Mar 15
Baelor
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Baelor
Blackfyre Rebellion Baelor...
"he was the heart of chivalry and the soul of wisdom."
No, because I'm so glad that someone finally noticed the bloodstains looked like a mace!
𝐖𝐈𝐓𝐇𝐈𝐍 𝐂𝐋𝐎𝐒𝐄𝐃 𝐃𝐎𝐎𝐑𝐒 | 𝐁𝐀𝐄𝐋𝐎𝐑 & 𝐌𝐀𝐄𝐊𝐀𝐑 𝐓𝐀𝐑𝐆𝐀𝐑𝐘𝐄𝐍.
⤷ It did not take a fool to notice that as honourable as Prince Baelor Targaryen was, and as harsh and bitter Prince Maekar Targaryen appeared; neither men could satiate their hunger when it came to you, their sweet little wife.
⤷ warnings; mature audience, explicit sexual content, threesome, hair pulling, anal fingering, vaginal fingering, breeding kink, degradation, anal play, anal sex, rough sex, gentle sex, penis in vagina sex, sweet words and too much smut.
⤷ part two, here's part one.
For all the honourable things Prince Baelor Targaryen was hailed for, respected for; none knew the man behind closed doors, none knew of the hunger that lingered beneath his loins, a dragon born of careful restraint and endless devotion and a possession to consume the delicate flesh of his little wife.
“I said come here,” you could not find a single ounce of shame when you shuddered at the command falling from his lips, “I will not ask a third time.”
The same could be said for Prince Maekar Targaryen, as he was revered, brutal and quick to anger, commanding behind closed doors and within, fingers splayed over your back as he leaned down to whisper, “Come now, little wife. I would not keep him waiting.”
You were but a puppet at that moment, pulled inevitably by the strings wrapped around their fingers and when you finally stood before Baelor, your husband, dutiful and respectful, did not seem inclined to show you an ounce of gentleness when he roughly pulled you towards him, firm hand cupping you behind your neck, “Did you enjoy provoking us tonight, sweet girl? Letting another man speak to you so, knowing the consequences?”
“I did not—,” Maekar had moved to stand behind you, firm fingers digging into the supple flesh of your hips, “—gods, I did not mean for it to continue as it did.”
“I know,” Baelor whispered, his breath warm against your skin, “but I cannot allow such debauchery to slip away—not even for you.” His words were heavy with promise, laced with a fierce protectiveness. “You will learn what we mean when we have truly abandoned all restraint.”
Your heart skipped a beat, heat flooding your cheeks as desire unfurled like a slow, burning flame between your legs. The weight of his gaze, the intensity in his voice, awakened something deep inside you—both thrilling and terrifying in its power.
Maekar’s voice was a low growl, rough against your ear as his teeth grazed the sensitive skin there.
“Get on the bed,” he whispered harshly, the urgency in his tone tempered by a slow, deliberate pace. “Nice and slow.”
You obeyed, every movement measured as you laid yourself down, your body already humming with anticipation.
The contrast between Baelor’s gentle devotion and Maekar’s fierce command sent a thrill through you. The moment stretched taut between them, charged with promise and raw, combustible desire.
Baelor hummed softly beneath his breath, the sound vibrating against your skin like a tender caress. His hands found yours, guiding you gently closer to him. His lips brushed against yours, warm and lingering.
“I want to hear you say it,” he murmured, his voice low and urgent, yet tender. “Tell us you want this.”
His eyes searched yours—deep, patient, and full of longing. The invitation was both a question and a plea, a moment of trust between all of you.
Your breath caught as desire and vulnerability intertwined, and with a voice barely more than a whisper, you breathed the words that bound you to them.
“Yes,” and then Maekar’s hands moved with deliberate slowness, easing the dress from your shoulders. The fabric slipped away like a soft caress, leaving your skin exposed to the cool air and the warmth of their gazes. Baelor took your hand, steadying you as he guided you toward the bed with a reassuring gentleness that made your pulse quicken.
“Gods, you are beautiful,” Baelor murmurs beneath his breath.
The air in the royal chamber held the scent of sandalwood and something darker—something like ozone before a storm.
Your breath caught as Maekar’s knuckles brushed the curve of your shoulder, a touch so light it might have been imagined. But then his fingers curled under the silk strap of your gown, and there was nothing imaginary about the heat radiating from his skin.
“Yes,” you whispered. The word had barely left your lips before he moved. Maekar’s hands worked with the patience of a man who had conquered kingdoms. The dress slid from your shoulders in a slow descent, each inch of exposed skin prickling under the shift of air.
Silk pooled at your elbows, your waist, whispering past your hips until it lay in a shimmering puddle at your feet. Cool air kissed your breasts, your belly, the tops of your thighs.
Baelor drew a breath that sounded almost pained.
“Look at you,” Maekar murmured, stepping back to let his brother see. Baelor’s hand found yours before you could shiver. His palm was warm, callused from swordwork, and when he lifted your fingers to his lips, the kiss he pressed there sent a tremor straight through your wrist and into your chest.
“We will be gentle,” he said, his voice a low rumble against your knuckles. “Until you ask us not to be.”
A promise. And a question wrapped inside it.
You can only nod, your throat too tight for words, as he guides you backward toward the massive bed draped in crimson velvet.
The mattress meets the backs of your knees and you sink onto it, the fabric cool against your bare skin.
Both men stand over you, still fully clothed—leather and linen and the glint of gold at their throats. The imbalance makes your stomach flip.
Maekar unclaps his cloak first. It falls with a heavy thud, and then his tunic follows, revealing a chest mapped with scars and corded muscle.
Dark hair trails down the center of his abdomen, disappearing beneath his belt. “Just fucking look at her, such a little slut for us.”
Beside him, Baelor strips with less ceremony, shedding his garments like a man shedding the weight of a crown. His body is leaner than his brother’s, quicker, the body of a duelist rather than a brawler.
When they join you on the bed, the mattress dips on either side. You lie between them, a captive made willing, a prize already won.
Baelor’s mouth finds your throat, teeth nipping at the skin, “You'll scream for us,” not kissing—just resting there, feeling your pulse beat against his lips. His hand splays across your stomach, fingers spanning the width of your belly like he is memorizing the terrain.
“So soft,” he breathes. “Every inch of you.”
