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The air in the private academyâs library tasted of old paper, expensive leather, and the suffocating arrogance of generational wealth.
To Rican, the world had never been a complex web of human emotion or shared struggle. It was a ladder where everything and everyone was either beneath his feet or hoisted above his head.
He, naturally, existed on the highest of the high.
Born with what he fondly referred to as the holy trinity of existenceâattractiveness, charisma that border-lined on hypnotic, and an amount of money that could buy a small nationâhe had never once encountered the concept of difficulty.
The word "struggle" was a foreign sequence of vowels that simply did not apply to his universe.
And it definitely didn't apply for school either, not when it was like his personal playground.
His father had personally financed entire sports complexes and academic clubs just to ensure Ricanâs boredom was kept at bay.
Life was flawless, a golden path laid out before him, except for one tiny thing.
Romantic interest.
Women flung themselves at his feet daily, but a quick, meaningless hookup was all he could muster.
And of course Rican took it upon himself to make it a mission to find someone who could be more than a hookup. (someone who could MAYBE give him a high-five trust)
His first attempt at finding love had been an utter disaster. It ending within thirty seconds when the girlâs voice proved to be a fraction too shrill for his ears, causing him to walk away mid-sentence without a backward glance.
The second target had shown promise until he cast his eyes downward and noticed the scuffed, criminanal sight of her off-brand loafers.
The mere sight of such poverty had induced a physical wave of nausea, forcing him to cross her off his list immediately.
But of course Rican was nothing if not persistent. Third time's the charm, right?
That was when his gaze had drifted to the back of your head.
You were cute, undeniable, but Rican didn't just want a dollâhe wanted a prize that felt worthy of his high status.
To test the waters, he had casually slipped a crisp bill into the teacher's palm, ensuring that the seating chart for the semester's most intensive research project was altered.
The investment paid off instantly. Over the first few days, he discovered you were genuinely funny, easy to talk to, and possessed a face that perfectly aligned with his exact aesthetic preferences.
You, however, viewed the entire arrangement through a lens of profound skepticism.
You weren't naive. You knew how wealthy boys functioned.
So of course, you expected him to be arrogant, you expected him to be detached, and you fully expected him to eventually try and pawn all the project's actual research off on you.
What you did not expect, under any circumstances, was the warp-speed at which his brain apparently operated.
By the third day of the project, the casual banter had completely vanished, replaced by an intense, suffocating focus that made your skin prickle.
He could scoot closer to you, and stare at you even when you weren't speaking. It was becoming to the point where you were more shocked if he wasn't staring into your soul.
It was all little things just added up to eachother, like him cleaning the eraser dust off your lap faster than you could or him paying for your bus ride home and even more money so you could buy some food. (You never mentioned how you take the bus)
Then came the fourth day, and with it, the absolute pinnacle of his delusion.
He slid a gourmet bento box across the table toward youâa daily ritual he had aggressively started since the first day of pairing upâbefore leaning forward on his elbows.
His face was a picture of serene, absolute certainty as he uttered the words that made your entire brain grind to a screeching halt.
"How much for you to date me?"
You immediately froze.
"What?"
You weren't opposed to the concept of financial security, and like anyone else, you enjoyed the idea of having money. But just the sheer audacity of someone trying to buy you like a piece of livestock was completely uncalled for.
He didn't even look ashamed. He just sat there in his expensive chair, a massive, triumphant grin spreading across his face as if he had just offered you the deal of a lifetime, entirely blind to the look of sheer confusion freezing your features.
"Yes, like to have you," Rican clarified effortlessly, his voice dripping with a casual nonchalance that only made the situation a hundred times worse.
He leaned in a bit closer, his eyes bright with a terrifyingly possessive spark. "Preferably forever, and chained wrist to wrist to me."
"What the hell are you talking about?" You looked around frantically, half-expecting a hidden camera crew to jump out from behind the fiction section, but there was nobodyâjust Rican and his completely unhinged, romantic delusions.
His smile only widened at your reaction, his head tilting to the side as he analyzed your expression with a creepy, clinical fascination.
"Your eyes look pretty, they're big right now," he mused, his voice dropping to a soft, delighted purr. "Is it because you're scared, or maybe excited? I really hope it's the second option."
"Rican, we've literally only known each other for like four days!" you hissed, leaning across the table to whisper-yell, desperately trying to keep your voice down so the librarian wouldn't wander over.
"What are you talking about? Dating? Where did that even come from?" You were genuinely baffled by the absolute lack of self-awareness.
How did rich people navigate the world so completely blind to the discomfort of others? How could he look at your pale, horrified face and see a green light for marriage proposals?
"Yeah, dating then marriage," he replied instantly, nodding his head as if he were explaining a very simple, chronological timeline to a child.
"Or we could just go straight to marriage and babies. But my tutor said it's more normal to become boyfriend and girlfriend first, so I'm trying to do it the traditional way."
You just stared at him. The sheer gravity of his insanity left you entirely speechless.
"I'll give you a weekly salary," he blurted out, misinterpreting your stunned silence as dissatisfaction with the terms.
You stared even more, your mouth slightly open, completely incapable of processing the words coming out of his mouth.
"Daily! Daily, instead?" he corrected frantically, his composure fracturing just a fraction as he leaned further over the table, his hands gripping the wood, desperate to seal the deal.
Your continued silence seemed to throw him into a spiral of panic, his mind incapable of understanding why a human being wouldn't immediately capitulate to the power of his wallet.
"Hourly?" he offered, his breath hitching.
"Every minute?" Rican pleaded, his voice dropping to a desperate, pathetic whine as he reached out, his fingers twitching with the urge to grab your hands.
"Please, I just need you."
eisnewisnshe any new requests yall omg this has been laying in my drafts for like more than 5 months
and also guys I'm kinda in writer's block idk so I'm sorry if this is bad !! I tried my best and hopefully next post is better !! <33
tw - fem!reader, kidnapping, non/consensual touching, gojo being gross. i have a very high fever. assume this is unrelated.
âSheâs pretty sick.â
âShe is, Satoru.â
âThink sheâs gonna throw up?â
âNo, Satoru.â
âLike, at all?â
âWhy do you sound disappointed?â
Above you, Satoru frowned. He was straddling your stomach, a knee planted on either side of your waist, leaning so far down that his forehead nearly touched yours. On any other day, you mightâve been able to deal with his enthusiastic disregard for personal space, but on any other day, you wouldnât be running a temperature more commonly found on the surface of the sun. Your chest ached from coughing and your eyes refused to stay open for more than a minute at the time. A romantic, poetic part of you thought it might be your body physically rejecting the two men whoâd been holding you captive for months, now, but more realistically you knew it was probably just a head cold.
The mattress dipped next to your head. A cool, scarred palm pressed against your forehead, lingering for a moment before pulling back with a click of the tongue. Suguru. Heâd started his mother-hen routine as soon as youâd admitted (stupidly, in hindsight) to feeling a little sick and had yet to give it up. Part of it mustâve been nostalgia. His daughters were in their late teens. Itâd been years since heâd had anything soft and vulnerable to dote on. But, as you glared at him through watery eyes, you wouldâve sworn there was something else there. An edge. A shadow. The slightest, barest hint of anger that there was anything on this planet that could hurt you other than him.
But then you blinked at it was gone, replaced by stoic neutrality as he snatched a bottle off the bedside table and twisted off the childproof cap. You felt something pressed being pressed against your lips and pursed them tighter, in response. Suguru sighed.
âItâs just medicine, sweetheart.â
 Yeah, right. Youâd heard that one before.
Your voice was all grit. Driveway gravel lubricated with battery acid and strained through a sandpaper funnel. ââŠlabel.â
Suguru rolled his eyes, but handed the bottle over anyway. You forced yourself to sit up, lasting just long enough to scan over the bold-font logo and excessive use warnings that you would be gleeful ignoring before collapsing back onto your pillow and letting Suguru place the pill on your tongue. It tasted like chalk and misery, which was somehow still better than the god-awful herbal tea he gave you to help swallow.
Meanwhile, Satoru watched it all, unmoving and unblinking. He tended to do that whenever Suguru was pampering you â forget he was part of scene and relegate himself a silent, observant feature of the background. He only came back to himself when you sniffled, ducking your head to sneeze into your comforter. A smile pulled at the edges of his lips, one of his hands reaching up to ghost over the curve of your jaw. âYouâre kind of hot like this. All helpless and whiney, I mean.â
He moved to cup your chin. Suguru caught his wrist. âDonât even think about it.â
âThatâs not fair,â he pouted. âHow come som virus gets to be inside of her and I canât?â
This question was swiftly and mercifully deemed too stupid to answer. Suguru pushed himself to his feet and Satoru sighed languidly, flopping onto the bed next to you. âItâs not like Iâll catch anything. Worldâs Strongest Sorcerer, remember?â
âThat doesnât mean you canât get sick, idiot.â
âBut what if it doeââ
You cut him off with a conveniently timed coughing fit. The ugly type â prolonged and hacking, forceful enough to leave you panting while your throat burnt. Satoru grinned. Before Suguru could stop him, he threw himself into you and licked a long stripe over your open mouth, then laughed as you groaned and swatted him away.
âSee?â he asked, smirking at Suguru. âNobody died.â
Suguru responded by pitching the bottle of pills at his co-kidnapper, nailing Satoru in the head with enough force to crack the plastic.
Exactly one week later, well after youâd recovered, Satoru would find himself tucked into the same bed, coughing and sneezing while Suguru held you in his lap on the living room couching, whispering sweet nothings and going on about how glad he was to have you all to himself just loudly enough to be overheard.
The story follows Daena, Targaryen princess, cherished and sheltered by her royal family, whose orderly court routine is disrupted when a visit from her uncle Maekar, a serious and sullen forty-year-old prince, awakens in her a mischievous impulse and something more.
Content Warnings
The significant age difference (20 and 40 years) was presented as a central element of the romantic dynamic.
Targaryen incest
Life seemed far less interesting and considerably more unbearable since you had discovered what Maekar's fingers felt like, since you had found a world you once believed reserved only for men of dark vices and perverted minds.
After Maekar sat you down and cradled you in his arms, asking in a low voice how you were, with that deep voice that seemed to contradict the tenderness of the gesture, your heart beat so hard you were certain he could hear it. You felt it in your temples, in your throat, in your ears.
You couldn't stop thinking about it. About that energy that had been born in your center and spread like hot water through every nerve in your body, holding on for entire minutes, stealing your ability to use your legs, to think clearly, to be yourself. And Maekar's face, so close, with that perpetually furrowed brow that gave him the air of a man always angry at the world, always gruff, always distant. But his eyes told another story. In his eyes there was something softer, something that looked very much like genuine concern, like an attentiveness he himself didn't seem to know quite how to carry. You should have felt ashamed for him to see your inexperience so exposed, so evident, so impossible to disguise. And yet being against his chest, feeling the solid warmth of his arms around you, had given you a warmth and a sense of protection you had never experienced with such intensity, least of all in a moment when you felt so inexperienced, so overwhelmed by every emotion you couldn't name.
Little by little you recovered, and Maekar carefully brought you upright on his knees. When you looked at him again, his expression was already different. Colder. More closed off.
âListen to me, Daena. What we're doing is wrong. Damnably wrong. So it's better if you stop, and we keep our distance. âHe paused briefly, running a hand through his hair with barely contained frustration.â Damn it. Only the gods know what my brother and the king will do to me if they find out I nearly dishonored their precious little princess. Don't make it harder for me.
You couldn't believe what you were hearing. He was regretting it. After making you feel something you had no words to describe, he was regretting it as though he could erase it all with one well-spoken sentence.
With a brusqueness that Maekar himself could never quite contain, he got to his feet. He held you by the waist just long enough to set you down in the spot where he had been sitting, as though you were something to be arranged before leaving. But before the distance between the two of you became final, your hand moved on its own. You stopped him by tangling your fingers in the longer strands at the back of his neck, holding him there, wishing it hurt at least a little, that he felt at least a fraction of what his words were doing to you. Your other hand drifted toward his cheek, where you could feel the small scars and thick skin of an older man, consumed by the desire to touch him, to persuade him, to make him stay.
Maekar's face was now one of complete and unambiguous anger. And that warmth that had lived in your chest was gone, replaced by something colder and sharper.
âYou can do whatever you want, Maekar. âYour voice came out steadier than you expected.â But what you did can't be changed. You talk as if I were the one who brought you to this room. You can't hide your desire, and what already exists between us won't disappear no matter how stubbornly you insist on keeping your distance.
With his face inches from yours, you wanted to kiss him. To pull a kiss from him that would leave him without arguments. But the dignity you carried in your blood was greater than the impulse, so you let him go, got to your feet, and pushed him gently aside to make your way to the door. Before crossing it, you looked at him over your shoulder. A look he wouldn't fully understand until days later.
âIf you want me to keep my distance, I will.
You left that room feeling split in two: one half humiliated, burning inside with a shame you didn't want to acknowledge, and the other half more determined than ever. You knew you could make him regret it. You knew you would manage it.
The next day, your plan began.
Your brother, during his visit to King's Landing, remained almost always at your father's side, absorbed by the responsibilities being delegated to him little by little, as though they were building him in real time for the role he would one day have to carry. You barely saw him. Your mother, on the other hand, was another matter entirely. All her attention had turned toward you with a new intensity that was difficult to ignore: she monitored what you wore, what you said, what you did at every hour of the day. Your lessons with your uncle had ended without explanation, and the hours dedicated to prayer had multiplied in an unsettling way. It almost seemed as though she suspected something, though she didn't quite know what.
âYou're very different, daughter. It's been three months since I last saw you, but you've changed so much. âHer fingers tucked a strand of hair behind your ear with a delicacy that always caught you off guard coming from her.
âIt's that I'm thinking about what's coming for me. âYour mother looked at you attentively, waiting for you to complete the thought.â I'm going to turn twenty, mother. Everything I do is accompany my grandmother. I am, technically, her lady-in-waiting. I want something for myself.
What followed was unexpected even for you: your mother embraced you, with an effusiveness that wasn't natural to her, and you returned the gesture while processing what it meant. The first part of the plan was this, that she accept that you wanted to marry. The second, far more complicated part, was that they accept Maekar.
When she pulled away from you, your mother had a smile that took up her entire face.
âI'm so happy! I thought my only daughter was never going to want to marry. I never wanted to disobey the king and queen, but they always spoiled you too much and never told you what your duties to the realm were.
You tried to appear equally happy, even though inside you could already see clearly what was coming: she was already calculating, already thinking about which lords would make the best allies, which alliances would serve your father, which names would strengthen her position. The favorite granddaughter of the king and queen, daughter of the heir, looking for a husband. The perfect opportunity for those who had spent years waiting for a crack to slip through and gain power.
What awaited you was a true ordeal. And it had only just begun.
Nobody could pretend the castle didn't have two sides. Not factions, not declared camps, just two shades that coexisted under the same stone roof as though it had always been that way.
The first was the world of the lords. The small council, the lords representing their houses, men who came to King's Landing to advise, negotiate, or interfere in the affairs of the realm as it suited them. It was a world with simple and cruel rules: the more land, gold, and swords you had behind you, the more weight your words carried. So long as you were a man. The king presided over that world as the highest authority, crowned and legitimate, victor of the Blackfyre rebellion. Daeron II inspired not so much fear as respect, which was something harder to fake and harder to lose.
The second world was the queen's.
Nobody named it that out loud, of course. But nobody denied it either. Queen Myriah had fulfilled every requirement expected of her, and then gone beyond all of them without making noise. It had been she who wove the alliances within House Targaryen itself when the throne was still in dispute, who consolidated loyalties with patience while others tried to do it through threats. She had given the king four sons, and two of them had been strong and respected princes who fought militarily for their father. She had survived the reign of Aegon IV, who had known how to do nothing with his family but despise them, and had come out of that fire unburned. All of that made her feared in a way no official title could grant.
Daeron II knew it. That was why he listened. That was why, when the queen made a decision regarding the affairs of the other side of the castle, he didn't interfere. So when the king and queen learned of their granddaughter's decision to seek a husband, the task fell without discussion to Queen Myriah and Lady Jena. It was a matter for the other side of the castle, and in that territory the rules were the queen's to set. Both women had clear conditions and communicated them with the calm of those who don't need to raise their voice to be obeyed: the final decision would be Daena's. No husband would be imposed on her. But suggestions about which one was most suitable would always be on the table.
When the court learned of the possible matrimonial alliance, everyone wanted to have a say. The small council gave opinions. The Septon recommended procedures. Lords who had shown no interest in Daena for years suddenly had enthusiastic candidates to offer. None of it moved the queen a single step. Myriah listened to what she considered necessary, dismissed the rest, and proceeded in her own way.
In the end, the suitors were reduced to three. Three men who each represented, in their own way, an alliance that could prove indispensable if the realm ever needed it again.
The first was Lord Leo Tyrell of Highgarden. Lord of the Reach, the man who could put on the table the greatest agricultural wealth in the Seven Kingdoms and the most numerous army in existence. His loyalty to the Targaryens during the Blackfyre rebellion had been calculated but real, and that had value. Daena's mother would have chosen him without thinking twice. Queen Myriah considered him the most convenient match on paper, though she knew Leo Tyrell never did anything that didn't benefit him first.
The second was Lord Damon Lannister of Casterly Rock. The Grey Lion, as they called him, whose loyalty during the rebellion had been proven with blood and defeat, which was the most honest kind of proof there was. The Lannister mines were the richest in Westeros, and an alliance with that house guaranteed economic power that could sustain itself for generations. He was a man of few words in tourneys but many in council, which the queen found more interesting than any feat with a lance.
The third was Lord Lyonel Baratheon of Storm's End. Lord of one of the most imposing fortresses in the realm, with a military reputation nobody disputed and a loyalty that was more instinct than politics. The problem was that his reputation preceded him in ways that weren't always convenient. He was the favorite of neither of the two women, and both knew it without needing to say so. But dismissing him without apparent reason would have started whispers about unjustified preferences, and the last thing they needed was for someone as scandalous as Lyonel to become the subject of murmuring at court.
âThree more than capable men âsaid Lady Jena one afternoon while reviewing the names on the table, with the same calm one might use to review the inventory of a cellar.â The question is which of the three understands that he is the one being considered, and not the other way around.
Queen Myriah didn't respond immediately.
âDaena will understand âshe said at last.â That's what matters.
To Daena, in truth, it made no difference whatsoever.
Or so she told herself in the mornings, while she was dressed with more care than usual and reminded which lord was arriving that day and what she should and shouldn't say. She learned quickly to show exactly the right degree of interest, enough that nobody grew alarmed, not so much that anyone believed she had made a decision. She smiled when it was called for. She asked questions that sounded genuine. She pretended to consider answers she had already dismissed before hearing them.
It was exhausting, but she did it well.
What she couldn't control was her mother. Her mother's gaze always lingered a few seconds too long on her, as though she were listening for something Daena hadn't said aloud. It wasn't distrust exactly. It was something closer to the intuition of a woman who knew her too well and hadn't yet found a name for what she was seeing. She found it very strange that Daena had been the one to choose the locations where she would meet each lord.
Daena learned to hold her gaze without blinking.
The days on which she was scheduled to meet the suitors unfolded as follows:
The morning she chose to meet Lord Leo Tyrell was not by chance.
She knew he crossed the gardens of the east wing after his morning training, still carrying the dark mood of the exercise, stepping on the cobblestones as though each one had done him a personal wrong.
So she chose the gardens.
She dressed with more care than she would have admitted aloud. The ivory dress with gold embroidery at the collar that her mother had given her the year before and which she had kept without wearing, waiting without knowing exactly what for. She loosened her hair, only slightly, just enough to look like carelessness without being so. She looked at herself in the mirror for just the right amount of time, then looked away before it seemed like she cared too much.
Lord Leo Tyrell was older than she had imagined, but he carried his years without apologizing for them: tall, chestnut hair with the first grey strands at his temples, with the kind of presence that isn't built in a day but over decades of knowing exactly how much space to occupy and when to step back.
âPrincess âhe said, bowing just barely enough. It wasn't discourtesy. He was a man who measured even his reverences.
âLord Tyrell âDaena replied, offering her hand with a smile practiced until it looked spontaneous.
They walked among the rose bushes while Leo spoke of Highgarden with the fluency of someone who has spent a lifetime selling the same thing and never needed to change the pitch because it works. The most fertile lands in the realm, the shortest winters, the most splendid tourneys. Daena listened with an expression of genuine interest and her mind completely elsewhere, gauging the angles of the garden, calculating from which point what was about to happen would be best seen.
Leo stopped in front of a blooming rose bush. He cut a rose without asking permission, with the ease of someone in his own garden though he wasn't, and held it out to her, leaning slightly toward her. Daena already felt Maekar's gaze. She heard him arrive by the weight of his footsteps. He could certainly already hear them as well.
âThe Reach produces the most beautiful roses in the Seven Kingdoms âhe said, and his gaze dropped for a moment to Daena's lips before returning to her eyes, slow and deliberate.â Though I'll admit this morning the competition is considerable.
Daena took the rose. She let her fingers graze his a moment longer than strictly necessary.
âLord Tyrell is too generous âshe said, meeting his eyes.â Though I suppose the Reach can afford it.
It was exactly at that instant that she heard the footsteps approaching. She recognized them before turning around, recognized the weight and the rhythm.
Maekar appeared from the side path as though the garden were empty and he were the only one with any right to cross it. He still had his sword at his belt, his silver hair damp at his temples, a smear of dirt on his forearm he hadn't bothered to clean. His eyes swept the scene in one second: the rose, Leo's hand still close to Daena's, the nonexistent distance between them. His expression didn't change, which was worse than if it had.
He stopped. He looked at the two of them like a man deciding whether something in his path is worth walking around.
âLord Tyrell âhe said, with a perfectly measured calm that was offensive in itself.â I didn't know you had an inclination for gardening. It's a rather⊠delicate pastime for a man.
Leo Tyrell didn't blink.
âPrince Maekar. âA precisely calculated pause.â I was familiarizing myself with what the castle has to offer. There are beauties that don't appear in any report.
âHow observant âsaid Maekar, without inflection.â The Reach produces men very attentive to other people's flowers.
Daena felt the moment like a spark and decided to fan the flame.
âLord Tyrell was kind enough to tell me about the gardens of Highgarden âshe said, turning to Maekar with the most innocent expression in her repertoire.â He says the rose bushes there bloom for almost the entire year. It's difficult to imagine something like that, isn't it? Such beauty.
Maekar looked at her. Just one second, but with an intensity that was almost tactile.
âImpressive âhe said, dry as stone.â Though I wonder whether the Lord of Highgarden devotes that much time to his gardens or only when there's an audience.
âOnly when the audience merits it âreplied Leo, with a smile that wasn't friendly.
The silence between the two men lasted exactly long enough for Daena to feel that the air between them had a temperature.
âEnjoy your morning âsaid Maekar at last, with the same courtesy of someone closing a door in another person's face without quite slamming it.
And he kept walking. Without hurrying, without turning back, with that rigidity in his shoulders that Daena already knew how to read even though he believed she didn't.
She fixed her eyes on the rose between her fingers and forced herself not to smile.
Her heart was beating faster than she would have liked to admit, and it wasn't because of Leo Tyrell.
For Lord Damon she chose the library.
It was a less obvious place than the gardens, which was exactly the reason. Maekar didn't cross the library with the regularity of his morning training, but on council days, when the castle filled with lords whose opinions he found physically unbearable, he disappeared toward the quietest corridors. The library was the quietest of all, and Daena had confirmed it three times without him knowing.
Lord Damon Lannister was physically everything Leo Tyrell was not. A few years younger, dark blond hair, a square jaw, the grey eyes of his house that tended to evaluate before expressing anything. He was not a man of easy words or gratuitous smiles. They met between the shelves at the back, where the light came in at an angle through the tall windows and made the dust in the air look like particles of gold suspended in nothing.
âI heard the princess has a taste for history âsaid Damon, stopping beside her in front of a row of leather-bound volumes. It wasn't a question. It was the opening of someone who had already done his research.
âI heard Lord Lannister prefers to draw his own conclusions before asking âreplied Daena, without looking at him.
Something at the corner of his lip shifted barely at all.
âA flaw that's been pointed out to me before âhe admitted.
âAnd have you done anything about it?
âNo.
Daena looked at him then, and he held her gaze with the calm of someone who has never felt the need to be the first to look away.
They ended up leaning over the same open book on the table, shoulders nearly touching, Damon's head close enough to hers that she could smell the leather and cedar of his clothes. He pointed to a passage with his finger and traced it without hurrying, without moving his hand.
â"House Lannister never loses what it considers its own" âhe said, in a low voice, his eyes on the book but his attention somewhere else entirely.
âThe book also says that several Lannisters died trying to prove it âreplied Daena, equally quietly.
âThe price of principle.
âOr of stubbornness.
âSometimes they're the same thing.
The library door opened.
It wasn't a loud sound, but in the silence of that space it resonated like a warning. Maekar entered with a book under his arm and that particular expression of someone who expects to find solitude and knows from the threshold that he won't find it. His eyes went directly to the table. To the two shoulders nearly touching. To the shared book. To Damon's hand still resting close to Daena's.
He stood in the doorway for a moment, not quite entering, as though assessing whether the matter was worth his time.
He entered.
He went to the nearest bookshelf, pulled out a volume at random without looking at it, and as he passed the table slowed his step just enough to tilt his head toward the open book between them.
âHistory of the Houses of the West âhe read aloud, with an almost clinical calm.â Interesting choice for a morning of visits. âHe looked at Damon with something that might have passed for curiosity if it hadn't had so much edge.â I hope it isn't boring the princess.
Damon closed the book with a calm that matched Maekar's perfectly.
âPrince Maekar. How timely.
Daena decided it was the perfect moment to push.
âI was just telling Lord Damon âshe said, in her most princess-like toneâ that the Lannisters have a reputation for being men of their word. That when they commit to something they see it through. âA pause.â It's a quality one appreciates more the scarcer it becomes.
Maekar looked at her. The kind of look that doesn't need to move to be felt across every inch of skin.
âCurious âhe said, turning to Damon with something that on his face would never quite become a smile but was dangerously close to its most unpleasant variation.â The princess speaks very highly of a house she's known for approximately two hours.
âReputation precedes the men who deserve it âsaid Daena.
âAnd intelligent men know that reputation and reality are different things âreplied Maekar, without inflection, now looking at her directly.â But I suppose that takes more than two hours of conversation to determine.
With that, he went to the farthest armchair at the back, opened his book, and didn't look at them again.
But he didn't leave.
Daena felt his presence at the back of her neck for the rest of the visit like a constant and silent pressure, and had to work twice as hard as usual to concentrate on what Damon Lannister was saying to her, which was not nothing.
For Lyonel Baratheon she chose the training yard.
Lord Lyonel had a reputation that arrived before him in any room: loud, unpredictable, with a particular magnetism. He was the favorite of neither her grandmother nor her mother, and that made him, paradoxically, the most interesting of the three for Daena.
He was large as Baratheons are, with dark hair and lively eyes that found humor everywhere.
Daena had asked to see the horses early in the morning. That was true, but secondary. What mattered was that the yard would be busy, and Maekar among those training, because Maekar was always among those training. It was almost the only constant in him that didn't depend on his mood.
What she hadn't quite calculated was Lyonel.
âPrincess âhe said when he saw her appear at the edge of the yard, with a smile that had none of Tyrell's measured subtlety or Lannister's cold restraint.â The reason getting up early is worth it.
âLord Baratheon. How are you finding the castle?
âMore entertaining than I expected âhe said, and put his arm around your shoulder as though strolling beside you were perfectly ordinary and his by right. Something you managed to step away from with a smile, putting a little more distance between you.
