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Love Unbidden — B.T x Reader

summary — Begrudgingly, you agreed to the task of "earning favor" with the dragon house by your father, the lord of ashford. Unknowing of the unexpected flurry of feelings and the life-altering events that would follow in the wake of your first meeting with Prince Baelor.

content tags — mdni!! fluff and angst, forbidden love, love at first sight, legal age gap, no use of Y/N, reader is lord ashford's natural daughter, and bastardphobia comes with it, reader drives Baelor insane (lovingly <33) filthy smut… (p-in-v sex, freak4freak, semi-public sex, brat-taming, hair-pulling, blowjobs, soft aftercare, fingering, overstimulation, scent kink (i wonder if anyone noticed), edging), poorly beta read.

author's note — insanely self-indulgent 50% sweetness, 50% filth. this is based on @vhagars-dementia 's idea, absolute gold pull from my likes.

word count — 10.3k (of bs)

NAVIGATION — MASTERLIST

CREDITS: SARADIKA-GRAPHICS (DIVIDER) THENAMESWINTERGIFS.

The rays of the sun bathed the expanse of your home in its golden brilliance, the sight of those innumerable banners saturating the grassy horizon only added to the beauty of the view within the castle walls.

You looked at your little sister then, smile widening at the way she forgot herself, now less of the lady she liked to pretend she was and more of the little girl who was so excited about growing older that she'd press her freckled face close to the window with her hand shielding against the glare of the sun. You threaded your fingers through her thick dark hair as if to tether her back to the earth before she soared up these clouds any higher, and asked the question that did not call for answer.

"Was it everything you hoped for, winnie?"

Gwin turned to you then, grin wider than you've ever seen it, and she was a smiley girl to start. "You're acting as if the celebrations are over already!" She berated with no malice in her voice, then leaned forward all conspiratorially and said: "Did you know that the Targaryens are coming? Father said so, he told me they would be arriving any time now."

Oh you've heard all about that, but it was adorable how she wanted to share this 'secret' piece of information with you, so you pretended to be caught off guard anyway, she was the nameday girl after-all, and a little white lie never hurt anyone, now did it? You did not know if she was to have another nameday as good as this one, considering the amount your father spent to show off, insurmountable amounts of coin that may never find their way back to the coffers.

You could not say you were particularly excited about the arrival of your guests of honor, being what you were. The kind term used for you was "natural daughter", although many preferred the short and sweet title of "bastard" when your back was turned.

And while the reputation of bastards were never truly as flowery as that surname branded upon you the moment you drew breath—it did not help at all that the war waged by one that shared your affliction was still fresh on the minds of all. Sufficed to say you were unsure of the wisdom of your being here—more so on your task of "earning favor" from your honored, royal guests, which was a more dignified way to say you were to doll yourself up to entice them into taking you as paramour—that was the best case scenario.

You doubted anything would come of it. For one, even if it was a trivial thing, you hardly knew a thing of the royal princes for you did not expect to meet them in person, much less see them a single time in your life.

As a result of that realization, you decided to pay a visit to that increasingly packed meadow, confident that you would find what you desired there, because you certainly weren't going to get any from your lord-father.

Naturally, the information was easy to find, and even more so entertaining was the night you spent acquiring it, this was one upside of bastardy, prying eyes were not constant and you were allowed to do as you wished so long as you were not recognized—an easy feat.

Opinions and telltales on the Targaryens were as clashing as night and day, you'd found.

Most were not completely content with them, one man drunkenly regaled you with tales of times he never really witnessed himself, of times before the Conquerors, when the kingdoms were independent and spent ample time affronting the house of dragon with a blistering, audacious loudness — you left him mid-rant, of course.

You doubted that any of the treason he was wasting your time and his breath with was truly any of your business, if it was anything true, and it certainly was not giving you anything of substance for you to use.

The song of the Hammer and Anvil kindly gave you a little perspective on them, not much on their personalities besides them being an excellent, unrivaled pair of soldiers, but you learned about one other thing. If you enjoyed his company enough and were so inclined to try and solicit the older prince to take you to bed—you would have a good time, if the song held any truth, what with his giant veiny "host of dornish spear-men."

The Hammer's son, Valarr, was married so that was that, you were not exactly desperate enough to be a homewrecker.

The Anvil's sons, Prince Daeron and Aerion were close to you in age, you found, neither of them had any tales or accounts that tugged at your heartstrings, they were not particularly the type of men you would swoon over. You liked your gentlemen older, leaving you only two choices, their fathers.

The older prince seemed the kind to humor a young maiden and allow you his time and conversation, but the younger prince? You were unsure of him, the man would most likely kick you right out, you doubted someone with as many sons and daughters, many of which were described with distasteful words such as "disappointing" and "monsterous", a man who had to take care of such a brood alone would not care nor have the time or energy for baser pleasures such as a woman's company.

But at a certain point during your little investigation and plans you decided not to overthink it. Princes they may be, they were no different than the men you've brought to heel before. A fact, self-evident and unchanged was as followed: there was nothing so undoing to a man than a lady's touch and smile. And you will prove it once again when those black and red banners finally show themselves in Ashford Meadow.

"Our Lord of Ashford humbly welcomes the great and honorable Baelor Targaryen, firstborn son of King Daeron the Good, Prince of Dragonstone, Hand of the King and heir to the Iron Throne," the Herald might as well pause to drink some water from how many titles he had to mention and no one would fault him for it.

And if his titles hadn't made you dizzy, the man himself made sure to make it so you were. Draped in Targaryen black, he took your breath away; with his broad shoulders, his greying hair and beard that only emphasized how handsome he was.

He towered over them all even from your perch on the stands above, you were thankful for your bastardy then, because you knew you would make a fool of yourself if he were before you now, and smiled at you like that.

"and his brother, Maekar." The herald rushed in a near stumble of words, that misstep not missed by the man heralded, you were certain his name was not said correctly either—or you thought you were certain, at least.

