✧ summary: as you ready for the day, your husband wishes to braid your hair. who are you to deny him?
✧ genre: fluff
✧ warnings: kissing, age-gap, reader is in her 20s
✧ word count: 2.2k
✧ author's note: yes, it's my hc that maekar knows how to braid, idc. also daella and rhae don't exist! so maekar just has his 4 maekarlings
Your solar at Summerhall held the languid warmth of late afternoon, something you appreciated greatly as the walls inside the castle were always cold in the way to make you shiver if you were not moving much. You were a woman who would bask in the sun all day if she could, to a reasonable extent, which makes Maekar fret over you like you were to melt in front of his eyes.
Oh, your Maekar, ever the worrisome husband, even if he wouldn’t admit it to you forwardly.
It was a dull morning so far and you were not in the mood to have your patience be tested so early. Getting up and preparing for the day was tedious, but it was no matter—you’d overcome it with grace, especially with the help of your ladies.
Your gown had already been laced and smoothed into place. It clung and flowed in equal measure—fitting through the bodice with the sleeves tapering elegantly at your wrists, skirts cascading in soft folds to the floor. Tiny pearls were stitched into the fabric, catching the light when you moved, and as you turned your head, they gleamed faintly at your collarbone like scattered dew.
Behind you, your ladies prepared the final task.
“Careful,” you murmured a name, meeting one girl’s anxious eyes in the mirror as she hovered with a comb. “You look terrified. Do try to relax, I won’t scold you.”
She flushed, but seemed to loosen with your reassurance. “I apologize, my lady. I’m trying for perfection.”
“Perfection is rarely achieved by trembling,” you tell her with a kind gaze. You were going to add more to settle her but a low, familiar voice cut through the room.
“Then perhaps they should stand aside.”
A door had opened without fanfare.
Maekar entered as he did most spaces: quietly, and yet impossibly present. Over the time married to him, you had gotten used to that. You were fond of how he need not ceremony to do things.
The servants curtsied at once. “My prince,” one began.
He did not look at them. Instead, his violet eyes found you in the mirror and remained there.
You turned in your chair, lips curved upwards, and greeted your husband. “My love, good morrow. Did you forget something in our chambers?”
He nodded at your wish for a good morning but after that, for a moment, he said nothing. The stillness stretched, but it wasn’t uncomfortable. His stare traveled down the line of your shoulders, the fall of silk, the pearls at your throat. That was his way of showing you he liked what you wore. You were beautiful, and he found the color lovely on you.
You tilted your chin slightly. “Well?” you asked, unable to resist; a compliment from your husband would most certainly brighten your day.
His jaw shifted faintly. “You are… well attired, my heart.”
One of your ladies stifled a smile at the phrasing. You gave her a side-eye in warning and she immediately presented a neutral expression. You knew she meant no harm nor mockery to the prince, but your husband would likely take it that way.
You looked back at Maekar.
“High praise,” you replied. “I shall treasure it.”
He stepped closer, boots soundless on the stone.
“They were about to finish my hair,” you explained, gesturing toward the array of ribbons and pearl pins laid upon the dressing table. “Unless you object?”
“I do.”
The room stilled, and you blinked at him. “You object? My dragon, you do understand I like my hair done, yes?”
“Yes.”
He lifted one hand—an economical gesture, not one of cruelty or sharpness. Hm, perhaps he was in a good mood today. “Leave us.”
The servants exchanged glances, hesitant only for a heartbeat. “At once, Your Grace.” Before they bowed and withdrew, gathering combs and oils as they went.
The doors closed softly behind them.
You arched a brow at your husband, teasing. “That was abrupt. Must you drive those poor girls off?”
“It was sufficient.” A simple answer.
“And what offense has my hair committed?” You put a hand to your chest in mocking before turning back around to face the mirror, inspecting yourself.
Maekar’s mouth twitched. Almost.
He stepped behind you, close enough that you felt the warmth of him at your back, and the placement of his large hands on the bare of your shoulders.
“I would do it,” he said.
You turned your head slightly, your expression one of genuine surprise. “Do what?”
“Your hair.”
You studied him in the mirror, searching for jest. You found none.
“You?” you questioned, amusement in your tone. “The man who frightens squires into dropping their swords? Since when does the Anvil style hair, let alone braid?”
His mouth tilted faintly at one corner. “Since long before I was the Anvil.” He reached toward the table, fingers selecting a comb with surprising familiarity. “And I do not frighten them. They merely frighten themselves.”
You hummed in response.
“When I was a boy,” he said, tone even, “I would watch my mother’s ladies. I was curious, interested. She noticed and let me learn to braid her from then on when duty allowed.”
There was no embellishment in his voice. He offered the information plainly, as though recounting troop movements.
You softened immediately at his explanation, your neck moving upwards to your right to regard him. “You never told me that.”
“There was no cause, my love.”
“There’s cause now.”
He did not respond to that, and instead began.
“Well,” you added gently, turning back toward the mirror, “I should be honored to receive such rare service.”
He chuckled softly. “Precisely.”
His hands entered your hair carefully, not tentative but purposeful—separating sections with the comb, letting them fall over his fingers to understand their thickness, their weight. He did not assume their texture; he learned it in real time, adjusting pressure with quiet precision.
You watched him in the mirror.
The prince who had faced down hundreds of men and battlefield chaos now stood intent upon dividing strands evenly.
“You look deeply troubled,” you observed, “and as though you are planning a siege.”
“I am calculating strategy. If I fail, you will not let me forget it.”
“True… but it is just hair.”
“It is symmetry.”
You laughed softly at his answers. Perfectionist.
He began the first braid at your temple, dividing the section into three clean strands. His fingers moved with steady assurance, weaving one over the other in a pattern that was both structured and gentle. He did not tug and he did not rush.
You smiled. “The realm should be grateful that you apply such diligence to statecraft.”
“The realm,” he said dryly, “does not sit before me with pearl pins.”
You rolled your eyes playfully.
Another section followed on the opposite side, then two more at the back: smaller, intricate braids that would later be gathered together. He worked methodically, constructing something more complex than a single plait: multiple braids interlacing, crossing one another before being drawn into a cohesive arrangement.
“You are making more of them than necessary,” you noted, but you didn’t mind. In fact, you were trying to still yourself from the giddiness in your body. Your husband’s braiding was far better than yours and you adored it.
“Necessary is subjective.” He slid a ribbon through one braid before continuing the weave. “I need durability.”
“Durability?”
“You move when you speak,” he said plainly. “You gesture. You turn quickly. It needs to hold. I will not have it undone by the first sign of movement.”
Mischief glinted in your eyes, lips tipped upward at the practicality of it. “I did not realize I required fortification.”
“You do not,” he corrected. “But I prefer certainty.”
The admission settled warmly in your chest.
As he worked, his knuckles occasionally brushed the nape of your neck. Each touch was unintentional, yet unhurried, familiar. You found yourself relaxing beneath his hands, the rhythm of the braids soothing in a way you had not expected.
“You will have to do this for our daughters,” you said lightly after a moment; a topic brought out of nowhere, yes, but one that must be spoken of one way or another.
His hands stilled for a fraction of a breath, though one brow lifted in the mirror. “Our daughters?”
“Yes.” You smiled at his reflection. “You will sit them before you just as I am now. They will complain, and you will pretend not to hear it. I can already envision you, scowling terribly, trying to convince a little girl to be still. Oh, that would be a sight.”
“She will not complain and I do not scowl.”
“She will absolutely complain and you absolutely scowl.”
“Mm. Then she will learn discipline.”
You laughed again, and the sound seemed to warm the room more than the sun. “You cannot command a child into stillness.”
“You forget I have four sons. I can attempt a fifth time.”
“You’d fail,” you said gently. “She would look at you with my eyes, and you would surrender.”
He huffed faintly. He hated that you were right in every way.
“But yes,” you pressed, “you would do it. You would braid her hair before feasts and tourneys… she’d insist upon more accessories and you’d indulge her without resistance.”
He exhaled through his nose, something dangerously close to amusement. If he spoils his wife, he was fondly sure to spoil a little girl who was a mix of the both of you.
“A daughter,” he said after a moment, threading a thin braid beneath two others to anchor it, “would be agreeable.”
“Truly?”
“Of course, she would be formidable.” His voice lowered slightly. “If she were to take after you.”
“Clever,” he went on, adjusting the braid’s tension. “And far too persuasive.”
Your throat tightened slightly at the sincerity beneath his restraint, but you were able to reply with: “I think she would have your stubbornness,” you managed to tease.
“That is not a flaw.” Maekar said defensively.
“It is when two of you exist in one household,” you rose an eyebrow.
“You underestimate me; I would manage it.”
“My love, I don’t mean to remind you, but you can scarcely manage your sons: two already full-grown.”
