an archive of fics that i’ve loved ❤︎ i have no words to describe on how immensely grateful i am to these amazing writers here on tumblr. i hope you all the best in life <33
── .✦ HUNTERXHUNTER
guessing game - a/b/o setting and its about illumi?! ughh i love this sm esp how mc correctly guessed that illumi used her shirt as a pillowcase lol AND the line “this is all the space that we need between us”?! im obsessed! (@hypnoswrites)
soulmate au - chrollo soulmate au?!? im sat. another lovely fic by hypno! there’s a lot more amazing fics on their blog so please go to it and show your support ^^ (@hypnoswrites)
30 seconds - another chrollo soulmate au!! imagine finding out that your soulmate is a murderer and on top of that, he’s the phantom troupe leader! (@uvobreakmylegs)
sixth floor game - ok soo i never knew i needed demon shalnark until this came… a must read! (@uvobreakmylegs)
biting people you like - i’m such a sucker for vampire fics,, like just come over and bite me shalnark(@hypnoswrites)
mu heart is in my hand - a feitan soulmate au!! give me a soulmate au and my heart is yours (@after-witch)
chained veils - forced marriage with pariston?! 🤤(@envy-of-the-apple)
── .✦ CORIOLANUS SNOW
the driven snow - my first yandere snow fic that i’ve read! the horror that mc felt when she found out that she’s staying at the capitol (@after-witch)
NDA - hands down the best! poor livia :( her own son doesn’t even recognize her. “no one leaves the president.” trust me, i won’t. snow using mcs brother as a leverage for her to behave. dirty dirty snow (@perlelune)
no body, no crime - all time fav. please read thiss! 😛 (@perlelune)
── .✦ A KNIGHT OF THE SEVEN KINGDOMS
caged - the BEST dark valarr!! i love love long chapters <3 control freak valarr. i eat up all ur writing (@valarrtheyoungprince)
the favorite - omg aerion and valarr together!? gimme boaf! no words on how amazing this piece is! aerion being the asshole he is and lying to valarr about mc. from ‘valarr’ to its ‘your grace’ after he found out about the betrayal 😳 (@perlelune)
suprise - mmm daddy maekar… and he’s delusional too… this kind of troupe is like my guilty pleasure lol like hihihi, we all love egg! (@mrsdarkandyandere7)
picture-perfect - i wholeheartedly believe that there’s something dark hiding underneath valarr’s picture perfect facade! i mean, look at that man! he’s just better at hiding it than the others (@mrsdarkandyandere7)
distrust - so so good! like yes, valarr, just keep interrogating me like that ughsh. i love your dark valarr fics sssm, you keep me alive 🥺 (@mrsdarkandyandere7)
aerion targaryen - that dick corrupt me 🤤😔 (@beentainted)
valarr baby trapping - ughh ughhh yes! "i don't want any highborn lady, i love you," ok then, im easy, i give you permission to impregnate me! 😂 (@beentainted)
marked up - so what if we all a little into spanking!! let me take care of that for you, valarr 😋 who said thattt?? (@musingsofheaven)
thou shalt not covet - oh yes, daddy baelor and his son!!! baelors so fucking hot that i turn into a river every time i see him. valarrs hatred towards his step-mommy is not because she replaced jena, but something more scary ooooo shiver me timbers (@perlelune)
darling big sister - HELLO?? aerion being creepy as always, selecting whores that looks just like his sister :(( that man fr have a mommy kink anyone who disagrees is wrong (@imeow33)
a starved man is no laughing matter - who doesn’t love a reverse harem 😳 (@valarrswhitestreak)
dragons caught in the storm - honestly, this brings me back to my fifth grade wherein i tried to make a love potion for my crush ugh!! putting that aside, aerion taking the drink from mc that contains the love potion that was meant for valarr cuz yk typical aerion behavior and the horror that mc, daella, and rhae felt!! (@catbayunthestoryteller)
chosen - he hit me and it felt like a kiss 😔 me love love this, very very much!!! im like a wife that waits for her husband to arrive after work, but instead of that, its me on my toes waiting for the next banger of an update (°ロ°) (@loveobx)
── .✦ ROMAN GODFREY
bite marks and bruises - legit cried tears of joy when i saw this! who likes being chased and period sex anyways… its not like, i like it or something! may zeus himself strike me (@cherienymphe)
─── NOTE
legit if i added more like jjk, batfam, hsr, marvel, tua, outer banks, twst, dune, etc.. this would have surpassed hamilton’s essay.
to all authors out there, i love you all 🥺 your writings are all deeply appreciated by us readers and never ever doubt yourself and let the haters get to your mind. ❤︎ ❤︎ ❤︎
Hello! I absolutely love your yandere! AKOTSK! I was wondering if you could do a yandere! Baelor? Maybe them meeting or even a wedding and his obsession coming full force on the wedding night?
I love your writing so much!!! :)
Hi Anon! Thank you so much for the request and I love that you love my yandere works! It means so much to me! So, I've completed your request but I fear it's not as dark as you may have wanted so I'm sorry if it's not as good, I just finished a midterm today so I hope you like it!!!!!!
I Claimed You. You Are Mine
Yandere!Baelor Targaryen x Stark!fem!reader
TW: 18+ MDNI! Sex, possessive behaviour, sexual thoughts, violence and threats.
North is cold, far colder than any place has a right to be. It’s cold and it’s cruel and it’s dark, Winterfell lined with shadows, candle flame flickering on the stone walls, casting strange glows on the tapestries of Stark victories. It’s dark and it’s strange, haunting, the effect more intimidating than any fire and roar of a dragon could be—it’s a sign of saying that we live and thrive in the dark, you are no threat.
It’s effective, Baelor must admit as he walks through the halls, his advisors behind him, murmuring among each other with fear in their voices. Lemmings the lot of them, bred to fear and obey, never stand against or stand with. He can understand the darkness, can feel himself in company of people who appreciate it like he does, but the cold is the part he despises.
He needs warmth and fire and flame. He needs to be surrounded by his nature, the dark and the shadows and the burning—for he will not deny that dragon’s blood runs through his veins. He is the counterpart to the Starks, his line their opposite—fire and ice, but fire always wins.
Or at least it always has. And Baelor will not be the first to let fire die by ice, he will melt it all to maintain his pride, his honor. His family name.
“Prince Baelor, we welcome you,” comes the booming voice of Cregan Stark, the cruel man with a vicious tongue and will stronger than half the nobleman of the Seven Kingdoms.
“It is wonderful to be here again, Lord Stark,” he returns, nodding his head as he approaches the dais, steps slow and measured, below Cregan in age alone. “North is doing well, I presume?”
“As well as al—” Cregan’s response is cut off by the sound of doors slamming open and skirts rustling, an excited squeal dying off into confusion, silence. Baelor turns, noticing you, your form and the way your eyes gleam, the way your skin seems to emanate life and warmth, a fire burning underneath it, fire in the depth of the ice-filled Starks. You hold a book clutched to your chest, eyes wide in confusion, once wide with excitement, cheeks mottling with embarrassment.
“I’m so very sorry, Father,” you whisper, voice carrying through the room, sounding like a warm summer’s breeze, the words directed to Baelor’s heart. He can see in you fire and fragility, flame inside of glass. Tempered glass that’s hard to break, nearly impossible to shatter but still delicate and beautiful.
He sees in you an innocence, a type of being that he has never seen before and he finds the feeling unsettling, even more unsettling the fact that he steps forward without his conscious control, closer to you. To your warmth.
He wants you; he wants you like he has never wanted anything. In you, he could find what he has always wanted, always craved. In you, he will find his salvation and that is everything to him. That will always be everything. He sees the light to his dark, the beacon that draw him home. And he wants it. Wants you.
He wants you for his eyes alone, wants you underneath him, on top of him, crying out for him. He wants your lips to form his name, a cry of pleasure and love and want. He wants you to want him with the fervour that he wants you.
But you don’t have too right now. That will come—this trade delegation has just become a lot more important than before.
“My darling!” Cregan calls, his old frame pushing to a stand, his arms open wide for you to run and Baelor watches you, eyes noting the way your gown clings to your figure, the way your cleavage bounces with your run. And he is also aware of the men of his delegation and the guards of Winterfell watching you. Watching you run to your father, watching your body and face and hair. Watching what belongs to him and he wants to blind them all, gauge out their eyes—even your father’s—so only he ever has the right to look at you.
He’s the only one who deserves to for you are one half of his soul. He doesn’t know how he knows he just does.
“I’m sorry for interrupting, I did not realize the trade delegation arrived today.” Even your voice seems to match Baelor’s, calm and composed but light where his is dark. Smooth where his is rough. Gods, he wants to know if your skin is the same, smooth where his is rough, soft where his is hard, sweet where his is bitter. He figures you must taste sweet, like ambrosia nectar, the flavour of the gods.
“What did you need, my child?” your father asks, soft and kind—a combination that has never been uttered about Cregan Stark before. And that’s when Baelor realizes who you are in Cregan’s brood—the youngest child, the favoured, the darling.
“Brendan and I were going outside to enjoy the snow and we wanted to know if you would join us, but I see now that you are busy. And I wanted to show you this book, but present company needs not hear my ramblings,” you say, your voice soft and quiet, yet it seems to echo through Baelor, to resound through his heart and he wants to run up the dais, to grab you and take you. To kiss you and show all these men here that you are his and they should not look at you.
He should do what dragon blood does—take the treasure.
“Go, my dear. Go out and enjoy the snow before the celebration tonight! If I can join you, I will, but tell Brendan that he may not slack off on his studies just because Solstice is nearing,” Cregan says, his tone stern in the way of a father, not the way of the ruthless Lord.
“Alright, Father. I’ll tell him and we shan’t stray too far from the castle,” you reply, nodding your head at him, your grip on the book adjusting as you turn to face Baelor, his heart stuttering in his chest when your eyes lock on him, lips curving up into a smile. “Apologies for the intrusion, Your Grace.” You curtsy and then sweep from the room, leaving behind a trail of warmth that he could follow.
He could follow it and find you wherever you go. He will. You will not leave him, no. You will North and live in the Keep, live with him.
Live by him.
He will make sure of it because he finds that he has never wanted anything like you.
***
He watches you twirl on the dance floor, your hair streaming out behind you, loose, only certain pieces swept up, a crown of snowdrop flowers upon your head, skirts that of white and grey, snowflakes embroidered along the hem, along your sleeves. He watches you and wants to rip the dress from off your body, rip it off with his teeth, exposing the skin underneath. Showing him the barest form of you, the sight that only he will ever see.
The sight of your breasts, nipples stiffened from desire not from cold. The sight of your entrance slick and ready for him, your eyes pleasure darkened, mouth open and tongue darting out to lick your lips, voice moaning out his name, begging for him to give you what you want. Because you only want him.
Will only ever want him.
He watches you, shifting in his seat, line of thinking getting him nowhere while he observes, his seat beside Cregan, feeling the twitch of his cock which hopes no one will notice—unless you do. And he hopes in a way that you will for then he’ll have a reason to take you now, to make you his in a way that no father can negate. He can claim you, but he won’t.
He’ll do it properly unless you want him now. Then propriety be damned, he would take you in this room where everyone could watch, could see how you would writhe with pleasure just for him, only him.
“Your daughter is quite a lively dancer, Lord Stark,” one of his advisors calls, his eyes on your form, tongue darting out to wet his lips. Baelor notices and twirls his dagger between his fingers, an idle threat as he looks at the advisor, some Lord whose name will be easily forgotten, title stripped and wealth redistributed. The land will learn not to look at what is his. What he claims.
“Yes, she is, isn’t she?” Cregan muses, smiling when you turn, eyes drifting up the dais, waving with a wiggle of your fingers at your father before your partner sweeps you off into a dance again, your laughter pealing through the halls. “Shame she’ll be leaving my halls so soon.”
“Leaving where?” Baelor asks, his first contribution to the night, his voice ragged and raw. Irritated and angry.
“To Dorne, Your Grace,” Cregan says, eyes still on you, his precious daughter and your brother Brendan, your protector. “She’s to marry the youngest Martell boy, Caspian. The two of them are thick as thieves and have asked to be married for a long time. She doesn’t like the cold, wants to be warm and I cannot deny her something so simple.”
Baelor’s vision is turning red, the idea of you in Dorne, clothed in gold, on the arm of some stupid boy who doesn’t know how precious you are, how perfect. A boy who will not know how to treat you, who will fumble into your body with the grace of a newborn, his entry causing you pain, never pleasure. His vision is turning red and his grip on the goblet is turning his knuckles white, his eyes still watching your twirling carefree form.
He imagines you walking into his halls on the Dornish prince’s arm, smiling and happy and it kills him because that is not right. You need to be decked in red and black, the marks of his love upon your flesh, covered by jewelry that he’s gotten you simply because you deserve the world. You belong beside him, your arm on his, head on his shoulders, lips on his. You belong to him. You need a man, someone who will bring you pleasure, not a boy who will care only for his own. No, you need a man to care for you and not just any man, but the heir to the Iron Throne.
Gods, you would look good upon his throne, legs spread wide, the sight just for him as he took on the sacred throne. It’s where you belong, joined with him and on the throne of power. It is where you will be at the end of this trade delegation if he has any say at all.
And he does.
It’s that thought that calms him down, his grip relaxing and instead he stands, walks down the dais, towards you on the dance floor, cutting in, the black of his clothing a stark contrast to the maidenly white of yours.
“May I dance with you, my lady?” he asks you, eyes locked upon yours, noting the way colour rises in your cheeks, the way your pupils dilate and you bite your lip, nodding your head.
“Yes, Your Grace,” you answer, your voice scarcely more than a whisper and all Baelor wants is to hear it again and again and again, except he wants it to be his name. He wants you to say his name in every way, whispered in the early morning and in screamed in the throes of passion.
He wants to be the reason you speak at all.
But for now, he settles into dancing with you, twirling you around him, delighting in the smile that graces your face, one that wasn’t on your face when you were dancing with your brother, one new. One new for him.
And he resolves, more than before, that soon your name will be Targaryen, not Stark.
Soon you will be his.
***
“I am in the market for a wife, Lord Stark,” Baelor says, his fingers twirling his dagger, the tip pressing against the pad of his index finger, the other on the pommel, his eyes narrowing like that of a predator as he pictures you and your smile and the sound of your laugh, the way you thanked him for the dance last night, called him Baelor when he asked.
He’s nearly consumed with the memory of his name leaving your lips, the way it sounded coming from you, the way his body responded and he nearly took you right there and then so that everyone would know that you were his, only his.
“All my daughters are either married or set to be, Your Grace,” Cregan says, brows knitting together in confusion. “I do not know what I can help with in your search.”
“I want your youngest for my bride,” he says, his tone flat, unemotional, but his mind is consumed with the idea of you in white, of him tearing the dress off of you with his teeth like he wanted to do from the moment he saw you, his mouth bringing you to ecstasy before his cock ever penetrates your body.
“My youngest is not on the table, Your Grace.” And there is Cregan’s famed ferocity, the bite of the wolf. Pity that a wolf is the best he has—for a wolf will always fall to a dragon. And that’s precisely what happens here when Baelor leans across the table, stabbing his dagger down, just between Cregan’s index and middle fingers of his left hand, the one flattened on the wooden table, the tip of the dagger, precariously close to the vein-filled skin between the extremities. Baelor delights in the fear that flashes through Cregan’s eyes, the terror that has him swallowing reflexively, withdrawing his hand from the table, from the blade.
“She’s on the table if I say she’s on the table.” Cregan looks up at Baelor, eyes narrowed, wolf-sharp gaze locked on him with a steadiness that would make any other man flinch.
“If she chooses you over her Caspian, then you may have her. But I will not tie her to you if she does not choose you,” he answers, words slow and tone angry but Baelor nods, his lips curving up into a smile, picturing the way you looked at him, the flush in your cheeks.
Fuck, he’s ruined if you do not choose him. He’s ruined because he will take you anyway, fill you until they have no choice but to marry you to him for your honor and the houses. He will not leave here without your hand.
“Fetch my daughter,” Cregan whispers to a servant who runs from the room, the chambers descending into silence, but the heavy kind of predators waiting for the other to show weakness before they strike.
But you arrive before the teeth come out bared and attacking, sweeping into the room with a bright smile, light to Baelor’s dark, hands clasped in front of you demurely, glad in a gown of grey so light it’s practically white, Stark colours.
“You summoned me, Father,” you say and your voice lilts through the room so sweet and kind that Baelor wants to walk around the table, grip your face in his hands and kiss the breath from your lungs, tongue claiming dominance of yours.
“I did, yes. Prince Baelor, darling, is in the market for a wife and he wants you.” Your eyes flash to Baelor, one eyebrow rising, perfect lips pursing as you assess him.
“But I am to marry Prince Caspian,” you say and Baelor’s hand tightens into a fist, so tight his nails draw forth his own blood from his palm and his knuckles are white, practically his entire hand is white. And you notice. He knows you notice, he tracks your eye movement down to his hand.
“Would you choose me?” he asks, his voice gentle, surprisingly so for everyone in the room, but he is not speaking to anyone but you. And for you, he will always be gentle.
As long as you choose him.
You walk around the table to him, steps slow and measured, finger trailing over the scarred wooden countertop, your other hand lifting your skirts and then you stand before him, eyes locked on his, colours shifting with your mood, your assessment. His legs open of their own accord, just wide enough for you to step into them which you do and he nearly groans at how perfectly you fit there, as if you’re made to be there.
Which you are. You are made to be his after all.
“Why do you want me?” you ask, your question soft, for his ears only and he lifts his hands, taking yours in his, his blood streaking onto yours.
“Because you are made to be mine. I knew it as soon as I saw you, the gods have created us for one another.” He watches as you smile at his words, a pleased innocent smile, taken by the romantic nature of his words.
“I have one condition for choosing you,” you say and his eyes flare wide with desire, his entire body straightening and he is rigid before you.
“Anything,” he breathes.
“You don’t even know what I will say,” you say, your voice light and teasing, still unaware of the depths he would go for your affection.
“Anything,” he vows and your lips part and eyes widen when you realize he is serious. He would do anything you asked for, but you do not ask for more. He is surprised, he thought you might demand more, but you ask for the simplest thing.
“I want a vacation to Dorne once a year to escape the cold, Your Grace. If I am to marry you, please grant me that. I have lived in cold all my life, I want to know that there will be a reprieve from it always.”
“Anything, my dear,” he says, and he lifts one of your hands to his mouth, pressing a kiss to your knuckles, his tongue slashing against them, you gasping at the feeling and him revelling in the sound and the taste of you. “As sweet as I imagined,” he murmurs to himself, watching as you walk from him, holding your hand close to your chest as if you are trying to get his kiss upon the rest of you.
“Two months and then she’s in King’s Landing to be mine. Two months is all I grant you, I would rather leave with her today, but I will give you two months for your goodbyes.”
***
Baelor watches you now as you stand in the chambers you will share with him for the rest of your life, shifting on your feet, hands fidgeting with one another, your eyes darting around the room. You have been his wife for seven hours now, the vows finished quickly, but the ceremony long and drawn-out as fit for the heir and the favoured child of the Stark line.
But it was seven hours where Baelor had to watch people watch you, know their eyes were upon your body, on your lips. Desiring you, his wife, his light and life. You are only his yet for seven hours he had to share you with the world, let them see you innocent, unsullied by his touch, lacking markings from his love.
But that ends now.
He shrugs out of his doublet, letting it drop to the floor, his chest bare to the cold of the chambers and he steps towards you, hands coming to rest on your hips, your lips parting in response to the way he squeezes the soft flesh beneath your gown.
“Do you have any idea,” he whispers, leaning in to press his lips against your neck, his teeth pulling at the skin, sucking it between his teeth, tongue licking away the pain, “how much I have wanted to take you all night?”
“No,” you whisper, your voice quavering, sensations running through your body new to you.
“I have wanted to take you a thousand ways all night, just to prove to the lords who see you as a treat that you are mine.” His lips dip lower, pressing kisses to the top of each of your breasts, tongue tracing the shape of them as they rise from the bodice.
“I have wanted to show them all that you are mine, to have you ride me, just to show them that you belong on my cock, that you are made to take mine.” His hands leave your hips, coming to grip your bodice, the edges of his fingers just touching your breasts as they hook around the stiff fabric. His eyes are pupil-blown and he loves seeing yours the same.
