You were never meant to be the bride. You were the eldest, the steady one, the one who stayed behind when brighter girls were chosen. You told yourself love was not meant for women like you.
You think you are an obligation.
He only knows you are the only woman he has ever wanted.
Lyonel
Part One
Part Two
His POV - Part One
What If - Reader returned home before the scandal? + His Reaction
What if - Reader saved him instead?
What If - He could not save her in time?
Baelor
Part One
Part Two
His POV - Part One
What If - Reader returned home before the scandal? + His Reaction
What if - Reader saved him instead?
What If - He could not save her in time?
Maekar
Part One
Part Two
His POV - Part One
What If - Reader returned home before the scandal? + His reaction
What if - Reader saved him instead?
What If - He could not save her in time?
Requests
Post Marriage- Reader makes the first move
Post Marriage - Jealous husband
Post Marriage - Morning’s in Bed
Post Marriage - Reader not realising she is being flirted with + Defending Husband
Post Marriage - Reader is super competent and that really turns her husband on.
Post Marriage - Reader being told she is expired goods + telling husband to take mistress + pregnancy reveal
one, of the many things, i love about this scene is how they used color. mary is wearing the same purple that the beautiful flowers which surround them. this is not only used to make her the main focus, but to show how she's blossoming (her feelings).
for the first time, she cries not from being hurt but bc she's overwhelmed by the feelings tom's words awakens in her. as those flowers, she's taking her first steps to finally open herself to the world.
below those flowers that symbolize her, he gives her something so powerful (and that mary thought she never had): words. she was the smartest of all her sisters and could talk for hours about almost anything...but her own feelings. that's why she doesnt like poetry, and sees it as something uninteresting: bc she's surppressed her own feelings for all her life that is unable to understand how those writers can be that vocal about their feelings... till tom.
even without knowing it, he's become the key to open the gate where she's been hidding since she was a child.
the absolute insanity of the ep. 5 dance scene has me catatonic. tom hayward is locked in on her like the yearning terminator. there are heat-seeking missiles on this earth with less strength of target acquisition than this guy.
mary bennet is a stronger soldier than me for being able to function in these conditions. the poor thing is just trying to count her steps. meanwhile, loverboy mcgee is breaking his neck during every spin to ensure he has direct sight of her at all times.
dragons and knights in the ER - modern! akotsk au x the pitt
pairings: baelor targaryen x fem!resident!reader; maekar targaryen x fem!nurse!reader; ser duncan the tall x fem!resident!reader; daeron targaryen x fem!medstudent!reader.
summary: three dragons. one knight. one hospital that never sleeps. they’re used to closing deals, taking hits, and writing questionable stories after midnight... not losing their hearts to dangerously compelling doctors and nurses.
a/n: yup, a crossover between a knight of the seven kingdoms and the pitt. bear with me, i had this idea a few days ago and said 'well, why not, let's see what happens' and here i am, i don't know how well or badly this might turn out, but that's it.
we'll have love interests from akotsk and appearances from characters from the pitt... maybe someday i will do the reverse.
content:
still got it - baelor targaryen (5.8k)
summary: baelor targaryen only meant to prove to his son that he still got it. instead, he ends up in the ER with a cut on his head, a bruised ego, and a doctor who makes him forget the score entirely. oh, and his son trying to be his matchmaker.
a grumpy mess - maekar targaryen
summary: widower and real estate magnate maekar targaryen hasn’t opened his heart in years, until a late-night ER visit for his son puts him face-to-face with the only nurse brave enough to put him in his place. she thinks he’s arrogant. he thinks she’s extraordinary.
flirting, apparently - ser duncan the tall
summary: american football star duncan can handle tackles, but apparently not windows. she doesn’t care that he’s famous, she just wants him to stop bleeding. he doesn’t mean to flirt… or ask her out. It just sort of happens, he can’t help it.
wine-stained words - daeron targaryen
summary: daeron targaryen arrives at the ER bleeding, charming, and quoting poetry no one asked for. she blames the alcohol, she doesn’t expect him to return the next day, clear-headed and still flirting.
The black dragon (Maekar/Baelor) - Baelor and Maekar unwind after the trial.
Dragon on a leash (Maekar/Baelor) - Maekar is to be married off again. He's not exactly thrilled about it.
The hedge knight and the dragon (Maekar/Baelor) - After King Daeron announces that the winner will marry an Omegan prince, Maekar takes Aerion's place to save him.
SQUID GAME
Humans are... - Gi-hun is the first person to win the game twice. The VIPs decide to give him something, someone special, to celebrate that.
In a room full of people, I looked for you - When you die, you are teleported to the moment of your greatest regret. For In-ho it's the first vote after Gihun came back.
Heat and slick (omegaverse) - In-ho goes into heat during the 4th game.
The last team - After his team is spared in the six-legged pentathlon, even though Gi-hun failed, the Officer offers him a deal that can save the other players. All he has to do is kill player 001.
Fool me once, fool me twice (Are you death or paradise?) - Gihun gives birth to a pup, but it is immediately taken away. He does not understand what is happening.
Miss you, hyung - Jun-ho calls his brother when his car breaks down in the middle of the night. He doesn't expect him to come.
