever happened, a good prince would say.
âIâll speak with your father at daybreak,â he says instead, helping you off of the table after a kiss to the corner of your mouth.
He helps you fix the neckline of your nightgown and draws the fabric back down your thighsâwhich you squeeze together to prevent anything from leaking out onto the floorâas you reply, âAbout what? The fact you sullied his daughterâs virtue in his kitchens?â
He pats your cheek fondly as you help tuck his softening cock back into his breeches.Â
âNo, I fear that may cause a political incident,â Baelor says, only half-joking. âI will tell him you are to be betrothed to me.â
Your fingers freeze where you tie a knot against the waistline of his trousers. Slowly, you lift your head to look at him, throat suddenly dry. âWhat?â
âYour father wants to promise you to the winner of the tourney, but Iâm sure he would hardly reject the offer of betrothal from a prince of the realm.â
âThe prince of the realmâŠâ You find yourself muttering.
Baelor takes your face in his hands and forces you to stay put. With this angle, you can see a small bruise forming at the curve of his neck. A mark you had sucked there. Pride fills you and you canât help offering him a small smile.
âWill you have me?â He asks you tenderly, thumbs stroking your cheeks, still damp from tears and his kisses.
Of course youâre nodding before any other thought crosses your mind. âIâm already yours.â
Baelorâs eyes sparkle as he pulls your mouth to his again, your hands threading around his shoulders as the kiss develops. His tongue sweeps in, gentle and guiding, and youâre about to let out a whine when clanking footsteps pull you from the pleasure.
You rip yourself away from him, eyes flicking to the door. Guards, approaching from somewhere down the dimly lit hall. Panicked, you snatch your chamberstick with one hand. You take Baelorâs hand in yours and pull him towards the servantâs entrance.
âQuickly, your grace,â you say, tugging him through the narrow passageway. Your legs are unsteady beneath you as you lead him. âI know these tunnels well.â
Behind you, Baelor lets out a soft laugh. âThat doesnât surprise me in the slightest.â
He lets you lead him through the dark, damp passage, and wonders whether youâll remember to ask him for your smallclothes back.
ââżâ
âI beg your pardon, your grace?â Your father stares at Baelor, dumbfounded.
Early the next morning, Baelor stands in the middle of the solar, his hands clasped in front of him. His presence commands the entire room, your father and a few of his closest advisors sit and watch, captivated.
âBetroth your daughter to me,â Baelor repeats calmly.
âYou?â Your father takes a deep breath. âBut, your grace, you are hand of the king, much older thanââ
âShe is beloved, is she not? Your people love her, and I am confident mine will as well. Furthermore, there will be no pressure for her to bear my child if she does not wish, as I have my two sons,â Baelor assures your father with careful composure.
Your father gapes. âButâ?â
âYou were considerably enthusiastic, mâlord, to vow your daughter to the winner of the dayâs tourney, yet you seem hesitant to allow her hand to your future king.â Baelor was not one to brandish his titles as such, but annoyance was quickly building within him, veiled partly by jealousy.
Your father hurries to exonerate himself. âNot at all, your grace! I just didnât thinkâI mean, my daughter is scarcely well-behaved, and does not conduct herself as a princess should.â
âYou regard her with such poor consideration,â Baelor utters, tone hard. âNow, mâlord, I will ask only once more. May you grant me, the prince of the realm, your daughterâs hand?â
Your father nods quickly. âYes, of course, my prince. Sheâyes, she is all yours.â
Baelor hums, pleased, hand resting comfortably on the snakehead dagger in a sheath at his hip. The bundle of your smallclothes are heavy in his pocket, and the red mark on his neck is obscured by his collar.
the scratch of the quillâs nib on parchment, the slight tink of an inkwell being dipped into, the dripping of wax onto a brass chamberstick, kitten-like mewls muffled against the side of his throat.
baelor shushes you, one hand firm on your hip. his fingers squeeze, kneading flesh, as you gently rock yourself back and forth on his lap. he sits comfortably at his desk, the quiet of his solar illuminated by dozens of flickering candles. you mouth at the side of his neck, feeling the steady thump of his pulse beneath your spit-slick lips, another breathy sound falling from the back of your throat.
baelor shushes you again, hand pulling you further into him. the movement angles you down, his cock stretching you open, the head reaching and rubbing that perfect spot inside you before he stills again.
âdonât start fussing,â he whispers, quill to parchment as if he wasnât splitting you apart. his cock gives a feeble jerk inside you and it draws a low moan from your chest. he hums, fingers gripping. âyouâve been so good for this long, sweetheart, mâalmost finished.â
you whine, heat coiling thick behind your navel. thereâs a dull ache in the base of your womb too; the pain of being so close but not quite there as you sit on his cock. one of your hands plays with the short hairs at the nape of his neck, your arm curling over his shoulder, while the other drags up and down his chest, feeling along the soft padding of his doublet.
you lift your head and press a kiss to the hinge of his jaw. you whimper there too, dragging your nose back down his neck, following the shift of his pulse. you hear the quill pause against parchment, and your heart leaps, clattering against your ribs, when the hand on your hip pushes you down even further.
you take more of his cock, pussy stretching full to swallow around the thick of him. it flutters, hot and wet, all silken as he tries to even his breathing. you moan quietly, hips twitching, trying to gain some kind of friction aside from the stagnant press of your puffy clit against the thicket of hair at the base of his cock.
âdâyou need something?â your husband asks, tipping his head to speak closer to your ear. he asks, deep and rolling, as if he doesnât know what you want.
you whine in response, attempting to pick yourself off of his lap, even by just a fraction, to push yourself down again. but he holds you firm, and you let out another airy whine into the dewy skin of his neck, a solid pressure unmoving in the base of your spine.
âuh-uh, none of that,â baelor chides, swatting lightly at the top of your arse. you hear him start writing again, clued by the gentle glass tink of steel into the nearby inkwell. reaching deep inside you, his cock gives another twitch as he speaks, âiâm almost done, sweet girl. be good for me.â
you huff into his neck. âbaelor.â
âbe good,â he repeats firmly, and you ignore the heat building near-painfully in the pit of your stomach.
itâs a tension you know, but you canât quite break. it settles, like the ash that cakes thick across the glowing hearth. your cunt clenches around him again, spurred on by the shallow ache in your clit and the hammering of your heart against your sternum. you can feel yourself, with heat pooling in your veins, dripping around him: pussy drooling out onto his lap, wetting the hair, the soft skin of his thighs.
you canât help the whimper that escapes you, perfectly wanton and needy and it hits your husband right in the heart. the hand on your hip tightens and his cock jerks, and he leans his head to the side to plant a delicate kiss to your warm forehead.
âi know, i know, i can feel her too,â baelor mutters against your forehead as you pant into the side of his throat. a muffled baelor falls from your tongue, and a hum rumbles from his chest. âyouâre doing so well, sweetheart. youâre doing so good for me, just hold on.â
you hush out a moan, barely a whisper in response. thereâs a light tremble in your thighs where you part around him, the fat of your arse snug against his lap. your pussy flutters again, and you feel something tugging deep across the base of your womb. it makes you roll your hips, just slightly, to drag the pearl of your clit against him and shift the head of his cock over that perfect spot inside you.
âoh, gods,â you whisper, eyes screwing shut as you lean your head against baelorâs shoulder. you hold the back of his neck gently, an anchor for you, while you continue drawing circles across his chest with the other. you huff, smelling ink and cedar and the salt of his skin. âbaelor, please.â
your husband doesnât respond, but you hear the moment he finishes his work. you hear the slide of parchment against lacquered wood, and you hear the drop of the quill into itâs cup.
âso needy,â baelor says, leaning back in his chair and taking both of your hips in either hand. you pick yourself off of his shoulder to match his gaze. he smiles at you, close-lipped and knowing. âbut you did so well.â
you nod as he urges you to lift your hips. you do, gladly, heat sticky between your legs as you rise. his cock slips from you slowly, and you moan when just the head remains, your body quivering as you hold you position. baelor looks you up and down, a gentle stroke of his eyes over you, before pulling you back to him.
he fills you instantly, and your lips part around a soundless moan as he knocks up towards the base of your cervix. your pussy takes him, wet and warm and wanting. you drool out onto his lap as he guides you, drops you up and down over and over.
baelorâs eyes lower for a moment. thereâs a subtle, almost disbelieving shake of his head as they settle on where your pussy parts around him. âgods, youâre making an absolute mess of me.â
you whine, hands clutching his shoulders now as you roll your hips. the thick stretch of his cock renders you breathless as you chase your releaseâthe release which has sat immobile in the pit of your belly for the better part of an hour.
his gaze flicks back up to you as you rut yourself onto his cock. he leans in then and presses his mouth to yours, swallowing your moan as you return it. itâs wet and needy, a desperate exchange of tongues and spit, and you feel his lips curl into a smile as you whine into it, chasing more, more, moreâ
âthis is what you needed, isnât it?â baelor whispers against your mouth before your head tips and you rub your cheek against his, feeling the scratch of his beard. you puff out a whine, barely a distinguishable sound, as your release packs hot in your womb and deep across the base of your spine. your husband coos at your lack of response, hands kneading your hips. âoh, my sweet girl, my perfect girl, thatâs it. thatâsâyeah, thatâs it.â
you moan, cunt clenching tight around the thick of him. he groans, hips angling to meet you, the chair beneath the pair of you creaking with your combined movements.
âsheâs needy today too, isnât she?â baelor mutters, and your entire body burns from the inside out as you listen to the constant wet schlick-schlick-schlick of your pussy as you take his cock. you moan, and he shushes you gently, hands heavy on your hips. âitâs alrightâsâalright, sweetheart, iâve got you.â
the pressure in your womb and at the base of your spine finally bursts apart, and you come around your husbandâs cock with a shaking moan of his name into the candlelit quiet of his solar. your cunt wraps tight around him, and he responds to the fluttering and your moaning with a deep, grumbling sound of his own, his cock jerking and his balls twitching tight as he chases his own release.
you writhe in his lap as you come, heat swimming through you. whining, you grind yourself through it as his hips meet, and your legs are still shaking, your heart is still racing, when he moans your name and spills deep inside you. you choke on a gasp at the thick warmth that fills you as his cock twitches deep where he sits up against the plug of your womb.
baelor breathes you in, muttering your name as he spills, and spills, then finally, as you pull your head across to kiss him, he stills. he kisses you back, gentler this time. your teeth skim his lip, and he pulls back with a small smile and a gleam in his mismatched eyes.
âyou feeling better?â he asks you, breathing deeply, a hand lifting from your hip to cup the side of your face.
you lean into the contact like a puppy, closing your eyes and humming a pleased yes before heâs bringing you back to him for another kiss.
âż baelor is âblessedâ by a travelling herb-woman, and after two weeks away from his wife, he is desperate to have her (or, a sex pollen fic with the hand of the king).
âż 18+
âż wc: 5.6k
âż cw: fem!reader/secondwife!reader, reader is not physically defined but she sexyyy, no y/n, sex pollen, SMUT, unprotected piv, unintentional rough sex initially, clothed sex (kinda), baelor is desperate asf, pet names (sweet girl, little dove, etc), praise, lowkey hyperspermia, strong language, baelor being the peopleâs princess <3
The red and black banners of the royal Targaryen caravan draws a significant crowd, and when Baelor, heir to the Iron Throne and Hand of the King, dismounts his black stallion, the crowd ripples with voices. Itâs a great clamour: common people reaching for him, calling his name, begging for his attention as heâs flanked by his loyal kingsguard.
He has been away for two weeks. Travelling from Kings Landing to Sunspear and back again, stopping in various towns and villages on his way. He spoke kindly with vendors, purchased goods from travelling merchants, discussed the state of the realm with minor lords who frequented trailside inns.
He was a man of the people, but in truth, he only wanted to be the man for one person. He wanted to be your man, and he had been away for two weeks too long.
His pretty wife, no doubt sitting alone within the walls of the Keep. Waiting for the return of your dear husband, biding your time lost between the pages of Valyrian literature or nosing around the quiet observatories.
He smiles to himself as he thinks of you.
One of his guards, Ser Donnel, stoops low to whisper in his ear as he waves to the surging crowd, who respond with shouts of praise.
âWe need not stop here, your grace,â Donnel informs. âWe are but three hours from the royal residence. We can make landing before midday ifââ
Baelor swishes his hand through the air, polite but dismissive. âDo not fret, ser. I will only spend a moment here then we will depart once more.â
Donnel says nothing more as Baelor approaches some of the commonfolk. He extends his arm and shakes the hand of a young man, no older than his eldest son. The boy beams at the prince, his handshake firm and confident.
âSeven blessings, your grace,â the young man says, dipping his head as he shakes Baelorâs hand. Baelor smiles softly at him, and the young man brings a hand to his chest in a display of respect. âI have the means to become a knight.â
Baelor smiles still. âThen I wish you all the best. We are always in need of good men and good knights.â
The young man continues to beam as Baelor moves through the crowd, flanked by the shining white armoured men that comprise his kingsguard.
