Hiii ♥️♥️ how are you doing??
Do u write for Beric dondarrion? If so I would like to request a fic for him.
Reader is a Lannister/baratheon princess who escapes kings landing during the battle of the Blackwater (with the Hound, maybe he takes to her and cares for her in the same way he did to the Stark girls) and she and Beric meet when they gets taken by the brotherhood without banners
In the Light of the Lord
Requests are closed
- Summary: A story where a man brought back from the dead finds his purpose in you.
- Pairing: baratheon!reader/Beric Dondarrion
- Rating: Mature 16+
- Tag(s): @sachaa-ff @oxymakestheworldgoround @idenyimimdenial
- A/N: I'm doing well, dear anon. Thank you for asking. ❤️ I hope you like the story. I had fun writing it. ☺️
The forest was quiet in that strange, muffled way that meant something was wrong. You'd learned that by now—how the trees could whisper danger, how even birds went silent when men were near. Sandor heard it first. You watched him stiffen like a dog catching the scent of blood, his scarred face twitching as he raised a gauntlet to halt your steps. You obeyed without a word. He didn’t look back at you, only growled, low and grim, “They’re here.”
You wanted to ask who, but you’d seen the way he tracked signs in the earth, how he sniffed the wind, always knowing more than he let on. There had been rumors, whispers traded between smallfolk in frightened voices about a group of outlaws who wore no sigil, no lord’s favor. The Brotherhood Without Banners. You had laughed once, in another life, in silks and sunlight. Rabble in the woods, you’d said. Now you held your breath and drew the hood of your cloak lower, clutching the hem of it with trembling fingers.
“They’re surrounding us,” Sandor said under his breath, and then louder, for the shadows in the trees, “Come out then, you fuckers. I’ve no time to play games.”
They stepped from the woods like ghosts—bows strung, blades drawn, but not sloppy. No, these men moved like wolves. Hungry ones.
“Sandor Clegane,” a voice called. The man who emerged wore a brown cloak patched with mismatched colors, his hair the color of wet bark. He looked more priest than soldier, but his eyes were cold as a butcher’s knife. “Thought you’d be on your way back to King’s Landing, licking Joffrey’s boots.”
Sandor barked a laugh. “That little cunt can rot in his bed. I’ve no master now.”
Their eyes flicked to you then, and you felt them drink you in. A girl in roughspun, but too clean. Too fine-boned. Your face betrayed you. You had your father’s mouth, and unfortunately, your mother’s eyes.
“And who’s the girl?” asked another, a tall archer with hair like straw and a mouth set in a sneer. “Not your daughter, surely.”
Sandor stepped in front of you. “She’s no one to you. Let us pass.”
But already the priestly man had stepped closer. “No one, is she?” he mused. “Then why do I see the lioness in her face? Or is it the stag? Gods be good…”
You should’ve run, but where to? Instead, you straightened your spine, lifting your chin the way your mother once taught you. “I am Y/N of House Baratheon,” you said. “Daughter of King Robert. And Sandor Clegane saved my life the night your city burned.”
That caused a stir, like a stone dropped in a still lake. The archer hissed a curse. The others whispered. One knelt before you out of instinct before quickly remembering himself and rising again, ashamed. The priestly man only looked at you, long and strange, as if you were a puzzle and he feared the answer.
“She’s worth a lot of coin,” someone muttered.
“She’s a Lannister’s daughter,” said another.
“No,” you said, the word cutting cleanly through them. “My mother is Cersei Lannister. But I am Robert’s trueborn daughter. Which makes me the rightful Princess of the Seven Kingdoms. I’m not gold. I’m fire and storm.”
Silence followed, but it was not a calm silence. The man with the brown cloak rubbed his beard. “And yet you walk with the Hound.”
“I’d be dead if not for him.”
You saw something change in Sandor’s face then. Just for a moment. A flicker of something like pride… or guilt.
The priest stepped forward again. “You’ve stumbled into something bigger than both of you. I’m Thoros of Myr. These are not Lannister lands, nor Baratheon, and not the Hound’s to trample. We serve a different lord now.”
You blinked. “Which lord is that?”
“The Lord of Light.”
You heard Sandor mutter “bloody fools,” but you said nothing. Your eyes flicked to the shadow behind Thoros, the man who had remained silent all this while. Cloaked in darkness, face mostly hidden. But you saw the flame-kissed hair, the burn marks around his eye. And then the name struck you with a memory of your father’s court.
“Beric Dondarrion…” you whispered.
He stepped forward, and the firelight danced in his damaged eye, his voice rough with smoke and sorrow. “Aye, Your Grace,” he said, with a bow that somehow was not mocking. “We meet again, though you were but a child the last time I saw you. I was sent to bring justice in your father’s name. I never knew it would take so long.”