“I have wanted to prove to you that you are mine since I met.” And then his hands pull, your dress and slip ripping, falling from your figure in two, laying in a puddle at your feet and Baelor is amused by the way you move to cover yourself, cheeks flushing red in embarrassment.
“I have wanted to fuck you so hard that you forget you ever met that puffed-up prince of a nothing desert.” And then his lips are on yours, his hands on your ass, squeezing the flesh, lifting you up slightly, your legs wrapping around his waist on instinct, your centre coming to rest upon his already hard cock, still (unfortunately) clothed. He walks the two of you back to the bed, groaning into your mouth as you adjust from nerves, the feeling of you pressing against him almost too much for him to handle and he lashes your tongue with his, sucking hard upon yours, drawing a small moan from you.
“I want you to know how much I love. How I will do anything for you.” He lays you down upon the bed, his knees resting between your legs, yours still framing him as he frees himself from his breeches, delighting in the way your pupils expand at the sight of him, the way your lips are swollen from his kisses, neck already darkening with the force of his love.
“What do. You. Ask for. In. Return?” you ask him, chest heaving as he moves forwards, dragging the tip of his cock from your entrance to your clit.
“All I ask,” he murmurs, forcing his way in, delighting in the way your back arches, breasts coming to press against his chest. “Is that you are mine solely. That you love only me, look at only me, speak to only me. That you bear my children and love me. That is all I ask.” He moves in and out, delighting in the whimpers and mewls that leave your lips as he snaps his hips to you with fervour, frenzied speed and need as he dips his head, licking and sucking the expanse of your neck, your collarbone, your breasts, leaving marks all over while he thrusts into you so hard that he completely sheathes himself inside of you.
“And if you do not do what I ask,” he murmurs, slowing his pace and delighting in the way that you whine, eyes glazed with pleasure, begging him to enter you faster, harder, to fuck you properly like he was before. “I will burn the world to the ground, cut the heart out of whoever you choose to replace me with and make you watch as I feed it to the wolves.”
And he can feel your walls clench around him, fluttering as you release, crying out from the unknown pleasure, the foreign delightful feeling, the clenching enough to drive him to release, his cock twitching inside of you, seed spilling into you, filling you.
“You’ll look so beautiful carrying my child, darling,” he whispers, brushing a tear from off your cheek as he pulls out with a hiss, laying down beside you, pulling you into his arms, curling his body around yours, protective even going into sleep.
“I want you to be happy, my husband,” you whisper, sleep beginning to lay claim to you, his threats of protection and possession slipping past you as you nestle in against him, his heart warming with the feeling of you, the sight of your neck marked by him. The sign that you are his so visible to anyone who looks at you that no will dare to again. “I’m glad I make you happy.” And then sleep has claimed you, your head nestled against his chest, his head resting on the top of yours.
“You make me happier than anyone ever has,” he whispers, pressing a kiss to the top of your head. “That is why I will do anything to protect you. To keep you. And if anyone tries to take you…
“Pray that they don’t for I claimed you. You are mine.”
Okay how about good!unclebaelor that marries niece!reader for her protection? Maybe she's set to be married to really horrible man or people are starting to question whether she's intact or not, so she begs her uncle to marry her and after a while of begging he gives into her demands since she's his niece and he adores her alot, before getting married he promises maekar that their marriage is just for show and that he would not touch his brothers daughter in any way
Fast forward to the trial and he miraculously makes it but instead of the sweet uncle its dark!baelor ;)
If he's has a young wife why not make use of her? Why else would they be married for? And regarding his promise well... it wasn't really him that made it, right?
ur speaking my languageeeee (though i kind of wrote this baelor as like a lite version of dark!baelor whoops)
Like the actual 180 for niece!reader, thinking her marriage was platonic and Baelor was her protector, only for her kind and noble husband to wake up after Ashford a whole new man.
They'd never even consummated their marriage– Baelor had nicked his finger with his blade on their wedding night to ensure there was a spot of blood on the sheets to quell any whispers, leaving her clothed and tucking her into the sheets in a fatherly way, much like Maekar had done for her as a child. He already had two sons anyway, so Baelor had no need for another heir. He'd been the epitome of chivalry, always a light, gentlemanly hand on her waist as they moved through crowds, but never touching more than was appropriate. To others, they might have been husband and wife, but to her, they were simply uncle and niece.
And then, by a miracle of the Seven, Baelor wakes from his coma after the Trial of Seven. It had taken weeks for the swelling in his brain to go down and he'd finally woken – except he's gruff, rude, and snarling at the servants near him. It's so shocking that no one knows what to do, but a maid suggests they fetch the Prince's wife. She would know what to do for him...
Niece!reader arrives and immediately finds herself by his bedside, relieved and teary at the news her uncle is alive, only to find Baelor staring at her in a way she'd never seen before. His gaze was... heavy. Intense, frightening almost. She doesn't know what to do, but Baelor seems to struggle to remember her, only humming appreciatively when she tells him they were married. The maester mumbles a few words about how he may have gaps in his memory from the trauma, and niece!reader simply nods, still overwhelmed with her uncle being ok.
It takes her a few weeks to realise just how many things her uncle had forgotten. Baelor had grown fond of crowding her personal space and his once-light touches seemed to grow less restrained, lingering on her skin in a way that had her pausing momentarily. The first time he'd kissed her on the lips as he bid her farewell had her panicking. He'd often left her with a tender touch of the hair, or perhaps a soft peck to the cheek, but never a firm kiss to the lips – never the way she'd once seen her father do to her late mother. It has niece!reader contemplating writing to her father, worried of the changes in her uncle, but she bats away the thoughts.
She realises her mistake when, only a few days later, Baelor summons her to his chambers at the hour of the owl. She no longer needs to sleep alone, he tells her. The maesters have given him a bill of good health, he tells her. Niece!reader realises with horror that Baelor thinks their marriage was one of love, not that of an uncle protecting his niece. Unfortunately for her, it seems that when she tries to explain that to him, he doesn't listen. Her desperate pleas fall on deaf ears, Baelor more preoccupied with ridding his young, gorgeous wife of her nightgown. She's trying to tell him the truth, but she's making far too much noise for the Prince, and soon his tongue finds its way into her mouth, swallowing any noise. He can't know it's her first proper kiss.
Niece!reader realises the full extent of the predicament she's in when she finds herself face down in the silken sheets of Baelor's bed for the first time, his chest pressed firmly against her bare back as he fills her over and over again with his cock, leaving her gasping and weeping at the foreign sensation taking over her body. He couldn't know she was a maiden... Baelor simply thought her cries were a result of the weeks he lay in his coma, unable to fulfil his marital duties to his wife. He's even muttering muffled apologies into her hair, apologising for all the time he'd left her untouched since he'd awoken. He thinks the tears she lets out as she clenches around him, her body spasming as waves of pleasure crash over her, are from the joy of being reunited with her husband, that the guttural cry she lets out when he finally spills his seed inside of her is one of satisfaction. He couldn't know that this was all new to her. New, horrifying and confusing.
Niece!reader can only stare into the darkness once Baelor rolls off her, pulling her back into his chest and wrapping his arms around her, trapping her on her side as his heart slows and his breathing deepens. She'll write to her father first thing in the morning.
She never makes it out of the bed that next morning, waking up to large hands groping at her breasts and a knee nudging her thighs open.
"You're right. Perhaps instead of an old fellow like you, I should choose one of your sons or nephews as my husband."
You stormed out of the room, leaving your future fiancé alone. Prince Baelor watched you silently as you left. But a Targaryen's silence was not a good sign.
SUMMARY: After your parents' divorce, your mother's greatest concern isn't healing—it's appearances. Her new boyfriend is everything right: respectable, charming, and endlessly courteous. Unfortunately, behind immaculate manners and polished smiles, some forms of devotion are far more dangerous than open cruelty.
CW: RAPE/NON-CON, parental problems (both maternal and paternal), lack of attention, personal coding, abandonment, manipulation, jealousy, sexual assault, explicit content.
WC: 10.4 K
The house had a way of becoming almost invisible in the afternoons.
Sunlight poured through the tall windows in long ribbons of gold, warming polished wooden floors and shelves lined with books that had long since become more familiar than most people, while somewhere outside a fountain murmured steadily beneath the shade of old trees, its rhythm blending with the occasional rustle of leaves carried by the breeze. Nothing demanded attention here, and nothing hurried.
You preferred it that way.
Curled into the corner of the sitting room sofa with one leg tucked beneath you, you held an aging copy of The Picture of Dorian Gray. A chipped ceramic mug rested on the table beside you, forgotten long enough for the tea inside to grow cold, while your eyes lingered on the same paragraph for several minutes.
To define is to limit.
You smiled faintly. Oscar Wilde always sounded as though he were arguing with the world.
The front door opened. Even before the sound of heels echoed across the marble floor, you knew your mother had returned.
She never simply entered a room. She arrived.
Her perfume preceded her by several seconds—something floral and expensive that lingered like a carefully rehearsed first impression—and when she appeared in the doorway, she looked untouched by the outside world. Every strand of honey-blonde hair remained precisely where it belonged, her ivory blouse showed not a single crease beneath the tailored camel coat draped elegantly over her shoulders, her lipstick was subtle enough to appear effortless despite the twenty minutes it had undoubtedly taken to perfect, and her freshly manicured nails caught the afternoon light as she removed her gloves.
For a brief moment, neither of you spoke.
She stood framed by the doorway, polished down to the smallest detail, while you remained curled beneath the window in an oversized sweater several winters too old to be fashionable. Your hair had long since surrendered, escaping the pencil that barely held it together, and the afternoon sunlight painted you not with elegance but with an almost careless softness.
You had inherited your mother's features. The same eyes, the same mouth, the same graceful lines that made strangers glance twice and yet, the resemblance ended there.
She treated beauty as something to be maintained. You treated it as something that happened, or didn't, with little consequence either way.
Looking at the two of you felt less like looking at a mother and daughter than at two women who had learned entirely different definitions of what it meant to exist in the world.
Her eyes found you. Then the oversized sweater. The loose cotton trousers. The socks that didn't match. The pencil holding your hair in a carelessly assembled knot. She sighed.
"You truly have a remarkable talent for looking like you've survived a shipwreck."
You glanced down at yourself. "I thought I looked comfortable?"
"Comfortable," she repeated, as though tasting the word and finding it disappointing. "Comfort has become terribly fashionable lately."
She crossed the room without waiting for an answer, adjusting a vase by less than an inch before straightening a picture frame that had never been crooked to begin with. You watched her in silence.
She could never enter a room without changing something. A cushion. A curtain. A vase. If everything already appeared perfect, she simply searched harder until she found an imperfection no one else had noticed. You, on the other hand, had always believed a room should look lived in. She believed it should look admired.
"Presentation matters," she continued absentmindedly. "People notice these things."
"I've noticed."
"No, darling." She smiled patiently. "You don't." Silence settled between you for only a moment before she opened her handbag and began searching through its contents with meticulous precision. "I met Baelor for lunch."
The name meant little for you. Baelor, you remembered, was the name of your mother's new romantic conquest—as you liked to call him. Another replacement for your dad's position, a position no one would ever truly fill.
You hummed politely.
"He's looking forward to meeting you."
That finally drew your attention away from the book. "Oh?"
"This Saturday."
She withdrew a hardcover volume from her bag and placed it gently onto your lap.
The title gleamed in gold lettering.
Modern Etiquette for Formal Society.
You blinked. "...Seriously?"
"Entirely."
You turned the book over. "It teaches table etiquette, conversational decorum, introductions, proper posture, the correct use of silverware" She counted each topic on perfectly manicured fingers. "Everything you'll need."
"I know how to eat."
"You know how to consume food." She smiled again. "There is a difference."
You laughed quietly. She did not.
"There will only be Baelor and his sons," she said, her tone softening just enough to disguise, though never quite conceal, the calculation beneath it. "I'd appreciate not being embarrassed."
You looked at her for a long moment. The words lingered in the room. Not I'd like you to make a good impression. Not I hope you like him. Only that.
Don't embarrass me.
Sometimes you wondered whether your mother had ever realized how often she spoke about appearances without mentioning feelings even once.
"Are you introducing me to your boyfriend—" You lifted the heavy book slightly. "or applying for admission into a royal court?"
"If you knew the difference," she replied smoothly, "I wouldn't have needed to buy the book."
You looked down at the book resting across your lap without opening it again.
Your mother was already moving through the sitting room once more, adjusting the folds of a curtain that didn't need straightening, aligning a decorative bowl by barely half an inch, polishing a fingerprint from the polished surface of a side table with the edge of her sleeve.
She couldn't walk past disorder without correcting it, even when the disorder was imaginary.
You watched her in silence.
It occurred to you that she never seemed tired of perfecting surfaces. Every gesture she made was directed outward, toward the version of life other people would eventually witness.
She never asked what book you had been reading. She never noticed the tea had gone cold. She never wondered why you preferred quiet afternoons to crowded dinners.
Somewhere along the way, the distance between the two of you had stopped feeling like something either of you intended to cross.
She adjusted one final picture frame, smiled with quiet satisfaction at a room that had looked exactly the same five minutes earlier, and reached for her handbag.
"Saturday," she reminded you without turning around. "Please don't make me regret introducing you."
The front door closed softly behind her.
The house returned to its familiar silence.
You remained on the sofa for several moments, listening to the fading sound of her heels until it disappeared completely, before lowering your gaze once more to the forgotten page in your lap.
—
Saturday belonged entirely to your mother.
You realized it the moment she swept open your bedroom curtains without asking, flooding the room with pale morning light before laying a garment bag across the foot of your bed.
"We're leaving in twenty minutes."
You blinked sleepily from beneath the blankets. "For what?"
She looked at you as though the answer should have been obvious. "Preparation." She pronounced the word with the solemnity another person might have reserved for surgery. "You aren't meeting Baelor looking like..." Her gaze traveled over your oversized sleep shirt, your tangled hair and the novel lying face-down beside your pillow. "...yourself."
You couldn't help smiling.
"I thought that was exactly who he was supposed to meet."
Your mother's expression barely shifted. "Not the first time."
—
The salon smelled of jasmine, hairspray and freshly brewed espresso, while women drifted gracefully between mirrors discussing charity galas, upcoming holidays and social engagements beneath the soft strains of classical music that floated almost unnoticed through the room.
Your mother belonged there effortlessly. She greeted the receptionists by name, kissed one of the stylists on the cheek and accepted a cappuccino before anyone had even asked whether she wanted one.
You, meanwhile, settled awkwardly into an oversized leather chair with your backpack resting between your feet, feeling as though someone had accidentally invited a university student into a room designed exclusively for women who never appeared to have an untidy day in their lives.
Within minutes, strangers surrounded you. Your hair was brushed until every knot disappeared before long sections were lifted, examined beneath bright lights and discussed over your head as though you weren't sitting there at all.
"It has beautiful texture."
"It only needs shape."
"A little movement."
"No," your mother corrected gently. "Elegance."
You watched your reflection while another stylist carefully curled the ends of your hair, realizing with quiet discomfort that you barely recognized the girl in the mirror already.
The manicure came next.
The technician smiled warmly as she took your hands into hers. "You don't usually have your nails done."
"No."
"They're lovely."
"They're practical," your mother corrected before you could answer. "There's a difference."
The woman laughed politely.
You lowered your gaze while the file moved rhythmically across your nails, surprised by how something so insignificant could make even your own hands begin to feel unfamiliar.
—
Boutiques proved even more exhausting.
Dress after dress disappeared beneath your mother's unwavering scrutiny.
"Too casual."
"Too youthful."
"Too loud."
"Too plain."
Sales assistants hurried between racks while you obediently stepped in and out of changing rooms until the fabrics, colors and silhouettes blurred together into a single expensive haze.
Eventually one of them returned carrying a midnight-blue dress whose elegance came not from embellishment but from restraint. There was no glitter, no embroidery, nothing that openly demanded attention. It possessed the quiet confidence of something that never needed to ask to be admired.
Your mother smiled the instant you stepped out wearing it. "There you are."
You turned toward the mirror. It fit perfectly. For reasons you couldn't explain, that only made you feel worse.
—
By the time the afternoon ended, shopping bags occupied nearly every available space inside the car. Shoes, jewelry, a silk scarf and a small evening clutch lay carefully arranged across the back seat while your mother drove home wearing the quiet satisfaction of an artist admiring a masterpiece nearing completion.
"You'll make an excellent impression."
You rested your forehead against the cool glass of the passenger window. "I wasn't aware making an impression was my responsibility."
"It always is."
—
The house felt unnaturally quiet by the time evening settled over it.
The dress waited outside your wardrobe. The jewelry remained inside its velvet case. The shoes sat perfectly aligned beneath the bed, every detail prepared with the meticulous precision your mother considered indispensable.
One piece at a time, you dressed.
The fabric settled comfortably across your shoulders, the necklace rested lightly against your collarbone and the earrings caught the light with the smallest movement. Only when everything was finally in place did you step before the mirror.
You stopped.
The young woman reflected in the glass was undeniably beautiful. Her hair fell in soft waves instead of the untidy bun you wore almost every day, while makeup so subtle it was nearly invisible brightened her eyes, softened every feature and erased the quiet university student who spent afternoons reading novels beside forgotten cups of cold tea.
She looked graceful. Elegant. Refined. Exactly the sort of young woman your mother wanted the world to admire.
You continued staring. Five seconds. Ten. Twenty. Searching for something unmistakably yours.
The thoughtful expression that always appeared when you reached an interesting paragraph. The quiet awkwardness you had never felt the need to hide. The girl who forgot to match her socks because she had become distracted by a book.
She wasn't there.
For one impossible moment, it felt as though someone had borrowed your face and learned to wear it better than you ever had.
A gentle knock broke the silence. "Darling?" your mother's voice called through the door. "Baelor will be expecting us."
You didn't answer immediately. Your eyes remained fixed on the stranger standing inside the mirror.
When you finally spoke, your voice sounded oddly distant. "I'm coming."
The woman reflected in the glass moved exactly when you did, and you weren't entirely convinced she was you.
—
The drive unfolded beneath a sky slowly surrendering to dusk, where the last traces of sunlight dissolved into long ribbons of amber reflected across rain-darkened streets. Beyond the windows, the city continued with its ordinary rhythm. People hurrying home, cafés beginning to fill, traffic lights blinking patiently at crowded intersections, but inside the car there existed only your mother's voice.
She spoke almost without interruption, moving effortlessly from one subject to another as though rehearsing a speech she had delivered countless times before.
Baelor's career, his impeccable reputation, the elegance of his home, the charity foundation he chaired, the respect his family commanded; every detail seemed carefully selected, polished until it gleamed, another stone laid upon the immaculate image she had spent months constructing around her new life.
Listening to her, one could almost forget that only a year earlier she had been speaking about your father with the very same certainty, with a love that you still kept like an arcane relic inside you, but he had vanished from the face of her psyche like the wind does with the sand.
You answered when necessary, though most of the time a nod seemed sufficient. Silence had always come more naturally to you than conversation, and your mother had long ago mistaken that quietness for agreement.
Every few minutes she glanced sideways, not to ask whether you were nervous or excited, but to inspect the work that had occupied her entire afternoon. She straightened an invisible fold near your shoulder, smoothed the fabric gathered over your knees and frowned when she noticed the faintest imperfection in your lipstick.
"You've smudged it."
Instinctively you rubbed your thumb against the corner of your mouth.
"No, darling." She sighed with patient resignation before retrieving a neatly folded handkerchief from her handbag. Leaning across the console, she corrected it herself with delicate, practiced movements, then leaned back to admire the result. "There. Perfect."
For a brief moment you wondered whether she had ever looked at your face that carefully after you had cried the night she and dad separated.
—
Baelor's residence stood beyond imposing wrought-iron gates framed by ancient oaks whose branches intertwined above the driveway like the vaulted ceiling of an old cathedral. It was undeniably grand, yet possessed none of the ostentation displayed by people who felt compelled to advertise their fortune. This was quieter wealth, older wealth, the kind that had ceased needing to impress because everyone already knew it existed. Warm light spilled from tall windows onto perfectly maintained gardens where marble statues rested among trimmed hedges, and somewhere beyond them the gentle murmur of a fountain drifted through the evening air.
Your mother drew a slow, almost imperceptible breath before stepping from the car. Had anyone else been watching, they would never have noticed. You did.
