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Jun 23

Breakspear

young!Baelor x reader ft. Daemon Blackfyre

Important notes for a better read:

Fancast for young!Baelor: Constantine Corrino from Dune Prophecy ( saw this on TikTok) SEE HERE

Young!Baelor's looks are based mostly off of Book!Baelor ,or he looked more Dornish when he was younger but then spent too much time inside when he got older

This is a Young!Baelor fic, him and reader are around 19-21 years old and are newly wed.

Baelor, Daemon and reader are all about the same age

This specific fic is based BEFORE Blackfyre rebellion, Daemon and reader were childhood friends

Most importantly…. DRAGONSSSS and Young!TeenMaekar cameo

Word count: 6k

Vermithor was the first to notice you when you reached the summit of the Hill of Rhaenys.

The great bronze dragon had his massive head turned in your direction, eyes like molten gold; already fixed on you as soon as you came into view. Mayhaps he had caught your scent mixed in the wind, or the soft crunch of your feet against the gravel; it was hard to tell for a dragon’s senses were far greater than a human’s.

You approached him without hesitation, a feat that would have been impossible for you a few moons ago. Some time back, the sight of Vermithor even from a mile away had your heart racing, palms sweating, and throat dry. Now you approached him like he was one of the Red Keep’s domesticated cats.

As you stood in front of him, the old dragon lowered his enormous head until it hovered just inches from your own. His heat rolled off in waves; it felt like standing before a forge, and the scent of smoke, ash, and brimstone filled your senses.

Your hand lifted for a moment, silently asking for permission, though you and the beast’s relationship had come a long way. In the end, Vermithor was still a dragon, an older one at that; he didn’t always like being touched.

A warm huff escaped his nostrils, sending curls of smoke that tickle your face and stir loose strands of hair. Permission.

“Hello to you too.”

A laugh escaped you as you wrapped your arms around his snout, rubbing your hands along the rough bronze scales. Even through your layers of clothing, you could still feel the heat from them. Vermithor rumbled lowly at the feeling, and you felt the vibration travel through you.

Then the old beast pressed forward, shoving his head against you in a silent demand for further affection, the force of it nearly sending you stumbling backward.

“Seven hells,” you laughed. “You will have me tumbling back down this hill.” You spoke, knowing all too well he didn’t understand the Common Tongue.

“So I don’t get a greeting?”

The familiar voice came from above.

You tilted your head back to find Baelor who sat comfortably atop Vermithor’s saddle, his short, wavy dark hair sway softly in the morning breeze as he looked down at you with poorly concealed amusement.

“My lord husband,” you smirked, looking up at him with a playful eye roll.

“My lady wife,” he replied, his tone just as teasing.

He then slid off the beast with such ease. “You know, if we put in word now, I believe the blacksmith could create a two-seater for Vermithor before this month ends.”

You laughed with a scoff. It had taken time, and a great deal of it, to grow comfortable around Vermithor. Moons of patience, encouragement, and careful, slow interactions. Then, somewhere along the way, fear had softened into trust, and trust into affection.

You had grown so fond of the dragon that you often joked Vermithor was your first child together, but still, it would take a bit more time before you were comfortable being miles and miles above the ground.

“No need, I am quite content as a spectator.”

He joined you at Vermithor’s side, patting the dragon’s flank and commanding him in the ancient tongue to return to the Dragonpit, but the dragon ignored his rider entirely, not even blinking in his direction, choosing instead to continue basking in your attention.

The prince narrowed his mismatched eyes in mock offense.

“I am prone to believe he likes you more than me.”

You continued tracing your fingers along Vermithor’s rough scales, and the dragon’s orange eyes closed as if in bliss.

“Just wait,” you chuckled lightly, glancing over at Baelor. “When he gets his little brother or sister, I suspect you’ll be replaced entirely,” you teased.

Heat rose to his brown cheeks. Gods, he hated when that happened. It had already been half a year since your wedding. You shared a marriage bed and all that came with it, yet comments like that still had him smiling and blushing like a green boy.

You opened your mouth to tease him when suddenly the sky darkened. A massive shadow swallowed the sun, covering the world in darkness. Then came the sound……Seven hells, the sound. It was a shrill, violent screech that split through the air, followed by the thunderous beating of enormous wings.

Baelor stiffened instantly, every trace of mirth disappearing from his face. Most of his family had dragons, and he knew every one of their calls, and that was not one of them.