Was it 'may-kar' or 'my-kar'? Maybe the herald was onto something with that 'mee-kar'.

Oh who in the hells cared?

That chain of thought that only sprang out as a futile distraction from the intense heat and dizziness you felt when you saw his brother was abandoned as quickly as your mind took it up, because what little sense remained—what little he spared you at the sight of him—reminded you that you mustn't even be here.

And so you retreated back within the castle with your marching steps matched with the rushing rhythm of your heart. Your quickened pace made some castle servants slow their own to see if you were well, some instead staring at your retreating form with a raised eyebrow, wondering what managed to chip at the Lady Flowers' polished poise so much so that she would rush in a manner so unlike herself.

In the solar that doubled as a chamber for guest reception, you waited, willing away all the jitters you felt as you inspected the bowls of fruits laid out on the table for what felt like the hundredth time but truly was the fifth.

It would not do to lose composure like this.

You believed that you've perfected the art of pretending.

Ever since you've known what it meant, you've been a pretender.

You've pretended to not notice the little slights of Lady Ashford, the biggest of all being the creation of your moniker: "Lady Flowers."

It used to wound, but now you were numbed to such artless mockery.

Adding to that your many dresses being devoid of the Ashford sun, but each generously overflowing with flowers from the tops of the bodice down to the base of the skirts—each petal a reminder, underhanded yet as clear as that sun you were deprived of for so long.

It was only after your sweet sister's insistence that you would match her in garments when you finally got the chance to know what it felt to bear the sun—it felt empty.

Your grandest performance was in pretending that it did not annoy or upset you how many times you were thrown onto lords for alliances that would never bear fruition, because no matter how charmed a man would be he would much rather marry the daughter of a greater lord to better serve his position, you were momentary, an alluring distraction that was to be forgotten the second the hoofbeats of departure drummed their way out of town.

You did not understand what your father hoped to gain from this. Did he think the princes—the heir apparent and the man who was more soldier than prince—would ever think to ask for your hand?

It was laughable—but hey, at least you would be spending time with Him, and if you were lucky it would be until the morning, your father would not shame you for it, apparently—annoyingly. It seemed your "whoring" was acceptable if it was with a prince.

Speaking of, you could hear a march of steps and your father's voice following along the sounds, carrying on a conversation you'd rather not interrupt. With a deep breath, you smiled gently and charmingly, the smile of a lady who has never been tense a day in her life, the smile of a lady that doesn't know the meaning of trouble, but would be down to get up close and personal with it — the smile men liked to see.

The silver-haired prince did not even realize you were there, as did most of them, not even your father realized you were in the room, but you did not truly blame them, because you stood in their blind-spot beside the solar's entrance, and you did not announce yourself, who were you really, even your lord-father let the conversation proceed without him, so why interfere?

The older prince saw you first, his gaze sweeping, eyes sharpened with the honed perceptiveness of a man who had to learn to count every head and to whose body they were connected to before he could let his guard down for even a second in any room he stepped into.

You held his gaze, his eyes of light and dark unfaltering in their focus.

They were pretty, you decided, especially when they flitted down to take you in. The motion quick and one you wouldn't have noticed if you weren't staring back at him.

Perhaps staring directly at a prince was insolence, but he did not seem to mind, so neither should you.

Your smile grew wider, the nerves you felt settled down, he was as gallant as they all said, respectful and humble, gentle and kind with the servants, calm and understanding with his agitated brother. Regardless of his lack of respect for his hosts, deeming your sister's nameday celebrations a "miserable circus."

Your father turned around and nearly jumped in place, making the princes turn sharply to where he was staring, your name burst out of his lips in a shout.

Your smile stayed unmoving, no matter how many times you scared your father like this it was always hysterical, it was made more amusing by how the hands of the princes found the hilts of their daggers in a flash, thinking there was some danger by the way your father jolted, you allowed yourself a passing glance at the older prince's hand—just for a moment.

"Your graces, allow me to introduce you," your father started as you walked towards him at the outstretch of his arm beckoning you close.

You gave a curtsy as you were introduced, just like those disdained septas taught you, back straight as an arrow when you bent down, swift and graceful. To your surprise (and utter delight) Baelor extended a hand, palm facing up in a polite and wordless request to take your hand in a kiss, a request you granted in a near instant with girlish eagerness shrouded by a lady's restraint.

Just before his lips touched your hand the booming voice of the Anvil had him draw back. You did not like that man—at all.

"You!" He shouted and all heads turned to the doorway to find what held the man's ire.

"Who are you? What do you mean by spying on us?"

A tall man timidly showed himself from behind the carved, curved wall, the way he believed that he hid himself well was comical, something told you that was a thing that happened to him a lot. No man of that stature can really blend anywhere, but his posture disagreed with him, he slouched as if that could make the prior statement untrue.

Having realized the impropriety of your proximity, that his hand was still holding onto yours, you pulled away reluctantly and took your place next to the steward, and you watched. Looked on to the hedge knight's appeal to the prince, who only responded with grace and patience, unlike his brother who kept on interrupting, disgruntled by everything.

The admiration you held for him only grew stronger and stronger. You've never met a nobleman that was as devoid of arrogance as he. To remember a hedge knight, a stranger one met once upon a joust was not something any would bother doing, but he did.

It was refreshing, and you could tell the knight thought so too, having been turned away by so many men who have had his old master nearly die countless times under their service but were too entrenched in their own splendor to care about him over his lack of a great noble name. You were happy for him, truly, it was your sincerest hope that he would win, if not you wish he'd be agreeable to having his horse and armor bought back by a lady and not prattle on about propriety and how it would be unseemly for him to let a woman spend her silvers on him, he seemed the type, you could see it in his big doe eyes.

Now that you thought about it—does he even own any armor? Seemingly not, from that sorry string of rope tied around his waist acting as belt.