Maekar, meanwhile, has taken a more direct route. His hand closes over your breast with a possessiveness that makes you arch into his palm. His thumb circles your nipple once, twice, then presses down with enough pressure to make you gasp.
The sound is swallowed by Baelor’s mouth as he finally kisses you—deep and slow, his tongue sweeping past your lips in a rhythm that matches the lazy circles his brother traces on your skin.
Hands everywhere. Mouths everywhere.
You lose track of whose fingers are whose—only that one set slides between your thighs while the other pinches your nipple to a stiff peak.
“She’s already wet,” Maekar observes, and the clinical tone of it makes your face burn. His fingers glide through the evidence, spreading you open for his brother’s inspection. “Baelor, feel this.”
Another hand joins the first. Baelor’s middle finger traces the seam of your cunt with reverent precision, dipping just inside before withdrawing. He makes a sound of approval that vibrates against your collarbone.
“Responsive.”
The word shouldn’t make you clench, but it does. Your hips buck without permission, seeking more of that teasing touch.
“Please,” you hear yourself say.The brothers exchange a look over your body—some silent communication forged through years of shared battlefields and shared beds.
Then Maekar shifts his weight and Baelor rolls onto his back, and suddenly you are being lifted, positioned, arranged between them like a doll.Baelor beneath you, his cock hot against your belly. Maekar behind you, his thighs bracketing your hips.
“Ride him first,” Maekar says into your ear, his teeth grazing the lobe. “I’ll prepare you here.”
His slick fingers find the cleft of your arse at the same moment Baelor guides himself to your entrance. The dual sensation splits your attention so completely that you can’t form a single coherent thought.
Baelor’s tip nudges inside—just the head—and your body makes room for him on instinct, sinking down until he fills you to the root. A groan tears from his throat.
“Fuck. You’re tight.”
Behind you, Maekar’s finger circles your other entrance, pressing but not breaching. The oil he’s coated himself with is cool, a contrast to the furnace building in your cunt.
He works with agonizing slowness, circling and retreating, circling and retreating, until you rock back against his hand without shame.
“Greedy little thing,” Maekar murmurs, and pushes one finger inside.The intrusion makes you clench around Baelor, which makes him curse and grip your hips hard enough to bruise. “Do that again.”
Maekar obliges, adding a second finger. The stretch is foreign and sharp, but his brother’s weight inside you keeps you anchored.
Pleasure and pressure blend until you can’t tell where one ends and the other begins. You are full in a way that makes your thoughts go syrupy and slow.
“She’s ready,” Maekar announces, and his fingers withdraw. The emptiness is almost offensive. Then his cock replaces them—thicker than his fingers, hotter, demanding where they had been merely curious. He pushes and your body resists, and for one suspended heartbeat you think you can’t.
Then Baelor rolls his hips beneath you, a distraction that makes you gasp, and Maekar uses the opening to slide home. They hold still for a long moment, both of them buried to the hilt, and you can feel their heartbeats through the walls of your own body—Baelor’s a steady drum beneath you, Maekar’s a wild thunder behind.
Nothing has ever felt like this.
Nothing has ever been so much.
Maekar moves first.
A shallow thrust that makes you see stars. Then Baelor answers with a roll of his hips that grinds against something devastating inside you. They find a rhythm quickly—one pushing while the other pulls, a seesaw of sensation that never lets you come all the way down from the peak.
The sounds in the room become obscene. Skin slapping skin. The wet slide of their cocks working you from both ends. Your own voice, gone hoarse with moaning, chanting something that might have been their names or might have been a prayer.
“Such a dirty little whore,” Baelor murmurs, “taking us both, you'll learn that we don't share, sweet girl.”
Baelor’s hand finds your clit. His thumb presses down and circles, and the double penetration becomes triple stimulation, and your vision goes white at the edges.
“That’s it,” Maekar pants against your shoulder blade. “Take all of it. Take all of us.”
You shatter.
The orgasm ripples through you in waves, each one triggered by a new thrust. You clench around them both, and hear Maekar hiss through his teeth.
Baelor’s rhythm falters first—he buries himself deep and holds there, pulsing hot inside your cunt while a guttural sound tears from his chest. His release triggers his brother’s. Maekar drives into you one last time, fingers digging into your hipbones, and empties himself with a groan that seems to come from somewhere primal.
The warmth of it spreads through you, a liquid heat that marks you from the inside out.For a suspended breath, no one moves.
Then Baelor laughs—a low, wondering sound. “Brother,” he says, still buried inside you. “I think we’ve found broken our little queen.”
Maekar’s response is a kiss pressed to the nape of your neck. “She’ll need more training first, but she won't be making that same mistake again, will you?”
“No, I promise.”
The word training should alarm you. Instead, your exhausted body gives a traitorous little clench that makes both men groan in unison.
Baelor shifts beneath you, his softening cock slipping free. The loss makes you whimper. But Maekar hasn’t yet withdrawn, and his hand slides around to cup your throat, tilting your head back until you meet his dark eyes. “You took us beautifully,” he says, his thumb stroking your racing pulse. “But we’re not finished with you yet.”
✦ ݁˖ — sintaera, 2026
The dragon's jealousy
Masterlist
High Valyrian Dictionary
Baelor Targaryen x reader x (Maekar Targaryen)
(Lyonel Targaryen x reader)
Warnings: Targarcest (uncle/niece), Arranged Marriage, court politics and obligations, mentions of polyandry, daddy issues, past relationships, slightly toxic behaviour, misogyny, exhibitionism, fingering, oral (f receiving, like a lot), p in a, breeding kink if you squint, edging, overstimulation.
Hello everyone! I know I've taken my time writing this one but here it is. After the last survey, there were a lot of votes for Baelor. From now on I'll probably write about the other options as well.
I hope you enjoy it a lot!!! Have fun!!!
The Moon.
I yawn behind my hand, trying to cover my boredom and tiredness from all the interactions in my cousin’s birthday Valarr banquet.
Music, food, lords, and ladies move around the ballroom as the full moon shines in the sky. I sigh, bored, sitting in a cushioned settle in the back of the room.
Conversations about politics, hunts, riches, and heirs infest the walls like a plague, hidden meanings and fake smiles dripping from the ceiling.
How tiring. Speaking about pretence.
Three ladies approach, familiar badly hidden arrogant gestures showing at every step they come closer.
