─ summary: you're not speaking to them. how long before they break?
─ pairing: Gwayne Hightower, Ormund Hightower, Aegon II Targaryen, Aemond Targaryen, Daeron Targaryen, Valarr Targaryen, Jacaerys Velaryon x f!reader
─ content: 18+ MDNI | fluff | a little angst | implied smut | annoying husbands | hardheaded men
─ a/n: i wanted to add onto the original by doing the other AKOTSK/HOTD men. as always, thank you so much for the likes, comments, reblogs, requests, and asks. 🖤
AEGON — Three Days.
The first day he pretends he is not bothered at all. He drinks, he acts out, he stays up the whole night through, making a great show of being a man who doesn't care. By the second day the show is wearing thin, because the truth is that he cares a lot. All he wants is to be near you, but he is stubborn, and some part of him is convinced that you ought to apologize first. By the third day, he cannot bear it another hour. He comes to your room pouting like a scolded child, saying he is sorry, begging you to speak to him again. "I cannot continue!" Dramatic to the very last. You give in, partly because you did miss him, and partly because you would rather not have the whole keep hearing him carrying on like this.
AEMOND — Two Days.
More than anything, Aemond is desperate for love; the love you give him so freely, that no one else ever has. He knows he was wrong. He knows you are right not to speak to him. But he will not say so, because his pride is a vast and immovable thing. He lies in his own bed that second night, cold and alone and sleepless, and decides at last that his pride is not worth this. He rises, sneaks into your chambers and climbs silently into your bed, wrapping his arms around you and pressing a kiss to your forehead. "May I stay?" he asks. He cannot make himself say the words I was wrong, that is not his way, but the look in his eye, and the tears standing in it, say it loudly enough. You nod.
DAERON — Forever, Potentially.
He does not remember the fight, or you telling him to sleep elsewhere. He simply wakes to find you not speaking to him, and being who he is, assumes your love for him has finally run dry, that you no longer have it in you to endure him, and he is crushed by it. But he understands. Someone like you deserves a far better husband than the likes of him. So he resolves to disappear, to stop being a burden, to never trouble you again. It goes on like this for almost a week while you slowly lose your mind, because what in the actual hell is happening?! You confront him at last. He is stunned, he remembers none of it, but more than that, the revelation that you still love him undoes him completely. He pulls you into his arms and kisses you hard. The kind of kiss where his arms are around your waist pulling you impossibly close and your hands are curled in the front of his doublet. You're left so breathless you don't even remember why you were upset. He apologizes, swears he will change, he does not want to live in a world in which you have stopped loving him.
GWAYNE — An Hour.
The sweetest, most devoted husband, completely undone by the barest hint of your displeasure. If you are upset and not speaking to him, he lasts an hour at the very most before he comes to you with a little gift and a very big apology. He is so sorry for being so careless, he will never do such a thing again, never ever, he swears it. And he is so handsome and so sincere as he says it that staying angry is simply not an option available to you. You step into his arms and let him hold you and kiss you.
JACAERYS — Less Than an Hour.
The stress he carries makes him irritable sometimes, careless, a symptom of his youth as much as anything, and he says something snippy when you were only trying to help. He does not even let you leave the room. The words are barely out of his mouth before he regrets them and is apologizing. You try to walk past him and he stops you gently, both hands on your shoulders, his eyes piercing straight through you. He is putting an end to this before it can go anywhere at all. He repeats his apology, his hands sliding from your shoulders down to hold both of yours. You nod, but you need a moment, and he gives it to you. Your silence is the only thing he can think of, occupying him entirely until, an hour later, you come and find him, and climb into his lap, and let him hold you. He will never speak to you that way again.
ORMUND — A Day.
He is a pain in your ass, and he wants to break you. "Hmm. Not speaking to me now?" he says with that infuriating smile the moment he realizes what you are doing. He crowds your space all day, and he is, frankly, impressed by the sheer iron of your resolve. If only all his soldiers possessed your discipline. "How long do you imagine this can continue? You must speak to me sooner or later." After a full day of it, you do indeed snap. "Seven hells, do you ever stop talking?!" You storm out of the room, slamming the door behind you. He will not tolerate that in his house; he follows you, his fury matching your own, as he pulls you into the bedchamber. What follows is a fight indeed, a battle for dominance, each of you determined to have the upper hand. You win.
VALARR — Until Supper.
You and Valarr are in the middle of a thunderous fight, the first of your marriage. You and he on opposite sides of the room, nothing but tension and frigid air between you, when you decide to stop speaking to him altogether. He wants to fix this, but he also does not think hashing it out in the heat of the moment is particularly productive,not while you are both still upset. He lets you be silent, but you do not get to be angry at him all day. He comes to dress for supper and makes it clear he means to talk about it now, and he apologizes thoroughly for his part in it. It is difficult to maintain anger against someone so clearheaded. You apologize, forgive him, and ask him to help you with your dress. He decides to skip supper in favor of eating something else entirely.
warnings: +18 mdni, sex worker!fem reader, religious themes/guilt, dubcon (on account of being paid to have sex but reader gives explicit consent multiple times), porn no plot (so spoiler free!), dry humping, heavy petting, nipple sucking, marking, possessive behavior, dirty talk, begging, praise, a little bit of intimidation, size difference, finger sucking, ormund fucks you on a desk, clit stimulation, pussy slapping, unprotected piv, creampie, breeding kink towards the end, might be ooc because this is the first time i've ever written for him, lightly edited!
wc: 1.8k
thinking about pious ormund hightower and whore!reader who is so fucking pretty that she immediately becomes this man's kryptonite.
you're first presented to him as a gift. delivered to his bed chamber late one night by some castellan who'd gotten him all wrong, an offer to find common ground.
but ormund isn't an indulgent or lustful man. he honors the seven and resists his impulses. he'll be married one day, after all. he doesn't want to disrespect his future wife by sullying himself before he's even met her.
but you are...gods. the most beautiful woman he's ever seen. and ormund is well traveled, has seen all matter of beautiful women before and has never looked twice.
but the moment he lifts his eyes from the scrolls on his borrowed desk, he feels his resistance waver.
and, yeah. he knows he should send you away. should tell his guards to take you elsewhere, should give you a golden dragon for your troubles and tell you to buy yourself a nice gown or a good meal.
he should do the right thing. the godly thing. but then you come near him smelling of honeysuckle and ambrosia and every godforsaken tempting thing in all the seven kingdoms, and ormund is done for.
at first, you only sit in his lap and kiss his cheeks. and he tells himself it's fine, you know? it's not like you're really doing anything wrong. just worshipping a man you'd been paid to make feel good. and it does make him feel good, your soft lips against his skin.
but then he lets himself touch you.
slow at first. a hand on your thigh—over your dress. albeit a thin barrier of lace and silk, but a barrier still. and then he drags his knuckles down the back of your smooth neck, stroking the sweat-slick hair that clings to your nape.
you thread your own fingers through his curls, mouth drifting lower to lay kisses over his pulse. you're good at what you do, he realizes quickly. because before he can even register what's happening, you're turning fully to staddle his hips and hiking your dress up your legs.
he can feel you, even through his trousers. the heat that emits from between your thighs, the wetness, the desire. it makes him feel dizzy. drunk, even.
you give a tentative roll of your hips over his bulge and his head falls back, knocking lightly against the top of the mahogany chair. it's too much, and he knows it, and there's a thought in the back of his head as you create a delicious rhythm that he might be damned for this.
but he's too far gone now, that iron grip on his control slipping through his fingers like smoke. he can only feel the remnants of it like a thick humidity, can hardly remember those life-long teachings of the faith.
when your fingers unbuckle the iron buttons of his doublet, he lets you. doesn't push you away like he should when you push it over his shoulders and down his strong biceps, either.
you're so soft. tracing his scars with eager hands, still humping his clothed cock like you're the most desperate girl he's ever seen. he tugs roughly at the tie at the back of your dress, the fabric over your chest falling away with little resistance.
his big hands come to cup your breasts, massaging the supple flesh, calloused thumbs stroking over the peaks of your nipples. his mouth waters at the sight of you, bare and free and open, all for him.
his for the taking.
his for the feasting.
ormund leans forward and suckles your tit into his mouth, tongue demanding as it flicks across your nipple. he kisses his way across your sternum to the other, sucking and biting, unable to stop himself from making some sort of claim on you despite being fully away you're not his to claim.
he's not an indulgent man, no. but greedy? well...that's another matter.
your breath is warm against the shell of his ear as you say, "i want you inside me."
he should say no. he knows that.
but then you say, "please, ser."
and gods. what's a man to do? deny a pretty woman? deny the prettiest woman?
ormund doesn't have the strength. not when you beg so beautifully.
"get up," he says.
you do without a moment's hesitation. perfect girl. obedient girl.
ormund stands to his feet and crowds your space until you have to take a step back. one, and then another, and another. he tilts his head and smiles with a wolfish grin until your back hits the edge of the desk.
he sees it there, for a fleeting moment—the fear in your eyes. but you don't have to be afraid, not of him. he's a godly man, don't you know? he would never hurt a woman, let alone one like you.
gently, he lifts his hand to your face and strokes the back of his knuckles over the curve of your cheek. "do you have any idea how beautiful you are?"
the fear subsides, and ormund traces the shape of your sweet mouth with the pad of his thumb.
"if it weren't for coin, would you still want this? and don't lie, girl."
he watches as your pupils dilate. you nod, slowly at first, but then again with more certainty. "yes."
"good." he presses his thumb past your lips, feeling the soft wetness of your tongue and she sharpness of your teeth. you hollow out your cheeks, staring up at him through your lashes the whole time.
a moan escapes him at the sight of you. pretty and sinful and irresistible all the same. he lets you suck his thumb for a few precious moments, committing the feeling of your warm mouth to memory.
but the moment his desire for you grows impossibly more suffocating, he brackets an arm around you and lifts you onto the desk. ormund pushes your shoulders back and pulls your dress up right over the ravens he'd been writing moments before you'd stepped foot into his space, ink likely still drying.
you lift your legs; the heels of your feet hooked right at the edge. ormund gorges himself on the sight of you; bare and spread wide for him, beautiful and womanly and so very wet.
with one hand, the knight undoes his belt. and with the other, he strokes a finger through the seam of your cunt. finds your clit and circles it carefully, delighting in the way your eyes flutter closed and a hum leaves your lips.
his cock is aching now. throbbing in his hand as he pulls it from his breeches and strokes it desperately.
this would be enough to finish him, he knows. a firm grip around the base of his cock and the most mouth-watering sight before him. an interactive display of indulgence.
it should be enough.
and yet it is not.
ormund brings his hand, wet now with your arousal, to his lips. he inhales deeply, taking the scent of you deep into his lungs, before he brings his finger to his mouth and sucks the taste of you off of it.
he makes space for himself between your spread thighs and watches curiously as you prop yourself up on your elbows. "i want to watch it go in," you admit sheepishly.
there's a tone of innocence in your voice that has him trembling with need. it makes him feel...powerful, almost. like you're at his mercy.
and maybe you are.
ormund knows he shouldn't like the feeling, but he does. and he's already gone this far, and so he grips the back of your neck hard and pulls you forward, abdomen curling to get a better view.
he lines himself up at your entrance, coating the tip of his cock in your slick, and then slides in deep.
the thought crosses his mind that you feel like heaven.
tight and wet, a kind of worship in it's own right.
ormund fucks you hard. tugs at your hair and slams his hips against yours with reckless abandon. kisses your cervix with the tip of his big cock, stretching you wide.
he doesn't kiss you, because it's too intimate.
but his lips hover over yours, breathing in your moans, swallowing up your exhalation. ormund thinks you're beautiful as you are, but when your eyes are wide and you're all filled up with him?
gods.
it's something else entirely. makes him throb inside of you, the muscles in his arms flexing as he holds you upright. "you're perfect," he says, and means it. doesn't throw the word around lightly.
but it's true.
ormund circles your clit with his free hand after gathering spit from his own mouth for ease of friction. he smears his saliva over your cunt, slapping his fingers against you slit, twice gently, and then once sharp.
but he soothes the ache quickly, shushing your whining with a steady pressure against your swollen clit.
he spreads his fingers and slides them down, two on each side of his cock that still pistons into your opening. sweat begins to bead along his hairline. "tell me you want me," he murmurs, voice low and thready.
"i want you," you say.
and it satisfies him, but then you keep going and his knees grow weak.
"want you to—to defile me. feels so good. so—so good inside of me, please. don't stop. please don't stop. i want to be your woman. i'll do anything, my lord. anything, please."
there's a part of him that doesn't believe it. ormund tells himself you're being paid to say these things. that it's about the gold and not about him.
but you beg so beautifully and he thinks that yeah, he might want that, too.
might want to keep you at his bedside for his own twisted pleasure. for his own relief. his pet. his plaything.
his woman.
your cunt squeezes tight around him, and your knuckles around the edge of the desk blanch as you hold tight. "oh, gods."
he groans, the sound reverberating deep in his chest, and then empties himself deep inside of you. fills you up and doesn't stop his thrusts. his cock twitches and becomes coated with your release and his.
he doesn't slow his pace until your muscles go slack, until the oversensitivity becomes borderline painful.
carefully, he releases his hold on you and lays you back against the desk, a small smile forming on your pretty face. a look of pure bliss, provided by his touch alone.
ormund gently pulls himself back, and watches as the sticky white mess of his cum spills out of you. he gathers it with his fingers and pushes it back in, thumb stroking lightly over your clit.
it's wrong, and he knows it, but he hopes that it sticks. hopes that one day your belly will be rounded with his baby, and he'll have no choice but to marry you. to raise you up from a girl in a brothel to a lady of his house. a hightower.
summary: Baelor is the only man who truly sees you in a house of lunatics and a father who forgets you even exist. It’s a shame for you that Aerion notices your uncle's protective gaze and uses that knowledge to lure you into a night of "freedom" just to provoke Baelor while leaving you in a walk of shame. You thought you wanted to escape the Red Keep for a night, but you ended up pinned against a wall by a man who is officially done with your games and eager to prove he has more than enough endurance to handle you. (request)
pairings: baelor targaryen x niece!reader aerion targaryen x sister!reader
warnings: 9.3k words. mature themes. dead dove: do not eat. targcest (brother / sister & uncle / niece). dubcon (bordering noncon). grooming implications (reader is 18+, no minors involved.). unprotected p in v. virginity loss. power imbalance. emotional manipulation. toxic relationship dynamics. choking kink / strangulation. public exposure. voyeurism. exhibitionism. oral gagging. angry / rough sex. breeding themes. degradation. humiliation. d/s dynamic. impact play. spanking. external ejaculation. breast play. clit stimulation. cunnilingus (oral sex). fingering. read responsibly.
note: Aerion’s part is longer than I expectrd because… well I got carried away! I really have to rewatch daemyra’s scene sooo I can put it rightin my imagination and I also used rhae’s clothing that scene to use here in the fic too.