After all was said and done, and the hedge knight took his leave, you felt that it was your turn. You were done with the prelude; You have introduced yourself to them, might even go as far as to say that you already held their interest—Baelor more so than Maekar, you could not tell if the latter's looks were of interest or not, what with his scowl etched deep in his face, he was offended by your presence, most like.

But Baelor?

Everything pointed to him taking a liking to you—it was exciting. His mindful eyes spread a pleasant warmth at the core of your stomach, spreading outwards, like the warmth of a hot drink in a cold winter's night. If only that hedge night hid himself better, maybe you'd know what his lips felt like on your skin, you wonder if you might've fainted then if only his eyes had caused butterflies to swirl in your stomach.

The tall doors of your father's chambers loomed overhead — you stared blankly at them, but the frustration was close to showing itself on your face.

Mind absent, you didn't hear the footsteps approach.

"If you mean to speak to your lord-father, my lady," a genteel voice that was sure to haunt your dreams cut through the fog surrounding your mind. "you will not find him here—he has been kind to allow me residence in his chambers for the time being."

The surprise lasted hardly a second before you quelled it and gave him a curtsy. It wasn't that you hadn't known about this lodging agreement, it didn't surprise you at all when you were informed of it, your father is arguably the physical manifestation of sycophancy, it was more embarrassing than anything else if you were to be honest.

"Your grace," you greeted with a small smile. "I did not know of this change—I apologize,"

"Do not apologize, this is your home," Baelor reassured with a small smile.

Quietly, you nodded. "I will not disturb you any longer, your grace."

"Enjoy your night," you said as you passed him and the kingsguard whose name you did not know. Perhaps you could have made an excuse and said you wanted to take back something of yours, a necklace, a book, anything, you were sure he would be kind enough to let you in — but did you want to disturb him after such an eventful night and day? His patience and hospitality surely had limits.

Baelor's gaze followed your retreating form—eyes drifting down despite himself at the bare of your back—he watched until you left the corridor and his vision turned their focus towards Ser Willem, who watched the doorway you exited through with some unfounded interest—still.

The scene irked him, the man should approach his duty with the mindfulness and zeal it required—not stare stupidly like a love-struck boy.

"Ser Willem," the call of his name snapped the knight out of his stupor. "the lady is no threat— be sure to mind your manners," he said before striding off to his bedchamber, the knight following behind with a lowered head.

"I understand, your grace," the knight replied respectfully, head inclined.

The prince only gave a hum in response, eyeing him before he stepped into the unfamiliar room.

Baelor had only been here once, the feeling of discomfort he felt then remained even now—especially now. Because he could only think about it's owner's daughter, the odd feeling of want made even odder now that he inhabited the man's quarters.

It seemed that everywhere he looked he could only find the sun, whether carved into wood or stones, that sun-in-splendor would look back at him. It was not a bad thing, not quite, he found it rather amusing—until a flash of your sun-shaped pendant which hung too low off your chain crossed his mind's eye. It was not amusing then.

He stroked the spines of books as he walked along the towering bookcases, hoping that he would find something boring enough to make him drowse off as soon as he could, and stop himself from thinking about those cheeky eyes and soft hands.

Half an hour passed and he has already discarded two books, the third making the same mistake as the ones prior and failing in its job to distract him.

The headache did not help ease his plight, after a minute of massaging his temple he decided he didn't want to be in this place anymore.

"You may rest now, Ser," Baelor dismissed the knight. Ser Willem thanked his prince with some reluctance in his voice, but he didn't argue and took his leave.

He stepped onto the sundeck, eager to just get some cool air on his skin and into his lungs. Leaned onto the banisters, he took a deep breath.

A grinning honeyed voice to his right made itself known.

"Can't sleep, your grace?"

He turned, the motion quick and graceless—unlike him.

You were here.

Leaned on the palm of your hand and cross-legged with a bottle of wine beside a cyvasse board sat on the table, you had a finger playing with a dragon piece, your soft digit petting it's head with slow and gentle motions, and for a moment, an absurd feeling of envy crossed his heart.

"My lady," he greeted calmly after regaining his composure from the surprise and quite honestly, the scare. "I apologize, I did not realize you were here."

"It's alright," you reassured smilingly. "it seems like this is a habit of mine."

"Not being noticed?" Baelor questioned with a tilt of his head, he could not believe that for a second.

You hummed as you frowned, matching the tilt of his head with one of your own, looking thoughtfully at something in the far distance. He almost apologized for the offense he caused before you spoke up again.

"No, I have no issues with that," you said, then grinned again. "I meant my habit of scaring the living daylights out of the poor souls around me."

"and it seems you are my victim for the night," you said playfully and casually before raising the goblet to your lips—unknowing of the less than innocent thoughts those reckless words put in his head, dishonorable thoughts unbecoming of a man like him.

"Sorry for that, your grace."

"You needn't worry about that, I was hardly startled," Baelor lied with a smile, pleased that you hadn't run away yet. His eyes found the table once more. He was not unfamiliar with this game, but he would not say he understood nor knew much of it, busy as he was and will be for the rest of his life, most like.

"Will your friend be returning? I may leave if you wish – I would hate to intrude on your fun," He inquired, eyes set on the pieces that were out of place, who was with you? that ridiculous feeling returned to him.

"No, there is no one, I was playing with myself," you replied casually as if what you just said doesn't sound deranged to anyone with ears to hear and a mind to process.

Baelor did not comment. He sat down across from you.

"I must confess, I've never gotten to play this," he confessed.

"Too busy huh?" You asked and he nodded, smiling steadily.

"I have seen it firsthand many moons ago, a Volantene trading caravan passed King's Landing on route," he told you as he held up an ivory colored piece, examining it, it's details, the timbered feel of it. "among the many items was this game—I dare say I've never seen the courtiers more enthralled by a pastime that was not a tourney nor a feast."

"I imagine they were more docile then," you commented offhandedly, and he laughed, the sound pleasant but carried a degree of exhaustion that told you everything you needed to know.

