I'm just constantly amused and baffled by HOW MUCH PEOPLE underestimate Baelor Targaryen martially, and just consider him as a nice polite man (somewhat like Viserys) or somewhat not that exceptional since he died at the hands of Maekar.
The man was a LEGEND. He's the only person known to defeat Daemon blackfyre who was knighted at the age of 12, is known to fight like the warrior, and nobody else could defeat him.
Baelor dying was literally a chance thing, the fact that dude didn't even have his proper armour... Because one on one he's not gonna lose to any of them.
Baelor x Lyonelâs wife!reader x Maekar, Maekar x Dyanna, Lyonel x wife!reader
content: The rumors of pregnancy send the capital in a tizzy even leading two brothers into a row.
words: 1.5k
cw: MDNI mentions of past infidelity, sexual themes, lmk if I missed any
more of the stagsâ wife universe
There was a certain quiet that never truly filled the walls of Stormâs End. Between the crashing rain against the windows or the two chaotic young boys that now occupied the castle. But tonight was different.
Another loud crash sounded through the halls as another vase collided with the walls. Your lady maid stood in the hallway cringing slightly at the sound, âWhat is it?â Lyonel Baratheonâs booming voice carried through the halls as he practically ran.Â
He then froze when he heard a crash coming from inside his wifeâs chambers. His eyes widened slightly, âI have it from here,â he assured the woman before pushing into your chambers.Â
You let out a scream as the door blew open, something flying across the room causing him to duck quickly.Â
âSeven hells,â he muttered looking around at the state of your chambers, âWhat is the matter?â he asked.Â
You turned to him, the whites of your eyes red and bloodshot, as underneath looked swollen and puffy, âThe maester says I am with child!â you declare angrily.Â
To most this would not be news to anger one, especially a noble woman, but he understood exactly what you were saying. He knew exactly whose child grew in your womb.Â
He whispered your name so quietly, and he watched your angry exterior crumple to what it actually was, sadness.Â
You were sad that Baelor was the one whose seed has taken root inside you. That there would be yet another Targaryen bastard in House Baratheon, but that was not the problem, not truly. It was the lack of him that took place in his sonâs life. Unlike Maekar, he was not heavily involved with Stanns nor would he be involved now, especially after the spat that had taken place upon your last visit.Â
âI hate him. I hate my fucking self!â you cried, your knees wobbling and you almost went colliding with the floor, but Lyonel reached out gripping you tightly.Â
âIt is alright. We will work with it just like we always have,â he assured you, pressing a kiss to the top of your head, but his words only made you cry harder.Â
âI do not deserve you,â you cried your hands digging into his chest, âYou should have just let me take the consequences with Stannis.â
âBut then I would not have Stannis, Ormund or even you,â he laughed slightly, âThen my life would be even more brutally dull.â
He reached down cupping either side of your cheeks as he pulled you from his chest forcing you to look at him, âI will be this childâs father. Just as I am Stannisâ father,â he assured you.Â
âI do not deserve you,â you whispered once more, your heart breaking in your chest, as your lip trembled.Â
âYou more than deserve me,â he assured you, his hand tucking a stray piece of hair behind your ear, âYou have brought life to Stormâs End along with our sons, and I cannot imagine a life without you.â
Maekar finally looked up at the sound of your name, âWhat?â he asked his wife.Â
She smiled knowingly, âShe wrote to you,â she repeated handing the raven to him.Â
He leaned forward taking the raven with such quickness it almost made her laugh, until she saw that his permanent scowl turned into a frown at the words his eyes scanned across. He sighed, âShe is with child once more.â
âWhy do you sound disappointed in that?â she asked, slightly worried.Â
âShe is disappointed by it from the sounds of it,â he muttered, pinching the bridge of his nose. He leaned forward, passing her the letter. She read the same words that you had written and her lips turned down into a deep frown to rival her husbands.Â
âYou are not the father,â she said, but sounded confused by this more than anything.Â
His eyebrows pinched together, âI am not,â he replied.Â
âWhy?â she asked, her expression mimicking his.Â
âI have not lain with her since we were wed. I do not wish to dishonor you,â he told her honestly. It would be a lie to say he did not think of you. That a piece of him belonged to you, but he did not want to do that to Dyanna. You two had a friendship and he did not wish to ruin it with his cock.Â
She nodded standing to her feet with a smile, âWell I will write to her, and if you will not lay with her mayhaps I will,â she said with a shrug before leaving the solar.Â
âWhat!?â he yelled out, but received no answer back causing him to shake his head before slumping back into his seat.Â
The peace and quiet did not last long when the door opened once more, but instead of his wife his elder brother entered the room.Â
âShe is pregnant," he hissed at him as if it was his fault. âYou got her pregnant!" he then accused.Â
The silver haired man raised a brow, âAnd how did you come to that assumption?âBaelorâs jaw locked, âShe has a husband, Baelor. Not every child has to be yours or mine,â he replied, standing to his feet.Â
âDo you deny it?â he asked. The younger said nothing, only shrugging, causing the elder to then question, âYou are siring more bastards then?âÂ
âYou act as if you had not already done the same.âÂ
âYou should take care of the one you have before making more,â he then replied hypocritically.Â
Maekar barked out a laugh, âYou are telling me how to raise my son? Ormund? You do not so much as speak to fucking Stannis!â he yelled at his elder brother rising to his feet.Â
âDo not dare speak of my son.â
âHe is your son now?â he asked. Baelor froze for a minute wondering if you had told Maekar about the fight, but then he continued to speak. âYou hardly even fucking look at the boy and nwo you want to claim him?â
âHe is mine,â he continued to argue.Â
âHe is Lyonelâs son, Baelor. The very same as Ormund. No matter whose seed made them, they are his sonâs first, and next they are mine. You are no where on that fucking list Baelor by your choice,â he reminded him.Â
âThere are certain liberties you are allowed that I am not. I could not risk being close to Stannis and it is for his protection.â
âThen you should be more mindful where you fuckign finish," he hissed.Â
âStannis may be your seed, but he is not your son. You have not earned that liberty and it is too late for you to start now. Though she may not tell me what you fought about, but it had her fleeing Kingâs Landing without so much of a goodbye I can imagine who is in the wrong.â
Baelor said nothing, only staring at his younger brother, before he moved slumping down in the chair. THe younger moved down the same and neither spoke again letting their words spew into the air slowly nipping at the others.Â
And outside the door seven year old Valarr learned the truth for the first time. Stannis Baratheon was his brother and Ormund was his cousin.Â
âOrys? You finally allowed him to pick it?â Dyanna questioned, as she looked down at the babe, dark tufts of hair on the top of his head as his mismatched eyes gleamed up at her curiously.Â
âHe would not stop suggesting it. Might as well have some humor in it I suppose,â you said with a shrug.Â
Dayne laughed looking down at the small babe. The pair of you lounged back in the sun of Summerhall watching as Lyonel and Maekar played with the elder boys with a fond smile, âBaelor excused Maekar of being the father,â she then told you.Â
âHe told meâŠhe is a bloody fool,â you said, refusing to say his name as if it was bile in your mouth.Â
âOrys is handsomeâŠhe has your face,â she then said, changing the conversation.Â
You turned, smiling up at her, âHave I told you I absolutely adore you?â you then asked.Â
She grinned down at you, âMany times, but I would not mind hearing it once more.â
âI adore you, beautiful Dyanna!â you then yelled out in declaration causing her to laugh out.Â
Maekar turned to watch you both with something that resembled a smile oon her face, âShe is much happier in your presence,â Lyonel pointed out.Â
He turned toward him with furrowed brows, âWhat are you on about?â
The Baratheon nodded toward his wife, âShe is happier in your presence. It is as if you complete her,â he continued.Â
âDo not be a fool,â he muttered.Â
Lyonel only laughed, with a shrug turning back to the boys. Maekar stood watching the sight for only a moment before turning back, but the thought never truly left his mind even as the years passed.Â
synopsis: Daeron and his wife spend stifling night hiding in an inn, kept away from prying eyes, after he manages to lose his youngest brother on the way to Ashford Tourney.
word count: 1,069
warnings: female reader, no use of Y/N, readers looks are un-described, smut, p in v, spitting during sex (yeah idk how that happened) slight co-dependency (on daeronâs part), daeron is drunk but initiating, kind of fucked family dynamics (discussed but not seen), basically just intimate sex with comfort. (reader is a legal adult) REMEMBER - YOU ARE RESPONSIBLE FOR THE CONTENT AND MEDIA YOU CHOOSE TO CONSUME
DISCLAIMER: All themes, plot, images used in general and characters from A Knight of the Seven Kingdoms + elsewhere belong to the rightful owners, I hold no rights to the original media - but my writing belongs to me.
