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[sedonasummer]

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M A S T E R L I S T S

✦  A Knight of the Seven Kingdoms      akotsk & hotd · full masterlist

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  R E C E N T S

✦  More Than Enough · maekar targaryen ✦  Kiss it Better · fire lord zuko ✦  The Talk of the Keep · baelor targaryen ✦  Soft Boy · valarr targaryen ✦  Shall I Continue · maekar targaryen, baelor targaryen ✦  Keep You Close · baelor targaryen, valarr targaryen ✦  Final Straw · maekar targaryen

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  © @sedonasummer — please do not repost my work anywhere, translate it, plagiarize, or put into ai.

[sedonasummer]

I am just so tired and unmotivated.

If I ever get through my drafts it will be a miracle 😔

[crayonbug]

[sedonasummer]

Hit the road if you will

[sedonasummer]

First: Congrats with your exams! im proud of you!!! take a break u deserve it girlie!

secondly the request if you want to: TW!!

how would akotsk men react if their wife had multiple miscarriages or stillborns, but after a lot of tries they finally have a babe?

I have several asks that are like this, so I’m going to put them all together kinda

[sedonasummer]

HALLELUJAH REJOICE SEDONASUMMER IS POSTING TODAY SPREAD THE WORD!!!!

team rooting for baelor!!

He needs all the support he can get

[sedonasummer]

rip jena #divadown

Goodbye, she was bigger than the whole sky

[sedonasummer]

This is going to sound stupid af, but in the case the reader remarries Baelor, and they have to have a son, do the sons of Valarr get pushed down the line for heirship? The new son with Baelor goes last in the line of succession?

This is in no way stupid! I have thought about this.

I think the fix here would be for Baelor to just name Valarr's eldest as his heir and just be like...well, can't change that now. Tbh I think the new son would go last. Like when Baelor died while Daeron was still alive, it just moved on to Valarr even though Daeron had 3 other sons...I feel like the correct answer here is that it would go through all of Valarr's sons before looping back around to a new son.

I also could be wrong.

[sedonasummer]

Ive had a thought, and I just need to share it with someone- Maekar #1 biggest fan of his partner having bush 😩 like imagine his reaction when one day BOOM, bush has been removed, I just know he’d hate it

ɢᴏɴᴇ | ᴍᴀᴇᴋᴀʀ ᴛᴀʀɢᴀʀʏᴇɴ

─ summary: You do something new for your husband. He kinda hates it for a little but only for a little bit.

─ pairing: Maekar Targaryen x reader

─ content: 18+ MDNI | smut | p in v | no plot | fluff if you squint

─ a/n: I was giggling writing this. Thank you for your patience…we are slowly working through this inbox. 🖤

This week had been a slow-moving torture of missed connections. Maekar would stumble into your shared chambers long after the moon had reached its zenith, his face etched with the day's battles, only to find you deep in an exhausted sleep. When you woke, the space beside you was cold, his scent a fading ghost on the pillows. It was a chasm of silence and solitude, and you had grown tired of it. That morning, you had summoned Maekar's steward. "You will tell my husband," you instructed, your voice leaving no room for argument, "that his work ends today at the seventh hour. He will join me for dinner. He will not be late." The steward, a man who had seen the your husband’s frustrations at the constant near-misses, simply bowed. "Of course, my lady."

You spent the afternoon orchestrating the evening. The kitchens were a hive of activity, preparing everything Maekar favoured. You wanted to care for him, to wash the week's exhaustion from his bones with food and wine and quiet affection.

Dinner was a success. The tension in his shoulders finally unwound, and the lines around his pale violet eyes softened as he spoke of his day, his voice a low rumble that vibrated through the table. He fed you from his own fork, his fingers lingering on your lips, a silent promise of what was to come. When you finally retired to your bedchamber, the air was thick with unspoken need. The week of abstinence had been a strain on you both; your life together was a passionate, physical one, and this dry spell had left an ache.

"You have missed your husband, I think," he teased, his voice a low growl as he pulled you into his arms. His silver-blond hair brushed against your cheek, and the faint, coarse scratch of his beard was a familiar, thrilling sensation against your skin.

You wound your arms around his neck, pressing your body against his. "And you, my lord," you murmured against his mouth, "have you missed your wife?" His answer was a kiss, deep and hungry. He backed you toward the bed, his hands roaming possessively over your curves, undressing you as he went, his touch igniting a fire low in your belly. You fell onto the soft furs, a tangle of limbs and growing urgency. His mouth moved from yours to your throat, nipping and sucking, and you arched against him, a soft moan escaping your lips.

"Maekar," you breathed, your fingers tangling in the hair at his nape. "I did something… for you."

He pulled back just enough to look at you, his violet eyes dark with lust and curiosity. A slow smile spread across his lips. "Did you now?" he rumbled. "Show me."

You sat up and gripped the hem of your silky shift. In one fluid motion you pulled it over your head and cast it aside. The firelight kissed your skin, and you watched his face, your own breath held tight in your chest. His smile faltered. His eyes, which had been filled with a hungry heat, widened slightly. The look on his face was a flash of pure, unadulterated dismay.

"What is this?" He pushed himself up on one elbow, his gaze fixed on the juncture of your thighs. "Who did this to you?"

A knot of anxiety tightened in your stomach. "You… you do not like it?" you asked, your voice smaller than you intended.

The sound of your voice seemed to break him from his stupor. He saw the uncertainty in your eyes, the slight tremble in your lower lip, and his expression immediately softened. He reached out, his large hand cupping your cheek, his thumb stroking your skin. "No," he said quickly, then corrected himself. "I mean, yes. You are beautiful, perfection, as always."He sat up fully, his muscular torso bathed in firelight. "But I love the look of you, all of you."

You could not help the small pout that formed on your lips.

He saw your disappointment and leaned in, pressing a soft, apologetic kiss to your mouth. "You are spectacular," he insisted, his voice a low, earnest murmur against your lips. "But please, do not let that butcher touch you again."

A small, watery laugh escaped you at his dramatic choice of words. The tension in the room broke, replaced by something more complex, a mixture of your lingering disappointment and his overwhelming affection. He pulled you back down onto the furs, his mouth finding yours again. The kiss was different now, less frantic, more apologetic and tender. But the week of built-up need was a powerful force. His hands began to roam again, rediscovering your body, and the heat between you began to rebuild, slowly at first, then with a sudden, ferocious intensity. He rolled on top of you, and when he entered you it was with a groan of pure relief.

He began to move, his strokes deep and punishing, and as he took you, as he watched his thick, glistening cock disappear into your body, something shifted in him. He had been dismayed, yes, but now he was transfixed. Without the soft, neat curls he could see everything. He could see how the perfect, swollen folds of your cunt spread around his length, see how utterly soaked you were for him, your slickness coating him, shining in the firelight. The visual was filthy, intimate, and undeniably erotic. He could see every detail of your body's response to him, and it drove him wild with a possessive lust.

"Gods," he grunted, his rhythm growing faster, harder. He gripped your hips, pulling you onto him with each thrust, the sound of your bodies meeting echoing in the quiet chamber. "How long," he panted, his gaze locked on where you were joined, "until it grows back?"

"Four moons or so," you gasped, your hands clutching at his powerful shoulders, your body arching to meet his brutal pace.

A rough, breathless laugh escaped him. "Well, there is no point in waiting around." He drove into you, his hips snapping hard against yours. "We might as well make the most of this." The sheer, unexpected amusement in his voice, mixed with the power of his thrusts, sent you over the edge, and you cried out his name as your release tore through you. He followed you moments later with a hoarse shout, burying himself deep inside you and spending inside you, marking you as his.

As you lay tangled together, panting in the firelight, you could not help but laugh, a deep, satisfied sound. He was an impossible man.

[sedonasummer]

Can you please do a Baelor x bratty niece reader smut

ᴛᴇᴀᴄʜ ʏᴏᴜ ꜱᴏᴍᴇ ᴍᴀɴɴᴇʀꜱ | ʙᴀᴇʟᴏʀ ᴛᴀʀɢᴀʀʏᴇɴ

─ summary: After Ashford, Maekar is furious with Baelor, and Baelor is frankly upset with his brother for letting Aerion's behaviour get this far. King Daeron decides to try to fix the rift in the family; you are to marry your uncle. You make it your mission to be as difficult a wife as possible, culminating in sneaking out of the keep during a festival and getting caught in disguise kissing a commoner in the street. Baelor clearly has to do something about your behavior.

─ pairing: Baelor Targaryen x niece!wife!reader

─ word count: 4k

─ content: 18+ MDNI | filthy smut | no plot | degradation | spanking | p in v | orgasm denial | oral male receiving | squirting | targcest | dubcon

─ a/n: Thank you for all your requests, reading, comments, and reblogs 🖤

The silence in the solar was a physical presence woven from unspoken fury. Moonlight streamed through the tall, arched windows, carving the room into stark planes of silver and deepest shadow. You stood before him, near the centre of the room, feeling like a specimen pinned for display.

"You shamed yourself tonight."

Baelor's voice was quiet, cold. He did not look at you, but stared into the hearth where the last embers of the fire were dying, casting a faint, ruddy glow on his profile. "You shamed your father, you shamed our house, and most of all," he paused, "you shamed me."

Never, in the entire course of your marriage, had he spoken to you with such venom, such withering contempt. This was not the gentle prince who had tried so hard to meet you halfway and earn your favour. In his place stood a stranger, a man whose shoulders were rigid with a fury so tightly leashed it felt dangerous.

You opened your mouth, a hundred defences and accusations crowding your tongue. It was just a dance. It was a festival. No one recognised me. But the words died, unspoken, as he turned his back to you.

"Undress," he commanded.

The word was so out of place that for a moment you were sure you had misheard him. A short, disbelieving laugh escaped your lips. "You cannot be serious."

He did not turn. "I will not ask you again."

The finality in his tone left no room for argument, no space for defiance, no crack for your pride to slip through. Your hands clenched into tight fists at your sides, your nails digging sharp, painful crescents into your palms. This was madness. And yet, as you stood there in the moonlit bedchamber, you felt the urge to obey.

Your fingers trembled as they found the laces of your gown. The heavy, expensive silk seemed to resist your touch, clinging to you as if reluctant to abandon your body to the cold air and the even colder gaze of your husband. The knots were stubborn, your fumbling, shaking fingers making clumsy work of them. Finally, the last knot gave way; the gown sighed as it slid from your shoulders.

You stood before him in only your thinnest shift, a simple slip of pale silk that was nearly translucent in the stark lunar light. It clung to the curves of your hips and breasts, doing little to hide the hardened peaks of your nipples, which pebbled against the sudden chill. Exposure had never felt so complete, so absolute.

Baelor turned then. His eyes raked over your body with a slow, deliberate intensity that made you feel unbearably hot despite the cold. His expression was a mask of cold indifference, giving nothing away. He walked towards you until he was right in front of you.

"Kneel," he ordered, his voice dropping to a low, dangerous growl that vibrated up your spine.

"No," you whispered, looking down at the floor.

His hand shot out, not to strike you, but to grip your chin, forcing your head up to meet his gaze. "You will do as you are told."

A choked breath escaped your throat, and with it, the last of your defiance crumbled into dust. Your legs felt weak and watery, but they held you just long enough to lower yourself to the floor. You kept your eyes downcast, focusing on the intricate patterns on the floor, on anything but the man towering over you, a dark colossus of rage and ownership.

His fingers moved to tangle viciously in your hair, gripping thick handfuls of the strands. He pulled your head back, the sting on your scalp a sharp, searing line of fire that made you cry out. Your neck was arched at an uncomfortable, vulnerable angle, your throat exposed to the cool air.

"Look at me," he demanded. "What shall I do with you, princess."

The word princess was a curse on his lips. His other hand moved to the laces of his breeches, his long, skilled fingers working with practised efficiency. Your eyes widened even further as he freed himself. His cock sprang forth from the confines of his leather and linen. It was massive; longer and thicker than you had imagined, a roadmap of thick, prominent veins pulsing beneath the skin. He began to stroke himself, his hand moving slowly up and down the length, and a strange, dark, undeniable arousal coursed through you. Your cunt clenched in a sudden, aching throb of need.

"Open your mouth."

You complied without thinking, lips parting automatically. The surprise of your own submission hit you then. How could you be aroused by this humiliation? But there was no denying the slick wetness gathering between your thighs, the way your body responded to his authority, to the sheer power he exuded, even as you felt shame.

"Keep your knees apart," he ordered. "Hands behind your back."

You shifted your position on the cold floor, spreading your knees wide, the position feeling obscene and open. You laced your fingers together at the small of your back, the posture thrusting your breasts forward and leaving you utterly at his mercy.

The swollen head of his cock brushed against your lower lip, leaving a salty trail. The taste of him; salt and pure, unadulterated masculinity, exploded on your tongue. At first he was slow, allowing you only an inch, then two, letting you adjust, but his patience, if he had ever possessed any, vanished quickly.

His hips began to move, thrusting deeper with each powerful stroke. His grip on your hair tightened, using the strands as reins to control your movements, to pull you onto him. The head of his cock battered against the back of your throat, making you gag, your body convulsing with the reflex. Tears streamed freely down your face, blurring your vision, as you struggled to breathe through your nose, to accommodate his relentless, punishing pace. The sounds were obscene; the wet, slurping noises of your mouth, the grunts from his chest, the desperate, choking gasps that tore from your own throat.

"That is it," he grunted, his voice rough with exertion, his hips snapping forward. "Take it all."

You found your body beginning to move, a desperate, instinctual rhythm. You rocked back and forth on your knees, seeking friction, some small measure of relief from the throbbing ache building between your legs. Baelor noticed.

"Filthy girl," he growled, his voice laced with contempt. He yanked your head back harshly, pulling his cock from your mouth with a wet pop. A string of saliva connected your lips to his head for a moment before breaking. "Did I give you permission? Stop that right now."

You froze, the shame burning through you, hot and sharp. "This is your punishment." His voice was as cold and hard as the stone beneath your knees.

With that, he shoved his cock back into your mouth, resuming with renewed vigour. His heavy sack slapped against your chin with each drive. Your jaw ached, a deep, throbbing pain, and your throat burned, stretched to its absolute limit. And still he used you, his breathing growing ragged, his thrusts becoming increasingly erratic, chasing his own pleasure with a singular, selfish focus.

Then he spilled his seed down your throat in hot, thick pulses, a seemingly endless flood of cum that flooded your mouth, coating your tongue. You swallowed frantically, your throat working, desperate to take it all, to please him, to prove you could obey, to be good, even as some of the viscous fluid escaped your lips to trickle down your chin and drip onto your heaving breasts.

When he finally pulled away, you were left gasping for air, your body trembling with a combination of exhaustion, pain, and a searing, unfulfilled desire that made you want to scream. He stood over you for a long moment, his cock still semi-erect and glistening. Then he reached down and hauled you to your feet.

His hands gripped the delicate neckline of your shift. With a sharp tug, he ripped it in half. The fine silk tore like wet paper, leaving you completely, shockingly naked before him.

"Get on the bed," he commanded, gesturing with a jerk of his head toward the large, four-poster bed against the far wall.

For a moment you could only stare at him, your mind a complete blank.

"If I have to ask you again, I will increase your punishment."

The threat, spoken so calmly, sent a bolt of fear and excitement through you. You scrambled backward, almost falling, before turning and half-running, half-stumbling toward the bed. You climbed onto it, the cool, smooth sheets a shocking sensation against your overheated, sweat-sheened bare skin.

"On all fours."

You complied instantly, positioning yourself on your hands and knees in the centre of the mattress, your backside facing him. The position exposed your most intimate, vulnerable parts to his gaze. You could feel his eyes on you, taking in the delicate curve of your spine and the glistening, flushed folds of your cunt, already dripping and swollen with need.

You felt the mattress dip heavily as he knelt behind you. For a moment there was only the sound of your own panting breaths. Then his touch landed on you, light and gentle, as his fingers traced the elegant curve of your spine from the nape of your neck to the cleft of your backside. The touch made you shiver, a wave of gooseflesh rising on your skin. You thought, perhaps hoped, he might take you then, might finally end this exquisite torture and fill the aching emptiness inside you.

Impatience got the better of you. You pushed your hips back, a silent, shameless begging, trying to impale yourself on what you hoped was waiting for you.

"Do you wish to be taken like this?"

"Yes," you breathed, the word a desperate, broken puff of air. "Now, Baelor."

His hand came down on your backside hard. The sound, a sharp, crisp smack, echoed in the quiet room. The sharp, biting sting made you cry out, more from shock than from any real pain.

"You still lack manners," he said, his voice hardening again, all the softness gone. "You will take what I give you, when I give it to you."

His hand came down again, this time on the other cheek, a matching blow that landed with perfect, stinging precision. The blows began to alternate. You lost count of how many he gave you. The initial sharp sting morphed, spreading into a deep, pervasive heat that throbbed through your entire body. The pain mingled with pleasure, creating a confusing, intoxicating mixture of sensation that made your head spin.