"Oh no—no," he refuted gently. "the court is not a place for serenity, but I will admit it was… amusing to watch them compete."

Baelor looked at the disorganized board with a pair of pieces in his hand, he had the look of a lost man trying to finish a task with no instruction. He thought that maybe he should have paid more attention as he spectated Valarr and Matarys' games the few times he sat with them of late.

"Where do these go, my lady?" He asked you, lost and unsure.

"The pieces go wherever you want them to — it is a game of strategy," you explained, gathering the pieces on your side in a line, readying them for introductions.

"I can teach you the rules, then you can best decide where each piece should be—" you looked up to him with a glint in your eyes. "—that is assuming you do want to play with me, of course."

Baelor hoped that he would have enough patience and willpower to survive the night without any tainted thoughts to sully his mind. "Enlighten me, my lady." You slid the cup you were sipping on to his side, and he only realized then that there was only one. "You will need some of this to ease the headache this will bring you, your grace."

What you told him was no lie, the rules of this game were hard to take in, but he learned regardless. Time passed by, and he hasn't won a single game yet, but he was not particularly interested in winning.

Strangely, the game was not the main source of his fun, it was your conversation. You spoke with him like he was an old friend, not a prince. You spoke to him so naturally, you weren't afraid to tease and taunt, you made him question his moves with a tsk and a smirk in your eyes, not going easy on him nor letting him win—and he let you, it felt freeing in a way.

"Do you believe in spectres, my prince?" you asked, your catapult taking his dragon again. His brow arched at the strange turn of conversation – not in mockery, of course – it was a bit unexpected to go from telling him (or taunting him) on how you were going to win this match in three moves to discuss whether dead spirits walked among you.

"I could not say," he replied honestly, trying to assess whether this was a tactic to throw him off his game or not, finding no answer in your lovely eyes.

You smiled. "So… it's a no then?"

"The world is full of oddities, I am impartial on the matter of their existence, the fact I haven't seen one does not dispute that they are real." A snicker left you, he was taking the question too seriously. Baelor gave an amused smile in response.

"May I ask why you have brought this up?"

"Word has it that our castle is haunted by a ghost of a young girl—or it was haunted—it has been a while since anyone spoke of seeing her, although some servant girls swore recently that it was her behind unexplained happenings: such as slammed doors, or that it was her who called them awake by name when they tried to fall asleep, commanding them to do their work,"

"Do you believe any of it?" He asked, eyes on you and unblinking when his king fell and you won once again.

"I do not," you responded as you sat back. "anyone would attribute the doings of the wind and a half-asleep mind to a ghost if they were tired enough, especially if their madame overworks them for nameday preparations,"

"There has to be some explanation to what the servants have seen all those years ago," he said.

A grin fought it's way to your lips again despite your attempts at resisting it, mischief danced in your eyes once more, like you knew more than you were letting on and were itching to reveal it. "The only plausible explanation is that it was merely a prank blown out of scale, there was only so much to talk about that wasn't about the war at that point in time, it was no wonder they clung to the tale."

Baelor hummed thoughtfully before his hands finally moved to rearrange the pieces back in place, this time with the same setup as before.

"It was you wasn't it?" He accused.

A laugh tore through the silence that followed, all sunny and mirthful. "What gave it away?"

Baelor looked at you as if you said something preposterous, he chuckled with an arched brow. "You all but confessed with how knowing you looked, and with your penchant to joke and terrify it was hardly a challenge to connect the dots."

His smirk fell into a gentle smile. "It was good of you though, to distract them,"

Your gleeful gaze turned something coy when it left his. "You flatter me, your grace, I've only done it because I found it funny, nothing more, nothing less,"

Since it didn't seem like you'd relent, Baelor decided to leave it at that and gestured to the board with one hand. "Your turn to start I believe."

"Hm…" You looked at the board, lost in thought — for a moment — the better way to describe the look you had now was one of a trickster in bliss, by the way you tried to hide your scheming grin behind a lonesome finger to no avail, he could not help but smile when your eyes met his. Whatever you had planned he was eager to uncover it.

But uncover Baelor did not, he could not — because how could he expect that your scheme would be turning the board the opposite way? "This is hardly permitted, my lady," Baelor said as he accepted defeat and took in the formation of the pieces that were now his and wondered, should he start trying?

"Oh it's not permitted—but isn't it more fun this way?" You told him, the curl of your lips all happy and sly-like, satisfied with your little ploy.

"I will allow this, but you will be making the first move," he told you.

"Whatever my prince wants," you told him, the silvery words light and teasing, sending his thoughts into frenzy, longing fantasies with you as the sole focus clouded his mind and urged his breaths to quicken ever so slightly.

The silence only fanned the flames of chaos in his mind.

"May I ask you something, my lady?" Baelor said, making you look at him curiously. "Of course," you responded.

"You were not in attendance for the first tilt this evening—how come?"

When he could not find you, he had assumed you were tired or disinterested in such activities. However, owing to all he learned about you in these past few hours you shared—your liveliness and love for your sister—it made little sense that you have not come to enjoy the tourney in her honor.

"No," you said coolly. "I was there."

His brows furrowed in confusion, were you teasing him again? "But I could not find you?" With your chin rested atop your interlocked fingers, you smiled wickedly.

"Oh? Were you looking for me, my prince?"

"I was only curious where you might have been," Baelor replied, the warm hues of the candlelight hid the flush on his face, or he hoped they did.

That impish grin of yours fell into a gentle smile, finding the reaction to his blunder so endearing you decided to have mercy on him.

"I was in the crowd," you shivered, the action causing the strap of your dress to slip off your shoulder, you giggled as you recalled the events and raised the fabric back in place, unaware of his wistful gaze at your skin. "had the closest view of Lord Tully's sensational stunt,"

"That was dangerous," Baelor said, voice steady and stern, but you did not pick up on his meaning.