His hand firmly gripped your forearm, pulling you behind him. Vermithor needed no command. One massive bronze wing unfurled, shielding both you and his rider beneath its span. A deep growl rumbled from his throat as his head snapped toward the dark shape circling overhead.

When you finally looked up, you saw a dragon the color of the sea on a moonless night, and there was only one dragon alive that color; Cannibal. Which could only mean that upon his back was none other than Daemon Blackfyre.

The black dragon circled overhead several times, slow and deliberate. It reminded you of vultures wheeling above dying prey.

Vermithor took it as a taunt; it upset him, but the old beast would not attack unless his rider commanded it. Instead, his growl deepened, and his eyes never left the intruder.

After another circle, Cannibal finally descended. His immense wings beat against the wind, sounding like a king’s banner flapping in a storm. As he neared the ground, the powerful sweep of his wings sent loose stones and dust exploding outward. His massive claws stretched forward, reaching for the rocky plain below. The moment he touched down, the earth shuddered beneath the beast’s weight.

Thinking back on it now, you had never truly seen Cannibal. His scales were nearly as black as the formidable Balerion’s had once been. Scars crisscrossed his body in pale streaks, each telling unspoken stories of his violence and aggression. His wings were ragged and torn at the edges, and his emerald eyes seemed to burn with a thirst for blood.

Even standing there, the beast seemed restless, shifting under his rider, claws sharp enough to tear through steel digging into the rocky plain. But, he was smaller than Vermithor…..thankfully so, you prayed that difference would matter, if it came to it.

Your eyes then shifted up to Daemon, who looked far calmer than the beast he rode. It had been years since you had last seen him. The last time you did, he had still been a mere boy, but now he was a man, and by the Seven did he grow beautifully into his Valyrian features. He was taller now, his shoulders broader, arms muscular, and jaw sharpened. His silver-gold hair was much longer and had been pulled back into a warrior’s braid.

There were still a few things that remained the same about him from your youth together however, like those deep violet eyes that immediately settled on you, followed by that smile. The same smile that had once convinced you not to attend lessons with your septa, the one that talked you into climbing castle walls or exploring King Maegor’s secret tunnels. The one that had easily triggered your own so many times before.

You realized you were staring and quickly tore your gaze away, but Daemon had already noticed. His smile widened, and by the way Baelor’s jaw tightened, so had he.

Daemon dismounted in one fluid motion and began to stride toward you when Baelor’s voice cut through the air.

“That is far enough.” His voice was calm and steady, but a warning nonetheless.

Daemon paused for a moment before a chuckle slipped past his lips.

“You seem to resemble Daeron more and more every day,” Daemon remarked.

His gaze drifted leisurely over Baelor's features.

“Well... solely in personality, of course.”

He took another step despite the order.

Baelor’s hand settled on the hilt of his sword.

Behind him, Vermithor lowered his head beside Baelor’s shoulder, lips peeling back to reveal rows of sharp teeth, a deep growl rumbling at the back of his throat.

Cannibal hissed immediately in reply, shifting forward and raising his jagged wings, clearly trying to appear bigger, more fierce. He let out a loud shriek that pained your ears and had you gripping onto Baelor.

Vermithor didn’t seem fazed; instead, his mouth slowly opened as a strange sound began to build deep in his throat. It started as a low, uneven chitter, like two stones striking together, sparking the first breath of fire. The sound grew louder as smoke passed between his teeth in thin threads and the back of his throat began to glow with that infamous orange heat, brightening with every passing second. His mood quickly shifted from a warning into a promise.

Daemon raised a hand.

“Lykirī, Cannibal,” he said, far too calmly, his eyes not even looking back at his dragon. “We came to greet an old friend, not steal what has already been claimed.”

The black dragon reluctantly settled, but those deep green eyes remained locked on the bronze fury, and Vermithor’s orange ones remained locked on him as well.

Daemon stood a good foot away from you, now fully aware of the cost of taking another step. His hand rested casually on the pommel of his sword, feigning ease as though he hadn’t nearly been roasted like a pig moments earlier.

“It’s nice to see you again, Y/n.” His voice was smooth as silk.

“Daemon.” You answered, hoping your tone carried none of the warmth or familiarity that threatened to surface.

“I regret missing your wedding,” he paused briefly, shifting his weight. “I am sure you made a very beautiful bride.”

“I—” The words caught in your throat.

“But I thought it best not to attend. I imagine my presence would have caused more trouble than celebration.”

“Message received, Daemon.” Baelor’s voice cut in, the calmness from earlier slowly fraying like old rope. “I’m certain there are far more entertaining activities awaiting you elsewhere.”