The front door opened before either of you reached it.
Baelor himself descended the steps to greet you.
He was taller than you had imagined, broad-shouldered without appearing imposing, dressed in a charcoal suit that fit him with effortless precision. Everything about him projected understated refinement, from the silver watch resting beneath his cuff to the warmth with which he smiled the instant he saw your mother. There was nothing performative about his manners; they seemed so deeply woven into him that courtesy had become instinct rather than performance.
"There you are."
His voice possessed the calm confidence of someone accustomed to making other people feel welcome. He kissed your mother's cheek first, greeting her with easy familiarity before turning toward you. The expression on his face softened almost imperceptibly.
"So this is the famous daughter."
The words themselves were harmless. Perfectly polite. Something about them unsettled you before you could explain why. Perhaps it was the quiet amusement in his voice, perhaps it was the strange certainty with which he said them, as though he had heard enough stories to feel he already knew you.
Your mother rested a light hand against the middle of your back. "My daughter."
You extended your hand automatically. "It's a pleasure to meet you, Mr. Targaryen." You answered in the way your mother had instructed you.
Instead of taking it immediately, he smiled with gentle care. "Baelor." He made you repeat it, only then did he accept the handshake.
His grip was light, respectful and brief, exactly as etiquette demanded. Nothing about the gesture crossed any boundary, and when he released your hand, his eyes lingered on your face for the smallest fraction of a second too long. It wasn't staring. It wasn't inappropriate. It felt more like quiet observation, as though he were committing your features to memory with a concentration too subtle for anyone else to notice.
The sensation vanished almost immediately.
You told yourself you had imagined it.
The dining room reflected the same restrained elegance as the rest of the house. A long walnut table occupied its center beneath an antique crystal chandelier whose warm light settled softly over polished silver, delicate porcelain and crystal glasses that caught every flicker of candlelight. Fresh white lilies rested in low arrangements along the table, beautiful enough to enrich the room without obstructing conversation, while the scent of rosemary and roasted herbs drifted from the adjoining kitchen.
Two young men were already waiting when you entered.
"The eldest," Baelor said, resting an affectionate hand upon the taller one's shoulder, "is Valarr."
Valarr greeted you with a slight inclination of his head before offering his hand. He appeared only a few years older than you, impeccably dressed and impossibly composed, with the effortless confidence of someone who had spent his entire life succeeding at everything expected of him. Peculiar features, you noticed. Attractive heterochromatic eyes, and a silver streak impossible to miss. Every movement seemed deliberate without becoming rigid, every word measured before it was spoken.
"It's a pleasure." His voice was low and calm.
Beside him stood another young man whose expression immediately suggested a far less disciplined temperament.
"And this menace," Baelor continued with an affectionate sigh, "is Matarys."
"I object to that introduction."
"You object to everything."
"I simply have standards."
Baelor laughed softly. "I'll let you discover those standards for yourself."
Matarys grinned before shaking your hand with easy enthusiasm. "I promise I'm considerably more entertaining than my brother."
"That isn't a particularly high achievement," Valarr replied without looking at him.
"Oh, don't encourage him," Baelor said, though the fondness in his voice betrayed how accustomed he had become to these exchanges.
The room relaxed almost instantly.
Dinner unfolded with surprising ease, carried along by the comfortable rhythm of a family that had long ago perfected the art of talking over one another without anyone feeling unheard. Matarys possessed the peculiar gift of transforming even the most ordinary events into elaborate adventures, embellishing every story until it became impossible to distinguish memory from invention. Baelor corrected him with long-suffering amusement whenever the exaggerations grew too ambitious, while Valarr quietly dismantled each embellished detail with the patience of someone who had performed this exact ritual since childhood.
"That professor didn't throw you out."
"He intended to."
"He asked you to lower your voice."
"Which, under the circumstances, amounted to the same thing."
Valarr sighed into his wine. "I was there."
"Traitor."
Laughter circled the table, even your mother relaxed enough to forget, for a few precious minutes, the careful perfection she carried everywhere.
Baelor never attempted to dominate the conversation. Instead, he listened far more than he spoke, thanking the staff by name whenever they entered the room, asking thoughtful questions without prying and allowing everyone else the space to answer at their own pace. He seemed genuinely interested in whatever people chose to say, a quality so uncommon that it almost felt rehearsed.
Eventually his attention settled upon you.
"Your mother told me you were an avid reader. Tell me, what are you reading these days?"
"The Picture of Dorian Gray."
Something brightened behind his eyes. "Wilde."
You nodded. "I've nearly finished it."
"And what do you think?"
You considered the question before answering. "I think everyone mistakes admiration for love."
Silence settled gently across the table. Not uncomfortable. Reflective.
Valarr looked toward you with unmistakable interest. "I would've said vanity."
"So would most people."
"And you disagree?"
"I think vanity is only the excuse."
For several seconds nobody spoke. Baelor continued watching you with quiet fascination before smiling almost to himself.
"You notice things."
You hesitated. "I like books."
"I'm not talking about books." His voice remained as warm as before, yet something about the remark settled strangely beneath your skin. "I'm talking about people."
Before you could answer, Matarys interrupted with another wildly exaggerated account of an ill-advised fencing tournament that immediately pulled everyone else's attention away.
Yours never fully returned to the conversation.
Throughout the remainder of dinner, you became increasingly aware of Baelor's gaze. He never stared openly, never allowed his attention to linger long enough for anyone else to notice, and never behaved with anything less than perfect propriety. Yet every time discussion shifted elsewhere and you happened to glance in his direction, you found him already looking at you—not at your dress, nor your carefully arranged appearance as your mother had done all evening, but at your expressions, your pauses, the small unconscious movements that escaped your control. It wasn't desire. It wasn't impropriety. If anything, it resembled quiet fascination.
For reasons you couldn't name, that disturbed you far more.
By the time dessert arrived, your mother looked happier than she had in months. She laughed easily, Baelor listened whenever she spoke, Matarys continued filling the room with effortless humor and Valarr had drifted into an animated discussion about politics with the calm precision of someone who genuinely enjoyed intellectual disagreement. It should have been a pleasant evening. It should have felt reassuring to watch such decent people surrounding your mother.
Instead, an uncomfortable certainty settled silently inside your chest.
Baelor was, by every reasonable measure, a good man. Thoughtful. Patient. Courteous. The kind of man any daughter should have hoped her mother would meet after a painful divorce.
That was precisely the problem.
Every kindness he offered only reminded you that he wasn't your father. He occupied a chair that had once belonged to someone else. He poured wine into your mother's glass with familiar ease. He made her laugh using stories that should have belonged to another life. No amount of gentleness could make him feel like family.
When the evening finally came to an end, Baelor accompanied both of you to the front entrance himself.
"It was truly a pleasure meeting you."
You offered the polite smile expected of you. "You as well."
He held your gaze for just a heartbeat longer than courtesy required before returning your smile. "I hope this won't be the last dinner we share."
The words were perfectly innocent. His expression was perfectly kind. As your mother climbed into the waiting car visibly content with how the evening had unfolded, you found yourself turning back one last time.
Baelor remained standing beneath the warm light spilling from the doorway. Still watching, still smiling, and, for reasons you couldn't explain, you couldn't shake the quiet certainty that throughout the entire evening, he had paid far more attention to you than anyone else at that table had realized.
—
The following Saturday arrived wrapped in one of those quiet afternoons that seemed suspended outside of time. The city moved lazily beneath a pale autumn sky, parks slowly filling with families, cyclists drifting along tree-lined paths and children chasing one another through blankets of fallen leaves while cafés spilled soft conversation onto the sidewalks. It was the sort of day that had once belonged entirely to the two of you.
Your father had always insisted that weekends were sacred, no meetings, no work, no excuse, and because of that you had grown up believing Saturdays existed for museums where he somehow knew the history behind every painting, for bookstores where he never left without buying you one more novel than he'd intended, for long walks that inevitably became improvised history lessons as he pointed toward old buildings and transformed ordinary streets into stories about forgotten kings, architects and revolutions.
When you were little, he had possessed this remarkable sense to make the world seem endlessly interesting, answering every impossible question you asked with absolute seriousness, and when he didn't know the answer, he would simply smile and promise to learn it before the following weekend.
Back then, it had been impossible to imagine a version of your life in which spending time with you wasn't the highlight of his week.
After the divorce, that certainty dissolved so quietly you almost failed to notice it. At first, the distance disguised itself as exhaustion.
He answered your messages a little later than usual, cancelled a lunch because of work, forgot to return a phone call and apologized with genuine sincerity the following day. You believed him because you wanted to. Adults became busy. Divorce complicated things. Life had simply become heavier than either of you had expected. But weeks slowly stretched into months, and every conversation seemed to require more effort than the last.
Eventually, arranging a simple lunch with your own father began to feel less like speaking to family and more like requesting an appointment with someone whose schedule you were grateful had managed to accommodate you at all.
It took three unanswered messages, two calls that rang until voicemail and nearly two weeks of waiting before your phone finally vibrated one evening. The message contained only four words.
Dad 💗
Saturday. Two o'clock. One hour.
There was no I've missed you. No How have you been? No apology for the silence that had settled between you. Not even your name. You stared at the screen for several minutes before replying with a simple I'll be there, telling yourself it didn't matter how brief the invitation was because what truly mattered was that he had answered at all.
The café overlooked the river, its terrace scattered with wrought-iron tables where elderly couples lingered over coffee, students revised notes beneath striped umbrellas and children leaned over the railing to watch boats drift lazily across the water. You arrived nearly fifteen minutes early, partly because you had always inherited your father's punctuality and partly because some childish part of you still hoped he might already be there waiting. You chose the table closest to the river because it had always been his favorite place to sit whenever the weather allowed it. The waiter asked whether you wished to order something, but you only requested a glass of water, promising you were waiting for someone.
At exactly two o'clock, you saw him crossing the street.
Your heart recognized him long before your mind did. The familiar stride, the dark wool coat you had seen every winter for as long as you could remember, the same broad shoulders that had once carried you through airports whenever you had fallen asleep on family holidays. For one impossible second, instinct urged you to stand and throw your arms around him just as you had done countless times growing up.
Then he glanced at his watch before looking toward you, and that impulse disappeared. "I'm sorry," he said as soon as he reached the table, pulling out his chair before sitting down. "Traffic."
"It's okay," you answered immediately, smiling more brightly than you actually felt.
He returned the smile politely. It was warm enough to avoid seeming cold, yet strangely formal, the sort of expression exchanged between acquaintances who respected one another rather than between a father and the daughter who used to climb onto his lap every Sunday morning demanding pancakes shaped like dinosaurs.
"You look well."
"So do you."
Silence followed.
Not the comforting silence you remembered from childhood, when the two of you could spend entire afternoons reading different books in the same room without either of you feeling obliged to speak. This silence felt unfamiliar. Empty. It searched desperately for a conversation that refused to begin.
The waiter returned. Your father ordered black coffee without looking at the menu, and you asked for the same simply because, for years, copying his order had become such an unconscious habit that you did it before realizing it. When you were younger he would always laugh, teasing you for refusing to develop tastes of your own. This time he didn't even seem to notice.
You carried the conversation the way one carries something unexpectedly fragile, careful not to let it slip through your hands. You asked about work, and he told you it had become demanding. You asked whether he had finally finished renovating the study he'd always talked about, and he admitted he hadn't found the time. You asked after your grandparents, whether they were healthy, whether he'd visited recently, whether the roses your grandmother insisted on planting every spring had survived another season. Each answer arrived complete enough to close the subject before another could naturally grow from it, leaving you constantly searching for something else to ask.
Finally, you reached for memory.
"Do you remember when we got lost trying to find that little bookstore near the cathedral?" you asked with a laugh that felt almost genuine. "You were absolutely convinced you knew the way."
He frowned faintly, searching through recollections that once had belonged to both of you.
"Vaguely."
"You insisted we were only one street away."
"I guess…"
"You definitely weren't," you smiled. "We walked in circles for almost three hours before we discovered the bookstore had moved months earlier."
He smiled back. A small, courteous smile. "I suppose." Nothing else followed.
The story, which had once made him laugh until tears gathered in his eyes whenever either of you mentioned it, simply ended there. You lowered your gaze toward your untouched coffee, realizing with quiet disbelief that the man who had once been capable of turning every shared memory into an hour-long conversation now responded to them as though they belonged to someone else's life.
You had imagined this meeting so many times over the previous months. In every version, eventually something softened. Eventually he admitted the divorce had broken him too. Eventually he apologized for disappearing, asked whether you were sleeping alright, whether your mother's new relationship had been difficult, whether you were lonely. Instead, his phone illuminated against the tabletop. He picked it up almost immediately, typed a brief response without explanation and placed it face down once more.
"I'm sorry," he said almost absentmindedly. "Work."
"It's alright." The answer escaped you so naturally that you barely noticed yourself saying it. Lately, it's alright had become another way of saying please don't leave yet.
By the time the waiter returned with the bill, you realized with growing horror that nearly the entire hour had been spent trying to persuade your own father to remain inside a conversation he seemed eager to escape. As the two of you walked slowly toward the parking lot beneath rows of yellowing trees whose leaves drifted lazily across the pavement, you deliberately shortened your steps, stretching the distance for as long as possible because some stubborn, frightened part of you still believed that if the afternoon lasted another few minutes, perhaps your father would finally become your father again.
"So..." you began carefully, clasping your hands together. "I was wondering... maybe next weekend we could go to the museum again? They're opening a new exhibition."
Genuine hesitation crossed his face. "I'll have to see."
"Oh."
"My schedule's complicated lately."
You nodded too quickly. "Right."
"I'll let you know."
You smiled anyway, even though both of you already knew he probably wouldn't.
When you finally reached his car, neither of you moved immediately. You stared at the pavement for a moment before forcing yourself to ask the question that had been living inside your chest for months.
"I've been texting you."
"I know."
"I thought maybe—" Your voice faltered. "—maybe you weren't seeing them."
"I saw them." The answer was gentle, almost unbearably so.
"Oh."
Another silence settled between you.
"I didn't want to bother you—"
"You weren't."
"You seemed busy."
"So were you."
You swallowed hard, your fingers tightening around the strap of your bag. "I just—" The words caught painfully in your throat. "I miss you."
He looked away toward the rows of parked cars, and for a fleeting instant something unreadable crossed his expression. Regret. Fatigue. Guilt. You couldn't tell.
"I've had a lot on my mind."
"I know," you whispered immediately. "I know."
Another pause.
"I just kept thinking—" You laughed quietly, ashamed of how desperately you suddenly sounded. "—that maybe if I called at a better time..."
He sighed. Not with irritation, simply with exhaustion. "You don't have to keep trying so hard." The sentence was spoken softly, kindly, which somehow made it infinitely crueler.
You stared at him, unable to reconcile the man before you with the father who had once answered every midnight phone call simply because you couldn't sleep. The man who had never missed a school recital, who used to arrive thirty minutes early to every performance just so he could wave from the front row before the curtains opened, who texted you photographs of pastries he'd discovered because they reminded him of the ones you loved as a child, who once apologized for an entire week after missing a single bedtime story because an unexpected meeting had run late.
Now you were apologizing for wanting him to answer your messages.
"I'm sorry," you murmured automatically. "I didn't realize—"
He smiled. "It's alright."
You felt something inside you collapse with astonishing quietness not because he was angry, not because he had shouted, but because the smile resting on his face no longer belonged to your father, it belonged to a courteous stranger trying not to hurt someone else's daughter.
He stepped forward, pressed a brief kiss against your forehead out of habit rather than affection, wished you goodbye and climbed into his car without looking back. You remained standing exactly where he had left you, watching until the vehicle disappeared into the flow of traffic, your phone still clutched tightly in your hand.
Only then did you understand that grief was not always born from death.
Sometimes it arrived much more slowly, hidden inside unanswered messages, postponed lunches and conversations that became smaller every month, until one ordinary Saturday afternoon you found yourself standing alone in a parking lot realizing that you had lost your father while he was still alive.
—
The weeks that followed settled into a pattern so painfully predictable that they eventually ceased to feel like individual days at all. You still texted your father every now and then, always with the quiet restraint of someone terrified of becoming an inconvenience. Sometimes you asked how he was doing. Other times you told him about something inconsequential—a novel you had just finished, an amusing lecture at university, or a café you'd stumbled across that reminded you of the one he used to take you to when you were little. You never wrote much. Somewhere along the way, you had learned to compress affection into as few words as possible, as though love itself could become too heavy to send. His replies arrived hours later, sometimes the following day, and sometimes they never arrived at all.
"Busy."
"Maybe another day."
"We'll see."
Two words. Three, if you were lucky.
You kept telling yourself it meant nothing—that the divorce had been difficult for him too, that he simply needed time to rebuild a life that had been broken just as thoroughly as yours. You repeated those explanations with the discipline of someone memorizing a lesson she already knew wasn't true, because the weeks became months, the months continued slipping by, and still he never called unless you reached out first. Eventually, your messages became shorter as well, not because you had less to say, but because hope had quietly begun to teach you the value of lowering your expectations.
Saturdays began to resemble one another so perfectly that they blurred together into a single memory. You would wake with the quiet, unreasonable hope that perhaps your phone would contain a message from him and, when the screen remained empty—as it almost always did—you found yourself sending one instead.
Would you like to have lunch?
I'm near your office today.
I could stop by if you're free.
You always added an escape at the end, carefully constructing an excuse for him before he had the chance to make one himself.
"f you're busy, that's completely fine.
Whenever you have time.
No pressure.
It was remarkable how love could find endless ways to excuse neglect.
One Saturday, nearly a month after the last time you had seen him, he agreed. Not enthusiastically. Not happily. Simply:
Thirty minutes.
Nothing else.
Thirty minutes.
As though spending time with his daughter could be scheduled no differently than a business meeting, but for you, who had lived in a desert waiting for his affection, that was an oasis.
You arrived ten minutes early. You always arrived early when it came to him. He was already seated beside the café window, paperwork spread neatly across the table while he spoke on the phone. He didn't even look up when you walked inside. Instead, he raised one hand absentmindedly, gesturing for you to sit while he continued discussing contracts, deadlines, and meetings that seemed infinitely more important than your presence. So you waited. Five minutes. Seven. Ten.
When he finally ended the call, he offered you a polite smile—the sort of smile he might have given a client.
"Sorry. Busy morning."
"It's okay."
You always said that.
Always.
He ordered another coffee and asked how university was going. He nodded while you answered, though every few seconds his eyes drifted back toward the phone vibrating endlessly beside his cup. Halfway through one of your stories he answered an email; moments later he declined another incoming call, not because he wanted to hear you speak, but because it interrupted the rest of his schedule. You continued talking anyway, not because you believed he was truly listening, but simply because, after so many months, you had begun accepting anything that vaguely resembled spending time together.
When he finished his coffee, he glanced at his watch.
"I have to go."
You had been there twenty-six minutes.
He hadn't even stayed for the thirty he had promised.
You hugged him before saying goodbye. He returned the embrace with a distracted pat against your back, so brief it almost felt accidental. As you watched him disappear into the crowd, you found yourself trying to remember the last time your father had hugged you first.
You couldn't.
Baelor noticed long before anyone said anything. It wasn't obvious. There were no arguments between you and your father, no raised voices, no visible hostility. It was, strangely enough, the complete absence of those things that made the distance between you so unmistakable. Whenever your father appeared, something inside you seemed to shrink—not physically, but in a quieter, subtler way, as though part of you immediately began searching for his approval. You spoke more carefully, measured every sentence before letting it leave your lips, and smiled with a cautiousness Baelor never saw when you spoke to anyone else. He noticed something else, too. You were always the one reaching across the distance. You called. You texted. You asked. You tried. Your father simply responded... when he responded at all. The imbalance became impossible to ignore once Baelor had seen it.
He never mentioned it. It wasn't his place, nor did he ever attempt to replace the man who already occupied that place in your heart. Baelor understood that there were loves no one could inherit, absences no amount of kindness could erase, and wounds that belonged exclusively to the people who carried them. Still, he began paying attention. He realized that every time you returned from seeing your father, there was a new book tucked beneath your arm—not because your father had given it to you, but because you bought one yourself, usually on the way home, as though you needed to leave those meetings carrying something because you always walked away feeling as though your hands had been emptied.