He wasn't unpleasant. That was the most honest thing Daena could say to herself. He was scandalous and direct and excessive in almost everything, but he had a sense of humor that arrived without warning and drew two genuine laughs from you in ten minutes, something neither of the other two had managed in all their visits combined.
The problem came when Lyonel, in the middle of a story about a tourney in the Stormlands involving a runaway horse and three knights knocked down in a chain reaction, put a hand on your back to guide you in a direction. It wasn't inappropriate. The hand was exactly where it should be. Add to that your faces very close together, and you knew that from the other side of the yard a gaze was cutting right through you, so you let out a laugh as though he had said the funniest thing in the world, slightly exaggerated, earning a puzzled look from Lyonel.
From the other side of the yard came an impact of wood against wood considerably harder than necessary.
Maekar was training with one of the household knights, and the blow he had just delivered with his practice sword was the kind that makes the other man reconsider his life choices. The knight took two steps back, shook out his wrist, and looked at him with an expression of respect mixed with relief at still being on his feet.
Lyonel noticed. He followed the sound to Maekar, who was now watching them from the center of the yard with his sword lowered and his eyes fixed on them with an attention he made no attempt to disguise.
âPrince Maekar âsaid Lyonel, with the easy tone of someone who has just found something interesting.â I've heard he's the best sword among the Targaryens.
âAmong other things âsaid Daena, without taking her eyes off him.
âWhat other things?
âHe has a very particular temperament.
Maekar crossed the yard toward them. He didn't run, didn't hurry, but he didn't slow his step for a single moment either, with the determination of someone who has made a decision without quite realizing he made it. He wiped the sweat from his forehead with the back of his hand and planted himself in front of the two of them with the practice sword still in hand, which was, objectively, a detail that didn't go unnoticed.
âLord Baratheon âhe said, looking him up and down with the measured slowness of a man taking stock.â I hope the castle is proving hospitable. Though I see you've already found ways to entertain yourself without needing anyone to show you around.
âThe princess has been an excellent guide âsaid Lyonel, with a smile that was practically a provocation with teeth.â Very attentive. Very generous with her time.
âLucky you âsaid Maekar, dry.â The princess isn't usually that generous.
âPerhaps it depends on who she's with âsaid Daena.
The silence that followed lasted exactly long enough for all three of them to know it had lasted too long.
âThe stables are in that direction âsaid Maekar at last, pointing to the opposite side of the yard with the practice sword, with an absolute calm that was not calm at all.â In case the visit was meant to include them at some point.
âWe got distracted âsaid Daena, with a perfectly calculated innocence that was almost an insult.
Maekar looked at her then in a way that had no precise name but that Daena felt at the center of her chest. Then he looked at Lyonel with an expression that might have been classified as amiable if one didn't pay attention to his eyes.
âLet it not be said that Targaryens don't know how to be hospitable, Lord Baratheon. If at any point you'd like to actually see the stables, any stable boy can accompany you. âThe briefest pause.â There's no need to keep distracting the princess from the commitments she has pending.
âWhat commitments? âasked Daena, with total innocence.
âThe ones she has âsaid Maekar, and turned away.
âHow did you know we were going to the stables, uncle? âThat stopped him for a few seconds, but he couldn't find an answer.
Lyonel watched him go with his arms crossed and that smile that hadn't left his face since Maekar arrived, if anything more pronounced now.
âInteresting man âhe said, almost to himself.
âAll Targaryens are âreplied Daena, still watching Maekar's rigid back as he crossed the yard toward the exit.
âThat's not what I meant âsaid Lyonel.
Daena paid little attention to Lyonel's response. She said a vague goodbye to him and walked faster than a princess should through the castle corridors. Her skirts brushed the stone with urgency, ignoring the glances of servants who bowed their heads as she passed. She had only one objective: to reach him.
Maekar was making his way through one of the Red Keep's less trafficked corridors when she grabbed the back of his doublet. The pull was enough to force him to stop.
He closed his eyes for an instant, as though he already knew who it was before even turning around.
âWhat are you doing?
âChasing a prince who's been running from a conversation for weeks.
Maekar turned slowly until he was facing her. He didn't look surprised, only tired. He had learned that when Daena had that stubborn expression, an argument was as inevitable as a storm.
âI'm not running from anything.
âOf course not. âShe smiled with an almost insolent irony.â You just appear, ruin whatever pleasant moment I'm having, and disappear before having to explain why.
He took a step to continue on his way.
She moved at the same time and blocked his path again.
âMove aside.
âNo.
âDaena.
âMaekar.
His violet eyes fixed on hers. Neither of them ever gave ground, and both of them knew it.
âYou're beginning to exhaust me.
âWhat a relief. I thought you were only exhausted by watching me talk to other men.
Something shifted in his face. It was barely a second, an almost imperceptible tension in his jaw, but she saw it.
She smiled just slightly.
âThere's that face again.
âI don't know what you're talking about.
âNo?
She crossed her arms and tilted her head, studying him with that mixture of curiosity and defiance that always managed to disarm him more than any raised voice could.
âA few minutes ago I was talking with Lyonel. We were laughing. Then you appeared. You stopped looking at him just to look at me as though I had committed some kind of treason.
âYou're imagining things.
âReally? Because Lyonel noticed too.
That lie was deliberate.
Maekar frowned.
âLyonel would do well to mind his own affairs.
Daena's smile widened.
âSo it does bother you.
He said nothing.
And that silence confirmed far more than any answer could have.
Daena let out a brief, disbelieving laugh.
âYou're fascinating, uncle. You truly are.
âDon't start.
âNo, today I finish it.
The amusement faded from her face little by little.
âI want you to answer one question. Just one.
He watched her with caution.
âWhy do you show jealousy if you want nothing with me?
The words hung suspended between them. For the first time since the conversation began, Maekar looked away.
âIt's not jealousy.
âWhat a shame. I was starting to think it was.
âDaena...
âNo. You listen to me for once.
She took another step toward him, invading his space the same way he had so many times invaded hers with his silences.
âIt was you who made it clear to me that there would never be anything between us. You who decided I should forget you. So I did exactly that: I tried to get on with my life. âOnly Daena knew that was a lie.
She pointed at him with a finger against his chest.
âAnd every time I take a step in that direction, you appear with that damned look on your face.
Maekar lowered his eyes to her hand before meeting her gaze again.
âYou don't know what you're saying.
âThen explain it to me.
âI can't.
Her patience began to leave her.
âDo you know what's worst? That you have the audacity to act as though I belong to you. You scorch anyone who comes near me with your stare, but when I'm the one who comes near you... you build a wall and start talking about duty.
She shook her head.
âI'm beginning to think you're a damned coward.
That one found its mark.
Maekar's eyes hardened.
âWatch yourself.
âOr what?
She didn't step back a single inch.
âAre you going to tell me again that "we can't"? Is that your entire strategy? Repeating the same phrase until you've convinced yourself?
He stepped forward.
Now only a few inches separated them.
âBecause we can't.
âHow convenient.
âIt's the truth.
âNo.
She shook her head with a bitter smile.
âThe truth is that you can't stand to see me with another man.
Silence fell between them again.
Heavy.
Uncomfortable.
Finally Maekar spoke, but his voice had lost all its hardness.
âI can't stand it.
The answer was so sincere that for an instant, Daena forgot to breathe.
âThen... what in the seven hells are we doing?
He closed his eyes for a second before answering.
âTrying to avoid a disaster.
âYou really are a coward. âShe didn't say it to insult him. It was her conviction speaking, the creeping certainty that perhaps it truly was impossible to change his mind.
A voice heavy with disbelief broke the silence of the corridor.
âWhat is this?
Both of them turned at the same time.
Lady Jena stood motionless at the far end of the passage. Her expression moved from bewilderment to horror in a matter of seconds. She had heard enough.
âMother... âyou began.
But she was already walking toward you both.
âNo. Don't say a word.
Her gaze passed over Maekar for barely an instant before fixing itself on you.
âCome with me. Right now.
âFirst you're going to listen to me.
âI said come.
âAnd I said you're going to listen to me.
Jena lost what little composure she had left. She took hold of your arm firmly.
âDaena!
âLet go of me!
You tried to pull free, but your mother didn't give way.
âHave you lost your mind completely? Do you have any idea what will happen if someone sees you?
âWe weren't doing anything!
âI heard you!
âThen you heard only half of it.
âEnough!
The word rang through the entire corridor.
Jena began pulling you toward your chambers while you kept resisting, too proud to stop arguing even in that situation.
âMother, you're treating me like a child!
âBecause you're behaving like one.
âYou can't lock me away for talking to someone!
Her voice broke for the first time.
âI'm locking you away because you're too stubborn to understand the danger you've just put yourself in.
And that sentence, spoken with fear more than with anger, was the only one capable of making Daena stop fighting.
The room began to feel unbearably small long before nightfall.
Daena had stopped trying to open the door hours ago. Not because she had accepted being locked in, but because she understood that pounding on wood only gave satisfaction to those who had locked her in. Instead she paced from one end of the room to the other like a lioness in a cage, unable to stay still for more than a few seconds.
Every so often she went to the window. From there she could make out a few torches lit in the Red Keep's courtyard and the coming and going of guards during the changing of the watch.
Everything looked the same.
As though the world hadn't just collapsed on top of her.
She knew what was coming.
Lady Jena would never have kept silent. Her mother would have gone first to Baelor, and then, if necessary, to the king and queen.
The very thought made her clench her teeth.
She wasn't worried about the rumors.
She was worried about Maekar.
She had lost him, and after this it seemed impossible to convince her parents of a marriage to him. If the king found out what had happened... what would he do to him?
The question kept turning in her head for hours.
When the sky finally went completely black, she heard footsteps on the other side of the door.
They weren't a servant's footsteps.
They were slow. Heavy. Familiar.
The bolt turned. The door opened.
Baelor entered alone.
He brought no guards.
He brought no Jena.
He closed the door behind him with absolute calm and stood for a few seconds looking at his daughter.
Daena held his gaze without looking away.
She was the first to speak.
âIt's not what it looks like.
Baelor barely raised an eyebrow.
âI haven't even asked you what happened.
She opened her mouth to continue, but he raised a hand.
It wasn't a brusque gesture.
It was enough.
âDon't insult my intelligence, Daena.
His voice was calm.
So calm that it was far more unsettling than any raised voice would have been.
âJena told me what she saw. Then I spoke with two guards who were on duty near the corridor. Their accounts match.
A brief silence fell.
âAnd, what matters more... I know you.
Daena looked away for just an instant.
âNothing happened.
âNot yet.
Baelor replied.
âBut it was going to.
She looked back at him.
âYou don't know that.
âI know it because I know that expression. Because you are incapable of hiding what you feel when something truly matters to you.
Those words managed to irritate her more than any accusation could have.
Daena let out a short laugh, laden with disbelief.
âA curious way to protect me. Locking me up like a criminal.
Baelor ignored the comment.
He began to walk slowly around the room, glancing distractedly at the books on a table, the practice sword leaning against the wall, the open windows.
âI always wanted to give you something few Targaryen women have had. The possibility of choosing.
She frowned.
âChoosing what?
âWho to marry.
Daena felt a bad premonition settle over her.
Her father continued speaking with the same serenity.
âYou turned away suitors. I gave you time because I trusted your judgment.
He turned toward her.
âThat trust has just been broken.
The silence fell like a slab of stone.
âWhat does that mean?
âIt means it will no longer be a choice.
Daena felt a chill run down her spine.
âNo.
âWithin a month you will be married.
The sentence hung in the air.
She didn't cry.
She didn't even look surprised.
The only thing that changed was the hardness of her expression.
âNo.
She repeated.
More slowly.
âI'm not going to do it.
âThis is not a request.
âThen you'll have to drag me to the sept.
Baelor sighed.
âDon't make this harder.
âHarder?
An incredulous smile appeared on Daena's face.
âYou've just told me you're going to hand me off like an object?
âI'm trying to prevent a greater disaster.
âGreater for whom? For me? Or for the family's reputation?
Baelor didn't answer.
And that absence was enough.
âThat's what I thought.
She began to pace slowly around the room, unable to stay still.
âIt's curious. My whole life you told me I was free to choose. That I wouldn't be like the other women at court. That with me it would be different.
She turned sharply toward him.
âAnd all of that disappears because I spoke to a man?
âIt wasn't only talking.
âNothing happened!
âSomething could have.
âBut it didn't!
Her voice echoed through the room.
She drew a deep breath before continuing, each word sharper than the last.
âIf I had been born a man... right now I could go down to King's Landing, walk into the worst brothel in the city, sleep with ten different prostitutes, and tomorrow I would still be a respectable prince.
She fixed her eyes on her father.
Baelor held her gaze.
âBut you are a woman.
Those four words fell like oil onto fire.
Daena let out a dry laugh.
Without joy.
Without humor.
Only rage.
âThere it is. You finally say it. It doesn't matter what I do. It doesn't matter who I am. All that matters is having been born with the wrong sex.
âWhat matters is the world we live in.
âThen I despise this world!
Baelor took a step toward her.
âYou can't change it.
The two of them stood motionless.
Neither willing to yield.
Finally Baelor spoke for the last time.
âWithin a few days the negotiations will begin with your future husband. It will be a good alliance. And I expect that by then you will have gotten my damned brother â YOUR damned UNCLE â out of your head!
Daena went rigid. Her father had never raised his voice at her. When he left the room and the bolt slid shut again from outside, the sound seemed to echo long after it was gone.
Past midnight, Daena had no plan. Or at least, not one she had spent hours thinking through. She had only one certainty: if the punishment for defying her family was to turn her into a bargaining piece and marry her off to a man who would never see her as a person but as a convenient alliance, then she would take from them the very thing they needed from her. She wasn't going to sit and wait for them to decide her future. If they insisted on treating her like a political object, she would make herself useless for any negotiation.
With that thought circling her mind, she moved slowly toward the door and crouched down until one knee rested on the stone floor. She pressed her face to the narrow gap at the bottom and made out the motionless shadow of boots on the other side. A guard was still standing watch over her chambers. A small smile, barely perceptible, curved her lips. Not from happiness, but from the satisfaction of someone who has just found an opportunity.
She drew a deep breath before speaking, making sure her voice sounded uncertain.
âGuard...?
She got no answer. The man must have heard her, but he stayed still. Daena tried again, this time with a thinner voice, almost broken.
âYour oath says you must always protect the royal family, doesn't it? Tell me... what would happen if a princess decided to throw herself from that window?
Even as she said the last word she was already getting to her feet. She ran deliberately toward the window, striking the floor with her bare feet harder than necessary so the sound would carry into the corridor. When she reached the sill, she pushed herself up with agility and let half her body hang out into the open air, feeling the cold night against her face.
Just as she expected, the bolt turned violently and the door burst open. She heard the guard's boots rushing in before the door swung shut behind him. Daena suppressed the smile threatening to appear. By the time she turned her face toward the man, all amusement had vanished. In its place was an expression of restrained sadness, the same one she had used as a child to disarm Baelor's severity.
The guard went completely still. He was a tall man, broad-shouldered, with hands weathered by years of service, but in that moment he looked far more intimidated by the girl sitting on a windowsill than by any armed enemy. He extended one hand toward her with caution, while the other rested instinctively on the hilt of his sword.
âPrincess... I beg you. Step away from there.
Daena let a tear slide slowly down her cheek before answering.
âWhy? Did you not hear my father's shouting? Within a month he'll hand me over to a man I've never even seen. An old lord, fat, who will want me only for the name I carry and the children I can give him. I will never know what it feels like when someone loves you for who you are.
As she spoke, she raised her body a little further over the sill. The guard took another step toward her almost without realizing it. His eyes wouldn't leave the window, unable to decide whether he should rush the princess or keep talking to her so as not to startle her further. Daena noticed the conflict in his expression and understood she had already won half the game.
Then she pretended to lose her balance. She let her body tilt slowly backward, concealing that her hands remained firmly gripped on the stone frame. From where the guard stood it was impossible to see that. All he could make out was the princess leaning toward the void.
âPrincess!
The man reacted on pure instinct. He closed the distance in two strides and seized her firmly by the waist, pulling her back into the room. Both of them fell to the floor with the momentum, well away from the window.
Before the guard could even check whether she was hurt, Daena wrapped both arms around his back and hid her face against his chest. The man went completely rigid. He didn't return the embrace, but he wasn't able to push her away either. He was still breathing hard, convinced he had just saved the life of a desperate princess.
You buried your face between your hair and the guard's chest, letting out small sobs between short, broken breaths. You could feel the rapid rhythm of his heart beneath his armor, and you noticed how the military stiffness with which he had burst into the room was beginning to dissolve.
âThank you... âyou murmured with a broken voice.â Thank you for saving me.
The man hesitated before wrapping both arms around you. The gesture was uncertain at first, almost awkward, as though he still remembered he was embracing a princess. But when he felt you trembling, he ended up holding you more firmly, convinced he was only trying to keep you from doing something reckless again.
Daena smiled to herself.
Not from happiness.
Because it was working.
She waited a few seconds more, letting the silence do its work. Then she slowly lifted her face. Her eyes were still wet and the glimmer of tears made them look even larger. She looked directly at the guard, without saying a single word.
He held that gaze longer than he should have.
The concern gave way to something else, a far more dangerous emotion. He no longer saw only the princess he was bound by duty to protect. He saw a young woman, vulnerable, beautiful, and desperate, sheltered in his arms.
Daena recognized the shift at once.
She had always known how to read people.
She closed the small distance between them with a calculated slowness, enough to give the man the chance to pull back if he chose to.
He didn't.
Their lips had barely met when the guard responded to the kiss with a mixture of surprise and clumsiness. For an instant he seemed to forget who she was, where they were, and the oath he had spoken the day he put on that armor. All that existed was the girl he had just pulled back from the edge of a window.
The kiss lasted only a few seconds, but it was enough to cross a line neither of them could uncross.
While the guard seemed to lose himself in the moment, Daena discovered something she hadn't expected.
She felt absolutely nothing.
None of the emotions that had overwhelmed her when Maekar kissed her for the first time came to her now. There was no vertigo, no sense of the world disappearing around her, none of that unbearable mixture of rage and desire that only he had ever managed to wake in her.
Without meaning to, her memory returned to Maekar. She remembered the roughness of his hands marked by years of training, the small scars across his face that you could only see up close, the firmness with which he always seemed to hold himself back even when he was one step from losing control. How he left you unable to think or even move your legs. The feeling of his scarred cheeks, his lips, his rough fingers, his strength.
With her eyes still half open, you could barely make out the guard's face when a figure appeared behind him. For an instant you thought it was an illusion brought on by exhaustion. You had spent so many hours thinking about Maekar that your mind was perfectly capable of conjuring him in front of you.
But then the guard startled.
Two hands grabbed him from the back of his armor and lifted him off the ground with an insulting ease. The man barely had time to react before being dragged several steps backward. His boots scraped the stone as he tried to regain his footing.
It wasn't an illusion.
It was Maekar.
His expression was unrecognizable. You had never seen him like this. His jaw was clenched so tight it looked capable of breaking his own teeth, and his violet eyes were fixed on the guard with an intensity that made even you feel a chill.
âThis has to be a damned joke, you son of a bitch.
His voice was low.
Controlled.
And precisely because of that, it was terrifying.
The guard raised his hands immediately.
âMy prince, I... the princess... she...
He never finished the sentence.
Maekar's fist connected squarely with his face in a sharp blow that echoed through the entire room. The man lost his balance and fell to his knees clutching his bloodied nose before trying to get back up, completely disoriented.
That was when you moved.
You ran to Maekar and put yourself between them before he could land a second blow. You grabbed his shoulders with both hands and forced him to look at you.
âIt's my fault!
He didn't even seem to hear you.
His attention was still fixed on the guard.
âMaekar!
You shook him hard.
âI was the one who started it! He didn't do anything!
The words seemed to work their way slowly through the rage consuming him.
Maekar closed his eyes for a moment. He drew a deep breath, as though forcing himself to recover control. When he opened them again, the fury was still there. Perhaps Daena's words made him consider that he and the guard were in the same position. He leaned down, grabbed the guard by the collar of his armor, and practically hauled him to his feet.
He brought his face close to the man's until only a few inches separated them.
âListen to me carefully.
His voice was barely a murmur, but the tremor that ran through the guard showed that every word had landed with absolute clarity.
âYou are going to walk out of this room and forget everything that happened here. You will not say the princess's name. You will not tell this story to your fellow guards or to your family. If so much as the faintest rumor reaches my ears... if anyone so much as hints that you were alone with her...
His fingers closed a little tighter on the armor.
âI will make you disappear.
The guard had lost every drop of color from his face. He nodded again and again, unable to string together a coherent response.
âYes... yes, my prince... I swear... I won't say anything.
Maekar held him there one second longer before releasing him with a shove.
The man stumbled backward and, not daring to look at either of them, ran to the door. His hands were shaking so badly it took him two attempts to open it. The moment he managed it, he disappeared into the corridor as though all Seven were chasing him.
The door closed again.
The silence left behind was heavy, almost unbearable.
He stood motionless, breathing hard, his gaze fixed on the door through which the guard had just fled. His knuckles were red and a thin film of blood, not his own, was beginning to cover his fingers. And yet the only thing Daena could think as she watched him was that he had come there. He had burst into her chambers without caring about the consequences. He had lost control for her.
It took effort to hold back the smile.
Not a mocking smile.
The satisfaction of confirming something Maekar had spent far too long insisting on denying.
He turned his head slowly toward her. His eyes dropped for an instant to her lips, as though the memory of what he had just witnessed was still there, before finding hers again.
There was rage.
There was relief.
And there was a jealousy so plain it was almost insulting.
âWhat the hell were you doing, Daena? âhe asked, his voice barely contained, though every word seemed stretched to its limit.â And why the hell are you smiling? Does all of this amuse you? Did you enjoy throwing yourself at that guard?
She held his gaze without flinching. The warmth she hadn't felt a few moments ago arrived all at once at the sight of him like this, unable to hide what he felt. That fury was proof that he cared.
She stepped toward him slowly and rested her hands on his shoulders again.
âIt's not that I enjoyed it âshe answered with a calm that contrasted sharply with his state.â In fact... while I was kissing him, I was thinking about you.
The words seemed to knock the air out of him.
For a moment Maekar could only look at her, trying to decide whether he had just heard a confession or a provocation.
âYou're completely out of your mind.
âI've been hearing that my whole life.
âDo you have any idea what would have happened if anyone else had walked in? If instead of me it had been a servant? A member of the Council? Your father?
âI know perfectly well.
âNo. You have no idea.
Daena didn't move her hands from his shoulders.
âYes I do.
Her expression stopped being amused.
âI needed to lose it.
Maekar frowned.
âWhat do you mean?
She held his gaze with a steadiness that made him feel a bad premonition settle in.
âMy father is going to marry me off within a month. I no longer get to choose. What I want no longer matters. I'm just an alliance.
She took a breath before continuing.
âSo I decided to take from them the very thing they think they can hand over.
Understanding moved slowly across Maekar's face.
Then came the horror.
âNo...
Daena nodded with a serenity that was unsettling.
âYes.
He brought a hand to his face, unable to believe what he was hearing.
âAre you telling me you were going to give yourself to the first guard you found?
His voice no longer sounded angry.
It sounded disbelieving.
Wounded.
She tilted her head slightly.
âIf it was necessary.
Maekar took her face in both hands and made her look at him.
There was no violence in the gesture.
Only desperation.
âListen to yourself, Daena. Do you really think that was the solution?
She, instead of pulling away, pressed her cheek gently against one of his hands. For an instant the tension in Maekar's face seemed to soften, unable to resist that gesture entirely.
âIt's your fault.
Those three words were enough to bring all the rigidity back.
âMy fault?
âMy father has condemned me. Within a month I'll belong to a man I don't even know, because you were never capable of doing anything.
Maekar's hand fell slowly.
âDaena...
âNo. Don't talk to me about duty again. Don't mention the crown or responsibilities again. I'm tired of hearing the same excuses over and over.
She pulled away from him sharply.
The distance between them opened again.
âYou're a coward.
He closed his eyes for a moment.
âPerhaps.
âNo, Maekar. You are. Because it's far easier to let others decide for us than to face them yourself.
The room fell silent.
Only the sound of both of them breathing.
Daena raised one hand and pointed at the door.
âGo.
Maekar didn't move.
âI said go.
âI'm not leaving you like this.
She let out a bitter laugh.
âThen do something for the first time in your life.
Her eyes didn't leave his.
âGo find my father. Go find the king. Go find the queen. Tell them you want me and that you intend to marry me even if the entire realm stands against it.
âBut if you're not capable of that... then walk out that door and never come looking for me again. Because when that marriage comes and another man calls me his wife, that will be your decision too.
The words hung suspended between them.
For the first time since he had entered the room, Maekar had no answer. All he could do was leave.
The next morning you woke long before the sun had finished rising. You had barely slept a few hours, but exhaustion was no match for the anxiety that had been pressing against your chest since the night before.
You didn't call for any handmaid.
You bathed alone, chose one of your favorite dresses with care, and spent more time than usual on your hair. If your plan had failed, you wanted to receive the news with your head held high. And if, on the contrary, it had worked... you didn't want anyone to find you in a state either.
You sat on the edge of the bed, hands resting on either side of you, watching the door as though you could force it open through sheer will.
The minutes felt endless. Until the bolt turned. You lifted your head immediately.
Lady Jena entered slowly and closed the door behind her. She carried the same elegant bearing as always, her dress perfectly arranged and her hair without a single strand out of place. And yet there was something different in her expression.
It wasn't anger. It wasn't disappointment either. It was a mixture of exhaustion, resignation... and a pride she was trying to conceal. The two of them stood looking at each other for a few seconds.
It was Daena who broke the silence.
âThat face tells me something happened.
Jena let slip a small smile, so faint it almost went unnoticed.
âYes.
She moved slowly toward her.
âYou did it.
Daena felt her heart lurch. She didn't dare ask. She needed to hear it. She needed to be sure.
Jena regarded her for a few moments more, as though she still found it hard to believe what had happened.
âThis morning, before dawn had even broken, Prince Maekar presented himself before the king and queen.
Daena stopped breathing.
âHe went to find your father as well.
The surprise was so great she couldn't find any words.
Jena let out a sigh heavy with disbelief.
âHe didn't ask permission to court you. âShe paused briefly.â He asked for your hand.
Daena remained completely still. As though she had forgotten even how to breathe.
âWhat...? âHer voice was barely a whisper.
âExactly the same face your father made.
A brief silence filled the room before both of them ended up laughing, unable to help it.
âDid he accept? âasked Daena with an impatience unbecoming of a princess.
âAfter an argument the castle will likely remember for years.
Jena's smile grew a little wider.
âYes. He accepted.
Daena opened and closed her mouth several times.
For the first time in a very long while, she couldn't find a clever response.
âYou're going to marry him.
Those words, at last, seemed to break through all the disbelief.
Daena let out a laugh that turned into a long exhale of pure relief.
âHe did it...
She murmured, more to herself than to her mother.
âHe really did it.
Jena sat down beside her on the bed.
With a gentle hand she moved a silver strand of hair from her daughter's face.
âI hope you'll be very happy, Daena.
The young woman looked up at her.
Her mother was smiling, though in her eyes there was still the faintest trace of worry.
âI must admit something. You are far more intelligent than your father wants to acknowledge.
Daena smiled with pride.
That made both of them laugh again.
Jena shook her head as she looked at her.
âYou manipulated half the castle, provoked the prince into losing his composure entirely, and managed to make a man raised to obey duty decide to stand against the king for you.
She looked her directly in the eyes.
âPapa is still angry, isn't he?
Lady Jena let out a laugh.
âYour father has been pacing in circles since dawn. I'm quite convinced he's still trying to decide whether to embrace Maekar... or challenge him to a duel.
Daena laughed genuinely.
âAnd the king?
âThe king accepted because Maekar didn't leave him too many alternatives. According to those who were there, he said he would rather ask for your hand with honor than go on pretending he could live without you.