You looked at him—at the man who’d died a dozen times, yet stood before you like a revenant. There was something noble in his ruin, something kind in the way he looked at you. And you realized, as Thoros ordered your weapons taken, as the Brotherhood escorted you deeper into the woods under torchlight, that your life had taken another sharp turn. That perhaps your father’s shadow had not left the world entirely. That Beric Dondarrion, sworn to a dead king, might become the first man in your life to see you not as a pawn or a prize—but as the storm you were born to be.
The bag goes over Sandor’s head roughly, a muttered curse and the scrape of steel following as they bind his wrists behind his back with coarse rope. He doesn’t resist. You can tell he wants to, that his pride snarls beneath the surface, but he says nothing—just clenches his jaw and lowers his head as the Brotherhood prepares for the journey. One of the men spits near his feet. Sandor only shifts his weight and grumbles, “Fucking bastards.”
You reach for him, your fingers brushing his arm before they drag him a step away from you.
“Be gentle with him,” you say, glaring at the archer who tied the knots too tight.
“He’s lucky he’s still breathing,” the man mutters. “He’ll get no worse than he deserves.”
“You don’t know what he’s done,” you argue. “Or what he’s undone. He saved me.”
“Maybe,” says Thoros, stepping beside you, his tone oddly gentle. “But men like Sandor Clegane don’t walk free in these woods. Not without judgment.”
Judgment. You wonder what sort of trial they intend. The fire god’s justice. That frightens you more than you care to admit.
Their camp lies deep in the woods, miles past the last farmstead and long-abandoned hamlets. The Brotherhood travels swift and quiet, used to the land and the secrecy it demands. Leaves crunch underfoot, and mist coils like breath around the roots of ancient trees. They put you in the middle of the line—guards in front and behind—and Sandor is somewhere behind you, his heavy footfalls unmistakable even muffled by the earth.
Beric rides beside you. Not on a warhorse, but a lean, dark gelding, half-starved like all of them. He doesn't wear armor now, only a thick woolen cloak over a patched leather jerkin. The eyepatch hides the worst of the scarring, but you can see the rawness along his temple, like melted wax where fire kissed his skin.
He catches you looking.
“Ugly, isn’t it?” he says quietly.
You blink and glance away, ashamed. “I didn’t mean to stare.”
“I’ve grown used to it. Death doesn’t always return a man whole.”
You glance at him again. “You died.”
“Six times.”
“And yet here you are.”
He smiles faintly. “Aye. Strange world, isn’t it?”
You ride in silence for a time, the soft drumming of hooves and the wind through leaves all you hear. Then you ask, “Will you let him go? Sandor. He isn’t your enemy.”
Beric sighs, rubbing his jaw. “Isn’t he? He served the Lannisters. He killed for them.”
“He served my brother,” you say bitterly. “Not by choice. And he left it behind. He took me from the city. He didn’t have to. He could’ve left me in that burning tower. But he didn’t.”
“I believe you,” Beric says.
“Then why keep him prisoner?”
“Because the fire shows me things,” he says, turning to meet your eyes, “and sometimes what it shows is a man with blood on his hands who hasn’t yet paid the price. That doesn’t mean I don’t respect the mercy he showed you. But I cannot let him go.”
You stare ahead, lips pressed thin, the ache of helplessness heavy in your chest. “Then let me speak for him when the time comes. Let me stand for him.”
He studies you, thoughtful.
“I will consider it,” he says.
The road winds narrower. Thorns snag your cloak and the trees crowd closer, the canopy above blotting out what little sunlight still bled through the overcast sky. It feels like stepping into another world, ancient and watching. The woods are different here—older, hungrier.
Beric speaks again, his voice softer now. “You’re not what I expected.”
You look at him.
“A Baratheon girl,” he says. “Raised in a castle, wrapped in silks. I thought you’d be more like your mother.”
You laugh without humor. “So did I. Until she told Joffrey to lock me in my room and said I’d never leave it again.”
Beric frowns. “Why?”
“Because I’m trueborn,” you answer. “Because she feared I might outshine her children. Because Joffrey wanted me dead after I laughed at him.”
He goes quiet again. “I never liked the boy. There’s something wrong in him. Too much lion. Not enough man.”
“And you?” you ask. “What are you made of?”
He considers your question. “Ash. Mostly. And fire.”
You tilt your head, studying him. “Do you ever dream?”
“Not since the first death,” he replies. “When I close my eyes now, I see flame. Faces I’ve forgotten. The moment of dying, over and over. You?”
“Sometimes,” you say, “I dream of the Red Keep. But it’s always empty. No voices. Just wind. And the throne room is full of vines.”
Beric turns his head to watch you, something unreadable in his one good eye. “Maybe that’s the future,” he says softly. “Or the past, waiting to be reborn.”
When they stop for a rest, they bring water and salted meat. Beric offers you a waterskin before taking a sip himself. You ask again—quieter this time—if he will show Sandor mercy. He touches your arm as he answers, gentle, like someone trying to soften a blow before delivering it.
“I cannot promise his freedom. But I will watch over you, Y/N. I swear it.”
And for reasons you can’t explain, that vow comforts you more than any promise of safety ever has.