Being the youngest daughter of Maekar Targaryen means living in the shadow of a father whose heart turned to stone the moment Dyanna Dayne took her last breath. Your own mother was a political marriage to satisfy the both parties, and she birthed you with silver hair and lilac eyes that you inherited from your father, but she also gave you other features she passed down, like your skin. You might look the part of being a Targaryen, but you’re a ghost in your own home, and your father stares at you as if he’s searching for a face he’ll never see again. He looks for a resemblance to Dyanna that you don't have, while your other sisters carry her memory in their faces. You’re just a reminder of a necessity, and it left a void that no amount of power could ever truly fill.
The rest of your siblings are just a mess of broken pieces, and you’re always watching them from the shadows of the big halls. Daeron is the oldest, but he’s usually lost in the drink in his goblet while he tries to escape from his own dreams. Aerion is a brother who hates you because you don’t share his whole blood, and he treats you like an outsider every chance he gets. Aemon stays away from the family, and your sisters are busy with their own lives, while your beloved Egg is always sneaking off to escape Aerion, too. You’ve learned to do things in the way only a princess like you can, and that means testing the patience of the one man who actually looks at you.
Baelor Targaryen is the Hand and the heir to the throne, but to you, he’s just the uncle who holds your leash too tight. He doesn't have a daughter of his own, so he has taken you under his wing, and he tries to keep you shielded from the world while your own father forgets you exist. He treats you like a doll that might break while he ensures you remain untouched because he wants to save your hand for a high lord you deserve, and he treats your name as if it’s his own to defend. You feel trapped by his kindness, and his constant worry makes the whole place feel like a cage that gets smaller as time passes. Your beloved brother knows about the complicated relationship you have with your uncle, and Aerion loves to mess with your head because of it.
He whispers that Baelor is just another man trying to own you, and he pushes you to break the Prince’s heart just to see what freedom feels like. He always loved to toy with you, even when you were younger, because you and he don’t share the same mother. So it was nothing that he spent weeks filling your ears with stories about common folk beyond the Red Keep, because that was the easiest way to build an image for you, and he promised to show you things Baelor would never allow. He talks about walking through the realm without a single knight at your back, and he tells you the people in the streets have more life in them than anyone in this cold place.
That promise of freedom is what leads you to the small scrap of parchment paper hidden under your pillow, and you read his handwriting by the light of the fire. The note tells you exactly where the hidden door is and gives you instructions on how to get out without anyone knowing. You wait until the halls are quiet and the knight in charge thinks you’re already out for the day. The only sound you can hear is the wind passing by while you walk toward the corner of your chambers. The chair in front of the exit is heavy, but you manage to shove it aside, and the wood scrapes quietly against the floor as you clear the way to the wall. You press your hand against the stone, and it swings open to reveal a dark pathway.
There’s an unpleasant smell and wet stone, while you can see a small bundle of fabric sitting on the floor of the passage. You lean through the opening while your hands grip the edge of the stone frame, and you peer into the hallway to check if the coast is clear. Once you’re on the other side, you reach for the bundle, and you start to strip your heavy clothes. It lands on the floor, and you leave it right where Aerion’s gift had been waiting as if you're swapping one identity for another. You put on the brown tunic, then tie the laces at the front before slipping into the sturdy breeches and the dark grey doublet. The fabric is rough against your skin, but it has more life than anything you’ve worn in years.
You sit on the cold ground to pull on the boots, and you tug the laces tight until they’re secure enough for a long walk. You finish the look by tucking your silver hair under a cap, and you finally look like just another smallfolk in the city. Sevens, you even look like a boy in such a state. You stand up, and you shove the stone back toward the way it was, but you make sure to leave a tiny gap. You don't close it all the way because you need to be able to get back inside before the sun comes up and people come looking for you. You begin to walk down the narrow stone stairs once you're sure everything is good, and the air gets colder the further you go. The walls are damp, and the only light comes from the small torches flickering in the distance as you follow the path deeper.
You keep your steps quiet as you watch the uneven way beneath your feet while moving through the hallways and along the silent tunnels. The path eventually leads deep under the Red Keep, where the altar of the massive skull of Balerion is sitting. You take a moment to look at its enormous size before walking past it, then follow the hallway as it leads toward more steps. You finally feel the cold air of a chilly night after you reach the bottom, and you see a figure leaning against the wall. Aerion looks up as you approach, and he gives you a crooked smile. “Took you long enough.” Aerion doesn't wait for an answer before he reaches out to grab your hand with a firm grip.
He tugs you forward, and you follow him as he leads the way out of the keep and toward the city. Both of you hurried to reach the bottom of the stairs, and the silence of the Red Keep is replaced by the distant noise of King's Landing at night. Aerion keeps a fast pace while he guides you through the streets. “Stay close and do not let go of my hand,” he says as he looks over his shoulder to check on you. He turns a corner where the street is filled with brothels, and you realize he’s taking you toward the Street of Silk. You keep your head down while you clutch his hand tightly when you step into this kind of crowd for the first time.
“Is this it?” you ask while you try to process what you see and the strange faces. “It is,” Aerion laughs, and he leads you deeper into the noise. “Baelor would be mad if he could see you now.” You follow him inside a crowded building, where you can’t describe very well what the scent is that you smell. Someone snatches the doublet right off your shoulders as you push through the people, and it disappears into the crowd, but Aerion doesn't even try to stop them. He just yanks his own hood back to reveal his silver hair, and he stands tall as he leads you further into the room. “Let them have it,” he says while he looks back at you. “You do not need it here,” he adds.
You look around the room, and you see why he isn't worried about you missing your clothes. People are showing all of their skin everywhere you look, and you see women with exposed breasts while men walk around with their cocks hanging between their legs. In every corner, there are people fucking without any shame while the rest of the crowd just watches or drinks. You see bodies entwined together, and the sight makes your face hot, but Aerion just keeps moving as if this is the most natural thing in the world. It’s almost like he’s always here and used to it. Aerion leads you into a massive room where the room is filled with gasping breaths and sounds of pleasure.
You see people fucking on every surface, and some are sprawled across the cushions, while others are pinned against the walls or just doing it without shame on the floor. The sight of so many men and women thrusting or bouncing out in the open makes your heart race. He guides you toward the side of the room, and he doesn't stop until your back is pressed against a cold wall. Aerion looks down at you with a grin, and his fingers reach for the laces of your tunic. “You are shaking,” he whispers while he starts to undo the knots with slow movements. “Is the little princess scared of a few naked bodies, or is it just that you have never seen how people live?”
He loosens the fabric until it hangs open, and he shoves his hand inside to grope your breast. His calloused palm squeezes your flesh, and he watches your face for any sign of pleasure. “Look at them,” he orders while he yanks on the laces to open the shirt even further. “Do not turn away like a coward. You wanted to see behind the walls of the Keep, so you might as well see all of it.” His other hand drops to the waistband of your breeches, and he starts fumbling with it. You try to look away from the people nearby, looking at the two of you, but he grips your chin, and he forces you to keep your eyes on the room. He yanks the breeches down past your hips with a sudden movement, and they fall to your ankles.
“Much better,” he murmurs as he looks at you from your head to your toes while you stand there and have never felt more exposed than before. “Now you look like you actually belong here.” Aerion doesn't waste another second before he silences your protest with his mouth, and he crushes his lips against yours in a harsh kiss. You feel the warmth of his body as he pins you harder against the cold wall while his hand slides down between your legs. His fingers find your pearl, and he starts to grind his palm against your center with a harsh pressure that makes your knees weak. You try to gasp, but the sound is trapped in your throat as he slides his tongue into your mouth, and he rubs his thumb over the sensitive bud. The sensation is overwhelming while he toys with what’s between your folds, and you let out a muffled whine into the kiss because of the way he teases you.
He smirks against your lips when he hears the high-pitched moan you make, and he only increases the speed of his hand to make sure you can’t think of anything but him. “Good,” he murmurs while he breaks the kiss just enough to look at your expression. “Make those pretty sounds for me while everyone watches.” Aerion shifts his weight while he watches your face for any sign that you’re close to finishing, and he shoves two fingers deep into your cunt without any warning. The sudden fullness of your cunt makes you arch against the stone as the pain from the stretch of his fingers affects you while you try to clench around him. "Hngh-! ” You let out a choked gasp, and your fingers sink into the skin of his shoulders while you try to find your breath.
He doesn't slow down or give you a moment to adjust, but instead, he thrusts his fingers deeper until they’re knuckle deep. He smirks at the way tears start to pool in your eyes before he leans in close, and you can feel his breath against your skin. “Mmph... Ah! Enough... Aerion- nnngh,” you whimper while you squirm against his hand, but he only takes it to push his fingers deeper inside you. “Enough?” he mocks you before he starts to move his fingers at a rough pace. “If the High Lords of the realm could see their little Princess now... legs wide and sobbing in a brothel, do you think a single one of them would still want to marry you? You are tainted now,” he sneers while he increases the speed of his hand. “No one wants a girl who has been opened by her brother while commoners watch her make those sounds.”
“Hah... P-please," you whimper while the pain mixes with the pleasure, and your head lolls back against the wall as he shoves his fingers deep into you. He just watches you while your tears start to flow out because it’s all becoming too much. “You want more?” Aerion murmurs against your skin, and he suddenly drops to his knees while your breeches stay bunched at your ankles. You let out a broken gasp as he forces your knees apart with his other hand until the fabric of your breeches tugs against your skin and your wet pearl pulses from the feeling of the cold air. He keeps his fingers buried deep inside you while his tongue swipes across your folds at the same time.
“A-Ae-! Gods,” you cry out, and your fingers find his hair while he buries his face between your thighs to taste you out. The feeling of his mouth makes you grind against him as he sucks on your bud while his hand pumps inside. His other hand grips your hip to keep you pinned against the wall while you heave and sob his name. The way he licks and moves his fingers inside you is something you have never felt before, and you attempt to keep your legs from shaking too hard, but always fail. “Look at me,” he growls against your skin while he looks up at you with hunger, and he continues to flick his tongue against you until you’re sobbing from how he does it.
Aerion buries his face even deeper between your thighs while his tongue licks the line of your folds, and he uses the tip of his tongue to flick at your swollen pearl. You let out a loud moan that echoes through the place because you don’t even care if the other people here see your brother between your legs. The shame doesn’t matter if he uses his mouth to suck on your cunt that way, and you only think about the way he shoves his fingers deeper into you. You don’t care about the people watching or the fact that he’s your brother because the way he moves his tongue makes you forget it. You only want to feel more of him as you watch his dark hair move against your skin while he gulps down the slick around it.
You strive to open your legs further, even though the breeches at your ankles stop you, while you lean your head back against the stone, and you let your cries fill the air. “Emā se sȳrje orvorta eman mirre ēdas,” (You have the best cunt I have ever had) he mumbles against your skin while he swipes his tongue over you again, and his fingers pump deeper inside you until you feel something you can’t even describe. You grind your cunt against his mouth while you seek more relief, but he suddenly yanks his face away. You let out a frustrated whine that almost sounds like you’re complaining, which makes him slap your clit with his other hand in response, and he shoves his fingers deeper.
The way he uses his mouth and the thrust of his fingers make you moan loudly because you need his mouth back against your cunt. Aerion doesn’t put his face back between your legs yet, and it almost feels like he doesn’t want to, especially the way he stays there while he continues to use his hand. He watches your reaction while his fingers move fast around you, and the way his eyes stare at you is too much, as if you can even feel it touch you. “L-lēkia- A-Aerion… P-please- kostilus dīnagon aōha relgos arlī va nyke,” (Brother, put your mouth back on me) you cry out as you look down at him.
He smiles at you from below while he finally moves his face back against your center to start working his mouth again. He flicks his tongue up and down your folds with a greed that makes you sob while he sucks at you as if he is starving. You feel his fingers continue to pump, and his mouth focuses on the pearl until your entire body shakes from the pressure. He devours you while he ignores the sounds of the brothel around you because he only cares about the way you taste. Aerion gives you a few more hard thrusts before he yanks his fingers out where he leaves you gaping and empty. He stands up fast, and you immediately feel the cold air of the brothel on your skin when the warmth of his body against you disappears.
He doesn’t say a word when he turns his back on you, and he starts walking fast toward the exit as if he doesn’t want you to catch him. You are left heaving against the wall with your breeches pooled at your ankles and your shirt hanging open that reveals your exposed breasts to the entire room. “Aerion-! N-nngh- hah... wait!” you gasp while you strive to find your balance. You clutch at your open tunic to hide your chest, but you can't even move to follow him because your legs are still shaking from his touch. You watch his silver hair disappear into the group of naked bodies, and you realize he’s actually leaving you here. “Lēkia! Sevens- Aerion!” you call out again, but the sounds of people moaning nearby drown your voice.
You feel the pulsing feeling between your legs, and you hurried to tug your breeches back up before anyone else decides to take advantage of you. “Damn him,” you hiss while you angrily fix your beeches with clumsy fingers. You put your breasts back into the tunic, and you yank the ties shut as fast as you can while your heart beats fast against your ribs. You look around the room with a panicked expression and notice a few men staring at you with hungry eyes. The sight makes you finish tucking in your shirt quickly, and you run toward the exit to try to find him before you're truly lost around the city. You stumble out of the brothel, and the cold air touches your skin like it’s a slap in your title that you’re walking out like this.