The village is small and very simple. A scarce few buildings stand amongst crudely made wooden houses, but nevertheless, Baelor winds his way through the wide streets, greeting people who peer out their windows and doors curiously.
Once he has done a lap of the village, shaking hands and offering kind smiles, he returns to where he had started. With one final wave to the people, he mounts his steed and the royal caravan presses on. Cantering beside him, Donnel, his white armour gleaming in the mid-morning sun, casts him a sidelong look.
Baelor meets his gaze. âYes, Ser Donnel?â
âYou assume everyone you meet has good intentions, your grace,â Donnel speaks plainly, and this makes Baelor shake his head, chuckling softly.
âIâd rather assume the good intentions of the people than the bad,â Baelor replies, the Targaryen procession winding through the countryside now, surrounded by endless rolling hills, coloured a patchwork of brilliant greens. âIf I assume everyone has bad intentions, Ser Donnel, I would not make a good prince.â
Donnel huffs. âYouâd make my job significantly easier.â
Baelor tuts, humoured. âWell, we wouldnât want that, would we?â
An hour passes beneath the bright sun, and Baelor finds his lower back growing stiff with his continued straight riding posture. But he does not complain, nor does he ask for a break: he has kept his entourage from their homes for long enough, and on the distant horizon, Kingâs Landing juts from the hills, the ocean glittering beyond.
The well-ridden path ahead of them stretches and coils between the rolling hills like a serpent, and way ahead, the guards alert Baelor to a fully-stocked wagon pulled by a gangly old mule. A shawled figure walks beside the mule, and Baelor smiles to himself as he sees the figure patting the creature gently, heading away from Kingâs Landing.
âI intend to dismount,â Baelor tells Donnel, who can scarcely react before the princeâs horse sidles up beside the wagon.Â
The shawled figure, revealed to be an elderly woman of perhaps seven and ninety, stops at the sound of thundering hooves. She leans into a stiff bow as Baelor leaps from his stallion, stretching his hand to stroke the nose of the old mule.
âYour grace,â the woman greets kindly, her eyes darting nervously to the two imposing kingsguard who dismount their own horses and stand beside the prince. Their hands rest on the pommels of their swords, and they eye both the woman and her wagon skeptically. She gestures to the wagon, which is draped in dark blue material and smells of lavender. âI am a travelling herb-woman.â
Baelor assesses the woman with his mismatched eyes. âWell, it has been many years since I have met someone of your specialty.â
The woman smiles, and the kingsguard bristles as Baelor continues to pet the mule. The prince speaks with a disarming kindness that constantly has them on edge. He was considerably more difficult to guard compared to his younger brother, who spoke to no one unless he really needed to.
âI have been travelling for far too long,â Baelor continues, allowing the mule to butt his hand in search of more strokes. âMight you have something to ease my aches?â
Donnel clears his throat behind him. âYour grace, I donât recommendââ
The woman splits into a deep smile and turns to her wagon, her dark cloak moving around her like the blackness of night. She smells rich of lavender and road dirt, and Baelor shoots Donnel a pointed look as he waits. The woman peels back the covering of her wagon and rifles through the contents she can reach. After a moment, she spins around with a small vial. She holds it up, the liquid inside a milky-white.
âA tannic tea made from the bark of the white willow,â she says, holding it out to the prince. âUsed to relieve muscle and joint aches.â
Baelor goes to reach for it, but Donnel beats him to it, snatching the vial from the woman, who jumps slightly at his roughness. Baelor peers curiously at his guard, who inspects the bottle thoughtfully.
âYou cannot take something of which you do not know its origins,â Donnel says in response to Baelorâs stare. âIt could be poison.â
The woman gawks. âOh, no! No, your grace, I do notâI do not carry poisons. I am a simple herb-woman, gods believe me, andââ
Baelor lifts his hand, and the mule snorts in discontent at the lack of contact. âPlease, you owe us no explanation. Ser Donnel is simply being thorough,â Baelor says the last part pointedly, and casts Donnel a sidelong glance that makes Roland, on his other side, snort around a poorly hidden laugh.
Donnel frowns. âYour father would not forgive me if I allowed you to drink strange liquids from strangers. Not to mention, your wifeââ
Baelor gently takes the small vial from Donnel, interrupting his tirade. The prince carefully uncorks it, smells itâit smells of willow tannins, something he is familiar with from his many travels across the realmâand then drinks the entire small bottle. Itâs bitter to the taste, with a subtle honey-sweetness used by many experienced healers to remedy the acridness of many bark-based tannics.
The woman smiles softly, taking the vial back. âIt should begin to work within the hour.â
The prince returns the smile, allowing the old woman to clasp one of his hands in two of hers. The kingsguard watches her like a pair of hawks as she retreats, but not before exclaiming aloud, pulling a small pouch from within her thick cloak.
âMay I bless you, your grace?â She asks.
Donnel frowns. âNoââ
Baelor ignores his guard, stepping forward and presenting himself to the herb-woman, thus putting some space between him and his guards. She smiles, opening the pouch. Between her thumb and forefinger, she produces a pinch of bright pink powder.
âHow long have you been from your wife?â the woman questions, tucking the pouch back within her cloak and sprinkling the powder onto her outstretched palm.
Baelor chuckles softly, watching the woman. âToo long. Weeks now.â
âYou must desire her embrace then, I assume,â she says, and Baelor ignores another poorly-hidden laugh from Roland at the womanâs open words.
âDesperately,â Baelor speaks plainly, also ignoring the fact he could feel Donnelâs scowl pressing into the back of his head.
âWell,â the woman begins, running her finger through the pink powder on her palm and drawing a circle in it. âI bless you, your grace, with the passion and the desire to make up for such lost time.â
The woman raises her hand and blows the pink powder directly into Baelorâs face. He closes his eyes, the dust settling across him like a mist, tickling his skin as it settles. It takes a second for the smell to calm around his head, but as he inhales, everything he smells is strikingly familiar. He smells his childhood in Dorne: hot, sun-bleached sand, rain-soaked yew trees, spiced wine and pomegranate juice; he smells the ash of Dragonstone, fresh wax seals, blood on Valyrian steel beneath a stormy sky; and then he smells you.
That makes him freeze.
You, as if he had his nose pressed to the crook of your neck.
The musk of your skin, the rose-water of your baths, the cinnamon in your perfume. He smells the lilacs you pick in the gardens, and the ink you so often spill across your fingers as you write. He smells the honey wax soap you wash your hair with, and the rich apple cider you so often treat yourself to during times of celebration.
Baelor opens his eyes and gapes at the woman. âWhat isâ?â
âBlessed be you and your wife, your grace. Travel safely,â she says with a knowing smile, dipping into another stiff curtsy before taking the rope at her muleâs neck and leading him on, pulling the cart away.
Behind the prince, Donnel places a hand on his shoulder. âYour grace, are youâ?â
âLet us continue,â Baelor interrupts, slightly too loud. He quickly mounts his horse as Donnel and Roland exchange a strange look. Baelor beckons his knights. âCome, sers. We must not delay our arrival any longer.â
He canât wait to see you.
Your face flits through his mind and he has to physically press the back of his hand to his mouth to stop himself from groaning as he nudges his horse into motion. When he pulls his hand away, he can see something iridescent dusting across the black leather of his riding glove, but it quickly melts into the hide, leaving behind only a dull shimmer.
He doesnât feel as though he has been poisoned, but now more than ever, with Kingâs Landing looming in the distance, his mind is plagued with thoughts of you. Thoughts, which were once wholesome, now divergeâimages of you spread out on his bed, a hand between your legs; or the whiny little breath you suck in each time he enters you.
His thoughts are unbecoming of a man of his standing.
But he cannot rid his mind of them.
Imagesâmemoriesâof you hiking up your skirts as you perch on the edge of his desk, cunt glistening as his mouth lowers, or the way you arch and bend yourself over the edge of your tall bed, gripping the soft furs and sheets, begging him to take you.
âYour grace, are you well?â Donnel asks, catching the light glaze falling across the princeâs eyes.
Baelor nods, clearing his throat. Heâs fine. If he ignores the way his cock is currently twitching in his breeches, heâs fine.
âI am,â he replies convincingly. âI must admit, my back feels better already.â
Donnel scoffs, but says nothing more.
If not for the horde of people around him, Baelor would have taken off. No doubt he would have gotten to the Keep in record time, even if he did run his poor stallion into the ground.
ââżâ
The sun hangs high in the sky as Baelor hurriedly dismounts his steed and waves Donnel and Roland away. The Red Keep is alive with servants and workers, but amongst the sea of people he does not see you.
The hours that went by were torturous, and on several occasions the prince found himself screwing his eyes shut and willing himself not to burst through the seam of his trousers. Your scent clogged his sinuses, and he could almost feel some phantom of your touch trailing along the back of his neck, rustling the cropped hair of his beard, fiddling with the clasp of his cloak.
He strides purposely through the glowing halls of the Keep, pulling his riding gloves off and tossing them to a servant who hurries after him. He unclasps his cloak too, letting it drop to the ground behind him. The servant squeaks, scooping the cloak up before sprinting forward in an attempt to keep up with the heir.
The servant clears his throat nervously. âYour grace, your presence is requested in counsel at the turn of the hour, and the Lord of Riverrun is awaiting your letter in reply toââ
âI have been absent for weeks,â Baelor snaps, but although his tone is short, he is not cruel. âIt will not hurt to miss one more meeting. And as for the Lord of Riverrun, he can wait even longer unless heâd rather a reply from my brother, who he is not fond of.â
The servant nods. âOf course, your grace, butââ
âWhere is my wife?â Baelor voices, his doublet too hot and too restrictive around his chest. The halls of the Keep seem particularly warm today.
âYour chambers, as far as Iâm aware,â the servant replies. âButââ
âThank you, you are dismissed,â Baelor says as he rounds a corner, the door to your shared chambers coming into close view. His heart leaps in his chest envisioning you waiting patiently for his arrival.
The servant, arms struggling to hold onto Baelorâs thick, luxurious cloak, frowns deeply. âYour graceâ?â
Baelor whirls around, and the servant yelps as he is forced to an abrupt stop. The prince gestures to the closed door of his chambers with a quick flick of his hand.
âPlease make it aware to all of the workers that I am not to be disturbed for the rest of the day,â he says, voice low. âTell the entire Keep for all I care, but under no circumstances is anyone to call for me, understood?â
The servant nods.
Baelor spins and pushes his door open, closing it and bolting it behind him with a resounding clank. He rests his forehead on the rough wood for a moment, catching his breath. His heart hammers wildly in his chest, as if his journey through the Keep had been miles longer than it actually was. It almost pains him, the way it clatters against his ribs as his breaths grow more ragged. His head is swimming too, a dizzy sort of euphoria overwhelmed by everything relating to you.
You.
He groans, eyes screwing shut as his cock presses painfully to the front of his breeches. He has half the mind to simply stick his hand into his trousers and jerk himself into the linen.
âBaelor?â
Your voice is angelic in the quiet of the chambers, and it makes another groan split from between Baelorâs lax jaw.
He turns, eyes opening, blinking blearily as he stares into the sunlight streaming through the windows. You sit up in the large canopy bed, your white chemise sitting loosely on your shoulders, revealing the curve of your neck. The furs and sheets pool around you in a mass of browns and blacks, and you rub at your eyes with the heel of your hand as you take in the sight of your husband across the room.
âYouâre home,â you smile lazily at him, pushing yourself from the bed and padding your way over to him.
Your voice is so soft that it makes Baelor fold forward, the weight of his arousal dragging him towards you. You have him on an invisible leash, tugging him across the room until you can wrap your arms around his waist and press your face into his chest.
âNo one informed me you were returning today,â you tell him, voice muffled against the thickness of his doublet. He presses two trembling hands to your lower back, pulling you tighter against him. You nuzzle him, the feeling making his stomach swoop. âIâve missed you.â
âAnd I you,â he responds quietly, and he stiffens when he feels you go still. His voice is throaty and hoarse, hauled through gravel.
Slowly, you look up, and he realises you can feel the press of his clothed cock against your stomach. He groans, a pathetic little bellow as you gape up at him, eyes sparkling as they take in the state of his fevered face. You raise a hand, placing it against his cheek. He closes his eyes, and like a puppy, leans into your touch with a small sound of pleasure.
âYouâŠâ You begin, but falter. Your fingers trail along the neat line where the hair of his beard meets his cheek. He wonders, as he finally opens his eyes, if you can see every one of his pores glistening. He wonders too if the sweat that collects along his forehead is tinted pink. You frown. âYou smell of⊠well, Iâm not sure.â
He whines at the timidness in your voice, his hands circling to your hips. He grips you tightly, pulling your pelvis flush to his. It takes all power within him not to grind his cock against you. He doesnât want to scare you off.