After the storm comes the storm (I lost my umbrella again, can I borrow yours?) - 2.5 years after Gi-hun managed to save a few people with the help of the Frontman, things are getting better, or so you could say.
Appa's little soldier - What Dae-ho saw before he died
Not a number, not a trash - prequel to Humans are... focused on the Masked Officer's past
hi, i love your baelor fanfics, so i came to request one, if you'd like to write it. so, the reader is his niece, she has a more reserved and mature vibe for her age (age gap, please). she falls in love first, through the admiration and respect she feels for him. baelor notices, and his reaction isn't very good. he ends up distancing himself from her, being kind of cold and rigid, in order to hide the attraction and desire he feels for her deep down. there's a lot of pent-up tension, moral conflict on his part, and lingering glances too. a slow burn story with a lot of longing, she fell first but he fell harder.
note: if you could add a scene where she is courted by another lord and baelor is mad with jealousy (in his own way), i would be very grateful. thank you in advance!
I'm not me when I write fics about Baelor. I become a crazy, lovesick woman every time. While I was writing this, I was just going crazy and screaming with happiness.
saying something dangerous, like I love you
Word count: 8k
Tags: Angst, Uncle/Niece Incest, Mutual Pining, Love Confessions, First Kiss, Hurt/Comfort, Age Gap
She watched him all through her childhood. She hid in the dark, dusty corners of the library, watching the pages of ancient tomes rustle soundlessly under his elegant, long fingers. She watched from afar as he engaged in gallant and effortless small talk with ladies and lords, and always, even in passing, noticed how his shoulders would subtly relax in those rare moments when he was alone with his family — with his wife and children. She always quietly, almost reverently admired her uncle — a man who moved through life with that innate confidence and calm that was so desperately lacking in their castle world, where they had existed side by side for many, many long years. Baelor, without knowing it and without making any effort, became for his young niece not just a relative, but a role model. He could not have imagined back then what the future truly held in store for them both.
And Lady Fate, meanwhile, was not idle: she played and schemed, stealthily binding them with common, invisible ties, the existence of which neither she nor he even suspected.
Then, suddenly, like a whirlwind, disaster struck: the Unknown took the life of the beautiful Jenna Dondarrion in an instant, leaving Baelor utterly alone to bear an immense burden — to raise his children and to manage both the realm and his own grief. And the princess, who at the time was only ten and five, felt, with a surprising, burning clarity, an overwhelming need to be near her uncle during this period of his deep sorrow. She didn't know for sure, and couldn't know, if true, all-consuming love had existed between the spouses, but the crown prince certainly harbored the warmest and most tender feelings for his late wife. His grief was genuine.
And she was there. She would appear like a shadow, silently sit in the armchair by the fire in his chambers, bring cool water when he forgot to eat, trying to cheer the man if not with a timely word, then at least with her quiet, sympathetic presence. And Baelor endlessly valued his niece for this sensitivity, so beyond her years. The prince did not know, did not suspect, that even then, in those mournful days, something more than simple familial affection had been born in the maiden's heart. It was infatuation. The very first, fragile and tremulous infatuation, which began to bloom profusely in the light of his gratitude for the care shown during the most difficult period of his life, when, besides his wife's death, urgent state affairs also rained down upon him. King Daeron, feeling old age approaching, was gradually transferring all his duties and burdens of rule to his eldest son, but Baelor himself did not desire this. His soul had no inclination for the Throne. He had to submit, gritting his teeth, and accept his inexorable fate as heir to the Iron Throne.
And who could have known that unexpected help would come from this young, almost child-like niece? Yes, she was mature beyond her years, was even wise in her own way, even though she sometimes lacked personal, hard-earned experience. But, to his great surprise, she always intuitively knew just what to say and what to do, what advice to give, and which actions were definitely not worth taking. Sometimes, looking at her, Baelor clearly saw before him not a young girl, but a grown woman, wise with life, who had lived as many years as he had. But certainly not that young princess of dragon's blood, who should only be interested in new fabrics from the Free Cities and long, languid evenings spent embroidering and engaging in empty talk with her friends. The princess seemed, as it were, not of this world — so it occasionally, but very vividly, seemed to him. And Baelor received new confirmations of this in those moments when he happened upon her in complete solitude and deafening silence. She could for a long time, without blinking, stare at the same spot on the wall or out the window, completely motionless and unaware of the sounds of the surrounding world. He was always tormented by curiosity: what could this young maiden with hair white as moonlight, silver, be thinking about? What thoughts, what secrets could concern his beloved niece? But he never once dared to ask, preferring to remain a silent shadow behind her.
Years passed. Months gave way to one another, and that first, tremulous infatuation, which the princess in her naivety considered merely a fleeting fancy that would disappear without a trace after a couple of moons, only grew stronger with each new day spent in Baelor's company. Neither of them noticed how time had slipped by imperceptibly, and the young girl had transformed into a beautiful, stately beauty with a sharp and agile mind. The youthful softness and plumpness had finally left her body, revealing the true, perfect dragon beauty. And not a single lord at court, not a single visiting guest, could leave this change without greedy, admiring attention.