Soon you were dripping, slick juices running down the inside of your thighs. Your legs shook uncontrollably, the muscles straining with the effort of holding you up. You could hear yourself making sounds; mewling, babbling, desperate whimpers and pleas that you barely recognised as words.

Baelor chuckled, the sound dark and deeply mocking. "You like this, don't you? Filthy girl, your cunt is dripping for it."

The humiliation burned, but so did the desire. You found yourself pushing back to meet his hand, shamelessly asking for more, for harder, for anything and everything he was willing to give you.

"Please," you begged, the word torn from your throat, raw and ragged. "Please, Baelor."

"It seems you are learning," he said, his voice holding a note of satisfaction.

His touch changed then. The spanking stopped, leaving your cheeks throbbing and burning. Two thick fingers slid effortlessly into your dripping cunt, stretching you deliciously, filling you, giving you immediate relief. His thumb found your clit, rubbing tight, fast circles that made your eyes roll back in your head and a loud, unrestrained moan tear from your lips. It felt so good, exactly what you needed, a perfect, overwhelming pressure that sent you hurtling toward the edge of a blinding release.

Just as you felt the first tremors begin to build deep in your core, he stopped. He pulled his fingers out and lifted his thumb away. A desperate, frustrated wail escaped you. You wanted to cry from frustration.

"Please, please!" you begged, pressing your face into the cool, scented sheets to muffle your broken sobs. "I am sorry, husband, so sorry. I beg you, please, I need you."

A triumphant smirk crossed Baelor's handsome features, though you could not see it from your position. You felt his hand move up your spine, the touch sending shivers of anticipation through your body, before tangling once again in your hair. He leaned over you, his body blanketing yours, his hard chest pressing against your burning back. His lips brushed against the shell of your ear as he whispered.

"Now was that really so difficult?"

A choked, ragged sob tore from your throat, your entire body trembling. You shook your head, unable to form a single word further.

Baelor chuckled. "How fortunate you are to have a husband as forgiving as I." His fingers, which had been stilled on your skin, began to trace abstract patterns on the sensitive flesh of your thigh. His fingers brushed perilously close to the apex of your legs, and you whimpered. "I will give you what you want. You are being so good now, so pliant."

Before your muddled brain could process the shift from punishment to reward, he moved. His hands, strong and sure, gripped your hips, and with a single, decisive movement, he flipped you over onto your back. The force of it knocked the air from your lungs, your world spinning for a second before righting itself. With another rough yank, he dragged you down the mattress until your backside was on the edge. You were completely exposed, vulnerable, positioned for his use.

Your breath hitched, catching in your throat as your eyes finally took him in. You saw him in his full naked glory for the first time. He was magnificent. Lean and corded with the muscle of a warrior, his chest was a broad expanse dusted with dark hair that narrowed into a tantalising trail, a clear path leading down to the neat, trimmed dark hairs at the base of his cock. It looked even bigger than when he had forced it past your lips. Your cunt clenched instinctively at the sight of him.

You moved to snap your legs shut, but your legs barely moved an inch before you froze. Baelor's gaze had found yours. His mismatched eyes hardened. It was a silent command; you obeyed, and your legs fell open again.

"Since you seem to have a taste for fooling around with common men," he said, as he stepped between your splayed thighs, "I will treat you like a common whore." His hands were rough as they gripped the backs of your knees, pushing them up and out, wider, impossibly wider, until you were spread obscenely. "This is what whores get, is it not?" he growled, lining himself up. "Taken hard and put away wet."

He positioned the blunt, thick head of his cock at your weeping entrance, notching it against your soaked, swollen folds. You were so wet from his earlier torment. There was no warning; with one brutal, powerful thrust of his hips, he slammed into you.

A scream tore from your throat as he split you open. The stretch was incredible. He felt so much bigger at this angle, so much deeper than you had ever imagined possible. It felt like he was impaling you, driving all the way up into your chest. Your back arched off the bed, your hands fisting in the sheets.

Baelor gave you no time to adjust. He pulled back, his cock dragging against your clenching walls until only the head remained inside, then he drove into you again, just as hard, just as deep. Your scream dissolved into a choked, broken moan. He set a relentless rhythm, taking you as you had never even dared to imagine in your darkest, most secret fantasies. Long, impossibly deep strokes, plunging his massive length into you again and again. The room filled with the wet, obscene sounds of flesh slapping against flesh, mingling with your desperate, tearful cries.

You pushed yourself up onto your elbows, your muscles trembling with the effort, needing to see, needing to witness your own possession. The sight of his sweat-slicked body moving between your spread thighs, his dark, glistening cock disappearing into you again and again, only to reappear slick and shining with the evidence of your arousal, was incredible.

You had never felt like this before. Never experienced such overwhelming pleasure so seamlessly intertwined with the feeling of being possessed, of being owned. He took you thoroughly, the thick head of his cock battering against a deep, sensitive place inside you that you never knew existed. Each brutal thrust sent electric sparks shooting through your veins, made your toes curl, made your breath catch in your throat. Your breasts bounced with the force of his movements, the nipples tight, pebbled points of aching need.

His hands left your hips, moving with deliberate purpose up your body, leaving a trail of fire in their wake. They settled around your throat, his long fingers wrapping around your neck in a grip that was firm but not constricting. "Look at you," he growled, his hips never ceasing their devastating rhythm. His thumbs stroked the sensitive skin over your racing pulse. "Taking my cock like you were made for it."

You could not answer. You could only gasp for air, your eyes wide, locked on his as he continued his relentless assault on your senses. "You behave so well when you are full of cock," he whispered, his voice dropping to a filthy murmur. His grip tightened infinitesimally. "Is this what you needed? A good, hard fuck to put you back in your place."

The words should have enraged you, but instead they sent another blinding wave of arousal crashing through you. Because he was right; gods help you, he was right. You felt more alive, more present, than ever before. Your body sang with a pleasure so intense it was almost painful.

You fell back against the sheets, your arms giving out, unable to hold yourself up any longer. You were completely at his mercy, unable to do anything other than scream his name and moan. "Baelor! Baelor! Oh gods, yes, do not stop, please do not stop." The words were torn from you, a litany of desperate, mindless pleas.

He shifted his stance, changing the angle of his penetration, hooking one of your legs over his shoulder. The new position was devastating, allowing him to plunge even deeper, and you cried out as the thick head of his cock brushed painfully, exquisitely against your cervix. He leaned forward, folding you nearly in half, his face now close to yours, his sweat-slicked chest pressing against your breasts.

"That is it," he grunted, his breath hot and damp against your ear. "Take all of it. Every inch." His pace quickened. "You wanted this. You wanted to be used."

It was so much. The fullness, the relentless, deep stimulation, the filthy words whispered in your ear like a prayer. You felt the build starting deep inside your core, a tight, hot coil of tension winding tighter and tighter, climbing higher and higher with every powerful thrust. Your entire body tensed, your toes curling, your inner walls clamping down around his cock like a vice.

Baelor reached between your sweat-slick bodies, his fingers finding your swollen, aching clit. He began to rub it in a perfect rhythm, matching the tempo of his thrusts, applying just the right amount of pressure to send you hurtling towards the edge. "Let go for me," his voice rough with his own impending release. "Show me how much you love it."

That was all it took. Your release crashed over you; you screamed, your back arching off the bed, your body shaking uncontrollably, and then something new happened. A gush of fluid erupted from you, soaking his abdomen, drenching the sheets beneath you. You did not even know what you had done, only that it felt incredible, that your body was convulsing with a pleasure so intense it bordered on agony.

Baelor groaned. "Yes, that is it, soak me, you filthy girl," he growled, his hips pistoning faster, chasing his own release. The sight of you, the feel of you, pushed him over the edge. "I am going to fill you," he snarled, his thrusts becoming erratic, losing their rhythm as his own climax took hold. "Breed you."

His words pushed you into another release, smaller but just as intense. He slammed into you one final time, burying himself to the hilt, his body going rigid as a bowstring, his teeth sinking into your shoulder as he spent. You felt the hot, powerful pulses of his seed deep inside you, pulse after pulse, so much of it, emptying himself into you as he groaned your name against your skin.

Baelor's full weight pressed you into the mattress, his cock still buried deep inside you, still twitching with the aftershocks of his release. You were a mess. A ruined, satisfied, well-taken mess.

Slowly, he lifted his head, his mismatched eyes meeting yours in the dim moonlight. The anger was gone, replaced by dark satisfaction, and a hint of something tender beneath. He gently brushed a sweaty, tangled strand of hair from your forehead.

"Now, have you learned your lesson?"

You nodded. "Yes, but perhaps teach me again, just to make sure it sticks."

[sedonasummer]

Haiii gurl I love your writing soooo much! Every day Im checking if you posted anything (especially I'm in hope for baelor's pt3 keep you close). And I mean it I'm ready to read anything as long as its your work. Idk what exactly but you got some feature so I can't mistake your work for someone's else. Hope you're doing well and post more works soon enough! ^^

Thank you so so much! This was so sweet and made my day!! I have something for you! Part 3 is right here

Post by @sedonasummer · 10 images

💬 33  🔁 50  ❤️ 576 · ᴀꜱ ʏᴏᴜ ᴡᴇʀᴇ | ʙᴀᴇʟᴏʀ ᴛᴀʀɢᴀʀʏᴇɴ, ᴠᴀʟᴀʀʀ ᴛᴀʀɢᴀʀʏᴇɴ · ─ summary: Baelor watches you become Valarr's wife and learns to lov

[drallimylime]

... is a muddy dragon.

[daeron's dialogue is taken verbatim from the novella, lmao]

[sedonasummer]

ᴀꜱ ʏᴏᴜ ᴡᴇʀᴇ | ʙᴀᴇʟᴏʀ ᴛᴀʀɢᴀʀʏᴇɴ, ᴠᴀʟᴀʀʀ ᴛᴀʀɢᴀʀʏᴇɴ

─ summary: Baelor watches you become Valarr's wife and learns to love you from afar. Valarr spends every day fearing you will return to his father.

─ pairing: Baelor Targaryen x reader, Valarr Targaryen x wife!reader

─ word count: 10k (this is why I split part 3 into parts 3 and 4, it would have been 25k words)

─ content: 18+ MDNI | past infidelity | canonical character death | pregnancy | angst | smut | insecurity | jealousy | grief | fluff | children | canon divergent

─ a/n: The long, long, long-awaited part three to A Fair Husband and Keep You Close. I don't say this like ever, but you actually do need to read part two to know what is happening here in part three. Thank you so much for your patience. Writing this kinda beat me up a little, but it is done, yay!! Low key, I was kinda emotional writing this, everyone is a bit sad. Hope you enjoy. I will post part four tomorrow morning. Comment below if you would like to be tagged in that. Thank you as always for likes, comments, reblogs, and everything. I appreciate you. 🖤 Masterlist here.

The Small Council chamber was empty now, Valarr long gone, the candles guttering in their sconces. Baelor remained where he was, slumped in the chair at the head of the table. He had agreed, surrendering the only woman he had ever truly loved to his own son.

The next morning arrived with a cruelty that only the gods could devise. The sky above King's Landing was a bruised, overcast grey, weeping a cold, persistent rain that drummed against the slate roofs of the Red Keep. Inside the Sept of Baelor, the air was thick with the scent of beeswax and heavy incense, trying valiantly to mask the smell of wet wool and damp stone. The seven-sided crystal fractured the meagre light into weak, intermittent rainbows that danced across the stone floor, but there was no warmth in them.

Baelor stood at the front, shrouded in the shadows. From his vantage point he could see everything, yet he felt entirely removed from it, as if he were watching a play performed on a distant stage.

You stood before the altar looking like a vision woven from starlight and silk. Your gown was crimson, heavy with intricate embroidery that glittered subtly with every breath you took. Valarr stood beside you, resplendent in black and crimson, the silver streak in his hair catching the candlelight. He looked at you with open, adoring intensity that made Baelor's stomach turn.

"I am yours," Valarr said, his voice ringing out clear and strong, trembling only slightly with the sheer force of his emotion. "And you are mine, from this day, until the end of my days. I promise to shield you from harm, to cherish you, and to love you with all that I am."

Baelor watched Valarr's face. There was no hesitation there, just the pure, unadulterated love of a boy who believed he had won the greatest prize in the world. It shattered something inside Baelor to watch it.

You turned to face the septon. You were smiling, but Baelor saw the tension in your shoulders, the slight nervous flutter of your hands at your sides. You repeated the vows, your voice softer, melodic. You meant it, in your way. You were committing to this life, to this man, to the duty Baelor had forced upon you.

When the septon pronounced them husband and wife, Valarr did not wait. He stepped forward, cupping your face in his hands gently, and kissed you; a deep, passionate claim of your mouth, right there in front of the High Septon, the court, and the gods.

It felt like hell to Baelor. He turned away before the kiss broke, unable to stomach the sight of you belonging to another, unable to watch the life he should have had unfold before his eyes like a nightmare he could not wake from.

The festivities in the Great Hall were an overwhelming mix of noise and colour that neither of you truly wanted. Forgoing the bedding ceremony had been an easy decision; neither Valarr nor you had any desire to turn your intimacy into a drunken spectacle. You retired to your chambers early, the heavy door closing out the rest of the world.

The room was warm, lit by a roaring fire in the hearth and a dozen candles scattered across the tables. A vast bed draped in heavy curtains of crimson velvet, the linens crisp and white at the centre. Valarr stood by the fire looking at you with a mix of adoration and nervousness.

"You are the most beautiful creature I have ever seen," Valarr whispered, crossing the room to you. He reached out, his fingers trembling slightly as they brushed a stray lock of hair from your cheek. "I want to make you happy."

You looked at him, seeing the man who was now your husband. "I know you will, Valarr," you said softly, covering his hand with yours.

He undressed you with agonising slowness, treating every layer of silk and lace like sacred wrapping paper. When you stood before him in nothing but your shift, he did not rush. Instead he led you to the bed, laying you down against the pillows as if you were made of porcelain.

Valarr was a fast learner, his enthusiasm tempered by a desperate need to please. He kissed your neck, your collarbone, the swell of your breasts, listening to the sharp intakes of your breath and guiding his movements by your soft gasps. When he settled between your thighs he looked up at you, his eyes searching for any sign of discomfort.

"Tell me," he urged, his voice rough. "Tell me what feels good."

He pushed inside, groaning against your lips. It was pleasant, warm and vigorous and full of a youthful stamina that lasted longer than you expected. You met his thrusts, your body responding to the friction and the heat, finding a release that left you panting and trembling beneath him.

Valarr followed shortly after, spending inside you, his body shuddering with the force of it. He collapsed against you, holding you tightly as if he feared you might vanish if he let go.

He murmured into your hair, his voice already thick with sleep. "My wife."

Within minutes his breathing slowed, becoming deep and even. His arm was a heavy band across your waist, his leg tangled possessively between yours. He was out, exhausted by the emotional and physical exertion of the day.

You lay in the dark, staring up at the velvet canopy above. A single tear escaped from the corner of your eye, sliding hot and wet down your temple and into your hair. Then another. You did not make a sound, just let them fall, tracking silently through the dampness on your face.

As you lay there in the circle of Valarr's arms, the reality of it settled over you all at once. Baelor would never hold you like this again.

You thought about the secret passages, the stolen moments, and the way Baelor's hands felt on your skin. You thought about what it would have meant to simply leave, to refuse the marriage, to take your son and go somewhere no one knew your name. You imagined a life where you chose yourself, where you chose love over duty. You cried because you hated this life, because you had done everything right and still felt as though you were dying inside.

On the other side of the Red Keep, in a chamber that felt too large and too quiet, Baelor knelt on the cold stone floor. He was still wearing his doublet, the fabric chafing against his throat, but he could not move to take it off. He felt paralysed, trapped in a moment of grief so profound it threatened to tear him apart.

The thought of you in Valarr's bed, Valarr's hands on your skin, Valarr's lips on your mouth, it was all too much. For the first time in his adult life, Baelor Targaryen wept. He wept for the woman he loved, for the son he had lost to his own selfishness, and for the crushing, unbearable reality in which he existed in a world where you were not his.

The weeks that followed were a slow, agonising march through grey. Baelor kept his word. He did not speak to you or seek you out, effectively erasing himself from your life with the same discipline he applied to his governance, but it cost him dearly.

He saw you, of course. One afternoon, as he exited the Small Council chamber, there you were standing in the corridor ahead, waiting for your father or perhaps for Valarr. You were dressed in deep red velvet, the colour bringing out the brightness of your eyes, which softened at the sight of him.

"Baelor."

He opened his mouth and took a half-step forward, his hand reaching out before he could stop himself.

"Father?"

The voice was sharp, clipped from behind him. Valarr strode past, moving with a purposeful aggression that made the air around them vibrate. He did not look at Baelor as he walked to you.