âIâve missed you so much,â he says before you can open your mouth. Your hands continue to flutter over his face, and it makes his cock jump in his breeches when your thumb slides over the bow of his top lip. âBeing away from you has been torture.â
You hum, slightly distracted. Your hands continue to shift across his face, and your brows knit together once more when you slowly pull one of them away. Baelor watches you examine your fingertips before your eyes find his again. He can feel the hot pressure of tears behind his eyesânot because he is sad, but because he needs you so badly he feels his heart will implode against his sternum.
âGods, I need you,â Baelor declares gently, strong hands lifting to cup your face. He leans forward to press his lips to yours, but you resist, turning your head so his mouth lands against your warm cheek. He whines, frustrated, as he scatters kisses over your cheekbone. âNo, no, sweet girl, please donâtââ
âYouâre sparkling like a silk-street whore,â you quip, voice light with humour, but Baelor doesnât hear it that way.
âNo, no, never,â he rambles, nose pressing to your cheek. âIâd never, sweet girl, gods no. Iâd first open my throat before I everââ
âBaelor,â you stop him with a small, breathless chuckle, slightly overwhelmed.Â
Heâs burning hot against you, he knows it, and youâre just as warm against him. It makes his head swim as he inhales, your skin slightly tacky with sweat from your midday nap, but smelling of roses and cinnamon.
âIâve been blessed,â he says quickly, trying to turn your face, but you resist. He kisses your chin instead. âA herb-woman blessed me.â
âAh,â you reply, knowing what heâs referring to. Not only have you met a few of these travelling healers in your time, but youâve also read much about them.
Baelor leans his weight into you, and you stumble back until you collide with one of the thick posts of your canopy bed. He groans, pinning you to it as he kisses along your jaw, strong hands cupping your face. Your fingers find the hem of his doublet and you rub along the dense seam. As you do that, his hips rut forward and you gasp at the thick print of his cock against you, hot and hard in his trousers. Your hands drop, finding the cool metal of the clasp.
You hear him suck in a breath as he kisses the tender skin beside your ear. Then, he whispers, âYes, take them off. Please take them off, little dove.â
You unbuckle the clasp.
He groans. âYes, yes.â
Your fingers peel the front of his trousers open, and he finally manages to pull your mouth up to his. His hands are burning hot against the side of your head as his mouth slots against yours. The kiss is tender to start with, but one beat of your heart later and heâs whining against you, tongue sliding across your lips.
âLet me in,â he pleads against your mouth, before delving back in.
You do, opening your kisses for him to press his tongue in, finding yours. Everything about it is warm, your proximity burning hotter than a Dornish summer sun.
The tent of his cock nudges your palm as you finally shuck his trousers down. You feel for the ties of his breeches next, pulling at the knots as his tongue skims across your teeth. When he feels his breeches begin to loosen around his hips, he breaks away to groan, head tilting down slightly, your foreheads bumping together. He watches your fingers draw his breeches undone before they drop alongside his trousers.
You hesitate.
Baelor groans. âTouch me. Touch me, please, I need you toââ
You clasp the base of his cock with a warm, gentle hand. He groans again: this time, louder, and he lifts your head with his guiding hands and slams his mouth back to yours. Thereâs a subtle bitterness on his tongue, like a medicine of some sort, but itâs overwhelmed by an apple flavour that has you searching for more. Your tongues tangle as you grasp his cock, giving it a few tiny strokes as he pulls you away from the canopy post and pushes you down onto the mattress.
The kiss disconnects and you yelp as you fall flat onto the furs. Your husbandâs hands find the hem of your chemise now and push it quickly up your body.
âThereâs my pretty girl,â he utters, finding you bare of any smallclothes beneath your sleepwear.
He stares down at your cunt with a misty gloss across his mismatched eyes. His hands drag down your sides, then onto your thighs, massaging the fat there before heâs prying them apart.
One of his hands grips the base of his cock, replacing your own. âYou have no⊠no idea how badly I need this.â
Baelor steps forward and tugs you towards him at the same time. You yelp once more as your arse practically hangs off of the bed as he settles between your spread legs. The thick head of his cock presses right against your clit, and you yowl his name as he taps it there roughly. His eyes snap up to take in your expression, and thatâs when you notice a tear slip from his dark-hued eye.
âOh, Baelor,â you whisper, pussy fluttering around nothing at the unbridled need in his face. There are a million butterflies in your tummy too.
He whimpers deeply, then drags his cock through your silken folds. He collects the slick that gathers there with a small moan before he speaks. The tear disappears into the hair of his beard. âMy sweetest girl, please let me have you.â
Youâre nodding straight away.
Baelor sucks in a breath, and you see something like regret flicker through his eyes. âGods, I donât want to hurt you.â
âYou wonât,â you tell him, noting the rapid rise and fall of his chest as his eyes rake down your body. They linger on the peaks of your nipples through the thin material of your chemise. âYou could never hurt me.â
âNo, no, sweet girl, I canâtââ Baelor slurs, then cuts himself off with a low whine as he notches the head of his cock at your hole.
Youâre wet and glistening for him, but his mind is split in two: conflicted, overrun with the effects of whatever he had been âblessedâ with, but still anchored to his princely values.
He huffs, desperate as he rubs the tip of his cock in tight circles around your entrance. âOh, fuck.â
You angle your hips and the leaking tip sinks into you. He chokes on his moan, the apple in his throat bobbing as he swallows around it. He watches, eyes nearly the same colour with the way his pupils dilate, as your pussy splits apart for him and sucks the head in. Then, his entire body trembling with need, he pushes even further, shoving his cock all the way inside you, giving you no room to adjust.
It punches a pained noise from your chest that you tried to keep at bay, and you canât help but wriggle away from him at the intrusion. Itâs instinctive, your body reacting to the sudden pressure that fissures both pain and pleasure deep in your gut. Your body writhes against the furs as you whimper, somehow feeling the tip of his cock all the way in your chest, the sensation of being filled suffocating after over two weeks without him.
Your body flees his, and the moan that leaves his mouth is nothing short of heart-breaking. Itâs stretched and whiny and nothing youâve ever heard before.
âNo, no, no, please, donât run from me,â Baelor stammers, eyes wide, hands tight on your hips. He tugs you back down, spearing you on his cock and you howl as he buries himself to the hilt inside you. You fist the sheets, wriggling. Baelor whines. âStop, s-stop, no, Iâm sorry, sweet girl, please donâtâplease donât cry.â
You hadnât even noticed a few hot tears slipping from your eyes. He bends then, kissing them from your face. His eyelashes flutter against you and the hair of his beard scratches against the skin of your cheek. He whispers to you as he rolls his hips, stretching your pussy around him.
âMâsorry, needâfuck, tell me to stop and I will.â His lips ghost across your earlobe as he pins you beneath him, the angle slightly awkward, hips trapped beneath his.
You gasp softly as he ruts his hips again. âDonât stop, jusâ keep going.â
âThank you,â Baelor says, kissing your cheek once more before he rights himself. He holds your hips tightly, pulling himself out and then back in. The drive is deep, and heâs moaning louder than you as he bottoms out again and again. âThank you, thank you, thank youââ
His trousers and breeches rustle against his thighs as he fucks you, your arse hanging off the bed, the wood of the canopy creaking with his feverish movements. You take it, the sting of the stretch slowly dissipating with each thrust. Your cunt clenches around him as he thanks you repeatedly, growing more and more desperate as he moves. You can see the sweat on his forehead, and you can only assume heâs drenched beneath his doublet and tunic.
The sounds of your union bounce through the chambers, moans and whimpers and curses ricocheting off the stone. Heâs murmuring your name like a prayer, strung beautifully between rambling sentences of High Valyrian as he ruts into you.
Not only is this little blessing working, but the white willow tea surely did. His back no longer pains him, and he feels like he could go on forever as he fills you. His eyes linger on where your pussy takes him, sloppy and wet and so fucking loud that his ears burn red. And youâre loud too, whimpering and gasping as your body is rocked roughly against the silken sheets and plush furs.
With a long-winded groan, Baelor takes one of his hands and presses it down on your lower belly. The added pressure has you keening, eyes almost rolling.
âThatâs it,â Baelor speaks in a tone heavy with pleasure. âThatâs it, little dove. Feel me filling you. Feel the way you take me.â
His words are so foreign yet so familiar. In bed, heâs no stranger to telling you how well youâre doing, how well you take him, how good of a girl you are. But this? The pink powder is thick between his teeth, clogging up the blood vessels in his brain, and heâs spitting out sentences that have you clenching tight around him. He groans as your pussy flutters, and the knot of pleasure in your tummy grows tenfold. A heavy pressure begins to build in the base of your cervix too, hips twitching as he slams into you.
He must see it in your face, because heâs panting now, eyes taking in every little expression that flits before him.
âI know, I know,â he affirms gently, noting what you could not articulate into words. âI know youâre feeling good. I know youâre feeling real good, little dove, but you just need to h-hang onâdonât want you coming u-until I do.â
You whimper, pouting a little.
âCan you do that for me?â Baelor pants, forcing your hips down. By the way heâs moving, the speed in which he fills you and the whines that begin to replace his groans, you know heâs close. But the pressure in your tummy is so heavy that you canât answer him. He coos at you. âYou can do it, sweet girl. Iâm almost there. Just hold on for me.â
You moan his name, arching off the bed as the knot in your stomach pulls taut. He responds with a moan of his own, leaning forward as if heâs beginning to lose his balance. He ruts into you like a starving man, the bed shaking, his body silhouetted by the window behind him. His mouth is agape, his breathing erratic and strained.
âBaelor,â you call for him. Youâre teetering on a very high cliff, your entire body alight with your impending orgasm. Thereâs a scream trapped in your throat and your legs pull painfully tight either side of him.
âOkay, okay, okay,â he rambles, his knuckles white where he holds you. âOkay, fuck, sâokay, little dove. You can come for me. Mâright here, mâright here.â
You whine, almost pained.
âSâalright, sweet girl,â Baelor continues to coo down at you. âLet me feel you. Want to feel you come around me while I fill you.â
His cock jerks heavily inside you, and his thrusts falter just as you release around him. Gripping the sheets, you sob his name as the knot of pleasure splinters apart. Your release is intense: you shake beneath the warm hold of his big hands, legs seizing tightly as you wrap them around him. His name and his title tumble from your lips, and they only increase when you feel his cock nudge up against your cervix as he spills inside you.
Baelor groans your name. His hips stutter to a stop as he spills, and heâs panting and shuddering as his pleasure peaks. Itâs the strongest release heâs ever experienced, his eyes snapping closed as his entire body shakes and his heart leaps into his throat.
And heâs still spilling. Thick ropes of seed that seem never-ending as he hunches over you, cock jolting over and over until the point of pain.
He whines deeply, then pulls out, just for a few hot spurts of cum to splatter across your mound and your lower tummy.
âFuck, fuck, fuck,â Baelor whimpers, and you gasp out as he rests his cock against you. You feel it give one last jerk, dribbling at your navel, before you watch it slowly begin to soften, blood steadily seeping away from the head. Baelor notices the mess heâs made when his vision finally clears, still slightly dizzy with pleasure though. âMâso sorry, little dove, I didnâtâgods, I didnât meanââ
You lift a tired arm and seize him by the doublet, tugging him down beside you. You capture his mouth in a heated kiss, and he melts into it straight away. His hands smooth down your sides as your fingers comb through his beard.
When you pull apart, you kiss the tip of his nose. âYou have nothing to be sorry for.â
Baelor frowns slightly, and you canât help but raise your head to kiss the divots in his brow. He huffs. âI⊠I was too rough, I shouldnât haveâŠâ
Thereâs a slight ache deep in your womb, but nothing significant. All youâre focusing on, anyway, is the way his seed leaks from you like honey from its dipper.
âPlease, Baelor,â you interrupt him softly, stroking his face. âLike I said, you could never hurt me.â
He goes to speak again, but you kiss him to shut him up.
âI missed you so much,â you say against him, and he grunts, agreeing. You laugh, pulling back a little, examining the bright pink in his cheeks. âAnd although I⊠enjoyed this, I must implore you not to take strange blessings from strange peopleââ
Baelor rolls his eyes, and now itâs his turn to kiss you to shut you up.
FEED US MORE BAELOR. FEED US MORE BAELOR. FEED USâ
dinner is served then
18+ (smut, reader gets bent over the desk, hella praise, breeding? idk itâs a creampie from a certified dilf soâŠ..)
there is a gentleness in your husbandâs nature, a softness in his mismatched eyes and a tenderness in his guiding hands, that often make you forget he is of dragon blood. he is a targaryen, born from the ashes of great conquests and forged from the steel of a warriorâs blade.
but where shadows stretch thicker, more dense where they cling to stone walls, and where doors bolt shut and candles illuminate in thin veils of amber, you find yourself remembering. you find yourself remembering just how potent the targaryen bloodline is.
baelorâs hands on your hips are bruising in their hold, fingers gripping flesh as you bend yourself over the sturdy wooden desk in his solar. your trembling fingers curl over the edge as you arch your back, your skirts bunched up tightly around your waist as your husband drives into you over and over.
thereâs a dull ache seated in your womb from the force of his thrusts, and a tension in your thighs as you part your legs for him. skin slaps against skin, the sound echoing throughout the room, a nearby candle flickering with your joint movements. you rock against the desk, sweat building beneath your bodice, clinging to the curve of your spine and beneath the swell of your breasts where theyâre pinned to the wood.
baelor grunts loudly above you with each rut of his cock. your pussy opens for him, silken walls split wet and hot around the thick of his cock. he grunts like a fighting manâlike a man battling with his own pleasure, heavy balls landing firmly against your clit, a honey-thick tension pooling at the base of his spine.
he holds you tightly, heart leaping against his sternum as he listens to the whines and whimpers that drop from your lips. the clutch of your cunt sucks him in, warm and deep and his, and he canât stop the groan of your name that follows a particularly deep, rolling thrust towards the plug of your womb.