Daemon’s eyebrow shot up in mock confusion.

“Am I not allowed to speak to an old friend?”

“Not when that friend is now my wife.”

You had seen Baelor serious before; during council meetings, training, and matters of state, but this was different. There was something sharper to his tone, more protective, angry… possessive even.

Daemon noticed it and seemed amused, his smile became taunting.

“I see marriage has made you territorial, dear nephew.”

“You said you weren’t here to stir any trouble. Now make good on that promise and go.” Baelor used the same tone of voice he did when commanding a council.

Daemon lifted his hands in mock surrender.

“As you wish, my prince.”

He mounted Cannibal, giving you one more glance before they launched into the sky.

The tension did not leave even after they were gone. Vermithor did not move, his great head still angled toward the fading speck of Cannibal, and Baelor remained just as rigid, his eyes fixed on the horizon long after the dragon and rider had vanished from sight.

Baelor had always just tolerated his half-uncle; that was the most polite way he could put it.

The easiest answer came from politics.

Growing up, he always had to hear how his grandfather, the foolish King Aegon IV, compared his father to his half uncle. The king delighted in humiliating his true heir, Daeron, whenever he could while praising his favorite bastard in the same breath. Even after Aegon’s death, the realm continued to compare them.

But that was the convenient answer.

The real one stood beside him.

Baelor knew you and Daemon had once been close.

Growing up in the Red Keep, you were rarely seen apart from him. Baelor could still picture it: finding you two in the gardens, seated close enough that your shoulders nearly touched, speaking in low voices meant for no one else.

The training yard was no better.

Whenever the squires sparred under Ser Quentyn’s watch, your cheers were always loudest for Daemon. Gods, that smile of yours so bright, so proud. Baelor found himself training even harder, hoping one day that smile might be directed at him. Moreover he had always tried to talk to you, but it proved impossible without the Waters boy intervening.

Then at fourteen, everything changed.

Before his death, Aegon the Unworthy legitimized Daemon and all his other bastards (the first spark of future discord). The Waters, now Blackfyre, was wed to a noblewoman of Tyrosh, then given his own lands along the Blackwater Rush by his half-brother, the now King Daeron. It served as both reward and leash, as Blackfyre had now become his newest threat.

When Daemon left King’s Landing, whatever childhood friendship and petty rivalry existed seemed to die there, or so Baelor told himself so often it felt like the truth.

Yet watching Daemon smile at you today, watching old familiarity flicker between you, even for the briefest moment, stirred something unpleasant in his chest. The same feeling his child self had once known, but for some reason it burned hotter now.

The wedding celebrations of Princess Daenerys Targaryen and Prince Maron Martell had transformed King’s Landing into history in the making. The wedding had been even grander than yours and Baelor’s.

Every inn was full and tavern crowded. Hundreds of pavilions lined the tourney grounds, spilling across the usually plain fields in a riot of color. Silken tents bearing distinctive heraldry stretched as far as the eye could see, their banners flying proudly in the summer wind. Golden roses of Highgarden fluttered beside the silver trout of Riverrun. Westerling seashells and Hightower beacons snapped sharply in the breeze, alongside countless others.

Your eyes swept across the jousting grounds. It seemed as though everyone in the Six, now Seven Kingdoms had come for the wedding.

Hundreds of nobles occupied the upper galleries beneath embroidered awnings displaying the colors of their respective houses, while below them hundreds more smallfolk stood shoulder to shoulder in the mud.

The royal family sat high above them all. A great three-headed Targaryen banner draped from one side of the royal box, while the sun-and-spear of House Martell hung from the other.

A symbol of two houses united in peace.

Yet, as with many decisions made by the Crown, not everyone celebrated. Arguments echoed through the streets of the realm. Many raised their ales to the gods, praising the end of years of war and bloodshed, while others grumbled into their cups, claiming the king had become far too influenced by the Dornish and favored them above every other house.

You slipped into the royal gallery just as Princess Daenerys laughed at something Prince Maron had whispered into her ear. The newlyweds already seemed to get along, and for that you were glad.

Arranged marriages, especially among nobles, rarely blossomed into true love. You had been fortunate that yours and Baelor’s had. From what you had seen so far, it appeared Daenerys had been just as lucky.

You were engaged in a small conversation with one of your handmaids when a trumpet sounded across the field.

Then came a familiar name.

“First born son of King Daeron the good, heir to the Iron Throne, Prince of Dragonstone; Baelor Targaryen!”

The cheers rolled across the tiltyard like distant thunder as Baelor urged his horse into a lap around the lists before making his way toward the royal box.