"How fortunate am I," Valarr said, his voice echoing off the stone walls, "to have such a beautiful wife who comes to visit me!"

He pulled you into an embrace, his arms wrapping around your waist, pulling you flush against him. He kissed your cheek, a lingering press of lips that was as much a performance for Baelor as it was an affection for you. "Come, my love. I have something to show you."

You allowed yourself to be led, but you turned your head back over your shoulder, eyes locking onto Baelor's in a silent communication; a mixture of regret, longing, and sadness.

Valarr noticed the look. He said nothing, only tightening his arm around you and steering you away as he glared at his father.

Baelor stood alone in the corridor. He could not remember what he had been doing, where he had been headed. He retreated to the solace of his solar, where he spent the rest of the day replaying that moment in the hall, replaying the argument with Valarr. I should have fought harder, he thought, the mantra looping in his mind until his head throbbed. I should have fought for her.

Not that his agreement with Valarr's terms helped bridge the chasm between them. Valarr hated him. The betrayal was still fresh, a festering wound in Valarr's mind. He did not know if he would ever forgive his father, and he made no effort to hide it. But being near you, loving you, and being loved by you in return made the burden easier to carry. You were his balm, his reward.

Yet the insecurity gnawed at him, a rat in the walls of his happiness. He tried to suppress it, tried to accept that you were with him, but he could not shake the feeling. Every time he looked at you he wondered if you were comparing him. When he touched you he wondered if his hands felt as skilled as his father's. When he lay with you, driving into your body with desperate intensity, he wondered if you were closing your eyes and imagining Baelor.

His single-minded focus became the one thing he could give you that his father never could: a child. He wanted to see your belly swell with his seed, to create a life that was undeniably yours together. It would be the only part of you that was just for him, a legacy untainted by the memories of his father's touch.

He came to you every night, sometimes twice, worshipping your body, trying to erase every trace of the past with his own passion. "Let me give you a child," he would whisper against your skin, his voice thick with need. "Let me give you a son."

You, for your part, were an eager and willing participant. You wanted the family, the stability, the distraction. You wanted to give Valarr what he needed so he would stop looking at you like you might disappear at any moment.

Baelor, meanwhile, was desperate for some semblance of peace in his home. He was in pain, a constant, dull ache that radiated from his chest. His heart was broken, his mind a mess of regret and what-ifs.

He finally did the one thing he had avoided for weeks. He sent a request to Jena's chambers.

She arrived, her posture stiff, her eyes guarded. She sat in the chair opposite him, her hands folded in her lap, looking at him not with anger but with a cool, detached curiosity. It was worse than her rage.

"I was wrong," Baelor said, the words tasting like ash in his mouth. He did not know where to start, so he started with the truth. "I was a fool. I was arrogant and cruel, and I used you. I used our son as a pawn in my own selfish game."

He looked down at his hands. "I am sorry, Jena. For the affair. For the callousness. For making you feel less than you are. You were right about everything." He broke down, his composure cracking as he sat there, stripped of his pride, waiting for her judgment.

Jena watched him. She saw the genuine remorse in the slump of his shoulders, the way his voice cracked. She knew he was saying this because he was lonely, because you were gone, because he had lost his son. But it did not change the fact that she still had love for him, buried beneath layers of resentment. She sighed, a long, weary sound.

"Forgiveness will take time, Baelor. But I am willing to try."

It was not a triumph, but it was a start.

A month later, the family gathered for a small, private dinner in the royal apartments. The atmosphere was cautiously civil. Jena sat at Baelor's side, close enough that their elbows brushed on the table. Valarr sat at the foot with you beside him.

Valarr stood, looking full of pride and happiness, taking your hand and squeezing it gently.

"We have news," Valarr announced, his voice trembling with excitement. "My spectacular wife is with child."

A gasp went around the table. Baelor felt the blood drain from his face. He looked at you; glowing, your hand resting gently on your stomach, a soft, serene smile on your lips. You looked completely, utterly happy, as though you had everything you had ever wanted.

"Congratulations," your father boomed, beaming. "That is wonderful news."

He looked down at your son, Theo, a boy of two years, running around the table with a toy dragon in his hand, oblivious to the commotion. "And you, young man! Are you excited to be a brother?"

Theo did not even pause. He lifted the toy high in the air, roaring at the top of his lungs, completely ignoring the question. He continued running until Valarr caught him, lifting him and placing a kiss on top of his head.

Baelor sat frozen, the excitement of the room fading into the background. Under the table, hidden by the linen cloth, Jena's warm, soft hand covered his. She squeezed his fingers tight, offering him silent comfort in the midst of his torment. He just sat there, staring at the wall, feeling the life drain out of him, listening to the sound of his son's happiness and knowing it was built on the ruins of his own.

The seasons turned within the Red Keep, the stone walls absorbing the shifting temperatures and the relentless passage of time. The initial, brittle peace that had settled over the royal apartments after your pregnancy announcement began to wear thin, not through any great catastrophe, but through the friction of daily existence. Marriage, you discovered, was not merely the grand gestures witnessed in the sept or the desperate passions of the wedding night; it was the mundane, grating reality of shared space.

You and Valarr argued, no different from any other newly married couple learning the painful geometry of two lives intersecting, yet the air between you always seemed to hold a charge, a lingering voltage from the secrets you kept. One afternoon a disagreement regarding the education of your son escalated into a shouting match that left the nursemaid hovering nervously in the corridor. Valarr's voice, usually so measured in public, cracked with frustration as he paced the rug, his hands gesturing sharply. You stood your ground by the hearth, your chin lifted, eyes flashing.

But when the shouting faded, there was always the aftermath. Valarr would inevitably cross the room to you, his anger draining away to leave him looking boyish and apologetic. He would pull you into an embrace, burying his face in your neck, and you would soften, your hands finding purchase on his shoulders. You loved each other. It was a complicated, knotted love, tangled with duty and jealousy, but it was real.

As the new year bloomed, the atmosphere in the castle shifted from domestic friction to a heavy dread. Jena fell ill. It began simply enough; a persistent cough that rattled in her chest and a fatigue that kept her abed longer than usual. But the weeks wore on, and her strength did not return.

Baelor became a fixture at her bedside. He sat for hours, reading to her in a low, steady voice or simply providing her company. In those long, quiet weeks, the distance that had yawned between them for years seemed to close. They spoke of things long buried; memories of their children when they were small, the scandals of courts past, the simple, mundane absurdities of royal life. It was not the passionate love of ballads, nor was it the all-consuming fire he felt for you, but it was warm, steady, and comfortable. He found that he liked her, this woman who had borne his children and endured his silences. She was funny, in a dry, sardonic way he had never noticed before, and she was kind, more so than he deserved.

One evening, as the light outside the window bled into a bruised purple, Jena woke from a restless sleep, her breathing a raspy, whistling sound that seemed too loud in the hushed room. Baelor leaned forward, taking her frail hand in his.

"Valarr," she whispered, her voice thin as parchment.

"He is outside," Baelor said softly. "He will not enter while I am here."

She closed her eyes, a faint, tired frown touching her lips. "He is so much like you. So proud. He holds his anger like a shield."

Baelor squeezed her fingers. "He has reason."

Her eyes opened again, fixing him with a look that cut through his defences. "You hold onto your guilt. It is drowning you, Baelor."

He looked away, staring into the depths of the fire. "I have made unforgivable mistakes."

"What is done is done. You must forgive him, and you must forgive yourself."

Baelor looked back at her and nodded, unable to speak past the lump in his throat.

She squeezed his hand weakly. "Good. Now, help me sit up. Then call the boys inside."

Jena died the next morning.

Baelor had not known there was more room for sadness, but his heart expanded to accommodate it. The realisation of what he had lost in the quiet moments of reconciliation came too late.

The funeral was a blur of condolences, black, and smoke. Baelor stood at the front, Valarr and Matarys on either side of him. Valarr was pale and stony as he stared straight ahead, fixed on the pyre, as if willing the world to stop turning.

He remembered his final conversation with Jena. She was beautiful, bright, and entirely focused on his comfort and wellbeing even at the end. He had always assumed his mother would always be there, perhaps taken her presence for granted; now there was only silence. Valarr felt your hand slip into his and squeezed hard. He needed your strength.

Inside your chambers afterwards, the silence was absolute. Valarr stood by the hearth, staring into the flames, his back rigid. You watched him for a moment, seeing the tension in the set of his shoulders, the slight tremor in his hands, and walked over to him slowly, not touching him yet, just standing close enough that he would know you were there.

"She is gone," Valarr said, his voice cracking on the words. He did not turn around. "She is really gone."

"I know."

It was as if those two words broke the dam. Valarr turned, and the mask shattered. He reached for you with a clumsy movement and collapsed in your arms. You caught him, wrapping your arms around him as his knees gave way, sinking with him to the floor.

He sobbed into your shoulder, a sound deep and wrenching that seemed to come from the very marrow of his bones; weeping for the mother who had smoothed his hair and bandaged his knees, for the voice that had soothed his nightmares and sung him lullabies, for the unconditional love that had now passed. You held him tight, one hand cradling the back of his head, fingers tangling in his hair, letting him pour his sorrow out into the fabric of your gown. There were no words for this. You just anchored him, your presence a steady, silent promise that you would not let him drift away.

After a long time the sobbing slowed, turning into ragged, uneven breaths. Valarr pulled back slightly, his face puffy and red, eyes rimmed with exhaustion.

"You are all I have."

You reached up, brushing a lock of hair from his forehead. "You have your father," you said gently. "He grieves with you."

Valarr looked down at his hands, clasped tightly in his lap, and nodded. "I know." He leaned forward, resting his forehead against yours for a moment, drawing strength from your breath against his skin. Then he stood, pulling you up with him. He kissed your forehead, a lingering, grateful press of lips, before straightening his tunic and squaring his shoulders. He looked like a prince again, albeit a battered one.

He found Baelor in the solar the next evening, sitting behind the massive desk that seemed too large for one man. The room was dark, lit only by a few tapers and the dying embers in the grate. Baelor was staring at a book but he was not reading it. He looked up when Valarr entered, his eyes guarded and weary.

"Father." The word was awkward and heavy.

Baelor stood slowly. "Valarr."

Valarr took a deep breath. "I do not wish to be at war with you. It is too much, and, mother hated it." He paused. "I shall not apologise for what I said to you. I was right."

Baelor closed his eyes. "I know."

"But," Valarr continued, his voice softening slightly, "I wish to move forward."

When Baelor opened his eyes, the gratitude in them was clear. It stripped away the years, the titles, the grievances, leaving only a father looking at his son. "I would like that," Baelor said, his voice barely above a whisper. "I would like that very much."

The scars from the past remained, but this was a beginning. They spoke then, haltingly at first, then with more ease.

Weeks melted into months, and the heavy cloak of mourning began to lift, replaced by the anticipation of new life as your time drew near. The labour was long and arduous, a test of endurance that lasted through the night and into the early hours of the morning. You gritted your teeth, sweat beading on your forehead, hands crushing the linens. Valarr paced outside the room like a caged beast, his face a mask of terrified helplessness.

Baelor arrived with Matarys shortly after. He saw his son, wild-eyed and frantic.

"The birth can take hours," Baelor said. "You must prepare yourself for the wait."

The hours dragged on, marked only by the shifting of the guard and the occasional muffled cry from within the room. Baelor watched Valarr, seeing the terror in his posture, and remembered his own fears when Valarr and Matarys were born.

When the child finally came, he let out a squall that shook the rafters; a strong, healthy sound.

The door opened and a midwife stepped out, her apron stained but her face beaming. She curtsied low. "My princes! You have a son!"

Valarr was on his feet before she finished speaking. He did not wait for an invitation; he pushed past the midwife and into the room.

You lay back against the pillows, your chest heaving, exhaustion pulling at every limb, but your eyes were fixed on the bundle being placed in your arms. He was perfect, small, squinting against the light, but as he settled, the features became clear.

A tuft of stark white hair crowned his head. He opened his eyes, and you drew in a breath. One eye was a deep, shining lilac, the other a clear, bright blue. He was all Valarr, and yet entirely his own person.

Valarr approached the bed with hesitant steps, his eyes wide. When you gently transferred the bundle into his arms, the transformation in him was instantaneous. He looked down at the child with complete awe.

"Hello," he whispered, his voice trembling. He touched the infant's cheek with a single finger, like the boy might break. The baby shifted, yawning, and Valarr let out a choked laugh. Tears spilled over his lashes, tracking down his face unchecked. "Welcome to the world, Jenaerys."

You smiled, brushing the white hair back from the baby's forehead.

Baelor stood in the doorway, unwilling to intrude on this moment of triumph for his son. But Valarr looked up and saw him, nodded, stepping aside slightly; an invitation.

Valarr gently passed the infant to his grandfather. Baelor took the child, supporting the tiny head with his large hand. He looked down at the newborn, and all he saw was you.

The delicate curve of your nose, the shape of the mouth, the sweet bow of the lips that were yours. It was as if you had taken your own features and breathed life into them, gifting them to this child.

This was the son he would never have with you.

Baelor lifted his head, his gaze moving from the baby to you. You lay against the pillows, smiling at him. It was a soft, knowing smile, full of understanding and shared sadness.

He swallowed hard, forcing the lump down his throat. He looked back at the baby, then at you again.

"You did well," Baelor said, his voice low and rough, carrying the weight of everything he could not say.

The year that followed the birth of the new prince settled into a rhythm that felt almost like forgiveness.

Valarr moved through the halls with a new centre of gravity. The sharp, frantic edge that had defined him, the desperate need to prove, to possess, to secure, had dulled into a steady, quiet confidence. He spent his available hours in the nursery, looking down at the boy with a look of utter disbelief, as if the child were a miracle he had conjured from the air itself. He leaned down to nuzzle the baby's stomach, eliciting a squeal of delight.

From his spot by the window, Theo watched the interaction. He crossed his small arms, huffing. "He just sleeps," the boy complained, his voice high and petulant. "He does not play anything."

Valarr chuckled, a low, warm sound. He reached out a hand, beckoning him closer. "Give him time, little lord. Soon he will be chasing you, stealing your toys, and generally making a nuisance of himself. You shall miss the quiet."

Your son approached reluctantly, but when Valarr ruffled his hair, he leaned into the touch. Valarr's affection was not divided; it multiplied. He looked at the dark-haired boy with the same fierce adoration he held for the infant, bridging the gap of blood with sheer will and love.

It was harder than Baelor had anticipated to step back, to watch you build this life with his son while he remained on the periphery. But he forced the feelings down, burying them under layers of duty and familial affection. This peace was too fragile to risk. He had his sons, he had these perfect grandsons, and he had you in this new, purified light; as a daughter, a friend, a fixture of his life that he could admire from a careful distance. This, he told himself as the sun dipped below the walls of the Keep, was a good life. It was not the life he had dreamed of in the quiet hours of the night, but it was a life he could endure, and even enjoy, because you were safe within it.

The peace was shattered at Ashford.

The tournament was meant to be a display of chivalry and sport, but soon turned to malice. The Trial of Seven was a chaotic mess of steel and mud, a melee of honour that turned brutal. When the dust finally settled, the crowd's roar died in their throats.

Baelor had fallen.

He did not die, though the Seven seemed to toy with the idea. A blow from a heavy mace, wielded in the heat of the moment by his own brother Maekar, had struck him squarely. The Prince of Dragonstone lay motionless.

Three days passed agonisingly slowly. The castle of Ashford became a tomb of silence. Maekar paced the corridors, his face gaunt, his hands trembling whenever they were still. Valarr sat by the window in your shared chambers, staring out at the tourney grounds now empty of revellers. He spoke little, but the fear radiated off him like heat. He was not ready to be an orphan. The thought of facing Matarys and telling him their father was gone was unbearable.

You moved through the days like a ghost, your body present but your mind trapped in the sickroom, imagining the worst.

On the third night, the castle slept. The torches in the hallways burned low, and you lay in bed beside Valarr, listening to the rhythm of his breathing, but sleep continued to evade you. You did not care about propriety or if a guard saw you or what the court would whisper. You just needed to see him.

Baelor's sickroom was guarded by a single drowsy sentry, who stepped aside at the sight of your determined face. Inside, the air smelled of valerian root, feverfew, and the copper tang of dried blood.

Baelor lay in the centre of the large bed, looking smaller than he had any right to. A bandage wrapped around his head, stark white against his tanned skin. His breathing was shallow, a faint rise and fall of his chest that seemed to require all his strength.

You moved to the chair beside the bed and sank into it. The sight of him, a man usually so vibrant and strong, reduced to this, broke something loose inside you. A sob tore from your throat as you pressed a hand to your mouth to stifle the sound, but tears spilled over uncontrollably.

You remembered the way he looked at you in the Kingswood, the way he held your son, the sound of his voice saying your name like a prayer. You remembered the touch of his hand, the warmth of his embrace, the safety you had felt in his arms. It was clear in that moment that you loved him still.