âsuch a sweet girl,â baelor manages, vowels hoarse around another grunt. he feels your pussy flutter around him, and he coos, âmy perfect girl, bending and taking me so well, arenât you?â
you nod with your cheek pressed to the desk, but it doesnât work too well. instead, you dip further into an arch, sucking him in even deeper as he ruts up towards the base of your cervix, the angle pulling him in close. you moan loudly when the head of his cock nudges up against that perfect spot inside you, and you canât help the way your legs begin to tremble when he drives into that spot over and over again.
âmy best girl,â baelor continues his praise, rolling his hips in a way that has you writhing beneath him. but he holds you firmly, unyielding in his strength as he fucks you. âyou always do so well for me.â
âbaelor,â you gasp out, suddenly feeling breathless. your orgasm looms like a phantom, hovering just out of reach but drawing nearer the more you chantâsporadic moans of baelorâs name and title as your body grows hot. you whimper, a stiff knot of pleasure in the very base of your tummy. âoh gods, baelor.â
baelor groans in response, hips stuttering for a moment before he collects himself with a whisper of your name. âmy girl. all mineâyouâre all mine, arenât you, sweetheart?â
you canât respond. his cock pushes so deep inside you that it knocks the air from your lungs, and youâre too busy trying not to drown in your own pleasure to string together a proper sentence. but your husband wonât settle for that: he rucks his hips hard into you, shunting you against the desk and forcing a yowl from the back of your throat.
âarenât you?â baelor repeats, panting as he moves. sweat beads high on his forehead, a sticky heat trapped beneath the thick material of his tunic and doublet. he continues, âyouâre all mine?â
âyes,â you blurt out around a moan as you shake against his desk, the glass bottle of a nearby inkwell trembling with you. your pussy clenches tight around the thick of his cock, stretched out and drooling where you bend for him. the heat of your orgasm rapidly begins to cook you alive, and youâre panting before you can stop yourself. âyes, baelor, oh my gods.â
âah, such a good listener,â baelor says, lilting and almost mocking as you hurtle towards release. he brings you back against him, admiring the ripple of your flesh as he moves you against his pelvis. he takes a hand and palms the fat of your arse cheek. âi love it when you do what youâre told.â
the way he says that undoes the knot of pleasure inside you, and you come with one final moan of his name. he fucks you through it, thrusting deep and hard towards the plug of your womb, grunting as you come apart beneath him. you shake, limbs trembling as you huff and moan and mewl, sounds bouncing off the stone walls. your pussy clenches around his cock, fluttering with the hammering of your heart, and the tension in your body releases.
âoh there she is, thatâs it,â baelor murmurs, patting your arse before taking hold of your hips again. he pulls you to him, desk groaning in protest as he ruts into you again and again. the pressure inside him builds, and builds still, until he feels the muscles in his jaw working as he grits out, âand now sheâs going to take myâha, uhâmy cum, yeah? sâthat what you want?â
because youâre such a good listener, you nod. you nod deliriously, mewling for him to spill inside you, stuff you full. his response is a deep, resonating groan that echoes more dragon then man, followed by a hushed whimper of your name. then, heâs shoving himself to the hilt inside you, a sheathing of valyrian steel, hands bunched tightly on your hips, and spilling.
his head falls back, the lump in his throat working as he moans and comes deep inside you. his balls jerk, drawing up from where they rested against your slick folds as his hips falter to a stop. baelor groans again, emptying himself until heâs satiated. he folds himself then, when his heart no longer clatters against his ribs, across your back, pressing you even harder into the desk.
âmy best girl,â he whispers, nosing your cheek. âmy special girl.â
Summary: Your marriage to your much older husband has faired far better than you ever thought it would. Though, sometimes you wish there was less...cleaning involved
Pairings: Hyperspermia!Baelor Targaryen x Reader
Warnings/Tags: Unspecified age gap (big and girthy), smut (light spit kink)
Word Count: 2.1K
Notes: blame eve and the brainworms for this
Prince Baelor was hesitant to remarry. In fact, he was perfectly content to be on his own after his wife's passing. He already had an heir, there was no rush. But then your father had offered your hand and when he'd laid eyes on you he couldn't refuse.
Your inital fears had vanished soon after your wedding. He was older, yes, but he was kind. Stories of cruel kings becoming crueler husbands were common to to noble born girls. Hushed lessons taught by worried mothers in an attempt to save their daughters from a shared fate.
Your wedding day was full of nerves, stomach turning as your maid from childhood dressed you for the last time. You were conscious of each footstep down the aisle, desperately trying to make your way to the alter without fumbling on your dress or your own two feet. Everything had occurred exactly how you imagined it.
Your wedding night? That was completely different that you had been told. Your mother had sat you down the night before and told you everything to expect. She also reiterated that it would hurt, but it was important to smile while you performed your wifely duties. You were not to make too much noise, not to move unless he instructed and to be patient until it was over. Your heart hammered in your chest as Baelor undressed you,
But after your down had slipped to the floor, he'd kissed your shoulder and lain you on the bed. Your whole body stiffened as he spread your legs. But instead of the head of hisâŠ.member stretching you open his fingers gently pressed into the sensitive skin of your thighs, holding you open as he pressed a kiss to the sensitive bud between your legs. You could feel his smirk against your skin as his tongue ravished your body.
When he did finally push into your entrance, you were pleasantly surprised that it actually felt good instead of the searing pain your mother described. You body was pleasantly loose from Baelor's earlier actions, which helped your body accomodate him.
And after you'd gotten a taste of this new activity, it was hard for Baelor to deny you. There was just one problem-
"Lady Dyanna," your sister in law turns to you as you call out for her. The two of you are enjoying your tea on the balcony overlooking Kings Landing, "Because of my union to Baelor we are now sisters, correct."
"Yes, princess."
"May I ask you a question then? One that may be considered tooâŠvulgar for me to ask another," your face warms.
An amused smile unfolds on her face, "Of course, princess. Though it was a while was many moons ago, I remeber what it was like to be newly married to the son of a king. What plagues your mind?"
"When you are finshed with your relations," you look at the foor unable to meet her eye, "How are you meant to deal with the mess afterwards."
Dyanna chuckles, "A simple cloth will suffice. You may ask your maids to warm the water as well. It well help soothe the ache that sometimes occurs. Though you want to be careful not to wipe away too much or you may be preventing the future heir from settling in your womb."
"This I know," you pause, unsure of how to say your true intention, "I mean moreso - when you are walking around afterwards. How do you manage theâŠleaking."
The older woman tilts her head, confused, "Well I remain in bed for the rest of the night so that is not as much of an issue."
"You've never had morning relations?"
"Not never," she says, a bit nostalgic as she thinks back to her youth, "Though I can't say I recall not being able to solve that issue with a cloth before I left my chambers."
"W-well I do," you sputter, "But sometimes it's quite a lot and it's uncomfortable when I walk. Especially if we've also had relations the evening before as well-"
"Relations in the evening and the morning? I didn't realize Baelor was quite so ravenous."
"It's not always him who initiates," you murmur, stirring your spoon in your tea, "In fact it's usually not him who initiates."
Dyanna laughs, "Oh, how I miss my youth. Though, I do not blame you. They are a handsome set of brothers are they not?"
Baelor has been busy this past week. He doesn't call you into your chambers until early the next morning. He's sitting at the desk in his room when you arrive. He smiles at you when the squeak of the door on its hinges announces your prescence.
"My prince," you say in greeting.
"My love, I am sorry to wake you so early. I missed your presence while I was away," he beckons you over with one hand as he stands, silver rings glinting in the light, "Did you sleep well?"
Your body follows easily, drawn to him. You shake your head as you fall into his embrace, "My chambers are far too cold without the blood of a dragon near."
"My apologies, my princess," he chuckles tipping your head up, and gently pressing his lips to yours, "The hunt lasted longer than inteded, but I am rested now."
His hands grip your waist firmly to pull you closer before reaching back to peel you out of your night clothes. You hesitate, stepping back.
"My lord, perhaps we should wait until this evening for those activities."
"What's wrong, my love?" he frowns, emphasizing the lines between his brows that you adore.
"Nothing," you shake your head, "I may have embarassed myself during my meeting with Dyanna and I need time to heal my pride, my lord."
"What happened?"
Your face warms, "I'm not sure I should discuss these matters with you."
"I am your husband, and the prince of the realms, you can discuss anything with me, my love," he tucks a stray curl behind your ear.
You sigh, "I had a question for her aboutâŠrelations and now I fear she may believe me to be too enamoured with it."
Baelor chuckles, sitting on the edge of the bed, pulling you along with him.
"You are aware that Dyanna and Maekar have six children. There is nothing we are doing that they haven't done already."
"I know that," you say with a groan, buried your face in your husbands neck, "You should have seen the way she looked at me when I told her of my problem.
Your husband tilts his head, "Problem? You did not speak to me of any problems. Pray tell, I have not been hurting you have I?"
"No, no," you shake your head, reassuring him, "I have no complaints of our relations itself, husband. It's afterwards that I am sometimes I encounter a nuisance is all."
"I see," he nods, "Care to elaborate on this nuisance?"
You avert your gaze to the wall behind him, "It doesn't concern you, husband."
He smiles, "If it concerns my queen, then it concerns me."
"After we finish," you sigh, "Sometimes when I walk about the castle, I can feel you dripping down my leg. I simply asked Dyanna what she does, but it seems as though she does not have this same issue."
Your husband nods. He's had his suspicions about his condition. He may be king but he has taken part in his share of celebrations after a particularly well won tournament.More than a few of his past acquiantences have brought this very same topic to his attention before.
"My love, I believe I have a solution to your nuisance."
He stands to undo his robes. You lean back on your elbows watching his clothes fall to the floor. You bite your lip in anticipation, pulling his body on top of yours.
Your legs fall open for your husnband, your mouths moving languidly against each other as he his fingers reach the coarse hairs at the apex of your thighs. You sigh when his long fingers skim across your folds, diping into your entrance to spread your slick. He teases your sensitive bud with a light touch.
"Baelor," you whine which makes your husband smile as he kisses your neck, "Do not make me wait."
"I thought you were prepared to wait until nightfall, my love," the heel of his hand stays pushed up against that spot that drives you mad while his fingers slip inside you.
"Changed my mind," you pant, pulling him closer you you, "You would keep your wife waiting, my lord?"
"Never, my love."
Your back arches off the bed as Baelor pushes into you. He grips your leg, hooking it over his shoulder as your hips meet. His nose nuzzles along your jaw making his beard hairs tickle your neck.
"How's that feel, my love?" he murmurs planting a kiss on your collar bone.
"G-gods, Baelor," you groan, "So good."
He moves slowly, watching the way your face contorts in pleasure as he drags his cock inside you. His hand slips between your bodies to slow circles that drive make you moan.
He knows your body well, works it like like an instrument tuntil you're clawing at his back and shouting his name. He manages to stave of his own release but only for a few moments, just enough to drive into you once more filling you to the brim.
Though he tried his best, some of spend starts to leak out of you once more.
"Shh, my love," he coos, as he stands, trying to doge your attempt to keep him close, "I'm not going anywhere."
He sinks to the floor, grateful for the rug cushioning his aging knees. He wraps his arms around your legs, tugging you towards him.
"Baelor!" you gasp out, "What are you-"
"Why do you act as though I have not done this before," he chuckles, pressing a kiss to your mound, "This is my favourite place to be while unwind at the end of the day."
"But you've already...finished."
"I am quite aware, darling, worry not about me."
He spreads your legs apart, groaning at the sight of his seed leaking out of you.
"Wish you could see how we look together, my princess," he teases, leaning forward kiss your inner thigh, "Perhaps we should move the mirror to the bedroom."
He doesn't wait for your response, too entranced by the sight of you. He licks broadly, moaning at the taste your joined mess. You squirm in his arms, still sensitive from your release. He chuckles, digging his fingers into your thighs, holding you in place.
"We're divine together my love," he groans, licking at your entrance, "Want a taste?"
He meets your eye, grinning when you nod hesitantly at his words. He uses his tongue to scrape at your walls, collecting your shared juices with an obscene slurp and gently holding your ankle in the air to keep you from kicking his head.
He crawls up the bed to where you await with wide eyes, anticipating his neck move. He holds your head in place and forces your jaw open his thumb.