You don’t even realize the cap that hid your silver hair is gone, and you just keep walking as the wind blows those strands away. Your clothes are messy, and the way you tuck your tunic is not even proper, but you don’t care because you just want to get away from that place. A few drunkards hanging around in the alley stop to stare as you pass over them. “Is that... silver?” one of them mutters while he squints his eyes through the dark as if he’s trying to confirm if it’s one of the Targaryen bastards because who could even have silver hair but in such a state like you have right now? No highborn will wear that filthy fabric. “Cannot be,” another responds, and he leans against a wooden post. “What would a dragon be doing coming out of a hole like this?”
“Look at the way she walks,” the first one whispers while he watches your shaky legs. “Someone definitely had their way with her there.” You really tried to keep your head down and not fight with them because you would just get yourself caught. You pick up your pace while your heart thumps against your ribs like you are wishing no one would ever recognize you. Every person you’re walking by feels like a hand reaching for you, and every muffled laugh from a nearby window sounds like a mockery of your shame. You reach the side entrance of the Red Keep, and you slip through the door while the silence of the castle swallows you whole. Thanks to the Sevens that the knight on duty was distracted by another night, so they didn’t even blink an eye in your direction.
The halls are empty except for the rats lingering around and the fire from the torches. Everyone is asleep, and the only sound you can hear is the scuff of your boots against the floor. You feel small in the big corridor while you hug your arms around your chest as a poor attempt to feel fully covered, despite the fact that you’re even clothed, and because you can’t stop trembling from the cold. You walk past the closed doors and along the walls as your messy hair falls over your face while you keep your eyes on the floor to avoid being seen. You can feel the air on your swollen lips as you realize how exposed you feel without your doublet because you are only wearing a tunic.
A few of the laces are still untied at the top, but you don’t even bother to fix them. You just want to be in your chamber and hide, so you pick up your pace, which makes your boots thud louder against the floor. You reach the hallway, turn at the end of it, and you almost start running until a tall figure steps out from the shadows and blocks your path. You nearly crash into his chest, and you stumble back while you struggle to keep your balance. You saw the dark hair and stern expression of Baelor when the dim torchlight fell on his face. He stands there with his arms crossed over his chest while he looks down at your messy hair and your untied tunic with a look of pure disgust.
“Where have you been?” he asks, and his voice sounds like he’s mad. You try to walk past him by taking a step to the side, but he moves to block you again, and he stays put. “I asked you a question,” he says before he steps closer, and he forces you back toward the stone wall. You just shake your head, and you try to look away from his gaze because you can’t bear the way he’s judging you. It’s almost like he sees a different person right now, and it’s not the lovely niece he knows. “Did you hear me?” Baelor asks again while his voice rises a little, but not enough to wake people, and he looms over you. “I want to know which brothel you crawled out of and which whorehouse allowed you in.”
His words stirred emotions deep inside you, and what he said is probably worse than a slap. You look up at him and try to stand tall, like you are gathering your confidence to talk back to him. “It is no concern of yours where I spend my time,” you said while you met his eyes. “You are neither my father nor my King, and I do not owe you an account of my activities!” you said with annoyance before you tried to push past him again, but Baelor reaches out, and he catches your wrist. He yanks you back toward him, and he holds you so close that you can feel the warmth radiating from his body.
“It became my concern the moment you brought shame to this house,” he hisses while he stares at your messy hair and tunic. “Was it Aerion? Did you let that boy drag you into the mud?” You let out a bitter laugh before you twist your arm, but he doesn’t let go, and his eyes are now eyeing you angrily at your swollen lips. “Aerion knows how to spend his time,” you spit out, and you lean in toward his face while your eyebrows knit together. “But you are so occupied with the King’s business and the duties of the Hand that you likely have not laid hands on a woman in years.” Baelor’s jaw tightens, and his grip on your wrist gets even tighter until it hurts. He doesn’t say anything for a second, but you can see the rage behind his eyes as he stares at your swollen lips and your slightly opened tunic that will surely reveal your chest if he pulls the tie more.
“Is that what you believe?” he asks, and his voice is strained as he yanks you closer to his chest. “That I have lost my way?” He doesn’t drag you away, but instead he shoves you back against the cold stone of the corridor wall with a sudden force that knocks the whine out of you. He pins your wrists above your head with one hand, and he uses his other hand to grip your throat. It’s not enough to knock you out, but it's enough to catch you off guard. The hallway is empty, and the dim torchlight makes his shadow loom over you as you can feel the warmth of his body. “You think I am too old and too tired for the likes of you,” he whispers after he leans down and his breath touches your ear. “But look at you. You walk back here in this state, and you expect me to ignore how you ruin yourself for a night with Aerion.”
You look up at him, and a taunting smile spreads across your face because you can see how much you’re getting under his skin. You almost look like you enjoy the way he’s towering over you, and you only smiled for a moment before it disappeared. You widen your eyes, and your eyes start to water while you stare at him with a frightened look. Luckily for you, you have a talent for faking your emotions. “You are hurting me,” you whisper, and your voice sounds small in the empty hallway. His hand is still tight against your neck, and you can feel the heat from his palm against your skin. You’re not actually in pain, but you watch his expression for any sign of hesitation. You lean your head back against the wall, and you let a single tear roll down your cheek while you keep your eyes looking at him.
“Is this what you want?” you ask, and you let your voice tremble just enough. “Are you truly going to hurt your only girl because of Aerion? I thought I meant more to you than a reason to lose your temper.” Baelor’s grip doesn’t loosen, but you see a flicker of something in his eyes when you call yourself his girl. He looks down at your swollen lips and then back at your watering eyes while his chest heaves against yours. He leans in closer until his nose brushes against yours, and you can feel his anger. He can easily see through the act, and his eyes darken when he realizes you are trying to play him. “You are not a girl,” he says roughly. “You are a woman who does not know her place, and you think you can play these games with me because I have been kind to you in the past?”
He tightens his grip around your throat, but it’s not in a way that will choke you out of air; instead, he wants you to feel the pressure while he looms over you. He lets go of your wrists, and they drop to your sides, but you’re pinned too firmly against the wall to move. “Do not play the victim with me when you were just in the arms of a prince who cares nothing for your safety,” he growls, and his face is inches from yours. He slides his free hand down your chest, and he slips it under the hem of your tunic. His palm is hot against your skin as he moves upward, and he finds your breast under his palm. He squeezes your flesh firmly, and his thumb brushes over your nipples while he watches your tears dry up.
“Nnngh... H-hah n..." you moan breathily as you arch your back against the wall. The sound makes his jaw clench, and he moves the hand that is already at your neck to slide his fingers up until they touch your lips. He shoves them into your mouth to make you choke on them while his palm is firm against your chin to hold your head from looking away. He forces your jaw open with two fingers he placed over your tongue to keep you quiet. He pressed his weight into you so you could feel the hardness of his cock under his clothes, and he kept his other hand busy under your shirt. “Keep your mouth shut,” he commands, and his voice is gritty. “You will wake the people in this wing.”
You let out a muffled moan against his hand, and you look up at him with wide eyes while your heart thuds against your ribs. He let out a deep groan from his throat, and he started to grope your flesh with pressure that makes your legs feel weak. You try to say something back to him, but you can only make a whine around his fingers while he stares at your face. You look up at him through your lashes, and you reach down with your free hand to find the heavy shape of his cock through his breeches. You wrap your fingers around the length of him, and you feel him throb under your touch when you squeeze him. Baelor lets out a deep grunt, and he closes his eyes for a second as he reacts to your hand.
He doesn’t pull away, and instead, he uses his hand on your face to control your mouth. He shoves his index and middle fingers deeper into your throat while he uses his thumb and his remaining fingers to grip your jaw tightly. He forces your mouth open wider, and he curls his fingers over your tongue to keep you from speaking or biting down. “Mmmph... Hngh! ”You gasp, and your eyes water for real this time when you feel his fingers reach close to your throat. “Seven hells,” Baelor curses, and his voice is hoarse as he leans his forehead against yours. “You are a bold little whore, and you think you can handle a man like me just because you have been playing with Aerion.”
He keeps his fingers buried in your mouth, and he moves his other hand from your breast down to your waist. He fumbles with the ties of your breeches, and he yanks them open with a harsh tug. He doesn’t stop there, and he slides his hand inside to find your wet cunt while your hand keeps working on his cock through the fabric. He finds your bud, and he rubs his thumb against it with a force that makes your knees buckle. "Nngh-! Mmmf!” you cry out against his fingers, and your cunt gets wetter as he pleases you with his thumb. “You want to be used?” he whispers, and he stares into your eyes while he works his fingers inside your mouth with his hand inside your cheeks. “I will give you exactly what you deserve.”
Baelor pulls his hand away from your cunt and mouth before he turns you around with a surprising movement that leaves you breathless. He pushes your face against the cold wall, and he yanks your breeches down to your knees. He holds your ass, and he feels the softness of them for a moment before he leans closer and grinds his clothed cock against you. He wraps one arm around your body, and he slides his hand underneath your tunic so that it rests firmly on your breast while he stays close against your back. “Iksan vaoreznuni,” (I am sorry) he starts apologizing in Valyrian against your ear, and his voice is laced with a guilt that wasn’t there before. “I did not mean to be so harsh with you, my little dove.”
He keeps grinding against you while his hand kneads your chest, and he nuzzles the side of your neck as if he wants to be even closer to you. His anger turns into a desperate affection as he holds you tightly against the wall while his breath hitches. “You just do not understand what it does to me when I think of you in those places,” he murmurs gently, and he closes his eyes as he feels the warmth of your body. You move your hips back against him, and you feel him through his breeches. You grind your arse against his front, and he lets out a heavy groan. You lean your head back against his shoulder before you smile.
“Are you jealous?” you ask softly. “Does it bother you that I was there with my legs open while other men watched? Does it eat at you to think that any one of them could have taken me on the floor and used me until I could not walk?” You feel his heart thudding against your back, and his grip on your breast gets tighter because of what you’re saying. You chuckle, and you move your arse against him again to make sure he feels you against him. “Aerion is young, and he has the fire for it, but you are just an old man who thinks an apology will make me forget how you just had your fingers down my throat,” you whisper, and you shove your arse back into his pelvis.
You feel his breath against your ear while you move your hips to feel his thick cock against your soft flesh. He makes a rough sound, and his fingers sink into your skin. You don’t stop, and you close your eyes while you mock him with your movements. “You are slowing down… Maybe you are just scared that you do not have enough blood left in you, actually, to handle a woman like me,” you murmur, and your hair brushes his face when you lean your head more to his shoulder. He let out a snarl, and he yanked his breeches down past his hips with a single motion. He doesn’t give you a second to prepare before he grabs your waist with both hands, and he positions himself at your entrance.
He pushes into you with a sudden thrust that buries his cock inside you in an instant, and the force of it makes you cry out. You have no choice but to place your palms against the wall to keep your body from falling while he pins you there with the weight of his body. He moves his hands, so they’re both holding onto your hips before he begins to work you against him with a hard force. He isn’t just thrusting into you, but instead he is yanking your hips back to meet every ram of his cock, and the impact makes your face uncomfortably rub against the wall. “You want to talk about Aerion?” he growls in your ear, and his voice is filled with ugly rage. “You think that boy has the fire for this when he could not even keep you for a whole night? He left you in the dirt like a used whore because he is a coward who only knows how to play instead of being a man.”
He pounds into you even harder, and his fingers on your skin are enough to start bruising with how he puts pressure on it while he uses your hips to control the depth of every plunge. “I was going to be kind to you… I was going to take you back to your chambers to- " He cuts himself off while he buries himself inside you to the hilt. “To give you the gentle touch you deserve,” he taunts as he yanks your hips back to meet every ram of his cock, and the impact makes your forehead bang against the wall. “But, no, you just had to keep your tongue wagging,” he hisses while he pounds into you without any plan to stop this any sooner. “Look at you now,” he grunts when you clench around him. “You’re being used in a hallway by the old man you look down on.”
He keeps a tight grip on your waist while he pistons into you. “You’re taking every inch of me while your precious brother is probably with another whore’s cunt." Baelor lets out a moan against your neck, and he moves one of his hands from your hip to your arse. He grips the soft flesh painfully before he pulls back just enough to hit one of your arses with a loud slap that can be heard through the corridor. He doesn’t even care if someone hears the sound or if your father, Maekar, happens to walk around the corner and find his youngest daughter being used by his dear brother. He doesn’t want to hide anymore, and instead, he looks like he wants the whole castle to know exactly who is fucking you like a hound.
“Go on then,” he growls, and he pushes his hips into you with a thrust that makes your toes curl against the floor. “Do not hold back your voice for my sake.” He buries his entire length inside you, and he stays there for a heartbeat to let you feel the fullness of it. “I want you to moan so loudly that every guard and every servant in the Red Keep knows what you are.” He lets his cock throb inside you, and his thickness makes your breath hitch. “Let them all hear how the future king handles a slut like you.” A slap to your arse makes you arch your back with a loud moan to hear from it. His hips start to hammer into you again with a relentless pace and don’t stop for breath. He keeps yanking your hips back to meet him so that you take every bit of him.
His eyes focus on the side of your face, and you can only gasp for air while he seems possessed by the need to have you. “I want them to know,” he murmurs while he kneads your skin. “I want Maekar to hear his youngest daughter making these sounds for me while Aerion sleeps alone in his bed.” You keep your palms pressed against the cold stone, and your arse is arched high to meet him while he works behind you. Baelor doesn’t just thrust anymore, but instead he digs his fingers into your waist so he can force your arse to slide over his cock, and he makes you take every inch of him with each drag. He decides how the pace will go by yanking you back against him while he drags your ass forward to force a moan out of you, and he doesn't let you move an inch unless he’s the one guiding you.
