The Searing of the Sun
✺ summary: six years ago, prince baelor left sunspear for the capital, leaving behind a promise and the girl who held his childhood heart. now twenty and the heir to the iron throne, he returns to dorne on a royal visit. amidst the cool waters and heavy heat of the water gardens, an old sparks ignites into an unforgettable night, shadowed by the heavy price of duty.
✺ pairing: young!baelor targaryen x dornish!fem reader
✺ contents/tags: soft smut, established childhood friends-to-lovers, young baelor (20y/o as the reader), angst, bittersweet ending, emotional hurt/comfort, infidelity (technical/political), unrequited duty, mutual longing/pining, pre blackfyre rebellion, pre akotsk, canon divergence (let me know if i missed something)
✺ word count: 3K+
part 2 | other works
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The fountains of the Water Gardens sang the same song they always had, but to you the music sounded hollow.
Six years. Six years since King Daeron II ascended the Iron Throne, pulling his eldest son away from the orange groves and blood-red sands of Dorne to face the grim, gray realities of King's Landing.
Your last memory of Baelor was at fourteen. He had been a boy then — slender, with the dark hair of his Martell mother and his peculiar mismatched eyes, one the deep brown of his Dornish heritage and one the mysterious violet of Old Valyria. On the morning of his departure, he had cornered you by the blood-oranges trees, his hands gripping your shoulders with desperate teenage strength. "I won't forget you", he had whispered, fiercely, pressing a quick, breathless kiss to your cheek. "Never".
Now, at twenty, he was back. But he was no longer just Baelor. He was the Crown Prince. The Prince of Dragonstone. The Breakspear.
When the royal retinue arrived, you stood among the Dornish court, your heart hammering against your ribs. When he stepped forward, the breath left your lungs. The boy was gone. In his place stood a man — broad-shouldered, carrying himself with the quiet, imposing dignity of a future king. His dark hair was cropped shorter, and his jaw had hardened.
But as his eyes swept over the crowd, they locked onto yours. For a fraction of a second, the stoic prince vanished, and the boy from the Water Garden smiled through those striking mismatched eyes.
The formal banquet in the Great Hall of Sunspear was an exercise in glittering torment. Silk banners of the three-headed dragon and the pierced sun swayed in the warm breeze, while lords and ladies toasted to the enduring peace between the Iron Throne and Dorne. Baelor sat at the high table, flanked by his uncle, Prince Maron Martell, and a doze high-ranking advisors. He played the part of the dutiful heir perfectly — listening intently, nodding with practiced grace, and wearing the heavy, invisible mantle of his future crown.
You sat further down the hall, watching him through the shifting crowd. Every time he spoke, his voice — now deep and resonant, a far cry from the cracked tones of his adolescence — sent a strange shiver down your spine. He looked every bit the Conqueror's descendant, yet his skin was still kissed by the Dornish sun he had loved so much as a boy.
Once or twice, his gaze drifted past his advisors, cutting straight through the smoky, candle-lit air to find you. There was a quiet desperation in those brief glances, a silent plea that the courtly masks couldn't entirely hide.
Suffocated by the heat and the heavy scent of roasted meats and spilled wine, you slipped out of the hall unnoticed.
The night air of the Water Gardens was a soothing balm. Here, away from the court, the world was painted in shades of silver and deep indigo under the moonlight. The sweet, heavy fragrance of night-blooming jasmine hung thick in the air, mingling with the crisp scent of freshwater. You walked along the marble pink tiles, the hem of your thin silk gown sweeping softly against the stone, until you reached the largest, most secluded pool — the very place where you and Baelor used to splash each other as children, hiding from the septons who tried to teach him his histories.
"I hoped I would find you here".
The voice came from the shadows of a column covered in climbing vines. You turned, your breath catching in your throat.
Baelor stepped into the moonlight. He had stripped away his heavy formal doublet and the golden Targaryen chain. Now, wearing only a loose, open-collared linen shirt and dark trousers, he looked less like a prince and more like the boy who had stolen your heart six years ago.
"My Prince", you breathed, instinctively lowering yourself into a polite curtsy.
