Bael absolutely hates the fact that he shares stuff in common with Beelzebub, especially his guilty fetish. He can’t resist the smell of you, even with a tinge of shame. Whenever sex is involved, his dick goes stiff over the presence of body odor: your addicting, natural scent, and the endless drops of sweat thanks to the humid atmosphere.
He will lick and nibble at your skin, sometimes adorning it with light hickeys. If there is sweat present, expect this to take an extended period of time. Bael deliberately picks up each drop with his tongue. Just the taste itself can make his face turn red. He believed you saw his kink as strange or revolting, but you truly didn’t care for it. You were too sexually aroused to talk at all. Why bring that up when he’s in the middle of making a mess out of you? No room for shame.
In order to calm his nerves, you praise and remind him of how good he feels. Bael will eventually be delighted to keep going; crying out your name as he either tastes or fucks you. He begins to turn drunk over how your body tightens around his cock. He can offer some compliments for you, too, like how much he loves your scent, or the way your cries drive Bael to fuck you for a tad bit longer.
Eating you out, however, was the best part he never wants to admit. Bael would pierce his tongue in your sweet gap, prodding and twirling at every angle to taste you fully. You’re moaning and crying for more from above, so at least you were being satisfied. Bael is down there moaning too. He can’t help but enjoy how delicious you taste, slurping in more than enough for his own being. The devil pumps his cock while maintaining his gaze at you, all that self-shame washing away. He’d rather engage in this than fill endless stacks of paper that Beel is responsible for. Damn the king for not offering an ounce of leisure.
had a dream where bael, drifter, and some other characters that i do not recall were playing some space card game. bael lost to drifter, and i think this was at least the third (or fifth??) time in a row that he lost, and got so fucking angry about it that he lost his marbles and started destroying shit with his lightsaber. i think he also beat somebody to death with his chair. there was like. low budget bright red blood flying everywhere too (and everyone else at the table just sat there and carried on like nothing was happening???).
When your land is plagued by wars and death becomes an everyday thing, your hands learn to become more stable than a maester's.
You learn to look into a killer's eyes and understand forgiveness. You learn that justice is a heavy sword to be carried.
But when you meet a Targaryen Prince burdened by duty and grief, your souls vibrate to the same frequency. And perhaps the world is not as dark as you both originally thought.
Pairing: Baelor Targaryen x Fem!Reader
Warnings: None
Chapter XXXIII: LINK
Chapter XXXV: SOON
Chapter XXXIV: The Ball, part 2
The Queen was still standing exactly where you had left her.
As though she had not moved an inch.
As though she had been waiting solely for this moment.
The moment you stepped out from behind the changing screen.
For several heartbeats, neither of you spoke.
The room itself seemed to fall into a gentle silence, broken only by the faint rustle of silk settling around your ankles and the distant sounds drifting through the open window.
Somewhere below, servants hurried across the courtyard in preparation for the evening festivities. Their voices reached your chambers only as soft murmurs, carried upward by the warm breeze before disappearing just as quickly.
Yet inside your room... Everything felt still.
Queen Myriah's gaze travelled over you with remarkable patience.
Not hurriedly.
Not critically.
She examined every detail with the careful eye of an artist stepping back to admire the final brushstrokes upon a finished painting.
From the fall of the gown across your shoulders to the way the sash rested against your waist, from the delicate beading around your collar to the length of the skirt brushing lightly against the floor, nothing escaped her notice.
There was no vanity in the inspection, only quiet satisfaction.
You had the strange feeling that she had already imagined this exact image days ago, perhaps even before you had.
Then, slowly, the corners of her lips lifted; Proudly.
It was the smile of a woman watching something unfold exactly as she had hoped it would.
Suddenly aware of yourself in a way you had never been before, your fingers instinctively sought one another.
You began rubbing your thumbs together, a nervous habit you had never entirely managed to outgrow.
The silk beneath your fingertips felt unlike anything you had ever worn before. It was impossibly soft, almost weightless.