đ„§
âI love you more than anything.â His grip tightened against your waist, head pressed flush to your breasts as he panted lightly, sticky strands of sandy hair were strung to his forehead as he held you. Daeron was drunk, there was no denying that fact. The pair of you currently resided in a shitty inn, three quarters of the way to Ashford tourney. Your husband had been responsible for overseeing his younger brother, and supposed squire, Aegon to the tourney, however when you had taken the time to bathe leaving Daeron in charge he had apparently lost his brother somehow. You were appalled at how quickly he managed to supposedly lose the boy, yet it was out of your power to do anything about it. So instead you were left to comfort your fretting husband.
âDaeron my love, your father is not going to actually kill you.â You spoke softly, lips pressed into the sweaty skin of his forehead as he whined. âYou donât know that. Heâs threatened such before and now may finally be my calling.â You had to bite back a moan at his sad confession, his large cock was currently bottomed out within your walls as he thrusted slowly, unkempt. He was a gentle lover more often than not, his drive for intimacy striving out of desperation, a need for closeness that near morphed two bodies into one as opposed to one of you being in charge of the other. Heâd crawl inside your skin if he could, especially now if it meant he could hide from the reckoning that would be Maekar Targaryen when the pair of you were eventually found. Yet for this stifling night, he would take you as close as the Gods were willing, and even that was too close for your liking- but still too far for him. You adored him to put it plainly, but your skin sticking to his leaving raw patches where you smacked against one another felt as if he was peeling off your outsides to dig impossibly deeper- yet you allowed it nonetheless.
âDaeron-â He whined yet again, the sound gracing your ears like a kiss of confirmation that he was entirely yours, causing you to grow impossibly wetter as he drove deeper and harder, nails digging into the skin of your hips to anchor you against his thrusting cock. âItâs alright, my love.â
âHeâll kill me.â He panted, his tongue licking the sweat from under your jaw as he delved into sloppy kisses down your neck to your collarbone. He was taking you, and tasting you, as if it were his last night, and you were his final meal. He devoured like a man starved, in his heart he truly believed this may be his last chance for if Maekar did not kill him, he would be punished. And punishment could mean anything from a foot-whipping, all the way to the hell that was being forbidden from residing in your bedchamber as any ordinary husband may. It did not matter to his father that Daeron was no longer some teenage drunk, being a man seemingly meant little in Daeronâs situation, with him not being head of the household there was always one above him, therefore Daeron was at his own fatherâs mercy.
Even as a prince.
You arched against him, your clit brushing the hairs at the base of his pubic bone as you near bounced against him. The pair of you side by side facing on another on the crappy mattress and oak bed frame that seemed near to shattering at the gentle rocking. âHe wonât.â You whispered, hand curling into the curled hairs at the nape of his neck, craning his head to tilt upward as his hooded eyes now grazed heavily into yours. âI am not yours to protect.â He grunted, mouth falling open as he squeezed his eyes shut, a heavy grunt leaving his throat without care to hold back. Taking advantage of his open nature you spat into his mouth, not even taken by surprise by your crudeness he swallowed with a wet moan, eyes still painfully pinched shut. âWhat are you if not mine, Daeron?â You asked, lips finding their way back to his forehead in an attempt to coax his eyes back open. âI am yours.â He did not hesitate to admit such, he wanted you to know. But he hated that he hid behind you for protection against his kin, against the courts, against his own expectation. It made him feel weak, yet you made him feel safe. So the scales remained balanced until another stone hit the basket and tipped it back into his insecurity.
âThen you should know how adored you are.â You released your hold on his hair, hips grinding against him so that your swollen clit could tease against his pelvis, causing pleasure to build strikingly in your lower abdomen. âThey think I am weak, and I have done nought but prove them right.â His eyes searched for yours, finding them near above his own. âBeing weak is not something that is often desired, but Iâd rather a weak husband who knows how to feel emotion as opposed to one who pretends he does not know what feelings are. Yet you are not weak, Daeron, you simply feel too much and let it consume you. Feelings are not undesirable they are needed to love, and you know how to love better than any of them.â Your praised hung over him, unable to fight the growing pleasure he let it go entirely, inside of you, filling you. As you soon realised what he had done you rocked your hips harder against him, allowing your own coil to snap, coating him entirely in your own release. He writhed lightly as you rode out your high, overstimulation consuming him as he clenched his teeth. But you need this, needed him. So for that alone he would endure it.
When you had taken what you needed and joined him in the aftermath, he still remained pressed against you without care for the heat radiating between you. Because it was shared. One of your hands traced patterns down his back as his cheek rested against your breasts, the other playing with his hair softly as still, his hands refused to part from around your waist, though they were no longer digging holes into the flesh of your hips.
âI am tarnished.â
âArenât we all?â
A/N: a little daeron drabble nobody asked for to make up for my lack of fics recently. i hadnât even intended on writing for daeron id actually planned on responding to my asks but i hit a blank and i wanted to do them right, so i was literally sat with my notes app open and next thing i know im writing about daeron lmao. but heâs so pretty im not even mad about it. anyway, as always: requests are open, likes, comments, reblogs and any interactions are always always appreciated. take care everyone!!
âDo not seek my fire if you canât bare its burnâ
Valarr's betrothed cannot resist the temptation to test him, pressing at his patience, dance with danger, and discover just how jealous a dragon can become. Each tease a spark thrown on dry straw.
Warnings: slight insecurity, jealousy, possessiveness, slight suggestiveness, mentions of infidelity, Aerion Targaryen (he's his own warning) Valarrâs patience being tested by his family.
Valarr Targaryen! x Betrothed! Reader
WC: 3.4k
Your betrothed lived up to every whisper of praise that followed him into the room. He was every bit the charming prince your maids had sighed over, every inch the gentleman your father had praised. Always courteous, never a word too sharp or a touch too bold. He was the perfect suitor, plucked from the pages of a novel.
That is what any ordinary lady would say. One who did not notice the almost undetectable falter in his smile when another man stood too close to you. One blind to the way his knuckles would gleam white when a lord other than himself dared to offer you a compliment, or how his head would turn, sharp and precise as a hawkâs, the moment he heard your laugh ring out at a joke youâd shared with someone else.
But you were not ordinary. You saw it all. The subtle cracks in his princely composure, the flicker of something raw and possessive behind his violet eyes before he smoothed his features back into a mask of pleasantry. It was a fascinating performance, and for a time, you simply watched.
Yet, watching bred a dangerous curiosity. That small, observant part of you began to wonder what lay beneath the mask. What would it take, you pondered, to make him shatter completely? To see the dragon the songs promised, rather than the gentleman he presented?Â
And so, with a smile as sweet as poison, you began.