Before you could complete the gesture, Baelor crossed the distance between you in two long strides. His hands, warm and calloused from years of training with sword and lance, caught your elbows, gently lifting you back up.
"None of that", he murmured, his voice thick with an emotion he had kept suppressed all evening. "Not between us. Never between us".
You looked up into his face. Up close, you could see the faint lines of exhaustion around his eyes — the toll of a kingdom's expectations resting on twenty-year-old shoulders.
"You've grown, Baelor", you said softly, the old familiarity slipping back onto your tongue like a cherished habit.
A small, genuine smile broke through his exhaustion, transforming his rugged features. "And you have become the most beautiful woman in the Seven Kingdoms. I spent the entire feast staring at you, praying for a moment to escape".
"You remembered", you whispered, your heart thumping wildly against your ribs. "You promised you wouldn't forget".
"I could never forget", he said, his gaze dropping to your lips before rising to lock with your eyes. He lifted a hand, his knuckles gently brushing the curve of your cheek, a touch so tender it made your eyes sting with unshed tears. "Every night in King's Landing, when the sky was gray and the air smelled of ash and old mud, I closed my eyes and thought of this place. I thought of the sun. I thought of you".
The years of separation, the miles of silence, and the agonizing pining vanished in the span of a single heartbeat. The unspoken tension that had simmered between you since his arrival finally broke. It was you who closed the remaining distance, stepping into his space, your hands finding the broad expanse of his chest.
Baelor let out a low, ragged breath, his arms wrapping around your waist, pulling you flush against him. The heat radiating from his body was intoxicating.
"I missed you", you whispered against his skin.
"I am home", he answered, his voice a gravelly murmur against your hair. "For tonight, I am finally home".
He tilted your chin up with two fingers. The hesitation lasted only a second before his lips met yours.
The kiss was not the clumsy exchange of fourteen-year-old; it was a reunion of two sould starved for one another. It began with a sweet, aching tenderness, a mutual tasting of years lost, but quickly deepened as Baelor groaned into your mouth. His tongue parted your lips, possessive and demanding, tasting of sweet Dornish wine and a fierce, repressed passion. Your fingers tangled into his thick, dark hair, pulling him closer, anchoring yourself to him as the world around you faded into nothing but the sound of the running water and the heat of his embrace.
The heat between you was a living thing, more fervent than the midday sun that baked the red sands of the Shadow City. Every breath Baelor took seemed to be drawn from your own lungs, and as his hands roamed the curve of your back, the think silk of your gown felt like a barrier too heavy to bear.
"The water", you whispered against the pulse point of his neck, where his skin tasted of salt and longing. "It's too warm for the air, and we are too reckless for the land".
Baelor pulled back just enough to look at you, his mismatched eyes dark with a hunger that made your knees weak. Without a word, he took your hand, his fingers lacing through yours with a possessive strength. He led you to the edge of the sunken pool. The water was still, a dark mirror reflecting the constellations above, save for the gentle ripples where the snake-headed spouts poured liquid silver into the basin.
He stepped down the marble stairs first, the water rising to his waist, soaking his linen shirt until it clung to the powerful muscles of his chest like a second skin. Then, he reached for you.
As you stepped into the pool, the warmth of the water enveloped you, but it was nothing compared to the heat of Baelor's hands as they found your waist. The buoyancy of the water made you feel weightless, tethered to the earth only by the man holding you.
"Six years", he murmured, his voice a low vibration that seemed to travel through the water and into your very bones. "I spent six years wondering if the memory of your touch was something my mind had simply invented to keep me sane in King's Landing".
"And now?", you asked, your voice trembling as you reached out to unlace the collar of his damp shirt.
"Now", he whispered, capturing your wrists, "I realize the memories didn't do you justice".
With a slow, reverent deliberation, he began to peel the silk straps from your shoulders. The fabric slid down, heavy with water, pooling around your hips before drifting away like a discarded ghost. You stood before him, bared to the moonlight and his gaze. Baelor's breath hitched. He looked at you not with the lechery of a stranger, but with the awe of a man beholding a miracle he thought he'd lost.
His shirt followed, cast aside to the marble edge. In the flickering light of the distant torches, his body was a testament to his life as a warrior — scarred in places, honed by the rigors of the yard, beautiful in its strength.