The sounds of both of your skin contacting are loud in the empty hall, and he groans when he feels you clench around him with every slide of his cock. He isn’t gentle at all, and he seems surprised by the way your body welcomes him like that. “You are so tight,” he grunts in your ear, and his voice is strained while he tries to keep his pace. “How can you be this tight after a night with that boy? Did he even touch you at all, or are you just built to take a man this way?”
You let out a broken moan while your back arches even more, and you feel the weight of him filling you completely. You turn your head just enough to look at him, and you let a small smile show on your face even as he hammers into you.
“Do you like it, Uncle?” you gasp, and you shove your arse back to meet him while your heart thumps. “Nngh- do you like how t-tight I am for you? Mmn- tell me.” Baelor lets out a sound that is almost a growl, and he nods while he buries his face in your hair. “Sīkudi nopāzmi" (seven hells), he mutters, and he leans closer into your back while his cock pulses inside you. “Damn you… You know I do- " You let out a laugh, and you wiggle against him, taking him more deeply as you purposely clench around him. “Aerion never put his cock in me,” you whisper while you feel him slow down from his movements behind you. “He only used his fingers and tongue. You are the only one who has been inside me tonight.” Baelor stops for a split second after he hears you, and then he pounds into you, which almost knocks your palms off the wall.
He doesn’t wait for you to catch your breath, and he just pounds himself against your arse while he grips your waist so hard that his knuckles turn white. He sounds like he’s losing his mind, and he shoves his face into your neck while he keeps the same pace without any mercy. “Tonight?” he spat out, and his voice was laced with surprise. “You say I am the only one who has been inside you tonight, but what of the nights before this one?” He yanks you back against him to shove himself deeper inside you, and he holds you there while you feel him twitch. “How many men have used you?” He moves your hips in a slow circle to make his cock rub against your womb, and he watches the way your back arches. “How many times have you given yourself away while I was not looking?”
You gasp as his palm smacks your arse again, and your back arches until your spine feels like it might snap. You feel him filling you, and you shake your head while you try to keep your palms on the wall. “N-no one, uncle- " you cry out, and you shove your arse back to meet his pelvis. “I am a maiden, and no man has ever had me. I have never done this with anyone but you.” The words make him groan while he guides your hips back to meet his thrust. He isn’t even holding back now, and he slaps your arse again while he fucks into you. He looks like a man possessed after hearing that you were a maiden, and he keeps his eyes on the back of your head while he claims you in the middle of the hallway. “A maiden,” he repeats, and he sounds almost disgusted with himself even as he keeps ramming into you. “You are a daughter of the Prince, and you have a name to uphold, yet you let Aerion drag you into that filth?”
He leans his chest against your back to crush you into the stone while he shoves his cock deeper into you to show his anger. “Did you not even think about what would happen to you if someone else had found you first?” He doesn’t even seem to realize the irony of his words while he’s having his way with you here in the open. “You are lucky I am the one who caught you because any other man would have just taken what he wanted and left you ruined in the street.” You clench around him because of what he said, and the pleasure is so good that you finish right there against the stone. You squeeze him tightly, and you feel yourself getting soaked while you let out a loud cry. Baelor lets out a groan when he feels how much you got soaked compared to a few seconds ago, and he realizes you just spilled around his cock while he’s still moving.
You let out a whine, and you turn your head over your shoulder to look at him. “No one else will take me now anyway- " you whisper while you feel him throbbing inside you. “After all, you have already taken my maidenhood in a hallway.” You feel his breath on your neck, and you lean your forehead against the wall to catch your breath while his cock pulses inside you. “Who would want me after the Hand of the King has had his way with me?” You say those words to hurt him, and you feel your knees wobble. The reminder of what he has done makes him snap, and the way he shoves his cock into you almost knocks the wind out of you. He doesn’t stop, and instead, he uses your hips to drive himself even deeper while his face is twisted with rage.
He’s breathing raggedly, and he looks at you with a look that shows he’s done playing games. “Then you will learn to lie like the rest of them,” he growls, and he pounds into you so fast that your head hits against the wall again. “Many a lady has fooled her husband before, and you will simply do the same. If you wanted to stay pure, then you should not have gone out with Aerion.” He slaps your arse just to let out what he’s feeling, but he also likes how it bounces, and the sound it makes is loud. Baelor pounds into you even harder while he’s starting to feel that he’s close to his own release. He moves his hands away from your arse, and he wraps one arm around your neck to hold you steady while his other hand slams over your mouth. He’s trying to silence you because the way he’s fucking you made you let out a loud scream that will wake the other.
It’s ironic because he was just telling you to be loud not so long ago, but now he’s panicked that someone might actually come looking for the source of the noise. Your chest is still pressed against the wall, and you can only make muffled sounds against his palm while he moves on your back. “Mmmph! Nnngh-! ” you cry out behind his fingers, and your eyes open widely while you feel him hit the spot inside you that you didn’t know existed. Your back is arched, and your hips are tilted up to take every inch of him while he can’t control his temper. “Quiet,” he grunts in your ear, and he pants while he’s working to catch the feeling of release. “Bloody- you are too tight, and you are going to get us caught with those sounds.”
He keeps his hand clamped over your face while he shoves his cock into you with a heavy pounding that hits the back of your womb. He’s not thinking about anything but how you feel, so he’s just trying to get as deep as he can before he can’t control himself to pull away. You feel his fingers dig into your cheek, and you can only moan into his palm when his cock throbs inside you. “Hngh... haah...” he lets out a heavy sound, and his body goes rigid while he finally cums inside you. He keeps you pinned to the wall, and he doesn’t let go of your mouth until he’s sure you won’t scream again. Baelor pulls out just as he’s about to lose it, and he spills white seed right against your arse instead of inside you.
He lets out a sound that is almost like a whine while he coats your skin because he wasn’t planning on leaving a babe in your belly just yet. He’s breathing hard, and he immediately shoves back into your cunt after pouring all of the drops on your arse. You can feel that he’s still throbbing, and he’s trying to push his seed inside you, even though he’s already spent it all on the outside. He keeps his hand clamped over your mouth while he forces himself back in. "Mmmf-! ”You moan against his palm, and your arse grinds into him while you feel full again. You can feel his seed clinging to your skin while the remnants drop down to your thighs. “Look at the mess you made me do,” he says while he tries to recover, and he keeps his hand over your face to stifle your moans.
He’s acting on pure instinct now, and he grinds his cock against your walls to shove the slickness from your arse back inside you. You can only let out muffled gasps while he holds you, and he doesn’t pull away until he’s satisfied with it. Baelor finally pulls away before he looks down at your arse to see how his seed covered it, and the sight makes him let out a groan. He’s clearly affected by the mess he made, and he moves his hand away from your mouth before he lets go of your neck. He turns you around to make you face him, and he takes a look at your messy state while you try to catch your breath. He’s breathing hard, and his eyes move to where your breeches are yanked down to the ground. He reaches down, and he pulls them up first because he wants to make you look presentable before he even thinks about fixing his own clothes.
doesn’t say a word while he tugs the fabric into place, and his hands are a little shaky as he tries to hide away the evidence of what just happened. “Look at me,” he commands, and he hooks a finger under your chin to lift your head while he’s finishing with your clothes. “We cannot have anyone seeing you in this state.” You lean your weight against him because you can’t feel your legs, and you look up at his face while he tries to fix your hair. “Your chambers are closer than mine,” you whisper, and you watch his jaw tighten at the suggestion. “You cannot exactly let me walk looking like this.” He clearly doesn’t want to bring you there and risk people seeing him carry his niece into his room, or, even worse, someone seeing you leave in the morrow.
He knows the gossip would be hell if anyone caught a glimpse of you slipping out of his door in the morning, but he looks at the state of your clothes, and he knows you’re right. He lets out a frustrated huff, and he suddenly leans down to scoop you up into his arms while he ignores that he didn’t properly put his breeches on. He carries you down the hall with hurried steps as if he’s running in a race, and he doesn’t stop until he reaches his door. He brings you straight to his bed, and he tosses you onto it while he finally turns to lock the door. Baelor stands by the door for a moment while he tries to catch his breath, and he finally turns to look at you, where you’re sprawled on his bed.
He looks at your tunic, and he sees how dirty it is, which makes him let out a frustrated sigh because he knows those clothes have already touched the mattress. You aren't making it easy for him, though, and you start to roll across the fine sheets while knowing it’s a filthy thing. “Stop that,” he said before walking towards you, and he lunges forward to catch your waist before you can ruin the entire bed. “You are going to dirty it, and I will not sleep in a bed that smells like shit.” He ignores your stubborn look, and he begins to help you out of the fabric. He pulls the tunic out of your body before he yanks the breeches down, while his fingers brush against your skin, and he doesn’t say a word until your clothes are tossed onto the floor.
He reaches into a chest at the end of his bed, and he pulls out one of his own nightclothes before he offers it to you. “Put this on,” he mutters, and his voice is still hoarse while he looks at your state. You look at the fabric, and then you look at him while you bat your eyelashes as you slowly push the garment away. You make it very clear that you have no intention of wearing his clothes, and you lie back against the pillows while you don’t wear a thing. Baelor stares at you for a long moment, and he feels his resolve slipping while he takes in the sight of his niece in his bed. “Fine,” he grunts, and he turns his back to you so he can finally strip out of his layers, too.
“If you wish to be difficult, then you can sleep… like that, but do not complain if you get cold.” He starts to change his own things, but then he feels your gaze on him, and it makes him pause halfway through. He looks over his shoulder, and he sees the way you're watching him, and he decides to abandon his own night clothes as well. He climbs into the bed while he's showing skin as you do, and he pulls the heavy covers up to hide both of you. He stays on his side of the bed, and he stares at the ceiling while attempting to ignore the fact that you’re lying there completely naked right next to him. You aren't about to let him keep that distance, though, and you slide across the distance until your skin brushes against his.
You wrap your arms around his chest so you can cling to him while you nuzzle your head into the crook of his neck, and you can feel the way his heart beats against his chest. “Still so tense, Uncle?”You," you murmur, and you breathe against his throat. He doesn't try to push you away, but his hand moves up to rest on your hip with a firm grip. “You should be asleep,” he mutters. “Tomorrow is going to be… You aren't helping.” You let out a small laugh, and you nuzzle deeper into his body while you enjoy how he feels against you. “You're being a sour old man just because you finally got what you wanted,” you tease, and you tilt your head up to look at his defined jawline.
“Though for all your stern looks and your seriousness... You still fuck like a man on his deathbed.” Baelor finally looks at you like he will drink you in with the way you’re batting your eyelashes and your grin. “Is that so?” he asks before he rolls onto his side to face you properly. “Perhaps the old man has more endurance than you can handle if you keep testing his patience in his own bed.” Baelor pulls you closer, if that’s even possible, until there’s no space between your bodies, and he doesn’t say another word. He just closes his eyes, and he accepts that his life as he knew it ended the moment he tasted you because now he would rather burn the Seven Kingdoms to the ground than let you belong to anyone else.
Rating: Explicit
Pairing: Baelor Targaryen/Fem!Reader
Word Count: 5.1k
Summary: In the month-long gap between his proposal and your wedding, Prince Baelor does all he can to keep his hands off you.
Contents: tyrell!reader, established relationship, age gap, smut, power play, sexual tension, unprotected premarital (scandalous!), teasing, oral sex (fem receiving), frottage, denial, scent kink, biting, "just the tip", certified pervert Baelor Targaryen
The Prince of Dragonstone is not what you expected, in more ways than one.
You had expected to pursue the Prince Valarr, when you’d first come to court. By all accounts, he was kind, measured, too dutiful for his own good. Handsome, if you were any judge of men’s looks. Easy, your mother told you. Prince Valarr would not deny you anything, should you become his wife, and you knew it from just a few minutes of conversation with him. If you nudged, he would flop over, belly up.
And yet, against everything you had been raised to want, you found yourself pulled to his father instead. Every conversation you had with Prince Baelor was more engaging than the last when you realized he did not expect you to only be knowledgeable in matters of fashion and embroidery. His willingness to converse with you deeply, truly, beyond courtly pleasantries, brought you closer till you spent more time with him than his son — more time than was appropriate.
Now, a moon’s turn after your departure from King’s Landing, you were returning as the Crown Prince’s betrothed instead.
He had taken some convincing, when you first confronted him with your desire, one you knew he returned despite his insistence that it was a passing fancy, that you did not truly want a widower who is twice your own age, that you knew not what you spoke of. But you were nothing if not skilled at persuasion, and when he finally came to you at Highgarden, you were smiling at him knowingly before he could even bend down on one knee.
There was another month to go, still, till the day of your wedding, much to your dismay. While you were uncompromising on your vision for the grand occasion — you’ve had the details planned since you were a child, and you would not let something as silly as time stop you from importing the Qaathi silk of your dreams for your wedding dress — you must admit, the precautions taken to preserve your honour in the time since you’ve arrived are beginning to grate your nerves.
Baelor Targaryen is known for his impressive patience. It is his ability to lie in wait that won him countless battles against the Blackfyre pretender, and it has never once hurt his cause to exercise caution, to wait and strategise before charging in headfirst.
And yet, he feels his patience slipping.
He held himself back when he first met you, repressing his affections as you grew closer, reminding himself countless times that it was improper to want someone ostensibly meant for his own son. He was hesitant even when you yourself proposed a marriage, confessing that you loved him, as he loved you — he barely allowed himself to indulge when you threw your arms around his neck and pulled him into a desperate kiss. Even then, he waited over a fortnight after you left in disappointment till he rode for Highgarden, taking the time to discuss it with his son and his own father.
Baelor Breakspear, the Hammer, known for his unbreaking composure. How humorous, he thinks, that my reputation will be soiled by someone in a silk dress instead of chainmail.
The dresses you brought with you from Highgarden were all quite stylish, elaborate and brightly coloured, and much more low cut than anything worn by the other ladies at court. Even now, as you sit across from him in an evening gown, properly long-sleeved and dark-coloured, the sleeves sit just under the curve of your shoulders, exposing the top of your chest. Your hair, perfectly curled and braided, does nothing to hide the expanse of your neck from his roaming eyes.