Your gaze drifted toward him, taking a moment to appreciate his armor.

Thousands of dark steel scales overlapped across his chest and shoulders, crafted to mimic those of a dragon. Upon the breastplate, countless tiny rubies formed the three-headed dragon of House Targaryen, glimmering brilliantly beneath the summer sun.

The moment he removed his helm, dark waves tumbled free from their confinement, falling slightly across his forehead. His skin was slightly more tanned than usual, something you had noticed always happened during the hottest months of the year, a gift from his Dornish blood, which was suited to withstand the unforgiving sun than most.

Those mismatched eyes, one darker and one lighter, lifted briefly toward you before shifting to his father.

Baelor lowered his head to King Daeron in respect. The king did not bother to hide the proud smile that spread across his face, he raised a hand and gave a small nod.

“Our beautiful boy,” Queen Myriah said fondly.

Baelor immediately looked away.

Even being heir to the Iron Throne did not spare a man from embarrassment at the hands of his mother.

He guided his horse closer to where you sat.

“May I ask for your favor, my lady?”

The smile he flashed up at you had laughter threatening to escape. It was that same boyish grin he always wore whenever he knew he was up to no good.

You leaned casually against the railing.

“Depends. Will you win?”

“Of course I will, especially when I have something worth riding for.”

you giggle, and the sound made his heart flutter. You knew all too well this was mock arrogance, Baelor was never the egotistical type.

You made your way down from the royal box, stepping in front of him and his horse.

You and Baelor’s courting days were long over, but still, you found joy in small gestures like this. You presented him with a purple ribbon.

Baelor extended his arm, allowing you to tie it around his bicep.

The soft lilac stood out beautifully against the black dragon scales of his armor.

“There.” You patted the knot as it fluttered softly in the wind. “You’d better not lose, or you’ll ruin my honor.”

Though you couldn’t have cared less whether he won or lost, the mere thought that he rode in your name was victory enough.

The thought barely settled before the sharp blast of horns split the air.

A herald’s voice followed.

“Son of the late King Aegon IV, wielder of the conqueror’s sword, Daemon Blackfyre!”

Smallfolk surged against the barriers, young lads climbing atop benches or their fathers’ shoulders for a better view. Noble ladies leaned over balcony railings despite the protests of septas and husbands alike. Squires carrying shields and lances paused mid-step. Even knights mounted for the day’s contests turned in their saddles to watch.

Daemon Blackfyre rode onto the field beneath a storm of cheers.

His white destrier trotted proudly beneath him, tossing its silver mane as if even the animal knew all eyes were upon it.

Sunlight flashed across crimson armor etched with black dragons. His horse’s barding bore the same colors. Bastards, legitimized or not, could not wear their father’s arms as trueborn sons did. Instead, they bore them reversed, a cruel courtesy that acknowledged their blood while ensuring no one forgot the circumstances of it.

A roar rolled across the grounds.

Men leapt to their feet, noblewomen waved ribbons from the galleries, smallfolk women underclothes….

Not everyone joined them however, some lords remained seated, exchanging dark looks and muttering amongst themselves, others watched in silence, mouths drawn tight.

Yet whether they cheered or frowned, every eye followed him.

Attention had always come as easily to Daemon as breathing.

His squire handed him a bouquet of white roses, and Daemon began circling the lists, tossing flowers into the crowd.

Maidens squealed, leaning over to catch it, two girls nearly came to blows over a single bloom.

For a moment, it seemed the entire tourney belonged to him.

You glanced toward Baelor.

His eyes were already fixed upon the black dragon across the field. To anyone watching, he appeared perfectly composed and unbothered the image of a crown prince. Only the slight tightening of his grip on the reins betrayed him.

After allowing the crowd their adoration, Daemon guided his horse toward the royal box.

He bowed first to King Daeron, receiving a measured nod in return.

Then his gaze found you.

Your breath caught as he extended a single red rose.

Memories from when you were younger flooded your mind. He had always been the one to give out flowers during tourneys.

White roses for the crowd, a red rose for you.

Back then, he could not openly court you. He was still a bastard, and you were a maiden of a noble house, a scandal enough to make septas faint, but that had never stopped the two of you. It had merely meant the courting happened in the shadows.

Hidden behind the stables before a tourney. A red flower tucked behind your ear, his touch lingering longer than it should.

He had always worn red proudly during every tourney, a silent declaration that he rode for you.

“Wish me luck.”