“They are not mine alone,” he countered.
You hummed, tilting your head. “They are not mine at all.”
“They are yours now,” he said firmly. “By marriage.”
The weight of that simple statement lingered. He did not offer affection with grand gestures, but at least he made claims with certainty. You were his wife.
He weaved the smaller braids together now, drawing them toward the back of your head in an intricate pattern. He crossed them over one another, wanting to secure them with pearl pins at deliberate intervals.
You reached up slightly, offering him one. He took it without breaking focus, sliding it neatly into place. Ribbons were threaded through certain strands, creating a lattice of silk and shine that caught the light when you shifted.
“You are very serious about this,” you murmured.
“It reflects upon me.”
“Oh?” You grinned.
“Your ladies have most likely told the others I was to do your hair. If it is poorly done, they will assume their prince lacks skill.”
“And that would wound your pride?”
He met your gaze in the mirror. “Immensely.”
You laughed softer this time.
When he finished securing the final braid, he stepped back slightly—but did not fully withdraw. Instead, he studied the result with the same scrutiny he might grant a sword newly forged.
The style was intricate—multiple braids interwoven, coiled subtly at the back, ribbons threaded like veins of color, pearl pins glimmering at intersections. It framed your face without overwhelming it, leaving softness at the temples and elegance at the crown.
“Well?” you prompted.
He folded his arms, chin lifting a fraction.
“I am satisfied,” he said.
You narrowed your eyes playfully. “Satisfied?”
“With my work,” he clarifies.
“Ah, of course,” you turned in your seat to face him fully. “You are pleased with yourself.”
“I executed it well.”
“Did you?” You suppress a grin. “You make it sound like you conquered it.”
“It did not resist.”
“Hm, mayhaps it was intimidated.”
Maekar rolled his eyes, though the gesture lacked its usual severity.
You rose slowly, closing the space between you. Up close, the severity of his expression softened, as it always did when he looked at you without audience.
“Thank you,” you said quietly.
His gaze searched yours—as though ensuring you meant it. Then he leaned down and pressed his lips to your cheek. The kiss was unguarded, warmer than his words ever were, lingering just long enough to say what he would not.
You caught him before he withdrew, turning your face and brushing your mouth against his. The kiss deepened slightly and it was intimate in its steadiness. Your hand curled lightly into the fabric at his chest.
When you parted, your foreheads nearly touched.
“I’d also like to remind how much I love you,” you told him.
His eyes held your own without hesitation.
Maekar did not squander declarations. He did not dress them in poetry.
But he did not withhold them either.
“I know,” he murmured first, thumb brushing once against your jaw.
Then, softer, just meant for you:
“And I love you.”
✧ tagging: @ghostlybfgf @slenderclaw @sem-ra @potato-dragons @callmefatherr @mariaaysbusjs @beebeechaos @stillinraccooncity @imnoonejustapiramide
liked my work? check out my masterlist. comments and reblogs are appreciated my loves, as well as requests :]
✧ pairing: maekar targaryen x wife!reader x baelor targaryen
✧ summary: after the trial of seven ended, you comforted your husband, maekar. yet what caught you was that he had wished for you to do the same for his brother. your baelor.
✧ genre: comfort, romance, secret + established relationship, baelordownbad
✧ warnings: 18+mdni, explicit sexual content, SMUT SMUT SMUTT, p-in-v, m!oral, possessive behavior, age gap, reader is in her 20s, injuries, you're basically shared. in secret..
✧ word count: 2.8k
✧ author's note: tysm for the love on pt1, made my day 10x better when i woke up! so here's baelor's turn with you ;; oh and i wanted to add an analepsis in the beginning, just to give some info on how the reader was betrothed, married, and eventually caught baelor's eye. so TECHNICALLY she has two husbands. i don't make the rules. (her house is kept vague so u can imagine whichever, but it's a great one me thinks) anyways if u wanna skip straight to the baelor smut u can! (gif above is mine)
You hadn’t expected to be married to a widowed prince of House Targaryen.
Much less to catch the special interest of his brother, Baelor. Heir to the Iron Throne.
-
The announcement of your betrothal came without warning, delivered with no ceremony or romance, as you foolishly had hoped ever since you were a young girl.
It was a bleak winter morning when your father summoned you to the solar, hearing that he had wished to “speak with you,” and surely, you knew that meant two things. Either you did something unbecoming of a noble lady like yourself or had news he wished to share. It was obvious which you wished for, until he told you.
The Crown had chosen you to wed Prince Maekar Targaryen, his fourth and youngest son. What you only knew of him was that he was a widower, father of four, and known across the realm as the stern, battle-scarred royal who spoke little and smiled never.
The reason for such a union was no secret. You were young, and your house–old, proud, wealthy, and strategically placed–was deemed the perfect counterweight to silence lingering unrest in your region. That was the sum of it.
You would meet him a fortnight later in King’s Landing.
He stood taller than you imagined, broad across the shoulders, silver hair short and slicked with his beard neatly kept. He was an imposing figure, to be sure, especially as your eyes met his; violet gaze unyielding and direct, like he was measuring whether you would flinch under the weight of what was to come.
But you did not. You instead curtsied deeply and spoke with composed respect.
Your wedding was held by the time spring bloomed at Summerhall.
It was positively grand at the surface–banners of black and red, dragons watching from every wall–but beneath the silk and incense, it felt like a contract sealed in wax. When Maekar stood beside you and spoke his vow, his words carried duty, not warmth.
It was of no matter to you; you would come to know him with time. And you did.
-
The early months of your marriage were quiet.
Your husband was not a man of poetry. He showed you his care in other ways you grew to love: ensuring your chambers were always warm, accompanying you when you wished to visit family, leaving small gifts on your pillow–whether it was a jeweled comb, a book, even a perfectly polished river stone he’d found on campaign because it reminded him of the color of your eyes.
You learned to read the silences between his grunts and short sentences. You learned that when he came to bed angry or weary from council, he needed you to pull him close and let him bury his face in your neck until the tension bled out of his shoulders. You learned that he slept best when you were tucked against his chest, able to feel your warmth.
And slowly, carefully, you fell in love with him. Not the prince, but with the man.
The man who glared at servants when they brought you cold tea.
The man who sat with you hours in the godswood without speaking, simply content to be near you.
The man who, one stormy night, admitted in a rough whisper against your hair that he had never expected to be loved in return.
Then came Baelor.
It happened gradually.
At first, he was only your goodbrother–kind, diplomatic and the beloved heir who smiled easily and carried the realm’s burdens with grace. He was always courteous to you, always warm. But over time, you began to notice the way his eyes lingered on you a moment too long. The way he always found reasons to be in the same room. The way his hand would brush yours when passing you a goblet, gentle and deliberate.
Marker was not a fool nor was he a blind one.
He noticed the glances. The small touches. How Baelor’s voice softened when he spoke to you. Maekar said nothing; he just watched. He watched the careful distance his brother kept, close enough to be polite, far enough to be proper… and yet never quite.
Maekar was intrigued.
Curious.
Not angry. Not threatened.
There was a different feeling stirring in him when he saw the way Baelor looked at you. It was something dark and heated that had nothing to do with jealousy and everything to do with possession. He did not care that his brother wanted you. In fact, the thought of you with Baelor.. of your soft skin under his brother’s gentle hands, of your gasps caught between two mouths.. kindled something primal and hungry in Maekar’s gut. It made his blood run hotter. It made him harder.
He never spoke of it. Not directly.
But one night, after Baelor had left the hall and you had retired early, Maekar pulled you into his lap by the fire and kissed you with unusual ferocity. His hands gripped your hips hard and his mouth claimed yours like he was staking territory. When he finally pulled back, breathing ragged, he pressed his forehead to yours and rasped against your lips:
“My brother wants you.”
You froze, heart hammering.
Maekar’s thumb stroked your lower lip, patient and careful.
“I know,” he said quietly. “And I do not mind.”
His eyes held yours, dark and steady.
“If he ever touches you… I want to know. I want to hear it from your lips afterward. With detail.” His hand slid down to rest possessively over your belly. “You are mine. But if he can make you tremble the way I do… I would like to see it. Feel it. Know it.”
You stared at him, breathless.
He kissed you deep and slow again, then murmured against your mouth: “Let him have you. When you are ready. When you want it. I will not stand in the way.”
And so it began. Not with a formal agreement. But with Maekar’s quiet permission, with the knowledge that he not only allowed it–he desired it.
He wanted to taste the evidence of Baelor on your skin. He wanted to feel the way your body responded to another man’s touch. He wanted to claim you afterward, harder, deeper, reminding you and himself that you were still his.
And when the moment finally came, when Baelor’s lips first found yours in the shadowed godswood, Maekar already knew.