"Please," you whispered, leaning over him, your tears dripping onto his tunic. "Baelor, do not leave me."

You pressed your lips to his cheek. It was dry and cold, the stubble rough against your soft skin. "I love you." You kissed him again; a firm, lingering press on his lips, pouring every ounce of your love and your regret into that contact. You did not want to be a princess or a wife. You just wanted him to be alive.

Exhaustion eventually claimed you. You leaned forward, resting your head on the edge of the mattress, right beside his shoulder, breathing in the comforting scent of him as you fell asleep.

The first thing Baelor truly saw when he opened his eyes was long hair and soft skin.

The pain in his head was a blinding, splitting agony, a white-hot spike driven through his temple. He groaned, trying to move, but his body felt heavy, disconnected.

He turned his head slightly, and his breath caught.

You were asleep, your head resting on his chest. For a moment, Baelor was certain he had died. This surely was the Stranger's final mercy, a vision of heaven's most beautiful angel keeping vigil beside him before the end.

He stared at you, drinking in the sight of your eyelashes fluttering in sleep and the soft parting of your lips. He missed all of this; the warmth of you near him, the smell of your hair, the quiet intimacy of just breathing the same air as you.

You stirred, your eyes heavy with sleep fluttering open and focusing on him. For a heartbeat, the world held only the two of you. A slow, tired smile touched his lips. He lifted his hand, fingers trembling, and brushed a stray lock of hair from your face.

"My heart," he breathed, his voice a dry rasp.

The sound of his voice shattered the spell. You scrambled backward, the chair scraping harshly against the stone floor. You felt as if you could not breathe. The intimacy of the moment, the love you saw in his eyes, it was too much.

"I must fetch the maesters."

You turned and fled the room, rushing into the corridor. "Maester! Help! The prince is awake!"

"Wait," Baelor tried to say, reaching for you, but his strength failed him. He watched the empty doorway where you had stood, the warmth of your presence already fading into the cold morning air. He closed his eyes, the brief glimpse of heaven snatched away, leaving him with only the pain in his skull and the hollow ache in his chest.

You returned to your own chambers, drained and hollowed out by the night's vigil and the emotional whiplash of seeing him awake. Valarr was waiting, fully dressed, though the sun had barely risen. He turned as you entered, and the look on his face stopped you in your tracks.

He looked devastated.

"I woke to find you absent from our bed," he said. "I went to check on my father, and found you there." He took a step closer. "No matter what I do, no matter how much I give you, you continue to carry a torch for him."

"Valarr."

"Do you wish you were his wife instead of mine?"

Something inside you snapped. The exhaustion, the grief, the years of walking on eggshells; it all rose up. "I am sick of this, Valarr. Why must I continuously prove myself to you?"

He began to speak, but you cut him off, raising a hand. "I am married to you, and I am happy. I carried your child. Let this go." You took a breath, your gaze steady on his. "You have already lost your mother. Do you truly wish to spend your life hating your father and looking for betrayal where there is none? You must forgive him, truly, because you are poisoning our marriage by carrying this resentment."

His composure crumbled. His hands began to shake as he closed the distance between you, taking your hands in his. "I am sorry," he whispered, his voice cracking. "I did not mean it. I cannot bear the thought of losing you to him."

You squeezed his hands, your own anger softening. "You will never lose me, Valarr." You leaned in to kiss his cheek. "I love you."

That was the truth. You loved the man he was, the father he was to your children. But in the quiet, secret chambers of your heart, you knew there was more. His close brush with death had shown you that you were far from over Baelor. You would always, always love him. But you had made your choice, and that choice was Valarr.

Weeks later, the family returned to King's Landing, but the respite was short-lived. King Daeron II passed away peacefully in his sleep, and the weight of the crown descended upon Baelor's head. He moved through the ceremonies with grace, but inside he felt entirely unready. He had not been able to speak a private word with you since the tournament, since the morning he had woken to find you and then lost you to the chaos. For three years, Baelor tried to forget you, to smother the fire of his feelings. He failed. The familial peace he had forced himself to accept felt like a prison now. He wanted to tell you he loved you still, to apologise for what he had done, to apologise for not marrying you himself.

His opportunity came on a warm afternoon, several days after his coronation. Baelor saw you slip out of the main hall, moving toward the gardens. He waited a moment, his heart hammering against his ribs, and followed, keeping his distance as he rehearsed his words in his head. You moved quickly, with purpose, disappearing around a turn. He turned a corner, the anticipation rising in his throat, and stopped dead. You were there, but you were not alone.

Baelor could only watch as you stepped into Valarr's arms, as if it were the most natural place in the world. He watched as Valarr tilted your chin up and kissed you; a kiss full of a tender, possessive love that Baelor had never been able to claim publicly. He saw the way Valarr held you, as if you were the most precious, fragile thing in all the Seven Kingdoms. This was a tableau of love, of a bond that was living and breathing, while his own love was a ghost that haunted the halls. Seeing you like that, a perfect, united whole, made him feel utterly foolish, pining for a woman who was clearly, irrevocably happy in the arms of another.

His heart broke again. He shook his head slowly, the bitterness of regret rising in his throat as he turned around and walked away.

Baelor, hurt and quietly jealous, could not protest later that week when Valarr announced that he would be taking you and the children to Dragonstone, putting an entire sea between you and Baelor.

"Of course," Baelor said, his voice betraying none of the storm within him. "If you think it best."

The year on Dragonstone had worn the sharp edges from your life, smoothing it into contentment. In the nursery, the air was warm and close. Valarr sat on the floor, his long legs folded beneath him, a position he endured without complaint for the sake of his audience.

"And so the brave knight defeated the evil wizard and saved his kingdom."

Theo, at five years old, sat cross-legged directly before his father, his chin resting on his fists. His dark eyes were wide with concentration. "I want to be a knight, Papa!"

Valarr smiled. "You will be a great one."

Jenaerys was not so captivated by the story. He toddled to the heavy wooden chest in the corner, his small hands patting against the iron hinges. "Open," he demanded, his brow furrowed with effort.

"No more toys; it is time for sleeping," you said from the rocking chair near the fire. You shifted your weight, the familiar ache of your back a gentle reminder of the new life growing within you. In your arms, your newest babe, Baelon stirred. He was just learning to sit up on his own, a wobbly, determined effort, but the cadence of his father's voice was lulling him into sleep. His head lolled against your chest, his breaths coming in soft, even puffs against your skin.

You watched Valarr, your heart swelling. He was a patient storyteller and a better father, weaving tales of conquest and dragons, teaching his sons where they came from in the very heart of their ancestral home. He met your gaze over Theo's head, and the look you shared was one of unspoken understanding. This was your life, your fortress, built not of stone but of shared moments and the small, perfect bodies of your children.

Jenaerys, having given up on the chest, ambled back over and plopped down onto Valarr's outstretched leg, babbling a string of tired words that he clearly believed were a vital contribution to the narrative. Valarr did not miss a beat, simply resting a hand on his son's back and continuing the story.

You looked down at Baelon, fast asleep, and ran a thumb over his soft cheek, then let your hand drift down to rest on your own stomach. The subtle, rounded swell was still a secret shared only between you and Valarr. You had always wanted a large family, and the gods were being generous.

Back in your chambers, the fire had been built up, chasing away the evening chill. You sat on the edge of the large bed, watching as Valarr poured two cups of wine and handed one to you, his fingers brushing yours.

"Have you been feeling well?" he asked, his voice quiet.

"Quite well, you need not worry." You tilted your head back to look at him. "Although this house is becoming rather overrun with men. A mother needs an ally."

His eyes crinkled at the corners. "Is that a hint, my lady?"

"One more son and I shall be completely overwhelmed."

Valarr's hand spread wider over your belly as he leaned down and kissed your forehead, his lips lingering against your skin. "This one," he whispered, his voice filled with certainty, "is a daughter. I can feel it."

A thousand miles away, in the oppressive, perfumed air of the Red Keep's council chamber, Baelor sat at the head of the polished table, irritated.

"Must we discuss this once more? Valarr is my heir. The line is secure."

"A king needs a queen, Your Grace," another lord ventured, a plumper man who dabbed at his brow with a silk square. "For companionship. For counsel. You should not be so, solitary."

The word solitary struck a nerve. Solitary was his bedchamber at night, vast and empty. It was the long walk from the throne room back to his apartments, his footsteps echoing in a silence that seemed designed to mock him. He was a king surrounded by thousands, and he had never been more alone.

He thought of you; a constant, living presence in the hollow spaces of his life. The sound of your voice. The way your eyes would light up with a mischievous spark just before you said something daring. The feel of your hand in his, a perfect fit. How could he ever take another woman to his bed? The very idea was a betrayal of a truth that lived in his bones.

"I have no need for a queen."

The council, as expected, did not relent. They sent ladies to him. Each encounter left him more certain, more hollowed out as he compared them all to you, and not a single one could measure; not in grace, not in beauty, not in the fierce, loyal heart he knew so well. He gave up the charade, retreating further into the solitude of his duty.

His only solace was the raven that arrived from Dragonstone every fortnight. Valarr's letters detailed the boys' antics, your health, and matters of governance. Each letter was a taste of the life he had exiled himself from, a life that contained you. He missed your family terribly. He missed the sound of Valarr's voice, the sight of his grandsons, and you.

The city is too quiet, he wrote. Your brother and I would have it filled with your presence again. Come home.

The days in King's Landing unfolded like a dream, a brilliant, sun-drenched respite from the shadows of your past. The Red Keep, once a place of stifling formality and whispered anxieties, now echoed with the unrestrained laughter of children. Jenaerys had discovered the perfect kingdom for his games. The gardens were a sprawling wilderness of hedges and statues, the corridors a labyrinth of hiding places just his size. He took particular glee in darting away from his nursemaids, a flash of a child disappearing behind a stone gargoyle or a curtain of heavy velvet. The servants would flurry, their calls growing increasingly frantic, only for him to emerge with a triumphant grin from behind a curtain or the top of something he had no business climbing. He was a whirlwind of joyful mischief, and his energy was infectious.

Where Jenaerys was action, Theo was inquiry. He followed the maesters around like a duckling, his small finger pointing at everything. His curiosity was boundless, his wide eyes taking in every detail with a sweet, serious concentration that charmed everyone he met.

And then there was your infant son, a cooing, gurgling centre of gravity. He was passed from adoring arms to adoring arms. The septas, the couriers, the guards; all were utterly captivated. But no one was more captivated than his grandfather.

Baelor was transformed. In your time away, he had become stern, but that melted away, replaced by a man who was content to participate in all the silly antics the children required of him. Watching them, you felt a sense of peace settle over you. This was what you had always wanted for them; the joy of being children, knowing they were loved, living in a place filled with laughter. You allowed yourself to hope, a fragile, dangerous thing, that these days could stretch into forever.

Evenings, however, belonged to you and Valarr.

The hustle of the court faded behind the doors of your bedchamber. You brushed out your hair, the rhythmic strokes soothing after a long day of managing the children and court life. You watched Valarr in the looking glass. He had changed in the year you had been away. The bitterness that used to cling to him like a second skin had sloughed off, leaving behind a man who was confident, devoted, and utterly at peace with his world.

He turned, catching your eye in the reflection. A slow, tender smile curved his lips.

"You are staring, my lady," Valarr murmured, coming up behind you. His hands settled on your shoulders, his thumbs brushing the sensitive skin of your neck.

"And if I am?" You leaned back into his touch, tilting your head to rest against his chest. "I have much to look at."

He chuckled and turned you around, lifting you easily to sit atop the vanity table.

"I missed this," Valarr whispered, his voice dropping an octave, roughening with that familiar edge of desire. "I missed the quiet. Just you and I."

"As did I," you breathed, reaching up to thread your fingers into his hair. "The boys are happy here. It is good to see."

"It is," he agreed, though his focus was entirely on your mouth. He leaned in, brushing his lips against yours; a tease, a promise. "I have been neglecting my wife."

"You have been busy being a prince," you countered, your breath hitching as his hand moved from your waist to the laces of your nightgown.

"Tonight I am just your husband."

He kissed you then. You parted your lips, welcoming the sweep of his tongue, the tang of the wine he had drunk at dinner still lingering on him. You wrapped your legs around his waist, pulling him closer, feeling the hardening length of him through the thin fabric of your clothes.

Valarr groaned into your mouth, lifting you from the vanity without breaking the kiss. He carried you to the bed, laying you down against the crisp linens. He followed you down, settling his weight between your thighs, pressing you into the mattress. The heat of him was overwhelming, a furnace that chased away the chill of the night.

"I love you," he rasped, pulling back to look you in the eye. His gaze was intense. "Everything I am, everything I have; it is for you."

Tears pricked your eyes, not from sadness but from the sheer volume of emotion swelling inside you. "I love you, Valarr. More than life."

Valarr shifted, laying you back against the pillows, his body covering yours. The nightgown was a flimsy barrier, and he made quick work of it, his hands sliding the fabric up your thighs, over your hips, until he could pull it over your head. The cool air of the room raised goosebumps on your skin, but the heat of his gaze was a furnace. He looked at you; your heavy breasts, the soft curve of your stomach, the dark patch of hair between your legs, with a worshipful hunger that never failed to undo you.

He shed his own clothes quickly, and then he was skin against skin, all hard muscle and heat. He settled between your legs, not entering you yet, just rocking against your slick folds, teasing you both. "You feel so good," he groaned, his face buried in the crook of your neck. "So perfect."

"Please, Valarr," you gasped, your nails digging into his shoulders. "I need you."

He lifted his head, his eyes locking with yours. He reached down, took his cock in his hand, and guided the head to your entrance. He pushed inside, slowly, inch by agonising inch, stretching you open until he was seated to the hilt. The feeling was exquisite; you could feel him in your very core.

You cried out, your legs wrapping around his waist, pulling him even deeper.

He began to move, a slow, powerful rhythm that stole your sanity. Each thrust was a declaration, a possession. His hands found yours, their fingers lacing together, pinning them to the mattress on either side of your head. He kissed you then; a deep, filthy kiss that was all tongue and teeth and shared breath. The pace increased, his hips snapping against yours, the sound of your bodies filling the room. You clung to him, your nails raking down his back, leaving red furrows in his skin. He did not flinch; he just drove into you harder, with a desperate, frantic energy.

He broke the kiss, his lips trailing down your neck, sucking and biting at the sensitive skin there. His arms banded around you as he continued to drive into you. The pressure was building, a tight coil in your stomach threatening to snap. He must have felt it too. He lifted his head again, capturing your mouth in another searing kiss. "Come for me, love," he commanded, his voice a raw, ragged thing. "Come for me."

His words were your undoing. The coil snapped, and your release crashed over you, a blinding wave of pleasure that made you cry out his name. Your cunt clenched around him, rippling and spasming, and with a hoarse shout he followed you over the edge. He buried himself deep, his cock pulsing as he spent inside you, a hot, flooding release that seemed to go on forever. He collapsed on top of you, his weight a welcome, grounding pressure, his heart hammering against your ribs.

You lay tangled together, slick with sweat and shaking with the aftershocks, the firelight casting long shadows on the wall. It was a perfect night, a perfect moment of connection and love. You drifted off to sleep in his arms, feeling safe, cherished, and utterly complete.

The dream was not long for this world, however, ending with the arrival of the Spring Sickness.

It came on the winds from Flea Bottom, a whisper at first, then a roar. The city was awash with a cruel, efficient plague that showed no deference to rank or coin. The lowborn died in their gutters, the highborn in their silken beds. The Red Keep, an impenetrable fortress for armies, proved no defence for this invisible enemy.

The first blow landed hard. Matarys, a boy of barely seventeen with his father's kind eyes and his mother's fiery spirit, took sick. It was a swift, brutal illness. One day he was complaining of a headache; the next he was burning with a fever that no maester could break, his body wracked with chills so violent his teeth chattered constantly. He died three days later, his young body simply giving out.

Then Valarr fell ill.

It started with a weariness he could not shake. Then the fever came. He lay in the sick bed, far from the place of your perfect night, his body shivering uncontrollably despite the roaring fire. His skin was pale and waxy, pulled taut over the sharp bones of his face. He looked like a stranger, a beautiful, broken effigy of the man you loved.

You never left his side. You sponged his burning skin with cool water, forced water and broth between his cracked lips, and prayed. You prayed to the Seven, to the old gods, to any god who would listen. You bargained, you wept, you promised anything, everything, just for him to overcome this. But the gods had turned their faces away.

On the fourth day, he woke. His eyes were hazy with fever, but they found yours. "My love," he whispered, his voice a dry rasp.

Your heart clenched. "I am here. I am right here."

"Bring the children to me, please."

Your first instinct was to refuse, to protect them from this, from the sight of their father so broken. But the look in his eyes was desperate. You nodded, sending a guard, and moments later a nurse led the three children into the room.

Valarr struggled to sit up, wincing with the effort, as you piled pillows behind his back, propping him up against the headboard. He looked terrible, but a weak smile touched his lips as his sons were lifted onto the bed.