Daena's smile disappeared for a moment.
Not from sadness.
But because those words were worth far more than any victory.
Jena brushed her cheek with her thumb.
âYou got exactly what you wanted, my girl. Now try not to cause another scandal for at least... one week.
Daena raised an eyebrow with an innocent expression.
The story follows Daena, Targaryen princess, cherished and sheltered by her royal family, whose orderly court routine is disrupted when a visit from her uncle Maekar, a serious and sullen forty-year-old prince, awakens in her a mischievous impulse and something more.
Content Warnings
The significant age difference (20 and 40 years) was presented as a central element of the romantic dynamic.
Targaryen incest
She had that bearing that septas teach for years but few manage to make their own: straight back without rigidity, chin raised without arrogance, hands always in the right place. A serene aura like still water. But everyone at court knew that beneath that calm lived a tenacious and sharp tongue, capable of dismantling a lord with three words spoken in an absolutely sweet voice. While your brother was educated at Dragonstone with your mother, you stayed with your father at court, the undisputed favorite of your grandparents. The kings had taken care of spoiling you with that particular tenderness that only the old know how to give, the kind that asks nothing in return. Even now, at nineteen years old, they had never forced you to marry, nor had they even subtly suggested it, as if the very idea of giving you away caused them pain.
Your only duty was to rise at dawn, when the air still smelled of cold stone and freshly baked bread, to take a walk with your grandmother toward the village ovens, making sure women and children had their breakfast before the sun finished rising. Then to serve as cupbearer in the council of lords, where you learned to read silences and glances as much as words. Lunch with your grandmother afterward, listening to her stories that mixed advice with memories. Spending the afternoon among ladies of different houses, embroidery threads and conversations that sometimes hid more politics than they showed. And at night, dining with your father and grandparents, with the fire crackling and the red wine gleaming in the cups.
You repeated this day after day, like the verses of a prayer known by heart. Without any disturbance in your routine, without jolts, without surprises.
Until a distraction arrived, a very very amusing one, and you decided that your reputation was solid enough to commit whatever mischief you pleased.
The dining hall was full of laughter that bounced off the stone walls and rose up to the hanging tapestries. The entire royal family had gathered that night, his four sons, their wives and grandchildren, a congregation that occurred so rarely that the servants did not quite know where to look. The long table gleamed with golden wax candelabras, overflowing plates and cups that emptied at an alarming rate. But the loudest, without any doubt, were the sons of your youngest uncle. Daeron could no longer hold his head steady, it fell to one side and then corrected itself clumsily, his cheeks red as ripe plum. Aerion delivered comments with that slow, satisfied cadence of someone who enjoys the damage they cause, words designed to burn, especially cruel toward his younger brother Aegon, who received them with a clenched jaw. The two younger girls did not stay quiet but responded to Aerion's comments with a ferocity disproportionate to their size, defending Aegon with the absolute loyalty of those who are not yet afraid of anything, though the youngest simply opted to throw food at him, a piece of bread that landed on Aerion's shoulder with notable precision.
Fortunately the adults on the other side of the hall ate in relative peace, conversing in low voices, trying to ignore as much as they could the chaos at the childish end of the table. And you were exactly in the middle, between the adults and the children, just after Maekar, at that uncomfortable point where noise arrived from both sides.
Today, after a full day of straightening your back, raising your chin, walking slowly and gracefully, endless protocols to receive the royal family, your responsibility and your duties as princess were beginning to falter like a flame in the wind. You only wanted some fun, something genuinely entertaining that would give you real satisfaction, not the polished pleasure of fulfilling what was expected. And watching your cousins so rowdy, some of that energy clung to you like gold dust, something that hummed in your fingers and made the corner of your lips threaten to lift.
That night Maekar was seated beside you. Forty years he had carried that presence that occupied space without asking for it, his perfectly shaved beard that did not quite manage to fully cover the marks that chickenpox had left on him as a child, small imperfections in his skin that somehow made him seem more real than the rest of the perfectly polished men at court. His size was so immense that you barely reached the top of his shoulders when standing, and sitting the difference was still evident, those broad shoulders that seemed made of rock. All of that plus his furrowed brow, the deep lines between his eyebrows, and his obvious displeasure at having to be there, at the gathering, at the noise, at the world in general that night.
Your grandmother brought you back to the hall with her warm and proud voice:
âDaena has begun practicing advanced equitation, her grandfather brought two Dornish coursers, how have you been getting on, dear?
The pride in your grandmother's voice was tangible as the heat of the fire, and her dazzling smile showed how happy it made her that her granddaughter was following Dornish traditions, that thread connecting to something ancient and hers.
You set your wine cup on the table with a slow and elegant gesture, and your hand rested on the tablecloth a moment before sliding, without hurry, without abruptness, a little further to the right. All the eyes at that end of the table were fixed on you, waiting for your answer.
âIt is a beautiful horse âyou said, with that voice of yours that always sounded as if you carried all the time in the worldâ, swift and with a very delicate temperament. But that makes riding it more challenging.
And just as your grandfather burst out in a proud laugh at his brave granddaughter, you let your hand fall with all the calm in the world onto Maekar's groin, squeezing.
âShit!
Maekar's curse exploded in the hall like a stone in a still lake. He stood up abruptly, the weight of his body pushing the table forward with a screech of wood, his chair falling backward with a dry thud against the stone floor.
âBloody hell!
The silence that followed was absolute. Every conversation cut short, every cup paused midway, every head turned toward him. The children, who never quieted for anything, stood open-mouthed. The servants approached cautiously, as if approaching a wounded animal, trying to gather what had spilled and straighten what had fallen.
âMaekar! Do not say those words in front of your niece! âYour grandfather's voice thundered with that authority that needed no shouting to fill the hall.
âAre you all right, uncle?
You looked at him with the clearest and most detached eyes in your arsenal, and you had them well trained. Your voice emanated nothing but purity and genuine concern, the voice of someone who has done nothing in their life but embroider and pray.
Maekar returned a look that began as pure confusion, eyebrows drawn together, eyes searching for something in your face that would explain the inexplicable, and then that confusion mixed with a hot and controlled anger. But the anger lasted barely a second before the awareness of all the gazes upon him crushed it and transformed it into something that struggled to resemble composure.
âYes⊠yes, I just need rest. The journey has brought me a great deal of stress.
He made a short bow toward the king, rigid and too quick to be entirely elegant. And as he walked toward the exit, he glanced at you sideways, with that careful distance someone adopts when they have just understood that something in their world has changed and are not sure whether to run or stay completely still.
At the corner of your lips a small smile formed, barely perceptible, that did not escape Maekar.
The dinner of the previous night, despite the scandal Maekar had caused in the hall, ended in calm. Time did its work, the wine helped, and toward the end of the evening everyone had returned to laughter and family stories, that particular warmth that exists only when people who have known each other all their lives reunite after a long time apart. A sweet and slightly melancholy satisfaction remained in everyone, of catching up, of remembering who they were to one another.
It was early in the small hours, that strange time when night has not quite finished leaving but the day already announces itself in the movements of servants, in the sound of water buckets and brooms dragging across stone corridors. The air was damp and cold, that cold that creeps up sleeves and climbs the neck, and the sky remained completely dark, barely crossed by the grey promise of dawn on the horizon.
You were already completely ready.
The dress was a pale rose that in the torchlight appeared almost white, almost nacre, with that delicate tone only achieved with fabric dyed twice in rose water. The outer silk fell in perfect folds from a fitted bodice that shaped the torso with precision, embroidered in golden thread with small intertwined dragons so fine they resembled lace from a distance. The sleeves were long and flared, falling from the elbow in a more vaporous fabric, almost transparent, that brushed the floor when you walked and made it whisper.
Your hair, platinum white with those copper highlights, was gathered in an elaborate braid interwoven with pink silk ribbons falling loosely between the strands. The diadem resting on your forehead was of fine gold. Your violet eyes, framed by nearly white lashes, held that quiet gleam of someone who knows exactly the effect they produce. Cheeks faintly rosy from the early morning cold, lips a shade darker than the dress.
A too-spoiled girl who had become something difficult to name. Too young to be ignored. Too cherished to be underestimated.
As you advanced down the corridor toward where your grandmother awaited, Sanda walked half a step behind you, her presence as habitual as your own shadow, and the soft sound of your steps on the stone was the loudest thing in that empty hallway.
It was then that you noticed.
Ahead, past the arch that led to the armory, a tall and robust man, almost hunched from the effort, practiced alone against a wooden dummy. His sword fell on the figure with a force that shook the support from its base, again and again, as if the dummy had done something unforgivable. The sound arrived rhythmic and heavy, wood against wood, the weight of an enormous body behind every blow.
Something new was born in you, something that started as mischief but had another component mixed in, a warm excitement without a clear name that you recognized all the same. The display of strength from that man made you imagine many things. The large hands gripping that hilt. The shoulders moving beneath the fabric of his shirt. You stood completely still watching him for a moment, and only then decided.
âSanda âyou called to your handmaid in a low voice, without taking your eyes off the man in the armoryâ. I am going to greet my uncle. Go ahead and let my grandmother know I will arrive a little late.
Sanda curtsied without asking questions, accustomed as she was to obeying your every whim and your every whisper with the same impeccable dedication. Her steps faded down the corridor and left you alone.
You approached slowly, with that deliberate calm you used when you wanted something to appear accidental. Your feet on the stone made almost no sound in your soft leather boots. You entered the armory, that place you rarely frequented and that smelled of cold metal and sword oil, and advanced without saying anything, studying his back.
But he noticed. He noticed before you understood he had noticed, because in a movement that left no time for anything he spun and leveled the sword at you, the point a few centimeters from your face, eyes narrowed and body taut as a bow.
When he recognized you, his face made the full journey. Confusion. Recognition. And then the memory of the previous night falling over him like cold water.
âYou!
He looked at you as if you were a monster or his worst nightmare materialized in the small hours. It was the first time anyone had looked at you like that, with that genuine horror mixed with something resembling panic, and you discovered with some surprise that you liked it. You liked having a man like your grumpiest uncle, the most serious one, the one who never smiled in portraits, like this. You gave him a slow and playful smile, and brought a finger to your lips.
âYou should not shout like that âyou said softly, with that sweetness of yours that never promised anything goodâ. You will wake everyone.
Your finger moved from your lips to the blade of his sword, which he had not yet fully lowered. You rested it with studied delicacy on the cold spine of the steel and slid it slowly along the length of the blade, without taking your eyes off his, walking toward him centimeter by centimeter as you did.
âWhy are you afraid of me, uncle? It seems something disturbed you last night.
Maekar lowered the sword and set it aside with a dry blow, and the sound of metal on stone echoed through the small space. He turned toward you with that extended finger and pressed lip, overflowing with a rage he had been cooking all morning.
âYour father will hear of this âhe said in a low and dangerous voice, which was worse than shoutingâ. And he will know what kind of woman his daughter is. They have spoiled you far too much and you are shameless.
He advanced as he made his threats, finger pointing at your face, his immense body closing the distance with that storm energy that would have made anyone step back.
You took advantage of exactly that.
You closed the remaining distance at once, rose on tiptoe and kissed him on the lips so quickly and so chastely that perhaps it did not happen, so brief it was perhaps only the brush of air between two mouths that were too close. And before he finished processing what had occurred, you were already running. Running as you could not remember ever having run, not even as a girl escaping the septas, the soles of your leather boots striking the stone floor, the silk ribbons of your hair flying back, the laughter smothered in your throat because you could not let it out without betraying yourself.
âGood luck getting anyone to believe you, uncle! âyou shouted without looking back.
And you left him there, turned to a statue in the middle of the armory, the sword forgotten on the floor, not yet finished reacting. It took a long moment. Several moments. And when his body belonged to him again, he slowly raised his hand to his lips, with an expression that did not know whether it was fury or stupefaction, and felt how a strange and not entirely unwelcome heat grew between his legs as he watched you disappear through the stone arch as if you had never been there at all.
When you reached your grandmother, still breathless, the smile on your face was so wide there was no human way to hide it. Your cheeks gleamed. Your eyes gleamed. You were, in that moment, the exact image of someone who has just done precisely what they wanted and does not regret it at all.
Your grandmother looked up at you with that expression of hers for reading people, the same one that had intimidated kings and lords for decades.
âYou are glowing today, my love âshe said with a tenderness that held, nonetheless, a note of curiosityâ. Did something special happen?
You took your seat beside her with all the grace you had been taught, straightened your back, crossed your hands on your lap, and smiled with that still-water smile of yours.
âNothing special. I just spoke a little with my uncle Maekar. He is very funny.
Your grandmother frowned for a second, the phrase too strange to ignore, the smile on your face too specific to be innocent. But you were her favorite granddaughter, and there were things a grandmother preferred not to finish understanding.
Maekar had spent two days turning it over.
The image returned on its own, uninvited: her fingers sliding along the blade of his sword with that deliberate calm, her violet eyes holding his gaze without blinking, and then that very brief instant, that brush that perhaps was nothing and yet remained there, pressed to his lips like an ember. He had repeated it to himself enough times to convince himself: he had to speak with Baelor. It was the right thing. It was necessary.
He knocked on the study door with his knuckles, entered without waiting too long, and stopped dead.
She was there.
Standing by the window, in that dark blue silk dress that made her white hair appear made of light, hands crossed with perfect composure, chin at the exact angle. As if she had been waiting for him. As if she had always been there.
Baelor looked up from his desk with a genuine and open smile, the smile he reserved only for his daughter.
âMaekar, what good timing. We were just wanting to speak with you.
We. Maekar noted the plural. He also noted his niece's smile, small and perfectly controlled, with that corner raised barely a millimeter that he had already learned to read.
âDaena has made a request of me this morning âBaelor continued, leaning back in his chair with the satisfaction of a man about to deliver good newsâ. She wants to learn advanced equitation. The horses that arrived from Dorne have a temperament that requires an expert hand, and she wants to rise to the occasion. âHe paused, looking at his daughter with that pride he made no attempt to concealâ. And she has specifically asked that you be the one to teach her.
The silence lasted exactly as long as it took Maekar to find words.
âIâŠ
âYou are the finest rider in the family âsaid Baelor with an absolute naturalness, as if commenting on the weatherâ. No one better than you. âHe rose and came around the desk, placing a hand on his shoulder with genuine affectionâ. This girl has fulfilled everything asked of her without ever complaining. Her duties, her commitments, the court. She has never asked for anything for herself. âBaelor's voice softened with a tenderness that had no defense against itâ. She deserves whatever she asks for, Maekar. She has earned it.
Maekar looked at her.
She returned his gaze with an expression of innocence so complete, so absolutely impenetrable, that in that moment he understood with a painful and almost comical clarity that there was nothing he could say to his brother. No words. No accusation. Baelor would not believe him. Not because he was a naive man, but because his daughter was perfect and he knew it and she knew it and now Maekar knew it too.
At the corner of her lips that smile appeared. Only a second. Only for him.
Maekar clenched his jaw.
âOf course âhe said in a voice that revealed absolutely nothing.
The morning stables had that particular smell of damp hay and clean leather, and the light came through the high windows drawing golden stripes across the packed-earth floor. The stable hands had discreetly withdrawn as soon as Maekar arrived, as they always did when the prince wanted to work in peace.
They had not counted on the company.
She arrived punctual, which was already in itself a declaration of intent. She dressed for riding, a divided skirt of soft tawny leather over dark hose, a fitted cream wool tunic with her hair gathered in a low and firm bun at the nape, secured with two silver pins. No diadem. No layers of silk. Reduced to the essential, and even so entirely herself.
âGood morning, uncle âshe said in a voice of still water.
Maekar did not answer. He pointed to the courser with a dry gesture and began.
The lesson was, on its surface, perfectly normal. He explained the posture, the communication with the animal through legs and reins, the difference between guiding and controlling. She listened with genuine attention, asked the right questions, executed corrections with a swiftness that would have been satisfying in any other context.
The problem was everything else.
When he approached for the first time to correct the position of her elbows, his fingers wrapped around her forearm with the practical intention of repositioning it, and she did not move exactly as she should have but just a centimeter less, so that her shoulder ended up grazing his chest for a second longer than necessary. Maekar withdrew his hands.
When he showed her how to tighten the reins, she turned her head to look at him from atop the horse, and they were too close, her violet eyes directly over his, with that expression that promised nothing good and that was nevertheless difficult to stop looking at.
When she dismounted and he extended his arm to help her down, she took it without taking her eyes off him throughout the entire descent, and when her feet touched the ground she remained there, at a distance that was not that of a niece with her uncle.
Maekar said nothing. He did not step back either.
That was his mistake.
Because she noticed. She noticed with that precision of hers for reading what others tried not to show, and something in her expression changed, became quieter and more certain at the same time, like someone who has just confirmed something they suspected.
The lesson ended. The stable hands were still outside. The light had shifted angle and the stable was quieter than before.
Maekar gathered the courser's reins to lead him back to his place and she walked beside him, and when he stopped in front of the animal's box and turned to say something about the next lesson, she was too close again, and this time there was no sliding of fingers along swords nor excuse of correcting posture.
She rose on tiptoe and kissed him.
Not like the first time.
This time it was a kiss with weight, with intention, with her hands rising to his chest and her mouth claiming his with a determination that had nothing accidental about it. Maekar felt the impact as something physical, a second of absolute paralysis before his body reacted.
She tried to pull away. She tried to turn and run as the time before.
His hand found the bun at her nape before she managed a single step, fingers closing around the silver pins and the secured hair, stopping her with a firmness that did not hurt her but admitted no argument. He pulled her back and brought her close to his face, and when he spoke he did so with his teeth barely parted, his voice low and taut as a string about to snap.
âIf you are not capable of behaving yourself âhe saidâ, I will have to teach you how.
There was a silence.
She looked at him from that minimal distance, with flushed cheeks and altered breathing, and in her eyes there was something Maekar had not seen before, something that was not mischief but something deeper and more honest than that. She looked at him directly, without averting her eyes, and said in a voice that was softer than usual:
âThen teach me.
Without letting go of her hair bun, he led her to the back room, pulled her inside, and then followed her. She stood before him, in that riding dress, her hair bun undone by his hand. Without letting go of her hair bun, he led her to the back room, pulled her inside, and then followed her. She stood before him, in that riding dress, her hair bun undone by his hand, and for the first time
He sat down on a bench and held out his hand, pulling her onto his lap with his back straight. Maekar's hand first explored her buttocks with his fingers, then moved down to her groin, making her shudder and let out a moan at the firm pressure.
"Now do you understand how it feels? I'm going to teach you to respect your uncle." With that, his palm moved up and down her buttocks, repeating the motion three more times. His hand was heavy and large; her buttocks were still sensitive, but what truly ached was her throbbing center, and she felt herself becoming wet.
He helps you rise, and you sit on his lap; he cradles you as your head falls unconscious onto his chest. His hand gently strokes your cheeks, bringing you back to consciousness. "Are you alright?" You can only smile and nod, knowing your routine will never be the same again, not now that your new request to your father and grandparents is that they marry you off to Maekar, They were going to allow it even if he didn't want to.
for part 2 of "my father doesn't hear us" is it supposed to be mixed with English and Spanish?
No, hahaha, what happened is that before posting I check with Google Translate from the Tumblr website (not the app) that the English translation is correct in Spanish.Then, when publishing, the translation mode remained activated, resulting in a strange Spanish-English combination.I've already corrected it and you can read the full version in English. Thank you for letting me know about the error, I hadn't noticed.
This is what I suffer from not knowing English 100% and depending on a translator đ
Summary: The princess sneaks out to find her drunk brother Daeron, finally venting all her pent-up resentment and fears about her upcoming marriage. After they're ambushed, Baelor â who'd ridden out worried about her â rescues them. On the ride home, a drunk and unguarded princess confronts him about his coldness and silence, and Baelor, holding her as she falls asleep against him, feels a protectiveness toward her awaken for the first time.
---
Everything had been a disaster since they left King's Landing.
Your father, Maekar, hadn't stopped complaining for a single day. He grumbled about having to attend tournaments, share tables with lords who could barely string two coherent sentences together, and feign courtesies he considered a waste of time. His foul mood was as constant as the rattling of the carriages over the roads of the Reach.
Baelor, your husband, hadn't been much more pleasant company either. As heir to the Iron Throne, he was completely absorbed in organizing the journey and ensuring the safety of the procession. Some nights they didn't even sleep in the same tent when camping, and during the day he preferred to ride alongside the scouts and guards.
You felt alone.
Valarr and Matarys were your only frequent company, but both were too busy talking about the tournament. Every conversation ended up revolving around jousts, horses, or Valarr's chances of winning. They barely seemed to notice your presence.
And then came the last straw.
Your brothers had run off again, taking little Aegon with them. The disappearance of three princes was enough to sour the mood of the entire procession. Maekar was furious, the guards were on edge, and Baelor was more distant than ever.
That afternoon you remained alone in the carriage. Your ladies had gotten out to walk and stretch their legs, tired from so many hours of travel.
Through the window you watched the golden fields of the Reach stretch out as far as the eye could see. The wind stirred the crops like green and golden waves under the sun. You listened to the creak of the wheels on the stony road, the muffled voices of the guards, and the steady clatter of the horses' hooves.
You sighed.
Ever since you'd married Baelor, you'd become painfully dependent on his presence.
The marriage had taken place two years after Lady Jena's death. By then the whole realm believed the heir would never marry again.
Baelor never cried in public.
He never showed weakness at court.
He never let anyone see him break.
To the realm he was an unshakeable man, a perfect prince who continued ruling, smiling, and fulfilling his duties despite the tragedy.
But the castle walls had ears.
The servants spoke in hushed voices of the muffled sobs that escaped his study at night. Others swore they'd heard him weeping in his chambers when he thought he was completely alone.
And Lady Jena's rooms remained exactly as they had been the day she died.
No one could move a chair.
No one could change a curtain.
No one could touch a single one of her belongings.
By Baelor's express order.
Although the prince showed no interest in finding a new wife, the king was determined to see him happy again. So he organized gatherings, banquets, and celebrations where the realm's young noblewomen could meet the heir.
Many of your ladies left you during those months.
Their fathers sent them to King's Landing in the hope that they'd catch the attention of Westeros's most coveted widower.
None of them succeeded.
Around that time, Daeron, your twin brother, was going through one of the worst stretches of his alcoholism. The prophetic dreams that tormented him seemed to haunt him even while awake, and he sought refuge from them in wine.
Maekar ended up sending him to the Red Keep so the king and queen could keep watch over him.
Things didn't improve.
Daeron spent weeks bedridden, consumed by fever and drink.
Your father asked you to stay by his side.
That was when you saw Baelor again for the first time since Lady Jena's funeral.
The sight that greeted you took you by surprise.
His eyes were sunken, ringed with deep, dark shadows. His beard had grown longer than was fitting for an heir as meticulous as him. He had grown thin. And most unsettling of all was the complete absence of life in his gaze.
He looked like a ghost.
At first you tried to keep your distance.
You didn't know how to comfort anyone.
You never had.
When your mother died, you hadn't found the words to ease anyone's pain either.
Your father hid his grief behind anger and slammed doors.
Daeron took refuge in wine.
And you simply kept going.
Aerion, on the other hand, became unbearably dependent on you. He followed you through the halls, insisted on accompanying you to the library, and spent hours listening to you read stories about Aegon the Conqueror and his sisters.
Sometimes you'd watch your younger brothers and feel your heart breaking.
They would never know your mother's love.
They would never again feel the softness of her embrace or hear her voice.
That's why you indulged them in everything.
You let them get away with mischief that would have enraged Maekar.
You defended them when they got into trouble.
You got them sweets before dinner.
And every night, when the castle fell silent, your brothers would end up curled up in your bed, seeking the warmth that loss had taken from them too soon.
Maybe that's why, when you saw the pain in Baelor's eyes, you didn't know what to do.
Because you recognized that same loneliness.
And every day seemed to get worse.
The negotiations to find him a new wife had become a torment for him. The lords of Westeros arrived at court with their daughters dressed in their finest, rehearsed smiles, and dreams of crowns. Every banquet, every tournament, every celebration ended the same way: a new marriage proposal on his table.
Baelor rejected them all.
Not because the young women were unworthy, but because he understood something many seemed to overlook.
A new queen meant a new powerful house standing behind her.
And a new powerful house meant ambition.
If that woman gave him children, voices would inevitably arise claiming those new princes had a better claim to the Iron Throne than Valarr and Matarys. The realm had barely recovered from too many succession disputes; Baelor wasn't willing to sow the seeds of another.
But he couldn't reject proposals forever either.
Sooner or later, his father would demand he fulfill his duty.
One afternoon, after spending several hours tending to Daeron during one of his feverish episodes, a servant arrived to tell you the queen wished to see you.
Your grandmother awaited you on a private terrace bathed in the afternoon sun.
She had always reminded you of your mother.
They shared the same caramel-colored skin, the same dark hair, and the same ability to fill a room with their presence alone.
The queen was a woman who never needed to raise her voice to be obeyed.
"My granddaughter," she said as she watched you approach.
She rose from her seat and wrapped you in a warm embrace.
You returned the gesture at once.
"How are you? I hope looking after your brother isn't wearing you out too much."
"He seems more lucid every day," you answered as you took a seat. "Though sometimes his condition worries me. I don't understand how my father let it get to this point."
You picked up one of the small sweets laid out on the table and took a bite.
Sweets always managed to cheer you up a little.
And you needed all the help you could get when it came to talking about Maekar.
"You can't blame him entirely," your grandmother replied gently. "Though your father rarely makes good decisions, since your mother's death his judgment has grown even more clouded."
Her hand stroked your cheek.
"What matters is that he had a clever daughter."
You couldn't help but smile.
Your grandmother's praise always carried more weight than anyone else's.
However, that smile faded when the queen's expression turned more serious.
"I wanted to talk to you about something very important, darling."
She took a seat across from you and clasped her hands on the table.
"You know Baelor is looking for a wife."
You nodded.
"It's a delicate matter. The realm's future will depend on who becomes the next crown princess, and on the ambitions that woman brings with her."
The conversation took a turn that made you uncomfortable.
You'd never been used to politics.
You were the second daughter of the king's youngest son. You'd grown up far from the intrigues of court, watching them from a distance.
So you stood and walked toward the balcony.
The gardens seemed far more interesting than that conversation.
"Yes, I've heard things," you said, gazing out at the view. "My ladies are very excited. Though some have already been rejected and now cry every time someone mentions marriage."
The queen let out a small laugh.
"That's exactly what I want to talk about."
She fell silent for a few moments.
"So many proposals have arrived that it's no longer possible to read them all. Maidens dreaming of becoming queens. Fathers dreaming of placing their grandchildren above your cousins in the line of succession."
You sighed.
"It must be exhausting for Baelor. I don't think there's a candidate without ambitions. He'd need a woman with no interest in disputing the succession, with a good reputation and a rank fitting for a queen."
The silence that followed went on too long.
Too heavy.
You turned slowly.
And your grandmother's expression confirmed what you were only just beginning to suspect.
Your eyes went wide.
"No."
The queen didn't answer.
She didn't need to.
"No, no, no... that's impossible."
You started shaking your head.
"My father would never allow it. Besides... he's almost thirty years older than me."
Your voice rose, sharper.
"And me... queen? I've never thought about anything like that."
"That's precisely why you're the perfect candidate."
The answer came so quickly it left you speechless.
"You're a Targaryen. You share your husband's blood. There would be no dangerous alliances or ambitious houses behind you."
The queen stood and walked over to you.
"And although I don't share all of our family's old customs, in this case it's the best solution for the realm."
She took your hands in hers.
"It would also be a good solution for you."
"Grandmother..."
"Listen to me."
Her voice remained gentle, but it carried the firmness of a queen accustomed to being obeyed.