He waited for you that night in your chambers, and did not ask questions. He merely pulled you into his arms, kissed the taste of his brother from your mouth, and fucked you until you were sobbing his name. Proving, once again, that no matter who else touched you, you always came back to him.
It was bliss.
-
You woke to the hush of deep night.
The candlelight had burned low, casting a faint amber glow across the chamber, illuminating the still arm of Maekar around your waist, heavy, with his breathing deep and even. For a moment you were content to stay where you were longer, letting his warmth seep into your bones. Then, carefully, you eased out from beneath.
Your husband stirred but didn’t wake, shifting to rest on his stomach with his head turned away, murmuring something wordless. You pressed one last kiss to his back and tucked the furs higher around his shoulders. His snores continued.
You slipped from the bed, pulled on your shift and a dark robe, and stepped into the corridor.
The castle was quiet now, the revelry of the day long since faded. Only the occasional guard looked at you quizzically but nodded to you as you passed, as if accustomed to seeing a prince’s wife moving through the halls at odd hours. Your footsteps were soft on the stone, heart beating faster with every turn.
Baelor’s chamber lay at the far end of the wing. The door was ajar, a sliver of warm light spilling out, and you pushed it further open without announcing your presence.
He was waiting.
Baelor sat by the window, in a linen shirt and breeches, the black-silver cloak from the trial draped over the back of his chair. The firelight played across his face, catching the striking contrast of his eyes–vivid violet, the other a warm, earthy brown. When his eyes found you, the strain left his posture. A slow, tender smile curved his lips, the kind that always felt like sunlight breaking through clouds.
“You came,” he said softly, rising from his seat, voice rough from the day’s exertions but full of quiet relief.
You crossed the room in three steps and stepped straight into his arms.
Baelor folded you against him without hesitation, one hand cradling the back of your head, the other settling at the small of your back. He held you close, breathing you in, his cheek resting against your hair. Neither of you spoke for awhile. You simply let yourself be held, safe in the stead of his embrace.
“I was beside myself with fear, for the both of you” you whispered against his chest.
“I know,” he replied, pressing a kiss to your temple. “I had seen your face on the field, running through without a thought for yourself.” His fingers threaded gently through your hair, adding:
“I did not want that sight for you.”
You pulled back just enough to look at him. His eyes were soft, full of that patient, boundless affection he had always given you in secret. You reached up and traced the bruise blooming along his cheekbone with the lightest touch.
You winced subtly at the sight of it.
He caught your hand and brought it to his lips, kissing your fingertips. “Do I offend the eye so badly?”
You glared at him playfully. “Suddenly my concern for you has vanished, Your Grace.”
He chuckled, leaning close, and kissed you then–achingly tender, profound. There wasn’t a rush in Baelor’s touch, but reverence. His lips moved against yours like the world narrowed to the space between them. A hand cupped your face, thumb sweeping across your cheek, while the other slid down your back, gathering you in until there was no separation left.
When he finally drew back, his forehead rested against yours.
“Come to bed,” he whispered. “Let me feel you.”
You nodded, needing him, but then paused, eyes dropping to the front of his breeches where the fabric strained. A small, hungry smile curved your lips.
“Not yet,” you murmured. “I wish to taste you first.”
Baelor’s breath hitched. His look darkened, both filled with sudden heat.
You sank to your knees before him, hands sliding up his thighs, and he watched you as you unlaced his breeches with nimble fingers. When his cock sprang free–thick, hard, already leaking at the tip, you wrapped your hand around him and leaned forward.
You took him into your mouth slowly, tongue swirling around the head, and you could taste the salt and heat there. Baelor groaned low in his throat, one hand sliding into your hair, gentle against your scalp.
You worked him with slow strokes, your lips sliding down his length, tongue tracing the underside, cheeks hollowing on the upstroke. His hips jerked once, reflexively, and he cursed softly under his breath.
“Gods… my love…” You heard him wrecked. “You make this difficult.”
You hummed around him in answer, the resonance making him shudder. You took him deeper, relaxing your throat until your nose brushed the dark hair at his base. His hand tightened in your hair–not in the manner to guide you, but to steady himself.
Then he pulled you off him, your spit connecting, breath scraping from his lungs.
“Enough,” he rasped, eyes blazing. “I want to be buried inside you when that happens.”
He lifted you toward him, his mouth against yours without hesitation–tasting himself on your tongue, groaning at the intimacy of the exchange. His hands roamed as he kissed you, sliding under your shift, pushing the fabric up and over your head until you were left wholly his to behold.
That’s when he saw them.
Dark, blooming bruises along your collarbone, your breasts.. fingerprints, bite marks, the unmistakable imprint of Maekar’s mouth. Baelor paused; his gaze heavy with feeling he did not bother to hide.
He traced one of the marks with his fingertip, awed.
“Maekar,” he said softly, almost a question.
“Yes,” you confirmed, almost shyly.
Baelor’s eyes lifted to yours. No jealousy. But heat. Love.
“I find I like the sight of his mark upon your skin,” he murmured. “It tells me you were taken well.” His thumb skimmed over a particularly dark bite on the upper swell of your breast. “And that you will seek more of it here.”
His mouth sought yours with a hunger he no longer bothered about, his tongue sweeping in unhurried and sure. It made your knees weaken; the taste of him faintly metallic, sweet from wine, mixed with the clean salt of his skin after the trial.
He guided you backward with gentle pressure until the backs of your knees met the edge of the bed. You yielded easily, sinking onto the covers, your back meeting their cool as he followed. Your legs opened without thought as he settled between them, the space closing as though it had always been meant for him.
Baelor leaned over you slowly, strong forearms bracing on either side of your head, caging you without crowding. He brought a hand down to grasp at the length of him, the tip now nudging at your entrance. He looked down between you at the sight, then back up to hold your blissed stare as he pushed in, easing you partly enough to make you whimper.
You moaned his name at the familiar-yet-different stretch, at the way he filled you perfectly, every ridge and vein dragging against sensitive walls still tender from Maekar’s earlier claiming. Baelor stayed buried to the hilt for a moment, forehead pressed to yours, breathing with you–deep, synchronized inhales and exhales as your bodies adjusted to each other.
Without a second more, your dark-haired prince slid out just enough to thrust back into you with sudden force. He kept you in a gentle cadence, skin to skin. There was no frantic urgency in his movement, only a slow-building fire set alight with every intent stroke.
His hands never stopped touching you, like drunk on the feel of your flesh. One slid into your hair, cradling the back of your head, fingers threading through the strands to keep you close. The other stroked down your side, then laced his fingers with yours above your head, palm to palm, holding you there as though anchoring you to him. Every so often he would release your hand just long enough to cup your breast, thumb circling the sensitive peak, or to skim down your stomach, pressing lightly just above where you were joined, feeling himself move inside you.
You came first—quiet and trembling, a soft, shuddering release that rolled through you in warm, endless waves. Your inner walls fluttered and clenched around him, drawing a low, broken groan from his throat. You clung to him, nails digging into his shoulders, thighs trembling around his hips as pleasure washed over you in slow, bright pulses.
Baelor followed moments later by burying his face in the curve of your neck with a soft, ragged sound of your name. His thrusts stuttered once, twice—then he pressed deep and spilled inside you, hips grinding in small, helpless circles as he rode out the aftershocks. His arms locked around you, holding you flush against him, breath hot and uneven against your skin.
Afterward, he stayed buried inside you, weight carefully braced on his forearms so he wouldn’t crush you. He pressed tender, lingering kisses to your temple, your cheek, the corner of your mouth. Each soft and reverent, sealing every inch of you with affection.
“Stay with me a while longer,” he whispered against your lips, hoarse and quiet. You smiled, still spent, and wrapped your arms around his neck.
“As long as you'd like, my love.”
Visibly relieved by your answer, he eased out of you slowly, both of you sighing at the loss, then shifted to lie beside you. He pulled the heavy covers up over you both and gathered you close, turning you toward him until your bodies aligned chest to chest. Your cheek rested against the solid form of him, your knee sliding between his as he drew you in tighter. One arm wrapped securely around your back, palm spread between your shoulder blades, while the other curved beneath you, holding you close. His breath warmed the crown of your hair.
Outside, the night deepened. Inside, his arms tightened just slightly, as though even in rest he would not risk letting you drift too far.
And for the first time since the trial was set in motion, you let yourself rest in truth–loved fiercely, guarded well, and whole between the two princes who claimed your heart.
✧ tagging: @ghostlybfgf @slenderclaw @omgwhataloser @beebeechaos @potato-dragons @mariaaysbusjs @snowymarvel1205 @productiveunproductivity @blogthreehundredandninetyfour @stillinraccooncity
liked my work? check out my masterlist. comments and reblogs are appreciated my loves, as well as requests :]
✧ pairing: maekar targaryen x wife!reader x baelor targaryen
✧ summary: after the trial of seven ends, you rush to your two lovers: your husband and his brother baelor, who are both relatively unharmed, to your relief. you wish to comfort them both, but one must come first.