Great houses and their arrogance. I wonder if their jewels are as heavy as their ignorance.
Tya Lannister arrives with two lower ladies on queue. The blonde woman sits next to me, while the other pair wait for the servants to get the chairs to sit close.
“It is a great pleasure meeting you again, your grace.” She says with a pitched voice and a sweet smile. “We saw you here on your own and wanted to grant you some company, you see. And speaking about grace, such a graceful dress. Especially those golden decorations. Utterly splendid.”
Speaking about lack of manners. To call me as if I am a duchess…
“And that necklace, your grace.” Adds another one. “It is truly majestic. Is that not true, Lady Arryn?”
“Yes, indeed. The whole kingdom should feel honoured to be graced with such a view.” Finishes, the last lady.
One would think that there would be space between one lie and the next. Or at least for something else than hair and decorations.
“We wanted to congratulate you, princess.” Now begins Lady Lannister. Seeing that I have no intention of indulging in her chattery, her smile trembles. My silence seems to have irked her, since her tone sharps a little at her broken ego. "Your Lord father, prince Reghar, must be so proud of you, your highness.”
“Proud of what exactly? Pray to tell, Lady Lannister.”
“To be able to secure a marriage with your lord uncles, the heir to the throne and the anvil, of course. It is a great honour, my princess.” Her words are not wrong but the sarcastic and jealous tone suggests a far more meaningful significance. She looks at the royal table, where one of my new husbands sits turning his rings around his fingers while he talks with some lord about taxes. She blushes at the sight of him.
Ilībios.
Bitch.
I then give her the same smile she gave me at the beginning. “Yes, true it is, my fair lady. I believe congratulations are in order for you too.” She looks startled as soon as I talk. “I hear your lord father has also secured a marriage for you. And from another great house nonetheless. Gowen Baratheon if I am not mistaken.” I wait for her to confirm, not for me, but to give her time to look at her own circumstances.
So much for not knowing when to shut up.
“Yes, your grace.”
“That is also a great honour, Lady Lannister. I heard that he is a few years older than the heir of the realm, though I believe that will hardly be a problem. After all, it is a good marriage.”
The poor blonde trembles next to me, her pride and her eyes on the floor, while the other two girls decide to follow my words and begin talking about the sensitive subject.
Not after a few seconds, a manly voice pauses the two animated voices. Speaking about flattery.
“Excuse my interruption, beautiful ladies.” His untamed hair moves, flowing with a breeze from a nearby window catching the breath of. His tanned skin contrasts with the yellow and gold from his tunic and his deep brown eyes are fixed on me. Lyonel Baratheon smirks at me naturally. “My princess, will you give me the honour of joining me on the dance floor?” He asks with something between reverence and mocking custom.
A storm indeed.
I stand, and walk towards him. “Excuse me, ladies. It was a pleasure talking to you. Let us hope it is not the last time” I stand, looking at the ashamed lady at the last part.
I finally join the stag, and his hands go to a position that he used to take so much while we danced between rain and wind at Storm's End.
“You looked like you needed a breather.” Comments the man, beginning to turn me around at the song path.
“Everyone seems insistent on mentioning my marriage with my uncles, and even I have my limits on how much mockery and flattery I can take.” I spat, whispering, while following his lead with the other pairs around us. I feel his breathing on my hair and his fingers tensing on my back.
“Is it Baelor now? How adorable.” He says sarcastically.
“Lyonel…”
“No, no. I mean, it is so, so loveable.” He is angry, jealous. Something I can understand perfectly since it makes sense. I was his betrothed before the dragons decided to keep my marriage within the family, to say something.
“I swear to you, Lyonel Baratheon, that if you keep talking, I am going to cut off your head, put it on a spike and throw your body into the river.” I murmur aggressively.
He smiles charmingly at me. “You have no idea how much effort I need to do to keep my eyes and lips off you, gorgeous.” I say nothing as I feel a gaze burning my skull coming from the high table, and I try, EXPRESSLY, not to look in that direction, wanting to keep my brief freedom a little longer. We keep dancing, uncharacteristically silent, strangely, since the man seems normally unable to close his mouth for more than a few seconds. “I want to keep dancing with you, my princess.” Says the Laughing storm, pressing on my back as the song begins to come to an end. His voice wants to be cheeky, but it inevitably stays with a desperate tone. A few lords and ladies turn around, curiosity getting the best of them, but look away as I glance at them. I push him back slightly, getting the space he tries to close.
Oh, Lyonel, I miss you too but...
“I am married, my Lord. So I cannot.” I wish I could. I turn my face down. “I am afraid no second dance is allowed for anyone else than my... husband.” The last word murmured, unsure.
“Please… beautiful. You do not even love him. You do not even love them.” He repeats himself lower the second time. Them. “Besides, you agreed with me that this tradition is nefarious. They are your…”
I open my mouth to silence him before he gets himself killed or me humiliated, but a new voice cuts me before I can.
“I am glad you could make it this far from the Stormlands, Lord Baratheon.” I feel a freezing stare, a shiver travels through my back and my breath hitches. I quickly turn to the grave voice behind me, my eyes meeting his familiar mismatched ones but mine go instantly to the floor like a child caught doing something she should not. “But I am afraid I would like to have my lady WIFE back.” The dragon claims, while emphasising a certain word that makes my neck hot and my soul stir.
Baelor's aura has always been formidable. A joy and pride to allies and a nightmare to the enemies. The Breakspear. The prince stares at our two figures with his unmatched cold eyes. There is no fake sweetness in his voice. Just a clear courteous warning. Let her go.
“Kepūs.” I murmur startled. Baelor keeps his eyes on the stag, who raised an eyebrow.
Uncle.
“Māzīs, ñuha jorrāeliarzy.” orders the heir without looking at me.
Come, my beloved.
I doubt, turning again to the Baratheon who seems immersed in the glaring duel with my uncle who insists, firmer. “Now.”
I shiver again as I obey, walking slowly towards my uncle, my now husband, fearing the consequences of my defiance. When I get there I look up to his face, but he is already staring at my orbs with that intense glance on his. Scarry mesmerising mismatched eyes.
He firmly takes my hand and turns my body towards the golden dressed lord. “Say good bye.” He murmurs in my ear.