You converse pleasantly, ever the agreeable girl you’re known to be, chatting with his nieces about the wedding preparations and how you’re finding King’s Landing now that you know it is to be your home. You are the picture of propriety, and yet he is having trouble keeping his eyes off you.
He is painfully aware that he could call you to his chambers. You’ve been kept on the opposite side of the Red Keep, far from the Tower of the Hand, in the same Maidenvault built to save the first of his name from his own temptation — the irony is not lost on him. And yet, if he sent for you late at night, no one would deny him, not now, when you were to be his wife in a month’s time. He could take you, over and over again, loudly, and no one would question his honour as a Prince of the Realm.
The judgemental eye it might draw upon you, however, is something he could never forgive himself for.
That is what stops him every time, when his base urges creep in, reminding him of his royal privilege to have whomever he wants; he cannot bring himself to compromise your honour.
You, on the other hand, seem determined to do the opposite.
He accompanies you back to your chambers after supper, the Kingsguard and one of your lady’s maids following behind as faithful chaperones. Quiet chatter fills the silence on the long walk back to the Maidenvault, discussion of who might run into whom during the wedding reception, which Lords are not to be seated together lest old, petty rivalries rear their ugly heads once more.
“Mm, but who are we to deprive your subjects of free entertainment?” You say, a playful smile gracing your face. An easy chuckle leaves him; he found himself laughing more in a minute of your company than he had in the last two years
“I suppose they will have to settle for the free entertainment the Crown is already providing, considering how many musicians have been brought from the Reach for the occasion.” His tone is light-hearted, no real heat behind the admonishment of your excessive requests for the wedding.
“I know so few dances from this region, Your Grace, and I will not be deprived of dancing at my own wedding solely because I do not know the songs!”
“No, we couldn’t have that.”
“You will, then?” You turn to stand in front of him, stopping him in his tracks, finally realising they’ve arrived at your chambers. “You will dance with me? As much as I please?”
That look you’re giving him, equal parts teasing and pleading, sends a shock down his spine, the same one that overtook him when he first laid eyes on you. Those eyes have haunted his dreams ever since, taunting him with his own desire, no matter how hard he tries to ignore it.
“Of course, my dear.” He tells you, his voice calm, measured, the smile on his face giving very little away. He wants to call you much more. My love, my heart, the object of my every desire, my wife. He curses the chaperones you are constantly accompanied by while in his presence, always within earshot, stopping him from speaking to you openly as he did when you came to him that night and bade him to admit his affections. He had never spoken so openly before, not even with Jena, and now he longed to tell you again, that he would dance with you till his feet fell from his ankles as long as you wished it, that he’d keep you up all night if he could.
When you lean up, onto the tips of your toes, and press a whisper of a kiss to his cheek, despite the presence of your chaperone, he almost slips. His breath stops in his chest at the warmth of your lips on his skin, the exposed expanse of your chest pressed to his just so. He knows if he looked down he would see into your dress, down at your breasts, and he clenches his teeth together in an effort to stop himself.
“Thank you, my Prince.” You say, sweetly, your voice breathless. His jaw unclenches once you’re a safe distance away, but he can still smell your perfume in the air.
It’s all he can think about, even once he’s bid you a goodnight. He has half a mind to steal one of your nightgowns before it makes it to the laundry, just to keep the scent of you close.
Try as you might, you cannot hold back the smug smile on your face.
Baelor has not been able to tear his eyes away since he laid them on you today. You’d sent for him, having asked around till you discovered he had zero meetings with the Small Council today, and bade him to accompany you on a walk through the palace gardens. A chaperoned one, of course, but the chaperones could not stop you from wearing one of your most daring dresses; your mother had smirked when she saw it. It was a pink number, the fabric light and airy, well-suited for both the Reach and King’s Landing when summer heat hung heavy in the air. The detailing on it, winding embroidery creating patterns of stems and vines all along the dress in red thread, was some of the finest you’d ever seen.
There was also, of course, the extremely unnecessary cut outs at your waist, framed by a red rose-patterned silk, baring the skin of your waist just so. At Highgarden this dress wouldn’t have so much as turned a head in your direction, but this was not Highgarden, and for that you were grateful.
Baelor was doing his best to keep his eyes and hands to himself, purposefully setting the former forward, and the latter clasped behind his back, where he could squeeze them as tight as he needed to in order to restrain himself.
The conversation came easy, as it always did. No Small Council meetings did not mean no work, there was always a petition to grant, a marriage to approve on the King’s behalf, a grievance to assuage.
“I appreciate that you can speak so freely of the work you do, my Prince. There are many a Lord that would never concern a Lady in such matters.”
“You are to be Queen one day, my dear,” He replies. “Soon you will curse me for burdening you with such matters.”
You give him a humoured smile as you reach a grand fountain in the gardens, carved from gleaming marble and babbling with water. You wander closer, silently beckoning him to follow — you know, with the chaperones a safe distance away, that any conversation between you would be masked by the sound of flowing water. “Well, I doubt the Small Council would allow a woman to sit in on policy discussions even if she is Queen, much less one that is with child.”
That raises the Prince’s eyebrows, in shock and intrigue. “Rest assured, there will be no pressure for you to bear children so soon after we are wed, as I have two heirs already. I promise, you will be spared much of the early scrutiny. If you were to desire no children at all, my dear, I would not force it upon you.”
His reassurance is sweet. Far too sweet for your intentions.
“I should like to begin fulfilling our marriage duties as soon as possible, my Prince.” You look up at him through your eyelashes as you speak, your expression schooled, so your chaperones might think you’re having decent conversation. You lower your voice, just above a whisper, though you know they cannot hear you. “A moon’s turn feels much too long to wait, does it not?”
Baelor’s eyes flutter shut, his chest rising with the deep breath he takes, and for the first time since you’ve met him, the Prince of Dragonstone flushes a subtle pink. You can’t help the small proud smile that upturns the corner of your lips.
“I have waited an agonising amount of time to be with you, my love,” He finally speaks, his mismatched eyes settling back on you with a new intensity. “I will not have you dishonored because I cannot wait a moon’s turn longer.”
It’s your turn for your cheeks to heat, a burning ache filling your chest at the sound of his voice, far lower than you’ve heard it before. You know, tonight, you’ll do your best to recall it with a hand between your thighs, desperately trying to sate the hunger he’s inspired in you.
“My Prince-”
“My Lady!” Your Septa calls, her stare a disapproving one, and you both realise that you are standing far too close to each other.
“The tulips are this way, my dear, I know you wished to see them in full bloom.” Baelor announces, loud enough to be heard from meters away, and leads you away from the fountain before you can say another word to make his britches feel too tight.
You try not to let the frustration at her interruption show on your face for the rest of the walk.
It happens several days later.
You have scarcely seen your betrothed since that afternoon in the royal gardens. His time became far too occupied with matters of the Realm as the Lords of Westeros arrived from far and wide for the wedding, using their time in the capital to make their petitions to the Crown in-person. Every time you happened upon the throne room, the Good King Daeron was seated on that ghastly chair, a crowd of noblemen filling the room as they await their turn to speak. And next to the King, there he was, standing at his father’s side as his trusted Hand, looking every bit the part. It caught your breath every time, to set your eyes upon him in this setting; you could see it then, the crown on his head, clear as day. It might be you there someday, standing next to Baelor as his Queen while he sits upon the throne.
And yet, you found you cared little for the title now. All that mattered was that you were with him.
You’ve grown restless in his absence. It’s barely been a week, but you can’t stand the sight of his empty chair at supper, the brief greetings you share when you pass each other in crowded halls, your eyes brazenly displaying the way you long to spend more than a clock-tick in his presence.
It felt like madness. All your life you believed marriage would be simple for you, as it was for your mother, and her mother before her. A husband was an easy thing to influence, to wrap around your finger and bend to your will, and you’d grown into a woman of marriageable age assuming no man would ever cause you grief. This tugging ache, this burning for someone’s touch, was not what you anticipated, from a husband nor a lover, and you found yourself, for once, incapable of containing yourself. You felt it — in the frown that marred your face when Baelor retreated from you, the ache of longing at the sight of his back, the dizzying heat between your legs when you thought of him late at night that you simply could not soothe by yourself.
When he finally summoned you to his solar, much too far into the night to be appropriate, you could not dress quickly enough. You cared little about the nervous stares from your lady’s maids as they helped you into your gown, a deep red colour, perfect for a Targaryen bride. The Kingsguard knights trailed far behind you, your steps far too quick for them, but you could not find it in you to delay.
You are breathless when you finally land in front of his study. There is little time to collect yourself before the guards step in front of you to open the door, quietly announcing your presence to the Prince before departing. Leaving you standing before your future husband, alone, and several meters further from him than you’d like to be.
He stood up when you’d entered the room, like one might expect a common Lord to do in the presence of royalty. And yet he stayed behind his desk, frozen in place, his eyes meeting yours with something unknowable in them; something smouldering and torrid that you couldn’t name if you tried.
You stay like that for what feels like forever. Stunned into stillness before each other, silence only interrupted by the thudding of your heartbeat in your ears and the low, crackling fire.
“I have missed you.” Your words come quieter than you expected, almost a whisper. There is no one here to watch your impropriety, and yet you cannot speak your words any louder out of careful habit.
“As have I.” His voice is hoarse, like he is straining to speak, and his eyes never move from yours.
You take a hesitant step towards him. “Baelor-”
And then whatever stupor had overtaken him is broken. He rushes towards you, his hands coming to either side of your face, cradling you between them, and his lips are on yours quicker than you can fathom.
His kiss is feverish, demanding, invading your every sense so you have no choice but to surrender, but you wouldn’t resist him anyways. You arch your neck backwards to accommodate his height, you let his tongue pass your lips, you let him steal the breath from your chest till your lungs burn, and still you whine quietly when he pulls away, never allowing more than a clock-tick to pass before your mouth is back on his.
He has to tug you away, forcing you to still so he can rest his forehead against yours, his lips still tantalisingly close.
“I am a selfish man,” He declares with a rough whisper, his eyes closed, as if looking upon you might damn him forever. It feels like cruelty when he brushes his nose against yours, teasing you with his closeness.
“Baelor, please-”
“I have struggled, in vain.” He continues. “I have done everything to stay away from you, and I have failed, time and time again.”
His lips brush against yours again, a ghost of a touch, barely there and then gone before you can blink.
“Marrying you might be the most selfish thing I have ever done.” He says it like a confession. “I am a knight. I swore before the Gods to uphold honour, and yet honour means nothing to me when it keeps me from you. You have ruined me, my love.”
A laugh escapes you, quiet and light, far too light for the situation, making his eyes reopen and harden. “This is humorous to you, then?”
“Yes, my Prince,” You admit easily. “I have you right where I wanted you.”
His lip curls, half-sneer, half-smile, and you are given no time to react when he reaches down, his hands moving away from your face, to your waist, to the back of your skirt before lifting you and carrying you to his desk.
“You said a moon’s turn was not too long to wait,” You tease, still smiling.
“I lied.” Then he smears his mouth against yours again.
Your legs part instinctually around him, far too focused on his lips being back on yours to resist when he lifts your skirts. You cannot part from him, even as his hands trail from your stocking-clad calves to the bare skin of your upper thighs, drawing a gasp from you. Your arms come up to wrap around his neck, pulling him closer, your hand settling at his nape, fingers trailing through the cropped hair there.
You would have kept him right there forever, if you could — it’s he that breaks the kiss again, ignoring the disappointed noise you make as he lowers himself to his knees, and brings yours to rest on his shoulders. He keeps his eyes on you, that same heated look in them, as he pushes your skirts up further, giving you plenty of time to protest before the fabric is ruched up to your waist. His gaze falls then, to the space between your legs, and it does not stray as he leans in to press a feather-light kiss to the inside of your thigh. You cannot hide the gasp that escapes you at his touch, and you cannot bring yourself to look away from him. One of your hands leaves his head, coming to rest on the desk behind you, balancing you as you lean back to watch him.
His pace is slow as he explores your soft skin, pressing his lips to every inch of it, savouring the feel of it and leaving a burning trail simmering wherever he wanders. The mere heat of his steady eyes on the core of you is enough to make you squirm in place.
“I have never seen anything so divine,” His voice is low, just for you to hear. He leans closer to you, close enough that you can feel his breath right where you need him most, and takes a deep inhale of your scent, a low groan brewing in his throat upon exhale. “As you, bare and soaked for me.”
“Baelor.. Wh- what are you-” And then his mouth is on you, cutting you off with your own gasp.
Your eyes screw shut, suddenly unable to bear the thought of opening them, of seeing what he’s doing to you. The tales that you heard of this, whispered between women in scandalous confession, could never have prepared you for what you felt. The heat of his mouth on you, his tongue kissing and lapping at where you’re wettest for him, steals your ability to breathe. It is too much, too quickly, white-hot pleasure flowing through you and fogging your head until he has to squeeze your thigh to break you out of it.
“Breathe,” He reminds you, but you shake your head.
“I can’t!”
“You must,” He pulls away, till you can no longer feel his warmth on your skin. “Or I will be forced to stop.”
“Dont!” The plea comes without hesitation. “Please, please, don’t stop, I want-”
“Breathe for me, then.” He takes a deep breath in, and you follow him, stuttering air filling your lungs once more. Satisfied, he leans back into you. “That’s it. In… and out… in-”
His tongue dips through your folds again, turning your exhales into pleasured sighs. The sound is too obscene to bear. The slick, wet sound of his lips wrapping around the crest of your sex and sucking, pulsing rhythmically around the sensitive bundle there. The hand that had settled behind you on the desk now provides you an anchor, keeping you grounded as you match his rhythm with cants of your hips, chasing the pressure that builds low in your belly.
“Yes, my love, just like that.” He says, reverent, watching as you give in to him fully, only able to answer with soft moans and muttered nonsense.
His finger is much thicker than yours, stretching you more than you ever could as it presses into the tight ring of your entrance, just as you’d hoped. The metal of his ring, brushing against you every time he pumps the digit in, only adds to your pleasure, the cold-hard shock of it on your soft folds making you gasp with every movement.