"Baelor is a kind man. You know him. You know he would never hurt you."
She squeezed your hands gently.
"He's older. He already has heirs. He won't pressure you to fill the Red Keep with children. You won't have to leave your family behind or marry some unpleasant old man chosen for political convenience."
You swallowed.
Because part of you knew all of it was true.
"And there's something else."
Her eyes fixed on yours.
"As queen you would have power."
A great deal of power.
"You could protect your brothers."
Those words struck harder than anything else.
"Maekar loves them, but he doesn't always make the right decisions. You could make sure no one decided their fate for them."
Your grandmother kept talking.
"Aerion is already showing signs of that madness that sometimes runs in our blood."
Your heart clenched.
"And Daeron will never escape his suffering if no one sets limits for him."
You felt tears beginning to gather in your eyes.
All the pressure.
All the responsibility.
The weight of a broken family resting on your shoulders.
Suddenly you felt like a child again.
The queen raised a hand and wiped away a tear before it could fall.
"Don't cry, princess."
She pulled you close and rested a hand on your hair.
"If you accept this path, I'll teach you how to be queen myself."
Her voice sounded firm.
Certain.
Like a promise.
"I'll help you find your place at his side. When the day comes that you rule together, you'll be his equal."
Her fingers closed over yours.
"And I swear to you, no one will ever walk over you again."
The sound of a horse approaching your side of the carriage pulled you from the memory. Your father, Maekar, rides up with a furrowed brow, and you gave him a tired smile.
"We're about to reach Ashford, from there we'll send soldiers to find your devilish brothers"âyou let out a laugh, after all, whether your brothers ran off or not, your father was always cursing about something.
Little Egg must be having a wonderful time, maybe he's already found some knight and become his squireâValarr no longer knew how to refuse him. Though you worried more about your youngest brother than your other two, you were sure they were behaving themselves; after all, if they weren't, and weren't looking after Aegon, they'd have you to answer to.
"I'll kill those idiots the moment they arrive"âyour father, thrilled with the idea, spurred his horse to move the carriage along faster. A moment later Baelor rides up to take the spot your father had occupied.
"Everything all right, princess? It's been a long trip"âyou only looked at him for a second and gave him a lopsided smile, a very clumsy one, since just Baelor's presence made you shiver, and now seeing him on his horse and hearing his tired voice definitely made you nervous. You'd been married for six months, but ever since you'd fallen in love with him, you missed him constantly.
"Everything's fine, I just want this trip to be over already, I'm exhausted"âBaelor nodded understandingly.
"I'll tell them to pick up the pace, rest, we're almost there"âyou whispered a thanks and Baelor withdrew.
Once he left, you closed the curtain of the carriage window and touched your face, which felt warm. Although at first you hadn't accepted the idea, now you understood why the ladies at King's Landing fell apart over Baelor.
The first time you felt this way about your uncle, it was completely unprompted.Â
â
After the king broke the news to Baelor about the decision of who his bride would be, everything became far more uncomfortable. The few times you used to cross paths with your uncle had now become nonexistentâthe hallways you once walked together stood empty, your shared laughter replaced by a silence that weighed more than you expected.
And as if your life weren't already complicated enough, your brother, after recovering only briefly, decided to run off again.
You couldn't tell anyone. Your father was on his way to King's Landing to discuss your marriage to Baelor, and you held onto the small hope that he might convince the king not to go through with it, that he'd find a better candidate or some other solution. You trusted your father, but if he arrived and discovered a new problem, you feared he'd stop focusing solely on saving you, and that Daeron would become another priority, splitting whatever little he could do for either of you.
So when you walked into your brother's room for your morning visit, you found the bed empty, the sheets cold and unwrinkled on the side where he should have slept, and the guard at the door wearing a guilty expression he wasn't hiding at all.
"Princess, my apologies, I didn't know the prince wasn't allowed out"âthe guard spoke first, the moment you stepped into the room. Behind you, your lady-in-waiting, Della Dayne, let out a small huff of indignation.
"You didn't know? He hasn't been allowed to leave his chambers without authorization from the princess or the king and queen for four weeks."
"Don't apologize"âyou preferred to step in before the argument escalated. The guard poorly hid a small smile of relief, and in your head your grandmother the queen's voice echoed: no one will ever walk over you again, like a little voice scolding you for your own kindness, for giving ground yet again.
"I'll return to my post now, my princess"âwith a small bow, he tried to leave the room.
"Who told you that you could go?"âyour question stopped him cold, sharp, almost a small shout that surprised even you. All the frustration you'd been carrying about your situation seemed to concentrate in that one moment, now aimed entirely at the poor man, who clearly had no idea what had happened to the sweet princess he knew.
"I'm on duty, my princess"âhe stayed put, waiting for your order, and now it was your turn to smile, a small, sharp little smile.
"Then you'd better find someone to cover for you quickly"âyou stepped closer so he'd hear you clearly, your voice lower but no less firmâ. "You're going to go find Daeron. I don't want my betrothed, Prince Baelor, getting angry with you. You lost him, and now you're going to find him. Otherwise, we'll be looking for a permanent replacement for you."
The guard dropped to one knee before you, head bowed.
"Yes, my princess."
"You should use the money my brother bribed you with to find him"âyou stepped around the kneeling man and left the room with quick, firm stridesâ. "Damn knights, not a decent one left."
Della stayed close behind you, and for a moment your eyes met hers: hers gleaming with barely-contained pride, yours still disbelieving at your own words. The two of you went to go entertain your grandparents so they wouldn't find out about any of it. Inside you, a small flame of satisfaction had been lit, enough just for yourself, something warm and new you didn't quite know how to name.
The day passed quickly, and by nightfall you had no idea where your brother was. Most likely in some tavern, completely drunk, oblivious to all the trouble he'd caused.
"Lost in your thoughts again"âyour grandmother stopped walking down the hall and gave you that severe look you knew so wellâ. "You can't show weakness, or they'll devour you."
Those words brought a visible discomfort to your face, a small grimace you couldn't quite hide, and it ended up softening your grandmother's expression.
"Sweetheart, I want to protect you, but you also have to decide what you want for yourself"âher gaze held real affection, but her words made you understand, without saying it outright, what everyone thought of you: why they'd chosen you to be queen, how submissive and malleable you seemed to everyone else. The thought settled in your chest like a cold stone.
"Now, going back to what I was saying, the four of us are going to have dinner, and I hope it helps smooth things over between you two"âyou resumed walking toward your grandmother's chambers, your footsteps echoing softly against the marble.
"Yes, grandmother"âand so, once again, your grandmother led you by the hand to fulfill your duty as betrothed, granddaughter, and dutiful princess.
â--
Dinner went even more awkwardly than anyone had expected. You could feel the silences filling with everyone's private worries, thick as smoke over the table. Your grandmother tried to keep the conversation afloat among everyone, and the king followed her lead, trying to ease the weight his wife carried, but all they got from you were short, dry replies, and from Baelor even less than thatâbarely a monosyllable, his gaze lost somewhere on the table.
You kept your head down, eyes fixed on your plate, maybe unintentionally reinforcing what everyone already thought of you. But you preferred that, the shelter of your own silence, to facing your grandmother's sharp, demanding gaze.
The door opened with a click and a guard entered, pausing for a quick bow.
"Your Majesty, Prince Daeron is asking for the princess. He asked me to find her, he's a bit indisposed"âthe guard's eyes searched the table and found yours, and you recognized him: the one assigned to find Daeron. You understood immediately that he was lying. If he'd brought your brother back with him, he wouldn't have come to call you; he would have simply left him in his room and reported afterward.
"You can go after dinner"âyour grandmother suggested, though it sounded more like an order when she noticed your attempt to rise. You felt as if the chair were pulling you back down, like an invisible magnet, and found yourself unable to contradict her, the words stuck in your throat.
When you looked back at the guard, his face showed confusion, probably at seeing a princess so different from the one he'd met that morning: the submissive princess versus the lively one from hours before. The conversation at the table resumed, taking your grandmother's word as law, and you felt erased, invisible within your own family.
All you could do was set your fork down on the plate, the metallic clink cutting through the air, and push yourself up a little too forcefully, the chair scraping against the floor.
Everyone was startled by your action. They looked at you as if you'd been struck by sudden madness. Without looking at your grandmother, so as not to lose the nerve trembling in your handsâ"I'll go see what my brother needs"âyou set the napkin down on the table with a sharp motion and withdrew quickly, after the barest hint of a bow.
The moment you closed the dining room door behind you, the guard who had called youâthe same one you'd threatened that morning, the same one who'd gone to find Daeronâwas waiting a few steps away, his expression a mix of relief and nervousness in equal measure.
"Princess"âhe lowered his voice, glancing both ways down the corridor before continuingâ. "I found Prince Daeron. He's at a tavern near the docks, but he refuses to come back. He says he has no intention of returning to the castle tonight, and when I tried to insist, he threatened to disappear again if I pushed any harder."
You felt the frustration boil under your skin again, but this time it wasn't just anger: it was exhaustion, the weight of the entire night piling upâthe dinner, your grandmother's stare, Baelor's silence.
"Is he drunk?"
"Quite a bit, princess."
You sighed, running a hand over your face. You could go back into the dining room, tell your grandmother what was happening, let her handle it, let her send more guards, let everything go back to being managed by others while you simply nodded and obeyed.
Or you could go yourself.
Your grandmother's voice echoed in your head againâyou also have to decide what you want for yourselfâbut this time it felt different, not like a humiliation, but almost like permission.
"I'm going to go find him"âyou said, more to yourself than to the guard, feeling the decision settle into your chest with a strange certaintyâ. "But no one in that dining room can know. Not my grandmother, not the king... not Baelor."
The guard paled slightly.
"Princess, if something happens to you..."
"Then make sure nothing does"âyou cut him off, with the same firmness you'd used that morningâ. "You're coming with me. You already know the way."
The man hesitated a moment, but something in your gazeâthat same look that had made him drop to one knee that morningâtold him there was no point trying to talk you out of it.
"As you command, princess. I'll go change into something that won't draw attention. I'll wait for you at the service door in the west wing in a moment."
"Perfect. I'll go change too."
You walked quickly toward your chambers, your heart pounding with a mix of fear and something close to excitement that you hadn't felt in a long time. Della was waiting there, and the moment she saw your face, she knew something had changed.
"What happened at dinner?"âshe asked, but when she saw you already digging through your things for simple clothes, her expression shiftedâ. "Princess... what are you planning?"
"I'm going to find Daeron myself"âyou answered, pulling off your jewelry with quick movementsâ. "And no one in that dining room can know. If anyone asks, I'm resting, exhausted from the trip and the dinner. I have a terrible headache and don't want to be disturbed until morning."
Della looked at you for a long moment, and for an instant you thought she'd try to stop you, that she'd remind you of your position, your duty, everything your grandmother expected of you. Instead, she sighed and started helping you undo the corset of your dinner gown.
"A hooded cloak. Something dark"âshe murmured, more to herself than to you, already moving toward the wardrobeâ. "If anyone asks about me, I'm helping you rest. I won't leave this room until you're back."
You changed quickly, the plain, rough dress a stark contrast to the silk you'd worn all night. When you tied your hair back under the hood and looked at yourself in the mirror, the woman staring back at you barely resembled the princess who'd just walked out of the dining room with her head down.
The guard was waiting at the service door in the west wing, now dressed in common clothes that hid his light armor. He gave a quick bow, his expression serious but unsurprised, as if he'd already accepted there was no point questioning anything else that night.
"Princess."
"Not here"âyou lowered your voice, giving him something close to a tired smileâ. "Tonight, I just need to be that: someone with no title, looking for her brother. Just call me... by my name."
He nodded, and for the first time since that morning, you thought you saw something like respect in his eyes, instead of simple obedience or fear.
You slipped out through the service door, blending in with the servants still coming and going at that hour, the night air of King's Landing greeting you with its familiar smell of salt and chimney smoke.
And as you moved away from the Red Keep, wrapped in a cloak that wasn't yours, you felt something you hadn't felt in a long time: the feeling of making, for once, a decision that was entirely your own.
Baelor was still awake when one of his personal guards knocked on his door with discreet but urgent knocks. He found him reviewing reports on the security of the procession, a nearly spent candle illuminating the parchments spread across his desk, his brow furrowed in the concentration that had become his constant expression since Jena's death.
"My prince"âthe guard gave a quick bowâ. "Forgive the interruption at this hour. It's about the princess."
Baelor looked up immediately, the quill stopping mid-stroke.
"What happened?"
"She left the castle, my prince. Through the service door in the west wing, a little over half an hour ago. She was with one of her brother Prince Daeron's guards. They were wearing common clothes, hooded cloaks."
Baelor leaned back slowly against his chair, a drop of ink falling from the forgotten quill onto the parchment without him seeming to notice. For a moment he said nothing, processing the information with that methodical calm the realm knew so well, the same calm that hid everything happening underneath.
He thought back to dinner. Your bowed head all through the meal, the curt remarks, the way you'd stood up abruptly when the guard arrived with the message about your brother. He thought too of the queen's look, that order disguised as a suggestion that had pinned you to your chair.
And he remembered, with an uncomfortable pang, that he hadn't said a single word to help you.
"Where were they headed?"
"Toward the docks, my prince. Most likely, considering Prince Daeron tends to frequent the taverns in that area."
Baelor stood up, the movement sharper than he intended. Part of himâthe reasonable part, the one that had spent years governing his own reactionsâtold him this wasn't his concern yet, that the princess had a guard with her, that it was probably just a matter of finding her brother and returning without incident.
But another part of himâone that had lain dormant for a long time, since before Jena, perhapsâwondered why the thought of you walking the dark streets of King's Landing at night, accompanied by another man, stirred an unease that didn't quite fit with the simple concern of a future husband for his betrothed.
"Ready my horse"âhe said finallyâ. "I'll go find her myself."
"Should I wake the king, or the queen?"
"No"âthe answer came faster than he intended, almost sharpâ. "There's no need to alarm anyone yet. If I find her and everything is fine, it will have been nothing more than a reckless outing on a difficult night. If we wake the whole court for nothing, all we'll achieve is the queen pressuring her even more than she already does."
The guard nodded, though something in his expression suggested he'd noticed the speed of the response, the way Baelor was already throwing a dark cloak over his shoulders, hiding any insignia that might give him away.
"As you command, my prince."
Baelor strode out toward the stables, mentally retracing the map of King's Landing, the best-known taverns near the docks, plotting routes as if it were a military operation. It was easier to think of it that way. Easier than admitting the real reason his handsânormally so steadyâclosed with more force than necessary around the reins when he mounted.
The tavern smelled of spilled beer, sweat, and the smoke of cheap candles that barely lit the place. In a corner, almost hidden in the shadows, you found your brother: blond hair plastered to his forehead, eyes bloodshot, one half-empty mug in front of him and another already discarded beside it.
"Daeron."
Your voice came out harsher than you intended, and a couple of heads turned before going back to their own drinks. The guard stayed near the entrance, giving you space but not letting you out of his sight.
Daeron looked up, and for a second, through the drunken haze, he recognized you. A crooked smile spread across his face.
"Little sister... what are you doing here? This isn't a place for..."
"Don't call me 'little sister' like everything's fine"âyou sat down across from him with a thud, the chair scraping against the wooden floorâ. "Do you know what's going on at the castle while you're here, drowning yourself in beer?"
He shrugged, the careless gesture lighting something in your chest that you'd been holding back for days, for weeks.
"What does it matter? Nothing I do changes anything."
"That's exactly the problem!"âthe rage you'd kept bottled up through the entire dinner, through the whole conversation with your grandmother, through months on end, finally found a crack to escape throughâ. "You're the older brother, Daeron. You're supposed to look after me, not the other way around. And instead I'm the one who has to lie to guards, bribe knights, sneak out in the middle of the night in disguise to find you before someone else notices you've disappeared again."
"I don't need anyone looking after me"âhe muttered, reaching for another drink, but you pushed the mug out of his reach.
"Oh, really? Then tell me, Daeron, who looks after me?"âyour voice shook, but not from sadness, from the effort it took to hold something backâ. "Because you don't. Father doesn't either, he's too busy complaining about everything. And our grandmother... our grandmother turned me into what she needs me to be, not into what I want to be."
"And what is it you want to be?"âDaeron's question, slurred as it was, caught you off guard.
"I don't know"âyou admitted, and the honesty of those three words hurt more than you expectedâ. "No one's ever asked me that. It's always about what the realm needs, what the family needs, what all of you need."
You stopped, breathing hard, and then continued, the words pouring out now without restraint, like water breaking through a dam.
"I'm getting married, Daeron. To our uncle. To Baelor. Did you know that? Do you even care? I'm going to become queen. I'm going to have to leave everything I know behind, carry the weight of an entire kingdom on my shoulders, pretend in front of the whole court that I'm happy about this, that I chose it, when really I don't even know what I want for my own life."
"Little sister..."
"No. Let me finish"âyour voice cracked a little, but you didn't stopâ. "And while I carry all of that, I also have to worry about you. About whether you're alive or dead in some tavern. About whether Aerion is okay. About Aegon, who's barely old enough to understand any of this. I'm the one who makes sure everyone's all right, who solves the problems, who cleans up the messes. And no oneâno oneâever asks who looks after me."
The tears you'd been holding back finally spilled over, hot against your cheeks, and you wiped them away angrily, furious at yourself for crying, for showing exactly the weakness your grandmother had warned you never to show.
"You're just one more problem on the list, Daeron. Every time you run off, every time you drink yourself senseless, every time I have to lie for you, it's one more weight on something that's already at its breaking point. And the worst part is I know you don't do it on purpose, I know your dreams torment you, I know wine is the only way you've found to silence them. But that doesn't make it any easier for me."
Daeron stayed silent for a long moment, his gazeâusually distant or mockingânow fixed on you with something like clarity, despite the drink.
"You're right"âhe said finally, his voice low, almost unrecognizableâ. "About all of it. And I'm sorry. I know it's not enough, but I'm sorry."
You wiped away the last of your tears, feeling drained, empty, as if you'd been carrying a weight for so long that now, having set down even a small part of it, you didn't know what to do with the emptiness it left behind.
"I just... I don't want to be the only one holding this family together"âyou said, much quieter nowâ. "I don't want to be, and at the same time I feel like if I stop, everything's going to fall apart."
Daeron reached out and, with a gesture surprisingly gentle for such a drunk man, pushed his mug toward you.
"Then, for tonight, stop holding it all up"âhe saidâ. "Just for tonight. Drink with me, little sister. Tomorrow the weight will still be there, waiting for you. But not tonight."
And maybe because you were exhausted, maybe because for once in a long time someone was offering you not a solution, not a duty, but simply company, you took the mug and drank.
â
The conversation grew lighter after that, almost as if the tears had washed something clean between you. You ordered another round, and then another. Daeron told stories of his escapeâexaggerating every detail, inventing dangers that surely never existedâand despite everything, despite the exhaustion and the ache still weighing on your chest, you found yourself laughing, a genuine laugh you couldn't remember the last time you'd felt.
"And then the man says to me, 'you can't be here without paying,' and I tell him..."âDaeron stopped mid-sentence, the smile freezing on his face.
"And you told him what?"âyou asked, still laughing, not noticing the change.
But Daeron didn't answer. His gaze, which a moment before had been bright with the excitement of the story, turned glassy, distant, fixed on a point behind you that didn't exist. His hands, gripping the mug, began to trembleâbarely noticeable at first, then harder, until the beer spilled across the wooden table. A lock of his blond hair fell over his forehead, plastered down by the cold sweat that had suddenly covered his skin.
"Daeron?"âthe laugh died in your throat, replaced at once by worryâ. "Daeron, are you okay?"
He didn't answer. His breathing had turned ragged, shallow, and his eyesâthose same silver eyes shared by everyone in your familyâseemed to be staring at something very far away, something only he could see.
"Daeron?"âyou repeated, louder this time, alarmed, reaching out to touch his arm.
When he finally spoke, his voice sounded different. Deeper. Slower. As if the words were coming from somewhere very far away, dragging themselves through him rather than out of him.
"The dragon sleeps beneath the crown... but fire doesn't ask before it wakes it."
You went still, your hand still on his arm, a chill running down your spine that had nothing to do with the cold of the tavern.
"What... what did you say?"
"The withered tree will bear three heads"âhe continued, his voice still distant, his eyes still fixed on that empty pointâ, "and only one will know the root has already rotted."
"Daeron, I don't understand. What wolf? What tree? What are you talking about?"
But then, as quickly as it had come, Daeron's gaze refocused. He blinked several times, like someone surfacing from underwater, and looked at you with genuine confusion, no trace of what he'd just said.
"What? Did something happen?"
"You... you had one of your dreams"âyou said slowly, the words sitting strangely in your mouthâ. "While you were awake. You said something about a wolf under a crown. And about a tree with three heads, and a rotted root."
Daeron ran a hand over his face, suddenly pale despite the stifling heat of the tavern and all the beer he'd had.
"I don't remember anything"âhe murmuredâ. "I'm sorry, little sister. It happens like that sometimes. The words come and go, and I... I have no control over them."
You sat there looking at him, the words repeating in your head without any apparent meaning, and yet with a strange weight, as if they mattered in a way you couldn't grasp yet. The dragon sleeps beneath the crown. The tree with three heads. The root has already rotted. Was he talking about your family?
"I think it's time to go"âyou said finally, your voice still a little shaky, getting to your feet with more effort than expected, the world tilting slightly from all the beerâ. "Before this gets any stranger than it already is."
Daeron nodded, still pale, still wearing that lost expression that always followed his episodes, as if part of him had stayed trapped in that place only he could visit. You helped him up, his weight dropping heavily onto your shoulder, and between the two of youâwith the guard's discreet help, who stepped in when he saw you strugglingâyou guided him toward the tavern's exit.
The cold night air hit you as you stepped outside, clearing away just a little of the haze of beer and confusion wrapped around you. The guard walked a few steps behind, watchful, his hand near his sword more out of habit than real necessity, or so you thought.
You hadn't gone far when three figures emerged from a narrow alley, blocking the way to the rest of the street.
"Well, well. Drunk nobles, no escort, at this hour"âhe drawled, his eyes sweeping over the three of you with cold calculationâ. "Hand over whatever gold you're carrying, and maybe we'll let you go on your way quietly."
The guard stepped forward at once, his hand already on his sword, positioning himself between you and the men. But before anyone could move further, the sound of hooves striking the cobblestones hard echoed down the street, growing closer.
Baelor arrived like a shadow, his horse halting with a violent snort. He didn't say a word. He dismounted in one fluid, almost feline motion, and before the leader of the group could react, a punch sent him sprawling to the ground. The other two, noticing the insignia barely visible beneath Baelor's dark cloakâand something in the way he moved, the innate authority that not even common clothes could hideâbacked away and vanished into the alley's darkness as quickly as they'd appeared.
"Is everyone all right?"âBaelor's voice came out tense, his eyes sweeping over you, checking, looking for any sign of harm.
"We're fine, my prince"âthe guard answered, though his voice still trembled slightly with adrenalineâ. "You got here just in time."
Baelor didn't answer. His gaze stayed fixed on you, on your pale face, on the way you swayed slightly even standing, holding onto Daeron's arm more out of necessity than affection.
"Take Prince Daeron back on your horse"âhe told the guard, his voice regaining that calm authority the whole realm knewâ. "I'll take care of the princess."
Before you could protestâand in your state, you weren't sure you could have managed a coherent protest anywayâBaelor lifted you off the ground with one arm, as if you weighed nothing, and set you on his horse. Dizzy from the beer and the suddenness of the movement, you barely managed to steady yourself before finding yourself seated in front of him, his arm wrapped firmly around you, his chest against your back.
The horse moved at a slow pace through the dark streets of King's Landing, the gentle swaying almost lulling you, though Baelor's closenessâhis warmth, his breath near your earâkept you strangely alert despite everything you'd drunk.
"Why did you do that?"âyou asked suddenlyâ. "Why did you come looking for him by yourself?"
Baelor stayed silent for a moment, his hands adjusting the reins with unnecessary care.
"Because it's my duty."
Baelor let out a laugh, almost mocking.
You turned slightly, frowning, not understanding his laugh and deeply offended.
"My grandmother chose me to marry you because you weren't capable of finding a proper wife"âyou went on, your tongue loose, the words tumbling over each otherâ. "And now I have to carry all of this. The crown, the kingdom, my family, everything. Without even knowing what I want for my own life. All the weight of something I never asked for, and you... you don't even talk. You don't say anything. Just... silence. Always silence."
You felt the tension in Baelor's arms, in the way his hands tightened around the reins.
"I know"âhe said finally, his voice heavy with something you couldn't nameâ. "And I'm sorry."
"No, you'd better stay quiet"âyou murmured, leaning your head back without thinking, against his shoulder, exhaustion and alcohol overcoming whatever resistance you had leftâ. "You're so inconsiderate with me. All you ever give me is silence. You're never clear. You cause me more worry than I already have."
You expected somethingâa defense, an excuse, even anger. Instead, you felt Baelor exhale slowly, an almost defeated sound.
"I'm sorry"âhe repeated, quieter this timeâ. "You're right."
You didn't answer. The swaying of the horse, the warmth of his body, the exhaustion of a day that had started with an empty bed and ended with a mugging in a dark street, all of it blended into a heavy wave that finally pulled you under. Your breathing slowed, deepened, and little by little your weight settled completely against Baelor, your head finding the curve of his neck, one hand closing weakly around the fabric of his cloak.
Baelor went very still, feeling you give in completely against him, asleep. For a moment he didn't know what to do with his hands, with the reins, with the new, unfamiliar weight of your body trusting his without reservation, without the constant tension that usually stood between you.
He looked down at you. Your face, normally composed, controlled, now relaxed in sleep, your lips slightly parted, a strand of hair escaping the hood and falling across your cheek. Much rougher than you ever let yourself appear while awake.
The words you'd saidâyou cause me more worry than I already haveâechoed in his head with a weight he hadn't expected. He thought of all the times he'd stayed silent in your presence, telling himself it was prudence, professional distance, respect for the space you both needed in a marriage neither of you had chosen. But now, feeling you asleep and vulnerable against him, that distance suddenly seemed, to him, like a cruelty he'd never meant to inflict.
He adjusted his arm around you more carefully, making sure you wouldn't slip, that the cold of the night wouldn't reach you through the thin cloak you wore. He picked up the horse's pace, but not too much, just enough to get back soon without the movement waking you.
"Don't do this alone again"âhe murmured, his voice so low he wasn't even sure he wanted the words to exist outside his own headâ. "Next time, tell me. I'll go with you."
He didn't know if he was talking about searching for Daeron, or about something bigger, something he was only just beginning to recognize in himself: the sudden, urgent need to be someone you could trust, someone who wouldn't let you carry all that weight alone, the weight you'd described that night with an honesty the alcohol had pulled out of you.
Hii, I'm on a Sandor drought rn so I'm once again requestingđđ
This one is a bit more of a short idea but what about a Sandor who's easily aroused by small actions? Like Reader scratching his beard or touching the scarred side of his face at one point
maybe he's not aroused simply by the physicality of it but more about the intimacy
I just picture him as heavily touch starved!! You could make it smut with fluff, pleaseee
Tags:Â SMUT, pretty explicit overall, fantasizing, masturbation, dirty thoughts, very sweet, nameless reader, no use of y/n, reader is silly :P, comedy, courting, crass language, fluff, half drabble, not beta read, may contain mistakes (i was impatient to get it out oops), i dont feel like tagging it as puppy play bc they are honestly too unserious about it
Summary: Â Sandor has too dirty a mind for an unmarried man. Unfortunately he doesn't care as much as he should, and, again, can it really be his fault when his lady cannot keep her hands to herself?
Warnings:Â I MADE HIM A PERVERT, I am sorry.... it is my masculine mind acting up once again. ALSO i made it into a comedy porn piece, sadly i love funny smut and i cannot be kept away from it.