One rainy afternoon he found you sitting on the library floor, surrounded by uneven stacks of novels while an annotated edition of Jane Eyre rested open across your knees. You had been staring at the same page for so long that it was obvious you had stopped reading several minutes earlier. Baelor didn't disturb the silence. He simply walked to one of the bookshelves, let his fingertips wander thoughtfully across the rows of worn spines until they settled upon a dark green volume, then crossed the room and held it out to you.
"Have you ever read this one?"
You lowered your eyes.
The Remains of the Day.
You shook your head. "No."
"I think you'd like it."
He offered no explanation. He didn't tell you it was about opportunities left behind, emotions buried beneath duty, or the quiet devastation of realizing what should have been said only after it had become impossible to say it. He simply handed you the book.
You accepted it with a small smile. "Thank you."
"If you disagree with the ending..." A faint smile touched his lips. "—I'd like to hear why."
That was all. He didn't linger when he saw your attention return to the pages. Instead, he selected another novel for himself, settled into the armchair opposite yours, and began reading in comfortable silence. For the first time in months, someone sat beside you without asking anything of you—without demanding conversation, without expecting smiles, without trying to rescue you from your own quiet. He simply shared the silence with you, and somehow that gentle restraint said far more than any attempt at comfort ever could, that act contained more attention than your father would ever have given you.
—
Over the following weeks, the distance between you and Baelor dissolved so gradually that neither of you could have pointed to the precise moment when occasional conversation became routine. It began, as many unexpected things do, with books. He noticed that every time he found you somewhere in the house, there was another novel resting on your knees, another page folded over with absentminded care, another pencil tucked between the chapters. One afternoon, almost out of simple curiosity, he asked what you were reading, expecting the sort of polite answer that would end the exchange after a sentence or two.
Instead, you spoke for nearly half an hour.
You talked about history, about unreliable narrators, about the peculiar loneliness that seemed to haunt nineteenth-century literature, and about the strange comfort of characters who were never entirely understood. You listened before you disagreed, challenged ideas without hostility, and possessed the rare ability to make disagreement feel less like conflict than collaboration. It reminded Baelor of conversations he had once believed existed only within university halls, the kind that lingered in the mind long after they had ended.
From then on, speaking with you became remarkably effortless. It was never inappropriate, never unusually intimate, simply natural. Conversations that began with a recommendation soon wandered into philosophy, politics, poetry, architecture, or history, only to circle back to literature again. Sometimes they spoke for ten minutes. Sometimes an hour slipped away without either of you noticing. There was nothing unusual about it, at least not on the surface.
Your mother couldn't have been happier.
She had hoped the two of you would eventually find common ground, and watching the awkward courtesy of that first dinner slowly transform into genuine ease felt, to her, like confirmation that she had made the right decision. Whenever she found the two of you discussing history over breakfast or exchanging books after dinner, she smiled quietly to herself, pleased that the man she loved had taken such sincere interest in making you feel welcome within what he hoped would soon become a shared family.
She mistook familiarity for harmony.
She had no reason not to.
By the time the invitation to spend the weekend at the family's seaside villa arrived, your conversations had become an ordinary part of daily life. No one questioned them anymore. Baelor would ask what you were reading, you would ask whether he had ever finished the biography he had mentioned the week before, and the discussion would unfold naturally while everyone else carried on with their own routines. It looked exactly as one might expect from two people who simply happened to enjoy the same subjects.
The villa overlooked the sea, its wide terraces bathed in warm afternoon light while the constant rhythm of the waves softened every conversation into something almost dreamlike. Guests drifted naturally into smaller groups. Your mother remained beneath the pergola with a glass of wine in her hand, exchanging stories with friends, while Matarys disappeared toward the shoreline in search of shells, leaving you leaning comfortably against the stone balustrade with Valarr.
The conversation had begun, as so many of yours did, with a book.
Valarr insisted that a certain character's downfall had been inevitable from the very first chapter. You disagreed immediately, folding your arms with quiet certainty before explaining that it had never been ambition that doomed him, but vanity itself. He laughed, accusing you of always defending impossible arguments. You answered that he had a habit of confusing confidence with intelligence, prompting him to place an exaggerated hand over his chest and declare himself mortally offended. You smiled despite yourself, and a soft laugh escaped your lips, carried away almost instantly by the sea breeze.
Across the terrace, Baelor looked up.
At first, your mother assumed the sound of your laughter had merely drawn his attention. Then she realized he was no longer listening to the conversation unfolding around him. Someone sitting beside him continued speaking, another guest laughed, glasses clinked gently against the table, yet none of it seemed to reach him.
He was watching you.
Not with pride, not with amusement, not even with suspicion.
His attention had narrowed so completely that everything else appeared to dissolve beyond the edges of his awareness. He followed the conversation between you and Valarr with an almost unsettling concentration, as though every sentence you spoke deserved to be carefully examined before it disappeared, every smile unconsciously catalogued, every gesture committed to memory without him realizing he was doing it.
It was not affection, it was not desire. It was something your mother found far more difficult to understand.
It resembled the fixed concentration of a scholar confronted by a question he could not solve, or a collector standing before a painting he could not persuade himself to stop studying. There was something strangely absolute about it, something that excluded the rest of the world with quiet, almost frightening ease.
Then Valarr said something else.
You laughed again.
Only for a moment. Nothing more than a brief burst of genuine amusement.
Yet, in that same instant, something crossed Baelor's face so quickly that your mother almost convinced herself she had imagined it. His jaw tightened by the smallest degree. A faint crease appeared between his brows before vanishing just as quickly, like a ripple disturbing perfectly still water before the surface became smooth again.
The transformation lasted no longer than a heartbeat.
Someone beside him asked a question. He answered without hesitation. He smiled. He lifted his glass.
Within seconds he had resumed the effortless composure for which everyone admired him, carrying on the conversation as though his attention had never wandered elsewhere.
No one noticed, no one except your mother.
She could not have explained what disturbed her so profoundly. There had been no inappropriate gesture, no careless remark, nothing she could ever repeat aloud without sounding irrational. If anyone had asked what she had seen, she would have struggled to put it into words.
And yet, as she watched Baelor continue embodying the flawless gentleman everyone believed him to be, an unfamiliar unease settled quietly beneath her ribs.
She had not witnessed the expression of a man who had simply become distracted. She had witnessed someone whose attention had remained fixed on a single person for far longer than it ever should have.
For the first time since bringing the two of you together, she found herself asking a question she could neither answer nor dismiss.
Not what Baelor had been thinking, but why, for those few silent moments, he had seemed to forget that anyone else in the world existed.
She had never provoked that in him before.
—
The library had become their unspoken meeting place.
It was the quietest room in the house, sheltered beneath high ceilings and walls crowded with books collected over decades. Afternoon light filtered through the tall windows, settling over polished oak shelves and turning the floating dust into slow-moving flecks of gold. Somewhere beyond the glass, the garden shimmered beneath the summer heat, but inside, time seemed content to remain still.
You sat in one of the leather armchairs, a novel resting open across your knees.
Baelor entered carrying two cups of tea.
"I thought you might be here."
"I usually am."
"I've noticed."
There was nothing unusual in his tone. He placed one cup beside you before his eyes drifted toward the book in your lap.
"Lolita?"
You looked down at the familiar cover. "I've never actually read it."
"No?"
"I know what people say about it."
"They usually say the wrong thing." That caught your attention.
"You don't think it's a love story."
It wasn't a question. Baelor smiled faintly.
"No." He lowered himself into the chair opposite yours and folded one leg over the other.
"I think it's one of the greatest examples of an unreliable narrator ever written."
You tilted your head. "So the opening doesn't romanticize him?"
"It seduces the reader," he answered after a moment. "There's a difference."
He reached toward the coffee table, where an old annotated copy already lay waiting, and opened it with the familiarity of someone returning to a place he knew by heart. Without theatricality, he read the first lines aloud.
"Lolita, light of my life, fire of my loins. My sin, my soul."
The room fell quiet.
He closed the book again. "It's beautiful prose."
"It is."
"And that's precisely the danger."
You frowned.
"The language is so extraordinary that, for a moment, you forget who's speaking."
You traced a finger along the edge of your own copy. "So the beauty becomes... camouflage."
A small smile appeared on Baelor's face. "Exactly."
He seemed genuinely pleased—not because you agreed with him, but because you had arrived at the conclusion yourself. "The novel asks something uncomfortable of the reader," he continued. "Whether elegance can make evil sound convincing."
You considered that for several seconds. "I don't think it can."
"No?"
"It can delay your judgment." You looked toward the rain beginning to gather against the windows. "It can make you hesitate." A pause settled between you. "But eventually," you said quietly, "you have to remember who's telling the story."
Baelor's gaze rested on you for a brief moment before he nodded. "Yes.” His voice had become strangely thoughtful. "That's the part people forget."
Neither of you spoke again for a while.
The silence wasn't awkward. It was the kind born from a conversation that had ended naturally, leaving both people with something to think about.
Outside, the first drops of rain began striking the windows. Inside, the two copies of Lolita remained open on the table between you—not as a romance, nor as an object of admiration, but as a reminder that the most dangerous stories are often told by voices eloquent enough to make us forget, if only briefly, that they cannot be trusted.
You'd learn that soon.
Baelor remained quiet for a while after closing the book, his fingertips resting lightly against its worn cover as though reluctant to break the silence that Nabokov's opening had left behind. Outside, the rain continued tracing slow paths across the windows, blurring the gardens into muted shades of green and gray.
"May I ask you something?"
You looked up from your own copy.
"Of course."
He considered his words carefully before speaking, his eyes focused on you, and in them, the same strangely appreciative look that he had given you at the first dinner. "Have you ever experienced that suffocating desire for someone?" He leaned closer to you. "That heavy feeling coursing through your bones, stealing your breath? Disturbing your sleep? Corrupting your very being?" His face was now just inches from yours.
Yes, you were going to answer, yes. I've felt it for my father's affection, I've begged for it. I've gone to bed thinking about the barriers that stand in the way of our nonexistent connection. That he doesn't love me, that he suffocates me and revives me every time I see him.
But you stopped. Overlapping you were two kinds of desires inherent in human beings: the thirst for affection that you projected onto your father, and, beside you, the unequivocal primal desire that Baelor's eyes transmitted in you, towards you, for you. Your reaction was late when you felt the contact of his lips against yours, his aging skin against the firmness of yours.
The third sensation was a revulsion that boiled within you, preventing you from pushing him away from you with a strong thrust. Anyone who witnessed the act would interpret this as consent, but this could not be further from the truth.
This was wrong. There was no fancy word to disguise it, no right thermal. Recovering from the vulnerability, you pulled away from the seat and from him. "What—what the hell did you just do?" Your voice was trembling.
"I..." Baelor was looking at you the same way as always, with that hint of something inscrutable that you hadn't yet deciphered. "My deepest apologies. I noticed that glimmer in your eyes—"
"You assumed that I wanted it."
"—and I decided to take it."
Take it. As one does with one's own belongings when they fall to the ground. Take it. As when one believes legitimate possession over something or someone.
"I didn't want to—I didn't—" You looked anywhere but at his face. "You're my mother's boyfriend. I'm the same age as your oldest son, why would I want to?"
Instead of answering immediately, his eyes drifted to your lips, to the sweet nectar he had just tasted. He rose from his seat, and taking a few steps closer, he was standing in front of you. "I see you" He began. "You wish it because I see you. I'm the only human who pays attention to you. I know your blessings and sorrows, the way you shrink when you send a message from your father. You need me, you're hungry, and I can feed you."
He saw you. He had done it; he had seen the need for love, the misfortunes that occurred in your mother's company. He noticed the balm that books were for you, how absence was your life, and, consequently, his best way of access you.
He was right.
"You—" You pressed your lips together, trying to calm your inner turmoil. "You have no right to judge me or my life. You don't know me, you are not important to me."
While you defended what you believed to be reality, he breached the remaining thin wall to reach you. With genuine affection, he wrapped his arms around yours. An embrace. Something so simple, yet so devastating.
"Shhh," his calloused fingers caressed your scalp. "Let it go." Heavy tears streamed down your cheeks, trailing down to his immaculate shirt. The dampness of the fabric clung to your skin, and it was unpleasant, just like the lively erection that stood against your thigh.
But it was attention, right? You wanted it. It didn't matter from whom, just please, notice me.
His large palms slid down to your waist. "You're just a pathetic little girl who needs to be noticed, Y/N." His face buried itself in your hair. "You want it. You've been chasing him ever since your parents separated and Dad, as a customer who's paid off his debt, washed his hands of the bank. He didn't love you the way I do."
"You're no longer his responsibility. That's why he abandoned you, little one." He slowly leaned you down at the table where they had both been sitting. "A burden, your father sees you as a burden."
You knew it. You felt it. You were it.
Your father showed it with every postponed outing, by only fulfilling his financial obligations, in how he spoke of your meetings as mere slots in his schedule. You weren't his daughter, just a task on his endless monthly to-do list, if you were lucky.
When Baelor placed his lips against yours again, you realized. You wanted him, didn't you? You wanted someone to want you. Not like this, but it was still want. His mouth was gentle, expert and patient, just like the rest of him.
He wanted you to believe that you deserved to be touched by him. That way, this violation wouldn't feel like a crime or mere lust, but like liberation, and he was succeeding.
"I'll give you everything" was what you exactly wanted to hear. "You're not a burden, sweetheart. You're a blessing. The personification of an angel sent from heaven," he proclaimed as his palms cupped your breasts over your clothes, squeezing. "Say it. Say you deserve it."
What exactly did you deserve? His dirty hands on your body? Your mother's demands? Your father's abandonment? Misunderstanding? Isolation? Insecurity?
What, what was it that you so richly deserved?
You didn't say anything. You were frozen, crying on the table. His hands moved down to your thighs, his touch now demanding as he groped you, making his way to your crotch.
"Say it," he demanded. "Tell me. Tell me what you deserve."
This was the Steppenwolf Hesse referred to in his prose. Wild, maladjusted, hidden. He tore at your underwear with such intensity that panic surged through you at the reality. The ruined fabric was real, as was his uninvited touch on your skin.
You kicked him, and he stopped you. "Stay still," he warned. "You want it. You haven't pushed me away once, and you do it just when things escalate?" He squeezed your thigh roughly, digging his fingers into your flesh, making you whimper. "Tell me. Say you want it."
"No—"
"I would be careful with the words that come out of my mouth" One last sentence. "Now. You'll open your legs like the good girl you are, I'll take you, and no soul will ever know about this. Or do you want to lose your only source of affection?" His face was close to yours. "Do you prefer your mother getting to know what a whore she has for a daughter?"
His language was foul. There was no ethical or respectful gentleness accompanying his words. It was raw, real. The wolf—or dragon—beneath disguised as a sheep.
You didn't answer. That was answer enough. "Good."
You didn't realize when he had removed his pants, but you did when you felt his phallus tear at your walls. A painful sob escaped your throat, one that was silenced by your unpleasant lips. It was impossible not to notice the temporal difference in their bodies, the youth and the age.
His attacks were cruel. His hands, restless. They were digging somewhere to grab, and they were never satisfied.
—
"Baelor asked how your classes were going."
Your mother's voice carried the same effortless composure with which she spoke about the weather, dinner reservations, or charity galas. There was nothing particularly significant in the sentence itself, yet something about the way she chose to mention his name made it sound almost rehearsed, as though she had been waiting for the right moment to introduce it into the conversation.
You continued stirring your tea without looking up.
"That was thoughtful of him." There was a certain unease in your voice, almost anxious.
"He seemed genuinely interested."
The spoon circled lazily against the porcelain before you set it aside.
"He likes talking to you. He mentions your conversations surprisingly often" The sound of her heels echoed as she approached you. "Especially the conversations in the library."
Library.
"He says you have an extraordinary way of looking at literature." Her fake smile widened almost imperceptibly. "Apparently the two of you spent nearly an hour discussing Lolita the other afternoon. He seemed quite pleased, if you ask me."
You knew what he meant, and you weren't going to answer.
"Pleased, Y/N. My boyfriend looked pleased."
"Mom—"
"You—you slept with him. With your own mother's boyfriend." She bit her perfectly painted lip. "I know. He smelled like your perfume. That's why he pays you so much attention, the reason he looks at you the way he does: like he's eyeing prey."
"He raped me!" you exclaimed, your voice breaking, dark circles under your eyes visible. "He took me, he—" Herhand slapped you across the face, hard.
She felt betrayed. Her own daughter sleeping with her partner, accusing him of rape after moaning his name surrounded by books and walking out of the library as if nothing had happened, making her look like a fool.
"You little brat." She pointed a finger at you. "Baelor would never—he would never do that unless you provoked him. You've been sleeping with your mother's boyfriend, Y/N. Aren't you ashamed?!"
You didn't know this version of Mom. The out-of-control, irrational one, the one who believed him.
"And you dare accuse a man of his caliber of raping you? You?" He looked you up and down, judging you. "You, who won't dress up unless I tell you to? Who would rape a girl who doesn't even take the time to care about her appearance? You damn whore."
Baelor was right.
Humbert had captivated thousands of readers with nothing more than language. His greatest weapon had never been desire, but narration. He chose which details deserved to be remembered and which would quietly disappear between paragraphs, softened cruelty beneath exquisite prose, and wrapped obsession in poetry until even intelligent readers found themselves hesitating before condemning him. History had always belonged to whoever told it best, and the voice that controlled the story inevitably controlled the judgment that followed.
Baelor understood that better than anyone. He controlled the narrative.
Summary: Aerion marries your sister with the pure intention of tormenting you- his real desire.
You find comfort in Baelor, only to find madness runs through the family.
Word count: 23, 812
warnings: unco, dark!, possessive themes, Dark themes, mentions of death, she/her pronouns, SA, violence, All of the warnings, dead dove do not eat.
PART 1
PART 2
The tent was loud and crowded. People danced in any spare space that wasn’t taken up by drinking and feasting. Long stretches of table were only a few too drunk to stand, sat. Perfectly lit by darkening candles. It was heaven.
Stuck in the Targayan household for 2 years left you little room for freedom. Now it bore itself before you. Asking you to take a bite.
You did, drinking and dancing around the chair that your sister fret in. She too was a prisoner of the Targaryen house, having married Aerion under order of your father. You followed her to her new home and she followed you out of bounds.
Her fear was justified, If you were caught the punishment would be unjust. But it was the first night in a long time that was not watched by one of the Targaryen men. A night where you could shine.
The large man across the room from you did not get the message. He stood against the wall in the corner, hunched over despite his tall frame, trying to go unnoticed. He acted as if he wasn’t looking over. His eyes unconvincingly found something interesting when you dared to look over.
It wasn’t a lustful look he gave. There was something pitiful behind it. Something kind.
Your sister, Ledia, sat in the chair and refused to move, nursing the same glass of wine from the start of the evening. She begged you to go every half hour but the older Princes were occupied with Lord Asford, Egg and Daeron were missing, Aerion drank too much after weeks of travel and Valarr was too kind to cause you any trouble.
For tonight, your freedom was returned. You would remember joy. You would remember who you were before all of it.
Your ringed finger beckoned the tall man over out of curiosity. He was a lower man. His dress suggested a farmer but he carried a sword looped through rope.
He was startled by your call but slowly made his way across the crowded tent over to you. He was gentle in his approach. Dodging out of the path of others even though he towered over them. When other guests stopped in front of him as if he didn't exist he patiently waited for them to move if he could not get around.
You were intrigued. Almost yearning to know more about him, and his gentleness.
“What are you doing?” your sister hissed, watching him as he moved closer.
He was before you before you could answer.
”Excuse me, m’ lady, I don’t mean to stare” the tall man addressed. He shook his shoulders straight and his hand rested on sword in pride, not threat.
”I have the honor of being a hedge knight”, he continues.
”Good for you”, Ledia demeans,
He is not shaken by it. The big oaf must be abused daily. It was almost endearing.
”And as such, I am charged to defend the innocent. It would be my duty, my-my honor, my lady to see to the man who did that to your face”.
You feel your sister draw back curling her body into herself.
“Thank you ser?” You try to defuse.
“Dunk, just Dunk”, he answers you bashfully.
“You’re a knight with no title?” You quiz him.
“Ah, no”he answers before enlightening his next sentence, “No, I do, I do!”, he promises.
He straightens up again, puffing his chest in pride.
“Ser Dunken the tall”.
