Hi!! I stumbled on your page and I love your writing for AKOTSK men sm🥹❤️🩹. I was wondering if you could do a fic where reader is the new lady in waiting to Queen Myriah (Baelor and Maekar’s mother). Reader is not naive but a schemer who kinda seduced Baelor into wanting to marry her but not by like giving herself to him or anything. Just simple, pure manipulation.
Thank you sm!!
Hi! Thank you so much for trusting me with this request and I hope you love it, but I've never written a scheming character so I don't know how well I did. I hope it's what you wanted, I tried my best!
You Never Tricked Me Into This
Baelor Targaryen x Dornish!fem!reader—in which she thinks she's tricking him into falling for her but really he's been playing the game longer than she.
TW: MDNI 18+. Wedding night sex, flirtations, some angst. (I think that's it!)
The first time it happened, you had not tried to have anything happen. You had not tried to draw the attention of Prince Baelor, in fact you hadn’t wanted to draw anyone’s attention. You had wanted to keep your head down and serve your queen as best you could, bringing the flavour of Dorne back to her. All you had wanted in that moment was a book from the library, just something to read, something to keep you busy, occupied while the queen did not need you.
All you had wanted was a book—you didn’t expect what would happen, but it wasn’t entirely unwanted.
***
The stacks rise from floor to ceiling, stained wood shelves lined with spines of leather, old and new, the scent of dust and papyrus and ink a balm to your soul as you walk deeper into the stone corridors, one hand trailing over the shelves, the other fisted in the skirt of your light purple dress—pastels insisted upon by Queen Myriah. She said she wanted you in colour, bright amidst the darkness of the life she lives and you were not one to argue.
You pause at the back of the room, light from the windows shining, reflecting on the swirling dust motes, the drift patterns lazy, swirling and beautiful, reminding of the way the sun shines on the windswept sands on the markets of your home. You can’t help the smile that threatens to grow as you remember Dorne, home. As you remember the life you left behind in Starfall, the life that was warm and bright and kind—nothing like the darkness that surrounds you now. Nothing like the black and deep red, the greys and shadows.
The silence heavy and suffocating. You miss the laughter and cheering and the joy, but at the same time, you love being here. You love being with Queen Myriah, someone who knows your world, where you’re from, the beauty but also the strain. Someone who understands the need for solitude, the need to get away.
To make your own life.
You shake your head, stopping before a shelf, pulling a book down, the cover a tanned and dyed blue leather, gold script spelling out a history of waterways, of the myths of water, something sacred and alive and everything. You look at the cover and smile, remembering the stories whispered of the sky, of the river that flows through the stars, the rivers of time, the story accompanied by twirling and dancing and laughing. That’s why you look around, moving the book to the crook of your arm, skirt lifting with one hand as you twirl, only once you believe yourself to be alone.
Dance was the thing you and your sisters valued, the thing that excited you. The act of dancing was everything because in it you did not have to be anyone but you. There were no masks, no games of pretend, no titles. You could flirt and tease and it was in the name of the dance, only the dance.
“May I cut in?” calls a deep voice, one that sends a shiver down your spine at the same time that shame and embarrassment warm your cheeks. You stop suddenly, stiffening and turning around, only to see the beauty of mismatched eyes and a sly smile.
Prince Baelor Targaryen—the Hand of the King.
“I am afraid not, Your Grace,” you answer, your gaze looking down at the floor, at the cracks in the stone, anywhere but those perfect mismatched eyes that set a flutter in your heart from the moment you first saw him on your arrival to the Red Keep. “My partner was this book and the dance has concluded. I must get back to my duties.”
You look up, gauging the distance between you and him, how easily it will be to get away when you notice the black spreading across his eyes, the way his pupils flare, gaze focused on you, only you.
And then you smile.
“Perhaps next time, my prince,” you remark, stepping towards him, steps slow and measured, “you can dance with me. As long as you can promise to be far more entertaining than the book.” And then you sweep from the room, the smell of jasmine lingering behind you and the eyes of the Hand lingering upon you, watching your retreat.
***
The second time it happened was not an accident. No, you had made it your mission to win Baelor’s affections, his love. But not at the cost of yourself. That was something you would never endanger, never risk, never forfeit for no marriage, no love was worth your honour. Honour was all one had, after all at the end of the day and you could not risk.
The second time it happened, you were prepared, awaiting him. Awaiting what you knew you could do, what you were good at.