Baelor works you like he knows your body already, guided by every pleasured noise you make, every mindless moan of his name. When they turn high and uncontrollable, your head tilted back, rocking yourself against his mouth more insistently, desperately, he knows you’re close. A second finger joins the first, the pace just a touch faster, pulling you towards the edge at his will.
The subtle press of his fingers upwards turns your moan into a soft cry, and it hits you all at once, the pleasure cresting and then washing over you. His mouth doesn’t leave you once, doesn’t stop his open-mouthed kisses at the top of your sex, sending pulses through your body till you’re pushing at his forehead, even as you continue to press your hips into him.
He comes away with an awed, dumb smile on his face, drunk on the taste of you, his beard damp with it. He rises from his knees and leans over you, wrapping an arm around your middle to pull you up, and you’re too loose-limbed to do anything but go with him as he kisses you again.
You can feel his hand between you, shifting against your stomach, and you part from the kiss to find him grasping himself through his trousers, pulsing squeezes around his stiff cock. Quiet grunts fall from his lips with every press of his hand, and for a moment you simply watch, mesmerised.
Then your hand lands over his, hesitant. Unsure. “I want… I want to watch.”
A pained groan fills your ear as his forehead drops against yours. He makes quick work of the laces on his trousers, and you pull down his breeches with equal fervor, freeing his cock from the fabric.
His member is thicker than it is long — you can feel the burn of him stretching you already, distantly, making you clench around nothing at the mere thought. The tip of him is a flushed, ruddy hue, dripping with a clear liquid that you dare to feel at, gathering the slick on your thumb just to see. Baelor’s breathing is laboured as he watches you bring your thumb to your lips and lick, a pleased hum escaping you at the flavour.
“Fuck,” He growls, his hand finding his shaft again immediately, enveloping it like he can barely stop himself as he licks into your mouth, desperate to taste himself on you.
His mouth slows against yours when you reach down again, resting your hand over his fist. He pants against your lips as he lets your hand replace his, guiding your fist over him in measured, hard strokes.
He’s hard under your touch, hot and firm and slick with pre-cum already. Your cheeks burn as you realize just how much you like it, the heaviness of him against your palm, the moans you pull from him just with your touch. His lips move against your own, and he begins to rut into the tight circle of your intertwined hands, fucking your fist like- like-
The realisation, that this will be what he does to you, is breathtaking. He’ll move against you just like this, but he’ll be inside you, working his way into you till you fit perfectly around his cock, and you feel that ache of desire between your legs once again. You moan his name softly, absentmindedly, as you move to guide him towards your entrance, spreading your thighs and shuffling closer to him.
The hand covering your own stills, forcing you to stop.
“Not yet, my love.” You whine in disappointment, but he hushes you gently. “We must be patient.”
“Please, Baelor.” You are begging, you realise. Something you’ve never done before in your life.
“We cannot,” He insists, still denying you, even as he moves closer to the edge of the desk, and slots his hips against yours. It feels like he’s branded you from the mere brush of his cock against your inner thigh, teasing you with how near you are to what you’ve begged him for. He’s infuriatingly gentle as he removes your hand from his shaft, shifting his hips and then thrusting himself between your folds.
Your mouth falls open on a cry as the tip of him slides against the crest of your sex, the most sensitive part of him nudging against the most sensitive part of you. He draws his hips back, then forward again, gliding against you instead of inside you, careful not to enter you as he does.
At first, you cannot protest, not when the pace of his hips rutting against you leaves you senseless, unable to do anything but clutch at his shoulders and let him give you a rough feign of a fuck. Anyone who walked by his study now would never know that he isn’t deflowering you, from the sound of your skin slapping against his, your moans mixing with his. So close to what you want- need-
“Please, please, just the tip, my love, it won’t-” You find yourself pleading with him again, through desperate whimpers and pants every time his cock brings you another shock of pleasure, shooting up your spine and settling in your belly, building you towards sweet release. But he ignores you, the hand that’s not splayed across your back coming to bunch in your wrinkled skirts, fisting the fabric and pulling you against him, nearly lifting you off the desk to meet his thrusts.
His eyebrows are drawn together as he stares down at you, unbreaking even as he chokes on his own air, looking mad with hunger for you. He’s unbelievable like this, restraining himself from taking you as he should, as he has every right to, divulging his urges while still leaving both of you wanting, aching for each other.
He makes a sound like he’s wounded, then, his head dipping to rest on your shoulder before his teeth set hard on your neck, drawing a shocked cry from you as his punishing pace stutters, grows uneven and desperate. His hips bunch against yours once more and then you feel it, his release spurting onto your heated skin, spilling onto your sex and your thighs.
You both remain still, panting together, for a moment. You cannot find it in you to loosen the grip you have on him, even as he lifts his head, pulling his hips away from yours just an inch so he can see the mess he’s made of you. The moan that leaves him is awed, his grip on you tightening at the sight of his spend all over you, dripping obscenely.
“There will be no bedding ceremony,” He states, suddenly, drawing your unfocused stare back to him. “No one else is allowed to see you like this. I won’t have it. But the Lords will need their proof of our consummation.”
His hand comes to feel at your sex, causing you to jolt in his arms, a pained whine spilling from you. “That’s why I cannot fuck you the way I want to, not yet. When I take you on our wedding night, they will see it plainly on the sheets. They will finally know you’re mine, Princess.”
“‘M not a princess yet.” You find it in you to say, quietly, unable to raise your voice quite yet.
Baelor simply shakes his head, still looking down at where he’s marked you with his seed. “You are mine, now. In every way that matters.”
HOTD: Queen Rhaenyra Targaryen x dragonseed!reader
Rating: Mature (MDNI)
WC 5.0k
HOTD Masterlist
Tags/Warnings: a smidge of Targcest (Rhaenyra and reader are cousins), more plot than porn, reader claims Silverwing, WLW, mentions of sex work, body worship, nipple play, biting, fingering, oral, dragon bond, no use of y/n, Ulf is not a complete dolt in this, implied that reader has Valyrian features, but they aren't described in detail, no beta we die like Luke :(
A/n: Just in time for Season 3, WE FIGHT FOR OUR DRAGON QUEEN! I love Rhaenyra. Comments, reblogs, and likes are always appreciated. Let me know if you'd like to be tagged for future works
Summary: Mysaria beckons you to Dragonstone to answer Queen Rhaenyra's call for dragonseeds.
Madam Sylvi discreetly pressed the letter into your hand before moving about her business. You had heard the stirrings, the whispers in the streets of the Black Queen calling those to aid her with the promise of claiming a dragon. Bastards of dragon blood. Dragonseeds. The ones who filled the streets of Flea Bottom, filled the pleasure houses in the Streek of Silk, or who simply blended in with the commonborn despite their silvery hair. Cursed by being born out of wedlock, yet now they were worthy of a bigger cause. One that not many would ever dream of.
The letter had come from Mysaria, a woman who had cared for you for most of your life. You knew who your father was, and his coin allowed Mysaria to keep you in comfort, or at the very least clothed and fed. You remember receiving a few fond pats on the head from time to time, and a few gifts here and there, but you knew you would never be his. He had left for Pentos shortly after taking Lady Laena Velaryon to wife, fathering two legitimate daughters. Something you would never be.
Coin arrived in a timely manner to help Mysaria clothe and feed you. She was generous when she did not need to be; she could have turned you out onto the street and kept his money. But she, too, knew what it was like to be burned by Daemon Targaryen and to be abandoned by a father. You lived with her in the brothels, and she kept her promise to protect you from that world for as long as she could, training you in the ways of dancing and letting you assist in weaving her web of spies. When she was ready to flee King's Landing, she left the brothel to you and Sylvi, trusting the two of you to look after things and each other, but you knew the day would soon come when you could no longer put off the inevitable. You would soon have to learn the art of spreading your legs to survive.
Mysaria, still wishing to spare you such a life, urged you to journey to Dragonstone and make the attempt.
The daughter of Daemon Targaryen deserves a dragon. Come and claim your inheritance. Serve the rightful heir.
You read her words thrice before tossing the parchments into the fire. Perhaps you would never fully win your father's love, attention, and respect, but perhaps you could find such in your queen and cousin. So the next day, you went to the shores of Blackwater Bay to board the small fishing boats taking people to Dragonstone. Your dark gray cloak billowed in the breeze as you stepped onto the rocking boat. Smoke clung around the isle, an almost foreboding feeling in the air. This was a place of magic; you could smell it. Ash, fire, and blood. All of you were given entrance into the castle, provided with food and drink before being escorted to the gantry, which led to the dragonmont.
Queen Rhaenyra descended the stairs, giving a rousing speech as she passed her gaze over those who had gathered. A sea of silver hair. Her gaze locked on you, head cocking curiously as she studied you. Did she see Daemon in your face? Would she recognize her own blood before her? She made her way through the bodies, silently gauging the bastards, and once again her gaze lingered on you. Her fingers twitched, something about you calling to her and she resisted the urge to touch you. She could not play favorites, for many would not survive this attempt.
"Naejot māzīs, Vermitos." You had heard your father speak this tongue before, charming the whores and his lickspittles.
You watched as the enormous bronze beast emerged from the purple smoky shadows. It was hard not to feel in awe as the ancient beast once ridden by King Jaehaerys stood there, plain as day. The beast snorted, gray wisps curling from his massive nostrils.
"Lykirī, Lykirī," Rhaenyra cooed, reaching to rest her hand on the dragon's giant muzzle. He calmed from her touch. "Dohaeras."
"Who among you will be first? I have nothing more to tell you; it must be the dragon who speaks."
As a young man stepped forward in an attempt, you heard a phantom song filling your head. Beckoning you, guiding you. You had never stepped foot here before, yet you seemed to know where to place them, following the path downward and further into the mont. Rhaenyra's ever observant amethyst eyes never left you, and she followed behind like a silent silver shadow. You didn't even notice as you made your way deeper into the volcano. The song grew louder the closer you came.
Māzīs ynot, Māzīs ynot (come to me, come to me)
Jumban syt aō (I am waiting for you)
Unsure of what awaited you. You found yourself in a cave, a thin stream of sun shining through, and it took a moment before you saw her. She blended in almost seamlessly with the rocks surrounding you. She was smaller and more slender compared to her counterpart looming overhead.
The breath the silver beast exhaled shook your body, and heat coated you. She lowered her elegant silver head, and tentatively, you reached out to press your hand to the dragon's muzzle, emulating Rhaenyra's movements just moments earlier.
"Hello," you smiled.
"You have found Silverwing." Rhaenyra's voice trailed behind you.
You whipped around to face her, giving a bow. "Your Grace. I…heard her singing to me."
"It seems she has chosen you; she has not been ridden since my great-grandmother," Rhaenyra said kindly as she stepped closer. Screams echoed through the caves. The smell of burnt flesh. "See if she will let you mount her."
Silverwing stepped closer, her claws dragging through the muck as she lowered her head once again to sniff you before letting out a soft bray. "Lykirī," you whispered, stroking her before she was in a position where you could attempt to get in her saddle. It took effort and strength, but soon you were situated in the saddle, hand gripping the pommel.
"If you wish to fly, Sōvēs is the command," Rhaenyra instructed.
"Sōvēs, Silverwing," you called out, voice wavering slightly.
You gasped, holding on tightly as she walked through the cave and slithered out the opening before taking to the skies. Even though your stomach lurched, you opened your eyes and let the wind whip through your hair. It was a powerful feeling, as if you could fly higher than the clouds and touch the Gods themselves. Silverwing was experienced, swift, and elegant as her wings sliced through the misty clouds. She did two laps around Dragonstone before swooping back toward the mont. The bronze beast had emerged with a male rider on its back. She landed next to him, tucking her head beneath Vermithor's jaw and nuzzling him.
"They are mates, I think," you called out to the man.
"So the stories go. I'm Hugh," he introduced, and you told him your name.
Suddenly, a pale mist of the dragon emerged from an opening, its rider letting out a loud whoop and hanging on for dear life.
"Did many die in there?" you asked Hugh, remembering the screams from earlier.
"It was quite vicious," Hugh admitted. "Many were lost, but we were warned."
As the excitement settled down, the dragonkeepers came to help guide the dragons back into the caves, and you and the others were shown to separate quarters in the castle. Fresh, clean black-and-red clothing was laid out for you, and a celebratory feast awaited. As you gathered around the table, your gaze fell on Lady Baela, your half sister. She was a true beauty with an air of confidence about her. Prince Jacaerys looked rather sour, and you learned of the other riders. Your fellow dragonseeds. Hugh the Hammer, you had met earlier, and there was Addam of Hull and Ulf the White. Queen Rhaenyra raised her cup in a toast to honor the four of you.
Ulf was delighted by the food, tearing into the quails and devouring them like the man had never eaten a meal before. You took your time savoring every bite, especially the fresh oysters, and each sip of rich red wine. You learned that Seasmoke had chased Addam down in Spicetown, Hugh's bravery as he stood eye to eye with The Bronze Fury, and the shy, allusive dragon who crawled out from deep within the mountain to bond with his boisterous rider. As the evening wound down, people excused themselves for bed.
"It is good to have another woman riding for our cause," Baela smiled at you, gently touching your shoulder before departing.
"Might I have a private word?" Rhaenyra requested softly.
"Yes, Your Grace."
You followed her through flame lit halls, the flickering orange glow bathing the stones and you noticed the glyphs embedded in them. The guards followed behind, armor clanking until you reached what you assumed were her chambers. They took position outside her door.
"You look just like him," she mused, a smile tugging at her lips as she poured two glasses of wine.
"So I've been told, Your Grace," you replied. There was no use dancing around the truth.
She placed a cup in your hands. "It is almost eerie in a way. I wonder…if my daughter had lived, would she have looked like you, perhaps?" Her palm curved gently over your cheek.
"Prettier, I would think, Your Grace."
"Do not disparage your beauty. You caught my eye immediately."
"You flatter me, Your Grace," you said, taking a sip of the sweet red wine, reminding you of plums, which were your favorite.
