men who try to shame women for liking calming games like animal crossing or minecraft or whatever are so pitiful. like maybe if u planted some virtual flowers to some calming music for a few hours u wouldnt be such a lil bitch
Summary: King’s Landing is a dangerous territory, but as a Lannister, you had been prepared for danger all your life. Once arrived, you quickly decided the crown prince looked like exactly the kind of dangerous game worth playing. What you did not expect was for him to play back.
(Inspired by this, this and this!)
A/N: I have read a few different takes on the idea that Baelor deserves someone who actually challenges him. Someone bold and sharp enough to keep up, and brave enough to poke the dragon. Honestly, I could not agree more. Also, the fem!reader was inspired by Margaery Tyrell's character to give it a little more oomph! Hehehe. If you guys like this, I’ll make part ii.
King's Landing was everything they had warned you it would be.
The heat clung to your skin like a second gown, the air thick with smells you had no desire to name. The smallfolk either stared too long or averted their eyes entirely. Even the Red Keep itself felt different the moment you crossed its threshold. Older. Sharper. Like something coiled beneath the stone, waiting.
Remain your charm, but be wary of those at court. They are as sly as foxes. Your grandmother had said it the morning you rode out from Casterly Rock, and you had laughed then. You did not laugh now.
King Daeron was hosting a tourney to mark his reign, though your grandmother and mother had exchanged a look over that. The kind of look women exchanged when they suspected men of thinking themselves clever. There is always a reason beneath the reason. Still, your lord father had answered the summons without hesitation, bringing you and your elder brother south with a retinue of sworn swords.
And so here you stood, walking the quieter passages of the castle with your cousin and ladies-in-waiting, your whispers soft and quick as sparrows. Your father had already presented you before the king himself. Old Daeron had smiled warmly, made his jests about grandsons still unwed. Daeron, Valarr, Aerion, all still to find their liking. You had smiled back, bright as sunlight on gold, and said every honeyed thing a girl from a great house was trained to say before a king.
A crown would make your father ambitious. You knew better than to let it make you foolish. “Keep your ears wide and your eyes sharp,” your brother had said, before disappearing to drink with the other young lords ahead of the joust.
By evening you had changed into something lighter. A soft pink gown, the back cut low, gold embroidery tracing the shape of a Lannister lion along the hem. You had chosen not to wear your house's red. Not yet. First impressions, your grandmother always said, were a door. Best not to kick it open. The gown had drawn its share of glances as you made your way through the crowded yard.
"Lady Tully looked ready to weep," your cousin murmured. "Jealous that Riverrun has no such fashion," added Lady Garner, which earned a quiet laugh you did not bother hiding.
"They are setting up the lists," Lady Turnberry said, craning her neck toward the far end of the courtyard. "Oh, have you seen Lord Arryn's youngest? He is everything a singer would ever..."
"Careful," Lady Ferren cut in flatly. "Say it loud enough and the Seven may take it as a prayer. You would find yourself shipped off to the Vale, left to admire the Moon Door for the rest of your days. How dull a life that would be."
"Hush, all of you." You leaned in, lowering your voice to something only the four of you could catch. "These walls have ears. Bloodraven's eyes are everywhere in this city. Perhaps beneath us as we speak." That silenced them.
A moment passed. Then you heard footsteps. Unhurried, deliberate. You turned before you had quite decided to.
And there he was.
Prince Baelor Targaryen. Tall. Broader through the shoulders than you had imagined a prince who sat more councils than battlefields would be, though you supposed the name Breakspear had been earned somewhere. His eyes found you before they found anyone else in the group, and stayed a breath longer than courtesy strictly required.
"Your Grace." You and your ladies curtsied as one.
"My lady." His gaze swept briefly past your shoulder before settling back on you. "Forgive me. I did not know this part of the garden had already been claimed." It was only then you noticed a roll of parchment tucked under his arm, the edge of what looked like a letter folded between his fingers. A prince who came to a garden corner with papers was not a prince looking for company.
"Forgive me, Your Grace." You tilted your head gently toward the scroll. "Were you seeking this spot? We would not wish to drive you from it."
"No." He paused, something shifting briefly in his expression. "It is of no matter. I come here when the council chambers grow too loud. The quiet of the garden helps." A beat, as though he had not quite meant to say that much. "It seems the garden had other plans today."