You don't even flinch when he spits into your mouth. You close your eyes, licking your lips with a moan when you swallow.
You're summoned into the Princes chamber later that night once more. Baelor is already in his bedclothes atop of the covers. You rush over, settling yourself on his lap.
"How was your day, my prince," you greet with a smile, running your fingers through his hair.
He preens, "Much better now that you're here, my love. How was yours?"
"Much better now that you're here," you laugh, repeating his words.
"And tell me, how was my solution to your nuisance today?" he chuckles. His hands start to lift your night dress, exposing more of your tanned skin.
"It worked," you smile, toying with the hem of his shirt, "Though I must admit I missed the reminder of you."
"Oh?" he quirks a brow, "How so?"
"I feltâŠ" you pause, tilting your head trying to think of the right word, "empty today."
"Empty,?" Baelor repeats. You giggle, feeling the start of his interest poke you in the thigh.
You nod, "I missed the feel of my prince leaking down my leg during the day. Though I did enjoy what we did this morning-oh!"
Your yelp turns into a moan when Baelor flips you over and your back hits the mattress.
"Careful now," his voice is husky in your ear, "keep speaking like that and I'll have no choice but to put another heir in you, princess."
Rating: Mature
Pairing: Baelor Targaryen/Reader
Word Count: 4.8k
Summary: Everyone seems to have moved on from what happened at Ashford. Everyone but you.
Contents: angst with a happy ending, wife!reader, referenced age gap, baelor lives au, ashford tourney fallout, canon divergence, nightmares, referenced violence, sleep deprivation, alcohol consumption, emotional repression, vomiting, depression, reader is traumatised, this is kind of a vent fic
Notes: I used an online translator for the Valyrian, which might not be 100% accurate. In my head this is a sequel to take your time but it can be read as a standalone. I'm sure this is not the last you'll hear of baelor and tarth!reader
When you wake, gasping into consciousness, it is still dark.Â
You can hardly see, resolving instead to grip the silk of your sheets beneath you, chest heaving with uncaught breath. Youâre sat straight up, muscles locked tight, blinking rapidly until your breath steadies.Â
You must be in bed, that much is certain. When you realise that simple fact, the rest of the room starts to take shape in front of you, moonlight carving the furniture out of the shadows. The moon must be high in the night sky, you realise. Dawn is still many hours away.Â
This had not always been a common occurrence.Â
You were quite a glad child, if memory serves you correctly, and your memory hardly failed you. Spoiled, yes, you would not deny it, but agreeable when your desires were met. Lord Tarth was an honourable man, and a loving father â he could scarcely stand to see you pout. Every child has nightmares and nerves, uncertainty that comes with the territory of growing, of becoming a woman. But you had never been an anxious girl.Â
You were too young to remember your motherâs passing. It was your fatherâs loss that lingered in the walls of Evenfall Hall, not your own, not truly. You wished, then, that you were half as resilient as your Lord father.Â
You had not been quite the same since the Tourney at Ashford.Â
The mere thought of the place made your stomach turn, so you whip the downy comforter off you, tossing it aside and planting your feet on the cold stone ground.Â
It had started, simply, with a struggle to fall asleep. Your husband returning to your chambers at late hours was nothing novel, he was Hand of the King. You grew accustomed to it quickly, in the first weeks of your marriage, falling asleep before he was finished with his duties, or staying up with one of the books that lined his shelves and a hundred lit candles until he returned to you. Youâd coax him into bed with you, or heâd wake you gently, and the love he made to you would be worth the sleep deprivation, and the near-constant ache in your thighs.Â
And yet, upon your return from Ashford, you found you could not sleep. You would stay up until odd hours waiting for him to return to your room, wearing a path into the stone underfoot with your pacing, and when heâd finally join you â eyes full of concern at the sight of you, smiling yet tense, your hands clasped tightly together like you were scared to reach for him â you still could not rest easily.Â
You laid down and took deep breaths and held your husband close and yet, you could not rid yourself of the bone-deep dread that plagued you. You were too afraid to jostle him in your sleep, accidentally push him off the bed, disturb his head in any way. You were afraid the maesters missed something from the injury, something lying dormant in his skull, and that tonight would be the night it took him in his sleep. You were afraid if you allowed your eyes to fall shut you might miss a change in his breathing, a sign that something was wrong, and you would be helpless to save him. Again.Â
When you could fight it no longer, when, against your will, your eyes slipped shut and your breath deepened, youâd wake an hour or so later, jolting in your husbandâs arms as you woke from another variation of the same nightmare. The grey and gloom of Ashford that morning, fields of grass giving way to the mud of the tourney grounds, the sound of metal clashing against metal, the sickening thud of your good brotherâs mace against your husbandâs helm. The wailing shriek that filled the air when you saw the dent of metal in the back of your husbandâs head. You didnât realise it was your scream till afterwards.Â
Sometimes it was different, shifting behind your eyelids into something more monstrous; a version of that day where you hadnât stopped them from removing his helmet. Where youâd have to watch the inside of his skull spill into the mud below. Or the version where you walk the tourney grounds forever, screaming for your husband, begging for him to come back. Every so often youâd see him there, in the distance, obscured by the fog but unmistakable, walking like he was made of wood. Like he was already a dead man.Â
And when you woke, there was your husband, alive and breathing, hair already growing back to cover the snarled, scarred skin on the crown of his head. When dawn comes heâll rise again, go about his duties like nothingâs happened. At most, heâll take a tonic for the headaches that plague him on occasion, while reassuring you they ease with every coming day. Youâre the only one still stuck in Ashford.Â
You manage to feel around for the tinderbox you keep on your night these days. You find you light candles at ungodly hours more nights than not as of late, and by now the motions have become familiar, instinctual. The soft glow of the candle fills your room soon enough, and then youâre off, moving the armoire that conceals the passageway that snakes from your room to the chamber of the dragon mosaic, where you know that if you unlock the second gate to your left, you can climb a tight, steep set of spiral stairs and arrive in the private library of the Hand, across the hall from his study.Â
If a book were to go missing from this room, your husband would notice, youâre sure of it, but youâre too afraid of someone coming into the library in the dead of night and finding you there to linger. You find yourself thanking Maegor the Cruel more and more these days, for building a way for you to go to and from these rooms unnoticed by the Kingsguard that keep meticulous watch outside your chambers. Because if the Kingsguard saw the way you routinely made the trek from your quarters, up and down several stories, to the library and then back just so youâd have something to occupy your troubled mind at night, they would surely report it to your husband, and then your insomnia would be added to the endless list of responsibilities he bears, and you donât think you could handle him looking at you like another problem to solve. So, when youâre done with your reading for the night, yawning and eyelids weighing down like theyâre made of lead, you trek back to the library, place the book just as youâd found it, and return to your bed, sufficiently exhausted enough to sleep till the sun rises again.Â
But apparently, you are losing your tenacity, because you wake with a startle the next morning, your handmaiden desperately shaking your shoulders. It takes several moments of you blinking against the sun to realise what must have happened. That youâd fallen asleep right there at your bureau, the book recounting the reign of House Gardener in the Reach still open underneath you and now sporting a wet spot where youâd drooled onto the page.Â
âO-oh, gods, Iâm terribly sorry madame,â You slur out, your tongue still heavy with sleep, your throat raspy. âI didnât mean to-â
âItâs quite alright, milady, but what ever were you doing at your bureau?â She questions, her hand coming to settle between your shoulders, rubbing there comfortingly. Sheâd been with you since you were just a spoiled little girl.Â
âReading.â You state, dumbly. Then it hits you. âMadame, will you allow one of my ladyâs maids to dress me today? I need you to return this book to the library of the Hand post-haste.âÂ
You think she must see the panic in your eyes, because she nods and moves quickly, calling out for another girl to come and help you dress for the day as she practically sprints out of the room. Your hands come up, rubbing at your eyes with your knuckles, and by the time one of the maids has come to you bearing layers upon layers of skirts in her arms, youâve steeled yourself, your back straight once again, and you promise yourself that you will not make that same mistake twice.Â
You greet Baelor in his chambers with a graceful smile on your face, the slightest bit of relief flooding through you at the sight of your husband, upright and alive. You go to him easily, and he welcomes you into his arms just the same, bidding you a good morning and placing the sweetest of kisses on your lips.Â
âHow did you sleep, sweet wife?â He asks, the rasp of sleep still lingering in his voice.Â
âPeacefully.â You lie with ease, now that youâve repeated the same one so many times. âAnd you?â
âI slept well, my heart, but not quite so well as I do with you by my side.â He tells you, a teasing smile on his face. âThough I understand you do not sleep as well when I am returning to our chambers far too late into the night.â
He parts from you only to pull your chair out for you, allowing you to sit before he takes his seat beside yours. âIf only you had not returned to your duties so soon.â
âCome now, my dear, you know I could not delay it any longer,â The smile stays put on his face, like what you said was nothing, like his injury was a light matter. Breakfast is placed in front of you, a spread of bread and cheese and fruits, egg and salted meat, anything you could dream of eating at the break of your fast, but you stick to the bread and cheese these days, needing something in your stomach that would help settle the uneasy feeling that had made itself at home there. âThe Realm needs me, as does my father.â
You simply hum in response, occupying yourself with spreading butter on your bread slice to keep the glare youâd like to give him at bay.
âWhat will you do with your day, my love?âÂ
âNothing so interesting as what youâll encounter in your Small Council.âÂ
âYou may think it so, but I should like to picture you in my head when the Council inevitably bores me,â He leans closer to your field of vision, forcing you to place your butter knife back on its mat, so you might meet his gaze. âAnd it is much easier to think of you when I know what you might be up to.â
To think of me, just like you did when you decided to don your armour before Iâd even risen and throw your life away for a hedge knight? No, you correct yourself, your sonâs armour. Because you werenât there to fight in the first place.Â
Instead of voicing your ire, you let a practiced smile overtake your face. âI thought I might spend time on my embroideries, then continue my studies in High Valyrian.âÂ
âSe skorkydoso issi lÄ« jÄre?â (And how are those going?)
Lo nyke hÄ«lagon ao isse se bartos arlÄ«, would ziry drÄje se ribazma Ćdres emÄ?, you think. (If I hit you in the head a second time, do you think it would reverse the brain damage youâve clearly attained?)
âSÈłz.â You say instead, and he nods, satisfied. (Good.)
âI thought you might have tea with your ladies today.â
âOh? Why?âÂ
âYou have not mentioned them in quite some time.âÂ
You merely hum in response, feigning contemplation.
You have not mentioned them because you have refused their company for many weeks. You indulged in tea and cakes with them at first, upon your return from Ashford, to find that the polite conversation had grown unbearable to you in your current state. After about a week, you grew too worried they might notice the dark circles forming under your eyes, and youâd rejected every social invitation since.
âMaybe some other time.â
You spend the rest of your meal in a comfortable silence as your husband tells you about some of the meetings heâll attend alone, and he accepts your nods and hums as sufficient responses. Youâre too distracted with the effort to make it look as though youâve eaten plenty to truly listen, as you once had, and reply with thoughtful commentary.Â
Soon enough, heâs rising from his chair, finishing his meal and telling you that the first meeting of the day would begin soon and he would have to take his leave from you. You stood dutifully, kissed him goodbye, savoured the feel of his warm lips against yours.
âI will see you at supper, my heart.â He whispers, leaning down to kiss you once more, then untangling himself from your embrace and leaving you alone once more
You sit for ten minutes after his departure, down to the second, staring at your food till you can safely leave it untouched without him seeing.Â
âGood morning, Aunt.â
âOh!â You startle at the sight of Maekarâs eldest son in the library. Itâs a strange place for him to be, considering his fatherâs own quarters are across the Keep from this tower, and even stranger for him to call you Aunt when you are closer in age to him than your husband. âDaeron, wh- it is lovely to see you, but-â
âI need a quiet place to read. Away from my Lord father and brothers.â You raise an eyebrow at his explanation, looking pointedly at the chalice of wine that sits next to the book he has opened on the table, a chalice that seems to accompany him everywhere he goes. âI wonât spill it, if thatâs what concerns you.âÂ
That at least gets a chuckle out of you, and you shake your head. âSo long as you do not disturb my embroidering, I should not mind your presence, Daeron.âÂ
And true to his word, you and Daeron sit in utter silence, save for the stray coo of a dove, the turning of a page, the soft pierce of your needle through fabric. Itâs an old project, one youâd worked on and then left undisturbed for months; a dragon, flying under a canvas of stars and above the fluff of the clouds, bathed in silver moonlight. You intended to stitch a rider onto its back, you remember, but couldnât find a proper colour for the thread.Â
Youâd fashioned it after the dreams you used to have. You, on dragonback, soaring through the night sky, going wherever you pleased whenever you pleased, in spite of you not having a drop of the blood of the dragon running in your veins. Maybe it wasnât the colour of the thread that troubled you about the piece, but rather that the rider just didnât quite fit. It looked wrong every time you tried to sew it in.Â
âI hear youâre having bad dreams.â You nearly prick your own finger at the sudden sound of Daeronâs voice.Â
You blink at him. âWhere did you hear that?â
But he ignores you. His eyes are distant, staring at the wall instead of his book. âIf youâre looking for a way to make them stop, the wine helps. Iâm somewhat of an expert in the matter.âÂ
You smile at him softly, sympathetically.