Instead of the coarse linen and sturdy wool you had spent most of your life wearing, the fabric seemed to flow beneath your touch like water, slipping effortlessly between your fingers whenever you tried to steady it.
You found yourself almost afraid to wrinkle it.
The Queen noticed. Without saying a word, she motioned for you to step closer.
The invitation was gentle. There was no command in it. You could have easily refused it. Yet, just as before, something in her presence naturally encouraged obedience.
You crossed the room slowly.
The unfamiliar skirt whispered around your legs with each careful step, reminding you again how different this gown felt compared to the practical dresses you normally wore.
Even walking required a different rhythm, smaller movements, slower ones, lest you accidentally tread upon the flowing hem.
When you finally stopped before her, Myriah reached forward. Her hands settled lightly upon your shoulders.
There was nothing possessive about the gesture. If anything, it felt reassuring, almost maternal.
She turned you carefully until you faced the great mirror standing beside the wall.
Only then did she remove her hands.
For a long moment... You simply stared.
The woman looking back at you felt strangely familiar. And yet... Entirely unfamiliar at the same time.
Your breath caught almost imperceptibly.
You were beautiful. The thought arrived uninvited.
Not proud.
Not vain.
Merely honest.
Your hair still remained tied back with the simple ribbon Ellyn had hastily used earlier that morning, keeping it away from your face while you chased little princes around the nursery.
A few loose strands had escaped during the day, framing your face with soft disorder that somehow suited you more than perfect order ever could.
Even unfinished... The dress transformed everything.
Slowly, almost hesitantly, your hands drifted across the fabric.
Your fingertips traced the beaded collar first, marvelling at the intricate craftsmanship.
Tiny beads caught beneath your fingers one after another, cool to the touch and sewn with such precision that you struggled to imagine the countless hours someone must have spent creating them.
Your gaze travelled lower.
The gown flowed beautifully around your figure, gathered neatly at the waist by a broad sash that softened into graceful folds before cascading toward the floor.
The rich burnished copper silk seemed almost alive beneath the afternoon light, shifting gently between amber, bronze and warm gold each time you moved.
The sleeveless bodice felt unfamiliar against your skin.
So much of your shoulders remained uncovered.
The ornate collar framed them beautifully, its delicate tasselled drape lending quiet elegance to the otherwise simple silhouette.
There was nothing excessive about the dress.
No overwhelming embroidery.
No unnecessary jewels.
Its beauty lay within its restraint.
That, somehow, made it all the more striking.
Almost without thinking, your fingers slipped across your bare shoulder before travelling farther along your arm.
It felt... strange.
The absence of sleeves left your skin exposed to the gentle breeze drifting through the open window.
Every passing current brushed lightly against your back, reminding you just how much of it remained uncovered beneath the open design.
Instinctively, you glanced over one shoulder.
Though you could not fully see it, you sensed the openness of the back as clearly as if your own eyes rested upon it.
It should have embarrassed you. Oddly... It didn't. Not entirely.
There was vulnerability in the design, but there was freedom too.
You looked at yourself again, really looked.
The gown fit perfectly.
Not merely well. Perfectly.
The waist rested exactly where it should.
The neckline neither slipped nor tightened.
The skirt brushed the floor without dragging behind you.
Someone had measured you.
Someone had spent weeks cutting, sewing and fitting this gown so it would belong to no other woman but you.
That thought alone felt almost more overwhelming than the beauty of the dress itself.
Then there was the colour.
You had never worn anything remotely similar.
In your village, fabrics came in earth tones more often than not. Browns, greys, faded blues, the occasional deep green if someone possessed enough coin.
Nothing like this.
This warm copper seemed almost to glow around you, bringing warmth to the complexion you had never noticed before.
You tilted your head slightly, and the woman in the mirror did the same.
A quiet thought surfaced before you could stop it.
What if...
What if you had been born elsewhere?