Sandor Clegane is not a lustful man. He is a man, he is hot blooded, he is of a certain size of course, in and outside the breeches, perhaps he needs a wank more than the average boy, but he is not stupid with lust like so many slobbering men. He doesnât stir at the sight of the ladiesâ breasts pushed up to their collars by their stays and shifts, he doesnât follow with his eyes the sight of servantsâ plump arses, he doesn't sniff around the nice legs of the noble women when they lift their gowns so that they do not trail in the mud. He cares not for these things, he scoffs at the sweaty lords who chase ruin the same way they chase women, foaming at the mouth to sink into heat and falling into degeneracy head first.Â
Sandor doesnât chase and simper. Unless blood is calling. That is the only gushing he cares about, the breaking of bones, the cloying smell of fear. That is what he likes. He stands impassible and silent in the corners of the room, aroused by nothing, as all evil things, impossible to move.Â
Sandorâs cock is not volatile.Â
Yet, something must have changed. In the wine, or in the water, in the textile of his bed, in the air of his chambers, in the cloying heat of the south. He is not sure what, but something made him mad, made him warm, made him blaze aflame with a possessive sort of lust.
Maybe it is simply the anger of the engagement to Lady Cafferen. Or maybe she is some sort of witch. He often tells her as much and she starts whining and complaining about him being mean, so that he has to shut his mouth and let her drag him around her gardens on a promenade.Â
He hates promenades, they seem to make her stupid love magic work even better than usual. She often pauses to smell flowers, and in between her movements turns her head so, with her eyes looking at him so, and her mouth pressing to his bicep so that his dick hardens in instants.Â
She is unbearably mushy, his Lady Cafferen. Some romantic sap, with more books about poetry and love than anyone should ever own. Maybe that is why her hands are so soft, her palms so smooth.Â
Sandor is mean, old and grumpy, not fit for any of that romantic idiocy, but he has enough sense not to treat her badly, and in thanks she gives him the softest of touches with her ivory smooth hands, soft like velvet, cold like marble. It is unbearable.Â
She opens and closes her fan nervously now, they are in the gardens, the ones overlooking the godswoods, and she cannot keep still, as is usual of her. He notices as much in their time together, she always fidgets,and as an extension of that touches him more than he is used to be touched. Always pulling on his tunic, or rubbing his skin, or nudging his fingers. Always making his cock hard in his pants.
He grunts and leans over the halfwall to peer at the people praying below in the greenery. There are some people below, kneeling or sitting still as statues and praying to their deaf gods for deliverance. Mostly women, with gowns fanning the soil like the tails of colorful birds. Sandor scoffs in amusement. Nothing's stupider than religion.Â
That is when two hands grab onto his elbow and pull. She is just like some helpless puppy, it feels like, always needing him to react to this and that, nudging him here and there, demanding attention a man his size should probably refuse to give so freely. Gods damn whoever forgets to look at her for five minutes, or answer her queries, or compliment her shoes and her hair and her stupid golden earrings. If only she knew how his dick reacts to her maybe she would stop nagging him.
âI do not want to go rowing like the othersâ she bellyaches. She means the other couples, the other lovesick, limp dicked lordlings of the Keep always take their ladies rowing near the edge of the sea. Stupid shit for bored nobles.
âIâll lose my stomach,â She says.
âWasnât planning on taking yeâ He scoffs and she makes a thrilling little sound, then one of her hands slips higher and higher on his forearm until her fingers are pressed to his palm. She rests them there, he wishes he had worn his gloves for once, and rubs his palm in slow circles.
Some may call him a brute, a pervert, a gross degenerate with a face to match, but he cannot help but think of her doing the same to the red head of his cock, making it turn purple.Â
Despicable as he is he has been jerking off to memories of her touches for more than a week and a half.
 Every night after his service he shuts himself in his rooms with his chamber-pot between his knees and fists his dick until it goes limp. He has been shooting load after load at the thought of putting his mouth on her, his lips on her, on her breasts, on her stomach, on her buttocks, in the hole between her legs, sucking whatever fluid off of her, eating off of her, drinking off of her.
 She must all look great under the silks she wears, she must be cute down there too, her maidenhair, probably the same colour as her actual hair. He cannot help but think of it.
 The handmaidens that empty his pot have started looking at him weird even. If only they knew what rolls about in his head, they would grow pale. Â
His mind rolls with ideas even now, out in the open, he will teach her, make her take it in her mouth, he would be sweet, granted, but he would have her suck it, look down at her, pat her hair, feel the softnessâ
âAre you listening?â She peeps from his side. He turns to her, his one good eyebrow raised in question. He hopes she cannot see his crotch with the way he is leaning, or else she would surely screech and rush off. He is of a scary size after all. Especially to a little lady.
âI saidâ If we are to go back to Fawnton Iâll surely feel sick during the travelsâ She explains and then goes on tittering and peeping. He barely listens, in favor of looking at her palm over his, her hand relaxed and soft into his. It is not everyday he gets such a pliant little fawn in his fangs.Â
He was surprised at first, when she barely flinched at his face, at his reputation and his size. He thought she was simple, but now he understands she is just a hard character to work with, maybe a bit too fiery and too fervent for a future wife. Maybe it will make him suffer during their marriage, as for now, it only makes his dick ache.Â
âI am hungryâ She adds then, as if he ought to just pull a steak out of his pockets and serve it to her. Â
âDo I look like a kitchen wench, My Lady?â He grumbles, shifting so his cock can be less visible. Her hand is still interlaced with his. He cannot help it, he doesnât get touched often, maybe something in his rotten brain went so bad that he cannot distinguish some sweet little thing holding his hand from plowing her into a feather bed.Â
He should feel bad, but he is not the type to feel bad. Tough luck, Lady Cafferen.Â
âThen I want to have an early supper,â She says.Â
I want, I want, I want, thatâs what all the noble girls are about. If she only knew what he wanted. Gods help him.
He sighs and concedes, standing up, adjusting his codpiece when she is turned away, he follows her like the good dog he is towards the nearest servant. The hunger he feels, cannot be satiated with early fucking supper.Â
But whatever promises more of her hands on him he has to take his fill of.
â-----------
âYou look like you havenât bothered to fix yourself upâ She complains.Â
âBecause I did notâ He bites out. He just came back from escorting the king and prince Joff on a hunting session. It is arguably the worst part of his job, especially when Joffrey gets annoyed at the mosquitoes, the sweat and the heat and starts taking it out on the servants. He had to talk him out of beating a wine bearer bloody just yesterday.Â
He himself is sweaty, his hair sticks to his scars, the collar of his armour chafes annoyingly to the cloth he tied to his neck, it absorbed so much sweat he is sure it must be soaked. And now his fiancĂš decided to come meet him at the door like he is some prince coming home from war. The romantic idiot she is.Â
He is irritated. He surely doesnât need to get hard on top of the general discomfort of existing right now. But of course she is wearing a tight dress, one of those from the Stormlands, with the starched bodices and the puff sleeves. Fuck him, he should have let the stag impale him when he had the chance.Â
He walks forwards, craning his neck to fight the stiffness of it, she follows him on quick steps.Â
âWas the trip good? Did the king score a good game?â she asks behind him, he uncorks a wine skin with his teeth and drinks two long mouthfuls. He stops to let her catch up and grunts.Â
âNo, it was pure shite, miserable fucking tripâ He mutters, she immediately links her arm in his and one of her hands goes to smooth his comb over, dutifully tucking it behind his ear.Â
He gives her an unimpressed look and she seems to not care. God those hands, those hands will be the end of him. The feeling of them carding through his hair, the touch of her manicured nails, the softness of the pads of her fingers scratching where his hair is sparse. He groans like some dying animal.Â
âCareful with what you do, little doveâ he grunts in her direction, his eyes mad and angry. She smiles, as if taken by some trepidation. She blushes and goes to tuck her own hair behind one ear, he groans at the loss of contact. One of his hands scoops her about her middle and brings her into himself.Â
âDidnât they teach you not to pet bad dogs?â He scoffs, she shakes her head.
âYou are my fiancĂšâ is her rebuttal, he almost pushes her away. He gives a look around the hallways and, once he makes sure the coast is clear, he buries his face into her neck, sniffing a hot breath that stinks of wine into her cleavage, just under his lips.Â
âGods.â He groans. She has the nerve to laugh, all heady and excited as if it was some fun game they were playing and not him about to double over because of blue balls.
âYou tickle meâ She mutters, that thing she does where she acts as if he was some cute blonde boy, he barely cares, glad she is not squirming away and rubs his limp lips down her neck until he can suck where her throat dips before her collarbones. He licks her there, her wicked hands go to the back of his neck, honest to the gods guiding his face. Sandor is unsure if he is very lucky or in deep shit with the wedding coming up.Â
Her hands have grown warm now, like tiny pokers, like heated sheep bladders pressed to the back of his neck. It is only fitting, since he does feel feverish and genuinely ill in some strange way. Her tits almost push into his neck when she stutters. He curses whoever invented stays and low cut bodices.Â
Steps echo in the distance and Sandor straightens up, leaving Lady Cafferen red in the face and giddy when he turns to survey the space around them. She slips her fingers into his beard and he almost bucks his hips.Â
Deciding he is not to wet himself like a green boy in the middle of a hallway he detangles her from his torso and settles her at a good foot of a distance from him. She attempts to hook her arms to him again and he has to keep her away with his whole arm.Â
âDo you really wish me to spoil your virtue in the middle of a corridor, daft lassâ He barks and she gushes, the surprise almost softens his dick,
âWe are to be married anywaysâ she says. He shakes his head.Â
âAre you simple? What if the maester is sent to check your virtue huh? Idiot.âÂ
âHe would not be sent! I am not a princess, but do not worry I kept myself pureâÂ
Sandor is not sure if he should be elated or simply irritated. He grunts in annoyance and gives her another tiny shove when she pushes too much of her weight on his arm in the attempt to get close. If she touches him more, he will not be able to stop himself.Â
âGo back to your room girlâ He groans âand I will take a bathâ. She smiles, acting all timid now and nods.Â
âMay I have a kiss?â she adds âI waited so long to greet you at the doorâ.
Sandor would want to tell her off but his cock seems to have taken the place of his brain. He pulls her back to himself and kisses her. roughly, wetly, with way too much spit and way too little grace. He gives a rub of his hips to her stomach and she almost yelps into his mouth.Â
He trails his lips to the mid of her neck and one of his hands sneaks to her arse. If she wants to play with the hound she will get what is coming for her. She smiles, all heady into their kisses and barely complains when he pats her bottom to get a feel for it.Â
Then, those damn hands go to comb between his dirty hair and he moans into her mouth before he dives in again. His hips stutter against her and his hand pinches her ass so that she jumps up a bit. It is enough to give him the clarity to rip her away again.Â
âSoonââ He pants âNot today, and stopâ act more proper.â He grumbles. She barely seems to care, if she doesnât answer to her father and all the rules of propriety why would she answer to him after all. He gets further confirmation when she stares openly when he adjusts his cock in his breeches.Â
He gestures for her to walk off.Â
âWill you visit me again?â she asks, gone is that lust, and what remains is some sort of tenderness typical of his little lady, one so unexpected to someone his size, someone ugly like him, that he almost pities her. He goes to rub her flank.Â
âYes⊠now scramâ he spits out and ignores her smile before she gathers her skirts and rushes off.Â
Fuck a bath, he needs to pump his cock.Â
It doesn't take long for him to rush to his apartments and put his fist to himself. In a few bucks of his hips, fucking into his hand and thinking of Lady Cafferen gushing about the size of him, he spends into his chamber pot.Â
After coming he rubs the underside of his cockhead to torture himself enough to forget the feeling of her hands on him, when his rod is tender enough that he knows he wonât get hard again for a bit he calls for a servant ot fill his bathtub. .Â
Sandor misses the days he was mean and scary and his dick had no thoughts to attend to.
â---------------
It is no wonder he pulls her hands to his face when he sinks into her.
 After the wedding they didnât consummate immediately, he had hoped so, but she had fallen asleep as soon as she hit the sheets, and he simply laid with her and did the same, even if his cock was crying sweet mercy.Â
He is ravenous now, each thrust of his hips gets a glad little hiccup out of her. She mewls when he pulls her arms from his shoulders, plucking them finger by finger, and guides them to his face. She pets him dutifully, making him her own nice dog.
His hips stutter and he bites hard on his tongue when her hands caress his cheeks, even the scarred one, without fear or disgust or sick fascination. She treats both sides equally, despite his obvious lack of sensibility on his right.Â
âAh-AH ngggh- Sandor!â She lets out, his hips tremble under the force of his own muscle, his asscheeks clench and she, sweet little thing, so new at this, grabs onto his hair to keep a hold of herself. He is fucked. When he hands tug minimally to keep herself in check he moans.Â
Sweet hands, like those of the Mother, he bets, but real, not made of light or clouds, real flesh, warm, tiny. He licks her neck and she giggles, as if he is tickling her skin.Â
His body continues pushing into her, settling in a trot-like pace.Â
Her hands rub his scalp and he almost weeps, it is good, so good, he almost forgets to get a hold of himself. How long since he felt hands so soft? They were not part of his life for so long, and now, somehow, they skim all over his skin, his hair, his back, without coercion, coin or any stupid sense of wifely duty between them. Between them there is only hot air, smiles, and her lips opening and closing in surprise every time his cock does something nice.Â
âYou are so hairy!â She stutters, as if out of breath, he reminds himself not to crush her chest too much with his bulk and repositions. She smiles. She really is all over the place, no wonder they married her off to him.Â
âI am a man.â He points out. She moans when he aims his cock towards her stomach, her legs jump at his sides and fold up towards her chest, knees closing together. Sweet.Â
He continues plunging into her, her hands start slipping from his shoulders to his chest, over his heart, he blocks them there with one huge palm. His skin shivers like that of a stallion, and his heartbeat matches his monstrosity. She looks at his chest with a gaze full of sweet things he cannot put a name to.Â
She goes to kiss his chest, near his heart, with lips so soft. His cock whirrs. He thinks back at all the times he had wished for this very skin, soft and fresh and plump under his hands. He places her mouth to his nipple and he frowns down at her.Â
âGirlâ He warns her and she gives a breath right over his heart, then lays back down. Her hands go to rub at it still. He almost laughs.Â
âNot all that works on you works on meâ he groans. She blushes and moans when his cock changes pace.Â
Her hands go back to stroking his head, one thumb behind his ear draws tight little circles, and it may as well be his rod, for he comes immediately inside her. His dick shivers and then pumps forwards until he is spending it all into her. He groans, almost wheezing, unable to stop his hips form fucking the wetness back into her, as if they were a creature on their own. She takes it gladly.Â
His hips stutter one last time, until the heat becomes overwhelming over the raw head of his cock. When he pulls out his seed follows. He cares not for the sheets or for the seed, not when her hands have kept on rubbing, her fingers still into his hair. Her little finger resting on his burn, where the skin is so ruined it is almost a game trying to understand if it is really there or not.Â
When he dives back to kiss her she gives his hair a tiny tug that almost awakens his dick again.Â
âYou witchâ He groans into her neck and kisses her there. Her nose wrinkles into a smile that edges on annoyance.Â
âIf you want me to pet you, I will.â She offers and he groans.Â
âPiss offâ He tells her, which prompts her to pet him atop his head as if he was some silly lap dog. He snaps his teeth at her and she falls into a fit of giggles and flops on her stomach to crawl away.Â
It is easy to grab her around her stomach and pull her back into him, her tiny body pressed to the bulk of his front. She giggles again, so uncaring for her nudity she may just be some nymph from a fairytale. When he lets her flop again on the bed she reaches her hand back and rubs it over his beard.Â
âThere, there, good doggieâ She says, barely containing her laughter. He gives a bite to her ass cheek and she squirms.Â
âBad! Bad! Down!â she complains, it is his turn to laugh and bury his face into her hair from behind, his hips go to rest on the perfect round of her ass. He sniffs her hair and his lips find her neck between the tresses.
âYour dog is horny girl.â He mumbles, his cock once again awakens. She makes a noise of disgust that he forgives because she slips her fingers into his once he ensnares her chest into his elbow.
âOkay- I want to do it againâ She concedes. His laugh sends her hair puffing up and flying about.Â
âOf course you do, you really are some pixie.â He groans into her neck.
âThen you are a dog!â She complains, unhappy to be compared to an ugly little creature from the forests instead of some princess of belle from one of her damn stories.
He leaves it at that, he cares not what she calls him as long as there is a promise of her hands on his skin for the rest of her life.Â
The journey to Ashford was supposed to be an escape â from the court's whispers, from your grandmother's suffocating lessons, from everything. Instead it left you drained, lonely, and quietly aching for your husband. When Baelor finally walks through your door that night, tense and distant, you realize you're done staying quiet about what you need. Warm water, candlelight, and the first I love you spoken out loud.
Warnings: đ MDNI â Explicit sexual content-Established relationship (married couple)-Consensual intimacy-Bathtub / water sex-Emotional intimacy-Soft!Baelor, needy!reader-Brief emotional tension before resolution-First "I love you"-Hurt/comfort (light)-2nd person POV / Reader insert
------------
The journey to Ashford had left you exhausted in body and soul.
You had insisted on accompanying your husband Baelor, partly to escape the whispers of the court that seemed to grow louder every time he was absent, and partly to free yourself from your grandmother's lessons, which had lately been suffocating you with their weight. You had also seen it as an opportunity to spend time with your siblings, though that hope dissolved the moment they found a gap in the security and vanished without a word, turning the journey into something far lonelier and more tense than you had anticipated, with your grumpy father as your only constant company.
The stress had been building, mostly because of your younger brother Aegon, at the mercy of the sadistic Aerion and the careless Daeron. All you could do was hope he found kind people along the way until he made it home.
Now you were in the bath, letting the warmth of the water undo the knots in your shoulders.
The rooms in Ashford were spacious and high-ceilinged, but the darkness made them feel intimate; only the candles broke through the shadows, casting golden light over the stone walls. The servants had come and gone several times, arranging everything to your requests, until you had asked them to leave you alone.
Submerged to your shoulders, with your head resting against the edge of the tub, you heard the footsteps. You recognized them immediately: heavy, deliberate. Baelor's.
He entered without knocking, as he always did, and didn't even scan the room to look for you. He went straight to the small table and began removing the pin from his cloak and his rings, one by one, as though each piece of metal weighed twice what it should. His shoulders were tense and his gaze was lost somewhere that didn't exist in that room. Something was wrong â you knew it with the same certainty with which you recognized his footsteps.
And you had been swallowing your own complaints for far too long.
âYou've been busy the entire journey.
The remark barely seemed to pull him from his thoughts.
âI couldn't even spend the nights with you.
You watched him from the tub, your chin resting on the edge.
âI missed you.
That got his attention.
Something in his expression shifted when he found you like that, bare in the steam and the trembling candlelight. He approached slowly, leaned over you, and pressed a soft kiss to the top of your head, cradling your face in one large, warm hand.
âDon't be so needy, my princess âhe murmured. The tenderness in his voice softened the tease until it was barely a tease at all, more like a caressâ. I thought of you every night. But if I had come into your tent, I'm not sure your father would have been pleased to hear us.
You let out a nervous laugh. It was the first time the three of you had been together since the wedding, and while your father hadn't openly objected, his weighted silence said enough.
âBut we're not in the camp anymore âyou replied.
You closed your eyes and pressed your cheek into his palm, seeking that warmth. Then you felt the back of his fingers graze your other cheek, trailing down your neck with a deliberate slowness that made every inch of bare skin beneath the water grow more aware of itself. The sensitivity multiplied like that, with nothing to muffle it.
âYou are my greatest temptation, my dragon âhe said quietlyâ. You're going to be the end of me.
You opened your eyes and gave him a shameless smile, just before his hand descended to your chest and took hold of you firmly, with that particular blend of strength and possessiveness that belonged only to him. A moan escaped your throat, muffled and urgent, the product of days of contained need. Your back arched on its own; you had to grab his arm to keep yourself from sinking into the water.
Baelor's face showed satisfaction and something close to reverence â lips parted, breathing heavier, letting small curses fall quietly between them. You wanted desperately to kiss him, but instead you turned your face toward the hand cradling your head and pressed a slow kiss to his palm, while his fingers continued their work beneath the water, gently teasing your nipple.
Then he slipped his thumb between your lips. You took it without hesitation, closing your mouth around it, pressing your tongue against it as he pushed deeper. At the same time, his other hand began to descend along your stomach, sliding beneath the warm, clouded water until his fingers found the center of you. He worked you with the precision of someone who knows you by heart, and a tremor moved through your entire body.
âBaelor, please âyou let out, your voice breaking into a whimperâ. Please.
He answered by bringing his mouth to yours in an urgent, unsteady kiss. You used his closeness to wind both hands around his neck and pull him closer still, while your fingers searched blindly for the buttons of his shirt. Baelor pulled his hand from the water and stood, and you protested with a moan that filled the room.
He removed his outer shirt and you stretched from the tub to pull his trousers down, finding him already halfway there. Completely bare, he lifted one leg into the tub and then the other, settling between your legs with care, bracing himself against the edge to bring his face closer to yours. The kiss he gave you then was the opposite of the last one: tender, slow, as if he had all the time in the world. Kneeling between your legs in the warm water, he held you by the waist.
You pulled back just slightly from the kiss, your lips still grazing his.
âI need you so much âyou whispered.
âI need you too âhe answered, with the same urgency and the same softness.
Baelor turned you gently until he was the one lying back in the tub and you were draped over his chest, his body warm and solid beneath yours. You pushed yourself upright, braced your hands on his chest, and shifted your legs until you were seated over him, looking down at him.
âThat's it, sweetheart âhe murmured, his hands steadying you at the hips, guiding you as his body met yours.
You lowered yourself slowly, letting him open you little by little, and pressed your forehead to his shoulder to focus on breathing and keep yourself from losing control entirely. His hands moved along your back unhurriedly, giving you time, giving you something to hold onto.
When you reached the limit, you lifted your head to look him in the eyes.
âBaelor⊠I love you.
His hands went still on your back. His face softened in a way you rarely saw: the purple eye brighter than ever, the pupil wide and dark, a small and genuine smile that had nothing to do with politics or court. Only with you. He drew you to him and kissed you slowly.
âI love you too âhe said when you parted, his voice lower and gentler at onceâ. You are the light of my life.
They held each other's gaze for a moment, complete in that silence full of heat and water and candlelight.
Then you began to move.
Baelor guided you with his hands at your hips, giving force to each movement, and the two of you lost yourselves in the rhythm you built together, between moans and broken breaths, the water splashing and spilling over the edges of the tub onto the stone floor. The world of the court, of your father, of your vanished siblings, of the whispers, remained entirely outside that dark, candlelit room.
You reached your peak first, with a sigh that was almost his name. Baelor followed shortly after, pulling you against his chest.
Several minutes passed like that, tangled and still in the now-lukewarm water, feeling complete in a way neither of them could have put into words â though, as it happened, they had just found them for the very first time.
The story follows Daena, Targaryen princess, cherished and sheltered by her royal family, whose orderly court routine is disrupted when a visit from her uncle Maekar, a serious and sullen forty-year-old prince, awakens in her a mischievous impulse and something more.
Content Warnings
The significant age difference (20 and 40 years) was presented as a central element of the romantic dynamic.
Targaryen incest
She had that bearing that septas teach for years but few manage to make their own: straight back without rigidity, chin raised without arrogance, hands always in the right place. A serene aura like still water. But everyone at court knew that beneath that calm lived a tenacious and sharp tongue, capable of dismantling a lord with three words spoken in an absolutely sweet voice. While your brother was educated at Dragonstone with your mother, you stayed with your father at court, the undisputed favorite of your grandparents. The kings had taken care of spoiling you with that particular tenderness that only the old know how to give, the kind that asks nothing in return. Even now, at nineteen years old, they had never forced you to marry, nor had they even subtly suggested it, as if the very idea of giving you away caused them pain.
Your only duty was to rise at dawn, when the air still smelled of cold stone and freshly baked bread, to take a walk with your grandmother toward the village ovens, making sure women and children had their breakfast before the sun finished rising. Then to serve as cupbearer in the council of lords, where you learned to read silences and glances as much as words. Lunch with your grandmother afterward, listening to her stories that mixed advice with memories. Spending the afternoon among ladies of different houses, embroidery threads and conversations that sometimes hid more politics than they showed. And at night, dining with your father and grandparents, with the fire crackling and the red wine gleaming in the cups.
You repeated this day after day, like the verses of a prayer known by heart. Without any disturbance in your routine, without jolts, without surprises.
Until a distraction arrived, a very very amusing one, and you decided that your reputation was solid enough to commit whatever mischief you pleased.
The dining hall was full of laughter that bounced off the stone walls and rose up to the hanging tapestries. The entire royal family had gathered that night, his four sons, their wives and grandchildren, a congregation that occurred so rarely that the servants did not quite know where to look. The long table gleamed with golden wax candelabras, overflowing plates and cups that emptied at an alarming rate. But the loudest, without any doubt, were the sons of your youngest uncle. Daeron could no longer hold his head steady, it fell to one side and then corrected itself clumsily, his cheeks red as ripe plum. Aerion delivered comments with that slow, satisfied cadence of someone who enjoys the damage they cause, words designed to burn, especially cruel toward his younger brother Aegon, who received them with a clenched jaw. The two younger girls did not stay quiet but responded to Aerion's comments with a ferocity disproportionate to their size, defending Aegon with the absolute loyalty of those who are not yet afraid of anything, though the youngest simply opted to throw food at him, a piece of bread that landed on Aerion's shoulder with notable precision.
Fortunately the adults on the other side of the hall ate in relative peace, conversing in low voices, trying to ignore as much as they could the chaos at the childish end of the table. And you were exactly in the middle, between the adults and the children, just after Maekar, at that uncomfortable point where noise arrived from both sides.
Today, after a full day of straightening your back, raising your chin, walking slowly and gracefully, endless protocols to receive the royal family, your responsibility and your duties as princess were beginning to falter like a flame in the wind. You only wanted some fun, something genuinely entertaining that would give you real satisfaction, not the polished pleasure of fulfilling what was expected. And watching your cousins so rowdy, some of that energy clung to you like gold dust, something that hummed in your fingers and made the corner of your lips threaten to lift.
That night Maekar was seated beside you. Forty years he had carried that presence that occupied space without asking for it, his perfectly shaved beard that did not quite manage to fully cover the marks that chickenpox had left on him as a child, small imperfections in his skin that somehow made him seem more real than the rest of the perfectly polished men at court. His size was so immense that you barely reached the top of his shoulders when standing, and sitting the difference was still evident, those broad shoulders that seemed made of rock. All of that plus his furrowed brow, the deep lines between his eyebrows, and his obvious displeasure at having to be there, at the gathering, at the noise, at the world in general that night.
Your grandmother brought you back to the hall with her warm and proud voice:
âDaena has begun practicing advanced equitation, her grandfather brought two Dornish coursers, how have you been getting on, dear?
The pride in your grandmother's voice was tangible as the heat of the fire, and her dazzling smile showed how happy it made her that her granddaughter was following Dornish traditions, that thread connecting to something ancient and hers.
You set your wine cup on the table with a slow and elegant gesture, and your hand rested on the tablecloth a moment before sliding, without hurry, without abruptness, a little further to the right. All the eyes at that end of the table were fixed on you, waiting for your answer.
âIt is a beautiful horse âyou said, with that voice of yours that always sounded as if you carried all the time in the worldâ, swift and with a very delicate temperament. But that makes riding it more challenging.
And just as your grandfather burst out in a proud laugh at his brave granddaughter, you let your hand fall with all the calm in the world onto Maekar's groin, squeezing.
âShit!