But the princess was no longer interested in marriage as such. Her heart had finally and irrevocably fallen prisoner to Baelor, caught in that very clever trap he had set without knowing it. This happened when she, despite all her mental maturity, had still recklessly surrendered to her first deep feeling. She liked to feel, to the point of trembling, the flutter in her chest at the mere sight of her uncle; she liked to catch his every word; she liked to receive his sparing, yet so desired praise. Especially when she, casually discussing some seemingly insignificant matter of state with him, would suddenly steer her thoughts in the right direction, sincerely delighting the prince with her un-childlike wisdom and sound judgment.
Once, during one such conversation by the fireplace, when the wind was howling outside and the room was warm and cozy, her uncle said something to her that she remembered for the rest of her life. He said that she would have made an excellent ruler — wise, just, and far-sighted. And if her memory did not deceive her or blend with imagination, Baelor had then gently stroked her head, brushing a strand of silver hair from her forehead.
"Perhaps so," she had agreed then, unable to suppress the broad, happy smile brought on by his unexpected and so valuable compliment. "It's just a pity I was born a woman."
She clearly remembered that moment: how her uncle had frowned then — as if heavy storm clouds had suddenly rolled over his always so open and kind face. He did not like her words, steeped in the bitterness of the accepted injustice of the world. He let her know this immediately, unafraid to broach the slippery and dangerous topic. He set aside the scroll he was holding and turned his whole body towards her.
"Don't you dare say that," Baelor said quietly, but with an unexpected steel in his voice. "Your mind is sharper than that of many lords sitting on the Small Council. Your blood is the blood of the Conqueror. Do you truly believe that your gender determines the value of your future decisions?"
The princess froze, not expecting such fervor. In his eyes swam something new, unfamiliar to her until then — not just pity for her words, but real conviction. This sparked something new in her — excitement, an even greater attraction to the man who was now defending her from herself.
"But such is the order, uncle," she replied quietly, lowering her eyes. "A woman is a pawn. Her lot is to bear heirs and be a beautiful shadow to her husband."
"Nonsense," Baelor cut her off more sharply than he probably intended. He took her palm in his, not taking his gaze from his niece. "Orders are written by people. And people, as is known, make mistakes. You... you are not just my niece," he faltered, as if the words were coming to him with difficulty, searching for the right definition. "You are my most faithful and wise advisor. And I want you to know: by my side, you will always have a voice. And that voice will be heard. Do you understand?"
A log in the fireplace cracked loudly, sending up a shower of sparks. In the ensuing silence, the princess looked at their intertwined fingers and felt something hot and immense growing in her chest, ready to burst from within.
After that memorable evening, when she had nearly broken her heart against his steadfastness, the princess seemed to shed invisible shackles. If before she had carefully hidden her feelings behind the mask of a respectful niece, now, in despair, she allowed herself more and more liberties. It seemed to her: if she was destined to burn in this fire, then let the flames burn bright. She sought any pretext to be near him.
A fleeting touch of their hands, when she handed him a cup of wine, made her heart beat faster, and his — hesitate, frozen in indecision. Glances across the table at some banquet — she would catch his eyes, even when he looked away, and in those glances there was so much left unsaid that the air between them seemed to crackle. She would loop her arm through his, pressing a little closer than etiquette allowed, inhaling the familiar scent of old wood, ink, and the subtle incense that clung to his clothes. Once, when they were alone in the small drawing-room, she casually went to adjust the Hand's brooch on his chest — her fingers trembled, touching the cold metal. And the next moment, obeying a sudden impulse, she slid her hand higher and playfully tugged at his short beard, in which more and more silver threads were appearing. Baelor froze then, not knowing how to react, and she laughed — brightly and desperately, to hide the tears that had risen to her throat at her own audacity.
Hiding her feelings became harder with each passing month. The princess fell into melancholy sadness more and more often whenever she was alone. She was afraid to speak directly to her uncle — the fear of rejection paralyzed her will. She was certain: to him, she was merely a dear niece, a valued conversationalist, perhaps a friend. But nothing more. He would not accept her love; he would refuse, turn away — too proper, too faithful to duty, too frightened of what others might think. She knew Baelor well enough to predict his reaction: first disbelief, then cold politeness, and finally, complete estrangement. And this estrangement, which she had already begun to feel, seemed to her a harbinger of disaster.
But Baelor suspected. He had begun to suspect long before he allowed himself to admit it. Her glances had become too obvious, her touches too tender, she spent too much time near him, forgetting about others. He saw how she blossomed in his presence and how she dimmed when he left. And this realization crashed down upon him, crushing a heart already tormented by doubts. He could not, did not have the right to reciprocate — neither his age nor his position as heir allowed him even to think of it. And he made the cruelest decision, but, as it seemed to him, the only right one — to distance himself. To shield them both from falling into that bottomless abyss from which there was no escape. Better to do it now, before it was too late.
But the prince did not understand one thing: this "too late" had already arrived. It had arrived the very moment he first caught himself looking for her in a crowd. When his hand froze an inch from her hair, but never dared to touch. When he realized that his decision to distance himself caused pain not only to her, but to himself as well.