Lyonel looks at me, and I nod slightly. His eyes fall and after a low “Your royal highnesses...” He leaves defeated. I sigh, this time with relief since no incident has occurred. As much as I feel sorry for the stag, this is probably the best result. As I go to turn around, the pair of Targaryen hands take my waist. I can feel the metal of his rings on it.
“You forget yourself, wife.” Whispers the heterochromatic eyed dragon. I can feel his breath grazing my ear and his clothed torso to my back.
“I was doing nothing, lord husband. Merely a talk and a dance.” I try to convince him by grazing his hand with mine and by saying what I know he wishes to hear. “There is nothing between us, valzȳrys.”
Husband.
The dragon turns me around by my torso, and keeps me there. “No, not anymore.” He pauses to sigh. “Oh, little dragon.” His hand holds my waist, and his fingers push against the back of my dress, approaching me to his own body with restrained gentleness. “Be glad Maekar is away at the moment, darling. We both know that he is not as lenient or patient as I am.”
No one around seems to be aware of the interaction other than the stag, who tensely rolls his eyes from his table full of lords of the Stormlands. If someone else notices, they do not show it. They know better than to anger the heir.
“Baelor, please, do not...” I beg, my voice not giving away the fear I have for Lyonel's future if my other husband hears about it. He interrupts me, caressing my jaw with his thumb.
“Believe me, ābrazȳrys, he will know.”
Wife.
He then caresses the back of my neck with his silver rings and I stop breathing. We stay looking at each other. I, with uncertainty and hope. Him, with care and something darker I had only spotted on our first night as he and Maekar took me away from the impertinent hands of the lords on the bedding ceremony. Jealousy. “Let us sit, my beloved. You have yet to fill your stomach tonight.” As I take step by step, I cannot help but to contemplate the possible second meaning of his sentence. I feel completely perverted as I do, getting flustered, but it does not leave my mind as I reminisce about the wedding night when they…
For the gods… Focus!
Baelor seems to realise where my mind goes as the corner of his mouth goes up. We walk to the high table where grandsire, the king, and grandmother, the queen, are. We make a little salute and go to our places. His hand moves off my waist only to pull out the chair for me to sit down on, and when he is sure I am comfortable, he settles down on his to my right. I feel him close. Closer than usual when we eat. I look to my left, where the absence of Maekar and his kids is palpable and realise there is more space. I intend to move my chair enough for our elbows not to touch every time we move, but when I look down as it does not move, I see Baelor's hand pinning down my chair. My orbs move up to his, which currently feel like a warning. Do not move away. He moves me even closer and rests his hand on my dressed leg like usual. All restraint of their physical touch was broken the moment the marriage was arranged, caresses, kisses and squeezes to the point of exhaustion. Mine obviously.
The broth and lamb go down easily as my memories distract me. His eyes are still on me.
“Will you not eat more, Kēpus?” I ask as I see him not asking for any more dishes.
“I am saving a place for dessert, wife.” The hair answers with a smile.
“The tart? It certainly looked delicious.”
“My OTHER dessert.” He announces, as I turn to him and his eyes meet mine once more. My cheeks are tinted red as I huff, embarrassed. I eat to avoid seeing his proud smirk. I then turn my attention to the rest of the party.
Prince Valarr dances with his pink haired wife. They smile at each other. Despite the arrangement, they look happy. I wonder if I will be able to be that happy.
No.
That enamoured.
Gods know that I love Baelor and Maekar, but our past relationship is not easily erased. Lust is not something that will magically make up for that.
Blood calls blood, but where is the limit between happiness and sin? Is being dragons enough to forgive actions that should have never been?
And then, there is Lyonel.
The stag with whom I fell into something between love, lust and custom. Many dates, many kisses, much pleasure and the loss of something that will never return. The man whose orbs now seem absorbed by mine.
The heir sighs by my side. His hand then moves higher, slow, deliberate. He wants to provoque me and regain the previously stolen attention. He cups my inner regions with his hand on top of the dress. I can only thank the many layers as he squeezes. My legs tremble and I do my best to control my expression.
Even the men, whose lustful and calculating eyes are directed at me and my title, are none the wiser about the actions happening under the wooden table. Only Lyonel seems to realise my current predicament, since with a bitter laugh, he looks away. I do too, trying to focus on the plate in front of me, as one of my hands press against the table and the other goes to the one pleasuring me. My nails dig inevitably into his skin but Baelor just smiles.
Finally, when I am about to reach my high in front of the whole gigantic room, he stops.
“Father.” He calls for the King's attention. “We will be retiring for the night. My wife is feeling rather tired.”
Grandsire looks at my direction, and seeing my red breathless face, he just nods. If he knows something, he does not acknowledge it. But the queen does. She smirks at me and gives me a little sign with his head.
Baelor gives me his arm for my lack of strength. I take it, and without another look inside, we walk out.
The cool air grazes my face and moves my hair softly, my white streaks shining in the moonlight. I take a deep breath finally and look up. I love the moon. It shines like it wants to answer. I wonder how many times I have fallen asleep under her after getting kissed to oblivion.
As we reach the tower of the Hand, I guess my husband sees my distraction and knows what is on my mind, because the next thing I know is the feeling of the stone behind my back. His face is in front of me and we stare at one another's eyes. The tension makes me feel that usual heat below my tummy like every other time one of them traps me alone somewhere hidden. That sweet anticipation that melts me.
“I am a possessive man, darling wife. It comes with the blood. The heritage.” His face comes closer to mine, and my eyes go inevitably to his lips, only to go back to his mismatching eyes. At my glance, he cleans his lips and canines with his tongue. I gulp. The tension is overwhelming and I feel his scorching stare undressing my form. “No dragon will ever accept any threat or thievery towards their mate or treasure. Never.” The man says as a final statement and his words caress the tip of my nose.
I want to kiss him. I need it.
I whine. “Baelor…”
I try to get our mouths together, finally in a kiss, but his hand moves to my throat to stop me from getting closer, and pushes me softly against the wall behind me, feeling my pulse with his thumb.
“That will not do, my darling.” He whispers, pupils eclipsing every other color in his eyes.
“Please, husband.”
He waits for a moment before giving up. “I really cannot resist you, can I, little dragon?” He does not tease me any more as our lips finally find one another. I feel the roughness of his beard on my skin. The pressure on my throat goes to my nape, pushing my body to his, while the other arm envelopes my waist. My eyes close to feel him deeper.