"Merely speak the truth. I am glad you answered. Mysaria assured me that you would."
"She knows me better than anyone else. Still seeks to protect me."
"She is a clever woman, or so I am learning."
"She will serve you well, Your Grace, as will I," you assured her.
"Come, let me fix your hair. You will find it best to have it braided while flying." She motioned to the chair, and you sat.
"Surely, you have better things to do than tend to my hair, You Grace," you jested softly.
"At this moment, I do not," she chuckled before gently dragging the brush through your mussed curls.
It was comforting, a warm, fuzzy feeling that crept over you and slithered down your shoulders. She took her time braiding your hair.
"I hope I am not overstepping, but I would like you to train alongside Lady Baela. She is a skilled dragonrider with a crossbow. I wish for all my riders to have some combat training. You will be fitted for armor as well."
"I can work alongside Lady Baela with no issue, Your Grace, thank you."
"Sleep well, you will have long days ahead of you."
But you were ready to prove your worth.
The days were indeed long and filled with dragon riding, Valyrian lessons, and combat skills training. Mostly, you practiced alongside Baela, repeatedly hitting targets with crossbows. Addam, Hugh, and Ulf worked with the Master of Arms, learning the sword and mace.
"Seems unfair,' you mumbled.
"I agree," Baela grinned before taking aim and releasing the arrow. "Why can't we learn the sword as well?" You enjoyed being in her company, often growing exhausted by Ulf's constant oafishness. Hugh was kind enough, yet guarded. You found an ally in Addam, at least, as he too wished to prove himself and was eager to serve Rhaenyra. The two of you took the skies together on your respective mounts.
You gave her a soft smile. "I mean no offense, my lady."
"You find none with me," she assured you. "Fire and blood are in our veins. Did not Queen Visenya wield Dark Sister? The very sword my father now possesses."
Our father.
You supped alone in your chambers, muscles aching and in no mood for conversation. The doors parted, and Ser Lorant stepped in.
"Queen Rhaenyra," he announced, and you quickly stood to your feet.
She stepped inside, golden crown perched on her head, with her silver hair in three intricate braids all woven together. There was a brief glimpse of nervousness as she twisted the rings around her finger.
"I have a mission that I would like to send you on," she stated.
"What would the mission be, Your Grace?"
"I wish for you to fly over King's Landing in an attempt to lure the Prince Regent to Dragonstone so he may see the force we now hold," she explained. "Silverwing is swift, and you are skilled with her. I would send Addam to be close behind should danger unfold."
You nodded. "Yes, Your Grace." You were eager to fulfill this duty, even if the thought of Aemond chasing you on Vhagar nearly made you shit your breeches.
The time arrived, and you were dressed in your riding leathers, hair braided, and mounted on Silverwing. A kiss from your queen lingered on your cheek. Addam was on Seasmoke, and you both awaited Rhaenyra's command. Once it was given, you took off on Silverwing with Addam following five clicks behind. Having grown up in the Street of Silk, you knew the layout of the city well. You had even been brought in to dance for Prince Aegon once before. Silverwing glided with such ease, and you kept her low, away from the Scorpions. You maneuvered her by the window where Rhaenyra said the small council sat. The plan had worked, and Prince Aemond's attention was gained.
You lingered away from the Red Keep, needing him on your tail. Vhagar's roars shook through the city and you urged Silverwing forward. Vhagar was large, but not as fast. Addam flew just ahead on Seasmoke as the two of you made way to Dragonstone, where Rhaenyra waited with Syrax, Vermithor, and Grey-Ghost. A hot blast of dragonfire filled the air, and you dipped Silverwing toward Blackwater Bay, her wings skimming the water. Blood rushed to your head, whooshing in your ears and making you taste your pulse on your tongue. You hadn't realized that you'd been holding your breath until Silverwing landed next to Syrax, when you finally released it and gasped. Aemond did not venture closer, turning Vhagar around and heading back for King's Landing. Rhaenyra held a proud smirk on her face and reached up to stroke Syrax's muzzle.
"Well done," she told you and Addam. It was becoming clear she had a soft spot for the two of you.
The weeks passed, and Rhaenyra continued to draw you under her wing. The dragon queen, they began to call her. Thought you came to think of her as the mother of dragons. The tides began to turn further in her favor as the tensions of the starving smallfolk grew in King's Landing. You weren't completely naive; you understood that Rhaenyra played her own games to garner support. Highborn games, Mysaria had told you. She had given you some distance upon your arrival, allowing you the time to cultivate your talents and carve out a space, but you could feel her lingering in the shadows with her dark eyes always upon you.
"You have done very well, but I never doubted," she hummed one evening when you found her stowed away in your rooms. You were relieved to see a hot bath waiting for you. The heat had been almost agonizing today as the smog had lifted, allowing the bright, hot sun to permeate through. Rhaenyra had given you and Baela her support in expanding your combat skills, and since you were the only two females, you sparred with each other. Both of you were drenched in sweat by day's end.
"Thank you for writing to me," you said, peeling out of your sparring padding and the rest of your damp clothing.
"The queen needs to be surrounded by those who truly believe in her," Mysaria reasoned, extending a hand to help you into the bath. "I can see the adoration in your eyes."
"She is easy to love, easier than Aegon the Pretender, and certainly more so than Aemond. The smallfolk hate the Prince Regent," you sighed, sinking further into the steaming water. "King Viserys, for all his faults, never starved them and never dragged them into needless wars." The commonborn cared not who sat on the throne; it mattered not whether it was Aegon or Rhaenyra; they would live through many kings and queens, but they preferred those who did not bring further hardship upon them. Even better if they were allowed to thrive.
"You are learning well," Mysaria smiled, sitting and helping to wash your back and hair.
"I see you have earned a spot beside her," you commented, sliding a wooden pick under your nails to clean them. Dirt never matted much to you before, but now that you served under the Dragon Queen, you wished to be more presentable.
"So long as we continue to prove our worth, we both will be." A lesson you remembered well. So long as you were valuable, your life remained safe.
You wrapped up in a red robe and sat to comb out your hair when a Queensguard entered.
"Queen Rhaenyra has requested your presence for dinner. I am to escort you once you're ready," he said.
"Best not keep her waiting," Mysaria said and helped you to dress. It was a simple black frock, and she twisted your wet hair into an updo, securing it with pearl pins.
You followed the guard to Rhaenyra's chambers, and he announced your presence before you entered.
"Your Grace," you smiled, lowering into a small curtsey. You felt rather plain in her presence as she was swathed in crimson silk, golden rings, and rubies glittering on her ears, complete with the golden crown. Though she wore her hair loose, cascading in soft waves down her shoulders. She was utterly breathtaking, and you yearned to drink her silvery beauty until you were sick.
"I thought you might be hungry after your training session today. I must admit how impressed I am by you and Baela," Rhaenyra smiled, motioning for you to sit.
"You should join us, Your Grace. I'm certain you could wield a sword expertly."
"You flatter me," Rhaenyra chuckled as a servant poured wine while another served the overflowing dishes of food.
"I only speak the truth. You should not hold yourself back."
"I will consider your words."
You tried not to rip through the duck like a famished beast, instead forcing yourself to take small bites and savor it. The food was delicious, filling your belly pleasantly, and the wine was equally divine. That amethyst gaze was upon you once again.
"Forgive me, Your Grace, but you stare at me quite a bit."
A flush colored her cheeks. "I do," she admitted.
"May I ask why? Is it because I look so much like him?"
"Mayhaps, or mayhaps there is a simple allure about you which captivates me."
"An allure? From me?" You couldn't help but laugh, shaking your head.
"Is that so unbelievable?"
"Considering I'm but a mere dragonseed, yes. I find it a bit hard to believe."
"Dragonseeds still have Targaryen blood," she pointed out.
"Yes, if only we were born from a true union and not left sullied as bastards," you scoffed, and she fixed you with a stern look. "Apologies, Your Grace, I overstepped.
"Tis alright. It has become clear that a dragon cares not for the nobility of birth, and I am grateful to the dragonseeds who answered my call."
"I'm very happy to be here and to serve you. There is a matter I wish to discuss with you."
"Go on, but carefully."
"You sent the ships with food to the smallfolk in King's Landing, yet Prince Aemond has stopped that. You might garner more favor by letting a ship through the blockade, but make it known it was your doing. A bit of mercy goes a long way, and I know we are but common born, but peace with the smallfolk should be a goal in mind."
Rhaenyra sat back in her chair, taking a deep drink of her wine. "I will discuss the matter with my small council. I do not wish my subjects to starve. They never did when my father was king."
"He was beloved by the smallfolk simply for letting them live in peace and with their bellies fed. He was also wise to make his council perform the dirty work. They never had much love for Otto Hightower."
Rhaenyra laughed. "You are truly Mysaria's protégé."
"She taught me well and looked out for me even if she did not have to. I'm very grateful to her."
"She is special, but I see something equally as special in you."
"I suppose that is the Targaryen blood," you said cheekily.
You spent most of the night talking with her and drinking wine. You loved how her mouth stretched when she laughed, and the little crinkles around her eyes. It was nice to see a more relaxed side of her. A glimpse of the girl they once called the Realm's Delight. She taught you a tile game and a few more words in High Valyrian.
"You are quite good at this," she said, sliding the tiles across the table.
"Learned to play in the brothels, I would hide pieces up my sleeve, Your Grace."
"Ah, devious."
"I preferred it to the fan dancing or the warming of laps."
"I cannot fault you for that night."
"I should leave, Your Grace, get some sleep," you murmured before draining the remnants of your wine.
"Of course, it was a long day for you. I thank you again for your service; you are proving quite invaluable to me."
"'Tis my pleasure, Your Grace." You stood, and she moved alongside you to the door.
Perhaps it was the wine, perhaps it was the way the silvery moonlight caressed the contours of her face, or perhaps it was the adrenaline still pulsing through your system from training. It mattered not. The only truth was that your lips pressed against hers, feeling their rose petal softness and craving more. Yearning to run your fingers through her silver hair, to draw a peaked nipple between your lips, and to discover what she tasted like. She did not pull away, but closer, sliding her arms around your waist. The kiss deepened, your tongue sliding into the warm cavern of her mouth and tangled with hers. You sensed her hesitation before her commanding nature took over. Pink bloomed over her cheeks, mouth swollen and rosy, and those amethyst eyes seemed to glow. Perhaps in that moment, she saw more of Daemon in you than you had wished. You wanted her to see you.
"Is that what you wish for?" she breathed, sliding her fingers down your neck while giving you ample opportunity to decide. To give the choice to leave. She had no desire to force you.
"Please, Your Grace."
"Rhaenyra. You may call me Rhaenyra in my chambers."
The two of you moved in a languid dance, shedding clothing along the way. Your toes slipped across the smooth stones as you circled around her before pressing your mouth to her shoulder, hands skimming her hips. She let forth a throaty moan as she pressed against your body. You wondered if it was Silverwing you felt in the moment as your teeth yearned to sink into her tender, milky flesh. The dragonkeepers told you the bond could be strong and overwhelming at times. Rhaenyra seemed to sense your desire.
"Go on," she purred, and your teeth sank into her flesh, tasting salt and sweetness while your hands cupped her full breasts. Heat boiled through you.
With her hands in yours, you drew her close to the bed, pulling her down with you in a mess of tangled limbs. She was soft, smooth, smelling of roses and smoke. Her skin like heated embers, drawing you in. Across her belly and hips were elongated pink and white marks, ones that all mothers bore. Her arms and thighs were strong, no doubt from all the dragon riding. Sparse silvery curls clung between her thighs, and your fingertips slid through the downy hair before running further down her cunt. While Mysaria had kept you from whoring, you were not inexperienced. The other women liked to practice on each other, and there were moments you volunteered, savoring their touch and the skill they possessed.
You continued to stroke her while suckling on her nipples, while her fingers had loosened your damp hair and were now tangled in it. One finger slipped inside her, feeling her muscles flutter around you. A second soon followed, and you set a steady pace with them. There was a powerful feeling in making the queen crumble beneath your ministrations. The way her face twisted with pleasure, the delicious O of her parted lips, and the rose petal stain on her high, carved cheekbones. Sweat glistened over her collarbone, a few droplets beading over her forehead, and a lone one rolling down the slope of that perfect aquiline nose. It pooled over her upper lip while your thumb grazed over her swollen pearl. She mewled with delight before soaking your fingers. You loomed over her, watching her completely fall apart with pleasure.
"I thought you were but a dancer," she panted, flushed chest heaving as the perspiration gave her body an ethereal shimmer.
"I indulged in pleasures, but not for pay," you whispered in her ear.
"Hmm," she hummed before pouncing and pinning you beneath you.
You grinned, letting her ravage your throat and the apex of your shoulder. Her thumb pressed against your chin, gazing down at you and closing her eyes briefly. That look on your face was far too familiar. Perhaps that was part of your allure. Dragon blood always managed to find each other. Some hidden attraction woven in the DNA. Her silken mouth moved over your breasts, down your stomach, before her head disappeared between your thighs. You spread your legs wider, getting a glimpse of her pink tongue burying in your cunt. Perspiration clung to your shoulders while your fingers moved through her moonlit hair. A queen worshipping between your thighs.
Her fingers soon filled you while her mouth wrapped around your swollen pearl. The neediest whimper escaped, and your stomach clenched. A precise curl, a gentle trace of her tongue, soon had you spilling into a sweet release. Tears dribbled down your cheeks, glistening like glass.
"I shall take these as a compliment," Rhaenyra grinned, your aftermath glistening on her mouth as she leaned down to kiss you. The taste of you dancing on your tongue. After the fervid kiss, she lapped each glassy tear away before pressing her forehead against yours. "My little dragonseed."
And you were hers from that very night forth. Tucked beneath her wing, nurtured and made to grow. Private Valyrian lessons and flights with her on Syrax and you on Silverwing. Burst of gold and silver against the misty, purple skies. Your flourished. Vines springing from the seed, wrapping tightly around you until you emerged with dragon scales of your own.