What if life had begun beneath stone ceilings instead of timber roofs?
What if your hands had learned embroidery before bandaging wounds?
Would this woman have always existed beneath the surface?
Would she have looked like this every day?
Or would she have become someone entirely different?
The questions lingered only briefly because almost as quickly, another part of you answered them.
No. Not truly.
The dress was beautiful, and it made you feel beautiful. But it was not who you were.
Your fingers lingered thoughtfully against the silk.
You had spent your entire life dressing for usefulness rather than appearance.
Practical dresses.
Sturdy boots.
Men's trousers whenever the work demanded climbing, lifting or riding beside your brothers through muddy roads.
Clothes that could be stained without regret.
Clothes that could tear.
Clothes that could survive life.
This... This belonged to another world entirely.
One where beauty itself seemed to carry purpose.
And for reasons you still struggled to understand... That realisation unsettled you more than it excited you.
Years of habit did not simply disappear because someone placed silk upon your shoulders. They remained.
Woven just as deeply into you as every scar hidden beneath the gown itself.
You had spent your life believing usefulness outweighed beauty.
Believing work mattered more than appearance.
Believing confidence came from character rather than jewels.
Perhaps... You still did.
And a few years ago, had someone shown this very image to the younger version of yourself, she would likely have laughed.
She might even have mocked you.
In the past, you had often mocked the importance other women placed upon beautiful gowns, expensive fabrics and glittering jewellery.
Never aloud. You had not been cruel enough for that.
But privately...
Oh, privately you had questioned it more than once.
Growing up, beauty had always seemed like a luxury reserved for people whose greatest worry was deciding which ribbon best matched their sleeves.
Your own life had never allowed such thoughts.
When fields were waiting to be harvested before rain ruined the crops...
When livestock escaped broken fences...
When neighbours knocked frantically upon your family's door because someone had fallen from a horse or split open a hand with an axe...
There had never been time to wonder whether a dress suited your eyes, nor money to get it even if you wished for it.
A fine gown would not help gather wheat before the first autumn storm.
Jewellery would not soothe the fever of a frightened child.
Silk would not stop a man from bleeding out after battle.
Life had taught you early that usefulness mattered and that Everything else came second.
Perhaps that was why confidence had always meant something entirely different to you than it did to many women.
Confidence was not stitched into expensive fabric. It was not woven through gold thread nor hung around one's neck in the shape of precious stones.
Confidence came from knowing what your own hands were capable of creating, of repairing, of protecting.
It came from surviving winters that should have broken you.
From learning skills no one could ever take away.
From standing back up after life had knocked you into the mud yet again.
No dress could ever give someone that, No necklace ever would And yet...
Standing before the mirror now, fingertips absentmindedly brushing across the smooth silk gathered at your waist, you found yourself quietly questioning whether perhaps you had judged too harshly.
Not because the gown had changed who you were, because it hadn't.
Beneath the copper silk remained the same woman who had climbed trees with her brothers, stitched wounds by candlelight and spent long nights sleeping upon cold ground whenever war demanded it.
None of that had vanished, nor did you wish it to.
But perhaps... Perhaps there was nothing shameful about feeling beautiful as well. The thought lingered only briefly before another voice interrupted it.
"We are not done, of course." Queen Myriah's gentle words drew you away from your reflection.
You looked toward her through the mirror.
She was watching you with the quiet satisfaction of someone whose work remained unfinished.
"We still need to work with your hair," she continued, her smile softening ever so slightly. "But I can already picture it."
There was an unmistakable warmth within her voice.
Not pride born from vanity but something gentler, more personal even.
As though she already saw the woman standing before you even while you still struggled to recognise her yourself.
You found yourself studying the Queen's reflection almost as carefully as your own.
What did she truly see?
Surely not merely a village healer awkwardly wrapped in silk far finer than anything she had ever touched before.
No...
Whenever Myriah looked at you, it always felt as though she saw something resting beneath appearances.
Something quieter.