Your smile came easy and unhurried, the same smile you had been perfecting since you were old enough to know what it could do. "The fault is mine, Your Grace. This is your home. We only wandered here to escape the crowds.” A small pause, just long enough. "The view from here is rather fine, I must say."
You did not look away when you said it.
The Prince of Dragonstone and heir to the Iron Throne, held your gaze a moment more than he perhaps intended. A faint colour rose to his cheeks, and the corner of his mouth curved despite himself. So the Breakspear could be made to blush. Good. That made things considerably easier.
"I do not believe I caught your name, my lady," he said, and there was something careful in the way he said it, like a man testing unfamiliar ground.
"You did not," you agreed pleasantly. "Though I suspect you could find it easily enough, Your Grace, should you wish to look." A beat of silence. One of your ladies made a very small sound behind you.
His gaze moved over your gown, brief and not quite brief enough. It was not befitting a prince to look, and yet you could see precisely how much effort it cost him not to. "A Lannister, if the lion on your gown is any indication."
"You have a sharp eye, Your Grace" You tilted your head just slightly, letting the evening light catch the gold at your hem. "I had half expected you to simply ask." That drew a small laugh from him, soft and unguarded.
"And what brings a lady of Casterly Rock so far from the Westerlands?"
"The same thing that brings everyone to King's Landing, Your Grace." Your smile did not waver. "An invitation too important to refuse. And curiosity, of course. I have always found that the most interesting things tend to happen when a king calls his lords together."
"Curiosity," he repeated.
"Is that not reason enough to make the journey?" You let your eyes hold his for just a moment longer than was proper. "I find the capital has not disappointed."
You watched his throat move. Just once. Subtle as a ripple on still water, and just as telling. He might have said something more. You rather thought he wanted to. But the sound of boots on stone cut through the quiet of the garden and a white cloaked figure appeared at the far end of the path.
"Prince Baelor," The Kingsguard's voice was flat and dutiful. "The king is asking for you."
Baelor straightened. The careful look settled back over his features like a visor coming down. He turned to you and inclined his head, the picture of a prince.
"My lady." A pause, and then, quieter, "The garden is yours. For as long as you please."
You curtsied. Graceful, unhurried. He held your gaze one breath past the point of politeness before he turned and followed the white cloak back into the belly of the Red Keep. You waited until the sound of his footsteps had faded entirely. Then you turned back to your ladies.
The giggle that broke from Lady Turnberry first set the rest of you off like a lit fuse, hands over mouths, shoulders shaking, the whole dignified performance dissolving into something that belonged far more to Casterly Rock than to the seat of kings. "Sevens," Lady Ferren said, pressing a hand flat to her chest. "That was something else entirely. Your grandmother would be so proud."
That only made you laugh harder.
The night air was different from the evening's. The open space around the Red Keep breathed cooler and darker, though the crowds had swelled since earlier. More lords and ladies had come to the capital, and the smallfolk had gathered along the edges to witness the first night of the tourney, pressing close enough that you could smell tallow and sweat.
The noise made you want to slip away entirely. You would have preferred the quiet of the castle, but your lord father had insisted you take your place among the noble houses to watch your brother and the other young lords in the unhorsing.
"Lord Lyonel looks like he is enjoying this more than the rest," Lady Ferren remarked, her smirk saying considerably more than her words. "A gallantry of a stag. How fitting."
"A stag in bed might suit a lioness well enough," Lady Garner added. "What happens when two beasts of the forest collide?"
You scoffed at the comment. "The lovemaking would be fine, I imagine," you said, low enough for only your girls. "But he would not satisfy outside the chamber. And I require more than one kind of satisfaction." That drew a round of poorly stifled laughter.
"Prince Aerion, then?" Lady Garner pressed. "Gods help you. You would spend your whole life trying to tame something wilder than their own sigil."
You could not help but laugh at that one. As much as you wanted to linger in your ladies' chatter, you could feel your body growing tense against the noise and the crowd. You rose, smoothing the creases from your gown. "I am going inside for lemon cakes. You girls may stay and decide which lords to take home if fortune favours you."
The horn sounded as you slipped away, its low call rolling across the yard to signal the start of the first matches. Inside, the halls of the Red Keep had gone quiet, emptied of almost everyone. Your footsteps echoed as you made your way toward the stairs, counting the turns, trying to remember which passage led back to your assigned chambers.