What had caught his attention to begin with.
***
“I have been looking for you, my lady,” you hear Prince Baelor call, the sound of his voice sending a jolt down your spine as you turn slowly on your heel to face him, conscious of the brightness of your dress, the lower cut of the neckline and the necklace so chosen for the way the pendant falls, heavy, resting in the middle of your chest, eyes drawn down. Desire, you remembered your sisters saying, was the true way to a man’s marriage bed.
“Were you, Your Grace?” you ask, one hand resting on the shelf beside you, fingers trailing idle shapes upon the wood grain, your other hand swishing your skirt as if in a nervous habit but truly one designed to draw his eyes.
“I was,” he answers, stepping towards you, his tongue darting out to lick his lips, the motion causing you to swallow hard, swallowing down any soft words that would slip past from the affection you have for him. “I’m seeking my dance.”
“And can you promise to be more entertaining than any book upon these shelves?” you ask, eyebrows flicking up as you turn towards the shelves and the book spines.
“I can,” he says and you shrug, a gentle movement, meant to highlight the curve of your neck, the slope to your shoulders.
“Very well then,” you answer, offering your hand to him, which he accepts, pressing a soft, sweet kiss to it, one that sends a sharp stab of heat deep inside of you, one that has you stifling a gasp at the feeling of his lips upon your skin. And then you step forwards, your one hand resting upon his, the other resting between his shoulders, his hand resting on the side of your waist.
And now it is the game of flirtation that you know you quite well. The game of the dance.
“Do you often dance in libraries, my lady?” he asks you, eyes focused solely upon you, the intensity of his stare, the gleam reflecting back at you strange, desirous and strange.
“I find it best,” you answer, conscious of the way your pupils must be expanding, telling him of the desire his touch creates within you, “for it’s away from prying eyes. It’s private, quiet. Peaceful.”
“How do you like serving for my mother?” he asks and you stiffen in his grip, smiling once at him, fondness tainting the scheme at the memory of the old queen holding your hands and speaking of Dorne, of her family, of the sun.
Of the brightness. The thing you brought for her.
“I love it,” you breathe, your gaze drifting from him to the ground, to the floor, anywhere but on him. “She’s the kindest person I have ever met and the brightest. She carries the sun in her skin, the warmth in her voice. Serving her is like I’m still home.” He lets go of your hand, his grip coming to rest on your chin, turning to gently back to him, his eyes dropping to your lips, tracing the shape of them as if committing them to memory, his thumb idly rubbing a soothing pattern on your skin.
“She speaks the same of you,” he answers, his voice low and husky, almost breaking, the contact too much for him, the softness of your skin unlocking feelings he has not had in a long time. “She says she wishes you were her daughter, that you are like the one she was never blessed with.”
“She must tire of sons,” you retort, your attention once more focused on the game, on the prize to be won. “All that…masculinity. She must want to be reminded of the softer side of the world. The kinder.”
“And are you?” he asks you, pupils flaring out across his eyes, grip tightening upon your waist, fingers digging in not painful, but a reminder of his presence, his touch. “Softer? Kinder?”
“Perhaps,” you whisper, the word lingering between the two of you as you step back, placing distance between the two of you which he prevents from forming, stepping back, closer, as if needing to be close to you as you need to be him. “But only my future husband will ever know.”
And then you step around him, sweeping past, far too fast for him to catch your arm like he wants to. Far too fast for him to catch you and pull you to him, press his lips to yours and erase all thought of any other man.
Your future husband will be him, he decides watching you go, unaware of the smile on your face as you realize that you will have exactly what you wanted. ***
The third time happened when you were not free, but rather when you were serving in your duties, walking with Queen Myriah, speaking of Dorne and the beauty of your homeland. The beauty of the sand and the sun and the warmth.
The third time was accidental yet all too purposeful. You didn’t know it then, but Myriah had been playing her own game all along.
Because she knew of your scheme and that Baelor wanted to be yours.
And she wanted that too.
***
“How is your mother, dear?” Queen Myriah asks you, glancing over at you while you walk, the other ladies clustered around you, the garden not far from sight, the two of you needing the sun, the heat, the memories.
“She is doing well, Your Majesty,” you answer, smiling a small smile, looking down at your clasped hands, her last letter telling stories of the balls, of the plans they were creating for your nameday when you would travel home and be with the people like you, the ones with sun in their blood and sand in their skin. “She’s very eager for my nameday, plans abounding, Your Majesty.”