It was the beginning of spring when a summons came for Valarr in the late hour, an unusual request that did not escape the prince's notice. He found his father and the king in the rounded chamber, the small council assembled around them like stone sentinels. It was there they informed him that the time had come for him to wed. As the future of the realm, they explained, he must secure a match that would serve the crown politically, a union that would produce heirs whose legitimacy none would dare question. Valarr nodded, accepting the decree as he had been taught to accept all things. But beneath his composed expression, his heart wavered, not with defiance, but with the quiet uncertainty of a man surrendering to a choice he had never truly possessed.
"You will wed my niece," Lord Lannister announced, his voice carrying the weight of a arrangement already made.
The Lord of Casterly Rock allowed a pause to stretch, savouring the moment before adding with a knowing smirk, "I assure you, her beauty will not disappoint the prince."
Valarr had heard whispers of the girl, of course, who in the realm hadn't? Tales of her loveliness had circulated through court like perfume through a garden. But she had been kept hidden from public eyes for some time, a mystery veiled in shadow and rumour, and he had never been granted the chance to see her for himself. He did not know if the stories held truth.
Still, he inclined his head and accepted. It was his duty. Yet as he left the chamber, a quiet hope stirred within him, a selfish, private wish that for once, the praise might prove to be true.
And so the Targaryen procession wound its way west, following the gold-paved roads that led to Casterly Rock. It was tradition, after all for the groom to journey to his bride's home, to collect her with honour and carry her back to his own. Valarr had tried to take comfort in the ritual, in the weight of history behind each mile.
But when they arrived, something was amiss.
Servants bustled in the courtyard like startled birds, their movements too quick, their smiles too wide. They descended upon the royal party with breathless urgency, insisting the prince and his father must be exhausted from their journey, that refreshments awaited within, that they simply must come inside and rest.
Valarr saw through it. He was certain his father did too. But Baelor, ever patient, ever pious, merely nodded and allowed himself to be ushered into the great hall.
They were made to wait.
The minutes stretched, then bled into an hour. Valarr paced the length of the chamber, pretending to study the tapestries, the Lannister gold worked into every thread. His father sat in serene silence, hands folded, a man accustomed to waiting on the will of gods and men alike.
When at last the girl's uncle appeared, the Lord who had raised her, they said, though the distinction was noted, his explanation came with an apologetic bow.
"My prince, forgive the delay. She wishes to look her best for you. A woman's vanity, you understand."
Valarr did not understand. But he nodded, as he always did, because arguing would accomplish nothing. Because this was duty, and duty required patience.
Baelor, however, spoke before the man could withdraw. His voice was soft, but it carried the weight of the Iron Throne behind it.
"We do not plan to stay long. See that she is ready by morning."
The lord's smile faltered, just briefly. He bowed again and retreated.
By nightfall, Valarr's chambers felt like a cage.
The thought gnawed at him. That he had somehow already managed to frighten his bride before even laying eyes upon her. What had she heard? What fears had taken root in the hours of waiting? Or worse, was this delay her own design? A small rebellion before the gilded cage closed around her too?
He needed air.
The corridors of Casterly Rock were a labyrinth of stone and shadow, but Valarr remembered the way to the gardens they had been shown upon arrival. He moved quietly, not wishing to be seen, not wishing to explain himself to anyone.
The night air met him like a blessing cool and clean, carrying the scent of something flowering in the dark. The gardens sprawled before him, silver in the moonlight, and for a moment he simply stood there, breathing.
Then he saw her.
She was kneeling by a small pool, her fingers trailing through water that mirrored the stars above. Her hair spilled down her back like spun moonlight, and her gown was pale as mist, clinging to curves that seemed more dreamed than real. When she tilted her head, listening to some night sound he could not hear, the moonlight caught the line of her throat, the soft curve of her cheek.
A forest nymph. A creature of water and shadow and whispered legend, conjured by the night to torment him.
Valarr forgot to breathe.
And then she turned, and her eyes found his in the darkness.
The memory held him for a moment longer, the hush of the garden, the silver on her skin, the way his heart had stopped and started again all at once.
"Your prince is dreaming."
The whispered words pulled him back. She stood before him now, close enough to touch, her hand extended for his. The misty gown of that first night was gone, replaced by the bold colors of his house. She was no longer a forest nymph, wild and unknowable.
She was his betrothed. And she was smiling at him with tenderness, yet the mischief in her eyes was undeniable.
His mask slid back into place.
It happened in the space of a breath. His features once soft, hardening into something courtly, the warmth in his miss-matched violet eyes fleeting. When he spoke, his voice was measured, pleasant, and utterly devoid of the awe she had just witnessed.
"My apologies, my lady."
Not cruel. Not indifferent. Just... neutral. The voice of a prince addressing a guest, not a man speaking to the woman he would marry.
Something flickered in her chest. Irritation, perhaps, maybe disappointment. Two moons they had been courting. Two moons of watching him, studying him, cataloguing every tiny crack in his composure. And still, after all that time, he could retreat behind that mask as easily as drawing breath. As if the past months had meant nothing. As if she were still a stranger.
He took her hand and pressed his lips to her knuckles.
Her heart betrayed her. It stumbled then raced, and she felt the traitorous warmth bloom across her cheeks. But he released her hand with the same casual grace he might use to hand off his cloak to a servant a duty performed, a box checked. Nothing more.
For a fleeting, unwelcome moment, she wondered:Â Does he even like me?
She shook the thought away. She knew he did. She had seen it. The way his jaw tightened when some young lord laughed too freely at her wit. The flash of something raw and possessive when another man's gaze lingered too long. The mask slipped, always, in those small betrayals. He wanted her. He simply refused to show it.
Which made her all the more determined to make him.
"Let us go," he said, offering his arm with perfect, maddening composure. "The others await us."
She placed her hand in the crook of his elbow, her smile sweet as honey.
"Of course, my prince."
And as they walked toward the great hall, toward the announcement of their arrival, toward the watching eyes of two great houses, she began to plan.
Tonight, she would find the cracks again.
And she would make them wider.
The hall blazed with light and laughter, the great houses of Westeros gathered to celebrate a union that would no doubt reshape the realm. At the high table, Valarr sat beside his betrothed, playing his part as the dutiful prince when a shadow fell across their table.
Lord Baratheon.
He was handsome in that stormlands way, broad-shouldered and dark-haired, with a laugh that carried across the hall like thunder. In his hands, he held a small box of polished oak.
"My lady," he said, bowing low, his eyes never leaving her face. "I heard a rumor that you still crave these, even now that you are soon to be a princess. I thought... a token of old friendship, before you forget us common folk entirely."
He opened the box. Inside, nestled on velvet, were honeyed figs, a rare delicacy from the Dornish marches, sticky and sweet. A thing only a few people knew she loved.
Valarr felt something twist in his chest.
She smiled, that radiant smile she wore for everyone, and inclined her head. "You are too kind, my lord."
"Kindness has nothing to do with it," Lord Baratheon replied, his voice dropping to something warmer, more intimate. "I merely wished to see you smile once more before you belong entirely to the dragons. And speaking of which..." He extended his hand. "Grant me a dance. For old times' sake."
The hall seemed to hold its breath.
Valarr said nothing. He could say nothing. To object would seem childish, possessive it was beneath the dignity of a prince. Lord Baratheon knew this. The man's smirk said as much.
She glanced at Valarr, just briefly, as if seeking permission he had no right to give. Then she placed her hand in Lord Baratheon's.
"I would be honored."
They moved onto the floor, and Valarr watched.
"You're staring, cousin."
Daeronâs voice slid beside him like a blade wrapped in silk. He had, despite his tipsy state, taken the seat beside him, smile fond ,his eyes anything but.
"I am observing," Valarr corrected, his voice level.