As much as guilt may hunt me later, I push the stag out of my mind. Better accept the future to come and welcome it, rather than dread the inevitable.
His fingers press against the dress, and descend searching for an entry to access between my legs. I help him pull my skirt up and his fingers are fast to feel my wetness. He groans before retiring his digits. His knees touch the ground.
“What are you…” I release a surprise moan as his mouth is quick to reach my labia. My hands fly to his hair and pull instinctively, but he gets my body closer with his arms and sucks my clit, harder than before. My head tilts back, and I feel my neck strained. He keeps going until I shake and shiver. Goosebumps crowd my whole body and I hear my voice escape without permission. “Jaehossa…”
Gods…
I have a respite as he intakes the much necessary air and my hands let go of his hair. I feel him breathing, the warm sensation grazing my clit. And then he blows and my mound stirs. His beard scarps against the skin of my trembling thighs as they unconsciously close while my center tries to get away from the sudden sensation, covering his ears with the fat. My weight unconsciously rests a little too much on his face.
“W-wait, Baelor. I will hurt...”
“No.” He digs his fingers in my thighs.
“I am heavy…”
As if to demonstrate the opposite, he takes my legs and I feel my feet in the air. His head is still between my legs.
What the…
Right now I am not sure if he is just used to the heavy tourney armour or to my cousins who seem eager to get carried by him at the same time.
“You are not heavy, darling, and I am going to make sure your beautiful mind gets it.” His tongue proves my entrance again before going out once more. “Whatever it takes.”
He bites my right thigh before going in again. This time, he stays there, sucking at my clit before moving his tongue inside, getting at every pinkish surface he can reach. My walls contract at the not so alien but intense sensation. My toes curl in anticipation.
He must get off from edging me, because he retracts his face once again.
“Baelor...” I plead. And he seems pleased. Extremely so.
“Not here. In our bed.” He answers and I curse him out loud which makes him chuckle. He lets me slide down until he can carry me by my ass as I hug him with my arms around his neck. My eyes fix on it in my like-drunk state. And I bite, keeping myself leached on it. He groans and I am sure he closes his eyes for a second. “Patience, ābrazȳrys.” His legs move us quickly to his room, up the stairs.
When we enter the chamber, the dragon drops me on the bed before locking the door firmly. I begin to undo the laces of my dress, my shoes already gone. Baelor approaches me, taking off his cape that ends on the floor. As soon as he gets to me he releases a little “Turn around” and helps me take off the rest of my clothes and undergarments, tracing shapes deliberately on my skin.
When every piece is gone from my body, I am the one to help and only the moment our body can completely touch, we get on the bed completely.
We kiss as he teases my opening with his digits. My juices slip down his hand before taking the remains to his tongue. My neck grows hot and sweat runs through my back. He now lays in the middle of the bed, with his open arms, expecting.
“Sit on my face, darling.”
“What?” I freeze.
“You heard me.” He answers with a smile.
“You cannot be serious, Baelor.” I say in disbelief. But he turns serious.
“Sit on my face, wife.” He leaves no room for an argument. With his inquisitive mismatched eyes watching me, I move towards him, and carefully, straddle his face, not resting on it yet. My doubts are clear on my face. I do not want to hurt him in any way.
“Are you sure this…” I can never finish my sentence because he grabs my thighs with his arms, and takes them to the side so my cunt falls onto his mouth and my clit collides with his nose. “Baelor! Fuck!” Every courtesy falls the second I lean forward falling in my forearms and he continues his assault. Licking, suckingand even biting. Everything seems allowed at the moment, leaving us panting with a few whines and moans scattered around the room.
My worries about his possible suffocation are left behind with every one of his pleasured sounds.
I feel the pressure in my center rise, and at some point I feel my hips moving, trying to ride his tongue. The prince feels my increasing needs manifest, so his movement and strength on my clit go up and fast until I see white and release an unconscious and broken moan. My body falls to the side to not crush him, but his face follows my inner regions to clean the mess between my legs, making me shiver at the overstimulation. I only know he is done after he leaves a little nip to one of my thighs and goes up kissing my body until he reaches my lips. A weird sensation, the one of tasting oneself.
I reach for his obvious hardness, wanting to return the pleasure since it feels unfair for me to be the only one reaching the peak once and again.
“No.” He stops my exploring hand. “I am going to fill you now.” His lips go from mine to the side of my neck, mapping and marking every part on the previous smooth surface. His tongue and beard scarp the sensitive skin of the little freckle from below my jaw. He straights his body. “Turn around.” He orders. Still slightly dizzy from the orgasm aftermath, I obey. He gets a pair of the pillows under my torso so I can rest.
He makes himself comfortable before pushing slowly inside my walls. I release a gasp and claw at the sheets. He allows me until I push my ass towards him. His hands graze it. For a second, I think he wants to hit my ass cheeks, but his hand is directed towards my spine. Up and down, he caresses feeling my bones under his fingers. I give my best to tense around him, wanting to help him. The prince releases a hiss.
Baelor accelerates, wanting now more friction than the soft pace allowed. He bends towards me, my back under his chest. His teeth nip at my neck from every position.
“Where is all that fire you are known for, zaldrīzītsos?” He whispers breathless in my ear with his hand at the front of my throat, as he thrusts harder, more erratically now.
Little dragon.
He pushes and pulls, losing himself inside me while murmuring high valyrian. Two voices can be heard cursing in the old language. The big dragon moves and moves like a ram preparing to go through the last door to the seven heavens. When I think he is finally going to reach his peak, he gets out. Confused and cockdrunk, I try looking at him but I get turned around, facing his imposing figure that stares at me.
The prince again gets inside me with a deep smooth thrust. His hand massages my clit roughly.
I am not the only one sex-drunk.
Overstimulation gets me to my climax far faster than the previous times, and his head reaching the neck of my uterus does not help at all.
His free hand presses against the subtle moving shape next to my stomach, as if trying to thin my walls enough to feel the bulge on my tummy. I cum again, and luckily for the last time.
His hands reach for my thighs so rhythm goes faster until the moment when he buries himself into me, unmoving, and spills the deeper he cans. Spent, he stays there, with his eyes and hand caressing my lower torso. I watch him watch me until our orbs meet.
“Ñuha gevie dāria... Look at you. So radiant in the moonlight.” My husband says with a reverent loving look. I close my eyes, tired and release a sigh.