✧ genre: comfort, romance, secret + established relationship
✧ warnings: 18+mdni, explicit sexual content, SMUT SMUT SMUTT, p-in-v, fingering, f!oral, possessive behavior, biting, age gap, reader is in her 20s, injuries, you're basically shared. in secret..
✧ word count: 3.4k
✧ author's note: yea no explanation. i need them bad. pt2 will be baelor's turn 🫣 (gif above is mine) smut may be my way of coping... (also mm i know i described baelor having heterochromia with a blue eye in my other work, but after seeing so many fanarts of him with a violet one, ima switch lmao)
Chaos.
That’s what you’d describe this Trial. That was the only word for it.
Knights crashing into knights. Steel ringing against steel. Lances splintering. Mud churned black beneath boot and blood alike. It was ugly, raw in a way tourneys were never meant to be.
You watched Ser Duncan forcing Aerion, your step-son, to stand on his feet, noticing the way his legs shook with each aching step he managed to take. The giant knight brought the wounded prince closer to the viewing stand, to the Ashfords, where you, yourself, sat anxiously.
Streaks of blood were smeared all over his face. Cuts, spots, dirt. Aerion groaned, breathing heavily as Ser Duncan shook him once, repeatedly yelling: “Tell him!”
“I… I withdraw my accusation.” It was loud to hear for those near enough, though his words cracked like dry parchment. A roar went up in a multitude of relief, disbelief, and triumph.
Soon as the words left the Bright Prince, Ser Duncan pushed him aside to the mud.
The horn blew.
The prince of Dragonstone, bloodied but able, let his sword point drop to the ground as your husband, Prince Maekar, stood a few paces away. He was exhaling harshly through his nose, one hand pressed to the left of his ribs, but he was alive. They all were.
Your heart slammed against your chest as you went down the steps of the viewing stand, pushing through the press of lesser lords and ladies at the edge of the field. Mud sucked at your boots, splattering the deep red wool of your riding gown, but you didn’t slow. Your eyes were fixed on the two men who mattered most in the world to you: your husband, still standing in the muck, and Baelor, who was your secret, your heart’s other half, tall on his feet despite the blood spattering his face.
Maekar saw you first.
His head jerked up, violet eyes narrowing, regardless of the lack of bright sun. Spent, he walked to you, jaw clenched so tight the muscles stood out under his silver beard. You would not have that. You crossed the distance faster with a run, hands lifting the skirts of your gown.
“Maekar, my love,” you breathed, voice shaking with relief. Your hands came up to frame his face, thumbs brushing dirt and sweat from the sharp lines of his cheekbones. “Are you bleeding? Let me see—”
“I’m fine,” he muttered, the words short and grumpy. But his large hand closed over yours, pressing it harder against his cheek. His thumb stroked once across your knuckles. “Do not concern yourself as much. I will be fine.”
Behind him, his brother watched with that gentle, now tired smile he always wore when he looked at you. His unique eyes were warm, nodding once to reassure you, and stepped closer.
“Brother,” Baelor said, voice calm, a rasp of fatigue laced, “let the maester tend to you before you bleed out in front of half the realm.” He glanced at you with mild humor. “Your lady wife seems most ready to drag you off the field herself.”
Maekar grunted, but he didn’t pull away as his arm settled heavy around your shoulders, leaning on you more than he would ever admit in public. You felt for him, it pained you, knowing what they endured all because Aerion was too much of a coward to face one hedge knight alone.
And still, he called out for his boy.
Your husband’s eyes flicked past yours to his brother. A wordless conversation passed between them faster than any speech could manage. Maekar’s jaw tightened; his hand flexed on yours once, then released.
Baelor knew what he meant to ask. He gave a small smile. “I’m alright, Maekar, though you are still most fierce with your mace. You’re strong. I almost began to think your age had gotten the best of you.”
The silver-haired prince rolled his eyes at his eldest brother’s jest, though he seemed to visibly relax at knowing he was okay. “Aerion?”
“He has a maester with him.”
Maekar nodded.
Eventually, the maester had hurried over, making quick work of the examination after removing the armor.
“Shallow, Your Grace,” he said, probing gently. “It needs only cleaning and a few stitches, but no deeper damage was done. I’d advise rest, wine, and a clean bandage to see it right.”
Maekar waved him off with a curt nod. You caught Baelor’s eye over your husband’s shoulder. The look that passed between you was brief, loaded with everything you couldn’t say aloud in front of the lingering crowd.
The prince’s smile softened further with understanding, always patient and loving, your Baelor. He inclined his head the tiniest fraction: Go. Tend to him.
You turned back to Maekar, slipping your arm more securely around his waist. “Come, husband,” you murmured, voice pitched for his ears alone. “Our chambers. You need rest.”
He grunted again, his oh-so-favorite reply. You bore his weight without comment and guided him from the field. That was marriage.
The cheers of the crowd followed you, but they felt distant. Unimportant. Baelor watched you both go, standing amid the mud and the banners, his gaze steady on your back until you disappeared into the pavilions.
-
The distance to Ashford Castle felt longer than it should have, its gray stone walls barely seen through the fog. You shooed the servants away and guided Maekar yourself up the winding stair to the chambers allotted to House Targaryen: high in the keep.
Maekar paused just inside the door, letting you close it behind you. The latch clicked shut with a soft finality. He breathed out slow, closing his eyes for a few moments before opening them again.
You had a servant girl prepare a bath, wanting your love scrubbed clean from earlier’s events. The black-enameled plate armor had already been stripped away in the barracks by squires. Pauldrons, vambraces, breastplate, all of it. What remained was the sweat-soaked linen shirt beneath, clinging to his broad chest, and the fresh linen bandage wrapped tight around his ribs. A faint red stain had begun to seep through it again.
After that, you called a maester to redo his stitches, much to the prince’s dismay. An hour quickly passed.
“Sit,” you said quietly. “Let me see if it has bled through yet.”
Maekar didn’t argue and sat himself onto the edge of the bed, mattress dipping under his weight.
When you lifted the hem of the clean shirt, he hissed through his teeth at the pull on the stitches.
You winced. “Forgive me, husband.”
“It is nothing.”
Then you peeled the fabric off, exposing the dark bruise blooming around the wound like spilled ink. The new stitches thankfully held, and the skin around them was no longer as angry and swollen as before.
You exhaled, brushing your fingertips feather-light along the edge of the bandage. “You should have let the maester stay longer. Stubborn man.”
Maekar gave you a sound that was half adamant dismissal. “He did enough. I am not some mewling child.” No. No, he was not.
But his hand rose anyway and settled over yours, pressing your palm flat against the uninjured side of his ribs. It was thanks he would only ever voice aloud. You understood.
“I know.” Your voice cracked anyway. “I just… I had watched you take many hits. I thought–”
He cut you off by leaning forward and kissing you. Hard at first, like he needed to prove to both of you that he was still here. His tongue swept into your mouth hungrily, drawing a low moan from you. Your hands slid up his scarred and haired chest, careful of the bandage but greedy for skin.
When he pulled back, his breathing was ragged. “I need you, my heart.”
He sounded low and wrecked. Rarely have you heard him like this.
“Maekar,” you said softly, caught with worry. “You’re still hurt. The maester said rest, not–” You gestured vaguely at the two of you, cheeks warming despite yourself. “We shouldn’t. Not tonight.”
He caught your wrist before you could pull away, grip firm but careful, and met your eyes. “I will be fine. I have faced worse.” He tugged you a step closer until your knees bumped his. “I need this more than rest. I need you.”
You searched his face, looking for any sign of strain he wouldn’t admit to, but there was none. There was just that stubborn, quiet intensity you knew well when he wanted something badly enough to push past pain.
“You’re certain?” Barely above a whisper.
Maekar’s hand slid from your wrist to your waist, brushing the curve of your hip through the silk. “I’m certain,” he muttered. “Now stop fretting and let me have my wife. If she will allow it.”
The protest died in your throat and you let him help as his fingers impatiently worked the laces loose. The silk pooled at your feet in a soft red wave; he tugged your shift over your head in one rough, efficient motion, next along with your smallclothes, leaving you bare before him. His eyes darkened, sweeping over you unhurriedly, as though he were seeing you for the first time since your wedding night.
“Come here,” he breathed, words almost reverent. You were a stunning vision.
He pulled you down onto the bed, rolling so you were beneath him. His weight was careful, still mindful of his wound, and the familiar press of his body anchored you to the moment. He kissed you slower this time, lips moving with tenderness, relearning every curve of your mouth. Then he broke away, trailing lower.