"I would not be concerned if I were you, the man must have done it so many times I doubt any raw fish would make him sick–" you said laughingly until Baelor cut you off.

"That was not what I was referring to—you should not have been down there—had you even brought any guards along with you?"

"No—there was no need for that," you said, confused by his sudden lecture. He gave you a questioning look. "How so?"

A momentary silence passed over the both of you. It would be a lie to say his concern hadn't sent warmth through you, but you were not about to get scolded for allowing yourself to have a bit of fun without having to sit with people you had to mind your manners with or else you would not hear the end of it. It was only for this night anyway, surely you can be allowed that little freedom?

"I am a woman grown, and there is no shortage of gallant men to save me should anything happen, that is discounting the ashford guards out and about the meadow vehemently instructed by my own lord-father to keep the peace—how could I not walk around without fear or care?"

Baelor's chest rose and fell with heavy, irritated breaths as he sat silently, as he looked at you silently. It was maddening how you could not see the danger behind your actions, yet your words did not lack in sense. You were right, but your reasoning—even if sound—did not ease his anxieties.

"Were you not allowed in the stands? and at this evening's supper?" Baelor questioned, restlessly twisting the ring around his finger. He did not understand, Lord Ashford hardly looked ashamed of you, no, he was more than happy to introduce you. Had anyone advised him against it? He hadn't done nor said anything to make anyone think your presence bore any insult to him or his, quite the opposite, so why?

An exhale of a laugh left you, both sardonic and entertained. No, you were not forbidden to attend, the Lord and Lady of Ashford would not pass up an opportunity to have you paraded around with so many princes, lords and landed knights about. Because if the princes did not care for you, other options should be explored.

"It was a personal choice of mine to watch the tilt where I had," you said, coldly, or perhaps it felt that way to him, he could not tell, all he knew was your warm smile and sweet laugh, the lack of them felt jarring.

"as for supper," you continued, practiced smile finding it's home on your lips. "I was not hungry." That was in a way, a lie. You had your fill—but your absence wasn't due to a full stomach—you were largely preoccupied with what you might do or say to him, figuring out which dress appeared the prettiest in the low light (or which of them slipped off easiest), cleaning off the sweat of your outing beforehand, making sure the most fragrant of oils scented the waters of your bath and now your skin, the kind you knew to turn men's heads — but you could not tell him any of that.

Imagine if you had, though, he did let you get away with so many comments and jokes that should have had you in the cells before daybreak, as soon as you verbalized them, matter of fact. "I was actually busy planning how to seduce you, your grace." Yeah… Hilarious.

So hilarious, in fact, that you decided to say it as is.

Shock, confusion, then denial crossed his face in quick succession. He chuckled, the sound betraying his confused, nervous mind and emotions, his fingers grew even more restless as they twisted and twisted that ring around. "Is this your version of an ice-breaker, my lady? because it is not as humorous as you think"

"I may have said it in jest," you replied, eyeing him for any further reactions, heart thudding all the while. "but I spoke no lie."

"My lady, this is…" Baelor could not find the right word, or rather; He could not say it without feeling like a hypocrite.

"Inappropriate?" You finished for him cheekily. "You cannot truly believe that, was it not you who decided to sit here with me for hours, laughing and sharing wine, all while unchaperoned?"

"A lapse in judgment, a mistake I will not repeat again." Baelor responded firmly, guilt, longing and regret warring in his mismatched eyes. He stood and you followed suit, blocking his escape.

With a finger playing with the tip of his blade's hilt, you smiled, the curl of your agonizingly soft lips almost innocent, as if you were not shredding what little remained of his self-control into pieces. The space between you was far too narrow, so narrow he could catch the scent of lavender and incense with his every breath.

To him no one acted as audacious, as brazen and fearless as you were, it left him amazed how you could just speak like that, to the crown prince no less, but he had to admit to himself if not to you that it was admirable — to speak so freely, never had he such a freedom. What he had no knowledge of was your shaking hand, hidden and clenched into a fist behind your back, you were terrified.

"It was not a lapse in judgment," you countered, watching his jaw clench as his once steady eyes flitted up and down your face. "you knew exactly what you were doing; what you wanted." You stepped closer to him, expecting him to step away, but he did not, urging you on.

"You have spent your whole life working to achieve the realm's needs and wants—but what about you?"

You pressed yourself close to him, taking his face in hand, the scratch of his scruffy beard pleasant on your palm as you ran it up slowly, reverently, the heavy scent of musk and agarwood fueling your desire for him even more. Your other hand rested on his chest, feeling his heartbeat hammer in rhythm with yours. Feeling bolder at his lack of rejection, you leaned your face closer to his, and whispered: "What about your needs and wants?"

Baelor felt helpless.

He had to leave, but his legs failed him. He had to push you away, but his hands cradled your face. He had to pull back, but his nose nuzzled at yours. Every voice in his head screamed at him to run — it took the slightest brush of your lips on his to silence them. Just one brush — and what little restraint he had crumbled into dust.

He pressed you hard against him, his other hand tangled in your hair as he kissed you, lips moving against yours fervently. His tongue lapped at yours, he recognized the sweet taste of arbor red on your tongue, despite that, it was the taste of you that intoxicated him, that urged him to keep losing himself in you.

This must be the relief and ecstasy singers and poets sung about so fervently, the feeling one felt after securing their heart's desire after so many years spent hungering for it, he was so lost in that feeling that he nearly forgot of his need to breathe. It was only when you pushed at his chest that he drew back to relieve the restrictive tightness in your chests.

Baelor's hand wandered up and down your naked back, relishing in the shivers his touch caused you. "You will regret wearing such light clothes, my lady," he warned, breath warming your ear. "the night will grow cold soon."

"I do not mind it," you confessed laxly. "that chill only promises that the warmth beneath the covers would feel even sweeter. Rain is always more cherished after a drought, is it not?"