”Ser Dunken the tall” you repeat, “A fine name for a fine knight”.
His shoulder sloops and his ears turn red at your words. A gentle giant. Edgar to please from years of neglect.
“We thank you ser, but we are in no need of a knights help. Her face is justified by the law”, you submit.
“Did you do something wrong?” he asks.
“I was born a fool!” Ledia snaps, “I want to go back now”, she demands from you .
“One more hour”, you beg of her.
“I’d be happy to escort-” a hard slap on the man's back stopped his sentence. Lyonel Barathon is nearly hidden by the mans large frame but he peaks out drunkenly from behind him.
“You big cunt” Lyonel exclaimed using the man as a leaning post, “She’s not stopped dancing all night. You come along and she is as still as my first wife on our wedding night”.
“Ser Barathon, do not speak in such a manner to a guest. He does not know you are joking”, you scold the lord.
“Guest? Who’s guest? I don’t fucking know him”. Lyonel stands on his strength, glaring up at the tall figure who looked like a hunted deer. The giant fumbles under the attention, looking for word or action but both fail him.
“My guest”, you state, drawing the lord's attention back to you.
He grins sheepishly at you, leaning down closer so his soft voice would reach you. Your nose wrinkled under the stench of alcohol.
“You should not be here either” he accuses.
“Aren’t you glad I am”, you whisper.
Lyonel jumps up with a clap, kicking his feet out in a gleeful fashion.
“Fuck it. The more the merrier. Stand tall man!” he demands, striking the chest of Duncan, “The Gods above gave you tallness so be tall”.
“I am sorry” Ducan muttered, “where I am from you learn to go unnoticed, is all”.
Your sister scoffs in her chair, finally taking a sip of her drink.
“I am sorry too, my lady, if I offended you. I meant no ill intent, honest”, he pledges.
“Oh a man who means no ill intent is a man to be feared indeed” Lyonel howls. The lord grabs the knight by the shoulders turning the giant squarely towards him.
“Do you dance, cunt?” lyonel implored over the music.
“Ser Dunk” you interject.
Lyonel looks at you in a drunk haze before he turns back to his man, “Do you dance Ser Dunk?”.
The large man shrugs, “Doesn’t everybody?”.
“Not that one” Lyonel apprises, flicking his head in the direction of your sitting sister.
“Come on” Lyonel called trying to bring Ducan to the dance floor.
“Oh no, my lord. I thank you, but I am only here for supper” Ducan admits.
Lyonel's mood changes. He becomes taller, and his eyes blacker as he steps up to a man twice his size.
“You come into my tent, eat my food, drink my wine, and you refuse to dance?” Lyonel summarizes in the threatening tone.
You are now so used to defusing situations that you automatically react.
Latching on to the mans arm, you use your body weight to push him closer to the dance floor.
“One dance, ser Ducan” you ask, “and I shall personally see you to the banquet table after”.
‘Don’t!” Ledia calls, “Should anyone see you and report back”.
You look around the room, seeing only those too absorbed in their own night to care about yours.
“The room is so drunk, I doubt people would remember their own names than who danced with who”, you argue back.
“Come on!” Lyonel calls in a better mood, “grab your balls and meet me on the dance floor” .
Pushing the man into the centre, you take hold fiercely while he returns a gentle and cautious hold. Something you haven’t felt in many moons.
One dance turned into four and a half before Lyonel took your place in a sweeping motion, moving your dance partner across the floor in a forceful and fighting way.
He stomps on Duncan's foot, getting him to move while keeping him close in a traditional dancing hold.
The large man has enough by the time the song draws to an end. Stomping his own foot down on the lords boot. For a second you think Lyonel is hurt by the way he folds over but he rises with a delighted smirk and a friendly wink.
You rush to save your friend, pulling him away from Lyonel who continues to dance.
Your friend didn’t seem startled by the abuse. Laughing, and calling Lyonel a mad man. You sit him next to your sister before retrieving him more wine.
Your sister did not speak a word but her eyes warned you. Told you of her anxiety about all of this. You ignore her, taking a spare seat to the huffing man who took the cup with thanks.
An hour turned into more as you learnt about him. His troubles in finding a lord to vouch for him so he can enter into the lists. You tell him it may be a kindness, there was a sort of fury that went into jousting that you weren’t sure he had.
There was no other option, he told you. He told you of his own anxiety about the matter which surprised you as he was both a man and a knight. He was manley, there was no doubt. Big and strong with a sense of duty to protect and provide. But no ego of importance that many other men carried. He was open with his emotions. With his stories and past. He wanted you to know him; the whole of him. Not a front that was curated. He lay emotionally bare before you and you found yourself leaning towards him, growing hot under his vulnerability.
He spoke of his days as a squire speaking with more affection than was warranted about his old master.
Before you could stop yourself, your hand reached out and rested on his thigh as you spoke words of encouragement. He froze under your touch, the grip on his cup tightened.
“Enough” scolded your sister, speaking for the third time the entire night, “You said an hour near five hours away. I am leaving”.
Ledia jumped up, pushing her way through the dwindling party into the night. You rise too, disappointed that your night is now over.
“Let me see you and your sister home,” Ducan offered.
“No” you were firm. No one could see him. It would be hard enough to get back unnoticed let alone trying to drag a giant back.
“We are not far” you attempt to salvage his feelings, “besides Ser Lyonal has been waiting all night to have you to himself”.
Ducan turns to a Ser Lyonal who sat at his table, openly staring back without shame.
“He’s a bit mad”, Ducan says, turning back to you.
“He is harmless fun and a good friend to have in your corner” you advise him, “here you need all the friends you can get. Good Luck Ser Ducan. I am sure we will see each other before the tourney is over”.
He becomes bashful again, nodding his large head in agreement.
“I hope so, my Lady. Are you sure I cant see you safely back?”, he asks.
You laugh seeing Lyonal grow inpatient, getting up to collect his new toy.
“I fear it is you who needs protecting Ser”, you jest.
Lyonal jumps on the large mans back, screaming gleefully as he is swung around as Ducan attempts to shake him.
Without focus you follow your sister outside, unsurprised to her waiting for you.
“You play with fire” she scolds before storming the way back.
“I liked him”, you admit.
———————————
“Where were you last night?’ Areion’s voice rang into the kitchen before he entered abruptly.
You were sitting with your sister in the servants quarters hoping to find solitude together but eyes were everywhere.
His hand is on his sword as he stalks towards you, ignoring Leia as she sits trembling in her chair.
“I visited your chambers last night but you weren’t there”, he states, “Nor you wife” he spares her a quick glance before setting back on you.
You had thought he drunk his fill and would sleep through the night or else you never would have pressured your sister into following you.
With a hand on the table he is leant forward nearly peering down at you from his height. His hand is still on his sword in threat.
“We visited the Library and slept there”, you lie.
In a flash he grabs the back of your neck pushing it down to the table where he pinned your face against the wood.
“Lie to me again and I shall cut your sisters tongue out and force you to eat it. Where were you?” he spit.
You push against his thigh trying to push him back as you do the pressure on head intensifies.
“Dont!” you hear your sister cry out.
“Quiet whore, I am trying to have a conversation with your sister”, Areion demands.
“Leia, go!” you beg her.
“No, stay, and watch what happens when you do not do as you are told”.
You feel a sharp point against the soft flesh behind the back of your ear. His hand left his sword to grasp his dagger and you cry out as he slices the skin apart.
He is slow as he does it. Although only a small cut, he drags the knife so slowly it felt as if he was carving your ear.
“You will not disrespect house Targaryen by running off into the night”, he tells you, pulling back the dagger and letting you lift your head.
Your hand instantly cups your ear, blood pours onto your fingers.
“And you”, he points his knife at your sister, “You are to never leave where I put you, you will not disgrace me by going out and fucking half the towns men”.
Your sister shakes her head, “I would never disrespect you”.
He rests his hand with the knife on the table, cocking his hip out and glares at your sister.
“Are you calling me a liar whore?”.
She shakes her head viciously but it still does not appease him.
“Open your mouth” he demands.
In fear for your sister, you pick up your embroidery needle and jam it in the back of his hand. He howls as it digs into his bone, shaking the feeling away with quick flicks of his wrist. The needle wasn't enough to really hurt him, just enough to draw his attention away from your sister so she could escape.
“You little bitch”, he calls you.
You jump from your chair, angling yourself closer to the door thinking that maybe you could make it outside.
He begins to laugh watching you readying yourself for a fight, while your sister attempts to retreat unnoticed. After nearly a year you think the same trick will still work.
His sore hand clamps down on Leia's shoulder to prevent her from moving.
“No, I suppose you are quite right”, he mocks, “You are a free woman. I have no right to keep you anywhere you don’t wish to be. My wife, however, well I did make a vow to keep her close”.
“Let her go” you demand.
“Just like I have no right to command you to stay, you have no right to tell me what to do with my property”.
“We went to the Village" your sister admits, “I am sorry”.
“Oh” Aerion fakes, “You shouldn’t have gone there”.
His hands snake through her brown hair, tangling themselves at her roots.
“Come wife” Aerion drags her by her hair out of the kitchen, “we have some making up to do”.
You scream at him to stop, latching on to your sister's kicking feet to try and drag her back. But he was much stronger than you and you only caused her more pain.
“I am sorry”, you call to him, “I am sorry, it wont happen again”.
He continues to drag her through the halls, servants usher away at the sight.
“Areion, please, I will make it up to you only let her go”, you promise.
He does drop her by only for the time it takes to land his boot against her face.
“Stop! Stop it!” you scream at him.
“When I call upon you tonight, I expect you to be there, not off galaventing with the townspeople”, he warns, picking up your sister by her arms so he could move her quicker.
You hit his back, begging him to drop her. She could barely walk, her feet stumbling to catch ground.
Changing tactics, you run past him to the reading chambers where you knew you would find Prince Baelor.
He surely wouldn't let this happen in a house where he was a guest.
“Prince Baelor” you call to him from the hall, “Prince Maekar”.
You dash into the room, uninvited. Not only were they there but so was Ashford and his children.
“Gods, child, what is the fucks the matter with you?” Maekar requested.
Baelor rose from his chair instantly noticing the blood pooling from your ear.
“Aerion, he’s, you got to stop him, he’s- ba- he’s with her” you pant. You try to explain yourself given the urgency but all the words want to topple out at once.
Baelor turns your head with a hold on your chin, inspecting your ear which was not the main priority.
“Lords”, the stairs, he's dragging her”, you rush.
“Huh?’ Maekar exasperated.
“Think about the words you want to say, and take a breath”, his fingers gently graze the wound testing how deep it was, “We can summarize Aerion is behind this. Start with your sister”.
You hear Maekar grumble about his son but you talk over him despite your lower standing.
Baelor takes your bloody hand in his, leading you over to the pitcher of water. You attempt to pull back, wanting him to follow you but he is adamant to reach the pitcher.
“She’s hurt. He is hurting her. You need to stop him, please my lords” you implored.
“He did this too?” Baelor asks you. He wets a cloth left out for morning tea and presses it against your ear to stop the bleeding.
“Of course he did” Maekar calls, “She didn’t do it to herself. Little bastard".
Maekar gets up from his chair, storming in large strides to the hallway.
“I will take care of this”, he promises.
“What upset him this time?” Baelor asks you, removing the cloth to see if the bleeding had slowed before pressing it back down.
You couldn’t tell him the truth. Baelor was likely to take his side. He often denied day trips with your sister back at Kingslanding. If it could not be brought to you then he would make arrangements in the future to take you. If he knew you snuck out at night in a new town, you doubt his reaction would be good.
“I am still trying to figure out what upset him last time”, you disarm him.
A small smile graces his lips and he checks your wound again.
“He didn’t cut deep. Although, Lord Ashford, you may have a trail of blood in your hallways, I apologize.”
“Not at all, your grace” the lord contends “I will have it cleaned right away”.
“May I take further advantage of your kindness and ask that you allow us a moment in private”, Baelor asks.
The Lord gathers his children, ushering them out the door with bashful comments.
“Aerion is excitable in a new city. You’d be best to remain close to me during our stay here’’.
“My sister does not have the same luxury of hiding behind you, my prince. I will not leave her to face him alone”.
Baelor sighs, dropping the cloth from your ear, using it now to wipe the blood from the surrounding area and your neck.
“You do not have to suffer just because your sister does”, he tells you.
“Would you leave your brother on the battlefield?” you ask him.
He looks at you with a funny gaze, “No, of course not”.
“Marriage is a women's battlefield and I will not leave her outnumbered”.
Baelor nods in understanding, dropping the cloth to the table.
“If you ever want a break from war, feel welcomed to seek me out”, Baelor offers.
“Thank you, my lord”, you return.
“Go to the Maester and have him look at your wound. He should give you something to keep infection away”, he ordered.
You curtsy as is custom and leave the room only you go to your sister's room and sit by her door listening as through the wood as she cries on the bed while Areion and his father argue.
—-------------------------------------------
Two days pass yet you still think upon the hedge knight. It made it hard to focus on the book in front of you. Baelor notices like he does everything else.
“Is something wrong?” he asks you.
He sat reading his letters and decrees while you sat next to him as you usually did.
“No, my lord” you answer him, making an effort to bring the book closer to you and focus.
“You’ve been unusually quiet this whole trip” he comments, “Has Aerion done something?”.
“Nothing we aren’t all accustomed to, my prince”.
“You’re going to make me guess whats wrong?”, he muses.
With a sigh he puts his quill down and turns his body in his chair towards you.
“You will be guessing for a long time, my lord, for nothing is the matter”.
Baelor reaches for your hand, holding it gently in his firm grasp.
“Tell me”, he demands.
He lets you take your hand back, and watches you in an intent stare as you busy yourself with your book.
“I am tired, that is all. Please do not fret”.
“As you say” he submits, going back to his work.
A quiet comfortableness falls between you once more.
You dont read. You cant manage to focus on forming the words into a sentence by for show you turn the page when the quietness nears breaking.
The knight plays on your mind. You wonder what he is doing. If he was worried about entering the tourney. You tried to devise a plan to get away, to even just get another glimpse at him. Baelor would never allow you to attend a joust, not even to watch Aerion.
Could you climb out the window, you muse. It was too high. Bribe a maid to allow you out and keep the princes distracted. Could you just simply bear the consequences?
As if you dreamt it, you see the familiar coloring of his worn green cloak peaking out of the stone.You shut your eyes, trying to get your sense back. But when you open them again, the image only becomes clearer.
You get up from your chair in haste to confirm whether you were crazy or not.
“Y/n where are you going?” Baelor calls but you ignore him.
He seemed equally surprised to see your face jumping out from behind the door.
“Ser Ducan?” you called in amazement.
“Lady Y/n? What- what are you doing here?”, Ducan quizzes.
You hear Baleors chair scrape back and pull your body back into the chambers, leaving Ducan lingering in the hall.
“Y/N” Baelor calls, “Step back”.
He motions for you to come over to him so you obey command quickly.
“Come forward ser”, Barlor commands, “do not hide in the shadows”
He waits a moment too long before Duncan moves his large frame to the doorway.
“My lady, my grace, I apologise for the intrusion” Duncan begins, already flustered. His frame is hunched once again, and his eyes are downcast, “I am ser Ducan the tall”.
“No intrusion, Ser” Baelor returns in politeness, “what is your purpose for lingering in the halls?”
“I have asked Ser Manfred Dondarriton to vouch for me so that I may enter the lists, but he has refused to do so. Others too”.
Your heart sank at his words. He must be distraught. While you didnt want him to enter the lists. You also didnt want him to display this downtrodden look.
“You see, they say they know not of Ser Alarn of Pennytree. But he served them. I swear it. I have his sword and shield. Do you remember him, my lord?”
“Ser Alarn of Pennytree” Baelor muses, “never won a tourney that I know of but he never shamed himself, either”.
“Yes, Ser” Ducan sighs in relief, “I mean, no, no he didn’t”.
“He overthrew Lord Stokeworth in the melee at King’s landing. And years before he unhorsed the Gray Lion himself”.
“He told me of that many a time”, Ducan reminisce, stepping closer.
“Not too close, ser” Balor warns, “You are still a stranger in this house. Sword and shield prove little”.
Baelor steps closer to you, shielding you from Duncan's eyesight with his body.
“Of course, my lord”, Ducan retracts with a bowed head, “I am sorry”.
“You will recall the Gray Lions true name. I have no doubt”, Baelor tests.
Ducan looks to pause. His thought process runs across his face as he tries to drudge up the old name. You try and mouth it to him over Baelors shoulder.
The first name is enough to spark Duncan's memory.
“Ser Damon Lannister” Ducan confirms, “the grey lion, he’s lord of Casterly rock now”.
“So he is”, Baelor disclosed, “and enters the list upon the morrow’.
“I can’t believe you remember him, my lord” Duncan beamed, “I came only in hope”.
“Is that the only reason?” Baelor asserted, “You weren’t hoping to see someone else?”.
“No, my lord”, Ducan submits but takes an uneasy look at you.
“How could you possibly remember an old henge knight?” you asked, desperate to avoid this line of questioning.
Baelor turns his head but not his body to answer you.
“I jousted with Ser Alarn many years past, at storm’s end. Lord Baratheon held a hastilude to celebrate the birth of a grandson. The lots made him my opponent in the first tilt. We broke four lances before I finally unhorsed him”.
“It was seven” Ducan declares, earning the rooms attention, “I believe” he further comments upon your telling stare.
Baelor turned back with a thin smile.
“Tales grow in the telling, I know. Do not think ill of master but it was four lances only, I fear”.
“As you say, your grace”, Ducan declares, dropping to one knee, “it was four. I do apologize. The old man, Ser Arlan used to say I was as thick as castle walls and slow as an aurochs.”
“No harm was done, ser. Rise” Baelor offers.
“You gave him back his horse and armor and took no ransom. Ser Alan often told me that you were the soul of chivalry and that one day the seven kingdoms would be safe in your hands”.
“Not for many years yet, I pray”.
“No! No, I did not mean that the king should-” Duncan blubbers.
“Ser would you like a glass of wine” you interrupt him, “Maybe we could sit and discuss this matter”.
“No, my lady. I don't believe I should add alcohol to this but I thank you”.
“Y/n, this is men's business” Baelor dismisses, “Take your book elsewhere so that I may speak to Ser Ducan”.
“As you wish, my lord” you submit. With no other option you pick up your book, and begin to make your way to the door. In passing you give a wink to Ser Ducan whose face turns red and he shrinks back into himself.
“My lady if I may be so bold” Ducan stops you, “I plan to fight bravely. It would be an honour if I had your favour”.
Baelor clears his throat uncomfortably, but you blush at the offer.
He may be the last honorable man in the entire land.
“Then you shall have it Ser Duncan”, you tell him, “Be careful, and come back to me in one piece”.
“I will, my lady” Ducan swears with an awkward nod.
You feel Baelor burning a hole in your back so with a kind smile you continue your walk.
“Good Luck, Ser Ducan”.
He thanks you again before you take his place in the shadows.
“So you wish to enter the lists, is that it?” Baelor quizzes, taking his seat once more.
“Yes” Duncan breaths.
Baelor takes a piece of parchment and puts his pen to it as he speaks,
“The decision rests with the master of the games, but I see no reason to deny you”, he holds the paper out to Duncan, “a letter to the same effect”.
“My lord” Dunk gushes moving to grab the letter, “I don’t know how to thank you”.
”Thank me not ser”, Baelor dismisses, “you haven’t fought yet”.
”No, of course not, your grace”. With a clumsy bow, Duncan makes effort to leave the room and take up no more of the princes time.
“Oh, and Ser Duncan” Baelor calls from his seat. The large man turns instantly as he is called, turning back to his price, “Lady Y/n is a particular favorite of mine, I ask any future interaction remain”, Baelor pauses momentarily thinking of the correct phrase, “Within bounds”, he finishes.
Duncan feels his face turn hot, his eyes divert from the speaker to the ground, his large frame follows his sight to the floor.
“Of course, your grace. I would never-” Duncan doesnt finish going on to his next sentence, “Had I known-”
Baelor raises his hand in acknowledgement, halting the stumbling of the knight.
“You could not have” Baelor reasons, “I deny it myself most days”.
“Your grace” Ducan says awkwardly, his shifts painfully in his spot. He was never any good at talking. Now he was talking to the future king about a delicate matter. Ser Arlan never prepared him for this, and he made the stupid comment about 7 lances in front of her.