Theo, ever the observant one, stayed at the foot of the bed, his small face etched with a confusion that was close to fear. "Papa? Are you sick?"

"I am a little tired," Valarr managed, his voice thin. He held out a trembling hand. "Come here."

Theo crept forward and took his father's hand. Jenaerys, less understanding, simply plopped down onto the mattress, patting Valarr clumsily. "Papa," he babbled, happy and entirely unaware.

Valarr's smile widened, a genuine, heartbreaking thing. He pulled the children close, pressing soft kisses to their foreheads. He looked at his beautiful boys, their bright, innocent eyes, and then his gaze shifted to you, to the gentle swell of your stomach, and the sleeping baby in your arms. He looked at his entire world, gathered in this room, and it was more than enough. It was everything.

Valarr held them for as long as he could, his strength fading fast. Then, with a sigh, he spoke. "Be good for your mother and cause no trouble, do you hear me?"

"Yes, Papa." Both boys said it together.

"Never forget, you are my sons, and I love you."

The nurse gently took the boys away, their cheerful ignorance a stark contrast to the crushing dread that filled the room. You knew this was a farewell. He placed a trembling hand on your belly, the touch so light you barely felt it.

His eyes fluttered closed, his body sinking back against the pillows. You stayed by his side, holding his hand, watching the shallow rise and fall of his chest, until the candle guttered out and the room was plunged into darkness. You must have fallen asleep, because you woke with a start, the grey light of dawn filtering through the curtains. You reached for his hand. It was cold. You scrambled closer, your fingers fumbling for the pulse in his wrist. There was nothing. The Stranger had come in the night and stolen your husband.

Valarr's pyre was lit the next day. Baelor, his face a mask of cold, regal grief, stood and watched as the body of yet another son was committed to the flames. You stood apart, the heat of the fires blistering against your skin, but you felt only an internal, icy cold. You held the hands of your sons. They were quiet, not understanding the solemnity, only that their mother was holding their hands too tight. They did not understand that the smoke curling into the sky was all that remained of their father.

When the rites were over and the last embers had faded to ash, you fled to your chambers. You barely made it to the safety and privacy of your rooms before you began to truly weep. This was not a graceful weeping. It was an ugly, gut-wrenching storm of sobs that wracked your entire body. You collapsed to the floor, your nails scraping the stone, your cries the sound of a soul being torn apart.

The door opened, and Baelor entered. He said nothing, just crossed the room and knelt on the floor beside you. He was the only other person in the world who knew this specific flavour of hell. You did not hesitate. You crawled into his arms, burying your face in his chest, and let the grief consume you. You sobbed for the endless hours you had held yourself together, for the terrible conversations with a toddler who kept asking when his father would play with him. You sobbed for the future that had been incinerated, for the man you loved who was now just smoke and memory.

When you finally pulled back, hiccuping, your face streaked with tears, you saw that Baelor was crying too. He had lost the love of his life, his wife, his parents, and both his children. How much more could one man be asked to endure?

You decided you could not stay. King's Landing already felt like a tomb. Every stone, every corridor, every shadow held the ghost of Valarr. The sight of the pyre was burned into your mind, haunting you, tormenting you. You needed to go home to Dragonstone, where the memories were not of sickness and death but of passion and hope. You would raise your sons there, surrounded by the ghosts of dragons and the memory of their father.

Baelor did not try to stop you.

Taglist: @lightdragonrayne @annetheperfect @breakspearprincess @ihyscuddlesbeeetchx3 @nightcat101 @pin-acolada @risefallrise @shcwiing @danaaa21 @akstranger-16x @thekingswin @purple-1995 @maximuminfluencerstarlight @ghost-heart34 @supremian @smurfellereadscomics @nena-la-fresa @lemonadesforsale @yolosis @lalala828282 @lomlfortnights @forzaferrariii @ohsnapitzmarvelficrec @mistresssolana @lechat-rouge @sparrowwithaquill @sgmwester

[curlie-frys]

DUDE OMG I READ THE SECOND PART FIRST AS A STAND ALONE FIC AND GOT SO COBFUSED AT THIS, I DIDN'T REALIZE IT WAS A THREE PART SERIES

[sedonasummer]

The more you know 🤣

[sedonasummer]

ᴀꜱ ʏᴏᴜ ᴡᴇʀᴇ | ʙᴀᴇʟᴏʀ ᴛᴀʀɢᴀʀʏᴇɴ, ᴠᴀʟᴀʀʀ ᴛᴀʀɢᴀʀʏᴇɴ

─ summary: Baelor watches you become Valarr's wife and learns to love you from afar. Valarr spends every day fearing you will return to his father.

─ pairing: Baelor Targaryen x reader, Valarr Targaryen x wife!reader

─ word count: 10k (this is why I split part 3 into parts 3 and 4, it would have been 25k words)

─ content: 18+ MDNI | past infidelity | canonical character death | pregnancy | angst | smut | insecurity | jealousy | grief | fluff | children | canon divergent

─ a/n: The long, long, long-awaited part three to A Fair Husband and Keep You Close. I don't say this like ever, but you actually do need to read part two to know what is happening here in part three. Thank you so much for your patience. Writing this kinda beat me up a little, but it is done, yay!! Low key, I was kinda emotional writing this, everyone is a bit sad. Hope you enjoy. I will post part four tomorrow. Comment below if you would like to be tagged in that. Thank you as always for likes, comments, reblogs, and everything. I appreciate you. 🖤 Masterlist here.

The Small Council chamber was empty now, Valarr long gone, the candles guttering in their sconces. Baelor remained where he was, slumped in the chair at the head of the table. He had agreed, surrendering the only woman he had ever truly loved to his own son.

The next morning arrived with a cruelty that only the gods could devise. The sky above King's Landing was a bruised, overcast grey, weeping a cold, persistent rain that drummed against the slate roofs of the Red Keep. Inside the Sept of Baelor, the air was thick with the scent of beeswax and heavy incense, trying valiantly to mask the smell of wet wool and damp stone. The seven-sided crystal fractured the meagre light into weak, intermittent rainbows that danced across the stone floor, but there was no warmth in them.

Baelor stood at the front, shrouded in the shadows. From his vantage point he could see everything, yet he felt entirely removed from it, as if he were watching a play performed on a distant stage.

You stood before the altar looking like a vision woven from starlight and silk. Your gown was crimson, heavy with intricate embroidery that glittered subtly with every breath you took. Valarr stood beside you, resplendent in black and crimson, the silver streak in his hair catching the candlelight. He looked at you with open, adoring intensity that made Baelor's stomach turn.

"I am yours," Valarr said, his voice ringing out clear and strong, trembling only slightly with the sheer force of his emotion. "And you are mine, from this day, until the end of my days. I promise to shield you from harm, to cherish you, and to love you with all that I am."

Baelor watched Valarr's face. There was no hesitation there, just the pure, unadulterated love of a boy who believed he had won the greatest prize in the world. It shattered something inside Baelor to watch it.

You turned to face the septon. You were smiling, but Baelor saw the tension in your shoulders, the slight nervous flutter of your hands at your sides. You repeated the vows, your voice softer, melodic. You meant it, in your way. You were committing to this life, to this man, to the duty Baelor had forced upon you.

When the septon pronounced them husband and wife, Valarr did not wait. He stepped forward, cupping your face in his hands gently, and kissed you; a deep, passionate claim of your mouth, right there in front of the High Septon, the court, and the gods.

It felt like hell to Baelor. He turned away before the kiss broke, unable to stomach the sight of you belonging to another, unable to watch the life he should have had unfold before his eyes like a nightmare he could not wake from.

The festivities in the Great Hall were an overwhelming mix of noise and colour that neither of you truly wanted. Forgoing the bedding ceremony had been an easy decision; neither Valarr nor you had any desire to turn your intimacy into a drunken spectacle. You retired to your chambers early, the heavy door closing out the rest of the world.

The room was warm, lit by a roaring fire in the hearth and a dozen candles scattered across the tables. A vast bed draped in heavy curtains of crimson velvet, the linens crisp and white at the centre. Valarr stood by the fire looking at you with a mix of adoration and nervousness.

"You are the most beautiful creature I have ever seen," Valarr whispered, crossing the room to you. He reached out, his fingers trembling slightly as they brushed a stray lock of hair from your cheek. "I want to make you happy."

You looked at him, seeing the man who was now your husband. "I know you will, Valarr," you said softly, covering his hand with yours.

He undressed you with agonising slowness, treating every layer of silk and lace like sacred wrapping paper. When you stood before him in nothing but your shift, he did not rush. Instead he led you to the bed, laying you down against the pillows as if you were made of porcelain.

Valarr was a fast learner, his enthusiasm tempered by a desperate need to please. He kissed your neck, your collarbone, the swell of your breasts, listening to the sharp intakes of your breath and guiding his movements by your soft gasps. When he settled between your thighs he looked up at you, his eyes searching for any sign of discomfort.

"Tell me," he urged, his voice rough. "Tell me what feels good."

He pushed inside, groaning against your lips. It was pleasant, warm and vigorous and full of a youthful stamina that lasted longer than you expected. You met his thrusts, your body responding to the friction and the heat, finding a release that left you panting and trembling beneath him.

Valarr followed shortly after, spending inside you, his body shuddering with the force of it. He collapsed against you, holding you tightly as if he feared you might vanish if he let go.

He murmured into your hair, his voice already thick with sleep. "My wife."

Within minutes his breathing slowed, becoming deep and even. His arm was a heavy band across your waist, his leg tangled possessively between yours. He was out, exhausted by the emotional and physical exertion of the day.

You lay in the dark, staring up at the velvet canopy above. A single tear escaped from the corner of your eye, sliding hot and wet down your temple and into your hair. Then another. You did not make a sound, just let them fall, tracking silently through the dampness on your face.

As you lay there in the circle of Valarr's arms, the reality of it settled over you all at once. Baelor would never hold you like this again.

You thought about the secret passages, the stolen moments, and the way Baelor's hands felt on your skin. You thought about what it would have meant to simply leave, to refuse the marriage, to take your son and go somewhere no one knew your name. You imagined a life where you chose yourself, where you chose love over duty. You cried because you hated this life, because you had done everything right and still felt as though you were dying inside.

On the other side of the Red Keep, in a chamber that felt too large and too quiet, Baelor knelt on the cold stone floor. He was still wearing his doublet, the fabric chafing against his throat, but he could not move to take it off. He felt paralysed, trapped in a moment of grief so profound it threatened to tear him apart.

The thought of you in Valarr's bed, Valarr's hands on your skin, Valarr's lips on your mouth, it was all too much. For the first time in his adult life, Baelor Targaryen wept. He wept for the woman he loved, for the son he had lost to his own selfishness, and for the crushing, unbearable reality in which he existed in a world where you were not his.

The weeks that followed were a slow, agonising march through grey. Baelor kept his word. He did not speak to you or seek you out, effectively erasing himself from your life with the same discipline he applied to his governance, but it cost him dearly.

He saw you, of course. One afternoon, as he exited the Small Council chamber, there you were standing in the corridor ahead, waiting for your father or perhaps for Valarr. You were dressed in deep red velvet, the colour bringing out the brightness of your eyes, which softened at the sight of him.

"Baelor."

He opened his mouth and took a half-step forward, his hand reaching out before he could stop himself.

"Father?"

The voice was sharp, clipped from behind him. Valarr strode past, moving with a purposeful aggression that made the air around them vibrate. He did not look at Baelor as he walked to you.

"How fortunate am I," Valarr said, his voice echoing off the stone walls, "to have such a beautiful wife who comes to visit me!"

He pulled you into an embrace, his arms wrapping around your waist, pulling you flush against him. He kissed your cheek, a lingering press of lips that was as much a performance for Baelor as it was an affection for you. "Come, my love. I have something to show you."

You allowed yourself to be led, but you turned your head back over your shoulder, eyes locking onto Baelor's in a silent communication; a mixture of regret, longing, and sadness.

Valarr noticed the look. He said nothing, only tightening his arm around you and steering you away as he glared at his father.

Baelor stood alone in the corridor. He could not remember what he had been doing, where he had been headed. He retreated to the solace of his solar, where he spent the rest of the day replaying that moment in the hall, replaying the argument with Valarr. I should have fought harder, he thought, the mantra looping in his mind until his head throbbed. I should have fought for her.

Not that his agreement with Valarr's terms helped bridge the chasm between them. Valarr hated him. The betrayal was still fresh, a festering wound in Valarr's mind. He did not know if he would ever forgive his father, and he made no effort to hide it. But being near you, loving you, and being loved by you in return made the burden easier to carry. You were his balm, his reward.

Yet the insecurity gnawed at him, a rat in the walls of his happiness. He tried to suppress it, tried to accept that you were with him, but he could not shake the feeling. Every time he looked at you he wondered if you were comparing him. When he touched you he wondered if his hands felt as skilled as his father's. When he lay with you, driving into your body with desperate intensity, he wondered if you were closing your eyes and imagining Baelor.

His single-minded focus became the one thing he could give you that his father never could: a child. He wanted to see your belly swell with his seed, to create a life that was undeniably yours together. It would be the only part of you that was just for him, a legacy untainted by the memories of his father's touch.

He came to you every night, sometimes twice, worshipping your body, trying to erase every trace of the past with his own passion. "Let me give you a child," he would whisper against your skin, his voice thick with need. "Let me give you a son."

You, for your part, were an eager and willing participant. You wanted the family, the stability, the distraction. You wanted to give Valarr what he needed so he would stop looking at you like you might disappear at any moment.

Baelor, meanwhile, was desperate for some semblance of peace in his home. He was in pain, a constant, dull ache that radiated from his chest. His heart was broken, his mind a mess of regret and what-ifs.

He finally did the one thing he had avoided for weeks. He sent a request to Jena's chambers.

She arrived, her posture stiff, her eyes guarded. She sat in the chair opposite him, her hands folded in her lap, looking at him not with anger but with a cool, detached curiosity. It was worse than her rage.

"I was wrong," Baelor said, the words tasting like ash in his mouth. He did not know where to start, so he started with the truth. "I was a fool. I was arrogant and cruel, and I used you. I used our son as a pawn in my own selfish game."

He looked down at his hands. "I am sorry, Jena. For the affair. For the callousness. For making you feel less than you are. You were right about everything." He broke down, his composure cracking as he sat there, stripped of his pride, waiting for her judgment.

Jena watched him. She saw the genuine remorse in the slump of his shoulders, the way his voice cracked. She knew he was saying this because he was lonely, because you were gone, because he had lost his son. But it did not change the fact that she still had love for him, buried beneath layers of resentment. She sighed, a long, weary sound.

"Forgiveness will take time, Baelor. But I am willing to try."

It was not a triumph, but it was a start.

A month later, the family gathered for a small, private dinner in the royal apartments. The atmosphere was cautiously civil. Jena sat at Baelor's side, close enough that their elbows brushed on the table. Valarr sat at the foot with you beside him.

Valarr stood, looking full of pride and happiness, taking your hand and squeezing it gently.

"We have news," Valarr announced, his voice trembling with excitement. "My spectacular wife is with child."

A gasp went around the table. Baelor felt the blood drain from his face. He looked at you; glowing, your hand resting gently on your stomach, a soft, serene smile on your lips. You looked completely, utterly happy, as though you had everything you had ever wanted.

"Congratulations," your father boomed, beaming. "That is wonderful news."

He looked down at your son, Theo, a boy of two years, running around the table with a toy dragon in his hand, oblivious to the commotion. "And you, young man! Are you excited to be a brother?"

Theo did not even pause. He lifted the toy high in the air, roaring at the top of his lungs, completely ignoring the question. He continued running until Valarr caught him, lifting him and placing a kiss on top of his head.

Baelor sat frozen, the excitement of the room fading into the background. Under the table, hidden by the linen cloth, Jena's warm, soft hand covered his. She squeezed his fingers tight, offering him silent comfort in the midst of his torment. He just sat there, staring at the wall, feeling the life drain out of him, listening to the sound of his son's happiness and knowing it was built on the ruins of his own.

The seasons turned within the Red Keep, the stone walls absorbing the shifting temperatures and the relentless passage of time. The initial, brittle peace that had settled over the royal apartments after your pregnancy announcement began to wear thin, not through any great catastrophe, but through the friction of daily existence. Marriage, you discovered, was not merely the grand gestures witnessed in the sept or the desperate passions of the wedding night; it was the mundane, grating reality of shared space.

You and Valarr argued, no different from any other newly married couple learning the painful geometry of two lives intersecting, yet the air between you always seemed to hold a charge, a lingering voltage from the secrets you kept. One afternoon a disagreement regarding the education of your son escalated into a shouting match that left the nursemaid hovering nervously in the corridor. Valarr's voice, usually so measured in public, cracked with frustration as he paced the rug, his hands gesturing sharply. You stood your ground by the hearth, your chin lifted, eyes flashing.