"Of course you are." He tilted his head, studying him the way a cat studies a mouse. "He's very handsome, isn't he? Lord Baratheon. And, I heard they were close once. Very close. I wonder..." He let the thought dangle, unfinished.
Valarr's jaw tightened. He did not take the bait.
But across the table, Aerion leaned forward, his smile sharp as broken glass.
"Close? Is that what we're calling it now?" He laughed, loud enough to turn heads. "I heard the reason she was kept from court for so long was because Lord Baratheon forgot his manners. Unchivalrous behavior,â He paused letting the words hang. Â
âLeft her with a reputation that needed... time to mend." He added with a wicked grin upon his face.Â
The implication hung in the air like smoke.
Aerion's wife, a Baratheon, beautiful and soft-spoken, laid a hand on her husband's arm. "Aerion, that's enough. My brother is merely fond of her. Lady Lannister and I spent much of our childhood together. It was only natural they became acquainted. They were good friends. Nothing more." She fixed her husband with a look that could freeze wine. "No lines were ever crossed. I would know."
Aerion opened his mouth to argue. But one look at his wife's face, made him think better of it.
Maekar, seated further down, had heard enough. "Hold your tongue, Aerion. Before I remove it for you."
Aerion subsided, begrudgingly, but the damage was done.
Valarr's gaze returned to the dance floor.
Lord Baratheon's hand rested on her waist, lower than what was proper, perhaps, but who would notice? Who would call him out? The man leaned close, his lips brushing her ear as he spoke, his face lingering nearer than any friend's should. And she... she laughed at whatever he said. Her head tilted back, her throat exposed, her smile bright and shared.
Then their eyes met across the floor, hers and the Lordâs as they exchanged a look. A smirk, barely contained, as if they shared a secret.
As if they shared many secrets.
Valarr's hand curled around his goblet. The gold creaked, just slightly.
He did not look away. He would not give them the satisfaction. But beneath the table, his knuckles gleamed white.
His hand pressed against her waist, lower than was proper, yes, but propriety had never been their language.
"You're playing a dangerous game, little lion."
Lord Baratheon's breath warmed her ear as they turned, his voice low enough that even the nearest dancers could not hear. His smile, for those watching, was one of easy charm. But his eyes, those storm-grey eyes she had known since childhood, were sharp with knowing.
She smiled back, radiant and untroubled. "I expected you to notice."
"Notice?" He laughed, spinning her smoothly through the steps. "I walked in here with honeyed figs, a gift only a handful of people knew you loved. I asked for a dance in front of your dragon prince and every lord in the hall. I've been holding you closer than any friend should." His grip tightened, just slightly. "You think I did that by accident?"
"I think," she murmured, "you're returning a favor."
Something flickered in his eyes. Gratitude, perhaps. Or memory.
They had been each other's shields once, in a season that felt like another lifetime. She had been young, barely a woman, when she discovered his secret, not through gossip or spying, but because he had trusted her enough to tell her himself. The weight of it had nearly crushed him. The expectations of lords and heirs, the endless pressure to be something he was not.
So she had offered him a mask.
Pretend, she had said. Court me. Let them talk. Let them think we are lovers. It will give them something to whisper about, and no one will look closer.
He had kissed her hand then, trembling, and called her his salvation.
The rumors that followed the "unchivalrous behavior," the "reputation that needed time to mend", had been for him. All for him. She had let the world believe what it wanted, had smiled through the whispers, had hidden from court not out of shame but because the lie required distance to be believable.
And now he was repaying that debt.
"Your prince is turning white-knuckled up there," Lord Baratheon observed, glancing toward the high table. "Aerion is whispering poison. Your good-cousin is smiling like a cat with cream. And still, he does nothing."
"Because he is a prince," she said. "Because he is composed. Because he will not give anyone the satisfaction of seeing him break."
Lord Baratheon's brow arched. "And you want him to break."
She did not answer. But her smile deepened.
He studied her for a long moment, reading truths she had not spoken. Then he laughed, warm and surprised. "Gods help him. He has no idea what he's married into."
"He is not married yet."
"Close enough." He spun her again, and when she came back to him, his voice had softened. "You know I would do anything for you. After what you did for me..." He shook his head. "But this feels different. This feels like you're playing with something that might bite back."
"Perhaps I am."
"And if he breaks? If the dragon wakes and does not like what he finds?"
She considered the question. The music swelled around them, bright and celebratory, a stark contrast to the darkness of her thoughts.
"Then I will finally see what he truly is."
Lord Baratheon sighed, long-suffering. "You are terrifying. You know that?"
"I have been told."
They danced in silence for a moment, two old friends moving through steps they had practiced a hundred times in sunlit courtyards, back when the world was simpler. Then he leaned close again, mischief kindling in his grey eyes.
"Shall I hold you tighter? Whisper something scandalous? Make him storm down here and challenge me to a duel?"
"He would never. He is too controlled."
"Pity." Lord Baratheon grinned. "I would have enjoyed watching him try."
She laughed, a real laugh, head tilted back, throat exposed, the sound carrying across the dance floor like music itself. Let Valarr see it. Let him wonder.
Let him burn.
The dance ended. They stepped apart, bowing deeply to one another with the formal grace of courtiers who knew every eye was upon them.
Lord Baratheon took her hand.
And slowly, deliberately, he pressed his lips to her knuckles in the exact spot where Valarr had kissed her before they entered the feast.
His eyes met hers as he straightened. A silent question: Enough?
She gave the barest nod. Perfect.
He released her hand, bowed once more, and melted back into the crowd.
She turned toward the high table. Toward Valarr. Toward the game.
Her heart was beating faster than it should.
He did not look at her when she sat.
He offered her wine with a courteous nod. He asked if she enjoyed the music in the same pleasant tone he might use with any lord's wife. He smiled that perfect, polished smile that revealed nothing at all.
It was maddening.
She answered him in kind, matching his courtesy with her own, determined not to let him see how his indifference pricked at her. But he had already turned away, engaging his cousin in quiet conversation, leaving her to stare at the profile of his face as if he had not just witnessed everything.
Then, without turning, without warning
"Did you enjoy your dance, my lady?"
His voice was still polite. Still pleasant. But the question hung in the air between them, weighted with something she could not quite name. He still did not look at her. He simply waited, as if her answer were a matter of idle curiosity and nothing more.
She hesitated, just briefly, just enough before offering her own polished smile.
"Immensely. Lord Baratheon is an excellent dancer."
"I see."
Two words. That was all. Then he returned to his conversation, leaving her with nothing but the uncomfortable awareness that she had somehow lost that exchange.
The meal continued. The laughter swelled around them. But he did not look at her again.
Not once.
And the longer his attention remained elsewhere, on his cousins, on his wine, on anything but her, the more that restless, hungry part of her began to stir.
Ignore me, she thought, watching the perfect line of his profile. See how long I let you.
Notes:
Thank you all for the love you showed My cruel prince <3 there will be a part 2 released shortly
as you might have figured "Hung by a Thread" will most likely have multiple parts the exact number of which I'm unsure of
But I've already begun writing the second part so hopefully it wont be long before I post it!
Also let me know if you wish to be tagged in future posts
lyonelâs face when he clocked dunkâs lie really struck the perfect balance between this bitch thinks iâm stupid and aww heâs so stupid â€ïž whereâs the emmy category for best three second facial expression and why hasnât daniel ings won it yet
summary: Valarr has neglected his soon-to-be wife, no passion in their political union. But one glance at you in your simple nightgown manages to completely unravel him.
warnings: smut; inexperienced!reader; inexperienced!Valarr; Valarr is an eater (it's the enthusiasm that counts); cumming untouched
words: 3.4k
notes: No physical description of the reader (only that she has hair). If you don't feel comfortable with these warnings/topics, please do not read. I am not responsible for the media YOU choose to consume. I literally wrote this before bed, so if you see something suspicious?? No, you didn't.