“Y/n is young. It’s only natural she seek out suitors of her own age. I do not begrudge either of you”
Duncan scoffs, his frame about falling off him, “I am not worthy of a woman of her standard”.
“That we can agree on”, Baelor agrees, “However, she is young and headstrong. You’ll do your best to dissuade her, i am sure on that, but she is not easily fought. Should you fail, you will have made enemies of two princes of the realm”.
“Your grace” Ducan stutters, “I would sooner pluck out both my eyes, cut my tongue out with my own sword then go against the crown”.
Baelor raises his hand again, this time to silence.
“I warn you only as I would hate to see a Knight as honorable as you, caught between something you don’t understand”.
Duncan's frame rose again under the compliment. His hand goes to his sword and he puffs out his chest.
“Thank you ser”, Ducan boasted.
“Off with you now” Barlor dismisses, rising from his chair, “I have matters to attend to. Good luck with the tournament”.
“Thank you, my grace” Ducan says again with an awkward bow.
You wait for him in the hallway, hiding in the shadows.
“Ducan” you call for him as he storms down the passage, Baelor appears at the door as you do.
He watches as Duncan repeals himself from your close proximity as you follow him
“So will you fight?”, you ask him.
“Yes, my lady” he confirms, “my thanks to you”.
He tries to continue on, but you pull on his arm to stop him.
“You must be careful”, you tell him, “Do you have adequate armor?”.
“I did not mean wait in the hallway” Baelor criticizes as he makes his way towards you.
Baelor takes your arm in a gentle hold, slowing you down to his pace as he speaks, “Ser Ducan has a match to prepare for, and we have dinner. Come now, let us leave him”.
Baelor turns you in the other direction but your eyes refuse to leave him.
Ducan bows politely before his feet take him further down the hall as quickly as they can.
With his dismissal, you willingly go with Baelor. He links your arms together as he leads you back to your room, his opposite hand goes on top of yours pinning it in his hold.
“You said something to him,” you state.
“Nothing that didn’t need to be said”, he returns.
“Do you think I might be able to attend the tourney on the morrow?” you ask despite knowing better.
‘I think you know the answer to that is no”, Balor confirms, “They are too violent. You would be bored”.
“I used to go as a girl’, you tell him.
“I believe I remember your father telling me he could never get you to sit still. That you and your sister would disappear as soon as the horn blew. We represent House Taryaryen in these new lands. Aerion cannot be descended into madness’.
“I would sit. You wouldn’t know I was there”, you fight.
“The answer is no. I will take you and your sister shopping in the markets two days from now. I hear Ashford has splendid markets”.
“Ashford markets” you comment solemnly.
You reach the door of your chambers. Baelor releases you and reaches for the door. Aerion is waiting inside.
“Uncle” Aerion greets, “Have you been keeping her all to yourself again?”.
“Merely the afternoon” Baelor states.
You step closer to Aerion. His eyes glare down at you as you speak.
“They told me my sister was unable to be seen. Orders given by you”.
“That’s right. My father has reminded me that I have husbandly duties to attend to”.
“Are you done with her? Can I see her?” you ask in a desperate voice.
Aerion smiles at your panic, watching you with his sharp and threatening eyes.
“At dinner” Baelor promises, “which we should all be getting ready for”
A further grin spreads across Aerions lips, his face ducks closer to you.
“My wife will not be joining us tonight. She has suddenly fallen ill”, he torments.
You shove him harshly enough for him to brace himself on his back foot and straighten up.
“What have you done?” you accuse. Your next strike is caught by him and with a hold on your arms, he throws you to the floor.
Baelor sighs, reaching down to pick you up but Aerion stops him.
“No uncle, it is important she knows her place on the floor. You fail to train a dog out of their bad habits and you have a mutt for life”.
“Enough of this nonsense”, Baelor criticizes. He knocks the arm that blocks him away, continuing to reach for you on the floor. You deny his help, standing up by yourself.
“I want to see my sister. Take me to her now”, you demand.
Your body shook imagining what he has done to her.
“And why should I?” Aerion bites, “Who are you to demand such a request from me? You are only here by my mercy”
“Your mercy?’ you scoff. You openly laugh in his face, his eyes squint back at you in warning.
“Your mercy?” you repeat with no more humor.
“Enough of this” Baelor interrupts, “Might I remind you two that we are guests in this house. We will not air this madness for all to see”, " your arm is taken into his hold again and you are tugged closer to his body, “Aerion is right. Leia is his wife, and he owes you no explanation”.
“She is my sister!”
“Who married Aerion under her own free will”. You go to protest his words, your face contending with anger.
“Enough, do not speak”, he commands you, “They are married by law. By right, she is his property. If he says she is too ill to attend dinner then you have no right to challenge him.”
“You are free to leave at any time” Aerion provokes, “I have humored you for the sake of my darling wife, and received nothing but scorn in return. I’ve not received a penance from your father for housing you or feeding you all this time. And this is the thanks I get from you”.
“You are a monster, and if you think I will entertain you tonight after my sister then you are mistaken”.
“Jealous?” he provokes.
“Only of the knight who will unhorse you”, you picture your knight charging at Aerion, although you know they would never be in the same rank.
He is predictable as he raises his hand to slap you again. Baelor catches the younger mans wrists, casting it back down.
“Come, let us prepare for dinner, and cool our tempers” Baelor speaks to you, tugging you by your arm out the door.
Aerion runs his tongue across his top teeth in anger but the kings hand spoke and he had not the power to challenge.
He leads you back to his chambers, shoving you into an empty chair as he enters.
“Do not cry like a scolded child”, he criticizes, unbuttoning his shirt. It was an improper thing to do in front of a lady but he felt a strong enough claim over you to do so.
“You know he was lying”, you state in your chair.
“You know as well as I do there was nothing to be done”, he refutes.
“You are Baelor Targaryen, prince of the realm, the kings right hand”
“And you will respect me as so”, he demands of you.
You shut your mouth immediately, he was right the way you spoke was not right for a man of his station. You had become too familiar with him that you had forgotten you were so beneath him.
“Forgive me, your grace”, you mutter, “You are correct. There was nothing to be done”, you grit.
He sits on the end of his perfectly made bed with a heavy sigh.
“Come help me undress”.
You rise without looking at him, kneeling down to unlace his boots and pull them from his feet.You reach up for his pin next, attempting to unhook it from his breast.
His large hand reaches for your face, hooking his fingers behind your ear.
“I will send a mastor to your sister during dinner. You must behave or else Aerion will return to his chamber early”.
“It’s my fault” you admit, “I provoked him this morning. If I just kept my mouth shut, he wouldn’t have hurt her”.
Baelor wipes a fresh tear away, watching as you attempt to hold back more.
“Sweet girl, you play a game you cannot win. Maybe it would be best if you returned home”.
It was an empty offer. He would never allow such a thing to really occur. Baleor throws all the letters you receive in the fire. But it was important to think the decision was yours so you would monitor your own behaviour.
“And leave her with him? With no one to protect her?”.
“Without the promise of tormenting you, maybe he would leave Leia alone”,
It was perhaps a truth. But Aerion was unruly and unpredictable. There was a chance he would grow bored but there was an equal threat he would kill her.
You pull back out of his hold with his pin in your hand and stand to your feet to place it in its box.
“There’s a greater chance it rains blood tomorrow”, you comment, ‘He enjoys inflicting pain”.
“Then we must not give him reason to. You’ll watch your tongue, mind your manners. He’ll find any excuse to strike”.
“Yes, my grace” you answer him.
“Come back here” he waives you over and you follow command, kneeling back down between his legs.
“Yes, my grace”, you call to him.
He reaches back to your face, his thumb pressing into your cheekbone.
“That knight, you called him by name. Where do you know him from?”
Your lips seal together, trying to think of a good lie.
“You’ve been sneaking out at night haven’t you?”, he answers for you, “You mustn’t do that. Your door will be locked after dinner from now on”.
Aerion would still get in, the locked door only took your freedom away, not offered you any safety.
“Am I a prisoner, your grace?” you mock.
His hold shifts to your jaw, holding it up to his eye sight.
“You are a foolish, young girl. Take a bath before dinner”, he releases you in form and eyesight.
—-----------------------------
You sat next to Aerion at the dinner table to avoid his tantrum. You even rose when he entered the room, much to his delight.
“My prince”, you greeted him, through gritted teeth.
“Well look who found their manners”, he pushes, taking his seat, “A mighty improvement from an hour ago. You must tell me uncle, how you manage to quill her fire so quickly”.
“Shut up, boy” Maekar commands from the seat next to his brother.
“Y/n sit” Baelor commands. Only then do you realise you are still standing.
“Good dog” Aerion whispers.
You take a breath to stow your anger, focusing on the cup bears who had begun to poor wine.
“What a lovely dress”, Aerion says loudly for the group, running a finger down the red fabric of your arm, “where did it come from?”
“Prince Baelor chose the dress”, you answer him, reaching for your cup.
“Did you?” he asked his uncle.
“Lord Asfords daughter was kind enough to lend the dress for the night, seeing as Y/n’s chambers were occupied”, Baelor answers.
“I must say you have exquisite taste, uncle”, his hand reaches under the table and grips the fabric at your thigh, “Y/n, we must remove every other colour from your wardrobe and replace it with this red”.
“Whatever would please you, you grace”, you return.
Aerion laughs loudly. Lord Ashford sits uncomfortably in his chair at the head of the table. An offer was made to baelor but politely refused. The head of the table belonged to the head of the household. Baelor regrets that decision now as he sat across from you. You had taken his words as please Aerion and not know your place beneath him.
The laughter stops, leaving the room with nothing more than an uncomfortable silence.
You go to take another sip of your cup but Aerion catches the base with two fingers and pushes it back to the table.
“Only water for lady Y/n tonight” Aerion addresses the staff in the room, “Water is free correct?”, he switches to Lord Ashford, “With this new wardrobe that pleases me, we must be mindful of the kingdom's budget”.
Maekar groans at his sons words, throwing his own cup down.
“Y/n is a guest in our household” Baelor declares, “Let her drink her fill”.
Aerion shakes his head in faked thought before a shrug of his shoulders had his words come tumbling out.
“As sister of my beloved wife, y/n is my responsibility, and as such my burden to bear”.
“I will accept the burden” Baelor submits, “Drink your share”, he spoke to you.
You didnt touch the cup again, your hands found themselves twisted on your lap.
“If its money you are concerned about, i will write to my father. Just let me know the financial costs that I burden you with during my stay”.
“Hm” Aerion hums, leaning forward on the table as he gazes at you, “If i remember correctly it was money that led your father to throw your sister at me for”.
“Shut your mouth, you insolent fool”, his father commands.
“You will do well to remember that without our wheat, Westros would have starved during winter”, you argue.
“So I should thank you?” Aerion bickers.
“You should shut your mouth before I hurl you out that window” Maekar threatens.
“Dinner, dinner, please” Lord Ashford calls to his servants who rush to fill his command. Baelor closes his eyes at the embarrassment of the scene.
“Will the other princes, and lady Leia, not be joining us tonight?” Asford asks.
“No, my wife has had a terrible fall” Aerion declares. You shoot up from your seat as he finishes his sentence slowly, “Gods know where Valarr is, and my brothers have been missing since Montcastle- is there something wrong, Lady Y/n?”
You imagine your sister laid up in bed, bruising covering her entire body making it hard for her to breathe or move. Her left eye swollen shut and puffy. You picture her as you remembered her the morning after her wedding. You swore you would protect. It was the whole purpose of following her in her new marriage.
You remember Baelors words. Dont give him a reason. Could your sister survive another beating?
“I- I” you try to think of anything else apart from your rage, “i don’t feel well. I ask you that you excuse me”.
“Denied. Sit down”, Aerion dismisses.
“If she doesnt feel well”, Baelor begins but is interrupted.
“No. no” Aerion waves his dinner knife around, “She shan't disrespect our host like that. It’s shameful enough with the other four”.
You look to Baelor hoping he would back you up. But he nods his head and take the command to sit.
The servant goes to place the plate in front of you but Aerion waves it off.
“No point in giving her food if she will only throw it up in the halls”.
Baelor thinks to object but a quiet and purposeful breakfast in his chamber tomorrow changes his mind.
“Ironic” Aerion comments, “is this the same wheat that saved Westros?”
You turn your head from him as he shows you his fork.
“Eat Aerion” Meaker orders, “No more useless talking”.
He takes your hand laying on your lap, moving it to his inner thigh where it is dropped and left laid over his leg.
“Lord Ashford, will your daughters be attending the tournament on the morrow?”, Baelor ask politely.
Aerion shifts your hand higher to his crouch, leaving it in a position where his appendix would brush against your hand should he innocently shift.
“Yes, your Grace, they are of age now”, Ashford confirms, “They are eager to see your son ride”.
“They will be very disappointed in deed when he is knocked off in the first lance”, Aerion states between bites.
The table ignores him, continuing soft conversation to ease the tension.
Aerion rocks his hips against your hand. His own hand cementing on top of yours to keep it where he wanted it. He was careful in his action, ensuring to draw no unnecessary attention.
You think of your sister and the harm he can do to her so remain placid in your chair.
You feel Baelor's eyes upon you and wonder if he knows what is going on. If he does he plays it calmly and doesn’t call out Aerion for his immoral behaviour.
“Lady y/n” he calls. Aerion stops his grinding as Baelor calls you.
“You look ill, shall I escort you back to your chamber?” He offers.
Aerion releases your hand expecting only one answer.
“Yes, my lord” you answer, “thank you”.
You rise as he does, walking quickly to the dining room hall.
Baelor puts his hand on your lower back as he escorts you to your chamber.
“You did well. Better than could be expected given the circumstances” Baelor praised.
“Do you think he will go back to the room?” You ask in a fearful voice.
“Not until the mastor is done. I will ensure it”, he consoles.
“Thank you, your grace”.
You reach for the handle of your door as Baelor lingers behind. You eye the key in his hand, gathered during your bath.
“It will keep him out as much as you in” Baelor offers.
“Nothing will keep him out. You should save the skin of a servant and just give him the key” you speak too forward to a prince.
To top matter off you slam the door in his face before he excuses you.
You hear the lock and the foot steps down the hall so you knew you were safe from reproach.
—————————-
You lie in bed thinking upon the days of your girl hood where you would sneak out to your town to visit your friends and be among your people.
The days where you did what you wished and didn’t have to cater to a prince's mood. The worst day of your life was when your sister married that monster.
You had begged your father to call it off but no one breaks their promise to house Targaryen.
As soon as Aerion stepped foot over your threshold you clashed with him. He would follow you on nights out until you were forced to stop going for fear his temper would end up killing one of your towns people.
He didn’t like you were so common. Peasants being friendly with you threw him into a rage. He followed you like a plague.
You couldn’t beat him a fight, nor did you out rank him but you weren’t afraid to call out his behaviour and taunt him as he did others.
He hit back but it didn’t bother you. Only when he turned his attention to your sister did you begin to quite. This he noticed and announced he would accept Leila’s hand and join the two households.
You begged your father to call it off. Your face carried evidence that he would not be a good husband to your sister. Your father was putting her in danger. She would surely die under him.
The wedding occurred anyway.
The whole Targanyan clan was there. Baelor attempted kind conversation but you only answered “yes my lord” to everything.
You stuck by your sisters side the entire night. Never more than centimetres apart. Aerion would sometimes rip your sister from your side and carry her across the room, enjoying watching you chase after them like it was a game, until Baelor commanded it to stop.
When the celebration was finally over and your sister was taking to the shared chamber unwilling, you took to yours crying into your pillow.
A soft knock at the door interrupted you and you ran to it, sure it was her. With puffy red eyes you yanked the door open to discover Aerion still in his wedding attire.
He held a dagger up to your throat, using it to push you back into the room and on the bed.
“Funny when I held this same knife against your sisters throat I got a different reaction” he comments, straddling you on the bed.
“Is she-?” You panic.
“Left crying in bed. Not much of a wedding night” he said. His hand loosened the front of your nightgown. You let out a breath of relief knowing at least you could spare your sister this.
“You’ll come back to redkeep with us tomorrow” he told you.
“Yes” you agree. The blade pressed harsher against your skin as he tore the clothes from your body and his lips met every inch of your body.
He stayed in your bed the night. You left him there the next day, racing to your sister to let her know that you would not leave her to fend for herself that you would protect her in her new home. The words are replaced with a scream when you saw her state. The state you were sure she was in again now.
This time he doesn’t knock. He got the key, as you knew he would and let himself right in.
You don’t move from the bed as he draws near, sliding under the blanket and drawing close to your back.
His arm around your waist closes the gap between your bodies before it goes up to your breast where he squeezes harshly.
A kiss is placed on your shoulder, and then again going up to your neck to your ear where he bites down.
“You’ve been conspiring with my uncle again” he said with the lobe of your ear in his mouth. You try to pull it away, changing to a weak head butt when that proves too painful.
He releases it of his own accord so he could talk clearly into it.
“I debated for weeks whether I should force your father to give me your hand or marry your sister to spite you”, he rolls you flat on your back, “I see now I have made the right decision. So placid and pleasing when it’s your sisters skin on the line”.
He drags his finger down from your chin between his breasts where he circles your nipple over your nightdress.
“I think my hand would have fallen off with the amount of times I would have been forced to use it to correct you. You need a strong hand, don’t you?” He pinches at your nipple before it goes to your chin, yanking it up to an uncomfortable position while he pulls off your dress.
“Is that way you respond to Baelor? Letting him dress you like a doll?”
You try to deny it in an effort to stop his jealousy that he was sure to take out on you.
“No, no, he only pity’s me”, you squeak.
“Oh fuck off” Aerion snaps, “he’s moved the whole family to kinglanding so he can feast his prying little eyes on you and you know he has”.
The dress rips in his hand as he yanks to get it off.
“I don’t mind”, he reaches down to his own cock pulling it from his pants and lining it up with your entrance. He shoves himself in and fucks you at a harsh pace.
“He’s probably fucking his royal fist right now while I am in the cunt he is dreaming of” he chuckles a low satisfied laugh, bracing his hand on the side of your pillow to sustain his body weight.
The family had a tradition of spending three months of the year together. Aerion brought your sister which meant you followed along. It was during these three months that you grew to know Baelor as more than the heir to the iron throne. He protected you and your sister when he could from Aerion outbursts. You had come to know you could depend on him for protection and for the first time in months you had someone who you could talk to outside of your sister. The company was needed and you found him to be an intelligent and insightful man. Aerion was jealous but could make no open move against his uncle. You used this against him, perhaps showing him more interest and affection then would be permitted.
Baelor in turn grew accustomed to you. He called upon you every day at some point. You used it to separate your sister from Aerion and would make efforts to sit quietly with your sister while Baelor competed his duties. If he enjoyed the company and you made efforts not to disturb him then you saw no reason why the haven couldn’t continue. You made yourself as useful as you could to him. If he dropped his pen you would race to pick it up, if he needed water you would bring the cup yourself without needing to be asked.
Aerion punished you for this loop hole by killing your horse and raping your sister nightly but for a few hours a day you could exist without feeling on edge.
It was all perfect until one day Baelor requested that only you come when he calls, to avoid disrupting the newly weds as they got to know each other.
To deny a request from a prince would be a crime worth hanging so you submitted to his daily summons, now with heightened anxiety. Aerion punished you for baelors interest but taking his frustrations out on your sister. When you joined her at night, she would detail how Aerion made her suffer that day.
Baelor grew too familiar. You began to notice similarities between him and Aerion that an untrained eye might miss.
The proximity was one. Aerion like to hold you kindly or not, when you were near even if he didn’t look or speak to you. Baelor needed you in constant eye sight. He moved your chair next to his which made the kingdom council awkward while lords spoke of important matters. When you got up to retrieve a drink of water his head would follow you until you had sat back down.
Control was another one. Baelor hid it better, but he exercised his reach over your life. Aerion was right, Baelor did move the families together under one roof under the guise of strengthening the bond between the families of his favourite brother. It was there you noticed that while everyone got to choose from the buffet in front of them, you were handed a preloaded plate without explanation. You didn’t rock the boat, Aerion was already on edge having to move. But soon his temper settled and you decided to ignore the plate reaching for your own food. Aerion would slap your hand away, placing the food in your hand rather then allowing you to touch it. It didn’t bother you as it should have at least it was your choice what you ate.