The familiarity struck you so hard that your hand reached for the rose but then the sight of your gold wedding ring caught the sunlight struck harder.

…

“I wish all the knights a fair and honorable contest,” you said, folding your hands neatly before you in a way that left the wedding band impossible to miss.

Daemon’s arm remained extended until Baelor’s black stallion stepped sideways. Suddenly the prince and horse sat squarely between you and Daemon. A wall of black armor, red silk, and broad shoulders.

His gaze swept over your gown, the dark red and black silks, then the diadem resting upon your brow in the shape of dragon wings…… bronze dragon wings.

“Though I suppose I should call you Princess now.”

His smile curved into a smirk.

“I always knew you’d marry into royalty. I simply imagined it would happen by a different road.”

“Daemon.” Baelor’s voice was calm, but his eyes hardened in a way that said the opposite.

“What?” Daemon said lightly, glancing at him.

“You’ve already expressed respect to your king. You needn’t linger.” Baelor’s voice still remained courteous; his expression did not, dark eyebrows drawn together, eyes sharp and unyielding.

Daemon ignored him, violet eyes drifting downward, settling on the ribbon tied around Baelor’s armored bicep.

“She used to kiss the flat of Blackfyre before any of my duels. I never lost. Does she do the same for you?”

Baelor’s stallion shifted restlessly beneath him, a hoof digging into the dirt, pulling against the reins,displaying the emotion its rider refused to show.

For a moment that felt far too long, both men simply stared at each other neither looking away.

Baelor was all controlled fire beneath polished steel, rigid and unflinching. Daemon, in contrast, sat loose in the saddle like a man carved from confidence itself, smile faint but sharp at the edges, eyes unblinking and daring.

You were reminded, absurdly, of their respective dragons studying one another across the field that day.

"If I were you," Baelor said at last, his voice tight, he reaches out to pet the stallion’s neck to calm her, "I would be more mindful of how I speak about another man's wife."

Daemon tilted his head.

"And if I choose not to?"

"You'll regret it."

Daemon looked genuinely pleased at the reply, a laugh slipping past his lips.

"Ah, there he is.” he leans in “I'd begun to fear all that Dornish sand had extinguished the dragon out of you."

The insult hung in the air, a jab at Baelor's Martell blood. A reminder that some still whispered that too much of Dorne ran through the royal line.

Baelor did not react at least, not visibly anyways.

"I pray your horse carries you safely to the end of the lists, Daemon."

Daemon's smile sharpened.

"And I yours, my prince."

Neither man missed the meaning; courtesy, challenge and promise wrapped in one.

Then Daemon wheeled his horse around and rode off into the fields.

My love—"

You reached for Baelor, only then did he seem to realize how tightly wound he had become. His shoulders eased, the rigid set of his jaw softened and when he looked at you, every trace of tension vanished.

Whatever you were about to say died on your lips as he took your hand and pressed a kiss against your knuckles.

His heavy Valyrian steel gauntlet molded awkwardly around your fingers, yet somehow still held them with remarkable gentleness.

"The tourney will begin soon my heart, find your seat.”

The lists no longer felt the same after that.

The women of the royal court rarely cared for tourneys the way men did. You found yourself seated amongst them in a corner of the royal box while conversation drifted around you like distant waves.

Princess Daenerys spoke at length about her impending journey to Dorne, her excitement battling with her worries in equal measure. The ladies listened politely, offering soft reassurances and occasional smiles.

You heard almost none of it, your attention remained fixed on Baelor.

The tourney had scarcely begun, yet he had already unhorsed three opponents.

A lord of House Swann.

A knight sworn to House Tarly.

And now some hedge knight whose name you had already forgotten.

After the pass, Baelor guided his horse toward the edge of the lists where Maekar waited.

His youngest brother hurried forward at once. The boy took the reins with all the seriousness of a knight preparing for battle. Next year he would be six-and-ten, the age at which most squires hoped to earn their spurs, and he seemed determined to prove himself ready.

Maekar led the horse to water, checked the straps, and inspected the tack with an intensity that would have made an older squire laugh.

Baelor never laughed, he always thanked him and somehow that only made Maekar try harder.

As Maekar readied the horse for the next pass, Baelor slouched in a chair before his black-and-red pavilion, his helm resting on his lap.

Dark hair clung damply to his forehead. A faint flush colored his tanned cheeks from exertion, though he showed no sign of weariness. Whether he felt fatigue at all or simply refused to acknowledge it was difficult to say.

His gaze remained fixed on the Blackfyre, who was preparing for his first tilt.