Maekar's curse exploded in the hall like a stone in a still lake. He stood up abruptly, the weight of his body pushing the table forward with a screech of wood, his chair falling backward with a dry thud against the stone floor.
âBloody hell!
The silence that followed was absolute. Every conversation cut short, every cup paused midway, every head turned toward him. The children, who never quieted for anything, stood open-mouthed. The servants approached cautiously, as if approaching a wounded animal, trying to gather what had spilled and straighten what had fallen.
âMaekar! Do not say those words in front of your niece! âYour grandfather's voice thundered with that authority that needed no shouting to fill the hall.
âAre you all right, uncle?
You looked at him with the clearest and most detached eyes in your arsenal, and you had them well trained. Your voice emanated nothing but purity and genuine concern, the voice of someone who has done nothing in their life but embroider and pray.
Maekar returned a look that began as pure confusion, eyebrows drawn together, eyes searching for something in your face that would explain the inexplicable, and then that confusion mixed with a hot and controlled anger. But the anger lasted barely a second before the awareness of all the gazes upon him crushed it and transformed it into something that struggled to resemble composure.
âYes⊠yes, I just need rest. The journey has brought me a great deal of stress.
He made a short bow toward the king, rigid and too quick to be entirely elegant. And as he walked toward the exit, he glanced at you sideways, with that careful distance someone adopts when they have just understood that something in their world has changed and are not sure whether to run or stay completely still.
At the corner of your lips a small smile formed, barely perceptible, that did not escape Maekar.
The dinner of the previous night, despite the scandal Maekar had caused in the hall, ended in calm. Time did its work, the wine helped, and toward the end of the evening everyone had returned to laughter and family stories, that particular warmth that exists only when people who have known each other all their lives reunite after a long time apart. A sweet and slightly melancholy satisfaction remained in everyone, of catching up, of remembering who they were to one another.
It was early in the small hours, that strange time when night has not quite finished leaving but the day already announces itself in the movements of servants, in the sound of water buckets and brooms dragging across stone corridors. The air was damp and cold, that cold that creeps up sleeves and climbs the neck, and the sky remained completely dark, barely crossed by the grey promise of dawn on the horizon.
You were already completely ready.
The dress was a pale rose that in the torchlight appeared almost white, almost nacre, with that delicate tone only achieved with fabric dyed twice in rose water. The outer silk fell in perfect folds from a fitted bodice that shaped the torso with precision, embroidered in golden thread with small intertwined dragons so fine they resembled lace from a distance. The sleeves were long and flared, falling from the elbow in a more vaporous fabric, almost transparent, that brushed the floor when you walked and made it whisper.
Your hair, platinum white with those copper highlights, was gathered in an elaborate braid interwoven with pink silk ribbons falling loosely between the strands. The diadem resting on your forehead was of fine gold. Your violet eyes, framed by nearly white lashes, held that quiet gleam of someone who knows exactly the effect they produce. Cheeks faintly rosy from the early morning cold, lips a shade darker than the dress.
A too-spoiled girl who had become something difficult to name. Too young to be ignored. Too cherished to be underestimated.
As you advanced down the corridor toward where your grandmother awaited, Sanda walked half a step behind you, her presence as habitual as your own shadow, and the soft sound of your steps on the stone was the loudest thing in that empty hallway.
It was then that you noticed.
Ahead, past the arch that led to the armory, a tall and robust man, almost hunched from the effort, practiced alone against a wooden dummy. His sword fell on the figure with a force that shook the support from its base, again and again, as if the dummy had done something unforgivable. The sound arrived rhythmic and heavy, wood against wood, the weight of an enormous body behind every blow.
Something new was born in you, something that started as mischief but had another component mixed in, a warm excitement without a clear name that you recognized all the same. The display of strength from that man made you imagine many things. The large hands gripping that hilt. The shoulders moving beneath the fabric of his shirt. You stood completely still watching him for a moment, and only then decided.
âSanda âyou called to your handmaid in a low voice, without taking your eyes off the man in the armoryâ. I am going to greet my uncle. Go ahead and let my grandmother know I will arrive a little late.
Sanda curtsied without asking questions, accustomed as she was to obeying your every whim and your every whisper with the same impeccable dedication. Her steps faded down the corridor and left you alone.
You approached slowly, with that deliberate calm you used when you wanted something to appear accidental. Your feet on the stone made almost no sound in your soft leather boots. You entered the armory, that place you rarely frequented and that smelled of cold metal and sword oil, and advanced without saying anything, studying his back.
But he noticed. He noticed before you understood he had noticed, because in a movement that left no time for anything he spun and leveled the sword at you, the point a few centimeters from your face, eyes narrowed and body taut as a bow.
When he recognized you, his face made the full journey. Confusion. Recognition. And then the memory of the previous night falling over him like cold water.
âYou!
He looked at you as if you were a monster or his worst nightmare materialized in the small hours. It was the first time anyone had looked at you like that, with that genuine horror mixed with something resembling panic, and you discovered with some surprise that you liked it. You liked having a man like your grumpiest uncle, the most serious one, the one who never smiled in portraits, like this. You gave him a slow and playful smile, and brought a finger to your lips.
âYou should not shout like that âyou said softly, with that sweetness of yours that never promised anything goodâ. You will wake everyone.
Your finger moved from your lips to the blade of his sword, which he had not yet fully lowered. You rested it with studied delicacy on the cold spine of the steel and slid it slowly along the length of the blade, without taking your eyes off his, walking toward him centimeter by centimeter as you did.
âWhy are you afraid of me, uncle? It seems something disturbed you last night.
Maekar lowered the sword and set it aside with a dry blow, and the sound of metal on stone echoed through the small space. He turned toward you with that extended finger and pressed lip, overflowing with a rage he had been cooking all morning.
âYour father will hear of this âhe said in a low and dangerous voice, which was worse than shoutingâ. And he will know what kind of woman his daughter is. They have spoiled you far too much and you are shameless.
He advanced as he made his threats, finger pointing at your face, his immense body closing the distance with that storm energy that would have made anyone step back.
You took advantage of exactly that.
You closed the remaining distance at once, rose on tiptoe and kissed him on the lips so quickly and so chastely that perhaps it did not happen, so brief it was perhaps only the brush of air between two mouths that were too close. And before he finished processing what had occurred, you were already running. Running as you could not remember ever having run, not even as a girl escaping the septas, the soles of your leather boots striking the stone floor, the silk ribbons of your hair flying back, the laughter smothered in your throat because you could not let it out without betraying yourself.
âGood luck getting anyone to believe you, uncle! âyou shouted without looking back.
And you left him there, turned to a statue in the middle of the armory, the sword forgotten on the floor, not yet finished reacting. It took a long moment. Several moments. And when his body belonged to him again, he slowly raised his hand to his lips, with an expression that did not know whether it was fury or stupefaction, and felt how a strange and not entirely unwelcome heat grew between his legs as he watched you disappear through the stone arch as if you had never been there at all.
When you reached your grandmother, still breathless, the smile on your face was so wide there was no human way to hide it. Your cheeks gleamed. Your eyes gleamed. You were, in that moment, the exact image of someone who has just done precisely what they wanted and does not regret it at all.
Your grandmother looked up at you with that expression of hers for reading people, the same one that had intimidated kings and lords for decades.
âYou are glowing today, my love âshe said with a tenderness that held, nonetheless, a note of curiosityâ. Did something special happen?
You took your seat beside her with all the grace you had been taught, straightened your back, crossed your hands on your lap, and smiled with that still-water smile of yours.
âNothing special. I just spoke a little with my uncle Maekar. He is very funny.
Your grandmother frowned for a second, the phrase too strange to ignore, the smile on your face too specific to be innocent. But you were her favorite granddaughter, and there were things a grandmother preferred not to finish understanding.
Maekar had spent two days turning it over.
The image returned on its own, uninvited: her fingers sliding along the blade of his sword with that deliberate calm, her violet eyes holding his gaze without blinking, and then that very brief instant, that brush that perhaps was nothing and yet remained there, pressed to his lips like an ember. He had repeated it to himself enough times to convince himself: he had to speak with Baelor. It was the right thing. It was necessary.
He knocked on the study door with his knuckles, entered without waiting too long, and stopped dead.
She was there.
Standing by the window, in that dark blue silk dress that made her white hair appear made of light, hands crossed with perfect composure, chin at the exact angle. As if she had been waiting for him. As if she had always been there.
Baelor looked up from his desk with a genuine and open smile, the smile he reserved only for his daughter.
âMaekar, what good timing. We were just wanting to speak with you.
We. Maekar noted the plural. He also noted his niece's smile, small and perfectly controlled, with that corner raised barely a millimeter that he had already learned to read.
âDaena has made a request of me this morning âBaelor continued, leaning back in his chair with the satisfaction of a man about to deliver good newsâ. She wants to learn advanced equitation. The horses that arrived from Dorne have a temperament that requires an expert hand, and she wants to rise to the occasion. âHe paused, looking at his daughter with that pride he made no attempt to concealâ. And she has specifically asked that you be the one to teach her.
The silence lasted exactly as long as it took Maekar to find words.
âIâŠ
âYou are the finest rider in the family âsaid Baelor with an absolute naturalness, as if commenting on the weatherâ. No one better than you. âHe rose and came around the desk, placing a hand on his shoulder with genuine affectionâ. This girl has fulfilled everything asked of her without ever complaining. Her duties, her commitments, the court. She has never asked for anything for herself. âBaelor's voice softened with a tenderness that had no defense against itâ. She deserves whatever she asks for, Maekar. She has earned it.
Maekar looked at her.
She returned his gaze with an expression of innocence so complete, so absolutely impenetrable, that in that moment he understood with a painful and almost comical clarity that there was nothing he could say to his brother. No words. No accusation. Baelor would not believe him. Not because he was a naive man, but because his daughter was perfect and he knew it and she knew it and now Maekar knew it too.
At the corner of her lips that smile appeared. Only a second. Only for him.
Maekar clenched his jaw.
âOf course âhe said in a voice that revealed absolutely nothing.
The morning stables had that particular smell of damp hay and clean leather, and the light came through the high windows drawing golden stripes across the packed-earth floor. The stable hands had discreetly withdrawn as soon as Maekar arrived, as they always did when the prince wanted to work in peace.
They had not counted on the company.
She arrived punctual, which was already in itself a declaration of intent. She dressed for riding, a divided skirt of soft tawny leather over dark hose, a fitted cream wool tunic with her hair gathered in a low and firm bun at the nape, secured with two silver pins. No diadem. No layers of silk. Reduced to the essential, and even so entirely herself.
âGood morning, uncle âshe said in a voice of still water.
Maekar did not answer. He pointed to the courser with a dry gesture and began.
The lesson was, on its surface, perfectly normal. He explained the posture, the communication with the animal through legs and reins, the difference between guiding and controlling. She listened with genuine attention, asked the right questions, executed corrections with a swiftness that would have been satisfying in any other context.
The problem was everything else.
When he approached for the first time to correct the position of her elbows, his fingers wrapped around her forearm with the practical intention of repositioning it, and she did not move exactly as she should have but just a centimeter less, so that her shoulder ended up grazing his chest for a second longer than necessary. Maekar withdrew his hands.
When he showed her how to tighten the reins, she turned her head to look at him from atop the horse, and they were too close, her violet eyes directly over his, with that expression that promised nothing good and that was nevertheless difficult to stop looking at.
When she dismounted and he extended his arm to help her down, she took it without taking her eyes off him throughout the entire descent, and when her feet touched the ground she remained there, at a distance that was not that of a niece with her uncle.
Maekar said nothing. He did not step back either.
That was his mistake.
Because she noticed. She noticed with that precision of hers for reading what others tried not to show, and something in her expression changed, became quieter and more certain at the same time, like someone who has just confirmed something they suspected.
The lesson ended. The stable hands were still outside. The light had shifted angle and the stable was quieter than before.
Maekar gathered the courser's reins to lead him back to his place and she walked beside him, and when he stopped in front of the animal's box and turned to say something about the next lesson, she was too close again, and this time there was no sliding of fingers along swords nor excuse of correcting posture.
She rose on tiptoe and kissed him.
Not like the first time.
This time it was a kiss with weight, with intention, with her hands rising to his chest and her mouth claiming his with a determination that had nothing accidental about it. Maekar felt the impact as something physical, a second of absolute paralysis before his body reacted.
She tried to pull away. She tried to turn and run as the time before.
His hand found the bun at her nape before she managed a single step, fingers closing around the silver pins and the secured hair, stopping her with a firmness that did not hurt her but admitted no argument. He pulled her back and brought her close to his face, and when he spoke he did so with his teeth barely parted, his voice low and taut as a string about to snap.
âIf you are not capable of behaving yourself âhe saidâ, I will have to teach you how.
There was a silence.
She looked at him from that minimal distance, with flushed cheeks and altered breathing, and in her eyes there was something Maekar had not seen before, something that was not mischief but something deeper and more honest than that. She looked at him directly, without averting her eyes, and said in a voice that was softer than usual:
âThen teach me.
Without letting go of her hair bun, he led her to the back room, pulled her inside, and then followed her. She stood before him, in that riding dress, her hair bun undone by his hand. Without letting go of her hair bun, he led her to the back room, pulled her inside, and then followed her. She stood before him, in that riding dress, her hair bun undone by his hand, and for the first time
He sat down on a bench and held out his hand, pulling her onto his lap with his back straight. Maekar's hand first explored her buttocks with his fingers, then moved down to her groin, making her shudder and let out a moan at the firm pressure.
"Now do you understand how it feels? I'm going to teach you to respect your uncle." With that, his palm moved up and down her buttocks, repeating the motion three more times. His hand was heavy and large; her buttocks were still sensitive, but what truly ached was her throbbing center, and she felt herself becoming wet.
He helps you rise, and you sit on his lap; he cradles you as your head falls unconscious onto his chest. His hand gently strokes your cheeks, bringing you back to consciousness. "Are you alright?" You can only smile and nod, knowing your routine will never be the same again, not now that your new request to your father and grandparents is that they marry you off to Maekar, They were going to allow it even if he didn't want to.
The story follows Daena, Targaryen princess, cherished and sheltered by her royal family, whose orderly court routine is disrupted when a visit from her uncle Maekar, a serious and sullen forty-year-old prince, awakens in her a mischievous impulse and something more.
Content Warnings
The significant age difference (20 and 40 years) was presented as a central element of the romantic dynamic.
Targaryen incest
She had that bearing that septas teach for years but few manage to make their own: straight back without rigidity, chin raised without arrogance, hands always in the right place. A serene aura like still water. But everyone at court knew that beneath that calm lived a tenacious and sharp tongue, capable of dismantling a lord with three words spoken in an absolutely sweet voice. While your brother was educated at Dragonstone with your mother, you stayed with your father at court, the undisputed favorite of your grandparents. The kings had taken care of spoiling you with that particular tenderness that only the old know how to give, the kind that asks nothing in return. Even now, at nineteen years old, they had never forced you to marry, nor had they even subtly suggested it, as if the very idea of giving you away caused them pain.
Your only duty was to rise at dawn, when the air still smelled of cold stone and freshly baked bread, to take a walk with your grandmother toward the village ovens, making sure women and children had their breakfast before the sun finished rising. Then to serve as cupbearer in the council of lords, where you learned to read silences and glances as much as words. Lunch with your grandmother afterward, listening to her stories that mixed advice with memories. Spending the afternoon among ladies of different houses, embroidery threads and conversations that sometimes hid more politics than they showed. And at night, dining with your father and grandparents, with the fire crackling and the red wine gleaming in the cups.
You repeated this day after day, like the verses of a prayer known by heart. Without any disturbance in your routine, without jolts, without surprises.
Until a distraction arrived, a very very amusing one, and you decided that your reputation was solid enough to commit whatever mischief you pleased.
The dining hall was full of laughter that bounced off the stone walls and rose up to the hanging tapestries. The entire royal family had gathered that night, his four sons, their wives and grandchildren, a congregation that occurred so rarely that the servants did not quite know where to look. The long table gleamed with golden wax candelabras, overflowing plates and cups that emptied at an alarming rate. But the loudest, without any doubt, were the sons of your youngest uncle. Daeron could no longer hold his head steady, it fell to one side and then corrected itself clumsily, his cheeks red as ripe plum. Aerion delivered comments with that slow, satisfied cadence of someone who enjoys the damage they cause, words designed to burn, especially cruel toward his younger brother Aegon, who received them with a clenched jaw. The two younger girls did not stay quiet but responded to Aerion's comments with a ferocity disproportionate to their size, defending Aegon with the absolute loyalty of those who are not yet afraid of anything, though the youngest simply opted to throw food at him, a piece of bread that landed on Aerion's shoulder with notable precision.
Fortunately the adults on the other side of the hall ate in relative peace, conversing in low voices, trying to ignore as much as they could the chaos at the childish end of the table. And you were exactly in the middle, between the adults and the children, just after Maekar, at that uncomfortable point where noise arrived from both sides.
Today, after a full day of straightening your back, raising your chin, walking slowly and gracefully, endless protocols to receive the royal family, your responsibility and your duties as princess were beginning to falter like a flame in the wind. You only wanted some fun, something genuinely entertaining that would give you real satisfaction, not the polished pleasure of fulfilling what was expected. And watching your cousins so rowdy, some of that energy clung to you like gold dust, something that hummed in your fingers and made the corner of your lips threaten to lift.
That night Maekar was seated beside you. Forty years he had carried that presence that occupied space without asking for it, his perfectly shaved beard that did not quite manage to fully cover the marks that chickenpox had left on him as a child, small imperfections in his skin that somehow made him seem more real than the rest of the perfectly polished men at court. His size was so immense that you barely reached the top of his shoulders when standing, and sitting the difference was still evident, those broad shoulders that seemed made of rock. All of that plus his furrowed brow, the deep lines between his eyebrows, and his obvious displeasure at having to be there, at the gathering, at the noise, at the world in general that night.
Your grandmother brought you back to the hall with her warm and proud voice:
âDaena has begun practicing advanced equitation, her grandfather brought two Dornish coursers, how have you been getting on, dear?
The pride in your grandmother's voice was tangible as the heat of the fire, and her dazzling smile showed how happy it made her that her granddaughter was following Dornish traditions, that thread connecting to something ancient and hers.
You set your wine cup on the table with a slow and elegant gesture, and your hand rested on the tablecloth a moment before sliding, without hurry, without abruptness, a little further to the right. All the eyes at that end of the table were fixed on you, waiting for your answer.
âIt is a beautiful horse âyou said, with that voice of yours that always sounded as if you carried all the time in the worldâ, swift and with a very delicate temperament. But that makes riding it more challenging.
And just as your grandfather burst out in a proud laugh at his brave granddaughter, you let your hand fall with all the calm in the world onto Maekar's groin, squeezing.
âShit!
Maekar's curse exploded in the hall like a stone in a still lake. He stood up abruptly, the weight of his body pushing the table forward with a screech of wood, his chair falling backward with a dry thud against the stone floor.
âBloody hell!
The silence that followed was absolute. Every conversation cut short, every cup paused midway, every head turned toward him. The children, who never quieted for anything, stood open-mouthed. The servants approached cautiously, as if approaching a wounded animal, trying to gather what had spilled and straighten what had fallen.
âMaekar! Do not say those words in front of your niece! âYour grandfather's voice thundered with that authority that needed no shouting to fill the hall.
âAre you all right, uncle?
You looked at him with the clearest and most detached eyes in your arsenal, and you had them well trained. Your voice emanated nothing but purity and genuine concern, the voice of someone who has done nothing in their life but embroider and pray.
Maekar returned a look that began as pure confusion, eyebrows drawn together, eyes searching for something in your face that would explain the inexplicable, and then that confusion mixed with a hot and controlled anger. But the anger lasted barely a second before the awareness of all the gazes upon him crushed it and transformed it into something that struggled to resemble composure.
âYes⊠yes, I just need rest. The journey has brought me a great deal of stress.
He made a short bow toward the king, rigid and too quick to be entirely elegant. And as he walked toward the exit, he glanced at you sideways, with that careful distance someone adopts when they have just understood that something in their world has changed and are not sure whether to run or stay completely still.
At the corner of your lips a small smile formed, barely perceptible, that did not escape Maekar.
The dinner of the previous night, despite the scandal Maekar had caused in the hall, ended in calm. Time did its work, the wine helped, and toward the end of the evening everyone had returned to laughter and family stories, that particular warmth that exists only when people who have known each other all their lives reunite after a long time apart. A sweet and slightly melancholy satisfaction remained in everyone, of catching up, of remembering who they were to one another.
It was early in the small hours, that strange time when night has not quite finished leaving but the day already announces itself in the movements of servants, in the sound of water buckets and brooms dragging across stone corridors. The air was damp and cold, that cold that creeps up sleeves and climbs the neck, and the sky remained completely dark, barely crossed by the grey promise of dawn on the horizon.
You were already completely ready.
The dress was a pale rose that in the torchlight appeared almost white, almost nacre, with that delicate tone only achieved with fabric dyed twice in rose water. The outer silk fell in perfect folds from a fitted bodice that shaped the torso with precision, embroidered in golden thread with small intertwined dragons so fine they resembled lace from a distance. The sleeves were long and flared, falling from the elbow in a more vaporous fabric, almost transparent, that brushed the floor when you walked and made it whisper.
Your hair, platinum white with those copper highlights, was gathered in an elaborate braid interwoven with pink silk ribbons falling loosely between the strands. The diadem resting on your forehead was of fine gold. Your violet eyes, framed by nearly white lashes, held that quiet gleam of someone who knows exactly the effect they produce. Cheeks faintly rosy from the early morning cold, lips a shade darker than the dress.
A too-spoiled girl who had become something difficult to name. Too young to be ignored. Too cherished to be underestimated.
As you advanced down the corridor toward where your grandmother awaited, Sanda walked half a step behind you, her presence as habitual as your own shadow, and the soft sound of your steps on the stone was the loudest thing in that empty hallway.
It was then that you noticed.
Ahead, past the arch that led to the armory, a tall and robust man, almost hunched from the effort, practiced alone against a wooden dummy. His sword fell on the figure with a force that shook the support from its base, again and again, as if the dummy had done something unforgivable. The sound arrived rhythmic and heavy, wood against wood, the weight of an enormous body behind every blow.
Something new was born in you, something that started as mischief but had another component mixed in, a warm excitement without a clear name that you recognized all the same. The display of strength from that man made you imagine many things. The large hands gripping that hilt. The shoulders moving beneath the fabric of his shirt. You stood completely still watching him for a moment, and only then decided.
âSanda âyou called to your handmaid in a low voice, without taking your eyes off the man in the armoryâ. I am going to greet my uncle. Go ahead and let my grandmother know I will arrive a little late.
Sanda curtsied without asking questions, accustomed as she was to obeying your every whim and your every whisper with the same impeccable dedication. Her steps faded down the corridor and left you alone.
You approached slowly, with that deliberate calm you used when you wanted something to appear accidental. Your feet on the stone made almost no sound in your soft leather boots. You entered the armory, that place you rarely frequented and that smelled of cold metal and sword oil, and advanced without saying anything, studying his back.
But he noticed. He noticed before you understood he had noticed, because in a movement that left no time for anything he spun and leveled the sword at you, the point a few centimeters from your face, eyes narrowed and body taut as a bow.
When he recognized you, his face made the full journey. Confusion. Recognition. And then the memory of the previous night falling over him like cold water.
âYou!
He looked at you as if you were a monster or his worst nightmare materialized in the small hours. It was the first time anyone had looked at you like that, with that genuine horror mixed with something resembling panic, and you discovered with some surprise that you liked it. You liked having a man like your grumpiest uncle, the most serious one, the one who never smiled in portraits, like this. You gave him a slow and playful smile, and brought a finger to your lips.
âYou should not shout like that âyou said softly, with that sweetness of yours that never promised anything goodâ. You will wake everyone.
Your finger moved from your lips to the blade of his sword, which he had not yet fully lowered. You rested it with studied delicacy on the cold spine of the steel and slid it slowly along the length of the blade, without taking your eyes off his, walking toward him centimeter by centimeter as you did.
âWhy are you afraid of me, uncle? It seems something disturbed you last night.
Maekar lowered the sword and set it aside with a dry blow, and the sound of metal on stone echoed through the small space. He turned toward you with that extended finger and pressed lip, overflowing with a rage he had been cooking all morning.
âYour father will hear of this âhe said in a low and dangerous voice, which was worse than shoutingâ. And he will know what kind of woman his daughter is. They have spoiled you far too much and you are shameless.
He advanced as he made his threats, finger pointing at your face, his immense body closing the distance with that storm energy that would have made anyone step back.
You took advantage of exactly that.
You closed the remaining distance at once, rose on tiptoe and kissed him on the lips so quickly and so chastely that perhaps it did not happen, so brief it was perhaps only the brush of air between two mouths that were too close. And before he finished processing what had occurred, you were already running. Running as you could not remember ever having run, not even as a girl escaping the septas, the soles of your leather boots striking the stone floor, the silk ribbons of your hair flying back, the laughter smothered in your throat because you could not let it out without betraying yourself.
âGood luck getting anyone to believe you, uncle! âyou shouted without looking back.
And you left him there, turned to a statue in the middle of the armory, the sword forgotten on the floor, not yet finished reacting. It took a long moment. Several moments. And when his body belonged to him again, he slowly raised his hand to his lips, with an expression that did not know whether it was fury or stupefaction, and felt how a strange and not entirely unwelcome heat grew between his legs as he watched you disappear through the stone arch as if you had never been there at all.
When you reached your grandmother, still breathless, the smile on your face was so wide there was no human way to hide it. Your cheeks gleamed. Your eyes gleamed. You were, in that moment, the exact image of someone who has just done precisely what they wanted and does not regret it at all.
Your grandmother looked up at you with that expression of hers for reading people, the same one that had intimidated kings and lords for decades.
âYou are glowing today, my love âshe said with a tenderness that held, nonetheless, a note of curiosityâ. Did something special happen?
You took your seat beside her with all the grace you had been taught, straightened your back, crossed your hands on your lap, and smiled with that still-water smile of yours.
âNothing special. I just spoke a little with my uncle Maekar. He is very funny.
Your grandmother frowned for a second, the phrase too strange to ignore, the smile on your face too specific to be innocent. But you were her favorite granddaughter, and there were things a grandmother preferred not to finish understanding.
Maekar had spent two days turning it over.
The image returned on its own, uninvited: her fingers sliding along the blade of his sword with that deliberate calm, her violet eyes holding his gaze without blinking, and then that very brief instant, that brush that perhaps was nothing and yet remained there, pressed to his lips like an ember. He had repeated it to himself enough times to convince himself: he had to speak with Baelor. It was the right thing. It was necessary.
He knocked on the study door with his knuckles, entered without waiting too long, and stopped dead.
She was there.
Standing by the window, in that dark blue silk dress that made her white hair appear made of light, hands crossed with perfect composure, chin at the exact angle. As if she had been waiting for him. As if she had always been there.
Baelor looked up from his desk with a genuine and open smile, the smile he reserved only for his daughter.
âMaekar, what good timing. We were just wanting to speak with you.
We. Maekar noted the plural. He also noted his niece's smile, small and perfectly controlled, with that corner raised barely a millimeter that he had already learned to read.
âDaena has made a request of me this morning âBaelor continued, leaning back in his chair with the satisfaction of a man about to deliver good newsâ. She wants to learn advanced equitation. The horses that arrived from Dorne have a temperament that requires an expert hand, and she wants to rise to the occasion. âHe paused, looking at his daughter with that pride he made no attempt to concealâ. And she has specifically asked that you be the one to teach her.
The silence lasted exactly as long as it took Maekar to find words.
âIâŠ
âYou are the finest rider in the family âsaid Baelor with an absolute naturalness, as if commenting on the weatherâ. No one better than you. âHe rose and came around the desk, placing a hand on his shoulder with genuine affectionâ. This girl has fulfilled everything asked of her without ever complaining. Her duties, her commitments, the court. She has never asked for anything for herself. âBaelor's voice softened with a tenderness that had no defense against itâ. She deserves whatever she asks for, Maekar. She has earned it.