“She was always one for a spectacle,” Myriah says, her tone fond, smile fonder as she reaches for your clasped hand, taking it in hers and giving it a squeeze before letting go and gathering her skirts once more. “I much expect she’ll have a marriage on her mind for you as well. I should reach out to her about suitable matches for you.”
“Oh, Your Majesty, I think my marriage is the last thing on my mother’s mind. She still has three other daughters before me to marry off,” you reply, a faint blush colouring your cheeks as you step out onto the lawn of the Keep, the garden just up ahead.
“You’d be surprised how much your marriage has become a topic of conversation among people,” she remarks, pausing before a bench, waiting for one of the ladies to set her cushion upon the stone before settling down upon it, gesturing you to sit beside her.
“I do believe I most likely would, Your Majesty,” you answer and are rewarded with her smile as she watches the yard, watches her grandsons practice swords, granddaughters playing at proper court, her eyes assessing.
“I always wanted a daughter,” she says, tone thoughtful, attention slowly but surely turning upon you. “And I have had four daughters-in-law, four wonderful girls who were wonderful for my boys but not me. Not a one ever cared for me, they viewed me as a nuisance. Even Dyanna…although, she might just have been too tired after all those births. But still…two of my sons are in the marriage market again and I find that I want my next good daughter to be one who values me as well. Interesting, no?”
And the smile she gives you, the flick of her eyebrows up tells you that she knows of your game, your scheme. But more than that.
She approves.
***
The fourth time was at a ball, one where you found dancing and music. A dance thrown by Queen Myriah to celebrate your nameday before you set off for Dorne, for Starfall, for your family and whatever your mother had arranged to surprise you.
The fourth time was when the pieces were set. The game put in its final position. All the players were aimed at the same goal; they just weren’t set to achieve it the same way.
And that was always trouble.
***
“I thank you for the dance, my lady,” a lord says, a smile gracing his face as he bows, stepping back from you, bowing once before turning and walking away, leaving you with a smile. The dance was wonderful, the lord skilled at the footwork, his touch light and gentle, never demanding or trying to drop lower, touch what he had no right to touch. This lord was respectful.
Kind even and it made you smile.
“Are you trying to drive me mad, my lady?” You hear Baelor behind you, his voice quiet and composed but a thread of pain, of uncertainty runs underneath.
“No, Your Grace. I am not. I simply enjoy dancing…although none of these can match a dance in the quiet, in the private,” you remark, turning to him, lips curving of their own accord. You notice the way his eyes glimmer with want and pain, a contradiction that he lives, attention focused solely on you. Not the deep purple of your gown, not the gold bangles on your wrist, or the dangling pendant which has directed three lords to only stare at your bosom for the entirety of their dances. No, Baelor looks at you.
And it is why you want him, why you have tried to make him want you. Why you have tried and you hope succeeded, but you fear have failed.
“Then let me dance with you before you leave,” he whispers, the words torn from his throat like a plea, no regard for the people around you or the whispers that will linger in the court. No.
He only sees you.
“Of course, Your Grace,” you answer, curtsying once, lips curving up in a smile soft and kind and gentle, one that is only for him. He takes your hand, holding it tightly, the metal of his rings cool against your skin, the contact of his calloused palm against yours sending warmth running through you, his attention making it worse, making it hotter.
His other hand comes to rest on the side of your waist, his grip possessive and protective all the same time, a warning to the lords that he has chosen you but a promise to you that your schemes have worked. That he wants you as you want him. You let your other hand rest upon his back, the touch of your hand spurring him to hold you tighter, hold you closer, the music drifting between you two, words failing.
“You know I do not leave forever, correct, Your Grace?” you ask him finally, your gaze flicking up to him from where it has been resting on the way your hands look joined together, fingers interlaced.
“I do not want you to leave at all,” he answers, his eyes locking onto yours, gaze begging you not to look away. To stay with him. Stay looking at him, only him. That he will break if you look away.
“What if you came with me?” you ask, head canting to the side just slightly as the two of you weave around the other dancers as if they were not there at all, as if the two of you are all that exist in the world.
“It is not proper,” he says, his voice breaking just slightly before he composes himself again, stealing his expression back into the mask of the Hand of the King. The perfect heir. “I am not your husband nor betrothed. It would ruin us both.” You lift your hand from his back, coming to let it rest on his cheek, the feel of his beard scratching against your palm, the contact of his skin sending electricity through you, feelings of longing coursing through your veins.