âThank you, Daeron, but I think it unwise for me to partake in spirits before midday.âÂ
âMore unwise than spending your nights unable to sleep properly?â He challenges.
And you are quite tired.
By midday, youâre already on this side of drunkenness. Daeron seems to be holding it much better than you, considering youâre the only one stumbling as you walk down the hallway, giggling conspiratorily on your way to steal sweets and another casket of Dornish from the kitchens. The walls seem to bend around you, the walkway snaking and twisting underfoot, but Daeron keeps you steady, righting you whenever youâve stumbled into him and laughing, which makes you laugh in turn.
You havenât had this much fun in quite some time.Â
It reminds you why you had been so disappointed to learn he was missing when you arrived at Ashford; if anyone was going to aid you in sneaking off to the lively parties that would certainly be thrown at the tourney grounds once night had fallen, it wouldâve been Daeron. By the time he and Egg were found, nobody was in any mood for partying, though you had half a mind to mourn that youâd missed your chance to attend one of the Laughing Stormâs legendary revels.Â
You come to a fork in the halls, which meant you were close to the kitchens. You could smell the caramelizing sugar in the air from here, making you turn to Daeron with a mischievous smile on your face.
âThe bakeries are this way.â You tell him, gesturing to the left.
âThe spirit cellar is this way.â He points right.Â
âThen we split up, and meet back here?â He nods seriously, holding out his hand for shaking, and you clasp it tightly like a man would, shaking too vigorously because you know it will make him laugh again.Â
And then youâre both off, sneaking quietly down your respective hallways, on your respective missions.Â
You donât make it very far, because when you turn a corner, Baelor is there, dressed in his armour and mail.Â
Your mouth opens, then closes, then opens again, your stomach already turning at the sight. âW-wwwhat are you doing?â
âMy love? I- are you alright?â He asks gently, taking in your flushed appearance, the slur of your words.Â
âWhy are you dressed to fight?â You step closer to him, hesitant, terrified.Â
âI am to spar with Matarys, as part of his sword training, my love. I told you about it this morning, do you not recall?â He explains, his gaze analysing, putting together the pieces in front of him. âAre you dru-â
Heâs interrupted by you, or rather, your stomach, as you keel over empty its contents onto the polished stone floor, the bile splashing onto his sabatons.Â
âOh- dear, are you alright-â He starts to reach for you, but youâre far too quick, and with the metal weighing him down, he is far too slow. You dash back down the hall, making eye contact with Daeron, holding a casket in each hand, eyebrows raised at the sight of you, but you pay him little mind as you speed past him. Youâre sure heâll put two and two together once Baelor calls after you, pleading with you to stop, to slow down and speak to him, but you are too far gone for him to catch up.Â
The path you take is a familiar one, one youâd discovered upon your first weeks living at the Keep. If you took the exit to the gardens that leads from the Maidenvault, followed the cypress-lined path to the left, took a right at the canopy that sat at the end of said path, and took the stairs down, youâd find what appeared to be an unfinished, unattended lookout spot. A little, rocky thatch of land off the edge of the Aegonâs High Hill, stones haphazardly arranged into a fence, high enough to prevent an accident, thick enough to sit upon, and low enough to afford you a view of Blackwater Bay stretched far into the horizon. Luckily, you hurry down the steps and towards that wall quick enough that the last of your bile gets thrown up over it, and into the water below.Â
You clutch that edge with white knuckles as you stand there, rocking back and forth, attempting to catch your breath. You force yourself to focus on the water, and think that if you stare at it long enough, you might convince youâre still on Tarth, still a girl, and your father awaits you in the castle, instead of nightmares and scolding eyes and a life that keeps moving forward even if you cannot. But youâve visited this lookout many times before, when you need a quiet moment alone, and you know that Blackwater Bay is much too grey and briny to ever be mistaken for the sapphire waters of your home.Â
Still, you settle onto the rocky dirt below you, kneeling and resting your elbows on the wall in front of you, and you stare. You ignore the burn in your throat and you watch the sun move across the sky, you count the ships that leave and the ships that dock and you imagine a story for each of them, the same game you played from the window of your room at Evenfall Hall, where you had a perfect view of the bay below.Â
You used to imagine jumping from the window, not in anguish, but in escape. Youâd fly through the sky with swan-like grace, diving straight into the water with the ease of a hot knife through butter, joining the ocean creatures and swimming as far as youâd like. Youâd imagine that here, too, but the water was so dark with salinity it made you wrinkle your nose in disgust instead. The smell of it stung your nostrils, and still, you watched the water with calm precision, for what must have been hours.Â
âI thought I might find you here.â Your husbandâs voice rings out behind you.
You sigh. Youâd retreated so far into your imagination, you half-convinced yourself that no one would come looking, even if you never returned.
âWould you like to tell me whatâs going on, my dear?â His tone is irritatingly patient. You know what youâll find if you turn to look back at him; his hands clasped in front of him, his head tilted just so, his eyes trained on you while he waits for you to explain. So you donât turn, as you lift yourself off the ground and brush away the dusting of dirt that has caught onto the precious fabric of your skirt.Â
âI would not.â You answer simply, staying put in your spot by the wall.
He lets your words hang in the air, lets you listen to the crashing of waves against the cliffs below and the distant hum of the city behind you for just a moment longer, before he speaks again.
âThe maids tell me you do not sleep,â He begins, and that makes your head snap towards him, fire in your eyes.
âWhich one told you that?â
âYou do not eat, you do not sleep, and you refuse to see me outside of meals and gatherings.â He continues, ignoring your petty questioning. âYou drink yourself into a stupor, and you admonish me for going about my duties, but I cannot set them aside simply because you do not like it-â
âAnd what of your duty to me?â You cut him off before he can say another word. âAll you speak of is your duty to the Council, to your father, to the Realm, to innocent knights and you think nothing of your duty to your wife!â
âYou know that is not-â
âYou didnât even ask me!â You could not stop yourself. After so much time unable to speak about your fears to him, the lump in your throat too heavy for you to fight past it, the floodgate in your mind had opened, and the anger was spilling out. âYou asked your son for his armour after I had gone to bed, and you left before I could wake, and the next time I saw my husband was when I was sure he was a dead man walking! And you did it in secret because you knew it was wrong! And then you act like you didnât know any better, you come back and you pretend nothingâs happened, you expect me to just- to just- sleep! As if I did not nearly lose my whole life as I know it! If I had not been there when you- when they- the whole realm wouldâve- you wouldâve just been gone-âÂ
You cut yourself off with a gasp, sobbing through your last words. The tears came uncontrollably, hot on your skin, flowing from you and clogging your nose and your throat and your chest, and suddenly you found you could barely breathe. The air in your lungs came stuttered, gasping, and then you were on your knees in the dirt again, trying to regain control of your body. You could hear your husbandâs voice speaking to you, distantly, as if through water, the words distorting till they formed into something torturously familiar.Â
âMy fingers feel⊠fingers feel like wood.â
You felt those same fingers on your back, rubbing in soothing circles, attempting to calm you. Your own dig into your face, nails scuffing your skin like you could scrape the tears away and make them stop. Your throat feels raw, a phantom pain, from the screaming you did that day. Itâs all here again, in the daylight, where he can see it, where thereâs nowhere to hide from it.Â
The feeling of his hand on your face makes you jump, shocking you, forcing your eyes open and onto him.Â
His mismatched eyes are bearing into yours, full of concern, holding you in place. You still in his arms, keeping your eyes on him, on the red tinge of his face, the furrow of his brow, the rise and fall of his chest. No blood. No cracked visor. You observe these signs of life one by one, till the sun in the sky and the sound of waves crashing starts to filter back into your awareness, and then youâre able to breathe again, the trembling subsiding.Â
Then you fall back to lay on the ground, uncaring of the dirt that will surely make its way into your hair and the fabric of your dress, and the tears begin again, panic replaced by despair as you realise you have allowed your husband to see something you never intended him to. He remains kneeled on the ground beside you, his hand still cradling your face, his expression shifting from concern to sympathy.Â
He lets you lay there for a moment, crying silently as he brushes stray strands of hair away, soothing you when an audible sob makes its way through your chest, before he speaks.Â
âI am⊠truly sorry, my love.â His voice is unexpectedly thick with tears, but you see it now, the subtle, watery shine of his eyes. âI did not know-â
âIâm sorry, I did not tell you.â You whimper out, but he shakes his head.Â
âI should have seen it. I should have known-â He sees you open your mouth to interrupt again, but he keeps going. âYou are my wife. My love, my heart. And I could not see that you were troubled by what happened, as you have every right to be. I am sorry, my love, you are right. I have failed in my duties as your husband.â
You want to tell him heâs wrong. That he hasnât failed you, that he has been the best husband he can be, better than youâd ever imagined. He cared for you, truly, about your thoughts and your pleasure and your dignity. But you let him apologise instead, allow him to admit he wronged you instead of pretending it is your own fault you are so troubled, instead of calling you hysterical.Â
âI did not consider you as I should have, when I fought for Ser Duncan. I sacrificed myself and failed to realise it was not just my life I was putting in danger.â His hand leaves your face and finds your hand instead, pressing his lips to it once, twice, a third time. âIâm sorry.â
You cannot find it in you to say you forgive him, or that itâs all right now. But the ache in your chest has eased.Â
âOkay.â You say quietly, nodding. You sit up slowly, taking your hand from his, and lean into his chest, breathing in his soothing, familiar scent of leather and amber. You let your shoulders relax and breathe deeply for the first time in months. He takes you in his arms easily, cradling you really, gently brushing the dirt and pebbles that are stuck to you now.Â
âWill you sleep in our bed tonight?â He asks, and you know that if you say no, he will accept it without complaint.Â
âYes.â You whisper.Â
âWill you wake me if your night terrors return?â That makes you hesitate. The maesters said his sleep was paramount to his healing. âPlease, my love, I want to help. You need your sleep.âÂ
You nod slowly, still unsure, not trusting your own voice.Â
But you donât have a nightmare that night, or the many nights after.
Rating: Explicit
Pairing: Baelor Targaryen/Fem!Reader
Word Count: 5.1k
Summary: In the month-long gap between his proposal and your wedding, Prince Baelor does all he can to keep his hands off you.
Contents: tyrell!reader, established relationship, age gap, smut, power play, sexual tension, unprotected premarital (scandalous!), teasing, oral sex (fem receiving), frottage, denial, scent kink, biting, "just the tip", certified pervert Baelor Targaryen
The Prince of Dragonstone is not what you expected, in more ways than one.Â
You had expected to pursue the Prince Valarr, when youâd first come to court. By all accounts, he was kind, measured, too dutiful for his own good. Handsome, if you were any judge of menâs looks. Easy, your mother told you. Prince Valarr would not deny you anything, should you become his wife, and you knew it from just a few minutes of conversation with him. If you nudged, he would flop over, belly up.Â
And yet, against everything you had been raised to want, you found yourself pulled to his father instead. Every conversation you had with Prince Baelor was more engaging than the last when you realized he did not expect you to only be knowledgeable in matters of fashion and embroidery. His willingness to converse with you deeply, truly, beyond courtly pleasantries, brought you closer till you spent more time with him than his son â more time than was appropriate.Â
Now, a moonâs turn after your departure from Kingâs Landing, you were returning as the Crown Princeâs betrothed instead.Â
He had taken some convincing, when you first confronted him with your desire, one you knew he returned despite his insistence that it was a passing fancy, that you did not truly want a widower who is twice your own age, that you knew not what you spoke of. But you were nothing if not skilled at persuasion, and when he finally came to you at Highgarden, you were smiling at him knowingly before he could even bend down on one knee.Â
There was another month to go, still, till the day of your wedding, much to your dismay. While you were uncompromising on your vision for the grand occasion â youâve had the details planned since you were a child, and you would not let something as silly as time stop you from importing the Qaathi silk of your dreams for your wedding dress â you must admit, the precautions taken to preserve your honour in the time since youâve arrived are beginning to grate your nerves.Â
Baelor Targaryen is known for his impressive patience. It is his ability to lie in wait that won him countless battles against the Blackfyre pretender, and it has never once hurt his cause to exercise caution, to wait and strategise before charging in headfirst.Â
And yet, he feels his patience slipping.Â
He held himself back when he first met you, repressing his affections as you grew closer, reminding himself countless times that it was improper to want someone ostensibly meant for his own son. He was hesitant even when you yourself proposed a marriage, confessing that you loved him, as he loved you â he barely allowed himself to indulge when you threw your arms around his neck and pulled him into a desperate kiss. Even then, he waited over a fortnight after you left in disappointment till he rode for Highgarden, taking the time to discuss it with his son and his own father.Â
Baelor Breakspear, the Hammer, known for his unbreaking composure. How humorous, he thinks, that my reputation will be soiled by someone in a silk dress instead of chainmail.Â
The dresses you brought with you from Highgarden were all quite stylish, elaborate and brightly coloured, and much more low cut than anything worn by the other ladies at court. Even now, as you sit across from him in an evening gown, properly long-sleeved and dark-coloured, the sleeves sit just under the curve of your shoulders, exposing the top of your chest. Your hair, perfectly curled and braided, does nothing to hide the expanse of your neck from his roaming eyes.Â
You converse pleasantly, ever the agreeable girl youâre known to be, chatting with his nieces about the wedding preparations and how youâre finding Kingâs Landing now that you know it is to be your home. You are the picture of propriety, and yet he is having trouble keeping his eyes off you.Â
He is painfully aware that he could call you to his chambers. Youâve been kept on the opposite side of the Red Keep, far from the Tower of the Hand, in the same Maidenvault built to save the first of his name from his own temptation â the irony is not lost on him. And yet, if he sent for you late at night, no one would deny him, not now, when you were to be his wife in a monthâs time. He could take you, over and over again, loudly, and no one would question his honour as a Prince of the Realm.Â
The judgemental eye it might draw upon you, however, is something he could never forgive himself for.Â
That is what stops him every time, when his base urges creep in, reminding him of his royal privilege to have whomever he wants; he cannot bring himself to compromise your honour.Â
You, on the other hand, seem determined to do the opposite.