His mouth found the sensitive skin of your throat. First came the heat of his breath, warm and unsteady. Then, his broad tongue dragged a wet line up the column of your neck, tasting the faint salt of your skin, the quick flutter of your heartbeat at the surface. You gasped softly, fingers tightening in his silver-white hair. He hummed low in response, the vibration traveling straight down your spine.
He shifted to brush the spot just below your ear and moved lower in turn. His tongue traced the delicate ridge of your collarbone first, leaving a glistening path that cooled instantly in the air. You felt teeth lightly graze the bone at first, testing, before biting down, and the pressure bloomed into a bright, aching heat beneath. You moved under him with a soft cry and he soothed the mark immediately with his tongue, laving the faint indent he’d left. He muttered something hoarse against your skin.
You didn’t know if it was a curse or praise or your name, you couldn’t tell. It didn’t matter. You weren’t able to make sense of anything beyond the heat of Maekar’s mouth and his lips brushing the fresh bite to comfort.
When he reached your breasts, his lips ghosted over the soft swell first, then parted to take one nipple into the wet heat of his mouth. The first gentle suction was almost tentative, tongue flicking once, twice, coaxing the peak to tighten under the slow swirl of his tongue.
You gasped his name suddenly, involuntary, and the sound seemed to snap something in him.
Maekar sucked harder then, drawing the sensitive bud deeper, teeth grazing just enough you could feel it down your spine.
His free hand slid down your side, callused palm mapping the dip of your waist, the flare of your hip, before slipping between your thighs. Long fingers parted your folds with careful insistence, finding you already slick and swollen, your arousal coating him the moment he touched you. That drew a soft whimper from your throat, high and needy, your hips twitching upward into the touch before you could stop yourself.
“Fuck, listen to you,” he rasped, rough with satisfaction and something deeper. He released your nipple with a slow, wet pop, only to drag his tongue in a broad, possessive stripe across the underside of your breast before moving to the other.
All the while, his fingers worked between your legs and he watched your face the entire time, violet eyes drinking in every flutter of your lashes, every parting of your lips, every soft hitch of breath when he pressed just right. He rewarded you with a firmer stroke of his thumb. It dragged over your clit in a slow, relentless rhythm while two fingers slid inside you: deep, curling, stretching you open with the same careful control he used in everything else.
You were close. So, so close, you felt your heart thud rapidly against your chest. But before you could let go around his fingers, your husband suddenly stopped, pulling his hand out from between you.
“No.. gods no, no, why would you do that?” You whined. "Maekar, please, I was so close–"
He did not answer at first, hovering over you as his focus settled to his hand. The one that had just been buried inside you, rising to his mouth; he dragged his tongue slowly along his glistening fingers, tasting you. The sight sent a fresh wave of heat crashing through you, making your inner walls flutter around nothing.
“I’d rather have you come on my tongue than on my hand.”
Your breath hitched, thighs trembling at the low, filthy promise in his words. He shifted lower without another word, broad shoulders forcing your legs wider as he settled between them. He spread you open completely, vulnerable and aching under his appraisal. For a heartbeat, he took in the slick, swollen sight of you laid bare for him.
Then he lowered his head.
His tongue dragged a long, slow stripe up your center–flat and firm, gathering every bit of your arousal in one deliberate pass. You cried out, fingers flying to his hair, clutching hard as the wet heat of his mouth sealed over you. He groaned against your folds at the first real taste, the sound vibrating straight through your core, and then he devoured you.
Slow laps along your slit, tongue dipping inside to chase every trace of you, then a hard suction on your clit that made your hips jerk off the bed. He held you down with one large hand splayed across your lower belly, thumb pressing just above your mound to keep you still while his mouth worked you mercilessly. Alternating between teasing flicks and deep, sucking pulls that dragged you right back to the edge he’d denied moments ago.
Two thick fingers slid back inside you while his tongue circled your clit in an unyielding, perfect rhythm.
You came with a sob of his name, thighs clamping around his head, but he didn’t stop. Everything was an overwhelming pulse until you were limp with tears of pleasure streaking your cheeks, skin flushed and glistening with sweat.
Only then did he lift his head. He crawled back up your body, settling his weight carefully over you again, and kissed you deep–letting you taste yourself slow and filthy and tender all at once.
He pulled slightly away after. “Surely I did not tire you out yet, wife?” he whispered against your mouth.
Not trusting your voice, you could only shake your head. Barely.
Maekar took your answer, lifting himself up to sit on his thighs with a slight groan.
He studied you in silence, noting the flush, the tremor, the unfocused look that betrayed how undone you were. He could see the color blooming across your chest, committing the evidence to memory.
With a low, possessive growl, he turned you onto your stomach in one smooth motion, then lifted your hips until you were on your knees, chest pressed low into the furs, backside raised high. It left you arched and open, vulnerable in a way that felt deliberate. Your arms stretched forward, fingers curling into the warm furs for balance; breath coming in shallow pants as the cool air kissed the slick heat between your legs, making you shiver and ache.
Maekar settled close on his knees, the heat of his body a steady presence. You heard the shuffling off of his trousers, and broad hands anchored your hips, fingers digging into the plush of your form with careful, measured strength. He positioned himself at your entrance, the thick head of his cock nudging against your swollen folds, teasing the slick opening without pushing in yet.
You whimpered, seeking more of him.
“Patience,” he told you, thumb stroking once along your curve in a rare moment of gentleness. “I have you.”
He pushed in at a torturous pace, inch by inch, the stretch blooming into a thick, consuming warmth. The slow press of him drew a sharp breath from your lungs, settling deep as his hips met the curve of you at last. A sound broke from you: high, unguarded–answered by the low, restrained groan that left him in return.
He held there a long moment, unmoving, letting you adjust to the fullness, to the way he throbbed inside you. His fingers tightened, one hand sliding to grasp your backside as you clenched around him without meaning to. The reaction dragged a rough, broken groan from deep in his chest. “Fuck.”
Then he began to move.
Deep, measured thrusts–pulling out almost to the tip before sliding back in, hard enough to jolt you forward with each stroke. The angle kept him dragging that sensitive place within you, every even retreat answered by a firm, unhurried reclaim that gathered the tension higher each time. Using the leverage on your hips to pull you back to meet each thrust, he draws you with controlled force, the rhythm building until your breath fractures in your throat.
The wet, obscene sound of skin meeting skin filled the chamber, mingling with your broken cries and his low, animal groans.
“You’re mine. Say it to me,” he breathed out heavily, hips snapping forward harder on the last word.
“Yours,” you gasped, ending off as a moan, another thrust rocked you forward. Your fingers held onto the furs. “I’m yours, Maekar–”
He drove harder after that, the restraint fraying as you clenched tighter around him. He swore under his breath, hips stuttering once, twice–then he buried himself deep to the hilt, spilling inside you with a strained moan that vibrated through both your bodies.
Holding you flush against him, his grip was like an iron band, breathing hard, until the last tremor faded.
For a moment, neither of you moved. Just the rise and fall of his chest behind you, the slowing of his and your heartbeat. As if you were both one.
Then, he eased out of you slowly, carefully, a low hiss escaping him as the last connection between your bodies broke. The sudden emptiness made you shiver, whining quietly.
And Maekar’s hands never left you, not until he guided you down to lie flat among the furs. He adjusted himself behind, settling onto his side, then drew you back against his chest in one protective gesture, bringing the covers over the two of you.
His heartbeat was steady and strong against your spine. One thick arm wrapped around your waist, hand splaying dominantly across your lower belly with his fingers resting just beneath your navel, as though staking quiet claim to the lingering heat there. He tucked his chin over your shoulder, beard tickling the curve of your neck, and his breath slowed to a calm rhythm at your ear.
There was only the sound of your breathing, even if it was uneven. You could hear clearly the soft crackle of the braziers and the distant murmur of the castle settling for the night. You sighed.
Maekar’s thumb began to move in slow, absent circles over your skin, tracing the soft plane of your belly as though memorizing the shape of you. The heat of him enveloped you completely, chasing away the chill that had begun to creep into the room.
Then he pressed his lips to the shell of your ear, voice rough and quiet, barely above a whisper.
“You should visit my brother after you rest,” he murmured. “I’d imagine he longs for you as I did.”
Your heart stuttered. You turned your head just enough to meet his understanding, loving eyes.
He leaned in and softly kissed the corner of your mouth, before settling his cheek against yours.
“Rest first,” he added, quieter still, almost gruff with affection. “Then go to him. I’ll be here when you return.”
You nodded with a slight fond curve of your lips, squeezing his arm warmly, which tightened possessively around you just a fraction in response. You only listened to the breathing against your neck, the warmth of your husband alone, and the knowing that you were exactly where you belonged.