You rubbed off on her as well. With the support of her small council, Lord Corlys allowed two ships through the blockade and paid them to fly Rhaenya's banners. She did not hold the Iron Throne, yet she tended to the smallfolk. There were small riots, and the Greens were secluded in the Red Keep. You suspected Aemond wished to burn them all with Vhagar, but that would do no good and paint him a monster. One afternoon, she joined you and Baela in training, and she looked enigmatic with a sword in her hand.
Upon Daemon's return from Harrenhal, Rhaenyra had him knight her dragonseeds. His lilac eyes passed over you, ready to sheath his sword. You wondered if he recognized you.
"Her as well, Daemon," Rhaenyra instructed, and Addam gave you a small smile.
"She may have the title, but she cannot take the oath. None would recognize her," he replied nonchalantly.
"I wish for her to have the title," Rhaenyra stated evenly.
"She has earned it, Your Grace," Hugh volunteered respectfully.
"Aye, she's full of fire this one. Brave too," Ulf piped up, giving you a wink.
"Your Grace," Daemon reminded him tersely.
"Your Grace," Ulf quipped, giving an almost comical bow.
"If he will not, Your Grace, I will do so. I believe that is a power bestowed on knights? Any knight can make a knight," Addam said, addressing Rhaenyra directly.
"Indeed, it is," Rhaenyra smiled.
Your cheeks flushed, feeling pride as your fellow dragonseeds defended you. Even Ulf had grown on you. There was an unbreakable bond between the four of you now.
An amused look crossed Daemon's face as he lifted Dark Sister into the air. "Kneel."
You knelt in your chainmail as the flat edge of the sword landed on your right shoulder and then your left.
"Arise." It was hard to ignore the disinterest in his voice, but it mattered not. You no longer yearned for the approval of a father who abandoned you to the Street of Silk for his paramour to raise. You had the approval of the queen and the friendship of your fellow dragonseeds. She promised all four of you legitimation once she held King's Landing. No longer a dragonseed, no longer a Waters; you would be a Targaryen. Victory tasted delicious in your mouth. How far you had climbed out of the Street of Silk. Clawed from the bottom of Rhaenys's Hill to become a dragon.
You stood, feeling giddy, and while it might be only in title, it was special to you. In two days' time, a siege would fall on King's Landing, and you would get the Dragon Queen her rightful throne.
— Summary: determined to prove she needs no help in planning the royal feast, and too proud to accept her husbands offers for assistance, baelor's wife devotes herself to her planning long into the night before baelor stubbornly coaxes her to bed
— Pairing: baelor targaryen x wife!reader
— Content: baelor adores his wife, tired couple, domestic romance/intimacy, mild sexual content, fluff, parital nudity, brief massage, drinking, comfort, some flirting/banter, established relationship, unspecificed age gap, cuddling, tired/frustrated husband
— Word Count: 2.1k
— A/N: I originally meant for this to be kinda an inverse of the tension fic but I kinda got bored with the idea and carried away with planning some other works I have in mind so I apologize if anything seems rushed or under-developed.
The time of year had arrived once more, the season in which you were responsible for planning the royal feast. A duty you had been granted since you and Baelor had wed, one you proudly shouldered alone. His attempts to offer his support had come to nothing, though not for a lack of trying. He had offered practically every day since you began, with that gentle, measured tone that always made it so hard to deny him when he said it would be his honor to help you. Of course, you had declined every time, in spite of the sweetness his voice reserved only for you and the increasing generosity of his offers. He had enough on his plate as it was being his father's Hand. But his offer to help you with the seating chart had been his most tantalizing yet. An offer you were regretting refusing with each moment of the evening that ticked by.
You had lost track of how many hours had passed since you first embarked on the meticulous work of arranging the seating chart. But you knew it was well into the evening, with summer crickets chirping loudly below your balcony. The cold, salty air of the bay billowed through your shared quarters, sealing the rich black ink of your quill into the pads of your fingers as you scribbled down notes. Your wine sat half-empty on the table, chilled, and long abandoned by the dying embers of the hearth. Baelor had it spiced exactly as you liked.
Candlelight had been your sole provider of light for most of the evening. Your tired eyes creased at the corners as you scanned over the various drafts, letters, and requests that had overtaken your dining table, your mind reeling in a dizzying whirl trying to organize it all.
Your husband's own duties had piled up of late, with him leaving your bed well before dawn most mornings and secluding himself in his solar far into the night. And on fortunate days when he returned to your chamber earlier than anticipated, he retired to bed earlier than you, with one of his histories in hand and his wine perched on the bedside table; he sipped it carefully, glancing at you between pages.
"Do you think the Baratheons and the Tyrells would be tolerant of one another?" you asked in a resigned tone, rubbing your eyes with the back of your wrist.
"Mm," he mused into his glass while he turned the page. His mismatched gaze briefly flicked up to where you sat, lingering on the stubborn jut of your jaw as you muttered thoughtfully to yourself. "I think your eyes need rest, and the issue will resolve itself tomorrow."
A grumble of annoyance escaped you. His mouth curved slightly in response as he returned his attention to the book. "I believe Lord Lyonel will find anyone tolerable so long as he has enough ale at his disposal."
"Fair point," you huffed in agreement, eyes dragging up to rest on where he sat atop the deep-red covers of your shared bed, clad in a robe as black and silken as a raven's feather. The ties had come loose in the hours since you helped him into it, allowing you a generous view of his lean chest and the dark hairs that adorned it.
A familiar heat settled low in your stomach at the sight, knowing he would shed it all soon when you both retired fully for the night. The longer the thought lingered in your mind, the more you felt the ache in your neck and the strain in your wrists. And the more you wished to curl up against his chest and bask in his warmth while he read until his own eyes started to tire.
A small draft carried through the room, filling your lungs and snapping you out of your thoughts. You dropped your gaze to the inky cloth you had been using all evening, running it deftly across your hands before you stood, crossing the room to the balcony.
"You won't find the answer out there," he called from where he sat, a hint of amusement coloring his voice.
You rolled your eyes at that, folding your arms against your chest and propping yourself against the wind-kissed stone of the archway. Each slow inhale of night air eased the tension your mind refused to cast aside. Baelor looked up from his novel once more, noting the contemplative distance in your gaze and the way you chewed on your thumbnail, just like you always did when you were nervous or troubled. His watchful eyes moved over every taut line and gentle curve painted by the faint blue gleam of night across your skin.
The fragile silence that had settled between you was soon broken by the soft thud of him closing his book and setting it aside with a sigh. "Come to bed, my love," he commanded quietly, propping himself on his elbow while his gaze dipped briefly to your backside.
It had become rare to even speak to him past noon, much less to have him calling you so sweetly to bed, with only the wish to hold you and savor the few moments unburdened by his duties. The familiar tinge of guilt gnawed at the back of your mind, wanting nothing more than to fall into his embrace and let his strong arms and tender hands soothe your constant pondering and the day's aches. But your mind would not rest until you at least had some semblance of structure for the seating chart.
When you did not answer after a moment, he pressed further, tilting his head to the side. "My love," he said, a slight edge creeping into his tone. The usual stern crease of his brow deepened as he saw you turn back towards the table.
"Hm?" you mused, making your way back to the table. Your hands immediately found purchase against the hard oak, urgently sifting through scattered papers for your quill as an idea popped into your head. The heavy weight of his stare tracked every movement you made.
"Don't make me ask again," he said with that soft-spoken authority that usually made you pause. But in this instance, you had been so consumed by the fleeting idea that you neglected to even hear him rise from the bed with a hushed grunt or notice the unhurried steps he was making towards you now.
"I still need to wash my hands and put out the—" You stopped when his slender fingers wrapped around your arm, halting your gestures; his other hand snagged your earlier cloth off the table. His eyes met yours instantly; the dying embers of the hearth melted into the warm amber of his left eye—silvery gleams of moonlight along the tiled floors reflected into the striking blue of his right. A sight that had never failed to enchant you, even more so when you felt him take the cloth tenderly to your fingers, wiping away every worry and idea you had been contemplating.
"No more excuses," he stated, raising his brows in the barest of an arch. His eyes never left yours, almost daring you to protest while he worked the cloth over your stained fingers with the leisure and practiced ease of a man who had all the time in the world. Never rough, never chaste, just sure in his movements, sure in bringing you comfort. You held his stare for a long moment, letting out a resigned sigh when you realized any protest you made in your defense would be futile.
"Fine," you conceded, as he licked the edge of his thumb, brushing it tenderly over the worn dot of ink on your cheek until it refused to mark your skin any longer. The gentleness of his touch against your stressed form reminded you of the heaviness that had been settling over you all evening, slow and inevitable as a stone finding the bottom of a pond.
"I don't usually have to battle you to get you to lie beside me," he murmured fondly against your forehead, his hand coming to cradle the back of your head as he pulled you into him.
"You're right; I usually have to battle you for the privilege," you said, only partially in jest. He chuckled lightly at that, knowing the truth in your words. Your hands glided to the loose opening of his robe, reveling in the warmth of his skin. He hummed at the notion, pulling away just enough so he could rest his calloused palms on your hips, just a bit too low to be proper in any other instance.
"I will deal with the seating arrangement tomorrow," he said, looking down at you, watching the way your eyes followed your fingers as they came up to thread through the grey edges of his beard. Your arms eventually came to rest around his neck, partially resting your tired weight against him.
"Baelor, please—"
"No, I will not hear any of it, no more about this seating arrangement tonight," he stated as he hoisted you up with ease, in spite of the fatigue he carried. You yelped in surprise, legs wrapping around him instinctively as he carried you to the bed. He set you down gently against the pillows, placing a delicate kiss on your lips before leaning back to admire the way your hair fanned out along them. The way he looked at you, like he was trying to brand this sight into his mind as a remedy for every hour you spent apart, made your heart flutter against your chest.
"Entirely unfair; I can't pick you up," you grumbled, your eyes lingering on the way he slipped his robe off his shoulders, leaving him in just his small clothes.
"You've never complained about me picking you up before," he said wryly, tossing the robe onto the nearby chair. Your eyes dipped to the gentle lines of aged muscle along his abdomen as he climbed over you, the bed dipping marginally under his weight. His lips lowered to plant slow kisses across your neck before dragging them across the subtle curve of your jaw to nibble your earlobe between his teeth. You giggled, squirming slightly at the soft pricks of his beard against your skin. The retort that had been building on your tongue slowly ebbed away like the dying light of a candle.
A moment later his lips reluctantly parted from your skin as he dropped next to you fully, the bed creaking softly as he rolled onto his back. His arm snaked its way around your side, pulling you insistently into him. The hard planes of his body melted against the delicate frame of yours. Your hand rested along his chest, while his slender fingers caressed the smooth skin of your shoulder through your nightgown.
"I will allow your help under one condition," you hummed, a hint of exhaustion creeping into your tone. His ministrations faltered for the barest of seconds as he swallowed the urge to press the matter; a long sigh left him instead.
"I don't recall saying the matter was up for negotiation," he said simply, his fingers climbing up your shoulder, beginning to rub the stiff muscles along your neck.
You let out a hushed groan as his fingers pressed tighter into a particularly sore spot. "I want you to be here when I wake," you said, your voice strained as you ignored his deflection.
He shifted slightly, devoting his full attention to you. The dim lighting of the room rendered you unable to fully discern his features but you could see enough to notice the way his gaze softened as he registered the stubbornness in your eyes.
"Very well," he relented with a slight bow of his head. You smiled immediately at his words, scooting your body closer to his as you chased his warmth. His lips ghosted over yours in a feather-light touch before sealing them in a tentative kiss. A slow heat spread across your skin, unraveling the tension that still lingered.
"See, that wasn't so hard," you whispered against his lips as you pulled away. The tendon along his forehead flexed in irritation but he simply closed his eyes, reclining his head further back against the pillows. The smile that had plastered your face previously returned even stronger when you moved to roll onto your side. His arm stilled you instantly as you tried to pull away, tugging you back into him. You chuckled softly at the gesture, easing back into his embrace, your eyes tracing his own tired features until you both drifted into a soundless sleep.
⋆ . ۰˚ ☽ ˚ ｡ “I wonder wich will kill you faster, child—your loyalty or your kindness?”
── 𝐬𝐲𝐧𝐨𝐩𝐬𝐢𝐬: During the Ashford Meadow tournament, where she is expected to choose a noble husband and secure her place within the dynasty, Prince Baelor Targaryen's only daughter feels increasingly burdened by the weight of her lineage and her lack of self-belief and identity, finding a sense of companionship in her cousin Aerion, with whom she has long shared a secret and passionate romance, a bond as suffocating as it is unbreakable.
Amidst the chaos of the event and that of her family, she crosses paths with Ser Duncan the Tall, a humble hedge knight with a noble heart and gentle eyes. Despite the vast gulf between their worlds, an immediate and soul-stirring bond sparks between them, one that feels like a reunion with an old friend, dictated by fate itself. This encounter forces her to confront the true cost of loyalty, questioning whether love is a burden to be endured through duty, or a path to be chosen through courage.
To find her truth and claim what is hers, the Gentle Dragon must bleed; she shall surrender the skies and cast away her wings, for only in falling shall she learn how to love.
── 𝐩𝐚𝐢𝐫𝐢𝐧𝐠𝐬: Ser Duncan the Tall x Reader ─ Aerion Targaryen x Reader
── 𝐭𝐨𝐭𝐚𝐥 𝐰𝐨𝐫𝐝 𝐜𝐨𝐮𝐧𝐭: ~ 30k
── 𝐜𝐨𝐧𝐭𝐞𝐧𝐭/𝐰𝐚𝐫𝐧𝐢𝐧𝐠𝐬 (this will contain major spoilers!): this story is intended for mature audience (18+ only). for aerion ─ targcest, dark romance, psychological manipulation, obsessive/toxic behavior, power imbalance, implicit smut. for dunk ─ past life lovers/soulmates trope, slow burn, forbidden romance, hurt/comfort. in general ─ love triangle, nudity, use of medieval contraceptives, canon-typical violence, descriptions of gore and severe physical injuries, complicated family dynamics, angst, major character death, grief and loss, canon compliant.