The days dragged on, unbearably long and agonizing for both of them. Of course, she noticed his aloofness. She would not have been herself if she hadn't noticed how mercilessly her uncle turned away from her, how he stopped calling her to the library for those long, intense, mind-stirring discussions that had become the meaning of her existence. No more notes hinting at an interesting book, no more invitations to stroll through the garden, no more of those warm, semi-private dinners in a small circle where she felt needed. Days passed in a gray succession; she stopped feeling connected to the outside world, with each hour sinking deeper into the abyss of her own emotions, enveloping her soul in impenetrable darkness. She unconsciously dug her nails into her palms every time she was ignored. She suffocated, being in the same space as him, yet receiving neither a glance nor a word.
At one banquet, they were seated on opposite sides of the hall — whether by the king's will or by chance, but it eased life for neither of them. They became unwilling participants in others' conversations, surrounded by lords, ladies, brothers, and cousins. Baelor, unable to resist some invisible force, kept catching himself searching for her gaze. And when he finally succeeded, he regretted it. Her eyes, usually so alive, understanding, sparkling with intelligence, were now empty. Empty and indifferent — the way one looks at things that no longer matter. In that emptiness lurked such sharp pain that Baelor's breath caught. Resentment was also there, but the princess hid it even from herself, considering that feeling unworthy. She couldn't understand: why? What had she done wrong? When had she said something rude or made a misstep? It seemed to her there was no place in her life for such baseness. She had always tried to control herself, so that neither word nor action would betray her true emotions, but with each passing day, with each empty conversation, it became harder to keep the dragon in check.
The feast stretched on in an endless succession of toasts, the clinking of goblets, bursts of laughter, and that obligatory small talk which never truly ends but merely flows from one empty form into another. The Princess had learned long ago, in her early youth, to exist within this noisy vortex without being fully immersed in it. She smiled when etiquette demanded it, nodded when it was appropriate, and had long since stopped listening to what was being said around her. Too tiresome, too meaningless. Her thoughts wandered far from these walls, bathed in the light of a thousand candles—or rather, they were there, where he sat at the high table, encircled by lords, advisors, and ever-flattering courtiers.
Baelor did not look her way. Not for months now, for an eternity—since that day when something between them had broken. She had grown accustomed to the pain, though growing accustomed to such a deep, gnawing emptiness inside was as impossible as getting used to living without air. She had simply learned to hide it deep, in the very depths of her soul, carefully masking it with a facade of icy indifference. And credit where it was due, she did it masterfully. Lately, not a single soul had dared ask the Princess what had happened, why she was no longer seen in the company of the Crown Prince, where that particular light had gone that used to ignite in her eyes upon his arrival. She pretended to be perpetually busy—with affairs, with walks, with playing the lute, embroidery, reading—just to avoid unwanted questions and the sticky, web-like gossip. Though, truth be told, she hardly cared about the gossip when everything inside her ached with longing, twisted with unspoken words and the impossibility of simply approaching him and touching his hand.
"—...and so I tell him, this arrogant lord: 'My lord, if you are seeking a bride, you should look not at me, but into the book of noble lineages. All the names are written there, and I dare say, mine is not among them for you,'" finished Lord Mallister his long-winded speech, laughing loudly and smugly at his own joke, awaiting praise for his wit.
She smiled—politely, distantly. The lord was young, rich, favored by the king, and seemed genuinely intent on vying for her hand. The second one this month. And likely the tenth since the start of the year—the Princess was not in the habit of counting suitors; they faded from memory faster than frost melts in the morning sun. She had long stopped remembering even their names, because her entire being, every thought and every heartbeat, belonged to another Targaryen. To the one who now sat twenty paces away and did not even look her way.
"You are cruel, Princess," Lord Mallister suddenly said with playful reproach, stepping impermissibly close, his lips almost brushing her temple, his hand nearly touching her elbow. He reeked of wine and self-satisfaction. "It seems your thoughts are occupied with something else, and I must admit, it stings. Tell me, what could possibly concern the beautiful Princess, heiress to the ancient blood of Valyria?"
She opened her mouth to reply with something sharp—one phrase would have sufficed to put the presumptuous lord in his place—but she didn't get the chance. Out of the corner of her eye, she caught a sudden movement where Baelor had been sitting motionless just moments before. Her heart skipped a beat, then began pounding somewhere in her throat. Emerging from the crowd's hum, from behind Mallister's back, came that voice—so familiar, so longed-for, at the very sound of which everything inside her turned upside down. He spoke evenly, coldly, and with authority:
"Forgive me, Lord Mallister. I need to speak with my niece. Immediately."
Baelor stood a step away from her, though just a minute ago he had been sitting at the table surrounded by other lords and the king himself. He extended his hand to her—a formal gesture, impeccably polite, as etiquette demanded when a gentleman invites a lady. But when her trembling fingers touched his palm, he squeezed them a little tighter than necessary. For one brief, searing moment, she closed her eyes, feeling that long-awaited warmth of his skin. It instantly dispelled the sticky, grasping fingers of darkness and despair that had been suffocating her for weeks.
He led her through the hall—neither fast nor slow, pacing his steps so as not to attract undue attention. But his hand did not release her fingers even when they stepped into the coolness of the nearly empty gallery, passed through an enfilade of rooms, and arrived at the balcony. Here, under the high canopy of stars, only the night, the moon, and the autumn garden below could witness their conversation.
"Baelor?" her voice came out soft, bewildered. "What happened? Why did you...?"