But when the shouting faded, there was always the aftermath. Valarr would inevitably cross the room to you, his anger draining away to leave him looking boyish and apologetic. He would pull you into an embrace, burying his face in your neck, and you would soften, your hands finding purchase on his shoulders. You loved each other. It was a complicated, knotted love, tangled with duty and jealousy, but it was real.

As the new year bloomed, the atmosphere in the castle shifted from domestic friction to a heavy dread. Jena fell ill. It began simply enough; a persistent cough that rattled in her chest and a fatigue that kept her abed longer than usual. But the weeks wore on, and her strength did not return.

Baelor became a fixture at her bedside. He sat for hours, reading to her in a low, steady voice or simply providing her company. In those long, quiet weeks, the distance that had yawned between them for years seemed to close. They spoke of things long buried; memories of their children when they were small, the scandals of courts past, the simple, mundane absurdities of royal life. It was not the passionate love of ballads, nor was it the all-consuming fire he felt for you, but it was warm, steady, and comfortable. He found that he liked her, this woman who had borne his children and endured his silences. She was funny, in a dry, sardonic way he had never noticed before, and she was kind, more so than he deserved.

One evening, as the light outside the window bled into a bruised purple, Jena woke from a restless sleep, her breathing a raspy, whistling sound that seemed too loud in the hushed room. Baelor leaned forward, taking her frail hand in his.

"Valarr," she whispered, her voice thin as parchment.

"He is outside," Baelor said softly. "He will not enter while I am here."

She closed her eyes, a faint, tired frown touching her lips. "He is so much like you. So proud. He holds his anger like a shield."

Baelor squeezed her fingers. "He has reason."

Her eyes opened again, fixing him with a look that cut through his defences. "You hold onto your guilt. It is drowning you, Baelor."

He looked away, staring into the depths of the fire. "I have made unforgivable mistakes."

"What is done is done. You must forgive him, and you must forgive yourself."

Baelor looked back at her and nodded, unable to speak past the lump in his throat.

She squeezed his hand weakly. "Good. Now, help me sit up. Then call the boys inside."

Jena died the next morning.

Baelor had not known there was more room for sadness, but his heart expanded to accommodate it. The realisation of what he had lost in the quiet moments of reconciliation came too late.

The funeral was a blur of condolences, black, and smoke. Baelor stood at the front, Valarr and Matarys on either side of him. Valarr was pale and stony as he stared straight ahead, fixed on the pyre, as if willing the world to stop turning.

He remembered his final conversation with Jena. She was beautiful, bright, and entirely focused on his comfort and wellbeing even at the end. He had always assumed his mother would always be there, perhaps taken her presence for granted; now there was only silence. Valarr felt your hand slip into his and squeezed hard. He needed your strength.

Inside your chambers afterwards, the silence was absolute. Valarr stood by the hearth, staring into the flames, his back rigid. You watched him for a moment, seeing the tension in the set of his shoulders, the slight tremor in his hands, and walked over to him slowly, not touching him yet, just standing close enough that he would know you were there.

"She is gone," Valarr said, his voice cracking on the words. He did not turn around. "She is really gone."

"I know."

It was as if those two words broke the dam. Valarr turned, and the mask shattered. He reached for you with a clumsy movement and collapsed in your arms. You caught him, wrapping your arms around him as his knees gave way, sinking with him to the floor.

He sobbed into your shoulder, a sound deep and wrenching that seemed to come from the very marrow of his bones; weeping for the mother who had smoothed his hair and bandaged his knees, for the voice that had soothed his nightmares and sung him lullabies, for the unconditional love that had now passed. You held him tight, one hand cradling the back of his head, fingers tangling in his hair, letting him pour his sorrow out into the fabric of your gown. There were no words for this. You just anchored him, your presence a steady, silent promise that you would not let him drift away.

After a long time the sobbing slowed, turning into ragged, uneven breaths. Valarr pulled back slightly, his face puffy and red, eyes rimmed with exhaustion.

"You are all I have."

You reached up, brushing a lock of hair from his forehead. "You have your father," you said gently. "He grieves with you."

Valarr looked down at his hands, clasped tightly in his lap, and nodded. "I know." He leaned forward, resting his forehead against yours for a moment, drawing strength from your breath against his skin. Then he stood, pulling you up with him. He kissed your forehead, a lingering, grateful press of lips, before straightening his tunic and squaring his shoulders. He looked like a prince again, albeit a battered one.

He found Baelor in the solar the next evening, sitting behind the massive desk that seemed too large for one man. The room was dark, lit only by a few tapers and the dying embers in the grate. Baelor was staring at a book but he was not reading it. He looked up when Valarr entered, his eyes guarded and weary.

"Father." The word was awkward and heavy.

Baelor stood slowly. "Valarr."

Valarr took a deep breath. "I do not wish to be at war with you. It is too much, and, mother hated it." He paused. "I shall not apologise for what I said to you. I was right."

Baelor closed his eyes. "I know."

"But," Valarr continued, his voice softening slightly, "I wish to move forward."

When Baelor opened his eyes, the gratitude in them was clear. It stripped away the years, the titles, the grievances, leaving only a father looking at his son. "I would like that," Baelor said, his voice barely above a whisper. "I would like that very much."

The scars from the past remained, but this was a beginning. They spoke then, haltingly at first, then with more ease.

Weeks melted into months, and the heavy cloak of mourning began to lift, replaced by the anticipation of new life as your time drew near. The labour was long and arduous, a test of endurance that lasted through the night and into the early hours of the morning. You gritted your teeth, sweat beading on your forehead, hands crushing the linens. Valarr paced outside the room like a caged beast, his face a mask of terrified helplessness.

Baelor arrived with Matarys shortly after. He saw his son, wild-eyed and frantic.

"The birth can take hours," Baelor said. "You must prepare yourself for the wait."

The hours dragged on, marked only by the shifting of the guard and the occasional muffled cry from within the room. Baelor watched Valarr, seeing the terror in his posture, and remembered his own fears when Valarr and Matarys were born.

When the child finally came, he let out a squall that shook the rafters; a strong, healthy sound.

The door opened and a midwife stepped out, her apron stained but her face beaming. She curtsied low. "My princes! You have a son!"

Valarr was on his feet before she finished speaking. He did not wait for an invitation; he pushed past the midwife and into the room.

You lay back against the pillows, your chest heaving, exhaustion pulling at every limb, but your eyes were fixed on the bundle being placed in your arms. He was perfect, small, squinting against the light, but as he settled, the features became clear.

A tuft of stark white hair crowned his head. He opened his eyes, and you drew in a breath. One eye was a deep, shining lilac, the other a clear, bright blue. He was all Valarr, and yet entirely his own person.

Valarr approached the bed with hesitant steps, his eyes wide. When you gently transferred the bundle into his arms, the transformation in him was instantaneous. He looked down at the child with complete awe.

"Hello," he whispered, his voice trembling. He touched the infant's cheek with a single finger, like the boy might break. The baby shifted, yawning, and Valarr let out a choked laugh. Tears spilled over his lashes, tracking down his face unchecked. "Welcome to the world, Jenaerys."

You smiled, brushing the white hair back from the baby's forehead.

Baelor stood in the doorway, unwilling to intrude on this moment of triumph for his son. But Valarr looked up and saw him, nodded, stepping aside slightly; an invitation.

Valarr gently passed the infant to his grandfather. Baelor took the child, supporting the tiny head with his large hand. He looked down at the newborn, and all he saw was you.

The delicate curve of your nose, the shape of the mouth, the sweet bow of the lips that were yours. It was as if you had taken your own features and breathed life into them, gifting them to this child.

This was the son he would never have with you.

Baelor lifted his head, his gaze moving from the baby to you. You lay against the pillows, smiling at him. It was a soft, knowing smile, full of understanding and shared sadness.

He swallowed hard, forcing the lump down his throat. He looked back at the baby, then at you again.

"You did well," Baelor said, his voice low and rough, carrying the weight of everything he could not say.

The year that followed the birth of the new prince settled into a rhythm that felt almost like forgiveness.

Valarr moved through the halls with a new centre of gravity. The sharp, frantic edge that had defined him, the desperate need to prove, to possess, to secure, had dulled into a steady, quiet confidence. He spent his available hours in the nursery, looking down at the boy with a look of utter disbelief, as if the child were a miracle he had conjured from the air itself. He leaned down to nuzzle the baby's stomach, eliciting a squeal of delight.

From his spot by the window, Theo watched the interaction. He crossed his small arms, huffing. "He just sleeps," the boy complained, his voice high and petulant. "He does not play anything."

Valarr chuckled, a low, warm sound. He reached out a hand, beckoning him closer. "Give him time, little lord. Soon he will be chasing you, stealing your toys, and generally making a nuisance of himself. You shall miss the quiet."

Your son approached reluctantly, but when Valarr ruffled his hair, he leaned into the touch. Valarr's affection was not divided; it multiplied. He looked at the dark-haired boy with the same fierce adoration he held for the infant, bridging the gap of blood with sheer will and love.

It was harder than Baelor had anticipated to step back, to watch you build this life with his son while he remained on the periphery. But he forced the feelings down, burying them under layers of duty and familial affection. This peace was too fragile to risk. He had his sons, he had these perfect grandsons, and he had you in this new, purified light; as a daughter, a friend, a fixture of his life that he could admire from a careful distance. This, he told himself as the sun dipped below the walls of the Keep, was a good life. It was not the life he had dreamed of in the quiet hours of the night, but it was a life he could endure, and even enjoy, because you were safe within it.

The peace was shattered at Ashford.

The tournament was meant to be a display of chivalry and sport, but soon turned to malice. The Trial of Seven was a chaotic mess of steel and mud, a melee of honour that turned brutal. When the dust finally settled, the crowd's roar died in their throats.

Baelor had fallen.

He did not die, though the Seven seemed to toy with the idea. A blow from a heavy mace, wielded in the heat of the moment by his own brother Maekar, had struck him squarely. The Prince of Dragonstone lay motionless.

Three days passed agonisingly slowly. The castle of Ashford became a tomb of silence. Maekar paced the corridors, his face gaunt, his hands trembling whenever they were still. Valarr sat by the window in your shared chambers, staring out at the tourney grounds now empty of revellers. He spoke little, but the fear radiated off him like heat. He was not ready to be an orphan. The thought of facing Matarys and telling him their father was gone was unbearable.

You moved through the days like a ghost, your body present but your mind trapped in the sickroom, imagining the worst.

On the third night, the castle slept. The torches in the hallways burned low, and you lay in bed beside Valarr, listening to the rhythm of his breathing, but sleep continued to evade you. You did not care about propriety or if a guard saw you or what the court would whisper. You just needed to see him.

Baelor's sickroom was guarded by a single drowsy sentry, who stepped aside at the sight of your determined face. Inside, the air smelled of valerian root, feverfew, and the copper tang of dried blood.

Baelor lay in the centre of the large bed, looking smaller than he had any right to. A bandage wrapped around his head, stark white against his tanned skin. His breathing was shallow, a faint rise and fall of his chest that seemed to require all his strength.

You moved to the chair beside the bed and sank into it. The sight of him, a man usually so vibrant and strong, reduced to this, broke something loose inside you. A sob tore from your throat as you pressed a hand to your mouth to stifle the sound, but tears spilled over uncontrollably.

You remembered the way he looked at you in the Kingswood, the way he held your son, the sound of his voice saying your name like a prayer. You remembered the touch of his hand, the warmth of his embrace, the safety you had felt in his arms. It was clear in that moment that you loved him still.

"Please," you whispered, leaning over him, your tears dripping onto his tunic. "Baelor, do not leave me."

You pressed your lips to his cheek. It was dry and cold, the stubble rough against your soft skin. "I love you." You kissed him again; a firm, lingering press on his lips, pouring every ounce of your love and your regret into that contact. You did not want to be a princess or a wife. You just wanted him to be alive.

Exhaustion eventually claimed you. You leaned forward, resting your head on the edge of the mattress, right beside his shoulder, breathing in the comforting scent of him as you fell asleep.

The first thing Baelor truly saw when he opened his eyes was long hair and soft skin.

The pain in his head was a blinding, splitting agony, a white-hot spike driven through his temple. He groaned, trying to move, but his body felt heavy, disconnected.

He turned his head slightly, and his breath caught.

You were asleep, your head resting on his chest. For a moment, Baelor was certain he had died. This surely was the Stranger's final mercy, a vision of heaven's most beautiful angel keeping vigil beside him before the end.

He stared at you, drinking in the sight of your eyelashes fluttering in sleep and the soft parting of your lips. He missed all of this; the warmth of you near him, the smell of your hair, the quiet intimacy of just breathing the same air as you.

You stirred, your eyes heavy with sleep fluttering open and focusing on him. For a heartbeat, the world held only the two of you. A slow, tired smile touched his lips. He lifted his hand, fingers trembling, and brushed a stray lock of hair from your face.

"My heart," he breathed, his voice a dry rasp.

The sound of his voice shattered the spell. You scrambled backward, the chair scraping harshly against the stone floor. You felt as if you could not breathe. The intimacy of the moment, the love you saw in his eyes, it was too much.

"I must fetch the maesters."

You turned and fled the room, rushing into the corridor. "Maester! Help! The prince is awake!"

"Wait," Baelor tried to say, reaching for you, but his strength failed him. He watched the empty doorway where you had stood, the warmth of your presence already fading into the cold morning air. He closed his eyes, the brief glimpse of heaven snatched away, leaving him with only the pain in his skull and the hollow ache in his chest.

You returned to your own chambers, drained and hollowed out by the night's vigil and the emotional whiplash of seeing him awake. Valarr was waiting, fully dressed, though the sun had barely risen. He turned as you entered, and the look on his face stopped you in your tracks.

He looked devastated.

"I woke to find you absent from our bed," he said. "I went to check on my father, and found you there." He took a step closer. "No matter what I do, no matter how much I give you, you continue to carry a torch for him."

"Valarr."

"Do you wish you were his wife instead of mine?"

Something inside you snapped. The exhaustion, the grief, the years of walking on eggshells; it all rose up. "I am sick of this, Valarr. Why must I continuously prove myself to you?"

He began to speak, but you cut him off, raising a hand. "I am married to you, and I am happy. I carried your child. Let this go." You took a breath, your gaze steady on his. "You have already lost your mother. Do you truly wish to spend your life hating your father and looking for betrayal where there is none? You must forgive him, truly, because you are poisoning our marriage by carrying this resentment."

His composure crumbled. His hands began to shake as he closed the distance between you, taking your hands in his. "I am sorry," he whispered, his voice cracking. "I did not mean it. I cannot bear the thought of losing you to him."

You squeezed his hands, your own anger softening. "You will never lose me, Valarr." You leaned in to kiss his cheek. "I love you."

That was the truth. You loved the man he was, the father he was to your children. But in the quiet, secret chambers of your heart, you knew there was more. His close brush with death had shown you that you were far from over Baelor. You would always, always love him. But you had made your choice, and that choice was Valarr.

Weeks later, the family returned to King's Landing, but the respite was short-lived. King Daeron II passed away peacefully in his sleep, and the weight of the crown descended upon Baelor's head. He moved through the ceremonies with grace, but inside he felt entirely unready. He had not been able to speak a private word with you since the tournament, since the morning he had woken to find you and then lost you to the chaos. For three years, Baelor tried to forget you, to smother the fire of his feelings. He failed. The familial peace he had forced himself to accept felt like a prison now. He wanted to tell you he loved you still, to apologise for what he had done, to apologise for not marrying you himself.

His opportunity came on a warm afternoon, several days after his coronation. Baelor saw you slip out of the main hall, moving toward the gardens. He waited a moment, his heart hammering against his ribs, and followed, keeping his distance as he rehearsed his words in his head. You moved quickly, with purpose, disappearing around a turn. He turned a corner, the anticipation rising in his throat, and stopped dead. You were there, but you were not alone.

Baelor could only watch as you stepped into Valarr's arms, as if it were the most natural place in the world. He watched as Valarr tilted your chin up and kissed you; a kiss full of a tender, possessive love that Baelor had never been able to claim publicly. He saw the way Valarr held you, as if you were the most precious, fragile thing in all the Seven Kingdoms. This was a tableau of love, of a bond that was living and breathing, while his own love was a ghost that haunted the halls. Seeing you like that, a perfect, united whole, made him feel utterly foolish, pining for a woman who was clearly, irrevocably happy in the arms of another.

His heart broke again. He shook his head slowly, the bitterness of regret rising in his throat as he turned around and walked away.

Baelor, hurt and quietly jealous, could not protest later that week when Valarr announced that he would be taking you and the children to Dragonstone, putting an entire sea between you and Baelor.

"Of course," Baelor said, his voice betraying none of the storm within him. "If you think it best."

The year on Dragonstone had worn the sharp edges from your life, smoothing it into contentment. In the nursery, the air was warm and close. Valarr sat on the floor, his long legs folded beneath him, a position he endured without complaint for the sake of his audience.