You had just reached the fourth step when a familiar figure came down the same staircase.
"My lady." Baelor smiled as his eyes found you. It was a different smile from the one in the garden. That one had been careful, almost cautious. This one carried something steadier in it. The quiet confidence of a man on familiar ground. He had changed into something sleeker, darker, red worked through the fabric with dragon motifs stitched along the collar and cuffs.
The heat that rose to your cheeks was entirely unwelcome.
"My prince." You straightened. "Forgive me, I was looking for—"
"Are you lost?" The smile did not leave his face. There was a faint warmth to it now, something almost teasing.
"Mayhaps," you admitted. Then your grandmother's voice cut clear through the flutter in your chest. You are a lioness. Do not let anyone get the better of you. You lifted your chin. "The tourney grew too loud. I thought lemon cakes and quiet would suit me better than another round of unhorsing."
"A reasonable preference." He descended the last two steps, leaving only a courteous distance between you.
"You were not watching the tourney, Your Grace?" You asked. "Half the capital has gathered outside."
"I have seen enough jousting to last several lifetimes." The corner of his mouth lifted. "Besides, council work does not pause for tourneys."
"How terribly dutiful of you." You said it warmly, without an edge, which somehow made it worse for him. "And here I thought princes were permitted to enjoy themselves on occasion."
"We are permitted many things." His eyes held yours a beat. "Enjoyment simply requires the right company." His smile deepened. Oh. Ohh. So he could play too. Interesting.
"I know where the kitchens are, if lemon cakes are what you seek," he said, already moving down the stairs into the hallway.
You fell into step beside him. The corner of your eye caught whatever his profile had to offer in the light, and it offered quite a lot. You let that sit for a moment, then turned the conversation gently, the way you might turn a knife so the light caught the blade differently.
"How do you find the capital this time of year, Your Grace? Or perhaps I ought to ask how the capital finds you."
He looked faintly amused. "The city is as it always is. Loud. Restless. Full of people wanting things from one another."
"Is that not the nature of all great gatherings?" You smiled. "I find it rather lovely, myself. The people especially." A small pause, perfectly placed. "I had the honour of speaking with your nephew earlier this evening. Prince Aerion. He is quite the presence."
Something moved behind Baelor's eyes. Brief, but you caught it. "Oh? And how did you find him?"
"I did not quite know what to expect," you said thoughtfully, as though you were still turning it over in your mind. "He is a chatter. Rather wild." A soft laugh, light as silk. You slowed your steps, closing the space between you just enough to shift the tone of your voice, keeping it soft but letting it carry something else beneath.
"Though I cannot blame him for it entirely. He is half dragon, half Dornish after all."
You let your gaze drift for just a moment before finding his again. "That is a dangerous combination for a man to carry in his blood, isn’t it? Unpredictable. It makes things rather exciting. You never quite know what you are going to get."
The silence that followed was not a long one. But it was enough.
Prince Baelor, son of Daeron the Good and Myriah Martell of Dorne, stilled at the entrance to the kitchen hallway. He said nothing for the span of three heartbeats. You had delivered the line perfectly, half dragon, half Dornish, and paired it with words like dangerous and exciting, and for a moment you thought perhaps you had poked the dragon too far.
But then you watched him arrive at the understanding. Watched it settle over him slowly, like dawn breaking. "Exciting," he said at last. Carefully. The word measured out like coin.
"Mhm." Your smile did not waver, did not sharpen, did not give a single thing away. "The unpredictable ones always are, I find."
He looked at you for a long moment. Then, slowly, a smile drew itself across his face. Not the careful one from the garden. This one was different. Warmer. Like a man who had just decided to stop pretending he was not enjoying himself.
He stepped aside and gestured toward the open doorway. "Lemon cakes are through here, my lady. The kitchen girls will see you served."
You smiled and dipped your head in thanks, moving to step past him.
"I must make my way back outside," he said, his voice easy, almost casual. "My people are waiting. It seems even half dragon, half Dornish blood cannot keep one caged for too long."
You stopped.
Just for a breath. Just long enough to feel the words land square in your chest like an arrow finding its mark. Then you turned your head, just slightly, enough to catch the edge of that smile still sitting on his face.
"No," you agreed, keeping your voice perfectly smooth. "I imagine it cannot."