Baelor looked at you and took in the swell of your lips, that hungry feeling gnawed again and he bent down for another kiss, only to pause midway when your wandering hand found the hard line of his cock and squeezed, the sensation caused him to back you onto the table and grip at the edges of the table to hold himself upright.

His groans and pants were music to your ears—to think you were once nervous to meet him—it was only when you had the gall to let out an exhale of a laugh that he took your hand off of him, holding it up by the wrist.

"You believe this funny?" He questioned as he stared at your self-satisfied expression, voice low and tinged with a hint of offense.

"No, my prince, I was only thinking that we could have been at this sooner if I had been bolder,"

"Bolder?" He repeated, more to himself than you, not believing his ears. "There's not a single drop of meekness in your body."

"There could be many drops of you in it, if you wished it so," you offered mischievously. Baelor sighed, exasperated but no less entertained by your tempting words. "Hush now," he said, silencing your giggles with his mouth as he slipped the loose strap of your dress down your shoulders, delighting in the noise that left you when he felt and squeezed at your soft breast.

"Hands on the table," Baelor said, breathless and gaze as hazy as your own, his pupils eclipsed the pretty rings of violet and brown. You obeyed with bated breath, mind in conflict with your body, was it wise to do this here? He had that Kingsguard with him, didn't he? You didn't trust yourself to be quiet when he finally fucked you. That chain of thought was quickly abandoned, it was hard to think when you had a handsome prince reverently caressing up and down your front as he whispered words to you in a language you could not understand when he was not kissing and mouthing at your shoulder.

Just when you were about to voice your impatience, his hands left your body and you heard a clattering sound. You turned your gaze downwards to see his rings laid on the table, discarded. The implications caused that ache at your groin to strengthen, only for it to alleviate when his fingers found home, moving slow — too slow.

"You are wet," Baelor observed, gathering the wetness with smooth strokes up and down your folds, circling at your clit and going low again—his voice was too smug in your opinion. "Too wet—and you've no underthings either. You've been waiting for this moment—haven't you?"

"I—ah!" You could not get a word in before he suddenly slid in a pair of his fingers, the motion smooth and swift. Maybe you were too sensitive. Maybe it was that your body wanted him as much as your heart or that you fantasized about his hands too much — but just those two long boney fingers were enough to make your legs shake and your knees buckle under you. Baelor held you up against him with his free arm, and he chuckled. You were sure he did it on purpose, entering you just when you were about to speak. In your daydreams, you expected him to be far more gentle, but maybe it was just the fruits of your labor, poking and prodding at him the way you did — you liked this side of him, maybe you could make him worse in the best way.

Baelor listened to your poor attempts at staying quiet, moans and cries of "my prince" prettying the silence of the night. He considered keeping the fact that no one could hear you to himself, only for a bit of time, but his better nature won out.

"There's no one but us, love," Baelor told you, he could tell you were about to come off the edge by the way your walls convulsed around his fingers. "you can be as loud as you want."

"My prince—I'm so close," you whined, gripping hard at the edges of the table under you. "I know—I know, you can let go now." A cry left you as your vision went white from the intense pleasure. He slowed his fingers and let you ride down your high. You sighed as he pulled them out, then took deep breaths to regain your composure. This wasn't enough, and when you turned and looked at him, you knew he shared your opinion.

Shivers ran up your skin — the promised cold finally filling the night air.

"Come with me," you said, pulling the straps of your dress back on your shoulder, a plea in your eyes. "my bedchambers aren't too far," you pulled at his belt. "I've yet to return the favor."

Baelor looked down at you, breathing heavily, he could not ignore the throbbing ache of his groin. He took your hand in his and squeezed. "Lead the way."

You tried to contain your eagerness but fell short when it came to steadying your pace — practically dragging the man through the halls like you were late for an important matter—in a way (to the both of you)—this was something long overdue.

Fondness stirred in him at your impatience, he could not recall the last time he wanted—needed someone so badly, and it was only made all the better by knowing that those feelings were not one-sided.

Baelor let you guide him into the darkness of your bedchambers. Immediately, that same maddening scent surrounded his senses, sharpened by the dimmed candlelight and his fierce craving for you.

The same craving that compelled him to pull you so strongly by the waist and into him it tore a gasp out of you that he silenced with a deep kiss. A thud sounded as his belt met the floor along with it's sheathed blade, a clink followed and resounded in the far corner as the brass hand pin met the stone floors, his movements practiced and unneeding of sight. You separated to help him undress, rearing back with a playful smile when he tried to chase after your lips.

"I cannot help you if my hands have no eyes to guide them, my prince," you teased, helping him out of his surcoat and tunic, you ran your hands through his dark chest hairs that somehow felt both rough and soft beneath your palms, raising them up to cradle his face and pull him into a kiss when he bent down to drop his breeches.

Baelor groaned into your mouth when he felt a pressure press onto the tip of his cock and circle, teasing him the way you teased the hilt of his forgotten blade, the way you petted at the head of that ivory dragon piece. Backpedaling until he fell onto the bed, Baelor pulled at the back of your thighs, coaxing you into his lap with your knees on either side of him.

You thumbed at his cheek as you looked down on him. "I want to try something, my prince." Pulling you close with his arms wrapped tight around your hips, he groaned at the friction this position caused.

He called your name for the first time, your lips parted, arousal sparking the hot feeling into a blaze, every intonation and syllable flowing off his tongue liquid sex to your ears. "I think we are past such pleasantries—call me Baelor."

"Baelor," you repeated, grin wide and eyes half-lidded. "may I try something with you?"

"You may," he gave consent, curious to see what you had in store, frowning when you pulled his arms off and breath slowing when you knelt down, he spread his knees apart instinctively. Baelor's mouth fell open with an exhale when your tongue lapped at the tip of his cock, glistened with all the precum accumulated after all that messing about.

It tasted better than your fantasies, the salty, earthy taste made you drool for more. His sounds and tight grip on the gathered hair of your roots urged you to take more of him in, to do more—but you did not. You kept circling at his leaky tip, teasing, kissing it gently, wanting to test his patience, see if you can break under that courteous demeanor again.

