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GOT universe small fanfics

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A Prince’s Word

At a feast in King’s Landing, Prince Baelor Targaryen notices the bruises hidden beneath Lady Illyria Tully’s composure—marks left by a husband who mistakes rank for impunity. Refusing to let cruelty go unanswered, Baelor delivers justice personally and makes her a quiet promise: should the violence return, she need only come to him.

Baelor Targaryen x Illyria Tully

Warnings: Mentions of violence

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Baelor Targaryen had witnessed much in his lifetime—war, courtly intrigue, the quiet rot of men who mistook rank for virtue. But nothing stirred his temper like cruelty dressed in power. As firstborn son of King Daeron II, he possessed authority enough to act, and he did not hesitate when he saw the bruises marring Illyria Tully’s fair face. Married to a minor lord of House Hayford, she bore her suffering with noble silence. Baelor found that silence intolerable.

He could have dispatched a Kingsguard. Instead, he chose to answer the insult himself.

At the next feast in King’s Landing, amid banners and silver plate, her husband appeared—his own face newly broken, swollen beyond dignity. Baelor took no pleasure in violence, only in balance restored.

As Illyria passed him between courses, he gently caught her forearm and inclined his head, his voice low enough for her alone.

“If he ever does it again,” he murmured, “you come to me.”

She looked up at him, momentarily at a loss for words, but decided that speaking was better than appearing a speechless fool before the Prince. “I… am grateful for your help, my Prince.”

He offered her a small, reassuring smile before releasing her arm. "Think nothing of it," he replied softly, his blue eyes gentle. "A woman deserves better than that." He glanced over at her husband, who was nursing his bruised face with a cup of wine.

She had a moment to study his profile as he turned to look at her husband, but she quickly composed herself. The Prince was noble—known throughout Westeros—and he only wished to help, she reminded herself. Her eyes drifted to his knuckles, where a faint redness showed. A quick frown flickered across her face as a thought struck her. She looked up at him again. “And perhaps I should also be grateful to the Kingsguard…”

Baelor followed her gaze to his own hands, examining the faint bruising across his knuckles with an almost clinical detachment. A faint, rueful smile touched his lips—not the serene expression of the pious prince the realm praised, but something warmer, more human. "The Kingsguard were not required," he admitted quietly, his voice barely above the clatter of the feast.

Her suspicion was approved at his reply. “You shouldn’t have.” She said softly but quickly composed herself. “My prince- Prince Baelor.”

He raised an eyebrow, a hint of amusement playing in his eyes despite the seriousness of the situation.

"Shouldn't have what? Protected you? Ensured your husband understands his place?" He leaned in slightly, voice low and intense. "Or perhaps you're concerned about my hands getting dirty?"

“I am not questioning your actions Prince Baelor, it’s not my place to.” She straightened her back.

His gaze lingered on her for a moment, taking in her composure and the subtle defiance in her posture. A faint smile played on his lips as he straightened up as well, mirroring her stance. “No, it is not your place," he agreed softly, "But you are welcome to question them if you wish."

A quick smile touched her lips, and she glanced down before swiftly composing herself, clearing her throat. “Does it cause you any pain?”

"The pain is worth the result,” he answered immediately, his voice low and sure. He flexed his fingers slightly, watching the candlelight catch on the faint bruising. “Besides, it is a man’s duty to protect those who cannot protect themselves. What sort of prince would I be if I left a lady to suffer in silence?” His eyes lifted to meet hers again."

“One like many before you, I presume,” she replied. “Being a prince does not always come with honor.”

When he did not answer at once, she tensed, her lips parting slightly. “Did I overstep?” she asked, only to relax when she realized he seemed more amused than offended.

Amusement sparkled in his blue eyes as he regarded her, his expression softening. "You speak your mind freely, don't you?" he observed, a hint of approval in his tone. "No, you have not overstepped. I am not so fragile that a truth spoken plainly will break me." He paused, considering her words.

“I don’t. Not always,” she said thoughtfully. After all, not all men took honesty kindly.

"I would rather have honest words than pretty lies," he replied, his gaze steady and sincere. "It is a rare quality in these halls." He glanced around the feast, then back to her. "And I find myself appreciating it more than you might think." His voice dropped lower, almost intimate.

A soft smile touched her lips, as though something deep within her was quietly pleased. “I am glad, Prince Baelor.”

"Baelor," he corrected gently. "When we are alone, there is no need for titles." He studied her face for a moment—the lingering bruise on her cheek, the wary intelligence in her eyes, the way a lock of hair had come undone from her elaborate coiffure. "The feast is ending soon. Your husband may seek you before you return to your seat."

That pulled her back to reality. “The feast—right, yes, I must go.” She cleared her throat, straightening her posture. “It was an honor speaking with you.” She dipped into a low curtsy, her back perfectly straight.

He extended a single finger to lift her chin, halting her curtsy mid-motion. "Look at me," he commanded, not unkindly. When her eyes met his, he let the touch linger. "You'll speak with me again. At your request, at my request—however it comes to pass." There was no question in his tone, only quiet certainty.

She looked up at him, her lips slightly parted in surprise. She hadn’t expected that response, but she welcomed it; she wanted to see him again—his presence brought her comfort. She nodded, then excused herself and returned to her husband.

As she walked away, Baelor's gaze lingered on her figure, noticing the way she held herself with quiet dignity despite her husband's disapproving glare. He turned his attention back to the dwindling feast, his mind already wandering to the next opportunity they might have to speak.

[superreviewnacho]

Jousting Tournament

Summary: You join your family at a jousting Tournament, to represent House Targaryen, in which your cousin, Prince Valarr Targaryen is competing.

Valarr Targaryen x cousin (Targ! Reader/ Daughter of Maekar Targaryen)

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If there was one person you admired more than anyone, it was your cousin, Prince Valarr Targaryen. He was everything your brother Aerion was not: kind, honorable, steady—the reflection of his father’s virtues. Even Aerion’s eyes betrayed the longing for approval that Valarr seemed to command effortlessly. Valarr didn’t need to chase validation; he earned it, from everyone—and especially from you.

It was a warm night in King’s Landing, the fading sun casting long, golden streaks across the Red Keep and glinting off the polished armor of the knights below. A gentle breeze stirred your skirts and lifted stray strands of hair, carrying with it the faint scent of roasting meats and the smoke of torches from the crowded stands. Your father, Maekar, had repeated himself more than once to you and your siblings: your presence at the tournament was necessary to maintain House Targaryen’s influence. To you, that meant dressing in your House’s colors, sitting obediently in the royal stands, and smiling at knights who would inevitably seek your favor. For Aerion and Valarr, it meant competing to honor your House.

When you arrived at the tournament, each member of the royal family was announced with due ceremony. You took your seat with a soft sigh, the warm evening air brushing your face. Knights clashed in the lists below, hooves kicking up dust and straw that glinted gold in the dying sunlight. Some fell hard before the victor was declared. From your seat, you could see Valarr. He reclined with effortless poise, his armor catching the last light of day, observing the competitors with a discerning eye. When a particularly skilled knight landed a decisive blow, he straightened slightly, a flicker of interest in his gaze.

You noted him in return, a half-smile tugging at your lips. But when your father caught your glance and shot you a sharp look, you quickly redirected your attention. He never needed to say it; you were his favorite, easily. Compared to a drunken son and a volatile one, it was hard not to be.

Aerion’s turn came. He was all flair, a performance more than competition. Of course, he won—but only because he faced a single young knight barely past his teens. You glanced at your father, whose displeased gaze made you stifle a small smile. A warning look followed—don’t mock your brother in public. Valarr, as always, remained unbothered.

Then a young lord bearing the Tully sigil approached the royal stand. Close to your age, a little ungainly, yet brimming with confidence, he bowed awkwardly. “Princess,” he stammered, “it would be the highest honor to ask for your favor.” He dared a quick glance toward your father, betraying his nervousness.

You stood, descending from the stands gracefully. The cool evening breeze brushed your face, lifting the curls of your hair as if to urge you onward. A single glance toward Valarr conveyed more than words ever could. Though too far to hear the exchange, he understood instantly. His eyes flicked from the young lord to you. He shifted his weight, held his helmet loosely, and finally smirked—a mix of amusement and mild annoyance—before turning his attention back to the joust, pretending indifference.

“I’m afraid my favor is already promised,” you said to the Tully, smiling politely. You saw the disappointment in his eyes, but it mattered little. There was only one person to whom your favor would ever belong.

When a break was called, you excused yourself, lifting the skirts of your gown as you wove through the bustling tents. The smell of hay, leather, and roasted meats mingled with the crisp evening air, carrying faint echoes of the cheering crowds. Your destination was clear: House Targaryen’s quarters. Inside, Valarr stood surrounded by servants and a pair of Kingsguard. A half-smile tugged at your lips as you clasped your hands behind your back and inclined your head in greeting.

He nodded, dismissing the attendants. “That Tully lord seemed… disappointed, from what I gathered of your conversation,” he said, polishing his helmet.

“Ah, so you were paying attention,” you teased, though your gaze remained elsewhere.

“I was merely interested in family matters—”

You stepped closer, cutting him off with a smile.

“Is that what we call it now?” you said, playful yet challenging.

He tilted his head slightly, amused, his eyes flicking to yours. “No,” he replied, shaking his head with a faint smile, “it’s what we should call it.”

You stepped closer still. His eyes—one pure blue, the other a swirl of blue and hazel—met yours. A single silver streak in his short brown hair caught the light, the same one you had traced countless times. “We should call it as it is.”

He shook his head again, a half-exasperated, half-amused expression, as if he were speaking to a child testing boundaries. That infuriated you; behind closed doors, he treated you as anything but a child. The smile vanished from your lips instantly, and he noticed.

“I don’t like that word,” he said softly. “It makes me feel as if I am dishonoring you.”

“If I felt dishonored, I wouldn’t have come here,” you said firmly. “I would have stayed in the stands and given my favor to the Tully.”

He looked away, conflicted. “Well… you promised it to me,” he murmured.

You shook your head, amused.

“I promised if you came and asked for it openly,” you clarified, stepping closer. Finally, he leaned down and brushed his lips against your forehead, hands cupping your face carefully so as not to disturb the elaborate braids of your updo. He could be so rigid sometimes, but it was exactly why you loved him—even more than before.

To be continued…..

[superreviewnacho]

Our Swan Song

In which Baelor visits his sick niece to offer her comfort. (In which he survives the tournament and he lives to see the Great Spring Sickness.

Baelor Targaryen x niece (Targ! Reader)

⛧°. ⋆༺☾𖤓༻⋆. °⛧ ⛧°. ⋆༺☾𖤓༻⋆. °⛧ ⛧°. ⋆

(This is my first time writing a short story so feel free to comment what you think of it!!!)

Warnings: No warnings for now, only the usual Targaryen incest, but nothing too much. That might change if the story progresses!

⛧°. ⋆༺☾𖤓༻⋆. °⛧ ⛧°. ⋆༺☾𖤓༻⋆. °⛧ ⛧°. ⋆

No one had foreseen it—the great spring sickness that swept through Westeros, sparing neither noble nor smallfolk. Few survived more than a day once the fever took hold. Baelor Breakspear had come perilously close himself. Each dawn brought news of another maid, another sworn sword, another child carried out wrapped in linen.

Yet nothing struck him like the word that his niece, Aelora Targaryen—eldest daughter of his brother Rhaegel and Alys Arryn—had fallen ill.

It demanded more courage than any tourney field to face her now. She was the one weakness he had never confessed, the love he had long condemned in others of his blood.

When he entered her chambers, the air was stifling. Curtains drawn tight, braziers dim. She lay pale as moonlight, trembling beneath heavy furs, her nightgown damp with sweat clinging to her fragile frame.

“Niece,” he said gravely, posture rigid, every inch the prince.

He dismissed the maesters for a time. He did not trust his voice to betray how deeply he feared a realm without her—or a life he could not endure.

She sat up, the covers slipping into her lap and revealing the white nightgown clinging to her fever-warmed body. “Uncle,” she whispered.

He swallowed hard at the sight of her, his eyes involuntarily tracing the outline of her body through the thin fabric. The fever had stolen her usual color, leaving her cheeks hollow and eyes sunken, but she was still...his Aelora. "You should be resting," he scolded gently.

“I can’t,” she murmured. “Thinking keeps me awake.” She coughed softly into one of the many cloths.

He picked up the cloth, his large hands gentle as he wrung it out in a basin of cool water. "Too much thinking will make you worse," he murmured, as he cleaned the bloodied cloth, a job for servants or a maester.

She studied the rigid line of his back, the stiffness in his shoulders unmistakable even in the dim light. The muscles beneath his attire were drawn tight, as if he were bracing against something unseen. “You’re tense,” she said quietly, her voice still rough from illness, but certain.

He paused, the cloth dripping water onto the stone floor. "The realm is tense," he said evenly, not turning to face her. "The sickness takes too many. The king grows impatient. The gods seem deaf." He finally turned, meeting her eyes with that familiar sternness. "You should not concern yourself with my burdens."

She nodded faintly, then stretched, the movement slow and languid despite her weakness. The sheets rustled softly as she shifted, easing herself back against the pillows and turning her head to the side, letting it rest there as if the weight of it had become too much to hold upright.

He watched her stretch, his eyes involuntarily following the lines of her body beneath the thin nightgown. The movement made her chest heave slightly, drawing his gaze to her breasts before he quickly looked away, clearing his throat. "You should not exert yourself,"

“I am well…” she said, though her voice wavered, the pause lingering as if even she did not quite believe it.

"...For now," he interrupted firmly, approaching the bed. "But the fever can return without warning. You're weak from it already." He paused, his hand unconsciously moving to rest on the bedpost near her shoulder.

“Could you call a maid, Uncle? I need to change…” she said softly, her gaze lowering as if the request cost her more than she wished to show.

"Of course," he replied immediately, moving to pull the bell cord that would summon a servant. As he did, he leaned close to adjust her pillows, his arm brushing against hers. A faint scent of sandalwood and leather—his personal scent—wafted over her.

“You smell nice…” she murmured, the words escaping almost absently, as though she hadn’t meant to say them aloud.

He froze, his arm still supporting the pillow. For a moment, he didn't move or speak, his breath catching slightly. When he did speak, his voice was rougher than before. "It's just my soap," he said dismissively, stepping back as a maid entered the room.

She looked at him for a moment longer, her gaze lingering as though searching for something in his expression. Then she turned her attention to the maid, her composure settling back into place.

"Princess?" The maid curtsied, noting the princess's flushed cheeks and disheveled appearance. "Would you like me to help you change?" She asked softly, glancing between the princess and the prince, sensing an undercurrent she didn't quite understand.

“Yes… thank you…” she said softly, the words trailing off as though she lacked the strength to give them more weight.

As the maid approached, Baelor turned abruptly and walked towards the window, his back to the room. He stood there, looking out at the gardens of the Red Keep in Kings Landing, his hands clasped behind his back. The maid helped Aelora change into a fresh nightgown, chattering softly as she worked.

She watched his back as he chose to remain in the chambers, the tense line of his shoulders making her pause. Then she shifted her gaze back to the maid, raising her hands in quiet readiness.

The maid peeled off the sweat-soaked nightgown, revealing Aelora's pale skin and the lingering marks of sickness. Baelor's jaw tightened as he heard the rustle of fabric but did not turn. His shoulders were rigid, fists clenched against his cloak. "All done, princess," the maid announced cheerfully. "Shall I bring broth?"

“No need—” she began, but didn’t have time to finish before he spoke up, his voice final and unyielding.

"She needs broth," Baelor interrupted sharply, still facing the window. His voice was commanding, leaving no room for argument. The maid curtsied quickly and hurried out. As soon as she left, Baelor turned around slowly.

His eyes swept over her form, pausing briefly at her face before moving down to her thin arms and the nightgown that hung loosely on her frame. He approached the bed, stopping a few steps away. "You should be in bed," he said gruffly, gesturing to the pillows.

“And you have many obligations other than being here, Uncle…” she said, offering a weak, tired smile.

"None greater than this," he said quietly, the admission slipping out before he could stop it. His hand flexed at his side, fists unclenching. The broth arrived in short order, and he dismissed the maid with a sharp nod. He sat on the edge of a chair near the bed, arms crossed. "Eat. I'll stay until you do."

She slipped under the covers, her eyes lingering on the tapestry above her bed. Slowly, she began to eat, though her appetite was barely there, each bite more out of routine than hunger.

He watched her pick at the broth, his expression unreadable. After a few moments of silence, he leaned forward slightly, elbows on knees. "Aelora," he said softly but firmly enough to command her attention. She turned her head towards him reluctantly. "More," he ordered gently but insistently.

Her throat worked as she swallowed, but he saw the effort it cost her. He stood, moving to sit on the edge of the bed beside her—he sat closer than duty allowed. His hand reached for the spoon, taking it from her fingers. "Open," he commanded, his voice low. The bowl trembled between them.

He spooned out another mouthful, holding it to her lips. "Swallow," he instructed, his gaze locked onto her mouth. She swallowed obediently, her throat bobbing. He fed her like this, one spoonful at a time, his hand brushing against her lips with each feeding.

As he fed her the last spoonful, his fingers lingered against her bottom lip. For a moment, he seemed frozen, his blue eyes darkened with an emotion he quickly concealed. He pulled back abruptly, standing and setting the empty bowl aside. "Rest," he ordered gruffly, turning away to compose himself.

She lay back, her eyes drifting upward to the canopy above, tracing its folds as if seeking comfort in the familiar shapes.

He heard her settle into the pillows, the mattress creaking softly beneath her slight weight. He should have left. The council was waiting. The king—his father—needed decisions. Instead, he stood frozen by the bed, his hands trembling at his sides. "I will return later," he said quietly, not moving an inch.

“Thank you, Uncle…” she murmured softly, her voice carrying a hint of gratitude and fatigue.

His heart clenched at the title, a bitter reminder of their relationship. He didn't correct her, just nodded stiffly. "Sleep," he repeated, his voice barely above a whisper. He turned to leave but paused at the door, glancing back over his shoulder.

She closed her eyes, the curtains drawn tight, plunging the room into shadowed stillness. The darkness swallowed her form, leaving only the silhouette of her sleeping figure. He stood there for what felt like an eternity, torn between duty and an unbidden urge to crawl back into that bed beside her. With a harsh exhale, he turned and left, closing the door softly behind him.