My beautiful queen.
“Avy jorrāelan, valzȳrys.” I murmur, feeling like my heart cannot decide what it feels.
I love you, husband.
Two days until Maekar’s arrival, which will probably make everything far more chaotic if he brings the kids. Unbearable if Baelor really decides to talk about my dance with Lyonel. No one escapes the Anvil's jealousy.
Something cold grazes my clit lightly, but I shiver nonetheless. My hand instantly goes to stop whatever just touched me. I open my eyes reluctantly.
I see a pair of mismatched eyes staring into my soul and a ringed hand directed to my pussy. With one of the rings touching me in my bud of nerves.
“Baelor, please, I cannot anymore.”
“We are not done. I plan to make love to you all night long, wife.”
And he does. My moans and his groans intertwine around the room until the sun goes up again and the moonlight disappears.
Next->
I saw the question about Maekar being jealous of his daughter-in-law and it made me think about Baelor getting jealous of some member of the royal guard interacting with her, and overcome by an unknown fury (later, thinking about it, he believes he was possessed by a demon from the seven hells) he pulls her away from the guard and orders her to go prepare his wine in his chambers, just as she knows he likes. And when she turns into the first corridor, Baelor says to the guard one of the rudest things he has ever said to anyone or referred to anyone in his life: "Keep your sword away from my sheath, Ser, unless you want to end up guarding the walls of the black castle." Later, after a few glasses of wine and a wild fuck that exhausted him, Baelor stares at her sleeping naked between the sheets of his bed and thinks about how crazy she has made him act. 🤭
(Just gonna start this with an apology for taking forever to answer this 😭 I loved this ask so much and I wanted to write a little thing for it but... I just take forever, I'm so sorry 😭)
"Keep your sword away from my sheath, Ser, unless you want to end up guarding the walls of the black castle" IS A CRAZY SENTENCE OMGGGGG! I love it so much, it is so Baelor!!! I def see him as someone who threatens with subtlety and euphemism, so this is perfect!
Honestly, I just kept rereading this ask in my inbox because I loved it so much, and as I am currently avoiding uni work, this is a perfect opportunity to write it!
Word count: 1.8k
Tags: 18+/MDNI, she/her pronouns, AFAB reader, (significant) age gap, younger!reader (20s), calling her father-in-law Father, jealous/possessive!Baelor, threatening, TEENSY bit of smut, never proofread, (please let me know if I missed any)
Disclaimer: I do not own any ‘A Knight of the Seven Kingdoms’ characters. I do not claim to own any of the ‘A Knight of the Seven Kingdoms’ characters. I do not own any pictures used nor do I claim to do so. Your media consumption is your own responsibility.
Always appreciate comments, likes, and reblogs :)
Baelor knew the mind of men. He was one after all, so he knew the sorts of dark and depraved things that plagued men, especially when it came to pretty young things like you. And it was this exact knowledge, this experience, that had him fuming when he walked out of the small council chamber and found you laughing happily with one of the newer members of the King's Guard.
You were the heir to the heir's wife, which meant you of course had your own King's Guard following you around. But you were kind and young and forgiving, so it was far easier to assign the newer members of the force to you, the young men who had eagerly joined and taken their vows and now needed the proper experience required of them.
This new boy was exactly that, a boy. Though perhaps he was closer in age to you than Baelor himself, Baelor knew this meant an unbidden confidence and recklessness that could only be tapered with age and experience. And he was witnessing this now as he stepped out of the small council chamber, and found you facing the knight, a bright smile on the boy's face as he said things to you that made you laugh like anything.
And yes, you were Valarr's wife, yes, you were his daughter-in-law, but truly, you were Baelor's, and he was not a man prone to sharing. So, as he walked through the doors and his eyes landed on the boy's smirk and the way he leaned in closer to you than was strictly appropriate, Baelor truly felt what it meant to have the blood of the dragon.
His hands tightened where he grasped them together behind his back, and the natural easiness of his face slipped away, a firm set to his lips and a steely look in his eyes that belied the change in him. He strolled steadily over to you, taking his time to observe the way you looked at the boy, the way the boy so obviously ogled you.
When you finally noticed him, he took a singular pleasure in the way the boy's presence was utterly forgotten to you. You beamed, whipping fully around to face Baelor and you hopped over to him. You were careful not to throw yourself at him the way you were often wont to do, aware of the eyes, and stopped yourself just in front of him, still toeing the line of propriety.
"Hello, Father!" You greeted happily, hands clasped behind your back as you twisted a little side to side at the waist. "How was council?" You asked, petting at your own hair to ensure it sat prettily over your shoulders.
He smiled down at you then, reaching up and gently petting your hair as well, smoothing it out a little and simply caressing you through that. You smiled wider, shivering a little, and he could see how your eyes shined. Oh, you would be insatiable now.
Then you looked down at yourself, smoothed a hand down your bodice then your skirts, shifting again so the fabric moved while his eyes were on it.
"Do you like my new dress? I know you are a fan of blue," and you said it with such a heaviness behind your words, such suggestion, looking up at him from under your eyelashes. Yes, he was a fan of blue, but he was especially a fan of blue when you wore it.
He too now resisted an urge, forcing his hand to stay at his side rather than to caress you over the breasts and ribs and to grip your skirt in his hands if only to feel the material of it.
"You look beautiful, darling," he said, eyes shining as he offered you a small smile, and you preened at the praise, batting your eyes and holding your hands together tightly. Oh how you wished to kiss him all over just for that small compliment.
Then Baelor raised his eyes from you to the boy-knight, to the awkward way he stood just behind you, eyes to the floor, suddenly rigid where he had once been so easy in your presence. Baelor took great satisfaction in this.
He did not say anything for a moment, just stared at him, then he turned to you again and gently took you by the shoulders, offering you a smile once more.
"Will you have wine prepared for me in my chambers? I will join you shortly," and when you nodded happily, he leaned down and pressed a firm kiss to the top of her head. Fatherly to some, not so much to you...
Then you skipped off, and as the knight went to follow you, Baelor held up his hand and stopped him instantly in his tracks.
"Your grace," the boy was practically trembling, staring up at Baelor with wide eyes. Baelor would have felt bad for him if he was not so irritated with the boy's behaviour. It had been a frustrating day of governance, and it had not helped his mood to see someone attempting to flirt and perhaps insinuate impropriety with his girl.