Something you yourself had yet to discover.
It made you wonder whether she truly believed it or whether she simply wished you to.
Still...
For all her kindness, for all the unexpected generosity she continued showing you, a small part of your mind remained cautious.
Old habits were difficult to abandon, especially those carved by hardship.
Queens did not simply devote this much time to strangers, not without reason and definitely not without purpose.
You had spent enough weeks within the Red Keep to understand that nearly every action inside its walls carried meaning beyond what first appeared.
Favours were remembered, Smiles were observed, and Kindness itself could become a political tool when placed in the right hands.
Yet... When you looked at Queen Myriah now, you struggled to find calculation upon her face.
Instead, another possibility quietly took shape.
She had once been a foreign woman herself. A princess carried away from her homeland into a castle where few truly welcomed her.
A young bride expected to navigate customs, traditions and expectations that had never belonged to her.
She understood. Perhaps more deeply than anyone else within these walls ever could.
She had raised sons here, Buried dreams here; Built a life here.
Maybe... Just maybe... She recognised something of herself within you.
Not because your stories matched, for they did not. But because loneliness often recognised loneliness long before words ever acknowledged it.
Perhaps she simply wished to spare another woman the isolation she herself had once endured.
Or perhaps... She wished for companionship.
Not ladies eager to flatter a queen.
Not nobles measuring every word for advantage.
Simply... another woman.
Someone honest enough to disagree with her.
Someone who spoke without rehearsing every sentence first.
Someone who still looked at her as a person before a queen.
The thought surprised you with how believable it felt.
You realised then that, despite the crown resting upon her head, Myriah often seemed oddly alone.
Surrounded by people and yet rarely accompanied.
"Why me?" The question escaped before you had fully decided to ask it.
Your eyes lifted to meet hers through the mirror.
Ellyn had quietly guided you toward the cushioned chair before the dressing table, nimble fingers already beginning to untie the ribbon holding your hair together.
Gentle movements worked through the loose strands with practised familiarity, yet your attention never left the Queen.
You needed to understand, needed to know.
"Why go to all this trouble?" you asked softly. "To dress me and prepare me for a ball I have no right to be in?"
Silence followed.
Not awkward, Thoughtful.
Queen Myriah regarded you for several moments before answering, as though carefully choosing words that would reach not your ears...
But your heart.
There was no offence upon her face, no irritation.
If anything... She had expected the question all along.
A faint smile curved her lips. "Because you're part of the family now, the boys love you, and you have actually managed to change my son for the better, even if you cannot see it."
Your lips parted instinctively as A protest rose almost immediately.
Not because you doubted the boys loved you, because you knew that much.
Valarr had changed so much during the weeks you had spent together that even you could scarcely compare the solemn little boy you first met with the laughing child he was now.
The laughing child, who now dragged you into games, begged you to attend royal balls and proudly showed off every tiny accomplishment as though it were a knight's greatest victory.
Matarys had changed as well.
His little legs grew steadier each day; his laughter came easier.
He explored the world with fearless curiosity, always convinced that if he stumbled, your arms would somehow be there before the floor ever could be.
Those changes... Those you could see.
You had lived them.
It was the second part that caught you entirely unprepared.
“You have actually managed to change my son for the better...”
The words echoed quietly through your thoughts.
Before you could gather enough composure to question them, to insist she had surely mistaken kindness for something greater, Queen Myriah continued gently, never giving you the chance to interrupt.
"You are responsible for the royal princes. The boys will not attend without you, and we cannot have you attending in any simple dress." A trace of quiet amusement softened her smile. "You need to dress the part." Her gaze travelled briefly over the copper silk before returning to your face. "And you will."
You lowered your eyes for a moment.
The answer made sense.
At least... Part of it did.
Enough to explain the gown.
Enough to explain why the Queen wished you present.
Yet something continued tugging quietly at the edge of your thoughts.
It felt... Incomplete.
As though beneath every explanation she offered rested another one she had deliberately chosen to keep to herself.