He accompanies you back to your chambers after supper, the Kingsguard and one of your ladyâs maids following behind as faithful chaperones. Quiet chatter fills the silence on the long walk back to the Maidenvault, discussion of who might run into whom during the wedding reception, which Lords are not to be seated together lest old, petty rivalries rear their ugly heads once more.Â
âMm, but who are we to deprive your subjects of free entertainment?â You say, a playful smile gracing your face. An easy chuckle leaves him; he found himself laughing more in a minute of your company than he had in the last two years
âI suppose they will have to settle for the free entertainment the Crown is already providing, considering how many musicians have been brought from the Reach for the occasion.â His tone is light-hearted, no real heat behind the admonishment of your excessive requests for the wedding.
âI know so few dances from this region, Your Grace, and I will not be deprived of dancing at my own wedding solely because I do not know the songs!â
âNo, we couldnât have that.âÂ
âYou will, then?â You turn to stand in front of him, stopping him in his tracks, finally realising theyâve arrived at your chambers. âYou will dance with me? As much as I please?â
That look youâre giving him, equal parts teasing and pleading, sends a shock down his spine, the same one that overtook him when he first laid eyes on you. Those eyes have haunted his dreams ever since, taunting him with his own desire, no matter how hard he tries to ignore it.Â
âOf course, my dear.â He tells you, his voice calm, measured, the smile on his face giving very little away. He wants to call you much more. My love, my heart, the object of my every desire, my wife. He curses the chaperones you are constantly accompanied by while in his presence, always within earshot, stopping him from speaking to you openly as he did when you came to him that night and bade him to admit his affections. He had never spoken so openly before, not even with Jena, and now he longed to tell you again, that he would dance with you till his feet fell from his ankles as long as you wished it, that heâd keep you up all night if he could.Â
When you lean up, onto the tips of your toes, and press a whisper of a kiss to his cheek, despite the presence of your chaperone, he almost slips. His breath stops in his chest at the warmth of your lips on his skin, the exposed expanse of your chest pressed to his just so. He knows if he looked down he would see into your dress, down at your breasts, and he clenches his teeth together in an effort to stop himself.
âThank you, my Prince.â You say, sweetly, your voice breathless. His jaw unclenches once youâre a safe distance away, but he can still smell your perfume in the air.
Itâs all he can think about, even once heâs bid you a goodnight. He has half a mind to steal one of your nightgowns before it makes it to the laundry, just to keep the scent of you close.Â
Try as you might, you cannot hold back the smug smile on your face.
Baelor has not been able to tear his eyes away since he laid them on you today. Youâd sent for him, having asked around till you discovered he had zero meetings with the Small Council today, and bade him to accompany you on a walk through the palace gardens. A chaperoned one, of course, but the chaperones could not stop you from wearing one of your most daring dresses; your mother had smirked when she saw it. It was a pink number, the fabric light and airy, well-suited for both the Reach and Kingâs Landing when summer heat hung heavy in the air. The detailing on it, winding embroidery creating patterns of stems and vines all along the dress in red thread, was some of the finest youâd ever seen.
There was also, of course, the extremely unnecessary cut outs at your waist, framed by a red rose-patterned silk, baring the skin of your waist just so. At Highgarden this dress wouldnât have so much as turned a head in your direction, but this was not Highgarden, and for that you were grateful.Â
Baelor was doing his best to keep his eyes and hands to himself, purposefully setting the former forward, and the latter clasped behind his back, where he could squeeze them as tight as he needed to in order to restrain himself.Â
The conversation came easy, as it always did. No Small Council meetings did not mean no work, there was always a petition to grant, a marriage to approve on the Kingâs behalf, a grievance to assuage.
âI appreciate that you can speak so freely of the work you do, my Prince. There are many a Lord that would never concern a Lady in such matters.âÂ
âYou are to be Queen one day, my dear,â He replies. âSoon you will curse me for burdening you with such matters.âÂ
You give him a humoured smile as you reach a grand fountain in the gardens, carved from gleaming marble and babbling with water. You wander closer, silently beckoning him to follow â you know, with the chaperones a safe distance away, that any conversation between you would be masked by the sound of flowing water. âWell, I doubt the Small Council would allow a woman to sit in on policy discussions even if she is Queen, much less one that is with child.â
That raises the Princeâs eyebrows, in shock and intrigue. âRest assured, there will be no pressure for you to bear children so soon after we are wed, as I have two heirs already. I promise, you will be spared much of the early scrutiny. If you were to desire no children at all, my dear, I would not force it upon you.â
His reassurance is sweet. Far too sweet for your intentions.Â
âI should like to begin fulfilling our marriage duties as soon as possible, my Prince.â You look up at him through your eyelashes as you speak, your expression schooled, so your chaperones might think youâre having decent conversation. You lower your voice, just above a whisper, though you know they cannot hear you. âA moonâs turn feels much too long to wait, does it not?â
Baelorâs eyes flutter shut, his chest rising with the deep breath he takes, and for the first time since youâve met him, the Prince of Dragonstone flushes a subtle pink. You canât help the small proud smile that upturns the corner of your lips.Â
âI have waited an agonising amount of time to be with you, my love,â He finally speaks, his mismatched eyes settling back on you with a new intensity. âI will not have you dishonored because I cannot wait a moonâs turn longer.âÂ
Itâs your turn for your cheeks to heat, a burning ache filling your chest at the sound of his voice, far lower than youâve heard it before. You know, tonight, youâll do your best to recall it with a hand between your thighs, desperately trying to sate the hunger heâs inspired in you.Â
âMy Prince-âÂ
âMy Lady!â Your Septa calls, her stare a disapproving one, and you both realise that you are standing far too close to each other.Â
âThe tulips are this way, my dear, I know you wished to see them in full bloom.â Baelor announces, loud enough to be heard from meters away, and leads you away from the fountain before you can say another word to make his britches feel too tight.Â
You try not to let the frustration at her interruption show on your face for the rest of the walk.Â
It happens several days later.Â
You have scarcely seen your betrothed since that afternoon in the royal gardens. His time became far too occupied with matters of the Realm as the Lords of Westeros arrived from far and wide for the wedding, using their time in the capital to make their petitions to the Crown in-person. Every time you happened upon the throne room, the Good King Daeron was seated on that ghastly chair, a crowd of noblemen filling the room as they await their turn to speak. And next to the King, there he was, standing at his fatherâs side as his trusted Hand, looking every bit the part. It caught your breath every time, to set your eyes upon him in this setting; you could see it then, the crown on his head, clear as day. It might be you there someday, standing next to Baelor as his Queen while he sits upon the throne.Â
And yet, you found you cared little for the title now. All that mattered was that you were with him.Â
Youâve grown restless in his absence. Itâs barely been a week, but you canât stand the sight of his empty chair at supper, the brief greetings you share when you pass each other in crowded halls, your eyes brazenly displaying the way you long to spend more than a clock-tick in his presence.Â
It felt like madness. All your life you believed marriage would be simple for you, as it was for your mother, and her mother before her. A husband was an easy thing to influence, to wrap around your finger and bend to your will, and youâd grown into a woman of marriageable age assuming no man would ever cause you grief. This tugging ache, this burning for someoneâs touch, was not what you anticipated, from a husband nor a lover, and you found yourself, for once, incapable of containing yourself. You felt it â in the frown that marred your face when Baelor retreated from you, the ache of longing at the sight of his back, the dizzying heat between your legs when you thought of him late at night that you simply could not soothe by yourself.Â
When he finally summoned you to his solar, much too far into the night to be appropriate, you could not dress quickly enough. You cared little about the nervous stares from your ladyâs maids as they helped you into your gown, a deep red colour, perfect for a Targaryen bride. The Kingsguard knights trailed far behind you, your steps far too quick for them, but you could not find it in you to delay.Â
You are breathless when you finally land in front of his study. There is little time to collect yourself before the guards step in front of you to open the door, quietly announcing your presence to the Prince before departing. Leaving you standing before your future husband, alone, and several meters further from him than youâd like to be.
He stood up when youâd entered the room, like one might expect a common Lord to do in the presence of royalty. And yet he stayed behind his desk, frozen in place, his eyes meeting yours with something unknowable in them; something smouldering and torrid that you couldnât name if you tried.Â
You stay like that for what feels like forever. Stunned into stillness before each other, silence only interrupted by the thudding of your heartbeat in your ears and the low, crackling fire.Â
âI have missed you.â Your words come quieter than you expected, almost a whisper. There is no one here to watch your impropriety, and yet you cannot speak your words any louder out of careful habit.Â
âAs have I.â His voice is hoarse, like he is straining to speak, and his eyes never move from yours.Â
You take a hesitant step towards him. âBaelor-â
And then whatever stupor had overtaken him is broken. He rushes towards you, his hands coming to either side of your face, cradling you between them, and his lips are on yours quicker than you can fathom.Â
His kiss is feverish, demanding, invading your every sense so you have no choice but to surrender, but you wouldnât resist him anyways. You arch your neck backwards to accommodate his height, you let his tongue pass your lips, you let him steal the breath from your chest till your lungs burn, and still you whine quietly when he pulls away, never allowing more than a clock-tick to pass before your mouth is back on his.Â
He has to tug you away, forcing you to still so he can rest his forehead against yours, his lips still tantalisingly close.Â
âI am a selfish man,â He declares with a rough whisper, his eyes closed, as if looking upon you might damn him forever. It feels like cruelty when he brushes his nose against yours, teasing you with his closeness.Â
âBaelor, please-â
âI have struggled, in vain.â He continues. âI have done everything to stay away from you, and I have failed, time and time again.âÂ
His lips brush against yours again, a ghost of a touch, barely there and then gone before you can blink.Â
âMarrying you might be the most selfish thing I have ever done.â He says it like a confession. âI am a knight. I swore before the Gods to uphold honour, and yet honour means nothing to me when it keeps me from you. You have ruined me, my love.â
A laugh escapes you, quiet and light, far too light for the situation, making his eyes reopen and harden. âThis is humorous to you, then?â
âYes, my Prince,â You admit easily. âI have you right where I wanted you.âÂ
His lip curls, half-sneer, half-smile, and you are given no time to react when he reaches down, his hands moving away from your face, to your waist, to the back of your skirt before lifting you and carrying you to his desk.Â
âYou said a moonâs turn was not too long to wait,â You tease, still smiling.
âI lied.â Then he smears his mouth against yours again.
Your legs part instinctually around him, far too focused on his lips being back on yours to resist when he lifts your skirts. You cannot part from him, even as his hands trail from your stocking-clad calves to the bare skin of your upper thighs, drawing a gasp from you. Your arms come up to wrap around his neck, pulling him closer, your hand settling at his nape, fingers trailing through the cropped hair there.Â
You would have kept him right there forever, if you could â itâs he that breaks the kiss again, ignoring the disappointed noise you make as he lowers himself to his knees, and brings yours to rest on his shoulders. He keeps his eyes on you, that same heated look in them, as he pushes your skirts up further, giving you plenty of time to protest before the fabric is ruched up to your waist. His gaze falls then, to the space between your legs, and it does not stray as he leans in to press a feather-light kiss to the inside of your thigh. You cannot hide the gasp that escapes you at his touch, and you cannot bring yourself to look away from him. One of your hands leaves his head, coming to rest on the desk behind you, balancing you as you lean back to watch him.Â
His pace is slow as he explores your soft skin, pressing his lips to every inch of it, savouring the feel of it and leaving a burning trail simmering wherever he wanders. The mere heat of his steady eyes on the core of you is enough to make you squirm in place.Â
âI have never seen anything so divine,â His voice is low, just for you to hear. He leans closer to you, close enough that you can feel his breath right where you need him most, and takes a deep inhale of your scent, a low groan brewing in his throat upon exhale. âAs you, bare and soaked for me.â
âBaelor.. Wh- what are you-â And then his mouth is on you, cutting you off with your own gasp.Â
Your eyes screw shut, suddenly unable to bear the thought of opening them, of seeing what heâs doing to you. The tales that you heard of this, whispered between women in scandalous confession, could never have prepared you for what you felt. The heat of his mouth on you, his tongue kissing and lapping at where youâre wettest for him, steals your ability to breathe. It is too much, too quickly, white-hot pleasure flowing through you and fogging your head until he has to squeeze your thigh to break you out of it.Â
âBreathe,â He reminds you, but you shake your head.