And eventually… you let your eyes drift closed.
✧ tagging: @ghostlybfgf @slenderclaw @sem-ra
liked my work? check out my masterlist. comments and reblogs are appreciated my loves, as well as requests :]
✧ summary: during a royal hunt in the kingswood, maekar slips away from the noise to find solitude in a hidden meadow, only to be quietly followed by the noblewoman he is secretly courting. surprised but quietly pleased by your presence, the usually gruff and guarded prince softens in your company. as you both sit together by the stream, wrapped in each other’s warmth amid wildflowers and soft light, the weight of court and duty fades, leaving only the tender, unspoken intimacy between you.
✧ genre: fluff & cute romance
✧ warnings: kissing, age-gap, reader is in her 20s, this is just a lil romantic drabble
✧ word count: 1.9k
✧ author's note: only a few hours until IT happens.. then i cry. so i tried to write smth cute for today
The horns blared through the Kingswood, a cacophony of brass and baying hounds that echoed off the ancient oaks and tangled underbrush. You rode at the rear of the hunting party, your mount picking its way through the dappled shadows, the air thick with the scent of damp earth and pine.
The invitation had come as a surprise, honestly. Your house, ever loyal to the crown, had been summoned to join House Targaryen in this grand hunt, a show of unity amid the endless whispers of court intrigue. But hunts like this were more pageant than pursuit, with lords and ladies preening in their finest riding leathers, bows slung over shoulders more for fashion than function. You weren't here for the deer or the boar; your eyes had been on one man since the party set out from King's Landing at dawn.
Prince Maekar rode near the front, broad-shouldered and imposing even without armor, clad in a simple dark tunic edged with red velvet that caught stray sunlight through the canopy. You adored his short, straight Valyrian hair and his beard that framed a face etched with perpetual sternness.
There was something in the way he held himself, a quiet strength that drew you like a moth to a lantern.
The party had paused for a midday rest, tents pitched in a wide clearing, servants scurrying with wineskins and platters of cold meats. You lingered at the edge, pretending to adjust your saddle, when you overheard Prince Baelor, Maekar's elder brother and the ever-diplomatic Hand, speaking to him in low tones.
"You're glowering like a storm cloud, brother," Baelor said, clapping Maekar on the shoulder. His voice carried that easy warmth, the kind Maekar seemed to lack. "These hunts are meant for sport, not suffering. Take a ride to clear your head. The boars will still be here when you return."
Maekar grunted, his mouth twisting in that familiar scowl. "Sport? It's a farce. Half of these lords can’t hit a barn door with an arrow, and the other half are too busy filling themselves with wine to notice the game." But he nodded once, sharp and resigned, swinging onto his horse: a sturdy black destrier that matched his mood.
Without another word, he spurred the beast into a trot, veering off the main path into the deeper woods. No one questioned it; princes did as they pleased.
Your heart gave a quick, eager thud as you watched your lover disappear into the trees. The hunting party’s laughter and clinking goblets faded behind you like a distant memory. You waited only long enough for the last of the servants to turn their backs before swinging into your saddle again. Your mare sensed your urgency; she stepped lively but quietly, ears pricked forward as you guided her onto the faint trail Maekar’s destrier had left: broken twigs, churned earth, the occasional deep hoofprint in the soft loam.
The Kingswood swallowed you whole. The air grew cooler, richer with moss and resin and the faint metallic tang of the nearby stream.
After perhaps half an hour, the trees began to thin, and the path opened onto a hidden meadow, long and sunlit, cradled between two gentle rises of oak and beech. Tall grasses swayed in lazy waves, studded with late-summer wildflowers. Oxeye daisies, harebells, clumps of purple vetch. A narrow stream wound through the center, bright and shallow, its surface flickering like molten silver. And there, on the far bank, sat Maekar.
He had dismounted. His horse grazed contentedly a few yards away, reins trailing loose. Maekar himself perched on a wide, flat stone that jutted into the stream, knees drawn up, forearms braced on them, staring down at the water as though it had personally offended him. Even at rest, he looked coiled with shoulders tense, jaw set in that familiar stubborn line.
You got off quietly, looping your mare’s reins over a low branch near his. The grass cushioned your steps as you crossed the shallow ford, cool water swirling around your ankles and soaking the hem of your skirts. You tried to move softly, but, of course, the Kingswood had its own language. Every twig snap and rustle of leaves carried, and Maekar was never careless about sound.
His head snapped up the instant your boot touched the far bank.
For a heartbeat he froze, shoulders tensing, hand dropping to the dagger at his belt, violet eyes narrowing as though you were an intruder in his private domain. The scowl returned in full force, jaw tight, the guarded mask of a man who rarely allowed anyone near his solitude snapping back into place.
Then recognition struck.
His hand fell away. The tension eased, though surprise lingered in the slight parting of his lips and the faint widening of his eyes before he schooled them back to their usual sharpness. He blinked once, slow and deliberate, as if convincing himself you were real, and not some trick of the light filtering through the leaves.
For a long moment he simply stared.
You stood there on the bank, water dripping from your hem, heart thudding loud enough that you wondered if he could hear it over the stream. The meadow seemed to hold its breath with you.
Finally, Maekar exhaled through his nose and shook his head once, as though trying to dislodge the sight of you from his mind.
“My love,” he said, voice low and gravel-rough, almost swallowed by the stream’s murmur, “you’re here.”
It wasn’t quite a question, closer to startled disbelief, though something softer flickered beneath it before he could hide it.
You offered a small, careful smile, stepping fully onto the grass. “I did not think you would mind my presence… much.”
He stared at you another long second, then let out a short, humorless huff that might have been a laugh if it weren’t so startled. “Mind,” he repeated, as though tasting the word. His gaze swept over your wind-tousled hair, damp skirts clinging to your calves, the faint flush on your cheeks from the ride, causing something in his expression to crack further. The scowl didn’t vanish, but it lost its bite; the corners of his mouth twitched, betraying him.
“Seven hells,” he muttered under his breath, more to himself than to you. He shifted on the stone, broad frame making room without quite admitting he wanted you closer. “Come here before you catch your death standing in those wet skirts.” A poor excuse.
You smiled and happily crossed the last few steps, settling beside him on the wide stone, close enough that your knee brushed his. He didn’t pull away and instead, after another beat of silence, his hand found yours. Large, warm, callused fingers closing around your smaller ones with careful firmness. He lifted your hand to his mouth, pressed a brief, hard kiss to your knuckles, then lowered it again without letting go.
You felt the heat climb into your cheeks and didn’t bother hiding it. “You’re in a mood,” you teased softly.
“I’m always in a mood,” he muttered. But his fingers tightened around yours, thumb resuming its slow circles. “This one’s… tolerable.”
You laughed under your breath. “High praise coming from you.”
He grunted, which was as good as agreement.
For a while you simply sat, the sun shifting across the grasses in warm gold waves. A pair of redstarts darted low over the grass, tails flicking like tiny flames. Maekar’s free hand eventually rose to the nape of your neck; thick fingers threaded into your hair, cradling the back of your head with surprising gentleness. He tugged you steadily toward him until your temple rested against his shoulder.
You turned your face into the crook of his neck, breathing in leather, cedar smoke, and the faint salt of his skin. His beard brushed your cheek as he tilted his head, lips grazing your hairline in a kiss so light it might have been accidental. It wasn’t.
“You should not have come,” he said after a long silence, voice quieter than usual. “Someone will notice.”
“Let them.” Your hand slid up to rest against his chest, feeling the steady, powerful beat beneath wool and muscle. “I wanted to see you. Away from prying eyes.”
Maekar exhaled through his nose, sounding like something between exasperation and surrender. His arm came around your waist, broad hand splaying across your ribs, pulling you more securely against his side. “Foolish girl,” he muttered, but there was no heat in it: only that low, rough fondness he reserved for you alone. “You’re reckless, but bold. Chasing a prince into the woods like some hedge knight’s tale.”
“I didn’t chase." You lifted your head enough to meet his eyes. They were softer than usual, like perpetual storm clouds that had parted just enough to let light through. “I followed. There’s a difference.”
“You’ll ruin my reputation. Men will think I’ve gone soft.”
“You have, my love,” you teased, leaning closer towards him. “Just not with anyone else.”
He huffed but his gaze held yours for a long beat. Then he leaned in, slow enough that you could have stopped him if you’d wanted.
You didn’t.
Maekar's hand tightened in your hair gently, possessive. He tilted his head, nose brushing yours, and then he kissed you properly. Slow. Deep. Not hungry or frantic, but certain. His beard scraped your chin, his lips firm and warm, tasting faintly of the wine he’d drunk at the midday rest. One arm slid around your waist, pulling you closer until you were half in his lap, your skirts pooling over his thighs. He kissed like a man who had waited too long to do it and now intended to make up for lost time. You parted your lips and he accepted the invitation without haste, tongue brushing yours in a slow, thorough stroke that sent warmth pooling low in your belly. Moaning softly in his mouth, you bring your hand up to the side of his neck, thumb feeling the pulse flutter underneath.