The same day Baelor called for you around lunch but refused to let you join the others to eat. He had too much work to do. He needed you to assist him so you did without complaint but with a grumbling belly. In the afternoon a servant arrived with a plate of food, placing it directly in front of Baelor who ate from it beside you. He continued with his work not once looking at you or offering you anything. You slump in your chair realising maybe he wasn’t as honorable as you liked to imagine. Dinner was a pre-portioned plate. Too small to fill you from your day of hunger but you didn’t dare reach for the food in the middle. Even when Aerion placed a chicken leg on your plate, you left it under Baelor's watchful stare.
If Aerion didn’t like what you were wearing he would tell you straight to your face. If he was in a worse mood, he might rip the bodice so you would change. Baelor would eye it all day, until he had the moment to spill a glass of wine or step upon its hem to rib the fabric. He would be apologetic, acting as if it was an accident. Aerion would not like the color or shape. Baelor would not like tightness or teasing nature. Between them your wardrobe was limited.
You think about running with your sister often but you rather wouldn’t allow Elina through the doors as a married women and no where else would harbor the wife of Aerion Targaryen, not even for all the gold in the world.
So you were stuck with your sister in this hell until Aerion was finally killed and you could escape with her into the night.
He grunts as he comes, you wonder if Baelor did too.
Aerion reaches for the headboard, gripping the wood as he fucks you through his own orgasm.
His head rests on your collarbone as he regains his breath.
He rolls off you with a satisfied groan, nestling into your bed to sleep.
“My sister” you begin, earning an annoyed groan from him.
“Ask me about her again and I will undo all of the mastors work from this afternoon”.
“When can I see her?” You push.
Aerion sighs, drawing you to his chest as he thinks.
“If you behave tomorrow at breakfast, you can see her after”
His breathing evens and hold loosens in sleep. You make sure he is asleep before you dare to get up and clean yourself.
The next morning you are woken by a servant early. You draw the sheet closer to you in surprise. The servant puts their finger to their lips, their eyes pointing to the sleeping Aerion beside you. They had a dress over their right hand which they motioned for you to dress in.
You follow their silent command and quickly put it on without making a sound.The draw creeks ad you open but Areion remains peaceful in sleep. You down your elixir to destroy his seed inside of you, cringing at its bitter taste. You follow the servant to Baelors room where food covers his study desk.
“Good morning” he greets. He was dressed in his clothes already and seemingly awake while you felt your eyes burn. Did he normally get up this early?
“My lord” you returned, “you summoned me?”
He gestures to the food in offering, “I thought you might be hungry”.
Although your tummy did ache, with Aerion plans this morning you decide it is better to remain hungry until he feeds you.
“That’s very kind of you, your grace, but I will wait for the others”.
He was sure to punish you for this at some point during the day. You saw the disappointment look in his face before he could replace it with indifference. But the only thing that mattered was getting to your sister today. He would never keep you from that.
“At least have some tea with me while we wait for the others to wake” he gestures again to the chair which you take under his request.
He follows with a spare chair, placing it close so your knees are almost touching.
He dislikes tea. You never see him drink it but he reaches for the pot on the table.
“Your Grace, allow me” you offer reaching for the pot.
“Please” he breathes a laugh under his breath, “I offered it to you. I will pour”.
You are surprised when he mixes it to your taste. He always had an eye for small details.
The second pot on the table only contained hot water which he poured into his own cup.
“Thank you, my lord” you reach for your cup only after he reaches for his.
You sit quietly for a moment. The sun shines brightly into the open window surrounding you with light.
You feel him looking at you. His piercing gaze directed at nothing but you as you drank tea.
You refused to look at him. Instead focusing on the empty plate in front of you.
Baelor places his cup down and reaches out to your ear. He is gentle in touch, barely grazing the wound left behind.
“I admire your dedication to your sister.” The hand that you strain from, lowers to your lap. His fingers grip your knee, his thumb rubs back and forth across your rob.
“I hope my children would do the same,” he comments.
“You would never sell your child off to save your own skin”, you seeth.
“No”, Baelor admits, “I wouldn’t”
“He doesn’t even write” you state.
Baelor clenches his fists as if he had one of your fathers letters in his palm.
“Or maybe he does”. Baelor's eyes strike you but his face remains neutral, not admitting to anything.
“Areion perhaps eats them”, you mock.
Baelor’s eyes shut and he quickly nods his head, “Perhaps”, he agrees.
“I should go”, you acknowledge, “Before he wakes”.
You place your tea cup down and rise. Baelor remains sat, your first indication he is not pleased.
“I will speak to him about sleeping in his wife's bed rather than yours”, Baelor promised.
“Please don’t” you beg.
His eyes leave his cup, looking at you in a confused almost mad stare.
“Whatever pain I can take from my sister, I will”, you declare.
“She needs to produce an heir”, Baelor tells you in a soft voice, “That is her duty, not yours”.
The thought made you sick, but it was sobering to realise the full extent of the situation.
You nod solemnly.
“May I be excused?” you ask in a soft voice.
He nods, extending his hand to the door.
You leave quietly, moving to your sisters door to find it locked. You call for her, letting her know that you will see her after breakfast but receive no response.
You go back to your room, disheartened. Aerion was still asleep, a blessing.
Some days when you looked at him you really did see a dragon. Eyes so dark there were almost black, shoulders so broad they could have been wings. Other times like now he looked like a young man. A soft prince who needed to be pampered and cared for or else he would crumble. The Targaryens were not usual royal blood. A darkness ran through their blood. The blood of the dragon.
You pay him no more mind. He would not torment you while he slept. You would not allow that.
You sit at the dresser and begin to apply your makeup. Enjoying the peace of the early sun and quiet of the house.
It didn’t last long before Aerion began to stir. Reaching out beside him only to find you not there. His brows furrow but as he lifts his head from his pillow, he sees you and they relaxes his demeanour.
He falls back into the soft pillows, watching you as you fixed your face.
“There you are” Aerion states in a sleepy voice, “thought you’d run off again”.
“They will call breakfast soon. You should get up and get dressed. Your father will be cross otherwise”, you reply.
“Father will be cross regardless. Why should I dance to his tune?”.
“Becuase he is prince of the realm” you answer, “Fourth in line to the throne, and terrifying”
“Terrifying?” Aerion puzzles. He rises from the bed, you watch him from the mirror, not bothering to dress himself as he bends down behind you to talk gently into your ear.
“More terrifying than me?” he asks. His hand gently swipes across your shoulders, collecting your hair and throwing it over your right shoulder.
“Who said you were terrifying?” you deflect.
His lips tighten in a smug manner before puckering into a kiss on your bare shoulder.
“More terrifying than Baelor?” he asks further.
Your eyes lower from his in the mirror as you focus on your makeup.
“Baelor has never done anything to me. You and your father have hit me” you remind him, “He has given me no reason to fear him”.
Another kiss is placed on your shoulder than a smaller one on the bottom of your neck.
“I know” Aerion submits, “I do wonder through what he would do to you if his honor didn’t prohibit him”.
His large hands go to your jaw, stilling you as he drags his lips across your skin.
“He hides behind his duty but he is no better than me. No less possessive, or mad. If he had his way with you, I wonder what would be left?”
Aerions eyes meet yours once more in the mirror, “I guess we’ll never know”.
He stands tall once more, using your shoulders as an aid to stand.
“Leave your hair down. I like it down. And don’t paint your face with ridiculous colours like your sister”.
“She paints her face to hide the bruises you give her”, you snap at him.
“Oh” he mocks like he didn’t already know. He picks up his pants from the floor and throws the rest of his clothes on as he speaks to you, “I should go your sister will be wondering where I am. I hate to worry her”.
He comes back over to place a kiss on your forehead before he leaves.
You do leave your hair down, but reach for the red lipstick.
When you enter the dining room you see Baelor talking to a servant who seemed too eager to please. His eyes seem cold as they land on you. You had upset him this morning, you could tell by the way he ignored you.
He greeted Ashford and his children, engaging in pleasant small talk while he actively avoided looking at you.
Aerion stood with his father in the corner. Another lecture so early in the morning. Aerions eyes still as you enter, focusing on the red lipstick. His lips twitch and you worry that you have pleased him rather than irritated.
Vallar was already at the table. Speaking to no one but noticing everything. His eyes flicked around the room, calculating something in his head.
A servant rang the bell indicating the food was ready so the nobles could take their seats.
Aerion pulls out the seat to his left as he sits which you gather is meant for you. You take it having nowhere else to sit that would be appropriate.
As you do, servants begin to plate the food in the middle of the table. Laying out rows of options. You look at it with wandering eyes. After last night you were very hungry.
Aerion dips his napkin into his cup of water, turning his attention to you, he holds the back of your head while he rubs the damp cloth against your lips. The turn of your head is met with a harsh tug of your hair. He throws the red stained napkin to the middle of the table where it is grabbed by a servant in exchange for food.
Aerion doesn’t wait until all of the food is served, picking food off plates before they are set down.
To your misfortune, you chose to show so decorum, no matter how hungry you were, and waited until the head of the house announced breakfast was served.
You almost jumped when a servant placed a dish in front of you. Fruit. 2 slices of watermelon, a bunch of grapes. Some blueberries. 1 hard boiled egg with toast. A few slices of seasoned pork.
Your eyes flick to Baelor. You catch him in a brief stare before he pretends to be engaged in what Ashford has to say.
Aerion grins smugly at you, picking a grape from your plate and chewing it with a boyish smile.
He found the attention flattering. Revealed in the fact that the great kings hand wanted what he had. You found it all too much, and wished for nothing more than to put your sister on your back and take off.
Aerion me hand found your leg under the table, gripping your thigh as he made his plate. You think about disregarding yours and making another but Baelor scared you more than you could justify.
“Shall we go out tonight?” Aerion asked you as you cracked open your egg.
Baelor ears perked up, you saw him lean closer to hear better.
“I have no interest” you state, dropping your toast into your egg.
Aerion scoffs, withdrawing his hand from you.
“You had interest plenty the other night. Perhaps you find common folk better company. Your small brain can comprehend their small topics” Aerion pressed, “do you know what comprehend means?”
“No, my lord” you mock.
As if she could sense your failings, Leia bursts through the doors. Her eye was swollen shut and red. Big dark bruises litter her body. Her hair was unkept and she was only in her chamber robe.
“Ledia!” You call.
You shoot up from your chair but Aerion is faster. Walking over to her in long quick strides.
“My darling wife!” He addresses, pulling her into his arms and planting a deep kiss on her lips.
“Take her back up” Mekar demands.
“It’s family breakfast. My wife is more family than Y/n is”.
“We have no need for such displays” Baelor demands with authority.
“I’ll take her back up” you challenge.
“You’re hurting her” Vallar spits, uneasing in his seat as if he could do something.
“Oh am I?” He coons to your sister, tucking a stray piece of hair behind her ear.
“Let me take her up”, you ask.
“Nonsense, she came for breakfast so let’s eat” Aerion demanded. With a hold on her hand, he forced her forward back to his seat.
“You” she states in a broken voice, “I was looking for you”
“I am here” you promise her. Lowering yourself back to your seat as Aerion pulls her into his lap.
“You are toeing a thin line boy” maekar warns.
“You told me to be kinder to my poor wife”.
“I am not sure this would constitute as kind” Baelor addressed.
“What do you think?” Aerion turns to you. You see how your sister shivers as his hand runs up her arm.
“You are very kind, my prince. My sister and I are grateful for the kindness bestowed upon us by house Targaryen”.
He grins at you once more before flicking to your sister.
“Wife?” He asks.
“Yes” she shakes, “very kind”.
“There” Aerion exclaims, “no more talk of this nonsense”. He plucks some cheese off the display and pops it in his mouth as he speaks.
“I’ll show you fucking nonsense” Maker threatens.
He goes to get up but his brother stops him.
“Let us not make a scene at a table that is not our own” he demands.
“But father” valarr pipes up.
“We are guests in this house for a short period of time. Let us not disgrace ourselves any further. Lord Ashford, you must think us Neanderthals”.
“No, your grace” the lord refutes uncomfortably, “it is an honour for you to sit at our table. We wouldn’t have it any other way”.
“See?” Aerion pestered.
He picks up another cube of cheese bringing it up to your sisters lips.
“I don’t want it” she says in a soft, low voice.
“Eat it” he demands harshly. Her lips part slightly so he can slide it through.
Your hand goes to your knife, ready to wield it at any given second.
“We were just discussing exploring the town tonight” Aerion says to your sister, the corner of his eye nips at you, “Your sister is not interested. What about you? Would you like to come out with your husband”.
“She cannot possibly”, you speak for her, “she is too ill”.
“I was speaking to my wife”, Aerion snaps.
“No, no” your sister re-enforces in a soft voice.
“No? Am I a beast? Do I bore you?” Aerion gasps.
“You have your joust today” Meaker speaks up, “focus on that”.
Aerion groans like a child, “another silly knight I have to unhorse. Honestly” he states, taking another cube of cheese and placing it in his mouth, “I dont know what the point is any more”
“Maybe he will unhorse you” Valarr provoked. His father called his name in a low warning which had Valarr sinking back into his seat.
Being challenged upset Aerion whos face became stone as he glared across the table.
“Any time you wish to joust against me, cousin I would be more than willing to oblige”.
“Aerion” Maekar growls.
“Oh, the boys are just excited about the tourney” Asford foolishly begins to talk, “A little friendly fire”
Maekar scoffs openly at the lord. Baelor remains reserved behind a tight smile.
You see an opportunity to free yourself and your sister for the afternoon. While Aerion was jousting, and the princes front and center of the tourney, no one would be around to tell you what to do. You could escape back into town and enjoy the festivities. It would surely put your sister in a brighter mood.
“Any news on your boys, Prince Maekar?”, Lord Ashford asks.
“Hmp” Maekar returns, “I have half the king's guard searching for them now. Useless fucking bunch”.
“They will turn up” Baelor promises.
Your sister suddenly squeals, jumping up from Aerion's lap. You mirror her, jumping to your feet with your knife in your hand.
‘Leave her”, you demand as Aerion rises to chase her.
He looked unbothered at your threat, almost bored.His tongue pokes against his lips and he makes no attempt to disarm you.
Maekar seemed more impacted from the scene, slamming his chair back to the ground as he pushed himself out of his chair.
“You dare point a knife at my son?” Maekar demands.
Aerion looks at you in a disbelieving manner, as if it was a child with a wooden sword playing pretend.
“Do you know how to use that?” Aerion scoffs. He goes to take a step forward, ignoring you.
“Aerion, I am serious don’t”, you threaten.
“You’re as harmless as a flower” Aerion mocks.
You do not realise that Baelor was behind you until you swung your arm back to take a lunge. Your wrist is caught and the knife is swiped from your hand, thrown back to the table. You struggle in his hold still trying to get to your sister as Aerion stalks towards her.
As he catches her between his arms, Baelor catches you.
“You are so pretty” Aerion coons, kissing your struggling sister in his arms.
“Get off her”, you demand.
You think Maekar will tear the two apart but he crosses past them over to you in Baelors hold.
His hit is much stronger than that of his sons. The sting of his signet ring indenting your face.
“Maekar”, his older brother scolds.
“You point a weapon at my son again little girl and you will lose the offending hand” Marker threatens you.
“She meant no harm,” Baelor defends.
“Yes, I did”, you spit.
“Y/n, do not speak” Baelor demands.
“Yes she did!” Aerion agrees, holding your sister up by her arms, “She beats me all the time”.
“Quiet, Boy” Maekar orders.
Another squeal from Leia broke out into the room. You saw now the blood that soaked the back of her robe. He had dug his knife into her skin to elicit a response that would break your heart.
You scream at Aerion once more, bucking in Baelors hold.
“Enough, enough” Baelor whispers in your ear.
Already weakened, Ledia began to sob in loud, painful cries.
Vlarr rises at the sound, looking to his father to give the command to interfere. It is not given, rather an order to re-take his seat.
“Hush now, beloved” Aerion consoled your sister, “I cannot possibly continue breakfast, I must attend to my wife”.
“Areion dont”, you beg, “Please, I am sorry. Please-please-it wont happen again”.
In bucking against Baelor, you brush against his hips slightly before he can pull away. He was hard at your begging. Like Aerion he enjoyed it too.
Areion shakes his head, “No, I must fulfill my duty”.
“Go boy” Maekar shouts at him, “take her up the stairs. Out of my sight”.
“Let me go with her. Please she needs me”, you beg all three.
Your sister calls your name as if it didnt occur to her that you weren’t coming.
“No” Aerion insists, “this matter is between a husband and wife. Which you are neither”.
He shoves her towards the door, still eyeing you in Baelors hold. He was sure to punish your sister for this.
“No,no, please let me go- Aerion!” you scream.
“Your behaviour this trip has been unsatisfactory” Maekar digs “Reflecting poorly on our house”.
“I am sorry, my prince. It will improve. Only please stop him”.
“You shall not see your sister for the remainder of the trip. I will not have your bad habits rub off on my wife” Aerion calls as he pushes leia through the doors.
“If I cannot see my sister I will leave!” you shout after him.
Maekar's next hit was more unexpected, knocking you from Baelors loosening hold and onto the floor.
“Never speak of leaving again” Maekar tells you. Baelor makes no effort to help you in solidarity with his brother.
“I am a free woman,my lord,” you remind him.
“You are a servant to the crown” he spits, “while you have use to this household, you will stay in this household until otherwise directed. If I can keep one of my sons in line, you will not meddle with that”.
“I will tell my father”, you announce.
“Tell him what you fucking like but do not aggravate me further” Meaker bristled.
“Ser Pearson” Baelor called with a flick of his hand, "accompany Lady Y/n off the floor to her chambers. I fear we have pushed Lord Ashfords hospitality to its limits”.
“Lord Baelor” you cry from the floor as the knight moves to collect you.
“Do not look to me to defend you” Baelor told you, “You were completely out of line.Wielding a knife against a prince?”
“Against my son” Maekar corrects.
You are picked up from the floor by the large knight and led out of the room. You hear Valarr attempt to defend you but the Princes would hear no more.
No more food was brought to you the rest of the day. You were starving and so thirsty. You weren't sure which was worse.
You worried for your sister. It was worse not knowing what was happening to her. If it was up to you, you would sew your dresses together, and never part. But Prince Aerion used her as a weapon against you. Letting your mind wander to scary places.
With nothing to distract you, you laid in bed the whole day thinking about how he would hurt her for your disobedience.
When the door opened you expected Aerion or Baelor, not Maekar to enter.
It almost shocked you when his cool blue eyes settled on you, not leaving you as you rose from the bed to greet him. He lingered in front of the door with a plate of food in his hand as if he was waiting for an invite.
“My lord”, you address him in question.
He raises the plate of food in his hand, placing it on your vanity to his right.
“You should know it wasn’t me who requested nothing be brought to you”, Maekar states.
Aerion , you think, no doubt.
“I didn’t think so, my lord”, you offered.
Maekar looked awkward in your chambers, glancing everywhere but at you.
“I know what my son is. What he is capable of”, he begins in a low voice, “I understand that he has not been partially kind to you or your sister. But you need to understand I have seen him a lot worse. You calm him”.
Your hands rub along the bruises littered upon your arms from his touch.
“It doesn’t feel as if I calm him”, you admit.
“You wielded a knife against him. Do you think this is just punishment?” Maekar accuses.
“He made my sister bleed. Tortures her for his own amusement”, you shoot back.
The older man nods. His eyes again found their way around the room, before landing squarely on you.
“I don’t agree with his treatment of his wife, but you are much to blame for her torture”.
Your heart shatters as he says it. Your darling sister in pain because of you? You couldn’t hear it.
Seeing your inner thought run across your face, he clarifies his accusation.
“Last spring when you fell ill back at Summerhall, how many times do you think he struck her?”, Marker asks you.
“I don’t know I was in bed and he wouldn’t let me see her”, you defend.
“Not once”, he answered, “You were as meek as a lamb- he had no reason to”.
“I was ill”, you reiterated.
“You were behaved”.
You think back. You were too Ill to fight him on anything. Too sick to say anything but please and thank you. But no, it wasn’t enough. Aerion liked the fight. It is why he chose you over your sister. He wanted to break your spirit.
Your head shakes of its own accord.