One final truth.
One she was not yet ready to share.
And somehow... You were no longer entirely certain it had anything to do with the trouble she had gone through for you.
"But I don't belong among your people,” You argued, trying to find the right argument to get your answers.
“There is no my people.” Myriah corrected. “The court is made of so many different people that no one truly belongs anywhere; they just coexist.” She moved to sit in an armchair as Ellyn continued styling her hair. “It doesn’t matter if you come from a powerful family or not. If you just recently got into power or got a favour from the king, everyone attends, and everyone has their own reason to be brought in... And you... are no exception.”
You processed her words, realising the truth they held. But it still felt like an incomplete reasoning for all the trouble she went through for you.
And you wished to know the full truth. Not out of suspicion, not entirely. Rather because Queen Myriah had become increasingly difficult to understand.
The more time you spent around her, the less she resembled the image you had built in your mind before arriving at the Red Keep.
You had expected coldness, distance, perhaps even quiet superiority.
A queen, after all, was someone ordinary people only ever glimpsed from afar, wrapped in jewels and guarded by knights.
Instead... You had found a woman.
One who observed more than she spoke.
One who smiled with genuine warmth instead of practised courtesy.
One who somehow always knew exactly which words to offer and, perhaps more importantly, which ones to leave unsaid.
It unsettled you.
Because every answer she gave seemed complete enough to satisfy the question, yet never complete enough to reveal everything.
You had the distinct feeling she was forever holding one final piece close to her chest.
You wondered whether she did that with everyone, or whether that was the case only with you.
Your curiosity urged you to continue, to ask another question.
To gently pull at the thread and discover what lay hidden beneath the careful composure of the Queen of Westeros.
Yet before you could gather your thoughts, another part of what she had said returned to the forefront of your mind.
"…you have actually managed to change my son for the better, even if you cannot see it."
The words lingered quietly and persistently.
You changed Baelor? The thought came before you could stop it, refusing to leave no matter how firmly you tried to dismiss it.
You frowned faintly at your own reflection.
The boys... Yes. That you could understand.
But Baelor...
Your brows drew together ever so slightly.
How?
You searched your memories one by one.
The suppers you had shared.
The conversations stretching late into the evening.
His patient explanations whenever court customs confused you.
The kindness he had shown without ever making you feel foolish for asking questions everyone else already knew the answers to.
Those moments had mattered as they had drawn you closer.
But changed him?
You struggled to see it, especially now, especially after the past week.
A full seven days had passed without either of you truly seeing one another.
Not in the nursery and not over supper.
Not even by chance within the endless corridors of the Red Keep.
It almost felt impossible.
The castle was enormous, yet somehow your paths never crossed.
At first you had assumed it was coincidence, then unfortunate timing.
Eventually... You had begun wondering whether it was deliberate.
Whether he, too, remembered that night every bit as vividly as you did.
Whether he had hidden himself behind duties and council meetings just as you, shamefully, had hidden yourself behind the children.
The memory surfaced before you could stop it.
The quiet supper.
The warmth of the fire.
The silence that had somehow spoken louder than words.
The way his eyes had lingered upon yours.
The almost unbearable closeness.
The kiss that never happened...
Yet somehow still haunted you as though it had.
Heat rose gently into your cheeks despite yourself.
You lowered your gaze toward your hands, suddenly fascinated by the tiny beads decorating the cuffs of the gown.
How utterly ridiculous, you thought.
You had survived battlefields and stitched soldiers together while arrows still darkened the sky.
Faced death often enough that its presence no longer startled you.
And yet one almost-kiss from a widowed prince had somehow managed to leave you flustered for an entire week.
You could almost laugh at yourself, almost.
Instead, you stole a glance toward Queen Myriah through the mirror.
Did she know? The question arrived so naturally that it startled you.
Not whether she had been told, for nobody could have.
But... Did she suspect?
Queens observed everything, and she certainly observed far more than most.