He was silent. He stood half-turned away from her, his gaze fixed on the darkness of the garden, the wind tousling his dark hair, where, in the moonlight, an early streak of silver glinted like a thread. His hand still held her fingers—and then, as if suddenly coming to his senses and regaining control over his body, he loosened his grip. But he did not let go completely. Instead, he ran his thumb over her knuckles—lightly, almost weightlessly, as if testing the feel of the most precious fabric in the world—and paused.
"That lord," he finally spoke, though the reason for his actions now seemed trivial to him, unworthy of the Crown Prince leaving the feast and taking his niece out into the night. "Mallister."
She froze, afraid to breathe, afraid to break this moment.
"What about him?" she breathed, barely audible.
"He..." Baelor faltered, as if struggling to find the right words. He turned his head, looked at her piercingly, searchingly. How long had it been since they stood like this—close, alone, not playing their assigned roles. There was a dull ache in his chest—perhaps his heart, withered during the months of separation, had finally shown signs of life. "He is not a suitable match for you."
She wanted to ask: why? Who could possibly be suitable for her? She wanted to scream in his face that she didn't care, that she would never marry anyone, that the only man she wanted by her side every morning and every night was him. But the words lodged in her throat like a lump, because Baelor suddenly stepped closer, cutting off any attempt to continue this agonizing dialogue. He stood right in front of her. So close that she could feel the heat of his body on her skin, hear his ragged breathing, see the pulse beating in his temple.
He leaned towards her—slowly, infinitely slowly, as if giving her time to retreat, to run, to hide. As if testing whether she would let him tear down all the walls that he himself had erected between them. And she did not retreat. She stood frozen in disbelief, gazing into his eyes, which in the moonlight now seemed almost black, bottomless, drawing her in. She would have given anything—everything to the last drop of blood—just to hear the cherished words now that would shatter the chains of this mad estrangement. Why else would he have come? Why else would he look at her like that?
"You deserve better," he whispered, and in that whisper there was anguish. "Far better than that... than any of them."
His hand slowly rose toward her face—and halted an inch from her cheek. She bit down on her lower lip until it hurt, feeling the searing heat of his palm, the almost-touch. Sparks seemed to leap between his fingers and her skin. But he could not bring himself to take that final step, to shatter that boundary. Just one touch—that was all she desired now, all she prayed for. His finger traced the line of her cheekbone in the air—without making contact, yet goosebumps raced across her skin, and everything tightened low in her belly with aching anticipation.
"Baelor..." she breathed, and in her voice there was a tremor, a plea, desperation.
He snatched his hand back as if burned by the sound of her voice. Stepped away, as though an invisible wall had once again risen between them. Ran his palm over his face, banishing the spell, banishing her image that stood before his eyes. He no longer looked at her, but her face still shone before his gaze, bathed in moonlight, making her features intoxicatingly beautiful, her eyes impossibly huge, knowing, absorbing all his pain.
"Forgive me. I should not have..." His voice failed, grew hoarse. He berated himself for this unforgivable weakness, for that single impulse that had made him rise from his seat and rush here, saving her from a lord who merely had the foolishness to stand too close. "It seemed to me that lord was too forward. Your reputation..."
"My reputation is perfectly fine," she interrupted more sharply than intended. Her chest trembled from his proximity, from this almost-touch, from the way he had looked at her. "And you, Baelor, know perfectly well that I do not intend to marry."
He glanced at her, eyes slightly narrowed, searching. Her words, contrary to his expectation, sparked not concern in his eyes but a strange flash of satisfaction, which he futilely tried to hide:
"Why?"
The question hung in the air between them. She could have answered. Could have told the truth—now, here, under this starry sky, when they stood so close. The words hovered on her tongue, burned it: "Because I love you, you fool. Because my heart belongs to you and you alone." But a sticky, all-consuming fear clamped her throat in iron jaws. Fear of rejection, fear of shattering this fragile moment, fear of hearing cold, polite pity in return.
"Because I see none worthy among them," she said, and her voice came out steady, though everything inside her screamed. And these words were partly true—let Baelor guess, if he wished, that the only man worthy of her stood before her now.
She saw him give a short nod, as if this was precisely the answer he had expected, as if he had been testing something for himself. Something elusive flickered in the depths of his eyes—relief? Or disappointment that she hadn't dared?—and vanished instantly, swept away by the familiar mask of composure.
"You should return now," he said, and his voice once again carried the steely notes of the King's Hand, a man accustomed to commanding and concealing his feelings.
"And you?" she asked, unable to move from the spot, tethered to him by an invisible thread.
"I will come later. I need to..." He didn't finish, only gestured vaguely into the darkness of the night garden. But at that moment, he was thinking of only one thing: how he longed to press her against the cold stone wall, to crush her lips—so unsmiling lately, so sad—in a desperate, hungry kiss, and erase with a single motion all those foolish boundaries he himself had built between them. Leaving only one thing—heat, pain, and maddening desire.
She slowly turned, took the first uncertain step toward the archway from which they had come. Stopped, looked back over her shoulder.
He stood exactly where she had left him—motionless, like a statue carved from stone. And he was watching her, silently following her with his gaze.
"Baelor," she called softly, almost timidly. But there was no continuation to these words. The Princess could not find them, and were they even needed?