"If you begin a task, you should give your all to finish it," Baelor huffed, jaw clenched in frustration, you could tell he was holding back. He resisted the involuntary jerks of his hip up into your mouth, gripping tight at the sheets on his side. You drew back and licked your lips, gaze holding his, insolent, he thought.

"I'd like to take my time with you, it is not every night I have a man so handsome on my bed,"

Baelor pinched your chin between his fingers, gazing down at your all-too-pleased expression. "You want me to beg and plead—is that it?" He surmised, it all aligned in his mind. All you did was torment him from the moment you locked eyes, it was as if you were sent to him as a test to his patience, he was failing at it miserably. It was laughable, decades of self-governance and restraint sharpened by endless trials and adversities hounded onto him by his own blood, his own people, undone by one devilish smile from you.

"No, it is not," you replied, innocent in the face but not in your intentions. "I want you to make me beg and plead."

His breath hitched and he cursed, the words unfamiliar to his tongue. "Unruly thing," Baelor grunted, frustrated, grasping the side of your head. "you will be the death of me." He pushed your head down to his cock—finally, you thought, taking him in your mouth with a moan, rubbing your thighs together for some friction to soothe the torturous sensation you felt.

"Does it please you this much?" Baelor asked, impressed, watching you take more of him in with lidded eyes, hand stroking and twisting where your mouth could not. "Drooling and gagging all over my cock?" You did not answer, lost in the taste of him and the pleasured sounds you drew from his lips. Maybe it was the fact he has been anticipating this for a while. Maybe it was the pent-up years catching up to him, or that you were so good at pleasing him, but he was reaching his limit embarrassingly fast. He had to push you off.

After catching your breath, you looked up at him, wanting to search his face, finding his head thrown back and chest heaving as he tried to keep himself from spilling over you. "Have I done something wrong?"

Baelor did not answer, preferring to stand instead. "Rise," he commanded, firmly, and you obeyed, not being able to get a word in before he hoisted you up by your thighs, making you lock your legs around his waist and arms around his neck instinctively while he climbed onto the bed.

"You're so–" strong, you wanted to say, but your breath was stolen from you, your noses clashing when he could not decide which angle you tasted better. He removed the arms you had interlocked around his neck and sat back on his heels, pinning you down by the base of your neck when you tried to sit up. "Stay there," he ordered, and you obeyed with an impatient huff, aroused at the way he acted, the way he moved you like it was nothing.

"No wonder they all sing your praises, all those tales and songs," you drawled, eyes shamelessly looking over his arms, hand gripping at his wrist while the other clutched tightly at the sheets. "Oh?" Baelor responded, letting you drag his palm down your body, making him cup your soft breast. "And what do they say, exactly?"

"They spoke of your strength, your composure," you recounted, moaning distractedly as he pinched your nipple. "your good honor and your enormous…. hard… effort in winning the war." You laughter turned into a mewl when you felt him stretch you out in one smooth thrust. "I'm beginning to—fuck— question the bits about your composure and good honor," you managed, eyes hazy as you watched him lower to hover his face over yours. "Beginning to question?"

"You dare say that when you were the one who ruined me?" Baelor grunted, drawing back and pushing in hard, savoring the expressions and delicious moans you gave him, pinning your hands with one of his by the wrists when you tried hushing them. "Do not get shy on me now, sly girl, let me hear you."

No words could describe how good he felt inside you—and surprisingly but not so much—how grateful you felt for the ego that led your father into extending an invitation to the dragon house, you shuddered to think of a world where you never met this otherworldly man, a world where you never get to hear his voice or have a taste of his loving was a nightmarish thing to even think about.

You tried to kiss him but he evaded your lips, leaning back and smirking at your upset huff after he did it again. "Baelor…" You whined. "Hm?" He responded.

"You're acting cruelly."

"Am I?"

"Yes," moaning, you felt that same vein you ran your tongue over brush your insides incessantly. "Is this not what you wanted? You're quivering. What more could you possibly want?"

"Kiss me," you demanded when you should have pleaded.

"That's not how you ask for things," he reminded with heavy breaths, thumb trailing over your lips, taunting. "Baelor—please, kiss me—please," you begged, vision blurring from pleasure and tears. Baelor obliged, lips crashing with yours, his grip releasing your wrists to raise your legs higher, allowing his cockhead to reach even deeper, hammering into your cervix. In moments you could not even find the energy to kiss him, laying your head back from the intense sensations, you knew he was close too, his thrusts losing their constant rhythm.

As soon as you reached that sweet bit of ecstasy, he pulled out, chest heaving as he panted beside your head. "Baelor, why have you—" Your words turn to a gasp when he rolled you onto your stomach and pinned you under his weight, chest stuck to your back. "Not yet—I will love you thoroughly," Baelor promised, panting at your ear while he slid into you nice and slow.

"I will—mmh—still be here tomorrow," You reminded him, toes curling at the way his cock massaged your insides that still had not recovered from your release, at the way the head of it gently kissed your cervix. It was interesting, how he's made you come twice but he never allowed himself to feel it, not once. In the beginning you had not thought twice of it, plenty liked to chase that high over and over and not allow themselves to catch it too soon — but hearing what he said, you could not help but think that there was something deeper than mere fancy. Did he think you wanted this to be a one-time thing? Does he want it to be? "and the day after it too, I have nowhere else to be,"

"But you do," Baelor groaned. "only if you'd like." Your breathing hitched, for a multitude of reasons. His unexpected hold of your jaw pulling your head back into the crook of his neck, the scratch of his beard at the side of your face and the insinuation of his words. He wanted to take you with him; you will agree, you know you will, regardless of whether he wanted you as mistress or not, you did not care, as long as he was yours and you were his, it was the best you could ever hope for.