It was something Baelor always did with every opponent. It did not matter who they were: highborn lord or hedge knight, tourney champion or green boy riding his first lists.

He studied them all with equal seriousness.

How they sat a horse, carried a lance, reacted to victory and defeat.

Every detail mattered.

But Daemon Blackfyre was not merely another opponent.

From the wolves of the North to the scorpions of Dorne, everyone knew what Daemon Blackfyre was.

Knighted at twelve.

Bearer of Blackfyre.

Victor of more tourneys than most men twice his age.

The very image singers filled their songs with.

Baelor respected that, whether he wished to or not. For all their faults, he could still recognize that Daemon was one of the greatest warriors in the realm.

Most of all, Baelor knew his chances of losing were higher than his chances of winning.

Across the field, Daemon raised both hands as the crowd cheered for him, acting as though victory was already his.

Considering his record, perhaps it was.

When the horns sounded.

His entire demeanor shifted, the smile vanished and the way he lowered his helm was almost ceremonial.

His attention settled wholly upon his opponent.

He became unnervingly still.

You had seen Vermithor do the same when stalking prey. The great bronze dragon would freeze moments before striking, every muscle coiled beneath his scales.

The signal was given.

They charged.

Hooves shook the ground.

The two riders met in a blur of crimson and steel.

Daemon struck like a hammer upon an anvil.

Once.

That was all it took.

The opposing knight barely managed to raise his shield before the lance shattered against him.

Horse and rider separated instantly, the mount continuing onward without its master.

The knight crashed into the dirt, dust exploded across the lists.

The crowd erupted.

Beside the barrier, Maekar's mouth actually fell open.

The boy had only been six or so the last time Daemon rode regularly in King's Landing. This was the first time he had truly witnessed the Black Dragon in action.

"Fucking hells," he breathed.

Next to him, Baelor said nothing.

He simply stood from his seat, to most it would have appeared he was unfazed, but for the briefest moment he let out a slow breath, his eyes closing before he placed his helm back on.Then the visor lowered, hiding whatever thoughts lay beneath, and he mounted as though it had been nothing more than another pass.

By late afternoon, the worst of the day's heat had faded. Long shadows crept across the lists as a cool breeze stirred through the grounds. The smell of roasting meat and fresh bread drifted from the kitchens behind the royal box, a quiet reminder that the tourney's final hours were approaching.

The field itself felt smaller now, ranks thinner.

Only two names remained, their names scrawled across the weathered wood in streaks of dripping black paint.

Baelor of House Targaryen.

Daemon of House Blackfyre.

It was a shame, the other men had ridden well enough but it did not matter by tomorrow nobody would remember their names.

All anyone would remember was this.

Dragon versus dragon.

Targaryen versus Blackfyre.

Certain future versus possible future…

To some it was merely a joust between two men of royal blood but to others it ran much deeper.

For years whispers had spread throughout the Seven Kingdoms like wildfire

Arguing which of the half brothers should be king.

Some argued that their king should be a strong warrior and that the wielder of Blackfyre should go with the crown. Others remained loyal to House Targaryen and King Daeron, believing wisdom and peace worth far more than martial glory.

Some houses had already begun drifting toward one side or the other, drawn by old loyalties, ambitions, and promises yet unspoken. Still, no one voiced such thoughts above a whisper, for wars involving Targaryens rarely remained ordinary wars.They either ended swiftly or consumed everything in their path with fire and blood

However, whatever the future held,it was not this day's concern.

A trumpet sounded across the field and the murmuring crowd fell silent.

As custom demanded, both riders met in the center of the lists before the final tilt.

Obsidian gauntlet met crimson steel as Baelor and Daemon clasped forearms.

Daemon leaned closer, whispering something into his nephew’s ear and judging by the grin tugging at his lips, it was not kind.

Baelor’s expression did not change but his grip visibly tightened, for a moment, neither released the other.

Only when the trumpet sounds again did they part and ride toward opposite ends of the lists.

The drums began.

Low and steady like a heartbeat.

At one end sat Daemon, impossibly confident even from this distance, as though this were merely another tourney and another victory waiting to be claimed.

At the other sat Baelor.

He looked like a man fully aware he might win or lose, and prepared to face either outcome. His gaze swept across the hundreds gathered around the lists until it found you.

The look lasted only a moment then he lowered his visor.

The marshal raised his scarf.

“READY!”

The horses tossed their heads and pawed at the dirt.

“RIDE!”

The scarf fell.

The drums quickened.

Hooves thundered.