Maekar looked at her.
She returned his gaze with an expression of innocence so complete, so absolutely impenetrable, that in that moment he understood with a painful and almost comical clarity that there was nothing he could say to his brother. No words. No accusation. Baelor would not believe him. Not because he was a naive man, but because his daughter was perfect and he knew it and she knew it and now Maekar knew it too.
At the corner of her lips that smile appeared. Only a second. Only for him.
Maekar clenched his jaw.
âOf course âhe said in a voice that revealed absolutely nothing.
The morning stables had that particular smell of damp hay and clean leather, and the light came through the high windows drawing golden stripes across the packed-earth floor. The stable hands had discreetly withdrawn as soon as Maekar arrived, as they always did when the prince wanted to work in peace.
They had not counted on the company.
She arrived punctual, which was already in itself a declaration of intent. She dressed for riding, a divided skirt of soft tawny leather over dark hose, a fitted cream wool tunic with her hair gathered in a low and firm bun at the nape, secured with two silver pins. No diadem. No layers of silk. Reduced to the essential, and even so entirely herself.
âGood morning, uncle âshe said in a voice of still water.
Maekar did not answer. He pointed to the courser with a dry gesture and began.
The lesson was, on its surface, perfectly normal. He explained the posture, the communication with the animal through legs and reins, the difference between guiding and controlling. She listened with genuine attention, asked the right questions, executed corrections with a swiftness that would have been satisfying in any other context.
The problem was everything else.
When he approached for the first time to correct the position of her elbows, his fingers wrapped around her forearm with the practical intention of repositioning it, and she did not move exactly as she should have but just a centimeter less, so that her shoulder ended up grazing his chest for a second longer than necessary. Maekar withdrew his hands.
When he showed her how to tighten the reins, she turned her head to look at him from atop the horse, and they were too close, her violet eyes directly over his, with that expression that promised nothing good and that was nevertheless difficult to stop looking at.
When she dismounted and he extended his arm to help her down, she took it without taking her eyes off him throughout the entire descent, and when her feet touched the ground she remained there, at a distance that was not that of a niece with her uncle.
Maekar said nothing. He did not step back either.
That was his mistake.
Because she noticed. She noticed with that precision of hers for reading what others tried not to show, and something in her expression changed, became quieter and more certain at the same time, like someone who has just confirmed something they suspected.
The lesson ended. The stable hands were still outside. The light had shifted angle and the stable was quieter than before.
Maekar gathered the courser's reins to lead him back to his place and she walked beside him, and when he stopped in front of the animal's box and turned to say something about the next lesson, she was too close again, and this time there was no sliding of fingers along swords nor excuse of correcting posture.
She rose on tiptoe and kissed him.
Not like the first time.
This time it was a kiss with weight, with intention, with her hands rising to his chest and her mouth claiming his with a determination that had nothing accidental about it. Maekar felt the impact as something physical, a second of absolute paralysis before his body reacted.
She tried to pull away. She tried to turn and run as the time before.
His hand found the bun at her nape before she managed a single step, fingers closing around the silver pins and the secured hair, stopping her with a firmness that did not hurt her but admitted no argument. He pulled her back and brought her close to his face, and when he spoke he did so with his teeth barely parted, his voice low and taut as a string about to snap.
âIf you are not capable of behaving yourself âhe saidâ, I will have to teach you how.
There was a silence.
She looked at him from that minimal distance, with flushed cheeks and altered breathing, and in her eyes there was something Maekar had not seen before, something that was not mischief but something deeper and more honest than that. She looked at him directly, without averting her eyes, and said in a voice that was softer than usual:
âThen teach me.
Without letting go of her hair bun, he led her to the back room, pulled her inside, and then followed her. She stood before him, in that riding dress, her hair bun undone by his hand. Without letting go of her hair bun, he led her to the back room, pulled her inside, and then followed her. She stood before him, in that riding dress, her hair bun undone by his hand, and for the first time
He sat down on a bench and held out his hand, pulling her onto his lap with his back straight. Maekar's hand first explored her buttocks with his fingers, then moved down to her groin, making her shudder and let out a moan at the firm pressure.
"Now do you understand how it feels? I'm going to teach you to respect your uncle." With that, his palm moved up and down her buttocks, repeating the motion three more times. His hand was heavy and large; her buttocks were still sensitive, but what truly ached was her throbbing center, and she felt herself becoming wet.
He helps you rise, and you sit on his lap; he cradles you as your head falls unconscious onto his chest. His hand gently strokes your cheeks, bringing you back to consciousness. "Are you alright?" You can only smile and nod, knowing your routine will never be the same again, not now that your new request to your father and grandparents is that they marry you off to Maekar, They were going to allow it even if he didn't want to.
The journey to Ashford was supposed to be an escape â from the court's whispers, from your grandmother's suffocating lessons, from everything. Instead it left you drained, lonely, and quietly aching for your husband. When Baelor finally walks through your door that night, tense and distant, you realize you're done staying quiet about what you need. Warm water, candlelight, and the first I love you spoken out loud.
Warnings: đ MDNI â Explicit sexual content-Established relationship (married couple)-Consensual intimacy-Bathtub / water sex-Emotional intimacy-Soft!Baelor, needy!reader-Brief emotional tension before resolution-First "I love you"-Hurt/comfort (light)-2nd person POV / Reader insert
------------
The journey to Ashford had left you exhausted in body and soul.
You had insisted on accompanying your husband Baelor, partly to escape the whispers of the court that seemed to grow louder every time he was absent, and partly to free yourself from your grandmother's lessons, which had lately been suffocating you with their weight. You had also seen it as an opportunity to spend time with your siblings, though that hope dissolved the moment they found a gap in the security and vanished without a word, turning the journey into something far lonelier and more tense than you had anticipated, with your grumpy father as your only constant company.
The stress had been building, mostly because of your younger brother Aegon, at the mercy of the sadistic Aerion and the careless Daeron. All you could do was hope he found kind people along the way until he made it home.
Now you were in the bath, letting the warmth of the water undo the knots in your shoulders.
The rooms in Ashford were spacious and high-ceilinged, but the darkness made them feel intimate; only the candles broke through the shadows, casting golden light over the stone walls. The servants had come and gone several times, arranging everything to your requests, until you had asked them to leave you alone.
Submerged to your shoulders, with your head resting against the edge of the tub, you heard the footsteps. You recognized them immediately: heavy, deliberate. Baelor's.
He entered without knocking, as he always did, and didn't even scan the room to look for you. He went straight to the small table and began removing the pin from his cloak and his rings, one by one, as though each piece of metal weighed twice what it should. His shoulders were tense and his gaze was lost somewhere that didn't exist in that room. Something was wrong â you knew it with the same certainty with which you recognized his footsteps.
And you had been swallowing your own complaints for far too long.
âYou've been busy the entire journey.
The remark barely seemed to pull him from his thoughts.
âI couldn't even spend the nights with you.
You watched him from the tub, your chin resting on the edge.
âI missed you.
That got his attention.
Something in his expression shifted when he found you like that, bare in the steam and the trembling candlelight. He approached slowly, leaned over you, and pressed a soft kiss to the top of your head, cradling your face in one large, warm hand.
âDon't be so needy, my princess âhe murmured. The tenderness in his voice softened the tease until it was barely a tease at all, more like a caressâ. I thought of you every night. But if I had come into your tent, I'm not sure your father would have been pleased to hear us.
You let out a nervous laugh. It was the first time the three of you had been together since the wedding, and while your father hadn't openly objected, his weighted silence said enough.
âBut we're not in the camp anymore âyou replied.
You closed your eyes and pressed your cheek into his palm, seeking that warmth. Then you felt the back of his fingers graze your other cheek, trailing down your neck with a deliberate slowness that made every inch of bare skin beneath the water grow more aware of itself. The sensitivity multiplied like that, with nothing to muffle it.
âYou are my greatest temptation, my dragon âhe said quietlyâ. You're going to be the end of me.
You opened your eyes and gave him a shameless smile, just before his hand descended to your chest and took hold of you firmly, with that particular blend of strength and possessiveness that belonged only to him. A moan escaped your throat, muffled and urgent, the product of days of contained need. Your back arched on its own; you had to grab his arm to keep yourself from sinking into the water.
Baelor's face showed satisfaction and something close to reverence â lips parted, breathing heavier, letting small curses fall quietly between them. You wanted desperately to kiss him, but instead you turned your face toward the hand cradling your head and pressed a slow kiss to his palm, while his fingers continued their work beneath the water, gently teasing your nipple.
Then he slipped his thumb between your lips. You took it without hesitation, closing your mouth around it, pressing your tongue against it as he pushed deeper. At the same time, his other hand began to descend along your stomach, sliding beneath the warm, clouded water until his fingers found the center of you. He worked you with the precision of someone who knows you by heart, and a tremor moved through your entire body.
âBaelor, please âyou let out, your voice breaking into a whimperâ. Please.
He answered by bringing his mouth to yours in an urgent, unsteady kiss. You used his closeness to wind both hands around his neck and pull him closer still, while your fingers searched blindly for the buttons of his shirt. Baelor pulled his hand from the water and stood, and you protested with a moan that filled the room.
He removed his outer shirt and you stretched from the tub to pull his trousers down, finding him already halfway there. Completely bare, he lifted one leg into the tub and then the other, settling between your legs with care, bracing himself against the edge to bring his face closer to yours. The kiss he gave you then was the opposite of the last one: tender, slow, as if he had all the time in the world. Kneeling between your legs in the warm water, he held you by the waist.
You pulled back just slightly from the kiss, your lips still grazing his.
âI need you so much âyou whispered.
âI need you too âhe answered, with the same urgency and the same softness.
Baelor turned you gently until he was the one lying back in the tub and you were draped over his chest, his body warm and solid beneath yours. You pushed yourself upright, braced your hands on his chest, and shifted your legs until you were seated over him, looking down at him.
âThat's it, sweetheart âhe murmured, his hands steadying you at the hips, guiding you as his body met yours.
You lowered yourself slowly, letting him open you little by little, and pressed your forehead to his shoulder to focus on breathing and keep yourself from losing control entirely. His hands moved along your back unhurriedly, giving you time, giving you something to hold onto.
When you reached the limit, you lifted your head to look him in the eyes.
âBaelor⊠I love you.
His hands went still on your back. His face softened in a way you rarely saw: the purple eye brighter than ever, the pupil wide and dark, a small and genuine smile that had nothing to do with politics or court. Only with you. He drew you to him and kissed you slowly.
âI love you too âhe said when you parted, his voice lower and gentler at onceâ. You are the light of my life.
They held each other's gaze for a moment, complete in that silence full of heat and water and candlelight.
Then you began to move.
Baelor guided you with his hands at your hips, giving force to each movement, and the two of you lost yourselves in the rhythm you built together, between moans and broken breaths, the water splashing and spilling over the edges of the tub onto the stone floor. The world of the court, of your father, of your vanished siblings, of the whispers, remained entirely outside that dark, candlelit room.
You reached your peak first, with a sigh that was almost his name. Baelor followed shortly after, pulling you against his chest.
Several minutes passed like that, tangled and still in the now-lukewarm water, feeling complete in a way neither of them could have put into words â though, as it happened, they had just found them for the very first time.
The journey to Ashford was supposed to be an escape â from the court's whispers, from your grandmother's suffocating lessons, from everything. Instead it left you drained, lonely, and quietly aching for your husband. When Baelor finally walks through your door that night, tense and distant, you realize you're done staying quiet about what you need. Warm water, candlelight, and the first I love you spoken out loud.
Warnings: đ MDNI â Explicit sexual content-Established relationship (married couple)-Consensual intimacy-Bathtub / water sex-Emotional intimacy-Soft!Baelor, needy!reader-Brief emotional tension before resolution-First "I love you"-Hurt/comfort (light)-2nd person POV / Reader insert
------------
The journey to Ashford had left you exhausted in body and soul.
You had insisted on accompanying your husband Baelor, partly to escape the whispers of the court that seemed to grow louder every time he was absent, and partly to free yourself from your grandmother's lessons, which had lately been suffocating you with their weight. You had also seen it as an opportunity to spend time with your siblings, though that hope dissolved the moment they found a gap in the security and vanished without a word, turning the journey into something far lonelier and more tense than you had anticipated, with your grumpy father as your only constant company.
The stress had been building, mostly because of your younger brother Aegon, at the mercy of the sadistic Aerion and the careless Daeron. All you could do was hope he found kind people along the way until he made it home.
Now you were in the bath, letting the warmth of the water undo the knots in your shoulders.
The rooms in Ashford were spacious and high-ceilinged, but the darkness made them feel intimate; only the candles broke through the shadows, casting golden light over the stone walls. The servants had come and gone several times, arranging everything to your requests, until you had asked them to leave you alone.
Submerged to your shoulders, with your head resting against the edge of the tub, you heard the footsteps. You recognized them immediately: heavy, deliberate. Baelor's.
He entered without knocking, as he always did, and didn't even scan the room to look for you. He went straight to the small table and began removing the pin from his cloak and his rings, one by one, as though each piece of metal weighed twice what it should. His shoulders were tense and his gaze was lost somewhere that didn't exist in that room. Something was wrong â you knew it with the same certainty with which you recognized his footsteps.
And you had been swallowing your own complaints for far too long.
âYou've been busy the entire journey.
The remark barely seemed to pull him from his thoughts.
âI couldn't even spend the nights with you.
You watched him from the tub, your chin resting on the edge.
âI missed you.
That got his attention.
Something in his expression shifted when he found you like that, bare in the steam and the trembling candlelight. He approached slowly, leaned over you, and pressed a soft kiss to the top of your head, cradling your face in one large, warm hand.
âDon't be so needy, my princess âhe murmured. The tenderness in his voice softened the tease until it was barely a tease at all, more like a caressâ. I thought of you every night. But if I had come into your tent, I'm not sure your father would have been pleased to hear us.
You let out a nervous laugh. It was the first time the three of you had been together since the wedding, and while your father hadn't openly objected, his weighted silence said enough.
âBut we're not in the camp anymore âyou replied.
You closed your eyes and pressed your cheek into his palm, seeking that warmth. Then you felt the back of his fingers graze your other cheek, trailing down your neck with a deliberate slowness that made every inch of bare skin beneath the water grow more aware of itself. The sensitivity multiplied like that, with nothing to muffle it.
âYou are my greatest temptation, my dragon âhe said quietlyâ. You're going to be the end of me.
You opened your eyes and gave him a shameless smile, just before his hand descended to your chest and took hold of you firmly, with that particular blend of strength and possessiveness that belonged only to him. A moan escaped your throat, muffled and urgent, the product of days of contained need. Your back arched on its own; you had to grab his arm to keep yourself from sinking into the water.
Baelor's face showed satisfaction and something close to reverence â lips parted, breathing heavier, letting small curses fall quietly between them. You wanted desperately to kiss him, but instead you turned your face toward the hand cradling your head and pressed a slow kiss to his palm, while his fingers continued their work beneath the water, gently teasing your nipple.
Then he slipped his thumb between your lips. You took it without hesitation, closing your mouth around it, pressing your tongue against it as he pushed deeper. At the same time, his other hand began to descend along your stomach, sliding beneath the warm, clouded water until his fingers found the center of you. He worked you with the precision of someone who knows you by heart, and a tremor moved through your entire body.
âBaelor, please âyou let out, your voice breaking into a whimperâ. Please.
He answered by bringing his mouth to yours in an urgent, unsteady kiss. You used his closeness to wind both hands around his neck and pull him closer still, while your fingers searched blindly for the buttons of his shirt. Baelor pulled his hand from the water and stood, and you protested with a moan that filled the room.
He removed his outer shirt and you stretched from the tub to pull his trousers down, finding him already halfway there. Completely bare, he lifted one leg into the tub and then the other, settling between your legs with care, bracing himself against the edge to bring his face closer to yours. The kiss he gave you then was the opposite of the last one: tender, slow, as if he had all the time in the world. Kneeling between your legs in the warm water, he held you by the waist.
You pulled back just slightly from the kiss, your lips still grazing his.
âI need you so much âyou whispered.
âI need you too âhe answered, with the same urgency and the same softness.
Baelor turned you gently until he was the one lying back in the tub and you were draped over his chest, his body warm and solid beneath yours. You pushed yourself upright, braced your hands on his chest, and shifted your legs until you were seated over him, looking down at him.
âThat's it, sweetheart âhe murmured, his hands steadying you at the hips, guiding you as his body met yours.
You lowered yourself slowly, letting him open you little by little, and pressed your forehead to his shoulder to focus on breathing and keep yourself from losing control entirely. His hands moved along your back unhurriedly, giving you time, giving you something to hold onto.
When you reached the limit, you lifted your head to look him in the eyes.
âBaelor⊠I love you.
His hands went still on your back. His face softened in a way you rarely saw: the purple eye brighter than ever, the pupil wide and dark, a small and genuine smile that had nothing to do with politics or court. Only with you. He drew you to him and kissed you slowly.
âI love you too âhe said when you parted, his voice lower and gentler at onceâ. You are the light of my life.
They held each other's gaze for a moment, complete in that silence full of heat and water and candlelight.
Then you began to move.
Baelor guided you with his hands at your hips, giving force to each movement, and the two of you lost yourselves in the rhythm you built together, between moans and broken breaths, the water splashing and spilling over the edges of the tub onto the stone floor. The world of the court, of your father, of your vanished siblings, of the whispers, remained entirely outside that dark, candlelit room.
You reached your peak first, with a sigh that was almost his name. Baelor followed shortly after, pulling you against his chest.
Several minutes passed like that, tangled and still in the now-lukewarm water, feeling complete in a way neither of them could have put into words â though, as it happened, they had just found them for the very first time.
warnings: obviously targcest! babytrapping, smut, dubcon? noncon? manipulation, older man/younger woman, woman viewed as a possession, time typical relationship dynamics.
Building off of this and the incredible asks from darkbaelorfreakanon! Mostly doing this to consolidate all the thoughts we've been having on my blog about Baelor if he survived the mega-whack he got.
Baelor survives the trial of seven at Ashford Castle, but he's not the same â the hit of the morningstar damaged the part of his brain responsible for rational thinking and impulse control, as well as the part that held his knowledge of social cues and politeness.
Baelor comes out a changed man, no longer the kind and thoughtful prince who gave hope to the Seven Kingdoms. Now, the people call him the reincarnation of Maegor the Cruel; he's brash, rude and quick to anger, and even his sons tiptoe around him now.
Before his injury, he was content with his widower status. He didn't have any need or desire to remarry, but deep down... he held a shameful secret â he lusted over his younger brother's daughter.
However, he'd never thought properly about acting on his thoughts. You were young, energetic and full of life. Which young woman would wish to be tied to an older, greying man such as him?
He was always eager for Maekar's annual visits to the Red Keep, pleased to spend time in your company. You never minded speaking with him, happy to discuss politics or literature unlike your twin. He grew fond of you, and despite how much he hated the feelings brewing inside of him, he denied himself. It wasn't right.
Maekar tried to betroth you once you were of age, hoping to find someone worthy of your hand, and yet every suitor seemingly fizzled out â either they revoked their offer, or a scandal of theirs would come to light. So here you were, unwed and on the edge of spinsterhood.
And then Baelor's accident happened.
No longer did he feel guilt, disgust, or shame at the sight of you. Instead, he felt young again... lustful, shamelessly this time. His desire to pull you into his lap had never been so strong.
When Maekar receives a letter demanding that you visit the Red Keep, it's clear to him what's happening. And yet, your father can't say anything against it.
Baelor is deceptive â he's gentle at first, reminiscent of the uncle you used to know. You don't feel so bad tending to his wounds or helping pour his wine at council meetings, not even when the looks start to grow. Baelor was growing suspiciously close to his niece now, more than appropriate, they were saying.
You don't even notice when he starts isolating you, replacing your guards from Summerhall with those loyal to him. You're too occupied being by Baelor's side, and his pain is worse now, he says. You spend evenings by his side in his chambers, reading the histories as he requests. But, truly, you've only ever seen him as your uncle.
Never had you wished to follow the strange customs of your ancestors, instead hoping to marry a kind lord far away from the Crownlands and live peacefully.
Soon, Baelor's making his way to his father, demanding the hand of his niece as payment for the grave wound he's suffered. He wants you, and he doesn't want to have to play polite anymore. But it's only been a few months since the trial, and King Daeron is still grateful that his eldest son is alive and healthy... and as a princess, it is your duty to marry.
Even when you're pleading with your father, begging him not to marry you to your uncle, there is nothing he can do. It's been decided. Maekar's guilt grows tenfold; first, he'd almost killed his brother, and now he's gifting his daughter into the arms of the monster he's created.
The wedding, or more aptly, the wedding night, was horrific for everyone except Baelor. He forces Maekar to watch the consummation, pretending it's to make sure he sees his daughter will be treated right. Instead, Baelor is on top of you, heavy and punishing with his thrusts, and you can only lie there and take it. He doesn't stop for hours, moving you however he likes, even when you grow floppy and weak. He's not a brute, though â he's going to bring you to your peak, as many times as he deems necessary, even when you tell him itâs too much. And when you can't move unassisted in the morning (after he's taken you once more)? Well, he knows he's consummated his second marriage properly.
After that, there's no telling what Baelor will do, for he holds no shame. He'll push you up against the stone walls and hike your skirts up, shouting at those around you to leave, lest he order their eyes to be plucked out. He'll make you ride with him through the forest, only to order you to ride him by the riverbank, his hands guiding your hips up and down before heâs dragging you back onto your shared horse, cum seeping down your thighs.
The injury made his hunger all the more insatiable, and he doesn't see anything wrong with taking you wherever he likes, whenever he wants. The court is too scared to say anything, having heard how the last man to comment on the 'prince's whore of a wife' disappeared from court overnight.
The one incident that made the King speak to him was when he demanded you, as his wife, sit on his lap during the council meeting. He made no effort to hide when he rucked your skirts up your thighs halfway through the meeting, slotting you down onto his hardened cock in front of the council members, despite the desperate twists of your head in resistance. He made you sit there with his cock inside for the remainder of the meeting, your cheeks warm and eyes teary with sheer embarrassment, clear to all in the room. But no one can say anything to the Hand of the King, and once they finally leave, heâs flattening you against the table and finally having his way with you.
He isolates you until you have no one but him, burning the letters your father sends you, and then holding you when you cry at your father's neglect. His moods are so volatile â one moment he's sweet, praising you, and making you reminisce on the man your uncle used to be, and then the next, he's telling you that the only way you will ever leave his side is if you kill him yourself. You can never quite keep up.
Speaking of, he's going to give you his babe, that way, you could never leave his side. He is determined to give you more than one, but he knows that the mother of the future King's heirs isn't going to make it far from the Keep if she does manage to get outside the walls. He's already got two sons, but he's whispering to you about how he wants a daughter, a chubby-cheeked thing with your hair and his eyes. How he hopes you'll only give him sweet daughters like you.
He's seen the way you eye the small, giggling children at court and play with your younger siblings â being a mother would suit you so well, whilst occupying all your time with tending to his children. They'll be as needy as he, he guesses, and youâd have no time to fill your head with other fanciful notions. Just him and the life heâs given you.
And well, when your belly starts to swell â much to the horror of your visiting father, he's overjoyed. Now everyone will know who you belong to, and he supposes that you'll warm even more to him when he gives you such a precious gift.
(90 years later, when Joffrey reads the histories, heâs speaking of his favourite couple - King Baelor II and his wife. He speaks of how in love they were, how she bore him a bounty of sons and daughters, and how she never left his side throughout the years⊠Baelor ensured their history was written to his liking, threatening the lives of those who dared to try and write the truth.)
okay but where is pepper? is she still in morganâs life or did something happen between them?
some of this will be revealed throughout the story, so the relationships can feel a little confusing at first because the timeline jumps between the distant past and the more recent past.
but morgan and pepperâs relationship really fell apart after tony died. pepper went through an incredibly heavy period of grief, and with the weight of stark industries on her shoulders, she barely had time to take care of herself, much less focus on morgan.
as time passed, morgan basically grew up without a mother. she only saw pepper maybe once a month and was mostly raised by nannies, though she was always so independent that even they barely felt necessary.
morgan started acting out to get her motherâs attention. she literally set houses on fire multiple times, but pepper always saw it as accidents and never really looked deeper into it. over time, the âaccidentsâ kept piling up, and morgan became convinced her mother didnât love her enough to actually pay attention to her.
eventually, she stopped trying to impress her or get her attention at all, and naturally her behavior got worse. she became more reckless, more troublesome, eventually turning into a juvenile delinquent and a constant scandal in the news. the few times they did interact usually ended in screaming matches and mutual resentment.
their relationship became deeply poisoned by years of neglect, grief, and projection. pepper saw too much of tony in morgan, and morgan saw her mother as the person who abandoned her. both of them started viewing each other as obstacles in their own lives.
pepper knows she failed as a mother, but there are too many wounds between them now for either of them to apologize. morganâs biggest childhood trauma is her mother, and pepperâs greatest regret is leaving morgan behind. but in pepperâs mind, if she hadnât distanced herself, she probably never would have survived tonyâs death or the collapse of the family life they built together.
pepper never really acted like a mother beyond financially providing for her. she just left money on morganâs cards and let her do whatever she wanted.
and since happy was grieving may, rhodey was dealing with his own issues (and the skrull situation), morgan basically grew up without any real family around her.
pepperâs guilt over morganâs childhood turned into permissiveness. she let morgan get away with almost anything, constantly covering up scandals as best as she could, but never actually correcting her.
so by the time morgan was 12, she was basically free to do whatever she wanted. when morgan turned 12, pepper remarried william and had another child. (pepper is around 43 when she has her second baby), and she becomes focused on building a new family and trying to do things right this time.
the fact that pepper genuinely tries with her son, but never really did with morgan, only deepens morganâs resentment.
if anything, pepper overcompensates with her second child because she doesnât want to repeat the irreversible mistakes she made with morgan.
for morgan, this only reinforces everything she already believed growing up: that she was never truly wanted, just tolerated.
every time she had to be around pepperâs new family, she felt completely out of place in what was supposed to be her own home.
eventually, after a serious incident, morgan and pepper have a fight so intense that morgan ends up hurting her mother. that moment becomes the final fracture in their relationship.
after that, thereâs really no going back.
by 13, morgan starts living alone because pepper sees her as a danger to her son and as a mistake she no longer knows how to fix.
and morgan accepts it, because by that point, she believes it too.
synopsis: something's wrong and deep down you know what it is
warning: brief mention of hospitals & medical terminology, angst, sort of drawn out, tiniest mention of tony being taken in IM1
a/n: let this one marinate for too ling in the drafts. i tried to keep everything together and coherent, but this chapter is canonically supposed to take place over a few days up until tony and taken at the beginning of IM. next chapters will be during IM1.
word count: 5.8k
masterlist || next part
tony stark x daughter!reader
[gif from pinterest]
It was bright and early in Malibu. Despite it being early February, the still sun beamed down. Pepper sat in the living room, laptop open and scrolling down a catalog of designer dresses totally unaware of the figure approaching from behind her. She frowned in concentration, looking through pictures of one dress. She makes a small tut noise, disliking the dress, and clicks off and onto another dress that had caught her eye.Â
âWhat are you doing?âÂ
She lets out a gasp, her heart jumping in her chest and whips her head around to find you standing there, half awake and still in your PJâs. âOh, my god! You scared me.âÂ
You leaned over the back of the couch, as if you hadn't just scared the bejesus out of the poor overworked woman. You purse your lips together into a small pout, something youâve been doing since you were a kid, eyes skimming the catalog on screen. It was some posh high designer brand, one that you didnât even know existed. The price tag on the dress was enough to make your head spin.Â
Jeez, high tax-braked shopping happening over here.Â
âWhich one are you getting?â You asked.