"Be my wife — come with me to King's Landing and I'll make you my princess,"

"But I am a—"

"Fuck that," Baelor said, not wanting to hear any of it. "there are no laws against it—and if there were I will marry you anyway." Pressing a kiss to your cheek, he spoke up again. "Would you like that?"

"I…" Your voice died in your throat, unbelieving of your ears, considering for a moment that perhaps you were in a fever dream, but no mind could think up a dream so lovely. "Very," was all you could muster. "Perfect—so perfect." Baelor groaned, breaths growing louder, deeper, you had an inkling it was not only about your agreeance. He slipped from you again, kneeling as he let your head drop to the soft sheets.

A wound-up noise left you while you stared back at the starry sky through your windows. "The sun will rise soon."

"I am sure." At the low, shaky words, you rolled onto your back to take in the exhausted state of him. "Do you not have somewhere to be early in the morn?"

He grinned weakly. "I heard there was a tourney at Ashford meadow."

"You will rue attending if you do not rest enough," You said, caressing the side of his face. "let me take care of you." His eyes flitted over your face, steady where his breathing was not. "Very well."

Smiling you had him lean up on the pillows and straddled him. His hands immediately found your hips as you lowered yourself on his cock, easily, your walls slick with your arousals beyond adjusted to take him in with no difficulty, a sigh escaped you both at the relief. It took no time before you were moving up and down in quick rhythm.

Baelor took one of your breasts in his mouth, licking and pulling with his lips, pushing you down to the hilt with his hands, your own anchored on his shoulders as you called for his name, blissfully, repeatedly. The only sounds echoing through the dark room were your cries, his quiet, pacifying words of a language you never got to learn, the lewd repetitive claps of skin on skin.

"Baelor!" You wrapped your arms tightly around his neck, face hovering over his, movements stuttering and legs growing weaker. Broken curses poured from your lips when he bucked his hips up into you. "I can't–'m sorry." Buried deep and holding you tight, Baelor had you on your back, and with renewed strength immediately set a vigorous, merciless pace, pushing and pulling inside you, over and over and over—the nails digging into his back, the pretty moans and whine in his ear—all of it goaded him to keep going, determined to have you come again.

"How it ails me that I cannot stuff you full of my seed." Baelor inhaled deeply at your temple, relishing your scent, groaning like the mere act brought him pleasure. Your back arched into him at the thought. "You can—please, Baelor." He pressed a chaste kiss to the side of your face. "You know nothing of what you ask, love,"

"I can take it just—" a whimper "—let me."

"I know you would—and you will," Baelor believed you wholeheartedly, he can already imagine it, you, brimming with his love inside you, the thought filled him with so much warmth, so much pleasure. "you need only patience until we are wed." You shook your head desperately, the coil inside you uncomfortably wound. "I need you."

He hummed in lieu of a response, circling his fingertips on your clit, the rapid motions along with his rutting into your sweet spot materializing the light of day into your ever blurred, darkening sight. "You have me." The earnest, gentle but resolute words, coupled with everything else he was undoing you with, send you over the edge, ripples of pleasure surge through you and his motions falter ever so slightly, distracted by the way you shuddered, the way your slick walls gripped onto him. "That's it—fuck."

Baelor pulled away from you, hot ropes of cum gushing out and dirtying your abdomen. Guilt ridden apologies fell from his lips as he rutted into his fist until the last drop ran down his soaked tip. After your breaths slowed into a speakable rhythm, he got off the bed and asked you to stay lied back and wait, receiving a weak nod in response.

When he returned, a bucket and towel in hand—your favorite towel which you would grieve later, but you couldn't be bothered to care about now, not when Baelor cradled your face and brushed away at the wetness from your cheeks with both his thumbs, eyelids fluttering in shame. "I am sorry," he told you, voice hushed.

"Why?" You asked smilingly, shivering at the damp coldness the wet towel left in its wake. "I've been unkind, I should not have been so rough," Baelor explained, wringing the towel of it's water and continuing in his task, hands tender like you would shatter at the slightest bit of force — it was maddening how easily he made you want to kiss him. Resisting the urge to roll your eyes, you smiled, endeared, and took the towel from his hands and begun cleaning them. "But you know I wanted you to be."

"I do, but—" a chaste kiss interrupted his rant before it went out of hand, warmth spread through his face to his ears, as if he was not drilling into you minutes before, it gladdened you, this reminder that he wasn't merely lust that sent him after you—but adoration too.

"Hush now," you said, pushing him down onto the pillows, resting your head onto his chest.

A huff left him. "You know I must leave for my own quarters now," Baelor told you, as he encased you in his arms and let you enlace your fingers with his and play with them. "I was hoping you'd forget about that," you said distractedly, memorizing the shape and feel of his palm and fingers by touch.

"I have a tourney I would rather not be late for."

"Sleep here." His brow arched at the suggestion, lips curled in a smirk. "You know precisely why I cannot do that,"

"Why not? None would scold you for not being in bed, you are a guest and a prince at that, besides you will have to get used to–" a thumb gently swiping over your lips, hushed you. "As you wish—but only for a while, understand?"

Minutes of hushed conversation passed by, negotiations that ended in a two-way victory; you would spectate within the safety of the stands if he entered the lists, recommending the castle's smith to armor him cheekily when he tried to use his lack of armor as an excuse.

That hushed conversation turned into hours of soft snores, your warmth gently guiding him to slumber — sending the royal servants into a frenzied search when the only things they found of him were his abandoned rings scattered on the surface of that table.

saw this on pinterest and it wholly encapsulated baelor in this...

sorry for not being active a while was busy getting rolled by my crippling anxiety,,, i am good now so i can get going on the wips <33

feedback is appreciated, i'm an esl english major so it'll help my career a lot, okay maybe not so much on the smut part lol but ig for recreational purposes i can learn — hope you enjoyed!!

taglist: @joe-alice, @qu33n0fmyp3rs0naluniv3rs3, @heavengirls111, @mrsnms

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