“Yes” Maekar fought, “You think he cut his own wife at the breakfast table for show? I saw you arguing with him”.
“So I should just submit then? Let him do whatever he pleases?”.
“He is a prince”.
“And I am human. My sister is a human, not a toy he can bash and abuse to get back at me”.
“Aerion is blood of the dragon. You and your sister are from a house that will blow away with the fucking dust. You are nothing. For your sisters sake fucking act like it”, Maekar threatens.
You picture Aerion as Maekar storms away, slamming the door behind him. The same madness ran through all of them. You couldn’t trust any one of them to save you.
Maekar locks the door again, leaving you with thoughts of your sister and the guilt that her misfortune is all your fault.
You don't eat. Even as the day turns pitch black. You have no stomach for anything but your own misery.
When the door opens again late into night fall, you don’t know who to expect. You were almost glad when you saw Aerions signature red. At least you knew what to expect from him. With the older princes you never knew if they were your friends or your enemies. Aerions at least was always foe.
As he stepped into the light of the room, you saw his large gash on his lip and murder in his eyes.
“What happened”, you asked him, rising from the bed to get a better look.
“Some fucking hedge knight”, Aerion spits.
No. It couldn’t be. There were other hedge knights. You were sure. It couldn’t be him. The odds were too small. It was only your sick fantasy.
“What hedge knight?”, you inquire.
He ignores you for a moment, going to sit at your vanity to assess the damage to his face. He looks at you angrily in the mirror's reflection before answering.
“What does it fucking matter?” he asks you, “He’ll be dead by morning”.
To curry favour, you kneel down beside him, pressing your face against his arm as he wipes the blood from his lip away.
“Was this man big? Tall? He would have to be in order to top you?”
“He didn’t top me” Aerion protests.
“No, I mean. He had to get through your knights and do that to your face. He must have been a large man”.
You wondered what could have spurred your gentle knight to this. What was Aerion doing? Something terrible no doubt and now Duncan was to die for it.
“He was a fucking giant” Aerion answers.
With your fear confirmed, you knew your giant was in grave danger and you had to save him. No court would rule against a prince. Even Baelor couldn’t stop Aerion getting justice for his face. Your giant while large was no match for Aerions training and skill. Would someone else fight for him? Take his place against Aerion? Could you?
“What do you plan to do to him?” you gauge.
“I am going to knock out all of his teeth, and then flay him for all to see”.
“The court will allow that?”.
“The court will allow what I tell them too”, Aerion snapped, throwing his handkerchief down.
“What about a trial of seven?”. You remembered it from one of Baelors books. A way out surely. Ducan could find good men to fight alongside him. He was good. People would rise up.
“A trial of what?”, he spat.
“Of seven”, you repeat, “seven knights against seven knights. A way to honor the Gods. It was thought that the Gods being so honored would ensure the right party won”, your hand reaches up to the back of his neck, playing with the ends of his hair, “You could show everybody that the Gods are on your side”.
His eyebrows raised in rejection but you could see on his face that the idea intrigued him.
“Aerion Brightflame, winner of the first trial of seven in nearly a thousand years. Now that would be a name day event”.
“You hate violence" he reminds you.
“I do” you agree, “But this isn’t violence. It’s justice”.
Your spare hand goes to his lip, gently running your finger across the cut. He looks at you as if you were mad, grabbing your offending wrist in a painful hold.
“Go lie on the bed”, he commands you.
You rise from your knees quickly to follow order, and he rises to follow you.
#SYNOPSIS. Ser Duncan discovers something lurking beneath a quiet lake, expecting a large water beast — he instead finds himself strangely enamored with an odd, merling creature
#CHARACTERS. Ser Duncan The Tall, Aegon Targaryen
#WARNING(S). Dark romance
The lake had no name on any map Dunk had ever seen, and he had seen precious few maps in his life. It was simply there, nestled between two low hills like a secret the land had been keeping to itself, the surface so still it looked like hammered tin in the fading afternoon light.
Egg had spotted it from the road and declared they were stopping, which Dunk could not rightly argue against given that the boy had mud caked into his hair from a fall three days prior that neither of them had fully managed to wash out. So the horses were tied to a low branch, Egg was told to sit and stay, and Dunk waded in alone.
The cold hit him at the knees first and he nearly turned back, but the heat of the day had settled deep into his skin the way it did after long hours on the road — sitting in it, sweating through it, wearing it like a second gambeson — and the cold was a relief against that, sharp and clean and good in the way that simple things were good.
He went deeper. It crept up his thighs, his stomach, his chest, and he exhaled long and slow as it swallowed the heat whole, the ache in his shoulders loosening by degrees, the dust and sweat of three weeks on the road lifting off him like something he had not realized he was still carrying.
He stood there chest deep with his eyes closed and his head tipped back and the last of the sun warm on his face, the rest of him cold and grateful for it. It was the closest thing to peace he had felt in some time. He might have stayed like that a good while longer, if not for the sound that did not belong to any bird he had ever known.
He turned his head by degrees, water shifting around his chest with the movement, and scanned the far bank where the light was thinner and the reeds grew tall and tangled at the water's edge. Nothing. Just the stillness of the lake and the distant sound of Egg sulking on the bank behind him, kicking his heels against a tree root the way the boy did when he had been told to stay put and disagreed with the instruction.
His brow creased. He looked down at the water and saw nothing but his own submerged hands. The ripples spread outward from where he stood, each one breaking against his chest like a whisper. Then — a glint. Silver beneath the surface, quick as a blade caught in sunlight, darting just fast enough to leave the water smooth and undisturbed behind it. He leaned forward slightly, squinting.
It was pale and luminous, catching what little light filtered down through the water and giving it back tenfold, the way he imagined pearls did, though he had never been close enough to one to know for certain.
He had heard of pearls. Ser Arlan had described them once — small and perfectly round and worth more than a hedge knight would see in a lifetime of riding — but Dunk had never been close enough to a wealthy enough person to know if the description was true.
He reached down anyway, slow and careful, fingers closing around something small and smooth against the lake bed. He brought it up. Held it in his palm. It was no bigger than his thumbnail, sitting in the cup of his big scarred hand like it had no business being there, which it didn't. He turned it in the light. It gleamed the way expensive things gleamed — bewitching
How could something so small be so costly? He could not understand why they cost what they did. It was small enough to lose between the floorboards. Small enough to swallow by accident. And yet Ser Arlan had once told him a single pearl could buy a decent horse, and Dunk had filed that information away in the part of his mind reserved for things that were true and also deeply unfair.
Pretty, he thought, in the simple honest way he thought most things. Just a pretty little thing.
He was still turning it over in his palm, watching it catch the last of the light, when the water in front of him moved. He looked up.
A pair of eyes watched him from just above the surface. Big eyes and very still, the way deep water was still, unblinking and level with the waterline so that he could see nothing else — just eyes, and above them a crown of silky shair spreading across the surface like seafoam. They watched him with an expression he could not name and did not have time to try to name because his brain had already arrived at the relevant information.
A woman
There was a woman in front of him
The color left his face so fast he felt it go.
"I—" he started, and immediately spun around so his back was to her, which achieved very little given that he was chest deep in water and had nothing on his person that would help matters. His hands moved uselessly. He was a very large man and there was nowhere to put himself. "I didn't — I beg your pardon, my lady, I didn't know — I'm not — I wouldn't have—" He pressed a hand over his face, “ Seven hells. I'm sorry. I'm sorry, I'm — I'm an idiot, I'm thick as a stump, I didn't see you, I swear it on my honor, I didn't—"
He was still facing the opposite bank, one hand over his face, the pearl clutched in the other, the back of his neck burning red in a way that had nothing to do with the sun. He could hear the water moving behind him. Small sounds. Close.
"I'm sorry," he said again, to the reeds, “ I'm — I beg your pardon. Truly. I didn't know anyone was — I wouldn't have — I'm not—" He stopped. Tried again. "My name is Dunk—Ser Duncan the Tall. I'm a knight." He said it the way he always said it when he didn't know what else to say, like it was an answer to a question he hadn't quite heard. "I'm honorable. I want you to know that—“
He stood there with his hand over his face and the pearl biting into his palm and the water very quiet behind him and then — something touched the back of his shoulder. Two fingers. Light as anything. He went rigid from his heels to the base of his skull.
He turned around.
She was right there, close enough that he took a short involuntary step back and found the lake bed uneven under his foot and lurched, arms out, and very nearly went under entirely. He found his footing. Barely. He straightened up to his full height with as much dignity as the situation allowed, which was not a great deal, and looked at her face and kept his eyes there and did not look anywhere else because he was Ser Duncan the Tall and he was honorable and Ser Arlan had not raised a fool—
The first thing Dunk registered was how small she was. She barely came up to his chest—no, not his chest, because he was standing in water up to his chest, and she was—oh gods, she was there, entirely unclothed, the water lapping just below the gentle swell of her breasts, the pale curves of them catching the last amber light of the setting sun. Droplets clung to her skin, sliding slow and lazy down the slope of one nipple, dark pink and peaked from the chill of the water. His throat clicked when he swallowed.
She tilted her head, watching him watch her, her smile curling wider at the corners of her mouth. That was when he saw them—sharp little points of white just barely pressing into her lower lip.
Ser Arlan had raised a fool.
He looked at her face. Just her face. He was looking at her face.
He became aware that his mouth was open again.
He closed it.
Heat rose up his neck in a slow, merciless climb, flooding beneath his skin until even his ears burned. It felt near as scalding as the forge fires he had once stood too close to as a squire — only there was no stepping back from this. The flush spread across his cheeks, dark and unmistakable against wind-roughened skin that had known sun and steel but not this.
His mouth had gone dry.
Gods, it was dry.
He swallowed and found nothing there but the thick scrape of his own throat, as though the lake had stolen every drop of moisture from him and left him standing stupid and parched in the shallows. His tongue felt too large, clumsy against his teeth.
His eyes — traitors that they were — had gone wide as a boy’s.
Dunk tried very hard to remember how men behaved around maidens. Proper maidens. Maidens who wore pretty dresses and had pretty things and did not bathe naked in lakes.
He was fairly certain it involved being proper—
Not staring as though he had been struck over the head with a mace.
His heart had begun beating in a heavy, uneven rhythm against his ribs, each thud loud in his own ears. He attempted to square his shoulders — a knight’s posture, steady and respectable — but the water lapped treacherously at his chest, reminding him in no uncertain terms that he was bare as the day he was born.
Seven hells
A maiden — even a bold one — would have shrieked by now. Thrown her hands over herself. Splashed backward in outrage. Called down curses or brothers or both.
He did not know whether he ought to be grateful she was not screaming and summoning half the countryside — or deeply troubled that she was not.
Gods
She was beautiful
The fairest maiden he had ever laid eyes on. And Dunk had seen pretty women in his travels — at fairs, at inns, in castle yards bright with banners and silk. He had thought some of them lovely in their way.
None of them could compare to her.
No candle could match that sort of light.
Dunk had never been a man much sought after by the gentler sex. For all his efforts to speak softly and move carefully, he was still enormous — broad as a door, scarred, looming without meaning to. He knew he could be intimidating. No matter how small he tried to make himself, how mindful of his size, few maidens ever approached him.
He had grown used to that.
But she did not look afraid.
She did not look as though he frightened her at all.
It was only then, in his gawking, that he noticed the rest of her. Pearls threaded through all that silver-white hair in long draping strings, dozens of them, pale and luminous and worth more than everything he owned twice over.
And something else — a veil of sorts, so fine he could see straight through it, the kind of fabric so delicate he didn't know what to call it or how it had been made, held together by tiny pearls knotted throughout like stars in a pale sky, floating on the surface of the water around her. And at the center of her forehead, hanging from a single thread, a teardrop pearl that rested between her brows.
He looked down at the single pearl sitting in his open palm.
It looked very small suddenly.
"Did you drop this?"
He held the pearl out toward her on his open palm and kept his eyes fixed somewhere around her forehead, at the little teardrop pearl hanging there, which was a safe place to look and did not require him to look at anything else. His arm was very straight. He was holding it out at full extension, as if the extra few inches of distance would help matters, which it did not.
"I found it," he said. "On the lake bed. I thought — I didn't know it was — I wasn't trying to take it." He could hear himself talking and could not seem to stop, "I'm not a thief. I want you to know that as well. Honorable, like I said. I'm — if it's yours you should have it back”
She looked at his outstretched hand
She looked at his face
He was doing his very best. He was keeping his eyes on her forehead and his arm straight and his face was still doing the burning thing regardless. He was not a man of the nobility. He could never be. He had grown up in the streets of Flea Bottom where nobody had the luxury of modesty and he had spent his years since on the road.
Sleeping under hedges and eating what he could find, and the sum total of his experience with women of any kind was limited to innkeepers' wives who called him love when they handed him his supper and serving girls who refilled his ale without looking at him.
She looked at his outstretched hand for a long moment.
Then she reached out and gently, with two fingers, folded his hand closed around the pearl.
Dunk stared at his own fist.
He looked up.
She was smiling again. That small sharp smile with the points of her teeth just barely visible and her eyes bright and pleased and her head tilted.
His hand was still warm where her fingers had touched it. He stood there holding the pearl in a closed fist and trying to work out what to do next when he made the mistake of opening his hand again.
"I really think it might be yours," he said earnestly, and held it out a second time.
The smile dropped.
It did not fade. It did not fall slowly the way smiles usually fell. It simply stopped, like a candle pinched out, and what replaced it was something else entirely. Her ears — he had not looked closely at her ears before, had been very deliberately not looking at anything closely — spread outward and fanned wide, long and fin-like, spreading like the sails of a ship catching a sudden wind.
Her lips pulled back. All the way back. And there were her teeth — not just the two small sharp points he had glimpsed before but a full row of them, jagged and irregular and overlapping slightly.
She was not smiling
She was very much not smiling
A sound came from her — though he couldn't believe such a sound could come from a lady — it was low, clicking and sharp, like a warning felt against his bones, and she had drawn herself up in the water in a way that made her seem larger than she was, her eyes gone dark and flat.
The droplets of water cascading down her skin where glittering scales were much more prominent now, catching the last of the light like armor, like something that had always been there beneath the surface of her skin waiting for exactly this moment to make itself known.
They ran along her collarbones, down her shoulders, trailing into the water where he could only imagine they continued, and they were beautiful and terrible in equal measure the way a drawn blade was beautiful and terrible.
affection & yearn for baelor, maekar, lyonel, and dunk please 💕
Uhhhh anonnn, I never thought I would write for dunk HAHAHAHHA but my sweet boy, I'm so sorry that I have been neglecting you... Also I hope im writing him right lmao Thank you for the ask nonny!!!🫶🏽💙💙 I'm writing too much istg if you are on pc and see this weird no you do not i do not know why it does that either and can't seem to adjust it i hate it here
⋆°｡⋆♡ TW/CW: DARK CONTENT, 18+ (MINORS/AGELESS/BLANK BLOGS DON’T INTERACT), Bad English, No use of Y/N, GN Reader (no body description or pronouns), Yandere/Dark Characters, Talk about Marriage (forced), Obsession, Toxic Relationship, Implied Stalking, Maekerlings be Maekerlings, Implied Murder???, Implied Kidnapping?, Implied so much that I don't even know, let me know if I need to add more TW/Tags ♡ My blog contains dark content, be careful when interacting/following! Please if you like my work don't forget to reblog/interact with me♡
°˖➴ Characters: Baelor, Maekar, Lyonel, Dunk
⤠ None ⤟ Masterlist & Event ⤠ Yan Alphabet D, H, N, O, W + Daeron, Aerion, Lyonel, Dunk ⤟
˚‧₊୨ᰔ୧₊‧˚ Affection: How do they show their love and affection? How intense would it get? ˚‧₊୨ᰔ୧₊‧˚
In Baelor case it's never clearly intense, it's all indirect, but you can sense it. He's the heir to the throne, he knows how his words not only have a meaning and weight a tone, so you can tell that he's holding back, especially in public. But still the way he says everything to is so intense you can feel it, his devotion and obsession runs deep, his hand is always touching you or near your body, the way he looks at you with nothing but love and adoration it would be enough to choke you. The way he is watching you even from afar? You feel like an actual dragon is staring at you, waiting for the right moment to strike, yet when you look back all you can see is devotion. On private? It's intense. Baelor is all over you; kissing, hugging, compliments, gifts, asking how everyone has been treating you. He will give you anything you ever ask, no matter how hard it is to find, but also a reminder that he is the heir. He will also send you letters full of poetry, if you two are too far or if he is simply busy that day, with flowers of course. And in those letters he doesn't hold back at all.
His brother, Maekar, is more a man of action, than words. That is not to say he won't say anything sweet, or remind you he loves you, but it comes like breathing for him, although it's still Maekar. So it's not as sweet as he wishes it to be. He is always near you, being either private or public, his hand on your hip or on your back, or maybe he is looking at you with his usual grumpy face, but when his glare is on you is softer. Needier. Desperate even. Maekar is still a Targaryen Prince so, much to his displeasure, he can't be always with you and be over affectionate (not that he is, or well... He is, in his own way) all the time, however, like his older brother, Maekar is going to watch you like a hawk everywhere you go, or have one of his children around you. His children all like you and are willingly to do anything to keep you closer, and to make their father happy. He will send you many many gifts, even if it's something you never talked to him or his children, just something that you remember saying to one of your friends or diary... But maybe you can't be sure...
Lyonel, on the other hand, doesn't really care. If people see him as obnoxious say it to his face then, but he ain't stopping anyway. He's all over you in any possible way, not caring about where or if there is someone in front of you. If you are around, and you definitely are since Lyonel cannot be without you for so long, all of his attention is on you. It's suffocating. He gives you plenty of gifts as well, a lot of them more about you being his, than actual stuff you wished for. Black and golden clothes with his sigil all over them, antlers inspired accessories... You felt like the living Baratheon symbol. But the way Lyonel looks at you; his eyes brighten up, the biggest family on his face, the endless compliments he gives you... Maybe it's not so bad after all. Don't worry though, Lyonel will give you some nice gifts you want if you are being good enough! How can you be sure you are being good enough? You can't. Good luck!
Compared to the other lords here, Dunk cannot give you a lot. He doesn't have a lot for himself in the first place, but does that stop him? No. If he can find something you said you like, even if it was time ago, Dunk will bring it to you, a happy but unsure smile on his face as he watches your face waiting for your reaction. If you start wondering how he could have got something like that, and wait too long to thank him, Dunk will ask what's wrong, to not worry about anything, that nothing is wrong, and it's just a gift. If you react immediately and be happy about it, you can clearly see relief on his face and happiness as he hugs you tightly. Dunk will also be always around you either hugging you or keeping a hand on you, saying it's for safety and keep you closer, kissing your temple or kneeling down to kiss your cheek or lips, very possessively.
˚‧₊୨ᰔ୧₊‧˚ Yearn: How long do they pine after their darling before they snap? ˚‧₊୨ᰔ୧₊‧˚
Baelor, Maekar, and Lyonel are lords. Expect waiting on the proper time to not be considered too fast or too weird (Baelor, Maekar), they will snap pretty soon. Lyonel especially, since he hardly cares about the proper way. Dunk is a little anxious and somewhat scared. But talking more on the specific...
Baelor is keeping himself calm so that no gossip will start, but still the way he looks at you it's pretty clear to everyone that you stole the heir heart. Still he will wait and do it in the proper way to court you, as if he doesn't already have the marriage prepared already. As soon as he has you, everything goes quickly. Too quickly.
Maekar is stressed as always trying to do it in the right way, but I fear after like a couple of months his patience runs things and start doing everything quickly as possible. Courting, marriage, kids. Who cares at this point, he's tired and just wants to feel asleep with you in his arms.
You think Lyonel will snap immediately, eh? He does, but also kind of not. Because it does take him a while too completely be fine with it, like at first he's ignoring it. Expect that he gets drunk, he is all over you talking about pure nasty thoughts he has about you, maybe even brings you to his bed for the night. Then it hits him and next thing you know, you are married! And it's been... A week! Only a week???
Like I said before, Dunk is a little anxious and maaybe also scared. Mostly because he isn't used to whatever is going on with his heart. So he will maybe follow you around like a lost puppy, unsure what to say or do, getting redder every time you talk to him. It will take Dunk a while to get completely used to you and his feelings, but once he does... Oh if he's all over you. Startruck.
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