"I will say this once, and once only," Baelor told him, waiting for the boy to nod with understanding before continuing. "Keep your sword away from my sheath, Ser, unless you wish to find yourself guarding the walls of Castle Black with only gruel to eat and other men to keep you warm."
Baelor nudged his chin in the direction you had hopped off, staring right into the eyes of the knight as he spoke. The poor boy was shaking in his boots, eyes wide and horrified as he looked up at the heir-apparent. Baelor could practically hear where his armour clacked against itself.
"I- yes, of course, your grace, of course, I-"
"Good." Baelor cut off the incessant rambling, raising his eyebrows once at the boy before turning on his heel and making to follow after you.
He had not realised how much he truly burned with the rage of it. His hands hurt from how harshly he gripped them together, and he was practically shaking from his restrained ire. His heart raced and his cheeks felt flush, and however much he tried, he could not quite rid himself of the thought of knocking the knight down.
Baelor walked swiftly back to his chambers where you eagerly awaited. When he opened the door, you were already sprawled on his bed, slippers kicked off as you burrowed yourself in his pillows and sheets, hugging one to your body. You peeked your head up when he entered, smiling softly when you saw him.
"Your wine is on the table, Father," you informed him, pointing to the jug and cup that you had prepared. "Your bed simply looked too inviting to be ignored though," you added cheekily, shifting yourself up so you were leaning back against the headboard a little. You raised one knee, pointing your foot and teasingly moving it about on the bed. He could only see the movements over the dress, but even that made him wish to grip you and devour.
Baelor walked over to the little table and poured himself a cup of wine. He raised it to his mouth and drank, but his eyes remained on you. You did not say anything further, but you watched him as he watched you, eyes trailing all over him with a heat that only spurred on the fire in him. You bit your lip, caressing the pillow you clutched teasingly, your belly filling with heat as he drank the wine in big gulps and stared at you where you posed on his bed.
He finally put the cup down, sighing a deep breath, and you sat up fully, scooting down a little and reaching behind you. You pursed your lips a little as you struggled to catch the end of the laces, but when you finally managed the task, you quickly unlaced your dress and pushed the bodice off.
Baelor did not move from his spot by the wine, pouring himself another cup as he watched you. You slid the dress over your hips then out from under you, the pretty pale blue fabric matching his eyes. He would have smirked any other time at the realisation.
You were now only in your thin shift, the little straps of it holding on for dear life at your shoulders. You were panting a little from the effort of removing your dress, and you leaned back onto your hands as you waited for him. You knew he would ravish you, it was just a matter of when.
Baelor sipped slower from this cup of wine. He had hit about halfway through and he could tell you were getting huffy, and it was only then that he put the cup down and moved swiftly to you, climbing over you and kissing you hot and hard on the mouth.
Baelor spent a long time ravishing you then, shirking his other duties to spend the afternoon and evening in bed with you. He took you on your back and on your front, on all fours and on top of him as well. He pressed his head between your thighs and made you see stars. He did everything and more until you were both so spent and tired that getting up to go to dinner was out of the question.
Baelor only left the bed to bring the jug of wine and cup to the table beside the bed, not wishing to keep standing for a drink. When he settled again, leaning casually against the headboard, cup in hand, he looked down at you in the bed.
You were fully naked, curled up and sleeping soundly. The sheets draped gently over you, and he could see the lines of your curves, the gentle swell of your arse and the dip of your spine. Your hair was a knotted mess around your head and your lips pouted even as you slept. He took a deep breath, caressed your arm and shoulder gently, and drank long and slow from his wine.
You truly brought out a side of Baelor he had not accessed before, or at least not often. You made him possessive, harsh, mad... He felt possessed by some demon sent from the seven hells at the thought of you wasting even one moment of your soft-sweetness on a man that was not him.
Baelor put the cup down on his nightstand, then slid down into the bed. He curled over you, sighing against the top of your head as you snuggled up to him even in your sleep. He kissed you on the forehead, then closed his own eyes.
Perhaps he was possessed or mad or simply discovering what he was capable of. Whatever it was, he was happy it meant you stayed at his side...
You Cannot Love A Ghost (No Matter How Hard You Try)
Baelor Targaryen x Stark!wife!reader—in which, she begs him not to fight but he does anyways and she's left to grieve him alone because you can't love a ghost. TW: Baelor dies. The reader grieves. Part 2—No Matter How Hard You Try (You Cannot Love a Ghost)
“Fighting for a hedge knight?” you ask your husband, eyes turning downwards, that vise clenching around your ribs, the one that speaks of fear. Of loss. “Fighting in armour that isn’t even yours?” Baelor looks at you, not with annoyance but with regret. Regret and steel and pride.
“He is a good man,” he says and you shake your head, turning away from him, glancing off to the side, gritting your teeth, setting your jaw. You know as he straps the armour on that this will be the last time you see him alive. You don’t know how you know, you just do.
“A good man worth dying for?” you ask him and you can hear him suck in a sharp breath, metal covered fingers coming to rest on your jaw, turning your chin, making you face him one last time. “I will not die,” he says, eyes narrowed at you. “I will return to you and our daughter. I swear it.” You step forwards towards him, those beautiful mismatched eyes staring at you with love and hope and fear. You place one hand on his cheek and he leans into the gesture, turning his head a pressing a kiss to your palm, his free hand gripping yours.
“Don’t promise me something you cannot ensure,” you say and the tears that have been encroaching now fall, fast and heavy down your cheeks and you hiccup with the sobs. You can barely see through the tears, but you can see him well enough. You can always see him.
“I promise I will return to you, my darling,” he whispers and he wraps his arms around you, pulling you tight against him and the armour fits too tight, the armour that will not protect him, not truly, not properly. With the way the tears are falling and blurring your vision, you feel like you’re looking at a ghost.
And you fear that he will become one.
“What if you can’t?” you cry and he shushes you, one hand smoothing down your hair while you draw back, your arms around him, around the cool armour that’s far too tight. “What if you can’t return to me? What if you die?” He presses a kiss to your lips then, one that tastes of salt and fear and loss and love. One that feels like a goodbye.
“I’ll never leave you,” he answers, pulling back from the kiss, eyes looking at you with adoration. “I’ll always be in your heart. Always.”