When your skin finally met his — bare, wet, and burning — a soft gasp escaped you. You arched into him, your breasts brushing against the rough hair of his chest, your thighs slick and tangled with his under the water. The sensation was overwhelming; the cool night air on your shoulders contrasted with the heated sanctuary of the pool and the searing contact of his flesh.
Baelor's mouth found yours again, deeper this time, desperate. His hands wandered, mapping the changes the years had wrought. He traced the cruve of your hip, the swell of your breast, his touch firm yet incredibly gentle, as if he feared you might dissolve back into a dream.
"Baelor", you whimpered, your fingers digging into the muscles of his shoulders.
He moved back until your spine pressed against the smooth, sun-warmed tiles of the pool's edge. He lifted you, your legs instinctively wrapping around his waist, drawing him into the cradle of your hips. The friction of your skin through the water was an exquisite torture. He buried his face in the crook of your neck, his breath hot and ragged.
"I am yours", he groaned against your skin, a confession and a vow. "Always, I have been yours".
He moved with a slow, agonizing patience, wanting to savor every increment of the union. When he finally merged his body with yours, the world seemed to tilt. It wasn't just a physical joining; it was the clicking into place of jagged piece of your sould that had been missing since he left Sunspear.
You threw your head back, your eyes closing as a wave of pure, unadulterated sensation washed over you. The rhythm was like the tide — slow and rhythmic at first, then building with a fierce, unstoppable momentum. The water splashed softly against the marble walls, echoing the frantic beat of your hearts. Every thrust was a word unspoken, every moan a memory reclaimed.
Baelor held you as if you were the only solid thing in a crumbling world. His strength was your anchor, his passion your fire. You felt the tension coil within you, a golden thread pulling tighter and tighter until, with a choked cry of his name, it snapped. The world shattered into a thousand points of light, a rhythmic pulsing that left you breathless and shivering in his arms. Moments later, Baelor followed, his body tensing, his fingers gripping the tiles behind you as he surrendered himself entirely to you.
For a long time, there was only the sound of heavy breathing and the quiet trickle of the fountains. Baelor didn't let go. He held you close, his head resting on your shoulder, his heartbeat slowing against yours. The water, once a playground for two children, had become the silent witness to the man and woman they had become.
Eventually, he pulled back just enough to press a lingering kiss to your forehead. The intensity in his eyes hadn't faded; if anything, it had turned into a profound, aching sadness.
"Come", he whispered, his voice cracked. "The night is short, and there are things I must say before the sun finds us".
He helped you out of the water, the cold air making you shiver until he wrapped his arms around you, shielding you from the world just a little while longer.
The transition from the warmth of the water to the cool night air felt like a premonition. Baelor wrapped a dry linen cloak around your shoulders, his movements still tender, but a sudden, heavy silence had settled over him. The lightness that had filled his eyes during their embrace was gone, replaced by the grim shadow of the Prince of Dragonstone.
You sat together on a marble bench hidden beneath the canopy of an ancient fig tree. Your skin was still tingling from his touch, your hair damp against your neck. You leaned into him, expecting his arm to pull you close, but his posture was rigid, staring out at the moonlight dancing on the ripples of the pool.
"Baelor?", you asked softly, reaching out to touch his knee. "What is it?".
He didn't look at you immediately. When he did, the sorrow in his mismatched eyes made your breath hitch. "There are things happening in King's Landing", he began, his voice flat, drained of the passion from moments ago. "My father's position is secure, but the realm is...fragile. The lords of the Reach and the Stormlands still look at Dorne with suspicion. They see my mother's blood in me, and they fear it".
A cold knot began to form in your stomach. "What does that have to do with us? With tonight?".
Baelor took a deep, ragged breath, closing his eyes. "Arrangements have been made. A marriage alliance to bind the Marcher lords to the Crown. To prove my loyalty to the houses that border your homeland". He paused, the words tasting like ash. "I am to wed Lady Jena Dondarrion".
The words struck you like a physical blow. You pulled your hand back as if his skin had suddenly turned to fire. The romantic warmth of the Water Gardens vanished, replaced by a sudden, biting chill.