He only gripped the balcony railing tighter, his knuckles turning white in the moonlight.
And she left. And in her chest, with each uncertain step, with each heartbeat, something warm, tremulous, long-forgotten and therefore frightening began to grow. He had come for her. He had taken her away from that pushy lord. He had looked at her as he hadn't looked at her in long, endless months. He had almost touched her face. He...
What did it all mean? Why had he done it?
She did not know yet. But for the first time in a long, dragging while, deep within her wounded soul, a tiny, timid flame of hope flickered to life.
Returning to the stuffy, noisy hall, she smiled absently at Lord Mallister, who immediately rushed over with concerned questions, and didn't even notice what he was saying. The hum of the feast, the clinking of goblets, the music—all merged into one distant noise. Her thoughts were elsewhere—on the cold balcony, under the stars, with him.
And Baelor returned to the banquet hall only an hour later, when the feast was in full swing. He sank heavily into his seat, accepted a full goblet from the hands of an obliging servant, raised it to his lips—and immediately, as if burned, set it back down on the table. The expensive wine tasted to him bitterer than wormwood itself.
She had almost stopped eating. The hope that had blossomed after their conversation on the balcony shattered into a million pieces in the following days, days filled with loneliness and silence. Food seemed tasteless, and her stomach clenched in a spasm at the very thought of dining in the great hall, where he sat so far away and yet so close. She spent more and more time in her chambers, voluntarily imprisoned within four walls. She paced her rooms—from door to window, from window to fireplace, day after day, like a caged animal. Sometimes she simply lay on the bed without moving, staring at the ceiling and counting the cracks. The rare moments she left the castle, she shared with her faithful horse, riding him into the Kingswood. Only there, beneath the canopy of trees, could she breathe freely. The wind tousled her silver hair, carrying the scent of pine needles and the sweetish aroma of rotting leaves—autumn had finally claimed its dominion. The forest was withering, and this withering seemed to her a pitiful reminder of her own feelings for Baelor—feelings she was afraid to put into words, to go to him for an honest conversation.
When King Daeron announced a great hunt, the Princess received the news with dread. She knew that all members of the royal family were required to attend. And that meant seeing Baelor again. Feeling again that high wall between them. Smiling again and pretending everything was fine.
The hunt began on a clear autumn morning. The sun gilded the treetops, the air was transparent and fresh. Baelor, as always, was the center of attention—stately, important, in a sturdy hunting tunic of dark green wool, a dagger at his belt. People looked at him with admiration and awe—the Crown Prince, the kingdom's pillar, the future king. And she... She was lost in the crowd, like a ghost, restless and forgotten by everyone, even him. She wandered among the pavilions, paying no mind to how strangers looked at her. Her thoughts were tangled, the sun blinded her, and the smells—roasted meat, horse sweat, leather, and smoke—assaulted her nose, causing a throbbing headache. She rubbed her temples with her fingers again and again, trying to quell the pulsation.
Finally, she could bear it no longer and, leaving the noisy camp, ventured deeper into the forest. Ancient oaks, which remembered her ancestors and those same endlessly repeated hunts, welcomed her into their shade. It was quiet here, only the rustle of fallen leaves underfoot and the distant call of hunting horns somewhere far away. She leaned her back against the rough trunk and closed her eyes, hoping the headache would subside. She cared nothing for the festivities in the pavilions, for the talk and laughter. It all seemed empty and false. And she preferred not to see Baelor at all—each meeting only brought a fresh wound.
But fate, as is well known, does not ask our permission.
She did not hear his footsteps—the leaves muffled them. But suddenly she felt someone's presence. She opened her eyes and started. A few paces away stood Baelor. He was alone, without his retinue, without his horse, and he was looking at her as he had not looked at her for many days—with concern, with pain, and with something else. Could it be?...
"You left," he said hoarsely, and in that single word there was so much: reproach, pain, and a desperate, almost angry relief at having found her. "I saw you heading into the forest. Alone. Do you have any idea what that means? It's reckless. It's unsafe."
She stood with her back against the rough trunk of the old oak, watching him. The autumn forest breathed cold and the scent of decaying leaves; somewhere far off, a crow cawed, and these sounds seemed the only reality in a world that had just been turned upside down.
"Since when do you care about my safety, Baelor?" she asked, her voice quiet and cracking, sounding so tired and bitter that it made his heart clench. "You don't even look at me. For months. You walk past me as if I don't exist. As if I were an empty space."
He stepped closer—impulsively, without thinking—but in the next instant stopped, as if hitting an invisible, yet no less real, barrier. His gaze, fixed on her, was filled with such a tangled knot of doubt, pain, and confusion that she could barely withstand its pressure. He himself, apparently, could not untangle his own feelings—or perhaps he was simply afraid to look too deeply. She lowered her eyes and saw his hands, hanging at his sides, clench convulsively and then release, and this gesture told her more than any words. He was tense to the limit. He was on the edge.
"You know perfectly well why I don't look."