“I can’t love a ghost,” you counter and he smiles once at you, a smile of quiet reassurance that coached you through labour and separation, but not now. It fails to reassure you now, made worse by the arrival of your daughter. Your precious young daughter whose arms are outstretched for a hug with her father.
One that he gives her, bending down and scooping her up, resting her on his hip and pressing a soft kiss to her forehead, one that makes her giggle as she claps her hands. One that makes your heart clench and you shake your head, glancing away and pressing one hand to your mouth, stifling the jagged sob as best you can, the other hand resting on your belly, comforting the babe that grows there as you turn around, taking your daughter from him.
“Good luck, my love,” you whisper and he takes your hand, pressing a lingering kiss to your knuckles before he mounts his horse and rides off.
Rides into what you do not know.
***
“NO!” you cry, fighting to get free from the guard’s hold on you. “NO! BAELOR!” You manage to escape his hold, running into the stables, running to his fallen body. You can see the blood leaking from his head, the paleness of his body and you fall to your knees, strangled sobs ripped from your throat as you pull him onto your lap, holding him, begginghim to stay.
To stay and love you. To stay and love the child that grows within you. To stay and be your husband. To be with you, period, like he promised you he would.
“You promised you’d return to me,” you cry, the tears falling hot and fast, dripping onto his body, your arms holding him so tightly that you can’t imagine ever letting go of him. “You promised! You promised, you promised, you promised, you promised!”
You can’t stop the tears, you don’t want to stop the tears and you just hold him to you, not caring if he’s no longer there. No, you just want to hold him one last time. One last time.
Gods, was it really just this morning when you told him that you couldn’t love a ghost? Because you think you can. You vow to. You vow to love his ghost, to follow where it leads, even to the edge of a cliff.
Because he was yours in a way that no one had been before. He loved you in a way so pure that it’s almost impossible. And now he’s gone.
How does someone that strong die? How?!
“You promised me, dearest!” you cry and you shake his body like you expect him to wake and beg forgiveness but he doesn’t and then you feel the hands on your arms, pulling you away from his body and you scream, fighting against them, pulling from them, but they’re too strong and they succeed, his body falling limply as you’re pulled to a stand and you cry out. “LET ME GO! LET ME STAY WITH HIM! LET ME BURN WITH HIM!”
But no one listens and the grief consumes you, the world going black.
***
You look at the man before you, the one whose face is glowing with vitality and happiness, the smile so bright. You look at him and wish to never not. You want to know him all your life, to wake up to that smile.
“May I ask your name?” he asks you, eyebrows rising and you smile at him in return, shrugging slightly.
“Y/N Stark,” you answer and his eyes widen for just a moment before gleaming with a light you’ve never seen before. You wish that this man was your betrothed rather than the Hand of the King, a recent widower.
“I’m quite the lucky man,” he answers then, eyes gleaming with what you can now tell is mirth.
“Prince Baelor?” you ask, stepping closer to you, eyes narrowing, scrutinizing. “Is that you?”
“It is indeed.”
“You’re not what I expected at all,” you say and he feigns shock before he takes your hand and lifts it, pressing a kiss against your knuckles.
“I’ll assume that’s good then,” he says and you nod, suppressing a smile.
“I was just thinking that I wanted to wake up to that smile for the rest of my life,” you tell him and his smile gets even brighter, his hand still holding yours.
“I think I can arrange that.”
***
Baelor twirls you around the dance floor, pulling you tightly against him, his one hand tracing from the nape of your neck down the sides of your curves, coming to rest possessively against your hip. You’ve been husband and wife for scarcely hours and there is one final piece of the ceremony that must be attended to.
One final act. “Do you intend to dance with me all night,” you say, watching as his eyes darken with desire, “or are you intending to take me back to your room and make this entirely official?”
“I like the second option,” he answers and guides you from the hall, up to his room, your cheeks flaring red as you imagine what comes next. As you desire what comes next.
But whatever you imagined, it wasn’t the act of worship that he gives you, carefully stripping you, placing kisses to every inch of your body, taking you soft and slow, the pain not even there at all, not really with the gentleness with which he loves you.
He makes you feel like a goddess, someone powerful and strong and glorious when he loves you and even more so when he holds you afterwards, whispering into your hair how much he loves you, has always loved you and will always love you.
And you wake to his smile—just like you wanted.
***
“Push! Just one more push, my lady! Good, that’s good!” the midwife calls. “It’s a healthy girl. A daughter.” The pain has abated but you still have not released Baelor’s hand, the sweat on your brow streaming down and making it difficult to see him clearly.
“You did this to me,” you hiss as he lets go with a smirk, his hands reaching for his daughter. “And if you ever do it to me again, I’ll kill you.” But your ire dissipates when he places your daughter in your arms, a daughter with silver hair and bright mismatched eyes, just like her father.
“Still intent on that murder if it happens again?” he asks you, pressing a kiss to your forehead, his hand on your shoulder, observing you and your daughter with a smile only that of father and husband proud.
“Yes,” you answer and he lets out a startled laugh at your bluntness. “But I don’t regret that it happened.”
***
Baelor is the perfect father, always taking time to play with her, balancing the state and her desires adeptly, calling her his precious, a little dragon, a wolf.
He is the perfect husband, always caring and attentive, listening to you and your desires and calling you his wolf, his fire, just his.
You love him with all your heart and it simply grows as you watch him now, him folded on the floor, your daughter in his lap as he makes shadow puppets on the wall, narrating a story of a wolf.
It’s a scene that you never want to lose. Never want to forget.
He’s what you never want to lose.
***
But lose him you did. And all for a hedge knight’s honour. Because he was a good man. An honest man. You hope the knight dies for what he’s cost you, what he’s taken from you and it’s why you seek him out after the burning, your stomach having swelled more, evidence of the last bit of Baelor that will ever be in the world, your daughter’s hand in yours.
“Why would the gods take him and leave you?” you demand when you find him, your stepson sitting on the ledge, posture built of a boy mourning. “He was a good man, a perfect man and what are you? Nothing. He would have been a great king and a father for the fourth time and now he’s gone. He’s gone because he fought for you.” Ser Dunk flinches at each word that leaves you, flinching away from you. “I never want to see you here again. Go!” And he does.
And you are left alone, but not alone—your daughter beside you, stepson in front of you and child within you.
You will never be alone again but at the same time you always will be.
Because you cannot love a ghost, no matter how hard you try.