“Then let us be ruined,” you whisper, letting your hand drop to the top of his shoulder as the dance comes to a close and he remains a stone. His answer given in his silence and you nod, pressing your lips together, tears stinging your eyes.
For all your scheming, for all the queen’s scheming, you have not been enough. And you shall have to live with that.
“Very well, Your Grace,” you whisper, swallowing hard and looking down, away from the beauty of his stare and the unrelenting plea in those mismatched eyes, one of a forest and one of ice. Perhaps you should have trusted the ice blue, the coldness of his mask. But you didn’t. “Thank you for the dance.” And then you step away, step back, turning, biting your lip against the tears that threaten to fall as you run from the hall, run from the shame of what you said, of what you did in front of everyone believing that he cared for you as you cared for him.
But you were foolish. And you let the cries come as you walk through the halls, your hand muffling your sobs. Your leave cannot come fast enough, escaping to your home, to your mother, to whatever marriage she’ll have planned, a Dornish boy no doubt. A way for you to excuse yourself from Queen Myriah’s service, to remain at home and far away from him.
And the way it feels like you’re dying, heart cracking.
“Idiot,” you whisper, breath hitching with a sob and you press your hand harder against your mouth, your other resting on your stomach as if you can hold yourself together but the sobs prove too much and you stop, leaning against the stone of the palace, letting the tears fall, shoulders shaking with the force.
It is why you don’t hear the footsteps behind you, your sobs too loud to your own ears to register the heavy footfalls of Baelor, his own sadness threatening to overwhelm him when he sees you crying over him.
“My lady,” he breathes when he reaches you, turning to you to face him, your body shying from his touch and his heart cracking at the sight. Even more so when you turn your face away from him so you cannot see him. “My lady, please look at me,” he pleads, placing his hand upon your cheek, turning you to face him but you fight it, tears flowing faster at his touch, at the warmth.
“No,” you cry, hiccupping, body shaking with the force of the word. “No, I have been a fool and I will…I will n-not engage in my n-nonsense f-further.” You try to pull away from him, but his one hand holds you tightly in place, the other still resting on your cheek, his thumb tracing patterns on your cheekbone.
“You have not been a fool,” he answers and you turn to look at him, your eyes made more beautiful by the tears and he did not think that was possible, but he finds he loves you no matter your state. “I want to go with you, to be ruined, but I will not let you be ruined. I will do my best to marry you.”
You look at him, disbelieving and he sighs, looking left and right before crashing his lips to yours, the gesture catching you by surprise, your lips parted, his tongue slipping in, claiming ownership of yours, stroking it in ways that has warmth pooling in you, lower and lower, dripping down like honey, the feeling like fire in your veins as his hand slips from your waist to your hip holding firm, fingers digging into your clothed flesh. He groans into your mouth at the feel of you, the taste of you and then he’s pushing you back against the stone wall, one hand coming to rest on the stone wall, holding him upright because this is all he has dreamed of.
You are all he has dreamed of.
But too soon he pulls away from you, breathing heavily, resting his forehead against yours, closing his eyes briefly, reveling in the closeness.
“When you come back,” he breathes, “you will be mine, as you wanted. Mark my words, my lady. We will be each other’s.”
***
The fifth time was no manipulation, no scheme, no people playing sides, playing games. It was the finale, the wedding, the ceremony. The pledging to be his, always. Him pledging to be yours, always. The fifth time was the final time.
But also, the first.
And gods was it glorious.
***
The chambers are dim, lit only by candlelight, the sun long since set, the ceremony drawn to a close. It had been a beautiful ceremony, Queen Myriah—who insisted you call her good mother—was smiling broadly, proudly, her game having been successful. A good daughter won who would value her as well as her son; and one who carried the scent and sights of home.
King Daeron had been full of pride as well to see his son so happy, smiling in a way that he had never seen on him before. A smile so full of pride and joy that it was strange, but wonderful. King Daeron saw himself in Baelor, himself when he married Myriah.
And Baelor had done nothing but smile at you, at the way you laughed and danced and teased. He did nothing but watch you with that same intensity that had made you want him from the first moment you saw him, since he asked to dance with you in the library. He twirled you, refusing to let anyone else cut in, preferring to hold you close, his hands resting upon your waist, your hips. Anywhere you would let him.
You had thought that it was you who played that game.