He inclined his head. Those mismatched eyes held yours one moment longer than necessary. Then he was gone, back down the hallway, unhurried, and you stood at the entrance to the kitchen with warm light spilling across the stone floor and the smell of sugar in the air.
You pressed your lips together. Well, well, well. This was either a rewarding game or a dangerously foolish one to dance around.
given the current climate this pride especially i feel i must mention that i love my trans friends, i stand with trans people in the fight against transphobic legislation and those who would enforce it, and this blog is not a good place for you to be if you do not vibe with that
the same man who played the oh-so-comforting-and-charismatic baelor breakspear targaryen, number one character i'd want to nap on the shoulder of despite those pins due to his performance, is also
this fucking sleep paralysis demon! standing on the pipes in your ceiling and ready to scare!
Baelor’s first marriage had required him to fulfill certain expectations, such as producing an heir who would, when the time came, sit on the throne after he had passed.
He had not felt the sort of desire his brother had to sire many offspring, one was enough to silence those who dared to question his fertility and a second was precaution to ensure the longevity of his bloodline’s reign.
However, having watched you play with Maekar’s youngest children with a look of adoration and a nurturing, guiding hand, Baelor felt a tendril of longing wrap around his heart to witness you behave in a similar manner with children whose physical traits, as well as other attributes, were a perfect mixture of both yours and his.
“You mustn’t move,” he chided quietly, arm tightening around your waist to discourage squirming.
The soft fabric of his silken robe caressed the bare flesh of your stomach with every shift and rearrangement of your bodies, causing an eruption of goosebumps to rise over your flesh.
“It feels so–,” your words were cut off by a whimper escaping your throat, head lolling over his shoulder at the sensation of his pulsating appendage within your passage.
The dizzying sensation of being wholly engulfed by him, whilst enveloping his own fullness within your walls caused your eyes to become unfocused and watery.
Baelor was reclining comfortably into the cushioned thickness of his armchair, the tie of his night robe undone, revealing his loosened silken trousers and thick torso to the heated space of your shared bedchamber.
He had you completely bared and sprawled atop him with your thighs hooked on the arms of the seat, mounted on the twitching, redden length of his cock.
“This is the best way,” Baelor moaned lowly when you wriggled your hips, “to guarantee success."
You felt his voice as a physical sensation that entered your ears, trickled down your body and settled pleasantly at the base of your spine, level with where it felt like he was piercing you.
“I know, my love, I know,” the wanton raspiness that laced his words elicited another shiver out of your trembling form.
It felt like he was residing within the deepest depths of your soul, the fat head of his cock pressing into a sacred part that resided deep within you, one that you had not even known existed until he discovered it.
“I feel–gods, I feel everything.” you confessed, turning your face to place kisses along the column of his flushed, damp neck, paying extra attention to the visible vein that ran along the length of it.
He had brought you to completion several times and had released inside of you three times in various positions, yet he remained fully, and more than readily, erect with an ever growing and desperate desire to ensure that his seed took. His dedication to seeing you swollen with his child appeared to have given him an insatiable hunger.
Every tiniest movement caused the short, coarse, dark and grey hairs dusted across his chest to ticklishly poke into the flesh of your back.
The combination of your fluids had soaked into the cloth of his trousers and dripped down your inner thighs; each time you imagined the lewd scene the two of you had created, a new spread of heat would travel across your chest, neck, and face.
Baelor’s wide, calloused hands slid up your body, not stopping their upwards voyage until they cupped your breasts.
“Have you thought of a name?”
You nodded in reply, fingers threading through the soft hair near his nape, “But, it’s a secret.”
He playfully nipped at the flesh of your earlobe, “Is it now?” his arms returned to their embrace around your torso, holding you firmly to him and the warmth he provided.
“Yes,” you sighed, tightening around him until he let out a quiet groan, “one that you will only learn when we are expecting.”
“Then,” Baelor began, moving his hands to support the underneath of your thighs as he rose from his seat, holding you wide open and split apart on the girth of his shaft, “I should make certain that you are with child after tonight.”
“I suppose you should,” was your cheeky response, a teasing grin etched into your face.
One that, barely a moment later, would be replaced with a surprised, open mouthed expression when Baelor dislodged from within you before mounting you from a new, unfamiliar position.
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