Pepper blinks, her heart finally settled and moves the cursor towards a purple backless dress. âIâm thinking about this one, or this one,â she moves the cursor onto a green dress.Â
âNo.â You made a face in disagreement, nose scrunched and a light scowl on your face at the color and design of the dresses. You leaned over, arm reaching over her shoulder and started scrolling through the catalog yourself. âWhatâs the occasion?âÂ
âMy birthday.âÂ
You stopped, surprised âtoday?âÂ
âNo,â she smiled, âitâs in two days.âÂ
You stared at her for a moment, cataloging the information, before turning your back to the laptop. Youâd have to take Happy and one of Tonyâs cards to go find her something. You silently scrolled for a few seconds before coming across a navy blue backless dress.Â
âThis one.âÂ
Pepper took over, scrolling through the photos for her own inspection. Her green eyes take in every detail of the dress. You watched as her eyes lit up, as if this was the one. âItâs perfect.â
You smiled back, âgood.âÂ
You stood up straight, yawning aloud. Your eyes pricked with tears and you glanced back at the empty living room, âwhereâs the ogre?"Â
She tries to hold in a laugh, ducking her head to hide her smile. She clears her throat as she watches you walk around and face plant into the absurdly high priced couch. âAhem, Tonyâs out with Happy. Theyâre out getting him some new suits for his trip tomorrow.âÂ
âHm.â You nod, face still pressed into the cushions. âHeâs going to the award thing, right?âÂ
Pepper nods, not that you would see that. She clicks off of the website, having placed the order for the dress, and onto Tonyâs schedule where everything was meticulously planned for him to followâ if he felt like it. âHe leaves for Las Vegas tonight with Happy, Rhode, and Obi.âÂ
âAh,â you hummed, lifting your head up at the mean girl's name. âMay the force be with you.âÂ
Pepper softly smiled, âand then he has a flight to Bagram Air Base at six in the morning.âÂ
âHeâs not making it at six.â You point out. The concept of Tony Stark being on time.Â
âNo he wonât,â Pepper agreed, well aware of her bosses tendencies with âbeing on timeâ.
As if on que, the front doors swing open and Tony waltzes in with Happy in toe with his brand new designer suits. He makes a B-line towards you and Pepper, taking off his dark sunglasses with a flare of sass. He makes an array of hand gestures at you, âwhat is this? Itâs midday and youâre still in your My Little Pony pajamas.âÂ
All you could do was gawk at him, mildly annoyed that he had to speak to you so early in the morning and for him to just lie out of his ass. âTheyâre pink pajamas,â you narrowed your eyes at him, enunciating every word at him, âand itâs 8 in the morning.âÂ
He makes a face, hands coming up in defeat. He goes to say somethingâ a joke about how itâs probably that time of the month for youâ but stops remembering that the last time heâd made that joke he had to dodge an array of projectiles aimed at his head from you.Â
âAgain,â you sat up, âgo to work. Be a productive member of society.â
âHmm,â Tony puts a finger on his chin as he puts on a performance, as if he was actually considering your words. âNo.â
You have to stop yourself from rolling your eyes at his theatrics. Surprisingly after Tonyâs night out with Obadiah he was back to normal (or whatever is considered normal for him). Youâd thought with the reaction he had heâd be a lot more standoff-ish with you, not that you cared if he was or wasnât upset with you. You watched as he came around and sat next to Pepper.Â
âDid you talk to them?â You asked, hopeful.Â
Tony glanced at Pepper's laptop and then you. âItâs a no-go.â He shrugged, âsomething about hospital policy.âÂ
âOh no,â Pepper frowned, empathetic. âI really thought theyâd let you stay for a day or two.âÂ
You frowned, deflated. Great, now Iâll need to have a babysitter.Â
âBut, hey, no big deal.â Tony said, pulling out his phone. âYouâre grown enough to be by yourself.âÂ
âTony,â Pepper starts.Â
âWhat? You know what I was doing at her age?âÂ
âPlease, donât,â you cringed. If he was this promiscuous now at his grown age, imagine what he was like as a teen.Â
âLook, youâll be fine.â He turned towards Pepper, âsheâll be fine.âÂ
âI know sheâll be fine, itâs just-â
âYou know why sheâll be fine? Because youâre gonna be here.âÂ
The two go off into one of their tangents, bouncing off one another like an old married couple. You watched, entertained and thought to yourself that maybe they wouldnât be that bad of a pair.Â
Tony claps his hand together, âitâs settled. Pepperâs gonna come and check in.âÂ
Satisfied you get up to go change out of your PJâs and into a ruffled dress, denim vest, and slouched boots. Before you can go back downstairs, youâre overwhelmed with a need to call your mom.Â
The phone rings once, twice, three times before itâs picked up on the fourth.Â
âHello?â
You softly smiled at the sound of her voice. âHi, mom. I didnât wake you up did I?âÂ
âNo, honey, youâre fine. I was already awake.âÂ
You fall into easy conversation, asking each other what you ate for breakfast, what your plans were, but despite that thereâs still this uneasiness that you feel.Â
Maybe itâs because I havenât eaten yet, you try to rationalize.Â
âHey, mom,â you suddenly grow hesitant, âI was wondering what time I should come over.âÂ
Thereâs silence on the other side for a moment and you hold your breath. âIâm sorry, honey. Iâm not feeling well.âÂ
You quickly replied, dejected. âOh, no, itâs fineâ I get it. Maybe tomorrow?âÂ
Thereâs shuffling on the other end, âIâll let you know, sweetie.âÂ
You smile, âokay, mom, uh, Iâm gonna let you go. Iâll call you laterâ oh, make sure you eat and take all your medicine, and make sure you drink lots of water..âÂ
âOkay honey,â She softly chuckled. âIâll do just that. You take care of yourself too. Bye.âÂ
The phone goes silent and you just stand there in your room. She sounds okay, a little tired but that can just be chalked up to the medication she and the time of day. But, the way she took too long to answer made something in you jolt. With a sigh, you walk back down to the living room.Â
Pepperâs the first to notice your subtle change and asks, âare you okay.âÂ
âYeah,â you brushed off. âIâm fine. Just a little hungry.âÂ
Thankfully, she doesnât push any further and youâre able to head to the kitchen without any more questioning. You make your breakfastâ something simple and light, otherwise itâd make you nauseous, and sit down at the table.Â
No visitation today, no big deal. That just means I have time to look for the right present for Pepper.Â
â
You couldn't help but gawk at all the people who were eagerly shopping away at 8 in the morning. But then again, this is Rodeo Drive, one of the most lavish and prestigious shopping areas that spanned three blocks. It was a magnet for those who shop luxury and for tourists. But still, shopping at 8 in the morning? Absolutely not, Iâd rather be in bed.Â
But youâre not. Instead, youâre just like everyone else, shopping at 8 in the morning. Youâve just spent a good hour at the Louis Vuitton store finding the right pair of heels for Pepper, wondering if it was good enough for the women whose shoe collection you would die for. Feeling a bit doubtful you decide to duck into a Cartier store and buy her a sleek watch and hope that she didnât have the same kind at home.Â
The drive back was quiet. Happy would occasionally glance back to you in the back passenger seats, staring off, in the rearview mirror. Surprisingly, Happy himself had been quiet, seemingly aware of the gloomy aura youâve had around you since yesterday morning. Your phone clenched in your hand and Happy takes it as a sign that once again, you were denied visitation.Â
He takes a gamble, âyou okay?â Your eyes flicker from out the window to his in the mirror. Happy almost cringes when you donât respond right away, is she okay? No sheâs not okayâ she looks like sheâs about to scream.
âYeah, I guess.âÂ
âYou sure, cause youâre doing this thing with your face andââ I really need to shut up.Â
âItâs just,â you sigh, slumping into the backseat, âI think something is up with my mom. She keeps saying that I can't visit which means something is wrong, but sheâs not telling me and I donât know what to do.âÂ
âHave you tried to talk to Tony?"Â
You frowned. âNo, why would I? Itâs not like he can do anything.âÂ
âWho knows,â he shrugs. âMaybe you should.âÂ
The two of you settle into silence for the rest of the ride back to Malibu. Talk to Tony? Mr. Emotionally Constipated? No way. What can he say anyway? âWow that sucks, anyways Iâm gonna party,â Yeah, no. Iâd rather take my chances with a Magic Eight Ball.
The car comes to a stop and you do your best to sneak the presents up stairs without Pepper noticing. Thankfully, she was preoccupied down in the workshop, no doubt talking Tonyâs ear off and reminding him the importance of being on time for the awards. You hide them in your closet next to the tape and red gift bag that youâd already stashed.Â
Not bad for some last-minute birthday shopping.Â
Youâre interrupted by a commotion downstairs, peeling you out of your room and perched by the railing of the upstairs balcony that overlooked the bottom floor. You could hear Tony (shocker) yapping away with two other people. You step down the stairs to get a better view and find Obadiah and Rhode.Â
Obadiah sits sprawled out across the couch like he owned the place and Rhode stood by the mini cart-bar, pouring themselves a drink. He turns and catches a glimpse of you coming down the stairs, calling out your name, catching the attention of Obadiah.Â
âHey,â you replied, giving him a small smile.Â
You had met Rhode before and had immediately deemed him as the other sane person in this mess. The first meeting was actually the day youâd moved into Tonyâs place. The Colonel had come storming in, ready to rip Tony a new one for ditching a high-stakes meeting with representatives of the military, but stopped in his tracks the minute he saw you.Â
It looked like he had short circuited when he was told that you were his daughter and that you would be staying with Tony for some time. Heâd fallen into a sputtering mess, confused as to how it was possible (not him having a kid, that was obvious, but how Tony was able to have custody of you). To be honest, he was ready to file for emergency custody, well aware that his best friend wasnât the fittest of dads (no offense to Tony).Â
Ultimately, heâd decided to keep an eye on the situation rather than taking any action prematurely. Instead, heâd swing by every couple of days to check in on you and make sure everything was running smoothly.Â
âYoung Stark!â Obadiah cheers from his place on the couch. You cringed at the nickname, ignoring him as you crossed the threshold.Â
You eye the glasses in Rhodeâs hands and then at the clock 10:53 a.m. âIsnât it a bit early for you to be drinking?âÂ
Rhode walks over, giving you half a chuckle, and hands Obadiah his glass. âYou try being on a flight with Tony.âÂ
You grimace, âyeah, nevermind.âÂ
The two men laugh at your âjokeâ and you deliberately take a seat away from Obadiah. You could feel his eyes on you, as if he was assessing your every move like he was trying to do before at the company. It sends a shiver down your spine, his gaze reminding you of an apex predator hunting his prey. Thankfully, itâs short lived as Tonyâs voice could be heard coming down the stairs while giving Pepper orders.Â
âGreat the gangs here,â he snaps his fingers in some rhythm, pointing his direction to the two other men. Heâs wearing a jet black suit with a maroon button up and red tinted aviator glasses. His hairâs slicked back and thereâs an expensive designer watch on his wrists.Â
âRight, let's get this show on the road.â Obadiah says, throwing the rest of his drink back and standing up, and you swore you could hear his knees pop a little.Â
âHappyâs loading the car and the jet is ready for take off.â Pepper says, dutiful as ever, hoping that Tony would leave on time for once.Â
Rhode and Obadiah start making their way to the front door and Tony goes to follow, but stops and pivots back to you, âhold on,â he reached into his pockets pulling out his wallet, reaching in and pulling out a couple of bills for you, âhere, get yourself some pizza.âÂ
Rhode gawks from the side, âTony thatâs five hundred dollars.â But Tony just shrugs.Â
His eyes linger on you for a second before he turns away, âif youâre gonna throw any parties make sure you take lots of good photos.âÂ
You watch him, Rhode, Obadiah, and Pepper walk out and to the car where Happy waited for them. Once the three were situated into the Rolls Royce Phantom, Happy takes his place behind the wheel and drives off leaving you and Pepper.Â
Thankfully, the rest of the day is uneventful. Pepper stayed for a couple of hours to make sure you were fine, while you were upstairs wrapping her gifts, before she went back to the office and then her place, promising to come back so that you two would have dinner together.Â
The moment she was gone you reached for your phone and dialed the number for your moms hospital. Okay, if you couldnât visit her then at least you could talk to her, but the phone kept going to voicemail, over and over again. You called her phone number, the clinic number, her doctor's number, but came up with nothing which in turn grew the pit in your stomach where anxiety happily settled into.Â
âMaybe theyâre just busy,â Pepper had said that night after sheâd gotten the information out of you. âSheâll call you when she can, now eat.â She nudged a slice of pizza your way.Â
Eventually, she had to leave (though she did try to stay, but you couldnât have her around while your brain spiraled), leaving you alone. You tried to go to bed, but the anxiety wouldnât let you. Maybe you just needed a change of scenery, which is what led you to the kitchen with a midnight snack. You sat at the table, slumped over a plate of an eaten grilled cheese sandwich, leaving the crust untouched.Â
Maybe Pepper should have stayed the night. You sighed, trying to shoo away the negative thoughts that had clouded you for most of the day. You should have known better. Being left alone with your never-ending thoughts never went well for you especially when you were pledged with anxiety. Somehow, the pit in your stomach had grown, making it harder to breathe.Â
Sheâll be fine, sheâll be fine.Â
Youâre so deep in your thoughts that you donât hear the sound of a car pulling into the driveway, or the laughter and flirtatious giggling that traveled up to the second floor, or the footsteps that grow closer to the kitchen.Â
âIsnât it past your bedtime?âÂ
Tony watched as your body flinched that the sound of his voice, as if it cut deep into you. Slowly, you turn to face him and Tony pauses at your watery eyes and frowns.Â
âWhat theâŠâ he muttered under his breath, shit, he wasnât ready for this. âUm, whatâs with the long face?â
You shake your head, wiping your eyes and standing up with your plate in one hand. âItâs, uh, itâs nothing.âÂ
Tony wordlessly watched as you threw away the crust and set the plate down in the sink. What the hell was he supposed to do? Hug you? Sing you a lullaby? Console you? Fuck. This was not Tonyâs forte. Heâd be the first to admit it, but him and emotions never go well together. He couldnât even deal with his, how the hell was he supposed to deal with a fourteen year oldâs emotion?Â
Okay, think. Sheâs sad. What do you do when someoneâs sad? Console. Got it.Â
He opens his mouth and hesitates before letting the first time that comes to his mind out. âYou sure itâs nothing, because your face looks like a mess.âÂ
God-fucking-damnit. Great going.
Your mouth goes agape and tears start to well in your eyes, âwhat?âÂ
Tony groaned, I need a drink. He walked over, poured a drink, and gulped it one go. âLook,â he starts firm, setting the glass down in front of him, âI know Iâm not qualified for this conversation,â or any âbut, whatâs up?âÂ
He peeks over his left shoulder and finds you staring back at him. Surprisingly, you take his words into consideration. âItâs,â you sharply exhale, âitâs my mom. Iâve been, uh, trying to see her past few days, but sheâs not feeling well and theyâre not telling me anything they just keep saying that I canât see her, but I donât know why and I donât know what to do.âÂ
You had started to ramble mid-way through, and you would have gone further if Tony hadnât stopped you.Â
âI know.âÂ
You blinked. âWhat?âÂ
He just leaned back against the counter, âyeah, Iâve known.âÂ
âYou knew?âÂ
âThey give me reports almost everyday.â He said, practically nonchalant as if he couldnât understand what he was saying.Â
âYou knew and you told me nothing?â The disbelief in your voice was clear as well as the simmering anger. âYou knew something was wrong and you didnât tell me?âÂ
âTust me, you didnât need to know.âÂ
You nearly scoffed, âI didnât need to know? I have every right to know. Thatâs my mother.âÂ
âLook, youâre a kidââÂ
âNo, you look. This wasnât part of our deal, remember? Youâre supposed to tell me these things, itâs my right to know them.âÂ
âItâs not a big deal,â he tried to back track, well aware of how angry you were growing, âsheâs a little sick right now, but sheâll get better in a few days and then you can go see her.âÂ
You scoffed, âright because I should listen to youâ someone who has no medical knowledge."Â
Tony clenched his jaw, growing annoyed by the constant back-talk, âIâm your father, which means I know what Iâm doing.âÂ
âWhat you are is a sperm-donor. You had fourteen years to step up, but you didnât so donât act like youâre my dad now.â You didnât have it in you to be in the same room as his let alone look at his stupid face, so you stormed out of the kitchen with tears burning in your eyes.Â
You practically ran up the stairs and into your room, face planting right into your pillows and breaking into a sob.Â
God, you hated this place, and hated him the most.Â
â
You couldnât sleep the entire night.Â
You tossed and turned, took another warm shower, and even had some melatonin gimmies, but you just couldnât fall asleep. You laid there, waiting for JARVIS to give his typical morning rundown.Â
âGood Morning Miss. Itâs 7 a.m. The weather is 48 degrees Fahrenheit with scattered clouds. The surf conditions are fair with waist-to-shoulder high lines. High tide will be at 10:52 a.m.âÂ
âHas he left?â Your voice came out rough and heavy.Â
âNo, Mr. Stark has not left.âÂ
You let out something thatâs in between a groan and a sigh. If you went downstairs now then thereâs a chance youâd run into him, but if you didnât thatâd mean youâd have to stay upstairs until he left (which could be hours). You mentally weigh your options, creating a pros and cons list, but it all goes out the window when your stomach decides to make itself (and its hunger) known.Â
âFine,â you muttered to yourself, crawling out of bed. You walk over to the bathroom sink and nearly flinch at your own reflection. Guess a night of no rest and the occasional crying session really did a number on you.Â
You sighed, nothing a little concealer couldnât fix.Â
Thankfully, it did help mask the bags under your eyes, but they did nothing for the redness around your iris. You stared at yourself in the mirror, face almost pressed up against the reflective material, while deciding how you wanted to deal with the redness. Eyedrops, maybe? Or Sunglasses, like the oversized ones that Paris Hilton wore.
You decided to stick with the eyedrops for now, deciding that sunglasses indoors were just a little bit too much for you. You could hear shuffling and someone talking downstairs, assuming that it was either Pepper or Tony (or both), and reached for your gifts for the strawberry blonde.Â
Gift bag in hand you walked down the steps expecting to find Pepper, not an unknown blonde woman wearing a white dress shirt and her underwear.Â
What the fuck?
Pepper stood facing your way whilst the unknown woman had her back towards you. âThat's JARVIS. He runs the house. I've got your clothes here. They've been dry-cleaned and pressed, and there's a car waiting for you outside that will take you anywhere you'd like to go.â
âYou must be the famous Pepper Potts,â the woman says, as if she was trying to size up against Pepper. You stood back, watching it all unfold, who is this chick?
âIndeed I am.â Pepper replied with a nicely masked passive aggressive smile and a hand off of the woman's clothes.Â
She eyes her dry-cleaned and pressed clothes that had been pushed her way and decides to dig her grave, âafter all these years, Tony still has you picking up his dry-cleaning.âÂ
Your jaw nearly falls open at the woman's audacious comment.Â
Pepper, however, handles the comment with more grace and elegance than you admittedly could. âI do anything and everything that Mr. Stark requires, including, occasionally, taking out the trash. Will that be all?âÂ
The woman's haughty attitude quickly simmers down as the result of Peppers comment, but you however, donât think itâs enough. Just who does she think she is talking to Pepper like that?
You decide to do what your father does best and put on a little act. âUm, hello?â Your voice comes out small, hesitant even, catching the attention of both of the women. Pepper looks surprised to see you up and the blonde woman looks like a mix of shock and mortification. Suddenly, she becomes aware of the fact that sheâd been exploring her one-night stands home in nothing but a shirt and panties. One hand comes to her front, pulling the shirt down as if it could magically grow longer and reach floor length.Â
Sorry lady, Iâm a girlâs girl, but you decided to go after Pepper for literally no reason.Â
Pepper says your name and steps forwards as if she were subconsciously trying to block the other women from your view. Too late, Pep. Iâve already seen all of it.Â
You walk down the rest of the steps, hiding the bag behind you the best that you could, and barely glanced at the blonde. You gave Pepper a nice smile and brought forward the bag, surprising her. âHappy Birthday, Pep.âÂ
Her eyes flickered from you to the bag, not expecting the sudden gift, and smiled. âThank you, oh, when did you have the time to get this?â She takes the bag and you give her a hug, which she gladly accepts.Â
The women watched stunned, watching the affectionate exchange between me and Tony Stark's 'Assistantâ. âIâm sorry, butâ are youâ are you Tonyâs kid?âÂ
You let the words linger for a moment while you honed your best Kardashianesque cattyness. You slowly glanced over to her, almost startling her, and responded. âAre you still standing in my living room barely dressed?âÂ
Her face flushes and she gives off a quick apology and makes a run for it for Tonyâs room to get changed and out of the house. You watched her go and Pepper said your name in a chastising way, âyou didnât have to do that.âÂ
You shrugged, âshe started it by being rude to you.â You hooked your arm around hers, pulling her to the couch, âis this why you try to hide Tonyâs late night flings from me? So I donât get to see how weird they are?âÂ
âPartially.â she replied.Â
You sit side-by-side and eagerly encourage her to open the gifts. She pulled out the shoe box first and opened it to reveal a pair of Louis Vuitton Red Bottoms. She lets out a gasp, maneuvering the shoe around in her hand to get a full view of the highly coveted shoes.Â
âTry them.âÂ
She sets the right shoe down, takes off her heel, and slips her foot into the new one. Her head snaps towards you, âhow did you know my exact size?âÂ
You shrugged, âmagic.â It wasnât. You had tried to sneak a glance at the size of shoe she was wearing the day you saw her looking for a dress, but that failed so instead, you turned towards JARVIS. âOkay, next ones.âÂ
She reached for the Cartier box, opening it to reveal a watch made of stainless steel. The face of the watch was a rectangle while a clock facing was squared; there was a row of diamonds coming down vertically on both sides (eleven from what youâd been told), with a blue stoned dial.
âOh, my god,â her jaw fell open as she took in the watch. Her fingers lightly trailed the face of the watch while it was still in the box. She glanced towards you, âyou didnât have toâââÂ
âYes I did,â you replied. âYou didnât sign up for whatever bullshit Tony and I have going on so, let me at least repay you like this.âÂ
She gave you a soft smile, thankful for the gifts. She starts to put back the gifts into their boxes when her eyes flicker towards the watch again and then back at you, âdid you?..â
âTake Tonyâs card? Yup. How else do you think I could afford all that?âÂ
Her phone starts to ring, Rhodeâs name appearing on the screen, and she sighs, picking it up. She gets up, giving you one last glance and walks over to the stairs to the workshop. âNo, James, I totally understand⊠I told him last night that he couldnât be late⊠yes, I know⊠Iâm gonna try again, right now.âÂ
She disappeared under the stairs and you decided to make yourself breakfast. Last night's grill cheese, and conversation, sat uncomfortably in your gut so you opted for something more light; a piece of toast with strawberry jam. You take note, right as you close the fridge door, of the bottles of organic apple juice. By the time youâve eaten and washed the few dishes you used, the blonde woman was gone and Tony was dressed in jeans, black shirt, and black leather jacket and a pair of red tinted sunglasses.Â
He glanced at you, but didn't say anything, which you were glad for. Happy was already waiting for Tony at the airstrip, packed and ready, while Pepper gentle-parented him. âYou canât delay this anymore, Tony, this was your idea.âÂ
Tony puts on one of his watches while either pretended to listen to Pepper or just zoned her out. They make their way towards the front door and you decide to follow after without much thought. Happy stands outside, waiting for Tony with the car packed and ready, but Tony decides to take the Audi, wanting to race Happy all the way to the airstrip.Â
Pepper glanced at you and tried to nudge you to say bye to Tony, no doubt feeling the tension, as if a âbyeâ would fix everything. He walks towards his Audi R8, pauses, and turns back around. Pepper nearly has a conniption, almost stepping forwards and probably willing to drive Tony to the airstrip herself, but stops when she sees him make a B-line to you.Â
You stood leaned against the door frame with your arms crossed, tensing as he approached you. He stands around an armlength away and says nothing (and neither do you). You debate walking back inside considering the yap-aholic had suddenly gone mute when he finally speaks, albeit hesitantly.Â
âI should have told you, I get it. And when I come back weâll talk about all of it, okay?â His tones surprisingly somber, as if it had taken a lot for him to swallow his pride and admit he was wrong (which it did).Â
You chew at the inside of your cheek, wanting to throw another quip at him, but the sudden humbleness (sort of) catches you off guard.Â
âOkay.âÂ
And as if a light had switched, he goes back to his perky self and walks over to the car. You watched as he opened the door and sent a smug smile your way, âdonât miss me too much.âÂ
The Audi comes alive and Tony swiftly pulls out of the driveway, leaving you and Pepper. With a light groan you head back inside with Pepper right behind you and collapse onto the couch.Â
Maybe I should have thrown my shoe at him.Â
â
Youâre startled awake by the sound of your phone ringing right next to you. Half-asleep, you answer it and bring it to your ear.Â
âYeah?â you murmured, voice heavy with sleep.Â
âThis is Dr. Williams from the Hope Cancer Center,â the somberness in the personâs voice is enough to pull you out of sleep. You sit up in bed as the doctor explains what's happened in the past few days. âYour mothers been quiet sick for some days and last night she caught an infections, and unfortunately sheâs just slipped into a comaââÂ
The doctor goes on, but you canât hear him anymore even if you tried. Only four words echo in your ears, sending a wave of nausea over you.Â
âSlipped into a comaâ
How does that happen? How do you go from having a cold to being in a coma?Â
âHello? Hello?âÂ
Your throat tightened and closed, the words dying before they could even be spoken. You felt as if your entire world had just stopped, because quite frankly it had.Â
âI understand that this is quite hard and difficult to understand, but if you could be here that would really help.âÂ
ââMâ âm coming.â You choke out the words and eventually the phone calls ends, leaving you in your dark room surrounded by silence. Your entire body shakes with shivers and your face is wet with tears you didnât even know you had shed.Â
The next few hours were a blur for you. Somehow youâd managed to call Pepper (you didnât, you were so out of it that JARVIS had to call her) whoâd rushed over to pick you up and drive to the clinic. Sheâd barely had enough time to put the car in park when youâd rushed out of the car and into the clinic. The attendants were able to usher you into the ICU where Dr. Williams was already waiting for you. He started to explain things further, but your attention was on your mother who laid on the hospital bed hooked up to machines and monitors. She looked so weak and lifeless, nothing like the women you know who single handedly raised you with such grace and vibrancy.Â
Your fingers tightly wrapped around her frail hand, bringing it up so you could press it against your cheek. Tears fell down your face as your eyes stayed on her and the state that she was in. Youâd only been away a few days. She was fine then, smiling and laughing at your antics, so how could it all go south so quickly? It was a few days, not weeks, or months, but a few days.Â
You sat there, holding her hand, for hours. Pepper spoke with the doctors for you, planning for the next steps; observation, diagnosis, treatment. She spent nearly an hour calling other doctors and hospitals that your mother could be transferred to all over California, and then she left Tony a message explaining the severity of the situation before coming to sit with you. She sat near the back of the room, keeping her distant while also giving her support.Â
You both sat in silence, the only sound in the room coming from the monitor that tracked her heart rate and the light sound of her breathing through the oxygen mask. Your eyes would flicker between her and the monitor, suddenly hyperaware of everythingâ every breath sheâd take, every upward and downward spike on her heart monitor.Â
It wasnât until 8 in the morning when that painful silence was broken. Pepperâs phone rang with a call. Quietly, she answered and stepped out of the room, âRhode?âÂ
His voice comes out ragged and panic-filled. âTonyâs been kidnapped.â
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