When Valarr was first betrothed to his soon-to-be bride, it was a union forged from duty rather than desire. He sought to honour his fatherâs wishes, securing the alliance that Prince Baelor had so deftly arranged. To Valarr, you were an obligation, a means to an end. Yet, despite the coldness of his motives, he treated you with the manners befitting a true gentleman, for his father had raised him in the values of courtesy and respect.
With a subtle smile gracing his lips, Valarr would speak to you in tender tones, his words laced with a polite charm that could not entirely mask the absence of warmth. He opened doors for you, his strong hand at your back or entwined with yours as he guided you through the bustling halls to grand feasts. Such gestures were the height of chivalry, yet all you craved was the fire of passion and the bloom of love, emotions that danced just out of reach.
Over time, you found solace in accepting this harsh reality, making peace with the truth that your marriage was merely a political arrangement, binding your noble house to his in a web of duty and allegiance. It was a bitter truth to swallow, yet you resolved to fulfil your part in this grand tapestry of power and lineage, even as your heart ached for something more.
This wasnât the worst fate you could have endured, you knew that well. You were surrounded by a multitude of maids to attend your every whim, feasting on the finest delicacies the realm had to offer, and your future son would rise as the heir to the iron throne. Yet, the last point bore a certain weight, for the honour of ruling was often shrouded in peril and intrigue.
It's not that Valarr found you unsightly or undesirable, far from it. In his eyes, you were a vision of beauty, with hair that shone and skin as smooth as the finest silk. You possessed the enchantment of a siren, beckoning sailors to their doom upon treacherous shores.
However, he kept busy in the web of politics, far too entangled in the affairs of state to fall for your siren song just yet. His gaze was set on aiding his father to rule the realm wisely.
But all it took was one evening for Valarr to finally see the woman in you, not just a beautiful maiden he was to wed, awakening a desire he had kept locked away for too long.
In your private chambers, the dying fire flickered, casting warm shadows across your freshly bathed skin, still faintly fragrant with honey and datesâa scent that wafted through the air like an aphrodisiac. He had stopped by as he did each night, but this time it felt different.
You turned to him, a sweet smile curving your lips, your hair left loose, untamed, and perfumed, an allure he had never before witnessed. Gone were the elaborate gowns and intricate braids. A soft blush on the apples of your cheeks, feeling almost naked in the rather flimsy nightdress.
This was something else. This was raw.
As he lingered in the doorway, his gaze roamed over your figure, dressed in a nightgown, the fabric sheer enough to unveil the gentle curves of your body in the dim light.
Valarr had never seen you in such a state of unready before. As if the Gods had conspired to unveil your softness.
It was like tossing a scrap to a famished wolfâhis breath quickened, sweat beading on his brow, the air thick with a growing warmth that made the chamber feel as though it had reached a fevered pitch. The sight of you stirred something deep within him, illuminating the desire he had kept locked away until now.
For a moment, it seemed as though Valarr's throat had gone dry, his gaze fixed upon you. The sheer nightgown's fabric betraying just enough to fuel his imagination, the soft candlelight playing a teasing game with your curves.
He took a step closer, closing the door behind him with a quiet click. His eyes roamed over you, tracing the contour of your hips, the gentle swell of your breasts. His voice, normally controlled, now held a rasp that betrayed his desire.
"My lady," he murmured, his voice low. His eyes drank you in, lingering over the slope of your shoulders, the gentle arch of your neck. The sweet scent clung to your skin, adding an intoxicating edge to the moment.
He took another step forward, the distance now mere inches. His hand moved of its own accord, his fingers gently tracing the line of your collarbone, the touch soft yet possessive. "You lookâŠ" He swallowed, his eyes finally meeting yours. "Breathtaking."
You blushed, feeling goosebumps rise on your arms as he grazed your skin. Feeling such a gentle touch for the first time from him, swallowing with slight nerves. "My prince, do not be silly. I am simply in my nightgown," you joked with a light tone, your voice breathy.
You felt a warm flush spread across your cheeks, and a shiver coursed through you as his fingertips danced lightly upon your skin. It was a gentle caress, unlike any you had ever known from him, igniting nervous anticipation in your belly that made you swallow hard. âMy prince, do not be foolish,â you bantered softly, a teasing lilt gracing your breath.Â
âI am clad in my nightgown.â Your words hung in the air, sweet as honey, while your heart raced at the intimate closeness between you.
He hesitated, fingers barely touching your collarbone, worried he might cross an unwelcome line. His mind raced with thoughts that made him ache, nearly choking on his words.
âIâm not joking. You look... ravishing." The word fell from his lips like a confession, barely above a whisper. "Like a goddess made flesh,â he breathed, his voice thick with desire. Valarrâs gaze devoured you, trailing down your body to the low neckline that had him yearning and weak in the knees.
Valarr swallowed hard, realising he had never allowed himself to acknowledge the depth of his attraction to you until now. He felt blood rush to his cock so fast it almost made him dizzy, breeches tightening against his bulge.
His hand drifted lower, fingertips brushing the swell of your breast through the thin fabric. He felt your nipple stiffen at his touch, betraying your arousal. The air between you crackled with tension, heavy with unspoken desires.
You gasped as Valarr's fingers brushed your soft breasts, your nipples stiffening instantly at his touch. "Valarr," you breathed out, instinctively arching your back to press your breasts more fully into his palm. Your eyes fluttered closed, body burning with a sudden, intense ache that made your core throb.
"Touch me," you murmured, voice husky and low, a plea laced with newfound hunger. Your own hands moved to cover his, holding his touch against you as you felt your heart pounding. The cool air and your racing pulse made your skin prickle with goosebumps.
Now that you'd had a taste, you could never go back.
Your tongue darted out to wet your lips, the action slow and deliberate, an unspoken invitation. The air between you felt electric, heavy with the promise of passion about to be unleashed.
Unable to resist any longer, Valarr cupped the soft mounds fully, thumbs grazing over the hardened peaks. He leaned down, breath hot against your ear as he murmured, "As my princess commands..."
Valarr leaned down and captured your lips in a searing kiss. His mouth moved over yours hungrily, tongue delving past your lips to taste you deeply. One hand remained at your breast, kneading the soft flesh, while the other slid down to grip your hip, pulling your body flush against his.
He could feel his own heart pounding in his chest, his cock throbbing almost painfully against his breeches.
You kissed him back clumsily, but with growing fervour. Your tongues tangled awkwardly as you let out a muffled moan into his mouth. Your hands clutched at his shoulders, fingers digging in as you tried to steady yourself and simultaneously pull him closer.
Gods, but he kisses like a starving man, you thought dizzily, your own hunger rising to match his. You could feel the evidence of his desire, hard and insistent, against your stomach. It thrilled and intimidated you in equal measure.
Valarr's hands slid down to grip your rear, squeezing the firm globes as he pulled you harder against him. He could feel your body melting into his, your soft curves moulding perfectly to the hard planes of his body. His hips rocked forward, grinding his cloth-covered erection against your core, seeking friction even through the layers of fabric separating you.
Breaking the kiss, Valarr's mouth trailed down to your neck, his teeth grazing your pulse point. He nipped and sucked at the tender skin, determined to mark you as his own. His hands slid under the hem of your nightgown, calloused fingers skimming up your thighs, leaving goosebumps in their wake.
Valarr was inexperienced, having lived a sheltered life and never visiting the brothels as his cousins often did. But he was a manâa Targaryen. He instinctively knew where to trace his fingers.
"I want to taste you." He whispered, voice shaky with how many thoughts and feelings were swirling inside him.
Driven by a yearning that stirred deep within, he needed to taste you, to have your honey on his tongue.