He broke the kiss first, but only to rest his forehead against yours, breathing uneven. His eyes were closed, pale lashes fanning against his cheeks, and his thumb traced the curve of your cheekbone, rough pad following the line of it as though memorizing.
“Stay,” he said quietly, almost gruff, but unmistakably a plea.
You nodded, nose brushing his. “I’m not going anywhere.”
Maekar exhaled again, long and slow. Then he gathered you closer, arms wrapping fully around you, one hand settling at the small of your back, the other sliding up to cradle the nape of your neck. He tucked your head beneath his chin, beard tickling your temple, and simply held you.
Nature stretched quiet around the both of you, but the stream sang, and somewhere far off a horn sounded, faint and unimportant. Here, there was only the steady rise and fall of his chest beneath your cheek, the slow stroke of his thumb along your spine, the occasional brush of his lips against your hair.
He didn’t speak again for a long while. He didn’t need to, anyway.
When he finally did, his voice was so low you felt it more than heard it.
“Next hunt,” he murmured against your temple, “you ride with me from the start.”
You smiled into his neck. “Is that an order, my prince?”
A soft huff, almost a laugh. “It’s a request.”
You smile softly and press a kiss to the underside of his jaw, feeling the way his pulse jumps beneath your lips.
“Granted,” you whisper.
His arms tighten, just for a moment, and he rests his cheek against the top of your head. No grand speeches. No poetry. Just him, showing you in the only way he knew how: with touch, with nearness, with the stubborn, quiet devotion he gave to so few things in this cruel land.
The sun slid lower, gilding the grasses in fire. The Kingswood held its breath. And for once, the Anvil looked perfectly content to let the world wait.
✧ tagging: @slenderclaw @ghostlybfgf
liked my work? comments and reblogs are appreciated my loves, as well as requests :]
✧ summary: over the course of several months of stolen glances and long conversations at court, the prince of dragonstone finds himself slowly falling in love with a woman he cannot have. when he receives a gift from you, he seeks you out in secret... forcing you both to confront the forbidden feelings you've tried so hard to hide.
✧ genre: fluff, angst, hurt/comfort, teasing, close intimacy, yearning, mutual pining, love at first sight (cliche.. but hey)
✧ warnings: infidelity, jealous!baelor, reader is in her late 20s/early 30s, has children, and is a woc. because HELLO i picture him with one. anyways.
✧ word count: 4k
✧ author's note: everytime i have a hyperfixation on smth, i write about it. and this time it's akotsk, i'm obsessed w baelor and maekar. but i was told to write for baelor first and plus, look at that man... also, if u see any mistakes, no u didn't. um, this was supposed to be a one-shot, but got a word limit?? so pt2 will be posted shortly after!
When Baelor had first noticed you from afar, it was not meant to be noticing at all.
A feast was held in King's Landing, one of many. The great hall shimmered with torchlight and banners, red, gold and blue draped in solemn display. Silver platters moved from table to table. Dornish reds had flowed thick and dark into the chalices of nobles whose laughter boomed in and out constantly against stonewalls.
Baelor sat where duty placed him always: high, visible, composed. He was the Prince of Dragonstone. Hand of the King. Heir to the Iron Throne. Every movement he made, it was measured. Every word that left his mouth weighed. Lords watched him for favor. Petitioners waited like hawks poised to strike.
His father was not in attendance, but Maekar was, much as the man grumbled in protest and slight annoyance when the both of them arrived, along with their sons.
Baelor watched, having learned long ago to look without seeing.
That night, however, he saw.
You.
You were seated several places down from your husband: Lord Arryn's younger brother, who was broad-shouldered and fair, falcon sigil stitched proudly across his doublet. The Vale delegation had arrived early that morning, and Baelor had already endured hours of negotiations before the feast had even begun. He knew the husband's lineage, his holdings, his temperament.
He did not know you. Not yet.
You were laughing at something said across the table. Not loudly nor in the attention-seeking manner like some ladies at court. No, it was quieter than that, softer, gentle. You sounded kind. Your voice did not carry far, but carried enough.
The prince's gaze shifted before he could stop it.
You held yourself with effortless composure. It was neither stiff nor lax. You did not cling to your husband's arm nor did you shrink behind him. You simply existed beside him, not beneath him. Your expression lightly softened and the candlelight caught in the smooth planes of your face and lingered there, as though reluctant to leave.
He observed, distantly at first.
The way you listened when others spoke to you: interested, fully, and without impatience to name. How you inclined your head when addressed, not submissive, but attentive. The smile you had given a serving girl when she nearly stumbled into you as she poured wine, murmuring something to ease her anxiousness.
Warmth. That's what unsettled him.
He was too used to court being often cold, even when it glittered. Though there were always compliments sharpened, smiles used as weapons… yours seemed unguarded in a way that did not invite foolishness. Only ease.
Your husband leaned toward you at one point, speaking low in your ear. You turned to him readily. Patient, indulgent even, as he began to launch into some animated recounting of a hunting tale. You didn't interrupt or roll your eyes in disinterest as most wives did when their husbands became boastful or unbearing to the ear. Instead, you watched him with an expression that suggested you knew him well. Knew when to let him speak, knew when to gently steer him back.
Baelor told himself he admired that.
A good lady. A stabilizing presence. An asset to her house.
That was all.
Yet his gaze returned to you more than once.
When a jest caused the tables to erupt in crude laughter, he found himself searching to see how you'd react. You did not join in. You did not scold either. You had given yourself a small, private smile curving your mouth, as if you found amusement not in the joke itself, but in the men who found it clever.
He noticed the way you folded your hands when listening, your thumb brushing idly over your knuckles. A habit, perhaps. He noticed how the light gilded your skin differently than the pale ladies of the Reach seated nearby; the warmth of your complexion holding the firelight instead of reflecting it.
He noticed you far too much.
At one point, your eyes lifted. Not toward him at first, but toward the high table in general. A courteous glance, nothing more. And yet, for a brief, treacherous moment, your gazes aligned.
There was no impropriety in it. No widening of eyes. No startled breath.
Only acknowledgement. As one noble might regard another.
You lowered your gaze first. Respectful, proper.
Baelor felt something in his chest tighten.
He turned away immediately, addressing a lord to his right with measured calm. He asked about grain yields in the Vale. He inquired about mountain pass security. He nodded at the appropriate moments.
He did not look back.
Not for several minutes.
When he did, it was under the guise of scanning the hall, or assessing those in attendance.
His eyes found you again.
You were speaking now to an elderly knight, leaning forward slightly so as not to make him strain to hear. There was patience in your voice again; Baelor could see it even if he could not hear the words. The knight smiled at you as though you had gifted him something rare: simple attention.
That was when the thought came, unbidden and unwelcome: you would be formidable, were you placed beside a throne.
It was a ridiculous notion. You were married. Secure. Properly placed.
He did not envy your husband. He did not covet what belonged to another.
Grace, warmth, steadiness... those he could admire without sin.
Admiration was safe, was it not?
The music continued to swell. Cups were refilled. The feast wore on.
Yet even as Baelor spoke to the nobles, a portion of his mind lingered-not on your face, not on your smile, but on the quiet strength with which you occupied your place.
When the feast finally began to thin and guests rose in clusters, you stood beside your husband, smoothing the fabric of your azure gown with unthinking grace. He offered you his arm and you took it, granting him a small smile.
Baelor watched you both depart.
Only for a moment.
The prince of Summerhall looked at his dear brother, taking notice of the way his multicolored gaze was firmly placed on you, a wife to a lord of House Arryn.
Interesting, Maekar thought, almost amused.
As if sensing Maekar's eyes on him, Baelor cleared his throat quietly.
Then he rose as well, excusing himself, rest calling him to his chambers.
It was just admiration, he reasoned, as he withdrew from the hall. Nothing more. It was not the way his pulse had altered when your gaze met his.
It was not the subtle disappointment he felt when you vanished into the crowd.
It was not the quiet awareness, sharp and precise, that he would notice if you did not attend the next feast.
Simple admiration, he was certain of it.
He did not yet know that he would begin to measure court gatherings by your presence nor did he know that months would pass and he would remember the exact sound of that first laugh.
He only knew that, for the first time in a very long while, something in the great hall had drawn his attention not out of obligation…
…but out of want.
-
In the weeks that followed, nothing changed.
And yet, everything did.