The distance between them vanished in seconds followed by a sharp crack that echoed across the grounds. Both men defended in time, their shields caught the blows cleanly thus both men remained mounted.

The crowd roared and drums began again.

The second pass came harder.

The third both men pulled their strikes at the last moment, neither willing to risk a poor angle.

The fourth and fifth are even harder than the last.

Splinters now littered the ground, their shields were battered and scarred and dust coated their armor yet neither man had fallen.

The crowd groaned in disappointment and impatience.

By the sixth pass something changes in both men, both clearly growing impatient.

Daemon no longer feigned coolness; the charming knight adored by crowds was gone. Instead, the warrior people sang of emerged, the Black Dragon.

Across from him, Baelor sat straighter in the saddle, not in mockery but in equal determination.

The signal dropped again. They charged… somehow even faster and harder than any other and distance vanished in the blink of an eye.

Impact.

The crack echoed louder than anything else. Gasps swept through the stands as both riders were ripped from their saddles.

You were on your feet instantly.

“Baelor!”

He struck the ground hard. Far too hard and if he had rolled even half a second too late, he would have been trampled by Daemon’s stricken destrier, which continued running despite its rider falling.

Daemon fell just as bad yet he was already rising to his feet. He ripped off his helm; blood ran down one temple, silver-gold hair, now stained with dirt and blood. There was a slight limp as he stood, but he stood.

On the other side, Baelor did not move at first. He was clearly winded mayhaps for a second or two, but it felt like eternity. Then a hand pressed into the dirt, and slowly he pushed himself upright. Relief hit so hard that, if you weren’t holding onto the railing, you would have collapsed.

He removed his helm. There was blood at his lip, dirt across his brow, and a dark bruise already forming on his cheek. His face twisted in a grimace as his hand shot to his ribs.

Maekar is already at his side, the younger prince spoke urgently, pointing toward the waiting maesters but Baelor shook his head once firmly, muttering something.

Maekar’s expression flickered with worry for a split second before he nodded and went to grab another lance and shield.

It makes you feel sick

“Don’t.” You speak even though you knew he couldn't hear you.

Your stomach twisted as you watched Baelor mount again, but why? That last ride should have been enough. Both men were unhorsed no one would have questioned ending it there.

Something else in him however was clearly taking over, refusing to end it, Baelor climbed back onto his horse and put his helm on again. Across the field, Daemon’s eyes narrowed; he looked surprised, but followed, mounting his own steed.

When Maekar returned, he hesitated, then reluctantly handed over the lance and shield. Baelor gave his shoulder a firm squeeze for a moment before riding back into position.

It shook everyone that mounted again but they also loved it. The marshal looked toward the game maker, who looked sick to his stomach. If he ended the game now, the crowd would revolt but if he continued and the crown prince was injured further, it would be his head. Despite it, he slowly nodded.

The drums began again.

Everyone knew this was the pass to end things. Suddenly, even the ladies in the royal box turned their attention fully to the field. The signal dropped.

The drumbeat somehow becomes more menacing and it makes you shift in your seat.

“By the Seven, please protect him.” you prayed to any god who would listen.

They charged and everything seemed to slow till they made impact

Daemon’s lance shattered against Baelor’s shield but Baelor struck higher and harder across Daemon’s chest.

For one impossible moment, Daemon remained seated and the gods knew he tried, but gravity won the Blackfyre crashed into the dirt hard enough to shake the ground.

Baelor remained mounted.

Silence…complete, stunned silence follows

Then somewhere in the crowd, a voice shouted, low:

“Breakspear…”

Then another joined, more confident.

“Breakspear!”

Another five, then ten, then hundreds.

“BREAKSPEAR!” “BREAKSPEAR!” “BREAKSPEAR!”

The name rolled through the lists like thunder, thousands of voices, stomping feet, banging steel.

“BREAKSPEAR! BREAKSPEAR! BREAKSPEAR!”

Yet Baelor seemed not to hear them. He dismounts, removing his helm slowly, chest rising and falling in ragged breaths, as though he could not quite believe it himself.

Across the field, Daemon still sat on the ground, the second impact having hit far harder.

Baelor’s gaze caught something red, face-down in the dirt.

Daemon’s shield.

He picked it up and stared at the red surface with the black dragon painted across. The crowd gradually quieted as Baelor neared him. Daemon looked up as Baelor stopped before him. Baelor held out the shield and Daemom stared at it for a moment before taking it.

Neither spoke though no words were needed however.

The gesture said everything;he would not take his horse, nor his armor, nor demand ransom. Daemon could keep it all.