You let out a shaky sigh at his bold confession, the breath catching in your throat for a fleeting moment. "Taste me?" you inquired, uncertainty lacing your voice.Â
Your knowledge of intimacy came from books or your handmaiden, who kept the description of the act rather vague. Teaching you that the main purpose of a man and woman being together was to reproduce.
Valarr's hands slid further up your thighs, thumbs brushing the sensitive skin at the apex. "Here," he murmured, voice low and thick with desire. "I want to put my mouth on you, taste your essence, feel you come undone against my tongue..."
"Forgive me, I forget myself. This is new for me too." His thumb caressed your inner thigh soothingly.
I want to put my mouth on your sweet cunt until you're writhing and begging for more. That is what he truly wanted to say, but he kept his baser instincts at bay.
Your eyes widened, and you let out a breathy gasp, "Oh! I see..." You bit your lip, a blush spreading across your cheeks. "Well, I suppose that could be... pleasant." You trusted him; that's what made you agree almost embarrassingly quickly.
Valarr's heart raced at your breathy consent. Slowly, almost reverently, he eased you down onto the bed, settling between your parted thighs. He gazed up at you, eyes darkened with lust and a hint of tenderness.
"Pleasant doesn't begin to cover it," he murmured, hands sliding further up, thumbs brushing maddeningly close to your core.
With that, he leaned in, breath ghosting over your clothed sex. Then, he pressed a soft kiss to your mound, breathing in your scent before pulling the fabric aside.
Gods, she smells divine, he thought, mouth watering.
Your stomach fluttered nervously asyou felt Valarr's breath ghosting over your most intimate place, thighs clenching instinctively. A breathy, almost mortified whimper escaped your lips as he pushed your nightgown up and exposed your womanhood to his hungry gaze. "Ah," you gasped, cheeks flushing crimson. Yet, you made no move to stop him, pulse quickening in anticipation.
Valarr paused, looking up at you with a mix of hunger and tenderness in his mismatched eyes. "Shh, don't be nervous," he murmured. "I would never hurt you, my princess."
He leaned in, inhaling your scent deeply before placing a soft, open-mouthed kiss on your bare mound. His tongue flicked out, parting your lower lips, tasting your essence. He groaned at the flavour of you, eyes fluttering closed.
"Sweet gods, you taste even better than I imagined," he rumbled against your skin, the vibrations sending shivers up your spine. His hands gripped your thighs, spreading them wider as he settled between them.
His tongue delved deeper, exploring your folds with a growing hunger. He lapped at your essence, savouring the taste of your arousal. His hands slid up to grip your rear, kneading the flesh as he pulled you tighter against his mouth.
"Valarr~" you mewled, back arching off the bed as jolts of pleasure shot through you. Your fingers clawed at the sheets, bunching the fine linen in your fists as you gripped them for dear life.
What is this feeling? You thought dizzily, overwhelmed by sensations you had never known before. Soft, breathy mewls and whimpers spilt from your lips uncontrollably.
"So... so good..."Â you trailed off, unable to even articulate the depth of your pleasure, your body writhing with a hunger you had never known before.
Valarr groaned against your sex, the sound vibrating through you. Behaving more like an animal rather than a prince.
He sealed his lips around your clit, suckling the sensitive bud. His tongue flicked over it in quick, teasing strokes, drawing more of your essence.
Your breathing grew ragged, mingling with the obscene sounds of his suckling, filling the room with a symphony of lewd noises.
Valarr's thumbs spread your glistening folds apart, revealing your slick, little hole to his hungry gaze. "Exquisite," he breathed, the sight of your dripping sex making his painfully hard cock throb against his breeches.Â
Unable to resist any longer, he leaned in and dragged the flat of his tongue along your slit, savouring your ambrosial taste, before delving inside your tight channel with a low moan.
He thrust his tongue in and out, fucking your hole with his mouth as his hands gripped your hips, pulling you harder against him. His nose brushes your sensitive clit with each thrust, the stimulation driving you wild.
Valarr's movements might have been clumsy, but he was too focused on making you feel good. Listening what exactly you seemed to like, ears trained on the pretty sounds you made for him.
He could feel your walls fluttering around his invading muscle, your body instinctively trying to draw him deeper. Nothing else mattered in that moment but bringing his princess to the pinnacle of ecstasy.
One hand slid up to splay across your belly, feeling it quiver beneath his touch as he pleasured you with lips and tongue. The other hand gripped your hip, holding you in place.
"Oh fu- gods!" You cried out, voice ragged with pleasure. Your body undulated beneath him, thighs quivering and clenching around his head. You could feel every drag of his tongue, every suckle and nip, stoking the fire building in my core.
Moans spilt freely from your lips, growing louder. In that moment, you cared not who might hear. Your fingers tangled in his brown hair, nails digging into his scalp as you held him to you, pushing his face into your cunny.
Valarr's eyes rolled back in bliss as he feasted on your dripping sex. The lower half of his face was entirely coated in your juices, but he didn't seem to mind at all.
"Ah, gods, IÂ can't... IÂ can't..."Â you gasped, voice breaking as your body began to tremble uncontrollably.Â
He pushed his hand more firmly on your stomach, holding you in place so he could continue lapping at your cunt, making sure you couldn't run away from the pleasure.
A broken cry tore from your throat, eyes fluttering shut as a coiling heat gathered in your core. Valarr's grip on your hips held you in place, preventing any escape from the intense sensations consuming you.
His cock had been hard and leaking the entire time, pulsing against the mattress as fresh beads of precum kept staining his breeches.
Valarr's hips began to hump the bed instinctively, his painfully hard cock rubbing against the mattress as he lost himself in pleasuring you. The friction of the fabric against his aching arousal only heightened his lust, making him hump against the bed like a dog in rut.
Uncontrollable, near animalistic moans spilt from your lips, your body writhing beneath him. "Valarr!" you choked out, your voice ragged and raw with pleasure.
The coil of tension in your belly wound tighter and tighter, threatening to snap at any moment. You could feel the impending release building, your walls clenching and fluttering around his invading tongue.
You had never known such intense sensation. It felt as if you were possessed, leaving you a writhing, mewling mess.
Valarr's own body was wound tight, his cock throbbing almost painfully as he rutted against the bed. He needed to make you come, to feel your pleasure crest before he sought his own release. Only then would he allow himself the satisfaction of spilling in his breeches like a green boy.
He could only whine into your cunt, the sound muffled by your dripping flesh. He sees your body tensing. He knew you were close. He needed to taste your release, to feel you come undone against his mouth.
He sucked your clit hard, his lips sealing around it as his tongue flicked over the tip rapidly, pushing you closer and closer to the edge.
He could feel his own release building as well, his balls drawing up tight as he rutted desperately against the mattress, chasing his own end. But he focused only on you, determined to please you before seeking his own.
"Valarr!" You cried out, voice ragged and raw with ecstasy. Your body convulsed beneath his touch, back arching off the bed as you shattered into a million pieces.
"Mmhhh~"Â you mewled shamelessly, fingers fisting in his hair, holding him tight against your sex as you rode out each intense wave of your climax.
Valarr's own body seized, his cock pulsing hard as he found his release in his breeches. With a muffled cry against your sex, he found his own release, his body stiffening as hot seed spurted from his cock, staining his breeches. His hips jerked and shuddered as he came, the sensation of your quivering walls under his tongue pushing him over the edge.
He shuddered and twitched below you, gasping for breath as the intense pleasure of his climax rolled through him. Hecouldn't remember the last time he had come so hard, so intensely. The taste of your sex, the sound of your cries, the feel of your body writhing above himâit was all too much.
He held you close as you trembled and shook, his hands gripping your hips tightly as he helped you ride out each intense wave of your climax.
Finally, as your body went limp beneath him, he slowly pulled back, looking up at you with hooded eyes.