But he had been the one to make the opening move. All for the moment now, the moment where he takes you to the chamber, pressing you against the stone wall, the door scarcely closed behind the two of you, his hands on your hips, fingers digging into your skin as he presses his lips to yours, tongue stroking yours before sucking it into his mouth, his one hand rising, fingers toying with your breasts, feeling them through the bodice of your wedding gown.
He delights in the moan you let out, the sound vibrating through him, resulting in him pressing closer to you, letting you feel how painfully hard he is for you, your legs opening at the first brush of his hips, letting him step in, slotting in between your legs like he is meant to be there.
“Do you. Have any idea. How long I. Have wanted you?” he rasps, voice husky as he pulls away, desire so strong, burning like fire in his veins, in yours.
“Since the. Dance in the library?” you ask him and he shakes his head, looking at you with pupil blown eyes, desire thick in his stare. Lust and love and need—the intensity he’s been staring at you with all along.
“Since you arrived,” he answers, his head dipping, tongue stroking from the base of your neck, up to just under your ear, his teeth tugging on your earlobe just gently, delighting in the mewl that leaves your lips as you shift, nowhere truly to go when you’re pressed against him and the stone wall—a rock and a hard place indeed. He lets his hands drift down, reaching around to your back, pulling you flat against him, the way you shift against him causing him to groan, the need to be inside you overwhelming him.
“I watched you greet my mother in that purple gown studded with…what looked like stars and I thought you were the most beautiful thing in the world. I had never seen your equal…and then,” he pauses, pressing his lips to your neck, beard scratching at your skin in a way that sets your blood aflame, a burning coil winding tight in your lower stomach, a need to have him. He nips at your neck, teeth pulling at the skin just slightly before letting go, his tongue flicking against it, soothing the irritation he has caused before pulling back, his hands drifting to your ass as he continues, “then I saw you in the library, dancing and imagine my surprise when you seemed to want me back.”
“I thought I was scheming to get you,” you breathe, eyes pupil blown to match his, squeaking when he palms your ass, rutting himself against your still clothed heat and his still clothed cock, unable to stand the distance between the two of you.
“You never tricked me into this,” he breathes, crashing his lips against yours again, a war of tongue and teeth and desire while he lets his hands rise, tracing every curve of your body before tearing the gown in two, his mouth never leaving yours, leaving your bare before him. You step forwards, pressing your bare body against his and he groans into your mouth at that fact. He pulls away and gestures off to the bed with one hand, eyes matching in their desire.
“Bed. Now,” he breathes and you comply, grabbing his hand and tugging him with you and sitting down upon it, your hand letting go of his before both reach for the laces of his breeches, untying them and freeing his cock from the confines of the cloth while he sheds his doublet and places his hands on your waist, lifting you just enough to throw you back against the bed, his body climbing over yours, desire-filled eyes looking down at you, lips puffy, swollen with kisses.
“This is all I’ve dreamed of since our dance,” he whispers and your hands reach to his back, pulling him down to you while you wrap your legs around his hips.
“Then shut up and fuck me, darling,” you breathe and he wastes no time in complying with orders, teasing your entrance with his cock before pushing, as gentle as he can be, groaning, his head falling forwards.
“Gods! You feel. So good,” he groans out while your breath hitches in response both from the sensation of being filled and the utter abandon in his voice when he speaks. And then you are nothing but a pool of sensations as he thrusts in and out of you, in and out, every thrust punctuated by his staccato chant of “Love. You.”
His thrusts speed up, every one having him sheathed inside you fully, hitting a spot inside of you that has you seeing stars, your walls clenching around him, leading him to to groan, voice cracking every time, every time he tries to tell you that he loves you.
It is not long before you both are spent and he lays beside you, your back against his chest, one arm wrapped around your waist, the other free, the hand playing with your hair, twisting and twining it.
“So my flirtations truly had nothing to do with this?” you ask him now and you can feel his smile, an innate sense of awareness over him.
“On the contrary, love,” he whispers, letting of your hair and instead leaning in to press a kiss against your neck, one of tender love. “They had everything to do with it. You simply did not trick me into this. I wanted you. I love you.”
“And I you,” you whisper, fighting against the sleep that grows, nestling in his arms, contentment growing within you, safe in his arms, forever.
“I shall love you forever,” he whispers before following you into sleep like he will follow you everywhere.
***
In a game, we are told that there is always one winner. But in this game, the game of flirtations, of hearts, there was no loser.
Only two soulmates joined by both of their plans.