"And so the brave knight defeated the evil wizard and saved his kingdom."

Theo, at five years old, sat cross-legged directly before his father, his chin resting on his fists. His dark eyes were wide with concentration. "I want to be a knight, Papa!"

Valarr smiled. "You will be a great one."

Jenaerys was not so captivated by the story. He toddled to the heavy wooden chest in the corner, his small hands patting against the iron hinges. "Open," he demanded, his brow furrowed with effort.

"No more toys; it is time for sleeping," you said from the rocking chair near the fire. You shifted your weight, the familiar ache of your back a gentle reminder of the new life growing within you. In your arms, your newest babe, Baelon stirred. He was just learning to sit up on his own, a wobbly, determined effort, but the cadence of his father's voice was lulling him into sleep. His head lolled against your chest, his breaths coming in soft, even puffs against your skin.

You watched Valarr, your heart swelling. He was a patient storyteller and a better father, weaving tales of conquest and dragons, teaching his sons where they came from in the very heart of their ancestral home. He met your gaze over Theo's head, and the look you shared was one of unspoken understanding. This was your life, your fortress, built not of stone but of shared moments and the small, perfect bodies of your children.

Jenaerys, having given up on the chest, ambled back over and plopped down onto Valarr's outstretched leg, babbling a string of tired words that he clearly believed were a vital contribution to the narrative. Valarr did not miss a beat, simply resting a hand on his son's back and continuing the story.

You looked down at Baelon, fast asleep, and ran a thumb over his soft cheek, then let your hand drift down to rest on your own stomach. The subtle, rounded swell was still a secret shared only between you and Valarr. You had always wanted a large family, and the gods were being generous.

Back in your chambers, the fire had been built up, chasing away the evening chill. You sat on the edge of the large bed, watching as Valarr poured two cups of wine and handed one to you, his fingers brushing yours.

"Have you been feeling well?" he asked, his voice quiet.

"Quite well, you need not worry." You tilted your head back to look at him. "Although this house is becoming rather overrun with men. A mother needs an ally."

His eyes crinkled at the corners. "Is that a hint, my lady?"

"One more son and I shall be completely overwhelmed."

Valarr's hand spread wider over your belly as he leaned down and kissed your forehead, his lips lingering against your skin. "This one," he whispered, his voice filled with certainty, "is a daughter. I can feel it."

A thousand miles away, in the oppressive, perfumed air of the Red Keep's council chamber, Baelor sat at the head of the polished table, irritated.

"Must we discuss this once more? Valarr is my heir. The line is secure."

"A king needs a queen, Your Grace," another lord ventured, a plumper man who dabbed at his brow with a silk square. "For companionship. For counsel. You should not be so, solitary."

The word solitary struck a nerve. Solitary was his bedchamber at night, vast and empty. It was the long walk from the throne room back to his apartments, his footsteps echoing in a silence that seemed designed to mock him. He was a king surrounded by thousands, and he had never been more alone.

He thought of you; a constant, living presence in the hollow spaces of his life. The sound of your voice. The way your eyes would light up with a mischievous spark just before you said something daring. The feel of your hand in his, a perfect fit. How could he ever take another woman to his bed? The very idea was a betrayal of a truth that lived in his bones.

"I have no need for a queen."

The council, as expected, did not relent. They sent ladies to him. Each encounter left him more certain, more hollowed out as he compared them all to you, and not a single one could measure; not in grace, not in beauty, not in the fierce, loyal heart he knew so well. He gave up the charade, retreating further into the solitude of his duty.

His only solace was the raven that arrived from Dragonstone every fortnight. Valarr's letters detailed the boys' antics, your health, and matters of governance. Each letter was a taste of the life he had exiled himself from, a life that contained you. He missed your family terribly. He missed the sound of Valarr's voice, the sight of his grandsons, and you.

The city is too quiet, he wrote. Your brother and I would have it filled with your presence again. Come home.

The days in King's Landing unfolded like a dream, a brilliant, sun-drenched respite from the shadows of your past. The Red Keep, once a place of stifling formality and whispered anxieties, now echoed with the unrestrained laughter of children. Jenaerys had discovered the perfect kingdom for his games. The gardens were a sprawling wilderness of hedges and statues, the corridors a labyrinth of hiding places just his size. He took particular glee in darting away from his nursemaids, a flash of a child disappearing behind a stone gargoyle or a curtain of heavy velvet. The servants would flurry, their calls growing increasingly frantic, only for him to emerge with a triumphant grin from behind a curtain or the top of something he had no business climbing. He was a whirlwind of joyful mischief, and his energy was infectious.

Where Jenaerys was action, Theo was inquiry. He followed the maesters around like a duckling, his small finger pointing at everything. His curiosity was boundless, his wide eyes taking in every detail with a sweet, serious concentration that charmed everyone he met.

And then there was your infant son, a cooing, gurgling centre of gravity. He was passed from adoring arms to adoring arms. The septas, the couriers, the guards; all were utterly captivated. But no one was more captivated than his grandfather.

Baelor was transformed. In your time away, he had become stern, but that melted away, replaced by a man who was content to participate in all the silly antics the children required of him. Watching them, you felt a sense of peace settle over you. This was what you had always wanted for them; the joy of being children, knowing they were loved, living in a place filled with laughter. You allowed yourself to hope, a fragile, dangerous thing, that these days could stretch into forever.

Evenings, however, belonged to you and Valarr.

The hustle of the court faded behind the doors of your bedchamber. You brushed out your hair, the rhythmic strokes soothing after a long day of managing the children and court life. You watched Valarr in the looking glass. He had changed in the year you had been away. The bitterness that used to cling to him like a second skin had sloughed off, leaving behind a man who was confident, devoted, and utterly at peace with his world.

He turned, catching your eye in the reflection. A slow, tender smile curved his lips.

"You are staring, my lady," Valarr murmured, coming up behind you. His hands settled on your shoulders, his thumbs brushing the sensitive skin of your neck.

"And if I am?" You leaned back into his touch, tilting your head to rest against his chest. "I have much to look at."

He chuckled and turned you around, lifting you easily to sit atop the vanity table.

"I missed this," Valarr whispered, his voice dropping an octave, roughening with that familiar edge of desire. "I missed the quiet. Just you and I."

"As did I," you breathed, reaching up to thread your fingers into his hair. "The boys are happy here. It is good to see."

"It is," he agreed, though his focus was entirely on your mouth. He leaned in, brushing his lips against yours; a tease, a promise. "I have been neglecting my wife."

"You have been busy being a prince," you countered, your breath hitching as his hand moved from your waist to the laces of your nightgown.

"Tonight I am just your husband."

He kissed you then. You parted your lips, welcoming the sweep of his tongue, the tang of the wine he had drunk at dinner still lingering on him. You wrapped your legs around his waist, pulling him closer, feeling the hardening length of him through the thin fabric of your clothes.

Valarr groaned into your mouth, lifting you from the vanity without breaking the kiss. He carried you to the bed, laying you down against the crisp linens. He followed you down, settling his weight between your thighs, pressing you into the mattress. The heat of him was overwhelming, a furnace that chased away the chill of the night.

"I love you," he rasped, pulling back to look you in the eye. His gaze was intense. "Everything I am, everything I have; it is for you."

Tears pricked your eyes, not from sadness but from the sheer volume of emotion swelling inside you. "I love you, Valarr. More than life."

Valarr shifted, laying you back against the pillows, his body covering yours. The nightgown was a flimsy barrier, and he made quick work of it, his hands sliding the fabric up your thighs, over your hips, until he could pull it over your head. The cool air of the room raised goosebumps on your skin, but the heat of his gaze was a furnace. He looked at you; your heavy breasts, the soft curve of your stomach, the dark patch of hair between your legs, with a worshipful hunger that never failed to undo you.

He shed his own clothes quickly, and then he was skin against skin, all hard muscle and heat. He settled between your legs, not entering you yet, just rocking against your slick folds, teasing you both. "You feel so good," he groaned, his face buried in the crook of your neck. "So perfect."

"Please, Valarr," you gasped, your nails digging into his shoulders. "I need you."

He lifted his head, his eyes locking with yours. He reached down, took his cock in his hand, and guided the head to your entrance. He pushed inside, slowly, inch by agonising inch, stretching you open until he was seated to the hilt. The feeling was exquisite; you could feel him in your very core.

You cried out, your legs wrapping around his waist, pulling him even deeper.

He began to move, a slow, powerful rhythm that stole your sanity. Each thrust was a declaration, a possession. His hands found yours, their fingers lacing together, pinning them to the mattress on either side of your head. He kissed you then; a deep, filthy kiss that was all tongue and teeth and shared breath. The pace increased, his hips snapping against yours, the sound of your bodies filling the room. You clung to him, your nails raking down his back, leaving red furrows in his skin. He did not flinch; he just drove into you harder, with a desperate, frantic energy.

He broke the kiss, his lips trailing down your neck, sucking and biting at the sensitive skin there. His arms banded around you as he continued to drive into you. The pressure was building, a tight coil in your stomach threatening to snap. He must have felt it too. He lifted his head again, capturing your mouth in another searing kiss. "Come for me, love," he commanded, his voice a raw, ragged thing. "Come for me."

His words were your undoing. The coil snapped, and your release crashed over you, a blinding wave of pleasure that made you cry out his name. Your cunt clenched around him, rippling and spasming, and with a hoarse shout he followed you over the edge. He buried himself deep, his cock pulsing as he spent inside you, a hot, flooding release that seemed to go on forever. He collapsed on top of you, his weight a welcome, grounding pressure, his heart hammering against your ribs.

You lay tangled together, slick with sweat and shaking with the aftershocks, the firelight casting long shadows on the wall. It was a perfect night, a perfect moment of connection and love. You drifted off to sleep in his arms, feeling safe, cherished, and utterly complete.

The dream was not long for this world, however, ending with the arrival of the Spring Sickness.

It came on the winds from Flea Bottom, a whisper at first, then a roar. The city was awash with a cruel, efficient plague that showed no deference to rank or coin. The lowborn died in their gutters, the highborn in their silken beds. The Red Keep, an impenetrable fortress for armies, proved no defence for this invisible enemy.

The first blow landed hard. Matarys, a boy of barely seventeen with his father's kind eyes and his mother's fiery spirit, took sick. It was a swift, brutal illness. One day he was complaining of a headache; the next he was burning with a fever that no maester could break, his body wracked with chills so violent his teeth chattered constantly. He died three days later, his young body simply giving out.

Then Valarr fell ill.

It started with a weariness he could not shake. Then the fever came. He lay in the sick bed, far from the place of your perfect night, his body shivering uncontrollably despite the roaring fire. His skin was pale and waxy, pulled taut over the sharp bones of his face. He looked like a stranger, a beautiful, broken effigy of the man you loved.

You never left his side. You sponged his burning skin with cool water, forced water and broth between his cracked lips, and prayed. You prayed to the Seven, to the old gods, to any god who would listen. You bargained, you wept, you promised anything, everything, just for him to overcome this. But the gods had turned their faces away.

On the fourth day, he woke. His eyes were hazy with fever, but they found yours. "My love," he whispered, his voice a dry rasp.

Your heart clenched. "I am here. I am right here."

"Bring the children to me, please."

Your first instinct was to refuse, to protect them from this, from the sight of their father so broken. But the look in his eyes was desperate. You nodded, sending a guard, and moments later a nurse led the three children into the room.

Valarr struggled to sit up, wincing with the effort, as you piled pillows behind his back, propping him up against the headboard. He looked terrible, but a weak smile touched his lips as his sons were lifted onto the bed.

Theo, ever the observant one, stayed at the foot of the bed, his small face etched with a confusion that was close to fear. "Papa? Are you sick?"

"I am a little tired," Valarr managed, his voice thin. He held out a trembling hand. "Come here."

Theo crept forward and took his father's hand. Jenaerys, less understanding, simply plopped down onto the mattress, patting Valarr clumsily. "Papa," he babbled, happy and entirely unaware.

Valarr's smile widened, a genuine, heartbreaking thing. He pulled the children close, pressing soft kisses to their foreheads. He looked at his beautiful boys, their bright, innocent eyes, and then his gaze shifted to you, to the gentle swell of your stomach, and the sleeping baby in your arms. He looked at his entire world, gathered in this room, and it was more than enough. It was everything.

Valarr held them for as long as he could, his strength fading fast. Then, with a sigh, he spoke. "Be good for your mother and cause no trouble, do you hear me?"

"Yes, Papa." Both boys said it together.

"Never forget, you are my sons, and I love you."

The nurse gently took the boys away, their cheerful ignorance a stark contrast to the crushing dread that filled the room. You knew this was a farewell. He placed a trembling hand on your belly, the touch so light you barely felt it.

His eyes fluttered closed, his body sinking back against the pillows. You stayed by his side, holding his hand, watching the shallow rise and fall of his chest, until the candle guttered out and the room was plunged into darkness. You must have fallen asleep, because you woke with a start, the grey light of dawn filtering through the curtains. You reached for his hand. It was cold. You scrambled closer, your fingers fumbling for the pulse in his wrist. There was nothing. The Stranger had come in the night and stolen your husband.

Valarr's pyre was lit the next day. Baelor, his face a mask of cold, regal grief, stood and watched as the body of yet another son was committed to the flames. You stood apart, the heat of the fires blistering against your skin, but you felt only an internal, icy cold. You held the hands of your sons. They were quiet, not understanding the solemnity, only that their mother was holding their hands too tight. They did not understand that the smoke curling into the sky was all that remained of their father.

When the rites were over and the last embers had faded to ash, you fled to your chambers. You barely made it to the safety and privacy of your rooms before you began to truly weep. This was not a graceful weeping. It was an ugly, gut-wrenching storm of sobs that wracked your entire body. You collapsed to the floor, your nails scraping the stone, your cries the sound of a soul being torn apart.

The door opened, and Baelor entered. He said nothing, just crossed the room and knelt on the floor beside you. He was the only other person in the world who knew this specific flavour of hell. You did not hesitate. You crawled into his arms, burying your face in his chest, and let the grief consume you. You sobbed for the endless hours you had held yourself together, for the terrible conversations with a toddler who kept asking when his father would play with him. You sobbed for the future that had been incinerated, for the man you loved who was now just smoke and memory.

When you finally pulled back, hiccuping, your face streaked with tears, you saw that Baelor was crying too. He had lost the love of his life, his wife, his parents, and both his children. How much more could one man be asked to endure?

You decided you could not stay. King's Landing already felt like a tomb. Every stone, every corridor, every shadow held the ghost of Valarr. The sight of the pyre was burned into your mind, haunting you, tormenting you. You needed to go home to Dragonstone, where the memories were not of sickness and death but of passion and hope. You would raise your sons there, surrounded by the ghosts of dragons and the memory of their father.

Baelor did not try to stop you.

Taglist: @lightdragonrayne @annetheperfect @breakspearprincess @ihyscuddlesbeeetchx3 @nightcat101 @pin-acolada @risefallrise @shcwiing @danaaa21 @akstranger-16x @thekingswin @purple-1995 @maximuminfluencerstarlight @ghost-heart34 @supremian @smurfellereadscomics @nena-la-fresa @lemonadesforsale @yolosis @lalala828282 @lomlfortnights @forzaferrariii @ohsnapitzmarvelficrec @mistresssolana @lechat-rouge @sparrowwithaquill @sgmwester

[sedonasummer]

I just read A fair Husband and Keep you close, can’t believe our calm composed Prince fumbled so bad and agreed to match Valarr up with his mistress. Love really does make people stupid! XD

Excited to read how this turns out and ofc rooting for Baelor (as always) 🤭

I’m glad you liked them! Part 3 is posting today, strap in because there will be plenty more dumb decisions. I’m kidding, maybe just one more silly decision.

[sedonasummer]

Hello! I’m new to your blog and you’re writing is absolutely dream I just have to binge every single piece!

But I have noticed that some of you fics aren’t linked on your masterlist? Is there anywhere else I can read them or find them?

OMG HIII! Welcome!

I didn’t realize they weren’t all linked. I’ll go and fix that today. Thank you

Update: The links have been filled in the masterlist

[sedonasummer]

the way you’re my favorite AKOTSK writer 😭 i eat it UP every time!!! then go back to your masterlist and am scrolling like yupppp there’s another fav, and another fav, anddd another fav!! 👏👏😘😘🔥🔥

This means the whole world to me! Thank you so much for such a kind message and thank you for reading 🥹🥹🥹❤️

[sedonasummer]

if ur taking requests, can i ask for maekar x baelor's daughter? something hidden from everyone because reader is baelor's little girl and he would absolutely be pissed about it👀

ʙᴇᴛᴡᴇᴇɴ ʏᴏᴜ ᴀɴᴅ ᴍᴇ | ᴍᴀᴇᴋᴀʀ ᴛᴀʀɢᴀʀʏᴇɴ

─ summary: You, Baelor's one and only daughter, his favourite child, are determined to help your uncle Maekar get through the grief of losing his wife.