"No," she slowly shook her head, and in her eyes, glistening in the dim sunlight, tears suddenly appeared—the very tears she had held back so long, so desperately, all these endless months. All her learned composure, all her feigned maturity and impenetrability, dissolved in an instant, falling away like dry leaves. Now before him stood not the princess of dragon's blood, not the statue everyone was used to seeing. Before him stood simply a young woman whose love—the one and only, all-consuming love—remained unrequited. Or so she thought. "I don't know, Baelor. I don't know anything. You just disappeared. From my life, from my days, from everything. You wouldn't even spare me a glance. Explain it to me. Please. I deserve at least that after everything that was between us… I deserve to know the truth."
He was silent, and in that silence, in the resonant stillness of the autumn forest, there was so much unspoken anguish… Why? Why did he have such expressive eyes when he allowed it? Why did they speak louder than any words, but only when he let them?
Finally, he exhaled—hoarsely, brokenly:
"If I allow myself to look at you… if I allow myself to be near you, to breathe the same air as you, to touch you… I won't be able to stop. Whether you understand it or not, I won't be able to. I won't be able to pretend anymore that you're just my niece. Just my brother's daughter. Because that is a lie. A lie I've told for too long, and it's a vile one."
"You're afraid," she said quietly, but with complete, absolute certainty in her words. She straightened up, squared her thin, tense shoulders, and met his gaze. Fearless. Stubborn. Desperate to the last spark. "You've always been afraid, Baelor. Of your own feelings, of what others think. Of what people will say, what the lords will think, what the council will decide. You hide behind your duty, behind your crown, behind your age… But I'm not afraid of anything. Do you hear me? Nothing, except one thing—losing you. I would rather burn in this fire myself than spend my whole life warming myself at someone else's cold hearth."
She stepped towards him herself—swiftly, not giving herself time to think, not allowing fear to bind her hands and feet again. In a rush, in a desperate lunge, she grabbed the collar of his traveling doublet with both hands, pulling him towards her with a strength he hadn't expected from her. The heavy Hand of the King's brooch, the symbol of his power and his damned duty, flashed and was immediately hidden beneath the folds of his cloak. Before Baelor could pull away—and did he even want to?—their faces were inches apart. To keep his balance, to avoid falling onto her, pressed against the tree, he had to brace his hands against the rough oak trunk on either side of her head. He was taller, broader, stronger—and yet he felt like a cornered animal, no longer knowing if it even wanted to escape.
"You won't lose me," his voice broke as he breathed these words directly onto her lips, almost touching them. "I will always be near. Always. As your uncle, as a friend. As an elder who is duty-bound to protect you."
He said this, but… did he himself believe what he was saying? Did he fully understand the meaning of the words he was uttering, words meant to be a saving lie for them both? He wanted to believe there was some truth in them, that he could somehow—reshape his feelings, compress them into acceptable familial boundaries. Only somewhere deep in his soul, in its darkest, most honest corner, he understood: such a relationship, if forced into the accursed bed of duty, would bring only pain. And the main thing—was he himself willing to suffer like that for the rest of his life?
"And what if being just a niece is not enough for me?" the princess whispered passionately, barely breathing, and as she spoke, her lips almost brushed against his. "What if being just your brother's daughter, whom you are obliged to teach and protect, is not enough? What if I love you not at all the way a niece should love her uncle? You know this. You've always known it."
He slammed his eyes shut—sharply, as if she had struck him—and a shadow passed over his face.
"Don't say that. Please," he exhaled, and his own voice sounded foreign to him: hoarse, almost pitiful. He wanted to laugh bitterly at himself, at his helplessness, at how easily this girl, whom he still remembered as a foolish child, shattered all his armor to pieces.
"Why?" she didn't relent. Her fingers, still clutching his doublet, loosened slightly but didn't let go. "Because it's the truth? Or because you feel the same way yourself, but you don't have the courage to admit it?"
He opened his eyes wide, and in them, in those bottomless dark eyes, such despair blazed, such raw, uncovered pain, that she froze, afraid to move. She searched them, trying to read the answer to her question, and suddenly felt her hands, still clinging to the thick fabric of his tunic, slide upward of their own accord. To his neck. To his heated skin, which she had so desperately wanted to touch all these long months. Her palms, chilled by the damp autumn air, by the cold that penetrated even her thick cloak, came to rest on his neck, and this contrast—her icy fingers and the heat of his blood—burned them both.
"Yes," he exhaled, and his face contorted into a grimace as if, at that very moment, a spear had pierced him, had run him through, and his insides were flooded with hot, salty blood. "Yes, I feel it. Damn you, girl, I feel it. And every night I lie awake, thinking of you. And every time you walk past me, I want to grab your hand, pull you to me, and never, do you hear me, never let you go. Every damned moment you smile at someone else, I want to break that someone's neck. Satisfied? Is this what you wanted?"
She looked at him, pale, with dilated, enormous pupils, and her lips trembled—whether from the cold or from what was happening inside her.
"Then why are you tormenting us both?" she whispered, barely moving her lips, and in that whisper there was a plea. "If you feel… if I mean something to you… why this torture?"