"Fuck," you panted, chest heaving as you stared up at the canopy above. "That felt... really good." You sat up on your elbows, meeting his gaze. "I didn't know men did that to their women." You admitted shyly, still catching your breath. "Can you do it again sometimes?"
Valarr smiled, a boyish grin spreading across his face as he gazed up at you. "Anytime you wish, my princess," he murmured, voice still rough from his own intense climax. "In fact..." He leaned in, placing a soft, lingering kiss on your sensitive mound, making your muscles twitch. "I look forward to it."
Valarr smiled, a boyish grin spreading across his face as he gazed up at you. "Anytime you wish, my princess," he murmured, voice still rough from his own intense climax. "In fact..." He leaned in, placing a soft, lingering kiss on your sensitive mound, making your muscles twitch. "I look forward to it."
He leaned in, capturing your lips in a deep, sensual kiss. You could taste yourself on him, the musky flavour of your release. His hands slid up your sides, cupping your breasts and kneading the soft flesh.
"I must be patient until we are married," he murmured against your lips. "I need to be proper. But once you are mine, I will have you every day if you only let me. I want to fill you with my seed until it takes, until your belly swells with my child."
Rolling onto his back, he gathered you to his side, one arm wrapped possessively around your waist.Â
You sighed in bliss as he held you, relaxing into his touch. Finally feeling loved and appreciated in this union, caressing his chest softly while your lids grew heavy with sleep.
His other hand slid up to cup your cheek, thumb brushing your kiss-swollen lower lip. "You're exquisite, my princess," he whispered, studying your face as if committing it to memory. "I am not nearly done with you."
Hi JJ dear! For the 1K drabble requests, could you please write some dragons live AU fluff with Baelor or Maekar, either introducing his wife to his dragon for the first time, or taking her on a ride? In my head, Baelor rides Vermithor, and Maekar rides Caraxes or Meleys, but feel free to choose whichever fits them best!Â
Thank you!!! đđ
CHOSEN BY DRAGONS
pairing: baelor targaryen x betrothed!reader
warning(s): none just fluff, baelor being a bit of a shit, dragons life au!!
word count: 870
a/n: i couldnât wait to do this we need more auâs up in this house, i did choose baelor but i think i may have to do a maekar one too đ€đ
It must have been the greatest, largest creature you had ever seen.
People had spoken of his greatness, yes, much as they did his rider, but it did not prepare you in the least. The huge bronze beast that covered entire cities in shadow, able to burn an entire houseâs legacy in one fatal blow, and yet here he was in front of your very eyes, a mere arms length away.
âI will see to it that he will not harm you.â
âHa..â The nervous laughter died on your tongue, anxiety creeping into your stomach where bile threatened in your throat.
âHe is rather a diligent beast in his old age..â
It had been weeks since the announcement of your betrothal. Conversation, courting, cohorting with people politely even though they inspected every single thing about you though they had known you all of minutes. But the Prince was kind, the royal family as welcoming as they were generous in their offer for you both to wed. And beyond all new worlds, you had been taken with your intended.
He walked you through the gardens, listened intently to every word and ramble you had to say, and his eyes never quite seemed to leave you. He had sworn to you for this to be your choice only, for it to be a marriage of happiness and a vow he would make to protect and cherish you always.
Though there was one thing, one you had strayed from the very moment you had set foot in Kingâs Landing.
Facing the dragon.
You were surrounded by them, indefinitely, but that was something else entirely, something only very few were gifted to witness up close.
It seemed like a cruel twist of fate, and by the prince of the gods you could not decide.
Once it was said that such an offering, such an intimate moment was the true binding of dragon blood. That the dragon was apart of their rider as they were it, and sharing such with you was something special, something chosen.
You should have been swooned, should have been.
âHere, take my hand..â He held it out for you without hesitation, fingers flexing in the air as they waited for yours patiently. You reached out shakily, inching closer until his own had swarmed your hand.
Long fingers curled around yours gently, warm and tender as he guided you both forwards, every step closer.
The Dragonpit was dark, an open mouthed cavern large enough to house many dragons of all different sizes, supposedly once even Balerion the Black Dread.
Though Vermithor was not quite the size, he was large enough, the huff of his nostrils with every breath enough to knock you over. His scales gleamed golden in the low light from the sky above, twinkling in your eyes as he lowered his head from the darkness.
âBreathe.. there is nothing to fear. But you must be calm, he does not need to mistake you forââ
âMistake me for what?â
He smiled flatly, shaking his head as he watched you grimace about to pull away but he caught you. It was not forceful, but balancing, evening out your steps as you both continued forward past the point of no return. He was inches away, a stretch of fingers alone, and by some of the Gods grace you had held out your hand out in front of you.
Prey.
The realisation startled in your mind as you squeezed your eyes shut, bracing as a warmth pressed into your back, the hand in yours slowly rising over your knuckles.
âHere like this..â
Many would have remarked at the sight, the crown Prince and his betrothed in the dragonpit, but it was mere innocence, curiosity even. And even you could not help yourself from allowing it to happen. It was not an ordinary thing to see a dragon up close, much less touch it.
The skin was rough, like the calloused hand that pressed over yours, smoothing over the skin just between his mouth and eyes. Darkened slits dilated and retracted, watching you and his rider expertly.
He eased after a moment, a large huff exhaling through the beast all at once. You felt yours ease too, despite your heart still beating heavily.
âSee, there is nothing to fear.. I should think he quite likes you.â
You chuckled into your other hand, opening your eyes as much as you could manage.
âHe is a dragon.â
âAnd he feels as we do.â Baelor replied carefully, reaching his fingertips beyond yours to touch the dragon himself. You gazed back between you, melting into the warmth of his chest to find his closed, only for a moment, a sharp inhale and exhale coming from his nose.
Almost as if they had been communicating in their own way. Nonsense.. but you ate those words altogether.
A moment passed, and mismatched eyes found yours, softening with a small smile, though mischievous at its edges.
âPerhaps youâd like to ride him?â
âWhat? No.. I would not.. I couldnât..â You stumbled out, tensing in his grip as he chuckled, that piercing gaze as serious as it had been. But your protests fell on deaf ears, two hands instead cinching at your waist and carrying you in his arms.
Vermithor rumbled at that, a higher pitched sound echoing from his stomach.
Almost like.. agreement.
You gripped your way up the ropes as you had set down into the saddle, widening your legs over the sides of his body that reached further than you managed to see. Baelor settled behind you, clasping together rope and steel as he came.
He settled a hand onto the rough skin by his boot, soothing and signalling, and speaking in words that you could not understand, but the warm brush at your ear calmed you somehow.
âLykiri vermithor, gĆ«rogon sÈłz care hen zirÈłla.â Calm Vermithor, take good care of her.
His chest pressed into your back, clasping tightly around the reins that seemed far too small for the size it carried. But he must have checked it fifty times, eyes darting cross every entryway. Heavy echoes sounded throughout the cavern with every step and heavy gust that began to cast at the sides of you. Baelorâs arms fell at your sides, just as wings began to pick up startling forward a they caught in the air. Arms clutched you tightly and you held onto them, for dear life.
âAre you certain about this?â You whispered on bated breath.
âMore than anything..â
And he had meant it, the words battling through the heartbeat in your ears, soothing you for what it was worth. Though you did not have time to ask for what, the dragon or your future, supposedly you were to find out, were you to survive flying.
In which Valarr Targaryen is the embodiment of Venus-Kissed By Aphrodite.
About:: Headcanons of Reader-drunk!Valarr.
Valarr Targaryen, the epitome of Kissed By Aphrodite, soul and all. He believes in the beauty of everythingâabout you. His wicked sense of valor, honor, and the weight of being the heir of the heir, all comes collapsingâŠbecause of you.