─ pairing: Maekar Targaryen x niece!reader

─ content: 18+ MDNI | targcest | smut | filthy smut | yearning | guilt | age gap| stressing out this poor old man| word count 4k

─ a/n: I got a little carried away here, but this was such a good request, and I loved writing it. As always, thank you for likes, comments, reblogs, and requests. Much love. 🖤

The Red Keep was alive with the sort of boisterous, glittering life that only a royal feast could summon. A hundred tallow candles burned in silver sconces along the stone walls, their light dancing across the long tables laden with food. You sat at the high table, a world away from the chaos, yet at its very centre.

"Another?" Your father, Baelor, leaned in, his voice a low, warm rumble that cut through the din with ease. He held a silver pitcher, the light from the massive chandeliers glinting off the intricate dragon heads that formed its handle. His eyes crinkled at the corners as he looked at you.

You shook your head, a small smile playing on your lips. "No, Father. I am quite well." You placed a hand over his, where it rested on the table. You were his youngest, his only daughter, and the absolute, unchallenged centre of his world. Of course, he loved your brothers, but you; you were his greatest treasure, his clear favourite. You went everywhere with him, from the small council chambers to the royal sept, and you spoke with him about everything and nothing, a comfortable stream of chatter that he seemed to absorb like sunlight.

He gave your hand a squeeze before releasing it, turning to speak with a lord who had approached. Your gaze drifted over the hall, not missing the way men watched you. Knights and lords from every corner of the realm, their eyes speculative and hungry. To win your favour was to win the ear of the future king, a fact you were not naive enough to ignore. Though you were polite to them all, offering a kind word or a practised smile, your heart remained a still, unmoved pool within your chest.

A shadow fell over your side of the table, and you did not need to look up to know who it was.

"Cousin," Aerion's voice was a silken purr, laced with the arrogance that came so naturally to him. He slid beside you, far closer than propriety strictly allowed. "You look like a star fallen to earth tonight."

You turned your head, meeting his pale lilac eyes. He was handsome, there was no denying it, but his beauty was cold and brittle, much like him.

"Aerion, you are in high spirits."

"Always, when I am near you," he said, his voice dropping to a conspiratorial whisper. He leaned closer, his breath warm against your ear. "Do you not feel it? How the fire in our blood calls to one another. You need a man who understands your true nature. These suitors are an insult to you."

You had heard a version of this from him at least a hundred times. A litany of fire and blood and destiny.

"It is not I whom you must convince, dear cousin," you replied, turning your attention back to your goblet of watered wine. "Perhaps you should save your grand pronouncements for my father."

He chuckled, a low, smug sound. "You and I both know that is a lie."

You said nothing, merely tracing a condensation ring on the table with your fingertip. Your father, finished with his conversation, glanced over at Aerion, his expression hardening almost imperceptibly. Baelor was fiercely protective, skeptical of every man who dared to look at you with a sliver of interest. He had made his position clear to you. You would marry who you chose, in your own time, or not at all. He would sooner see you live out your days as an unmarried spinster princess in the Red Keep than force you into a bed and a life you did not want.

Before you could rebuff Aerion politely, your father's voice cut in, cool and sharp. "Aerion. My daughter is tired." He placed a hand on your shoulder, a gesture of both affection and possession. "And I believe Valarr wished to speak with you about the upcoming tournament."

It was a dismissal, clear and absolute. Aerion's jaw tightened for a fraction of a second before the smooth mask slid back into place. He gave you a short, sharp bow. "Princess. Your Grace."

You let out a breath you had not realised you were holding. "Thank you, Father."

Baelor's hand remained on your shoulder. "Where did your uncle go wrong with him?"

Your eyes scanned the hall again, looking for the aforementioned uncle. He was seated several chairs down, a figure carved from shadow and sternness, not participating in the revelry. He sat with his back straight, his broad shoulders straining against the fabric of his dark tunic, a goblet of wine untouched before him. He was a man hollowed out by grief.

You had always thought him handsome, in a severe, imposing way. Even as a girl, you had admired his strength, the way he carried himself with the unshakeable confidence of a warrior. But that was before his wife had died. The light in him had gone out, replaced by a cold, impenetrable gloom. He had become gruff, impatient, and quick to dismiss any attempt at conversation. Yet you, for reasons you could not fully explain, had made it your mission to bring that light back.

You would find him in the library, pulling out a book you had no intention of reading, just to sit in the same quiet space. You would accidentally find him walking in the gardens and fall into step beside him, filling the silence with stories about your day. You would sometimes even seek him out in the training yard and watch him practice. He never sent you away.

"Does your father encourage this incessant chatter?" he had grunted one afternoon as you sat with him in a quiet solar, detailing the drama between two of your ladies-in-waiting. He was staring into the fire, his profile sharp and severe.

You had flinched, your shoulders slumping, suddenly feeling foolish. The light in your eyes dimmed, and you had looked down at your feet, unable to meet his gaze. "I… I am sorry, Uncle. I did not mean to be a pest."

Maekar turned to look at you and saw the genuine hurt on your face, the way your lower lip trembled almost imperceptibly. He let out a long, slow breath, the anger seeming to drain out of him.

"I know you are in grief. I understand. I just, I do not want to see you in it forever. It is eating you alive."

Something in your words, in their raw, unvarnished honesty, had broken through his armour. He felt a pang of guilt, sharp and unpleasant. He, a grown man, a prince, had made his niece, who was nothing but kindness and stubborn concern, feel small. He had to admit, if only to himself, that in the long, silent months since Dyanna's death, your persistent, cheerful presence was the only thing that brought him a sliver of joy. You were spoiled and often said silly things, but you were also passionate and sweet. The only person who had consistently tried to reach him through the thick fog of his sorrow, and he appreciated it. He truly did.

"I apologize," he said, his voice gruff but no longer harsh. "That was unkind of me. Do not stop speaking, it is not unwelcome."

A slow, hesitant smile had spread across your face, your eyes sparkling. "Truly?"

He gave a curt nod, a faint flush on his pale cheeks. "Truly. Now, what did Lady Celia say?"

From that day on, the dynamic between you had shifted. You still did most of the talking, a constant, flowing river of words about court gossip, about books you were reading, about a particularly stubborn falcon you were trying to train. He was content to listen, offering a grunt of acknowledgment, a nod of his head, or a rare, dry comment that never failed to make you laugh. He found himself looking forward to your appearances, to the way you could fill the crushing silence of his rooms with your vibrant energy. He had grown fond of your company, more than he would ever admit.

Watching him now, a resolve firmed in your chest. The feast was loud, Aerion was persistent, and your father's love, while a shield, was also a gilded cage. You needed air, and the calm you only ever seemed to find near him.

You excused yourself from the table, ignoring Baelor's questioning look, and made your way to Maekar. He did not look up.

"Uncle," you said, your voice soft.

His gaze lifted slowly. "Should you not be attending to your admirers?"

"They can entertain themselves for a while," you replied, a hint of your usual playful tone in your voice. "I was wondering… the weather is supposed to be fair tomorrow. Would you accompany me for a ride?" You held your breath, expecting the usual refusal, a gruff excuse about duties, or a simple, unadorned no.

But then he gave a short, sharp nod. "Very well."

A genuine, unforced smile bloomed on your face. "Wonderful. I will meet you in the stables after the morning meal."

He did not reply, just gave a slight inclination of his head, dismissing you.

The next morning, the air was crisp and cool, carrying the damp scent of earth and leaves. You found Maekar in the stables, already mounted on a powerful black stallion, a beast as dark and formidable as its rider.

"You are prompt," he noted, his voice a low rumble.

"I did not want to give you time to change your mind."

He almost smiled. "A wise assumption."

You rode out of the city gates, the noise and chaos of King's Landing fading behind you, replaced by the rhythmic thud of hooves on dirt and the rustle of leaves in the gentle breeze. The ride was more pleasant than he had anticipated. He found himself relaxing, the perpetual knot of tension in his shoulders loosening for the first time in a long while. Maekar was enjoying himself, enjoying being near you.

He turned his head to look at you. You had tilted your face up to the sun, your eyes closed, a look of pure contentment on your face. The wind had loosened several strands of your hair from its braid, and they curled around your cheeks and throat. In that moment, he was struck by a thought so clear it was ridiculous he had never noticed. You were truly, breathtakingly beautiful. Not in the delicate, porcelain way of court ladies, but with a vibrant, wild beauty that was all your own. He realised, with a certainty that was both terrifying and comforting, that he wanted you in his life like this forever. This easy peace, this quiet companionship; it was the first true happiness he had felt since Dyanna died.

You must have felt his gaze, for you opened your eyes and turned to him, a wide, untroubled smile gracing your lips. The smile was for him, a gift freely given.

And then another thought, darker and hotter, slithered into his mind, unbidden and monstrous. It was a dirty, base thought that had no place in the sun-dappled peace of the woods. He wanted to pull you from that horse, tear the green leather from your body, and take you. He wanted to claim you, to possess you, to prove to you the man he was, to erase the memory of every foppish lord and foolish cousin who had ever dared to look at you. Gods, how he wanted to make you his.

The thought was so visceral, so shocking in its intensity, that he recoiled as a wave of disgust washed over him. You were his niece. Baelor's daughter. He was a monster. A foul, wretched creature.

He wrenched his gaze away from you, staring blindly into the dense, shadowed woods. He pulled sharply on his reins, his powerful horse dancing beneath him, its muscles bunching in protest. Every muscle in his own body went rigid. The easy peace was shattered.

He felt your eyes on him, questioning. "Uncle? Is everything alright? Did you see something?"

"No," he bit out, his voice harsh, foreign. He could not look at you. He could not bear to see that trusting, beautiful face. "It is nothing. We are heading back. Immediately."

The light in your face vanished, replaced by a confusion that quickly melted into a deep, palpable sadness. Your shoulders slumped, your hands stilling on the reins. You simply gave a small, resigned nod and turned your horse, urging it back toward the path you had taken.

The ride back was suffocatingly silent. You rode slightly behind him, watching his rigid back. The warmth in his eyes was gone, replaced by the familiar, cold storm. You did not understand. The two of you had been so happy, so content, and then in a single moment it had all curdled. You replayed that look, that intense, searching gaze, trying to understand what you had seen, what you had done wrong.

When you finally reached the stables, the grooms rushed forward to take the horses. Maekar dismounted with stiff, jerky movements, his gloved hands adjusting the reins before passing them off without a word. You slid from your saddle, your boots landing softly in the straw, and approached him cautiously.

"Are you cross with me?" you asked, your voice barely above a whisper. "What have I done?"

Maekar turned to face you, his expression unreadable but for the slight tightening around his eyes. "I am not angry with you," he said, his tone clipped and formal. "But this will not continue anymore."

"This?" you questioned, stepping closer. "What do you mean?"

"This," he gestured vaguely between you. "These rides, these conversations. I have too much to do to spend my time babysitting you."

The word stung, sharp and dismissive. "I thought… I thought we were becoming friends."

"We are not friends. You are my niece, and I am your uncle. That is all we can be. You will stop wasting your time on me." He ran a hand through his silver-blonde hair, dislodging a few strands from their careful arrangement. "Go to your father. Pick a husband from your sea of admirers. Leave me be."

Instead of retreating as he clearly intended, you moved closer still, until you could feel the warmth radiating from his body. "And what if the man I want is right here in front of me?" you asked, your voice soft but deliberate. "Should I still go to my father then?"

Maekar took a sharp step back, his violet eyes widening in shock. "Do you hear yourself? The things you are suggesting..."

You followed his retreat, refusing to let him escape. "Is it mad to want you, Uncle? It was not my intention, and yet, I want you all the same. The one person who actually sees me, not just the princess or the prize."

"This attraction,"  his voice strained, "it is unnatural. Sinful. Vile. We are family. Blood."

"No one protests when Aerion pursues me day after day," you pressed, your hand reaching out to rest on his chest. You felt his heart hammering beneath your palm. 

He caught your wrist, his grip firm but not painful. "That is not the same."

You whispered, leaning into him.  "Tell me you do not feel it too. Tell me you do not want me as I want you."

For a long moment he simply stared at you, his internal war visible in the shifting expressions on his face. The stern prince, the grieving widower, the man who had been alone for too long. Then something in him seemed to break, to shatter under the weight of denial.

"Gods help me," he breathed, and then his mouth was on yours.

The kiss was nothing like you might have imagined from your stern uncle. His hands moved from your wrists to cup your face, holding you steady as he devoured your mouth. His tongue swept inside, claiming, tasting, exploring as if he had been starving for this moment. You responded with equal fervour, your arms wrapping around his neck, fingers tangling in the soft hair at his nape.

When he finally pulled back, you were both breathing heavily, your lips swollen and tingling. "We are damned." 

"Then let us be damned together," you replied, and pulled him back for another kiss.

That kiss in the stable yard marked the beginning of your secret affair. From that day forward, Maekar became yours in every way that mattered. The guilt occasionally haunted him; you could see it in the shadows behind his eyes when he watched you, in the way he sometimes pulled away after your bodies were sated and tangled in his sheets. But those moments of remorse grew fewer as your passion intensified.

You made it impossible for him to regret what you shared. Most nights, you found ways to slip away to his chambers. Sometimes he would come to find you naked and waiting in his bed, your body already slick with anticipation. Other times, you wore your finest gowns, letting him peel away the layers like unwrapping a precious gift.

Maekar ruined you for any other man. At his age, he had the experience and patience of a lover who knew exactly how to please a woman. He learned every curve, every sensitive spot, every secret that made you gasp and writhe beneath him. He loved watching you prepare for him, loved how your body responded to his touch. Sometimes he would make you wait, teasing you with his fingers and tongue until you were begging for his cock.

"Please, Maekar," you would whimper, your hips bucking against his mouth. "I need you inside me."

Only when you were completely undone would he position himself between your thighs, rubbing the head of his cock through your slick folds. "Tell me what you need," he would demand, his voice husky with desire.

"You, only you."

He would enter you then, slow and deliberate, letting you feel every inch as he stretched you open. The first thrust always made you cry out — it was almost too much, his size overwhelming in the best way. He would pause, letting you adjust, his violet eyes dark with lust as he watched your face.

"More," you would beg, and he would comply, setting a rhythm that drove you both toward ecstasy.

Maekar was insatiable once he let go of his inhibitions, taking you for hours, exploring every position, every angle. He loved taking you from behind, gripping your hips as he drove into you. He loved watching you ride him, your breasts bouncing as you impaled yourself on his cock again and again. But his favourite was when you lay on your back, your legs wrapped around his waist as he held you and kissed you.

The months passed in a blur of stolen moments and secret rendezvous. You became experts at discretion, but comfort breeds complacency, and secrets have a way of revealing themselves. The day it happened started like any other. The castle was relatively quiet, most courtiers napping or attending to their own affairs, when you slipped into Maekar's solar.

He was standing at his desk, his back to you as he looked out over the courtyard. The afternoon light caught the silver strands in his hair, making him seem almost ethereal. He turned as you entered, and the look in his eyes made your breath catch.

"Come here," he commanded, his voice already thick with desire.

You obeyed, settling in his arms as his hands gripped your waist, pulling you against him for a searing kiss.

"I have been thinking about you all morning." 

Heat pooled between your thighs at his words. "Then why are we still talking?" you challenged, reaching down to palm the hard ridge of his cock through his breeches.

He spun you around, pushing you face-down over the desk. Papers scattered as your breasts met the polished wood, your nipples hardening at the sudden contact. Maekar made quick work of your gown, yanking it up over your hips and tearing at the ties of your bodice until your breasts spilled free.

"Look at you," he said, running his hands over your bare backside. "So ready for me. So eager."

You wiggled your hips in invitation, spreading your legs wider. "Please, I need you. I have been empty for too long."

He chuckled darkly and positioned himself behind you, the thick head of his cock nudging at your entrance. "Empty? We must see to that." With one smooth thrust he buried himself to the hilt, drawing a sharp cry from your lips. "Better?"

"Gods, yes," you moaned, pushing back against him. "Fuck me, now."

His hand wrapped around your throat, not choking you but holding you in place, asserting his dominance in a way that made you clench around him. "So demanding," he murmured, beginning to move in earnest.

He set a punishing pace, each thrust driving you forward against the desk. You were already so close, so aroused from his words and the sheer recklessness of it. It only took moments before you were tumbling over the edge, your walls convulsing around him as wave after wave of pleasure washed over you.

"That is it," he praised, his movements becoming more erratic. "Gods, yes..."

You were still coming down from your release when the door to the solar swung open.

Time seemed to slow. You and Maekar froze in position, your bodies locked in the most compromising of poses. And there in the doorway stood Baelor.

Baelor's face registered a storm of emotions in rapid succession: confusion, disbelief, horror, anger, betrayal, hurt. Then his face hardened, his expression shuttering completely, and without a word, he turned away and slammed the door shut with such force that the entire room seemed to shake.

What had you done?