"Because I am your uncle," his voice cracked into a rasp, almost a moan. He said it as if the word itself was a sentence he had passed on himself and was powerless to appeal. Targaryen traditions, the customs of their ancestors, the incestuous marriages that were once the norm—all of it was foreign to him. He had grown up in a different time, at a different court, when close-kin unions in their house had faded away, become a dark legend, a shadow of the past not spoken of. But the princess could not, would not accept this attitude from him. To her, it was a betrayal—not of tradition, but of them. "Because I am nearly forty, and you have only just turned nineteen, and your whole life is still ahead of you. Because I am the heir to the Iron Throne, the King's Hand, and if a single living soul finds out what is happening here… do you have any idea what filth they'll throw at you? What slander, what vileness? They'll call you a wanton, a seductress, practically a witch who bewitched a foolish old man. And me—a dishonorable old fool who defiled his own niece. I cannot allow that. I have no right. I cannot let you ruin your life, ruin your future, ruin everything you could have, because of a foolish… because of some girlish infatuation."
She dug her fingers into his neck with such force that crimson marks would surely remain—bruises that would become for him a painfully sweet reminder of this day, of this mad forest, of her despair turned into victory. She wanted to feel him under her fingers—alive, real, hers. To prove to herself with every touch, with every cell of her body, that this was not a dream, not another painful delusion, not a trick of an imagination inflamed by long solitude, which had so many times painted similar pictures for her, only to shatter her heart with cruel reality come morning.
"This is not a foolish infatuation!" she exclaimed, and her voice, rising to a cry, tore through the silence of the autumn forest. But in that cry there was no anger, no reproach—only a desperate, plaintive plea to finally be heard by the one whose voice meant more to her than all the songs of all the minstrels in the world. "And I don't care about the filth! I don't care! What dare they say against the blood of the dragon? What do I care for their gossip, for their filthy tongues, for the whispers behind my back, when you stand here now, before me, and confess that I haven't been going mad alone all this time? I can endure anything. Anything they dare throw in my face, if you are by my side. If I know that in the evening I will go not to my empty, cold chambers, but to you. But if you push me away now..."
She sobbed—convulsively, brokenly, no longer able to hold back the tears that had long been a lump in her throat, suffocating her at night, threatening to overwhelm her at the most inopportune moments. She had balanced on this damned edge for so many days, so many endless nights, that now, when the dam had finally burst, it flooded out with unstoppable force. Tears streamed down her cheeks—large, salty, hot—falling onto the withered autumn leaves at their feet, and she didn't even try to wipe them away. Let him see. Let him know what his silence had cost her, those averted eyes, that damned propriety of his.
"...then life will no longer be worth living," she finished in a barely audible whisper, and in that whisper there was so much resignation, so much quiet, hopeless despair, that Baelor's heart would have shattered into pieces, had it still been made of flesh and blood, and not of that frozen stone he had so diligently tried to make it all these long months.
He grabbed her by the shoulders—sharply, impulsively—shook her so hard her head snapped back and her silver hair whipped across her face. Roughly. Desperately. Trying to reach her through the haze of her hysteria, through this flood of tears and confessions that threatened to sweep them both away. His eyes blazed with angry fire, but that anger was not directed at her—oh no, not at her. At himself. At his cowardice. At his damned propriety, at his duty, at all those years he had spent keeping his distance from her, years that had nearly destroyed them both.
"Don't you dare say that!" he growled, his voice, low and hoarse, coming out as almost an animal snarl. "Never! Don't you dare."
"Then stop turning away!" she cried back, looking at him through her tears, and in that outcry there was as much pain as there was defiance. Her voice, ringing and desperate, startled the birds in the crown of the old oak—they rose into the rapidly darkening sky in a noisy, frightened flock, showering them from above with a veritable rain of crimson and gold leaves. "Stop pretending I don't exist! If we are destined to burn—let us burn together. But I can no longer suffocate in this loneliness! I cannot wake up every morning with the thought that today you will again walk past me without even a glance!"
Her chest heaved beneath the fabric of her dress, large, salty tears burned her cheeks, her soul cried out for mercy—or for execution, she no longer distinguished between the two. She needed only one thing: for him to save her from herself, from this endless wavering between the hope that smoldered somewhere in her heart and the black, hopeless despair that engulfed her every evening. For him to free her from the power of his own hands and his own heart, which tormented her more cruelly than any sophisticated torture—with their damned inaccessibility.
He looked at her, and in his eyes a true storm raged. Desire, accumulated over years, suppressed, trampled down by the heavy boots of duty and honor. Fear of the inevitable—fear that stopping this now would be impossible, that there was no turning back. And an all-consuming, wild, no-longer-restrained love, which he had buried for so long under a bushel of propriety and decency. All of this now swirled in his soul in a frantic, frenzied dance, depriving him of the last crumbs of reason, sweeping away all the barriers he had built over the years.
And then, unable to bear another second of this torment, he wrenched her to him—wrenched her so hard that she slammed against his chest—and crushed his mouth to hers in a kiss.
Desperate. Hungry. Frenzied.
Like a drowning man who, after long minutes underwater, when his lungs are already burning and the last sparks of life are flashing in his mind, finally gasps for life-giving air. Like a starving beast finally reaching its long-awaited prey, no longer controlling its animalistic, primal nature. Like a boy experiencing for the first time the intoxicating, maddening taste of first love—though what boy, what first love...
She gasped.
The entire world—the autumn forest, the cold wind, the rustling leaves, the cries of startled birds—all disappeared, fell away somewhere, compressed into a single point of contact: their lips. