Summary: “I did. Hiding in the middle of shrubbery. A small child. I thought it was—Well, I thought it was you at first. For he ran to me and I saw he had your eyes.” How Baelor would handle having a dreamer wife, even as she tries to hide it from him.
Tags: dreamer!reader, arranged marriages, falling in love, brief mentions of dysfunctional families, brief nsfw
A/N: this is how i cope with my insomnia
The marriage had been arranged, but your feelings for him were not.
You dream of him your first few nights in the Redkeep. A welcome change from your usual dreams. Not violent, not loud or bloody. You are walking behind him, the sun haloing the cropped dark hair atop his head. He turns his head towards you, just an inch, revealing mismatched eyes and a twice broken nose, and that is when you wake.
It is the few times you have had peace to yourself. You do not question it, you cherish it.
When you do meet the prince, it feels as though the air rushes out of the room. You realize then that the crown prince, Hand of the King, has been the same man in your dreams. You do not really know what it means.
You had expected him to be as arrogant and boorish as anyone in the proximity of power. Yet what met you was gentleness and kindness, a presence that levelled the room with that same mismatched gaze that has fixed you in your dreams.
You stare at him a little too much during feasts, or when you chanced upon him in the training yard, and when you had accompanied your father in the small council chamber, those eyes fixing men in their seats or persuading them with that voice of his that you finally chanced to hear. All this staring caught his eye, and Baelor, naturally curious, found a way to start a conversation.
You are quiet, yet observant, he notes. He’s heard the other lord’s remarks about you: your beauty accompanied by your eerily serene expression. So he pays closer attention, every reaction, no matter how miniscule and files it away. He sees when you decide to listen, when you decide to appear as if you aren’t listening but actually has a keen ear in the conversation. He sees it in your eyes that sweeps over a new room, as if turning every crevice, every important person in your palm. But even more so the way you stare at him, as if a little struck, as if you have seen him before.
You have been having vivid dreams since you were a child. Your mother has taught you to hide it, keeping the benefit of your future husband in mind, so much so that she fails to consider your wellbeing in the matter. You had hidden it well enough, had managed to rearrange your entire life around it, especially since the offer of betrothal to a Targaryen prince was presented to you during your time at the Keep.
The court sings praises of a wise match, of dowries and fleets, strategies and alliances, unaware of something that has been burning there steadily, unaware of your dreams.
He had chanced upon you by the balconies looking over the garden of the Keep. There were no other witnesses other than the crickets in the night and the wisps of the trees.
“I thought I was the only one awake at this hour.” His voice makes you jump and you know it is him before you’ve fully turned around.
“Your Grace.” You curtsy.
“My Lady.” He returns. His cloak is the color of the night, the familiar black and red of House Targaryen making him seem more formidable even in a chance encounter.
“Forgive me, your Grace, sleep does not come easy to me.” The stone wall is cold underneath your hands.
“There is nothing to forgive, I am the intruder here.” He bows his head, stepping forward to fall into step beside you. “Though it is a nice surprise, I usually work into the late hours and rarely see other living creatures at this hour. How are you faring, my Lady?”
“Quite well though… It is certainly an adjustment, though I have always been told I sleep at odd hours.” He casts you a sidelong glance. “I prefer the night, it seems more to yourself does it not? It is lonely but it is yours.”
When the betrothal is confirmed a few moons later, your mother makes note of talking to you after the ceremony, reminding you to maintain your secret. You return to the high table tense and you think you are hiding it well until your husband’s hands find yours under the table, giving a reassuring squeeze. It is then you realize after feeling displaced in your own home that you have finally found something you can call your own.
Later, in performing your duties, he is gentle as one can be. More than that, he learns what you like, and when you ask for more, he is not shy in giving it, as if it is the permission he has been waiting in bated breath all along. He memorizes the sound of your panting breaths, the twitch of your hips. He plucks the pleasure out of you like a skilled artist attuned to his instrument.
You’re basking in the afterglow of it all, laying side by side in attuned breaths. Your husband was handsome, and you were more than aware of the gossip that plagued the court. More Dornish than Targaryen. You never understood why that was such a terrible thing as you lay next to him, the firelight dancing along his features.
“I have seen you in my dreams.” You do not realize saying it out loud, a mere mindless mumble, until he laughs. Not mocking, not demeaning. He laughs as if flattered, and his cheeks go a little flushed, as if you had not just spent the past hour doing ungodly things to each other.
“There’s no need for you to woo me, sweet girl. We are already married.”
You return his smile then, moving to perch yourself upon his chest, the contact sending warmth through your whole body and causing him to make space for you in his. “And if it is not flattery, but truth?”
His hands find your hair then, winding his fingers mindlessly through them. “Then what sweet dreams you have.” If only he knew, you think. He is as you have dreamt of and that night is one of the few nights you have slept dreamlessly.
The moons turn and you settle into a peaceful routine, though your secrecy slowly mounts your chest with guilt. The visions are often in your dreams, so vivid and almost real that any threats in your unconsciousness are registered as real to your senses. So much so that you cannot help your reactions to them.
You are awoken one night to a form at the foot of your bed, like a terrible assassin, illuminated by the dozen candlelights in the room. You do not question why the candles are all lit when you have retreated to bed nearly an hour ago. You register the threat as real, yet when you shoot up from bed, he is not there, and the room is nothing but shadows.
Your heart is hammering in your chest, and you move to curl up against his side then, counting your breaths, eyes wide and searching the room for the assailant. But nothing comes. Baelor does not wake, merely wrapping an arm around your shoulders as you slither closer to him. He must think that you are simply seeking warmth, unaware of the war drums banging in your chest. You sit up then, simply to watch him, the rise and fall of his chest as he sleeps half on his side. He looks good like this, unbothered and untethered. You wonder what he dreams of or if he dreams of anything at all.
He must be so tired, you think, more tired than I. You walk over to the dying hearth to tend to the embers, looking for something else to occupy your mind. Over the years, you’ve become familiar with the night.
You jump later when a hand brushes against your arm, and you look up to be met with your husband’s face, ladened with sleep yet amused at your reaction.
“What are you doing here?” He rasps, occupying the seat next to you.
“Night terrors.” The lie keeps him placated, though you did not fathom for how long.
Although now you cannot think of that, or anything else. His hair was ruffled from sleep, in a simple sleeping tunic, yet you found yourself unable to look up.
He is looking at you from where he sat, eyes bearing that same intensity.
“I apologize if I woke you.” You say just to say something, to stop him from looking at you as though he means to devour you whole. “I could suggest separate quarters to the maids. There are so many rooms, I’m sure no one would mind—”
“Is that what you would like?” He asks with an air of finality, a gentle end to your ceaseless string of words. He does not challenge, but when your eyes meet, his mismatched ones illuminated by the fire, it seems determined to draw an honest answer out of you.
“No, but if— I am quite a light sleeper and I don’t want to be a bother.” Another lie. You’d prefer to be alone in the chambers so if you woke, which you will, you will only have yourself to frighten.
“You’ve never bothered me.” He stands with a quiet grunt, offering a hand to you. “Save for when you decide to wander when I am searching for you in my sleep. Come, please.” You follow his movements, then save one last look to the hearth before you take his hand and follow him back into bed.
“I’m frightened.” You admit in a whisper, settling back against the pillows and tucking yourself underneath the covers. “I know it is so childish, to be frightened of one's dreams, but…” It is the closest truth you can give him. His hand finds a pattern on your hip.
He watches you. “Do you have them often?”
You nod. “Since I was a child.”
“Then you have nothing to apologize for. You’re safe here. This is your home.” He sees the worry on your face. He wishes he had the power to take it away, though he knows it is not that simple. “Why did you not wake me earlier, if it bothered you so?”
“I know how tired you are.” You cover his hand with yours, absent of any rings that adorned his fingers in the day. “You need your sleep.”
Wake me, he whispers, a kiss against your shoulder, if it gets worse. His tone does not leave room for arguments. His words remain with you as you get dragged into a fitful slumber, dreamless as you hope.
–
Fire blooms in the walls of your chamber, glowing coals etching itself into the cracks there. The crackling of it is vivid and real, orange glow consuming the stone walls. It sets the room alight on its own accord, casting its own shadows to dance along the wall as if they are their own living and breathing bodies. The smell is putrid, unlike woodsmoke or the rising of smoke from the hearth.
In your state, you had picked up a porcelain washing bowl and hurled it at the door. Exactly when Baelor had decided to come in. That is the moment you wake up. You do not know why you did it. Perhaps it was frustration coming to the surface, of no longer knowing what was real and what was not.
He ducks deftly, just in time so the pieces fall on his back and do no real harm. For a moment, the both of you stand there, frozen in shock.
“Stand down,” he responds to the Kingsguard’s inquiries almost immediately. “I’m fine.” When they try to come in, he shuts the door behind him, taking in the room, your state. Your hand comes up to cover your mouth, cupping the apologies spilling from there.
“I’m sorry—I thought I—” You stutter, eyes welling with tears unconsciously. You had almost harmed him, someone that you cared about, that welcomed you into his home and made it yours after years of feeling displaced on your own. “I thought I saw—” There is no fire there, the room is intact and not engulfed in flames.
“What did you see?” He asks, taking a cautious step forward. His tone remains calm, as if he already had his own suspicions, but his heart is hammering in his chest. You feel it later when he takes you in his arms, attempting to soothe you, running a hand along your back.
He begins to reach for you, unsure if you’d like to be touched, and preparing for you to create some sort of distance between the two of you. But when you don’t, when you simply take his hand and let yourself be maneuvered to him, a relief wells in his chest.
You admit it to him that night, your secret that has been weighing on you, how horrible they get, how keeping it hidden was almost as worse as the dreams themselves. It is a relinquishing of sorts, of the burden of a secret, of your exhaustion. You expect the worst: anger, fear, disgust, caricatures of a man you’ve grown to know well enough to understand that he would never act like that towards you. Yet you expect it, and it doesn’t come. He understands, and a part of him has known, you think. All those nights you could not sleep through, twitching awake at the sensation of falling in your dreams, jerking awake.
Later in bed, he asks against your hair, “Have you ever had good dreams?” He sounds genuinely curious.
“I do,” you answer, fighting to keep your eyes open. For how much you dreaded sleep, you were only human, and you were exhausted. “I dreamt of you before I met you.”
From then on, he takes note of what calms you, and cultivates it without a word. If it is the gardens, a seat by the sea or a quiet nook in the Keep, it is yours without even having to ask for it. He makes a passing, yet calculated, request to a handmaid, a knight, a servant, and suddenly no one dares to pass by that part of the Keep. The space wordlessly becomes yours and you do not have to fight to keep it. Baelor had grown used to it rather quickly. You’ve suggested separate chambers on numerous occasions and he has turned it down all the same.
You’ve taken to writing your dreams down, sometimes in detail, sometimes in vague scrawls. But you learn to live with the dreaming, and you find that ceasing to fight it proves to be a better comfort than suppressing it these past few years.
In talks of politics, he will heed your warnings, but he does not like his wife to be used as a pawn. So, he keeps it hidden. The Red Keep had taken note of your habits. Night owls, they call the pair of you, though you’ve given them no other reason to gossip badly. There is little whisper of how the heir apparent’s wife is a dreamer. The little whisper dies down with no evidence, a flame with no kindling.
The lack of sleep is concerning for the both of you. He has been known to work until the late hours of the night. You’ve taken to accompanying him more often in the late nights in his solar and not complaining when you rose in the early mornings. Your body has learned to function on as much sleep as it can take. It is a refreshing change for Baelor, to find his lady wife already up before him.
Once, you had attended a feast with little to nothing but a nap and your head lolled to the side once, in the middle of a lord’s gratitude to King Daeron. At everyone’s applause, you jolted awake and he silently took your hand underneath the table, an amused smile on his lips you’ve come to know too well. You mumble your own gratitude against his cheek, stumbling down the hall towards your shared chambers, when he announces his choice to retire early with his lady wife.
Other than that, the Keep have whispered of heirs, of little princes and princesses running around the Keep once more. On more than one occasion this was announced in your presence, you have caught your husband’s eye across the room, an uptick of his lips then.
The confirmation comes to you first—in a dream. Baelor was more than happy to hear that you had a good night’s rest, but even more so if you had good dreams more than night terrors. In a way, he had seen it as his duty, that if the Realm, his responsibility was well-taken care of, so would your dreams.
“Baelor,” you whisper to him one night. The candles had burned low into their iron pots and the hearth had slowly died down into the night. You’re curled up against him for the sake of warmth. “I had a dream.”
“What was it about, dearest?” He hums awake, reaching for you even as his eyes remain closed.
“We were in the gardens of the Keep. ‘Twas a good, bright day out, like the ones you favor. And I was searching for someone.”
“Did you find them?”
“I did. Hiding in the middle of shrubbery. A small child. I thought it was—Well, I thought it was you at first. For he ran to me and I saw he had your eyes.”
He turns his face to you then, expression open. You had never seen that look on his face before. You realize then you had never seen the prince so well caught off-guard. “I think, perhaps, we should send for the maesters.” You whisper to him then, unsure, yet a smile has found your lips.
He sits up then, a rustle of sheets. “Are you certain?”
You nod and he cradles your head, pressing a kiss there. The maester had been sent for in the middle of the night, discreetly. The next day, the bells had been rung every hour of the day to welcome the news.
trying to bed a knight like: *unbuttons your jupon* *unbuckles your cuirass* *unbuckles your gorget* *takes off your hauberk* *stops to catch my breath* *unbuttons your gambeson* *takes off your shirt*
˗ˋˏ ♡ ˎˊ˗ bla bla bla, proper name, place name, backstory stuff ft. baelor targaryen
a/n: just watched a video of bertie carvel yapping about God knows what (i wasn’t really paying attention, i was just mesmerised by his handsome face), and all i could think of was that “bla bla bla, proper name, place name, backstory stuff” meme lol. So i decided to turn it into a short fic of baelor x reader hehe. Enjoy!
Rain drummed softly against the windows of Dragonstone. Outside, the sound of heavy waves clashed in the dark below the ancient stone, restless even at this hour. But inside, the castle had finally loosened its grip on Baelor Targaryen. At least a little.
Your shared chamber smelled of cedarwood and smoke and the faint lingering perfume from your hair oils, sweet beneath the heavier scent of candle wax.
He lay against the carved headboard in shirtsleeves with loosened laces, dark hair slightly a mess after hours of dealing with quills, papers, and matters of the realm. He spoke of grain levies in the Reach with all the gravity of a maester delivering prophecy.
“The lord insists the crown’s tariffs have bled his ports dry,” Baelor murmured, absently turning the signet ring upon his finger. “Though curiously, his cellars remain full enough to host feasts twice a moon.”
You had joined him in bed, cheek resting just below his shoulder, watching the firelight catch the silver threaded through his hair, softening the sternness of his face. You made a thoughtful sound to agree with him, or at least that’s what he assumed. In truth, you had not heard a word since he pushed open the chamber door looking exhausted and unfairly handsome.
“…and if young Lord Peake believes I shall simply overlook missing accounts because he smiles pleasantly, or if he ever thinks I have forgiven and forgotten which side his father took during the rebellion…”
His voice continued to fill the chamber with the affairs of the realm, but all you could think was how, at court, singers praised his strength, the princely solemnity of him. Ladies whispered over the broadness of his shoulders as though they were girls discussing tourney champions. Fools. None of them knew the true self of Prince Baelor Targaryen. It was this, the quiet intimacy of him after dark. With you.
You studied him carefully. The sight of him never failed to send shivers up your spine… and between your thighs. “Mhm,” you murmured.
“Darling,” Baelor said carefully, “are you listening to me?”
“Of course,” you said, trying to sound confident, but your eyes did not meet his. They wandered over the silver beginning to appear at his temples, making him look less like a storybook prince and more like a man carved from something old and steady and safe.
“You appear very occupied.” His hand stroked your left thigh loosely. “Are you tired?”
“No, no. I’m listening. Yes, the fool young Lord Peake. Continue…” you said, starting to run your fingers through his beard. The silver had become your favourite part, though he often complained it made him look older than you, his younger, beautiful wife. You had shushed him numerous times, assuring him his beauty was no different.
Baelor shifted slightly against the pillows, and the collar of his sleeping tunic loosened further. “…which is why I told him if he wished to continue insulting the crown’s judgement, he might do so from a dungeon cell instead...”
Your gaze drifted down his body. The texture of his beard fascinated you, yes, but the sculpted strength of his chest, this was different. A glimpse of skin appeared beneath the linen. Warm bronze touched with gold by candlelight, dusted with dark hair across his chest. You found yourself distracted once again by the sight of him. So your hand slipped lower, fingertips tracing idle circles through the soft hair at the centre of his chest.
Baelor faltered for the briefest moment, but he continued speaking, “…the Master of Coin insists the matter may yet be settled peacefully, though I suspect he would call a wildfire blaze an unfortunate warmth...”
Without realising it, you smiled faintly against him. The realm’s beloved prince. Your husband. Older than you, yes. Wiser, certainly. Worn thin by duty and councils and the endless burdens placed upon noble shoulders. And yet here he was, warm beneath your fingertips. Safe in your arms. Entirely yours. A frighteningly smug feeling settled inside your chest.
There was something deeply satisfying about touching him like this while listening to him speak. Perhaps because the rest of the realm treated him as though he belonged upon a pedestal somewhere. His honey-like voice filled your ears like music, serenading the space. He was always so composed and thoughtful, except for a few nights when he took you to bed and let his stress out of his system - where he could be cruel and torturous - but you knew the real man behind your beloved husband.
His voice vibrated pleasantly. “…and if the crown permits one lord to evade taxes, every lesser bannerman shall soon attempt the same...”
You liked his voice so much that sometimes you would linger in the council chambers, listening to him discuss matters that were not entirely important to you, but the sound of his voice somehow brought you calm.
You studied his features again. He was so handsome you almost found it irritating. The silver in his beard, the scar near his shoulder from some ancient tourney injury, the strength beneath softened fabric. Even the lines at the corners of his eyes suited him unfairly well. Ageing had not stolen his beauty.
After a while, you realised he had stopped talking.
“…darling.” Baelor looked down at you now, one dark brow slightly raised. “I am certain you are not listening to me at all.”
“Of course I am,” you tried to bite back laughter, your fingers continuing to comb absently through the hair upon his chest.
His hand caught your wrist, stopping your wandering touch. “Then tell me what I was speaking of.”
“The lord,” you shrugged.
“The lord,” he repeated.
You tilted your chin upward just enough to smile at him. “The deeply troublesome lord. You will send him to the dungeon if he dares question the crown’s taxes.”
Baelor stared for another moment before a quiet laugh escaped him. “Right,” he agreed, a mischievous look followed behind his eyes.
You returned to tracing patterns against his chest while he resumed speaking, his voice now had softened with amusement. Something about shipments, or ports, or perhaps prisons. Truthfully, you tried listening for nearly a full minute.
You could not stand it any longer. “You are very handsome,” you announced abruptly.
Baelor stopped mid-sentence. “I beg your pardon?”
“You are handsome,” you repeated, looking up, voice sounded entirely serious now. “Distractingly so.”
For a moment, the Prince of Dragonstone looked completely defenseless. Colour rose slowly across his cheeks. He blinked, then a smile followed, softening, unravelling, the one reserved only for you, his wife.
“I know you weren’t even listening, my heart. Does this old man really bore you with his lore?” he teased.
“You are not old, Baelor. How many times do I have to say that? And you are very handsome. It pains me,” your eyes found his mismatched eyes. The danger in those eyes could change depending on the mood he carried at times.
Baelor exhaled through his nose, dragging his hands further up your thighs, somewhere between amusement and surrender. “You have retained nothing from the past quarter hour.”
You brought a palm to cup his cheek, stroking it lightly. “I retained handsome.”
“That was not part of the discussion,” he said, turning his face to press a kiss into your palm. The gesture always sent butterflies through your belly.
“It should have been,” you said softly. Your hand found his where it rested against your thigh, large, warm, steady. Your gaze moved over him slowly; studying the colours of his eyes, his well-sculpted nose, his delicate lips, his strong jaw, his broad chest, even the full breadth of his body built by years of court training and rebellion.
And when you looked up at him again, the fondness in his gaze struck you with such force you nearly forgot your own teasing. That gentle tenderness of his made women write songs, men swear oaths, and kingdoms place impossible hopes upon his shoulders. Gosh, how handsome.
And as though he could read the thoughts behind your eyes, he drew you closer and pressed a long, unhurried kiss to your lips. Slow and certain, as if reminding you that he had always been yours.
“What would the court think,” you murmured against him, “if they knew the future king melts beneath his wife’s touch?”
He smiled into the kiss, “Then it is fortunate,” he said softly, meant only for your ears, “that they never will.”
And perhaps that was the truest thing he had ever promised you. Only you knew the truth of him. The realm might love Prince Baelor Targaryen, but you loved the man who laughed softly in bed while you distracted him from politics with wandering hands and shameless admiration.
1) loved your baelor sick fic!!! so stinking cute and ugh just ate it up. 2) loveee the idea of one for maekar - perhaps like an injury the reader tries to hide (she’s embarassed or like maekar is busy and she doesn’t wanna add to his stress) but it gets worse from hiding it and then we get overprotective/fluffy maekar to the rescue! obvi 10000% don’t need to do this plotline if it’s not something you’re interested in!! ❤️
in sickness and in health — pt. 2
— i love putting these men into horrible situations >:)
The injury comes from the string of a bow. A sharp, whittling pain on your upper forearm. You weren’t wearing your guard, and this is partly the reason why you don’t tell him because he has told you multiple times on separate occasions to wear the fucking guard. An angry bruise forms there in a span of a couple of days.
You end up excusing yourself during a feast, retreating back to your chambers to inspect the wound, developing an ugly yellowish, purple color. The sleeves of your gowns are enough to cover it and you wear long robes when you sleep, praying to the old gods that the bruise will fade before anything untoward unfolds in the bedchamber.
What are you doing in here? Maekar pokes his head inside, before entering.
Nothing, you say, disappearing behind the changing board and reappearing fully dressed, injury out of sight. You already notice him eyeing you in that particular way, looking for anything out of place.
Will you be coming back?
Yes.
Well, come on then.
From then on, it’s apparent to him that you’re keeping something. He doesn’t press, just starts watching a little closer. He notices the tension when you’re on horseback, riding through the Kingswood. Aegon pounces on you one afternoon in his solar, and he sees the brief flicker of a wince, before your expression is schooled into a smile, asking the boy about what he learned from the maesters today.
He files it all away until he joins you in bed one night. You’re settled in before him, a book in your lap and he starts kissing your neck, your shoulder until he ends up on top of you. You forget the swollen part of your arm until pressure is placed on there and you’re wincing, gasping into the kiss, a hand on his chest.
What is that?
Nothing, you breathe, looking up at him.
Didn’t look like nothing.
He sits up. Slowly, he reaches for the tie of your robe, but his eyes are on your face, searching for a reaction, permission perhaps. He pulls back the silk off your shoulder, down your bad arm, as if he knows exactly what he’s looking for, as if he knows what’s there even if he hasn’t seen it.
Who did this? Is his first question. His expression hardens, one you’ve learned to read as anger, just simmering underneath, an attempt to not scare you off. He knows if he pressed too hard, there’s a chance you won’t tell him the truth. So he compromises on what truly matters. The bruise had evolved into an angry purple welt across your upper arm.
You grimace. A bow.
He hangs his head. An exasperated sigh comes from him, relief of a man knowing he won’t be putting his hands on another man tonight.
Did you at least ice it? There’s a sharpness to his voice that lets you know he isn’t pleased. And did you really think I wouldn’t notice?
It’s not a big deal. I didn’t want a sermon.
I don’t sermon.
Yes, you do.
He doesn’t dignify that with an answer, moving to call the servants for ice.
Are you uncomfortable? He asks, holding the cold cloth to your arm. He’d prefer to treat your wounds himself if he can without the maesters. It’s a reassurance to himself, and an excuse to touch you, to treat you gently, even if you’ve been married for a long time.
Yes. You grin, leaning in to peck the side of his lips. Better.
Next time wear the bloody guard. You smile against him before the distance closes once more.
Getting injured by another being is a different realm in itself. It doesn’t matter who, when or what, Maekar is evening the scales. The way he sees it; someone lays a hand on his wife, or any lady for that matter, his hands is on them next. It's only fair.
It happens at a feast, a drunk lord. He comes up from behind, doesn’t see your face, who you were, because not knowing you were a princess of the realm was the only reason he’d do something so reckless. He grabs your arm, the bad one, drunken murmurs about a nice time, and you yelp involuntarily. The musicians stumble, a shift in the air. The people nearby react, but nevertheless the feast goes on.
You knew where Maekar was, sitting at the high table as you chatted with your ladies, and danced with a few acquaintances. But even in a crowded room, you always knew where he was. And he always had an eye on you. He was out of his seat the moment he saw the man stalking through the crowd. Feasts always had him on edge because of this. Honestly, if it were up to him, he’d have you locked up in a room. If only you wouldn’t resent him for that.
Everything happens lightning quick that even you don’t have time to process it, there’s a blur of people, a blur of a familiar white head of hair, hands on the lord's neck, pushing him backwards with frightening strength and accuracy, until the lord is run ragged to the floor, parting a sea of people.
Maekar doesn’t even struggle. There’s a slew of curses, of ‘what the fuck do you think you’re doing’, as if laying hands on his wife like that was the most unimaginable risk you can take.
Apologize to my wife, you fucking fool.
Maekar, you call out, and when he meets your gaze, he lets go of the man as if he was disgusted by him through touch. He moves forward to you, a hand on your back, leading you to the high table, crowd parting immediately. The musicians take this as their cue to begin again and the ripple through the crowd dies down.
Alone in your chambers, he’d ask you where it hurt, and you’d soothe the anger that rose in him briefly, remind him it was done, in the past. You knew it couldn’t have been pleasant for him either, knew of his time in Redgrass. In bed later, he’s wary of the injury, though it doesn’t hinder him from carrying out his duties at all.
If ever you develop a sickness that isn’t visible, more on internal illness, this would cause more distress to him. An injury, he’s familiar with. He’s seen dozens in his lifetime, and he knows how to treat them. But if his wife is sick, shaking with a fever, temperature unusually high and she’s nearly disoriented, this is where it gets difficult. He doesn’t like to be faced with a problem with no or outright solution. He watches over the maesters and feels utterly useless.
When you’re sick, Maekar makes a point of not fussing over you, but he is there, almost constantly, hovering. He doesn’t know what to do specifically, but he knows he can’t let you out of his sight.
He searches for you after an afternoon training green boys in the yard. You’re not in your shared chambers, in the gardens, by the bay. He asks the maids, your ladies in waiting, and even they don’t know. They all seem to have this orchestrated to keep your whereabouts from him and it drives him up the walls. Where the fuck is my wife? One of the kingsguard tells him that you’re in one of the kept chambers in the east wing. Why is she there?
If the maesters try to keep him away, unlike Baelor, his reaction would definitely be more explosive. “What the fuck do you mean I can’t see her?” There will definitely be a physical altercation one way or another. He does listen to reason, and would probably last a few days before he’s engaging in another altercation with the maesters. “If you’re in there with her, then why can’t I see her—Don’t fucking give me that ‘prince of the realm’ horseshit.”
Would eventually barge in the room, standing over your bedside. Are you alright? He asks, eyes roaming, searching your face for any sign of pain. His voice is considerably softer, as if you didn’t just wake from hearing his raised voice outside the chamber doors, his concern giving way to his usual sternness he reserves for his sons and strangers in the Keep.
He’d take to keeping watch over you while you slept, especially if your temperature sparked and the maester’s tinctures kept you asleep. He fears losing you at night, so he keeps watch, and his fingers find the pulse on your throat more often than not. He’s soft on the inside, this you knew, but hearing you in pain actually makes his insides churn.
He would fight the maesters for you. Maekar knows you're perfectly capable on any other given day, but not today. So, he argues, on the medicine, the sheets, the warmth of the room, the smell of the incense. If you don't like something, he’s fighting on it as long as it’s within the realm of reason.
In the hot bath, he’d pretend his eyes don’t dip lower than they should. Your hair clings to wet skin, and you sigh pleasantly as the ache lifts from your body after weeks. He misses his wife, naturally, but he doesn’t want to push, knows he should let you rest.
If you’re feeling considerably better, he’s the one forcing you out of the room. Maekar pushes you to get better, to go on walks and feel the sun on your face, to breathe real air rather than incense and warm steam.
You’re sitting by the gardens, a vineyard overlooking the bay, where the wind is loud. There’s tea and an assortment of little goods. You see your favorite fruit cake, even though you knew it wasn’t in season yet. It’s only the two of you, no ladies in waiting and the Kingsguard has been instructed to keep a distance. The waves crashing along the shore is a more welcome sound than the murmurs of maesters.
Maekar brings the correspondence you’ve missed throughout the weeks, and you’re going through them. He’s standing by the edge of the garden, looking out at the sea, letting the silence blanket both of you, preoccupied with your own musings.
You don’t look up even when you hear him walk towards you, by your side. You don’t look up when he fixes the shawl wrapped around you, already starting to fuss over you. You smile up at him then, and his hand finds respite on your shoulder.
He bends down, lips finding your temple, murmuring, “I missed you.”
You smile, his hand wrapping around the back of your neck, gentle but firm, drawing you closer. “I know.” You smile as he kisses you, and when he takes you to bed later on, he feels as though it’s not only your fever that breaks, but the long drought for his wife.
Summary: Baelor's wife is sick. The maesters forbid him from seeing her, until they can't.
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It starts out as a chill. He notices the scarves and shawls you wrap yourself in even when you were just lounging in his solar during one of his late nights sending ravens and reviewing ledgers. Even when winter was moons away and he’s kept the hearth tended to throughout the night. He never says it but he loves it when you wait for him like this, though he wishes it was not at the expense of your own health.
Nevertheless, if you were cold, he only took it as another excuse to close the distance between you in bed, wrapping an arm around your middle. You don’t complain, intertwining your hands against your stomach. If he wakes in the middle of the night, he ensures the blankets are up to your shoulders and the hearth is burning enough to keep you warm.
But then came the coughing fits, so extreme it wakes you up, causes you to sit up in bed, catching your breath. Baelor wakes, a hand on your back, not crowding but also just there. He worries, of course. He gets you a cup of water and watches you finish the entire thing. He’d ring the servants for tea in the dead of night, ignoring your reassurances that you were alright and you didn’t want to bother the staff. No maesters, you insisted and he's but a slave to your whims.
The last straw for him is when you throw up the contents of your stomach in the middle of the night, swiftly pulling the covers back and running towards the silver pot in the far corner of the room. He’s up before he’s fully awake at the sound of your rushed steps across the stone floor.
I’m fine, you insist, sitting on the edge of the bed and clutching a goblet in both your hands as the sickness subsided. You can tell he’s restless. He wraps you up in a robe and the maesters are called before you can say anything.
While waiting, Baelor has inquiries of his own. What did you eat today? What were you doing? Who were you with? Were any of them unwell? You tell him you had the same food as everyone, did not do anything unusual. He seems unsatisfied by this.
The maesters conduct their examination and he’s standing behind them, watching, smallclothes disheveled under his robe. They tell you it’s probably just an upset stomach and leave. You reassure Baelor, and he caves but you can tell he files it away, similar to the way he assesses important information he finds when he holds council. He holds you just a little tighter that night.
The next day he lets you sleep in. He murmurs goodbyes against your temple and you mumble sweet nothings in return. He kisses your hand once, twice, asks you if you need anything, before leaving.
Call for me if you need anything, he reminds you before you shoo him away.
In the afternoon, when the duty provides respite, he decides to seek you out. You’re not in the gardens, or in the solar reading. One of your ladies informs him you’re still in your chambers. He feels the familiar creep of worry on his shoulders, especially when he enters your shared chambers and it is obviously devoid of sound, of life. Then he sees your form curled up under the covers. He sits on the edge of the bed, careful. He calls your name once, then twice. Then his hand is on your forehead and you’re burning up so much he nearly flinches.
He walks across the room, commands one of the kingsguard standing guard outside to fetch the maester. Quick. Now.
A hand on your cheek. Sweet girl, he sounds far away to you, can you sit up for me?
You push yourself up on your shoulders, body heavy and protesting. Your back is damp with sweat, hair slightly matted. Your eyes are hot and barely open. You hear water being poured, then a hand is on your face again, gently pushing strands of hair away.
Drink, you do a little too quickly like you’ve walked a mile in the desert, how are you feeling?
Baelor would feel bad about causing any discomfort to you even if it was for the sake of getting better. He’d press cold damp cloths to your forehead. You’d flinch and try to get away from the stinging cold, and he’d be there murmuring apologies. I’m sorry, sweet girl, this is just to bring your temperature down, he’d remind, a hand on your shoulder, I’m sorry, please stay still.
Would definitely be sweeter on you, more patient and caring. Knowing you’re unwell, you'd be on the back of his mind constantly.
He plans on seeing you after a small council meeting, but he’s intercepted by a maester halfway across the hall.
Isolation is best, the maester says.
For who?
For both of you.
He understands then what precautions they were taking, eliminating threats to the heir apparent. But all he could think of was how bad it could be for the maesters to isolate you, to separate you both out of fear of contagion. The maesters are concerned about his health, they check him too, but all he could think of was your condition.
Then he'd try to send Maekar in. Maekar would act offended about his brother’s lack of care for him, 'ah yes, allow the fourth spare to get the plague’. But it was all dramatics; he’d see the toll it took on Baelor, the worry about your condition, only hearing from you through the maesters, and give in eventually. You're responding well to the medicine, Maekar informs him, and you sleep most of the time.
At first, he'd try to reason with the maesters, that Maekar had been in your chambers and seemed well enough. But they are strict in their implementations.
A week of isolation, a week without his wife, and people can tell he’s more irritable than usual. Moments in small council meetings where he’d be quiet, lost in thought. He doesn’t let go of his duties but he’d definitely have a shorter span of patience than usual. Lords would learn to get to their points quickly and not stall any longer. He doesn’t snap, but he’d go quiet, nod tensely as if agreeing with whatever suggestion, but it’s clear it’s more of a do whatever you want, see what happens, than an actual agreement.
"She’s asking for you," Maekar says one night in his solar.
The space where you usually sat had been empty for many nights.
"What?" His writing halts.
"She’d been asking for you since yesterday." Something in his chest physically clenches.
"What did she say?"
"Nothing, really. Just said your name, asked where you were, then went back to sleep. She’s quite delirious, probably milk of the— Hey! What in the Seven— " His chair scrapes across the stone floor and he's out of the room before Maekar can finish.
Being forced apart from you rattled him, especially in your state. Already, the image of you, sick and alone, has his chest clenching. But to hear that you were searching for him, seeking him out, and he was not there was the last straw. Everyone had their duty. Him as heir, as prince. Even the maesters, he trusted, were doing everything in their knowledge to ensure a swift and safe recovery. But as of the moment, he felt as though he was the only one doing a disservice in being your husband.
He’s down the stairs of the tower of the hand lightning quick, nearly jogging across halls and abandoning the Kingsguard that followed him. Maester Yormwell greets him by the door of your chambers, mouth beginning to open in protest.
"Your Grace, I must insist on complete iso—"
"Let me through, or I’d have you back in the Citadel by nightfall."
The threat, akin more to Maekar than the heir apparent, has the maester stepping back both in surprise and fear. Everyone had their ends. Baelor, who was usually diplomatic, who seldom spoke unkindly, found that it was his wife who unraveled him.
You wake at the sight of your husband, pushing yourself up and immediately reaching for him. He closes the distance quickly, taking your hands and sitting by your bedside. He presses a kiss to your temple, a hand on the junction of your neck, feeling how warm you were. I’m sorry, he murmurs, I’m here, darling.
He knew you to be fiercely independent any other time, preferring to do your own thing and accompany him on your own time, so for you to be so rendered sick and incapable broke his heart a little, although he doesn't complain when you reach for him more often than not.
He seldom left your bedside by that point and any suggestion for isolation by the maesters were met with a glare. He seldom left you even when you were feeling better, enough to sit up in bed during long periods. He's gone for small council meetings but ensures you have one of your ladies in the room when he's not there.
He nearly moves his solar into your chambers.
The bed is large enough that he often works by the foot of it while you rested. You inspect the papers scattered on the bed leisurely. Mostly you slept. Then awoke to eat and have your medicine administered. He endures the steam in the room and eats with you. He holds you, without complaint, when it got too cold, when the sickness caused you to slip in and out of consciousness. He'd stroke your hair, run a hand across your back. Where does it hurt? He asks, and soothes the pain.
In the end, you feel as though his constant presence contributed a great deal to your recovery and the fever breaks eventually.
I'm fine, you urge him, go back to your work. Don’t you have any pressing matters to attend to?
My wife’s health, for one. He says, barely looking up from the paper in his hand.
At night, one call of his name has him abandoning whatever he was looking at, walking over to you and taking your outstretched hand. He takes whatever papers he needs and settles in the space beside you. You’d fall asleep to the sound of quill on paper.
You refuse to kiss him nearly the entire time. He leans in once, and you quite literally push his face back. I don’t want you to get sick, you reason, and laugh at the dejected look on his face.
When you get better, he’s still careful. But he accompanies you for a walk in the gardens, letting you feel the sun, or along the shore for some salt air.
"I heard you assaulted a maester." You say as you walk through the gardens. He holds your hand in the crook of his elbow. He matches your pace, slow and steady.
"Maekar exaggerates." He says. "Although I remember threatening to send someone back to the citadel."
"Baelor," you half laugh, half scold.
"They weren’t letting me see you." The gravel crunches under your shoes.
"Probably for good reason. I was ill, remember?"
"It wasn’t contagious. Maekar never got sick."
"Ah yes, I recall."
A squeeze of your hand. His other hand holds the shawl you've abandoned, one he insisted on bringing just in case. "He told me you were calling for me. "
"I was?" You frown, unable to recall.
"You were." He supplies. "It was torture."
You smile. "Maekar truly is your blood. Now you are the one exaggerating."
He stops half way through the path, facing you. "I’ve… Gods, I was so worried." A hand rests at your waist. "Never do that to me again."
"I’m better now." You cup his cheek, smiling, if only to reassure him. "I promise."
You see the worry disappear in his eyes before he closes the distance between you two.
i am always the bitch who's like. that's actually not true :) your brain does not stop developing at 25 or ever :) love languages can be a useful vocabulary but is not real :) a lot of the personality disorders you villainize are responses to immense pain and fear :) stop trying to sort the complexity of human experience into HARRY POTTER HOUSES pleaseee think critically abt what u are being told and who's telling u this. why would someone want u to believe that u aren't fully capable of decision making until 25? psych has been a tool to oppress since it was created, don't buy into it!