"Jena Dondarrion", you repeated, your voice a hollow whisper. You stood up, the linen cloak slipping slightly from your shoulders. "A Marcher house. The Stormlands".
"It is politics", Baelor said quickly, standing up to face you, his hands reaching for yours. "It is the duty my father demands of me. The duty the realm expects of the Heir of the Iron Throne".
"Do not lecture me on duty, Baelor", you snapped, stepping backward, out of his reach. Hurt, sharp and burning, flared in your chest, quickly turning into defensive anger. "You come back here, after six years of silence. You look at me with those eyes, you bring me to this pool, you take...everything I had saved for you, and then, while the water is still drying on our skin, you tell me you belong to someone else?".
"I don't belong to her", Baelor's voice cracked, a rare display of raw emoion from the usually stoic prince. He took a step toward you, his jaw clenched, his hands trembling. "Do you think I want this? Do you think I want to spend my life in a cold castle with a woman I do not know, while my heart remains here, buried in the red sands?".
"Then refuse them", you cried, tears finally hot and angry against your cheeks. "You are the Heir. You are the future king. Tell your father no".
"I cannot!", Baelor roared, the dragon in him finally flaring, though it was a dragon trapped in a cage of its own making. He closed the distance between you, grasping your upper arms. He didn't hurt you, but his grip was iron, desperate to make you understand. "If I refuse, it insults House Dondarrion. It insults the Stormlands. It gives the lords who hate my mother an excuse to whisper of rebellion. My father broke centuries of tradition to bring Dorne into the realm through peace, not war. If I am weak, if I choose my own happiness over the peace of the realm, that peace will bleed".
You looked at him through a blur of tears. The anger was draining out of you, leaving only a vast aching emptiness. You saw the truth in his face. He wasn't lying. He was a prisoner of his own bloodline, bound by golden chains to a throne he hadn't asked to inherit.
"So this was a goodbye", you whispered, your voice breaking. "Tonight...this was just a farewell to your childhood".
"No", Baelor said fiercely, pulling you flush against his chest. He buried his face in your damp hair, his chest heaving with silent, ragged breaths. "Never say that. Tonight was the only real thing I have felt in six years. Jena will have my name. She will have my crown, and she will have the sons I must give the realm. But she will never have me".
He pulled back, his hands framing your face, his thumbs gently wiping away your tears. His gaze was burning, intense enough to imprint itself on your soul forever.
"Listen to me", he commanded softly. "The Iron Throne may claim my body, but my heart stays here. It belongs to you. It had belonged to you since we were fourteen, and it will belong to you when I am an old man sitting on a chair of swords. I swear it to you, by the Old Gods and the New, and by the sun of Dorne".
The tragedy of it broke you completely. You leaned your forehead against his chest, weeping silently as his arms wrapped around you, holding you with a fierce, possessive strength. There would be no secret escapes, no happy endings somewhere away from the world. He was the dragon, and you were the desert, and they were destined to be separated by a kingdom.
The first pale light of dawn began to bleed through the palm trees, painting the easter sky in shades of bruised purple and gold. The night was over. Reality was knocking at the gates of Sunspear.
Baelor knew it too. He let out a long, shuddering sigh and gently tilted your chin up one last time.
"I must go before the court wakes", he whispered, his voice thick with a sorrow that would haunt you for the rest of your days. "Look at me".
You opened your eyes, meeting his mismatched gaze.
"I will love you until the end of my days", he promised, the vow a solemn weight between you.
Then, he leaned down and captured your lips in one final kiss.
It was entirely different from the passion of the pool. This kiss was slow, agonizingly sweet, and heavy with the taste of tears and salt. It was a kiss meant to last a lifetime — a desperate attempt to memorize the textute of your lips, the warmth of your breath, and the scent of your skin. It was a promise, a heartbreak, and an unyielding declaration of love all poured into a single, devastating touch.
When he finally pulled away, it felt as though a piece of your chest had been torn out. He didn't look back. Baelor turned and walked away into the morning mist, his tall silhouette disappearing down the marble path toward the palace.
You stood alone by the whispering fountains of the Water Gardens, the linen cloak wrapped tightly around you, watching the sun rise over Dorne, knowing that the sun had just set on your heart forever.