Had she noticed the sudden absence of shared suppers?
The careful avoidance?
The way neither of you ever seemed to occupy the same corridor anymore?
You searched her expression carefully and yet you found nothing.
Her face remained as composed as ever, offering neither confirmation nor denial.
If she suspected anything at all, she guarded the knowledge with the same effortless grace she guarded every other thought passing through her mind.
You found yourself almost admiring it.
There was strength in such restraint and a kind of quiet discipline. You wondered whether she had always possessed it... Or whether the Red Keep had taught it to her.
"All done, my lady." Ellyn's cheerful voice gently broke through your thoughts.
You blinked, almost surprised to find yourself still seated before the mirror.
So lost had you become inside your own mind that you had scarcely noticed her careful fingers weaving through your hair, pinning and arranging each strand with remarkable precision.
Slowly, you rose from the chair.
The silk whispered softly around your legs as you stepped toward the mirror once more.
Then... You stopped.
For several long moments... You simply stared.
The woman reflected within the polished glass scarcely resembled the one who had entered these chambers less than an hour ago.
Your hair had been gathered into an elegant style befitting court, intricate enough to appear regal while still allowing gentle curls to frame your face naturally.
It somehow softened your features instead of hardening them, making you appear older, perhaps... but no less yourself.
The gown flowed around you like molten copper beneath the afternoon light. The delicate beadwork shimmered with every breath.
Even your posture had changed without your noticing. Straighter. More assured.
Almost as though the woman in the mirror carried herself with a confidence you had yet to claim fully.
Your fingertips rose almost hesitantly to brush a loose curl beside your cheek.
It truly is me... Isn't it?
You searched the reflection for the village girl who had arrived at the Red Keep carrying little more than worn dresses, practical boots and a satchel full of herbs.
She was still there; you could see her in your eyes.
In the faint scars scattered across your hands.
In the way your shoulders still held themselves with the unconscious readiness of someone accustomed to work rather than leisure.
The dress had not erased her.
It had simply revealed another part of her you had never before been given the chance to see.
Behind you, Queen Myriah watched through the same mirror.
A smile rested upon her face.
Not one born of victory.
Not satisfaction alone.
Something softer, Warmer. Almost... Proud.
Not of the woman you had become, but of the woman she believed you had always been.
And unbeknownst to you... This was only the beginning of a far greater plan.
Divider by @uzmacchiato
[A/N] - I swear, in my mind… I had planned for the ball to come right after, but I just wrote and wrote and wrote… and, well, I had to cut the idea and put it in the next chapter.
So, I promise you for real that next chapter we will bring Baelor back, and something major will happen in the next 2-3 chapters.
Good news is… once again, I miscalculated the chapters, so this story will have more chapters than originally planned. Maybe as many as the Lyonel Story, if not more 😅🫣
“So this is how I will come to die? Slain by a Dornish rogue under my own father’s roof?”
A proud and powerful family, House Rowan themselves claim to descend from Garth Greenhand, the legendary King of the Reach. Second only to their overlords the Tyrells, House Rowan have been loyal servants to the crown, with members of it serving the realm as Hand of the King.
Lady Sybil Rowan is the forth child of Lord Edmund Rowan of Goldengrove, after her sisters Margery and Elisabeth, and her brother Malcolm. She has a younger brother, Willem, aged five and the current heir to Goldengrove after his brother's sudden death in 195 AC. A third daughter to a tragedy struck family, Sybil has never gotten much attention from her parents, allowing her small, yet deeply cherished freedoms. Through the years, Sybil became an avid horse rider, spending days on end in the fields with her older brother.
With the breakout of the First Blackfyre Rebellion in 196 AC, Goldengrove has yet to declare for the king or the pretender, with whispers spreading that as much as the Rowans claim loyalty to the crown, they seem to hate the Dornish much more.
(tagging as an x reader, as I can't write in second person for the love of me and I feel the need to give stuff names don't hate me pls)