The Blackfyre could only manage a single nod before he was helped back toward his pavilion.

Only then was the victor’s wreath placed into Baelor’s hands that it truly hit him what he had just achieved. Fresh green leaves and bright colorful flowers. Delicate things strangely out of place against muddied gauntlets and battered armor.

He is ripped from his thoughts when he is suddenly lifted into the air.

Older knights who had watched him grow from a gangly boy into a prince worthy of song hoisted him onto their shoulders, while younger men, those he called friends, brothers in all but blood banged against his armor and ruffled his hair.

The chant continued to roll across the lists as he was lifted above the crowd.

Only when the Kingsguard approached did they begin to lower him, creating a path for King Daeron, who strode through with a smile brighter than any crown.

“My son.”

His hands came up to cup Baelor’s face before pressing a kiss to his cheek. The king had never hidden his love for his children.

A few nearby knights chuckled, and the tips of Baelor’s ears immediately turned red.

“Father…”

He tried to pull away, though not very hard.

It was only when Queen Myriah laid a gentle hand upon her husband’s arm that Daeron finally released him.

“Let the poor boy breathe,” she said fondly.

Baelor’s expression softened into something only ever reserved for you when you appeared.

Suddenly, it felt like the first day of your courtship all over again. He couldn’t quite meet your gaze. Instead, his fingers fumbled briefly with the flower crown before he slowly dropped to one knee.

The afternoon sun caught him just right, highlighting his usually smooth cheeks now marked with faint scuffs of battle, a bruise begins to bloom along his cheekbone, and he now has a split lip still dark with drying blood. One brown eye glowed warm like honey, while the lilac one flecked in the sun like light catching a shard of glass.

He lifted the wreath up to you like a relic and when he looked at you, he smiled for the first time since jousting that same easy, teasing, boyish one.

“See?” he grinned. “I told you I’d win, if I had something worth riding for.”

You accepted the wreath, turning it carefully in your hands.

“Yes,” you said dryly. “You only nearly killed yourself doing it.”

A sheepish look crossed his face.

“Well…”

His fingers rubbed at the back of his neck.

“Did I at least look heroic?”

You laughed despite yourself.

Stepping forward, you reached up and brushed a thumb across his split lip, carefully wiping away the last trace of blood.

“Annoyingly so.”

His grin softened.

“Then I suppose it was worth it.”

His smile faltered for a second.

“But…” he said more quietly, “I am sorry if I frightened you.”

The sincerity caught you off guard.

You had watched him ride into danger without hesitation, watched him thrown from a horse and climb back into the saddle while barely able to stand.

Yet this was what concerned him most was your fear.

“Forgiven,” you said.

His shoulders relaxed immediately.

“And giving Daemon back his shield makes you ten times the man he’ll ever be.”

A breathy laugh escaped him.

“Ah.”

His gaze drifted briefly toward the Blackfyre pavilion.

“I must admit that part was difficult”

Silence settled between you, but it was a comfortable, familiar one.

Your fingers tightened slightly around the wreath, and you sighed, knowing you should have said this sooner.

"Daemon is my past, Baelor."

His attention snapped back to you immediately.

"And you are my future."

Everything else seemed to fade away. The glory of his victory slipped to the back of his mind, replaced by something sheepish and vulnerable.

"Oh... was I truly that transparent?"

You smiled.

"Terribly."

A groan escaped him.

"Gods."

You tsked

"I've always been able to read you."

That seemed to embarrass him more than being kissed by his father in front of half the realm. Color crept into his tanned cheeks beneath the bruises. Both your hands came up to cradle his face as you smiled at him, gentle and true.

His breath caught.

"And if I had to choose again, I would still choose you."

For a moment, he simply stared. The great victor of the tourney, the prince who had just defeated Daemon Blackfyre none of it seemed to matter anymore.

He rose slowly to his feet, you expected him to take your hand.

Instead, his arm slipped around your waist, pulling you against him.

"Baelor—"

"I think I liked that answer better than winning."

Before you could respond, he dipped you backward. The world tilted, and the flower crown nearly slipped from your hands. Around you, the crowd erupted, wolf whistles, laughter, and a few scandalized cries from older ladies that sent heat rushing to your face. Baelor paid them no mind; his attention remained fixed solely on you.Then he kissed you not the triumphant kiss of a tourney champion, but the kiss of a young man hopelessly in love with his wife.

Taglist: @daenerysqueenofhearts @ihtscuddlesbeeetchx3 @white-olive @purple-1995

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