He believes in beauty. Heâs Venus, as a boy.
Valarr loves the beauty of every little aspect of you. His fingers, it focuses on you. His touches, as soft as his silver struck hair. He believes in beauty, and gentleâbelieves in you. Heâs literally Venus as a dragon, with an arousal so accurate, he sets off the beauty in you. And you, oh you little minxâwith your wicked little sense of humor, youâd get him all on your lips, devoured and devoted.Â
Warnings:: Fluffy and poetically sensual as possible? á”!á” Possibilities of an NSFW! version. á”!á” Will TRY to do the best of my abilities to make this as sensually evocative and poetic as possible. á”!á” Valarr being drunk off of readerâfiguratively and literally. á”!á” Aerion version next⊠á”!á” Oneshot version incoming! á”!á” Based off the song âVenus as a boyâ by Bjork. á”!á” Okayâmaybe some poetic intimacy as wellâŠ
Pairing: Valarr x adorned with love!Reader.
Venusboy!Valarr, who was Venus as a boy. A prince kissed by the greatest of dragons, gifted with valor, blessed of paragon, and adorned with the epitome of perfection. He was kissedâno, graced, by Aphrodite; his visage and essence, every sculpted detail of him, bloomed with resplendent sublime. He was the heir of the heirâimpeccability and duty, an imperative focus, divinely commanded by a silver of timeâthe momentâhis pair of lavender-covered fields and Dornish sunset eyes had woken.
Yet, as his softened amethyst and topaz pair of eyes drifted mindlessly onto you during a feast, a blessing disguised in boredom, he knew. Oh, how he knew. Valarr knew the moment his gaze fell on you that you would be the catalyst of his life. You see, this man wasnât one to love in the name of love. Valarr was habituated to envision that most marriages were about duty, power, and alliances in his structured, rigid mind. Though, as you sat there, ornamented in the colors of his mix-matched wonders, lavender coatedâŠwith that aureate halo, exuding from you effortlessly, laughing at some ââidioticââ jest Matarys shared⊠Oh, how his poor mind was inflamed into nothing and reborn like a phoenix. You, you littleâŠgoddess, you. Knocking down the iron walls of his palace of a mindâa curated resemblance of his fatherâwith ease, grace, and your stupidlyâwait, no, your achingly beautiful smile, that pretty gift you grace anyone with carelessly, as if it was just someâŠHeavenly present you could give to anyone.
Venusboy!Valarr, who adorns you with his all, devotion running through every sense in his bodyâredirected towards you. This man is a full-time yearner and a prince off the side. A ââdeprivedââ carnivore whose greed asks for more, for your needs. A man whoâs so desperately, hopelessly smitten that it aches in the depths of his stomach, gnaws in his mind, and hurtsâŠbelow. His wantâno, need, for your everything is so ineffable, his love language is practically every category on rotation, on repeat, like a continuous cycle depending on your every fancy. Heâs Venus, a statue of an Amorist.
Venusboy!Valarr, who literally only daydreams, dreams, and thinks about you. You werenât this constant thought in the back of his mind, disturbingâhaunting him anytime he drifted into his contemplations, you WERE in his mindâyou ARE, his mind. To the moon and back, from the Red Keep to Winterfell, in his conscious, subconscious, in his soulâŠyou werenât just haunting him, you were marching into his mind, bold and confident, carrying a saccharine plague he willingly volunteers to get sick from. He was ill, ill because of you. The lovesick disease you just had,
âYou were like poison.
An enticingâŠscent, so sweetâa taste, bite, so deadly.
It was the only thing keeping him going. He was immune and permeable, ubiquitously.
Venusboy!Valarr, whose love language is of every aspect, rotated constantly like clockwork. He believed in beauty; he was like Venus as a boy. He was athirst for you, body and all, sets off the beauty in you, sees you in a way of curated supernal. This man drank you in like the summer wine, boasting with odes, ballads, and poems. He was as poetic as it could getâhigher than Shakespeare. He would force Matarys and little Aemon, inducing philosophical rants regarding you, proclaiming how your beauty, inwardly and outwardly, was ââof the higher planes,ââ a concept that was perfect, scientifically perfectâno, BEYOND perfect, beyond the laws of what could be real and is real. Goes deeper than the depths of the Dornish sea, goes deeper than any knowledge of any maesters, and lingers.
Venusboy!Valarr, whose wicked sense of humor, painfully beautiful, other-worldly beauty of both the silver-adorned and gold-clad dynasty, and his body, mind, soul, touch, fingers, all focused on you. He explored the depths of your silk-embellished vines of flowers, explored the taste of you. Arousal, so accurate. Love, soâŠprecise. He was reduced to a man fully devoted to you. (god forbid a husband just wants to put your needs before anyone else?!). His emotions, actions, and decisions, all centered on you. Itâs as if you conditioned him to be your personal servant, softening the dragonâs fire, reducing it to warmth, and a man who worships you more than he had ever worshipped the old gods and the new, all at the same time. This man was the epitome, embodiment, quintessential, and ultimate of a yearner. His love for you was insatiable and satiable, rough and soft, all just acted upon the name of his love. (This man would totally kiss the floors of the Red Keep where you walked)
Venusboy!Valarr, who would openly, verbally express and convey his love for you, as if every hour shared between you was just a private, intimate moment, a world, a day, just revolving around you both. It was so grand and overboard, to the point where your ladies and the lords of the court would seethe with jealousy. The ladies would oftentimes whisper with envy and care about how ââyouâre practically smothered with Valarrâs love.ââ The lords would complain constantly among themselves about how their very wives would always incessantly ânagâ them about treating them just as much as how Valarr would treat you. It was such a hot topic that sparked debates and gossip; the echoes of their gossip had reached the very streets of Kings Landing. Seven hells, there was no need for any gossip anyway, when he would already show his devotion to you in the commonâs eye. Itâs likeâŠValarr was the staple of affection; your whole relationship was just screaming, âtreating your wife as an angel sent from the seven gods themselves.â It wasnât even verbally proclaimed, but hell, it was most definitely stated in the way he would look at you.
Venusboy!Valarr, who would follow you around, grabbing the laces and silks of your dress, roaming his fingers, looming like a ghost, exactly like that one scene in Pride and prejudice, where Bingley had followed Jane Bennet around like a lost puppy, totally entranced by her.
Venusboy!Valarr, who describes you as a gift sent from the seven heavens to bless this earth with your beauty and grace. He would ramble like a mantra how âYou were as if every god, angel, and dragon had given you a divine gift themselves of every heavenly quality a goddess could acquire.â Valarr would yap about how you had every quality of just pure seraphic and beauty, would speak of how you were ethereally elysian, how your laugh was the symphonies of his dreams, how your face, body, and mind were architectured by the godsâevery feature and function of you just curated with attentiveness and care. You were the sunâs lively, cheerful human version, radiating off the golden vibrations, the moonâs mystifying siren, alluring him to his âdoomâ, and the universeâs spoiled, spoiled daughter. You were just everything a man, woman, or organism would desire. And everything, Valarr thirsted for.
Authors notes: Aerion version will be in the works, more versions will be promised (all just "evocative" sensual ways to describe the AKOTSK men as down bad for reader) and an extended version of this will also be uploaded later at night (I think??) ALSO, should I make a oneshot version of this ++ with dialogue and Valarr yearning EVEN MORE?! đđ
I wanted this to be as poetic, mustering up any forms of describing my sentences, I know it may be odd for some archaic words to be implemented but I just LOVE them, Idk, I like to express myself and my writing as such.
Also, like in the "warnings," an NSFW version will also be published (So many works, I'm worried I'm all talk and no actions) but I will be making a more organized list for me to remember. Anyway, hoped you all liked it, I didn't really add any dialogue, but I just wanted to be descriptive.
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