The Vale remained at court longer than expected. Well, your husband and a few of his men. Trade matters first, then questions of mountain defenses, then some delicate matter of wardships that required signatures and seals and endless discussion. Baelor attended each council with the same composure he had always worn, his voice even, his posture unassailable.
Still, he became aware of a new habit forming.
He marked your presence the way he marked troop movements: quietly, instinctively.
At the next feast, you didn't laugh as freely. The music was softer, the mood more restrained.
Baelor did not seek your lovely gaze, but instead found it.
You were watching the high table… not him specifically, but the dais as one watches a storm from a distance. When your eyes settled on him, there was recognition there now. A flicker of something aware.
He inclined his head, slighty enough that only someone already looking would notice.
Your full lips curved, faint but deliberate.
The moment then passed.
Later, during the shifting chaos of servants refilling wine, the prince descended from the high table to speak with Lord Arryn’s brother. Your husband. Matters of toll rights in the Bloody Gate. Logistics. Dry conversation.
You stood at his side, dutifully as wife.
A servant stumbled between the both of you with a silver flagon, and you two reached instinctively to steady it. Your fingers brushed. Brief, accidental.
It should have meant nothing. Yet it lingered.
You did not flinch. Instead, your kind gaze lifted to his, and for the first time there was something clear within it… Invitation.
And in that suspended breath between you, you truly looked at him.
Not as Prince of Dragonstone. Not as Hand of the King. But as a man.
His face was carved by years of governance and battle alike, strong lines at the mouth, a severity to his brow that spoke of responsibility carried too long and too well. His dark hair and beard, once surely near-black, were threaded heavily with grey at the temples, silver creeping through with time. It did not diminish him, you thought. It instead deepened him.
And his eyes… one deep blue and the other warm brown, held more than courtly composure. They held restraint. Thought.
He was handsome and broad-shouldered beneath dark leathers, dagger resting easy at his hip. There was something formidable about him, not loud, not brash, but controlled.
And yet, in that moment, what you saw most clearly was not the prince.
It was the man holding himself carefully still.
You knew he was not indifferent.
Was it horrible of you to want such a man?
He withdrew first, though only by a fraction, enough to restore the space propriety demanded.
“I apologize, Your Grace,” you said, voice composed, as if the brush of fingers had been nothing more than an inconvenience in a crowded hall.
Baelor held your eyes a heartbeat too long before answering.
“There is nothing to apologize for, my lady.”
His tone was even, measured for anyone who might overhear. Yet beneath the calm lay an acknowledgment neither of you dared name.
The silver flagon steadied. Around them, the hall continued as it always had.
Your husband spoke on, unaware.
-
It became a pattern.
A quiet exchange over wine in the garden courtyard, public enough to be proper, private enough to allow a conversation that was not strictly political. You spoke of the Vale in winter, of falcons wheeling above snow-bright peaks. He listened, asking questions not because he must, but because he wished to hear your voice linger on something you loved.
You, in turn, asked the prince about Dragonstone. He answered honestly, much to your pleasure.
During a smaller dinner, the conversation turned toward heirs and legacies. Common talk.
Your husband spoke readily of his sons but you spoke less. But when you did, it was with detail. You did not speak of their titles, but of their temperaments. One stubborn like his father, firm as a mountain. One gentle as early snow, taking after you.
Baelor began to regard your husband. He had always known the man of course; he was a capable, honest, and respectable lord. But now he observed him with a different awareness.
The Arryn always leaned in too close to your ear, splayed his hand possessively on your waist... and it was the ease in which he claimed your attention that bothered the royal most.
The sight of you laughing at another man’s side unsettled him more than any drawn blade he came across.
He forced the feeling down, and fixed his attention on you with an intensity he had no business allowing himself.
“You must miss your little ones terribly, my lady,” he observed, careful to keep his tone conversational.
“I do, my prince,” you answered simply. “They are the best part of me.”
The words lodged somewhere deep. He too, loved his sons.
He should have withdrawn then. Reminded himself of the boundary that had always existed.
Instead, he found himself saying, “They are fortunate.”
Your gaze held his for a fraction longer than politeness required.
“I hope so,” you murmured.
-
Time layered itself in glances.
Once, in the godswood, you stood beneath a weirwood’s pale branches, alone for a fleeting moment while you husband conferred with a knight. Baelor passed by on some invented errand.
“My prince,” you greeted softly.
“My lady.”
The silence between you was neither awkward nor hurried. Leaves stirred overhead. The faint scent of damp earth clung to the air.
“You have been scarce at council dinners,” he said before he could reconsider.
You tilted your head. “Have I?”
“For two evenings.”
The corner of your mouth lifted. “I did not realize my absence would be noted.”
“It is my duty to note the presence of visiting houses.”
The answer was technically true. You studied him then, as though weighing something. Not coyly, nor boldly.
“And is it only duty, my prince?”
The question was light, almost playful, but he did not answer you.
Instead, he inclined his head once more and excused himself.
He did not trust what might leave his mouth if he lingered.
-
You noticed him noticing.
Baelor saw it in the subtle adjustments in the way you'd angle yourself slightly during conversation so that he remained within your line of sight. How, when laughter erupted at some joking banter, your eyes sought him first, as if gauging whether he found it amusing too.
Neither of you spoke of it, really.
He began to remember the small things you mentioned: your preference for lemon in your wine, your dislike of overly sweet pastries, your fondness for falconry despite rarely having the chance to ride out.
This was absurd, surely?
-
And then, it arrived without ceremony.
It was a narrow wooden box case wrapped in undyed linen and sealed with the falcon of the Vale.
The prince almost mistook it for a minor dispatch.
The cord came undone easily beneath his fingers. The lid lifted with the faint scrape of wood against wood. Inside, lay three small carvings.
Dragons.
Not the polished, ornamental kind displayed in noble halls, but the kind that were carved from pale mountain ash: its grain visible, edges slightly imperfect, seeming more shaped by careful hands rather than a master artisan seeking perfection.
Each dragon was different.
One stood upright, wings folded but poised, restrained, almost. Another crouched low, wings half-spread open, like it were bracing against wind. And the third, was simply in flight, wings extended, tail curved in motion.
These were not toys, nor were they ceremonial pieces.
They felt… studied.
Baelor lifted the smallest first. The carving was warm from the enclosed case, faintly scented of resin and mountain wood. Alongside the underside of the base, nearly hidden, was a single etched falcon. It was subtle yet deliberate.
He understood at once.
You had asked him once, in passing, about Dragonstone’s chambers, whether dragons adorned every wall as rumor claimed. He had answered that most of the castle’s carvings were too severe to be called beautiful.
You smiled at that.
At the time, he had thought it idle conversation.
He turned the carving in his hand now, studying the curve of its wings.
This was not a diplomatic offering. No note was seen praising House Targaryen, no. There was no inscription proclaiming reverence to the blood of the dragon.
They were simply dragons, small enough to fit into his palm. Dragons he could hold.
He imagined you choosing the wood, watching the carving take shape, considering the posture of each dragon. Perhaps even deciding which one resembled him most.
He set the carvings carefully on his desk, aligned.
They were meant for him.
His thumb brushed once more over the smooth arch of a wing.
The gift was modest. Unassuming. And deeply, dangerously intimate.
-
The dragons remained on his desk long after the messenger had withdrawn.
No one dared question him further.
He left by the side passage rather than the main corridor, boots echoing faintly against stone. His pace did not quicken, but neither did it slow.
He passed through the inner courtyard without acknowledging the guards’ salutes, turning instead toward the quieter wings of the Keep, which were the spaces nobles frequented when they wished to be unseen without appearing to hide.
He would not draw attention.
If he encountered you, it would be coincidence. If he did not, it'd be a sign enough to return to his duties.
He had to remind himself that it was not honorable of a prince, more so a man, like him to be interested in a married woman.
Even so, his gaze remained forward, measured, never searching too openly.
But he listened.
For your voice. For the cadence he had begun, against reason, to recognize from across a hall.
He told himself he was inspecting the grounds.
Liar.
He told himself many things.
None of them were true.
✧ tagging: @slenderclaw @ghostlybfgf
liked my work? comments and reblogs are appreciated my loves, as well as requests :]
A Tale of Crowns and WIngs of Fire crossover REAL
Looks like Atoc phase had returned to me so here I am making more atoc contents once again :] It took me a while to finish all of them as I'm pretty proud of that 😭
I typed up all of the informations about them and their designs in ss down there! (Also second ss mentions A's route major spoilers from chap 7 so read it cautiously!)
And a bonus doodle of my Crown Rojda (left one) with A hehe (A's route chap 7 major spoilers)
Woke: Giovanni has mistakenly believed Ash was his hookup mistake for like a decade and is about to get the surprise of the century seeing that not only are they not related, but the employee he fired a few years ago for being too stupid is now living with him and being a more active father than he was
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