âI canât!â
âYou must,â He pulls away, till you can no longer feel his warmth on your skin. âOr I will be forced to stop.â
âDont!â The plea comes without hesitation. âPlease, please, donât stop, I want-âÂ
âBreathe for me, then.â He takes a deep breath in, and you follow him, stuttering air filling your lungs once more. Satisfied, he leans back into you. âThatâs it. In⊠and out⊠in-â
His tongue dips through your folds again, turning your exhales into pleasured sighs. The sound is too obscene to bear. The slick, wet sound of his lips wrapping around the crest of your sex and sucking, pulsing rhythmically around the sensitive bundle there. The hand that had settled behind you on the desk now provides you an anchor, keeping you grounded as you match his rhythm with cants of your hips, chasing the pressure that builds low in your belly.Â
âYes, my love, just like that.â He says, reverent, watching as you give in to him fully, only able to answer with soft moans and muttered nonsense.Â
His finger is much thicker than yours, stretching you more than you ever could as it presses into the tight ring of your entrance, just as youâd hoped. The metal of his ring, brushing against you every time he pumps the digit in, only adds to your pleasure, the cold-hard shock of it on your soft folds making you gasp with every movement.Â
Baelor works you like he knows your body already, guided by every pleasured noise you make, every mindless moan of his name. When they turn high and uncontrollable, your head tilted back, rocking yourself against his mouth more insistently, desperately, he knows youâre close. A second finger joins the first, the pace just a touch faster, pulling you towards the edge at his will.Â
The subtle press of his fingers upwards turns your moan into a soft cry, and it hits you all at once, the pleasure cresting and then washing over you. His mouth doesnât leave you once, doesnât stop his open-mouthed kisses at the top of your sex, sending pulses through your body till youâre pushing at his forehead, even as you continue to press your hips into him.Â
He comes away with an awed, dumb smile on his face, drunk on the taste of you, his beard damp with it. He rises from his knees and leans over you, wrapping an arm around your middle to pull you up, and youâre too loose-limbed to do anything but go with him as he kisses you again.
You can feel his hand between you, shifting against your stomach, and you part from the kiss to find him grasping himself through his trousers, pulsing squeezes around his stiff cock. Quiet grunts fall from his lips with every press of his hand, and for a moment you simply watch, mesmerised.Â
Then your hand lands over his, hesitant. Unsure. âI want⊠I want to watch.âÂ
A pained groan fills your ear as his forehead drops against yours. He makes quick work of the laces on his trousers, and you pull down his breeches with equal fervor, freeing his cock from the fabric.Â
His member is thicker than it is long â you can feel the burn of him stretching you already, distantly, making you clench around nothing at the mere thought. The tip of him is a flushed, ruddy hue, dripping with a clear liquid that you dare to feel at, gathering the slick on your thumb just to see. Baelorâs breathing is laboured as he watches you bring your thumb to your lips and lick, a pleased hum escaping you at the flavour.Â
âFuck,â He growls, his hand finding his shaft again immediately, enveloping it like he can barely stop himself as he licks into your mouth, desperate to taste himself on you.Â
His mouth slows against yours when you reach down again, resting your hand over his fist. He pants against your lips as he lets your hand replace his, guiding your fist over him in measured, hard strokes.Â
Heâs hard under your touch, hot and firm and slick with pre-cum already. Your cheeks burn as you realize just how much you like it, the heaviness of him against your palm, the moans you pull from him just with your touch. His lips move against your own, and he begins to rut into the tight circle of your intertwined hands, fucking your fist like- like-
The realisation, that this will be what he does to you, is breathtaking. Heâll move against you just like this, but heâll be inside you, working his way into you till you fit perfectly around his cock, and you feel that ache of desire between your legs once again. You moan his name softly, absentmindedly, as you move to guide him towards your entrance, spreading your thighs and shuffling closer to him.Â
The hand covering your own stills, forcing you to stop.
âNot yet, my love.â You whine in disappointment, but he hushes you gently. âWe must be patient.âÂ
âPlease, Baelor.â You are begging, you realise. Something youâve never done before in your life.Â
âWe cannot,â He insists, still denying you, even as he moves closer to the edge of the desk, and slots his hips against yours. It feels like heâs branded you from the mere brush of his cock against your inner thigh, teasing you with how near you are to what youâve begged him for. Heâs infuriatingly gentle as he removes your hand from his shaft, shifting his hips and then thrusting himself between your folds.
Your mouth falls open on a cry as the tip of him slides against the crest of your sex, the most sensitive part of him nudging against the most sensitive part of you. He draws his hips back, then forward again, gliding against you instead of inside you, careful not to enter you as he does.Â
At first, you cannot protest, not when the pace of his hips rutting against you leaves you senseless, unable to do anything but clutch at his shoulders and let him give you a rough feign of a fuck. Anyone who walked by his study now would never know that he isnât deflowering you, from the sound of your skin slapping against his, your moans mixing with his. So close to what you want- need-
âPlease, please, just the tip, my love, it wonât-â You find yourself pleading with him again, through desperate whimpers and pants every time his cock brings you another shock of pleasure, shooting up your spine and settling in your belly, building you towards sweet release. But he ignores you, the hand thatâs not splayed across your back coming to bunch in your wrinkled skirts, fisting the fabric and pulling you against him, nearly lifting you off the desk to meet his thrusts.Â
His eyebrows are drawn together as he stares down at you, unbreaking even as he chokes on his own air, looking mad with hunger for you. Heâs unbelievable like this, restraining himself from taking you as he should, as he has every right to, divulging his urges while still leaving both of you wanting, aching for each other.Â
He makes a sound like heâs wounded, then, his head dipping to rest on your shoulder before his teeth set hard on your neck, drawing a shocked cry from you as his punishing pace stutters, grows uneven and desperate. His hips bunch against yours once more and then you feel it, his release spurting onto your heated skin, spilling onto your sex and your thighs.Â
You both remain still, panting together, for a moment. You cannot find it in you to loosen the grip you have on him, even as he lifts his head, pulling his hips away from yours just an inch so he can see the mess heâs made of you. The moan that leaves him is awed, his grip on you tightening at the sight of his spend all over you, dripping obscenely.Â
âThere will be no bedding ceremony,â He states, suddenly, drawing your unfocused stare back to him. âNo one else is allowed to see you like this. I wonât have it. But the Lords will need their proof of our consummation.â
His hand comes to feel at your sex, causing you to jolt in his arms, a pained whine spilling from you. âThatâs why I cannot fuck you the way I want to, not yet. When I take you on our wedding night, they will see it plainly on the sheets. They will finally know youâre mine, Princess.â
ââM not a princess yet.â You find it in you to say, quietly, unable to raise your voice quite yet.
Baelor simply shakes his head, still looking down at where heâs marked you with his seed. âYou are mine, now. In every way that matters.â
âsummary: another night goes by with baelor failing to come to bed, choosing instead to lose himself in his library chamber. tired of being alone, you go in search of your husband, fully intent on dragging him away from his duties and into the rest and comfort he so deeply deserves.
âpairing: baelor targaryen x wife!reader
âword count: 1k
âcontent: pure fluff, established relationship, very tired husband, domestic intimacy, touch-starved!baelor, cuddling, sweet romance, comforting him as he deserves.
writerâs note: im so obsessed with him </3 english is not my mother tongue, so please forgive me if there is a grammatical error. hope you like it!
It was past midnight; you could tell by how high the moon rose into the dark skies, shining down through your chamber's windows.
When you stretched out a hand toward your husbandâs side of the bed, you found nothing but cold, perfectly smoothed sheets.
It didnât take you long to find him in his usual refuge: the small library chamber of the tower. You leaned against the doorframe, watching him from a distance in silent awe.
Baelor was immersed in a big open book illuminated by the faint candlelight set on his desk, a hand raised to his head, ringed fingers absentmindedly stroking his temple as his thoughts followed the handwritten lines on the page.
In the semi-darkness of the room, barely lit by flame and moonlight, he had never looked more beautiful. His dark hair had always been one of your favorite features on him, and over the years, silver strands had begun to thread through it. Every time you noticed them, something primal stirred within you.
He was so handsome.Â
His eyes, each of a contrasting color, made him look so close to a Valyrian, to a god. His hands so familiar with your body, his fingers slender and always gentle, so pretty adorned with his rings.
Seeing him like that, in the middle of the full-moon night, you had the sudden, overwhelming urge toâ
âYou should be resting, wife,â Baelor broke the silence, not even lifting his head to glance at you, aware of your presence the moment your feet stepped into the hallway. If he looked at you now, he knew his concentration would be utterly lost. âAnd not wasting your beauty sleep on spying on me.â
A tired smile tugged at your lips as you crossed the room. One hand brushed over the warm bricks of the central fireplace, your nails lightly scratching the stone, while the other clutched your fluffy nightgown tighter around your shoulders.
A small shiver ran through you as you caught his sidelong glance, unwilling to miss a single word of his beloved book on how the Wall had been built.
âI could say the same about you, Your Grace,â you shot back, just as you stepped up close to his chair like a stalking cat, sliding your hand over his shoulder to rub it gently. âYouâre only wasting your precious time hiding from me in here.â
At your touch, the prince eventually paused his absorption in the tedious book in front of him and raised his head to meet your own gaze, his two-toned eyes softening enormously as they took in the sleepy, lovely look on your face.
âI have to read, I have to stay informed,â he tried to give you at least a decent excuse for having been away from you for so long, sighing softly and leaning back in his chair, spreading his legs comfortably.
You took that as a silent invitation.
Without another word, you sat down on his lap. Baelorâs arms came around you at once, pulling you closer to his chest, supporting your weight easily over his thighs.
You clicked your tongue, slipping your arms around his neck and looking at him fondly, despite your accusatory tone. âAnd I have to sleep with my husband by my side.â
Baelor let out a soft, tired chuckle, one of his hands giving your backside a playful pat. âThe husband you chose is the Hand of the King. He is be a busy man.â
âBy day he is the Hand of the King,â you smiled teasingly, leaning in to press a brief kiss to the tip of his nose, pleased to feel his other hand on your face, brushing strands of your hair away from your forehead. âBy night, he is mine. And it is already night, Your Grace. Very late.â
âThatâs where youâre wrong, darling,â he drew his face closer to yours, stealing a delicate kiss from your lips, tasting the honey you put on them every night to keep them soft. âHe is always yours.â
You smiled triumphantly as you stood, taking his hand to coax him up. âThen come with me, my love.â
His other hand never left your waist, sliding just a little lower to your bum once you were standing before him.Â
He looked up at you as if you were the closest thing to a goddes in this world, as if no dragonâs blood ran through his veins, as if he were not part of the most powerful family in Westeros. No, when Baelor looked at you, he knew paradise must look something like this: your beautiful face gazing down at him with playful, shining eyes, your lovely body inviting him like a spell he could never resist.
Both his hands settled on your hips beneath the thin, fluffy nightgown, guiding you to face him fully as he pulled you closer, trapping you between his open legs and his arms.
Baelor lowered his head to rest it against your stomach, eyes closing in a silent plea for affection.
He was needy. Of course he wasâany man would be at such late hours of the night.
Poor thing, so many hours locked away in there without your caresses, your kisses, your body beneath his hands.
âIâm sure the History of the Wall is not more interesting than I am, is it, my prince?â you teased, raising a brow as your fingers slid soothingly through his dark hair.
A quiet warmth kindled in your belly when you saw the strands of gray between your fingers. It was always the gray that stirred something deep and fierce within you.
âNothing is more interesting than you, my sweetest,â he gave you the answer you had been hoping for, drawing a smile from your lips. His hands roamed with tender familiarity over the backs of your thighs, caressing your skin beneath the fabric of your nightgown, pulling your body closer to his in a warm, much-needed embrace.
âI do need you,â he confessed quietly.
Your expression softened instantly.
Baelor went still beneath your loving touch, glancing at you from the corner of his eye as you carefully unfastened the pin from his doublet. The weight of it came away with quiet ease, resting in your palm for a brief moment before you reached to the desk and set it beside his open book.
âYou are only mine tonight, Baelor.â
You leaned down, pressing a tender kiss to his temple, then another to his brow, lingering there to smooth away the usual lines of worry upon his forehead. Your arms slipped more fully around his shoulders, drawing him closer, letting him rest against you however he needed.
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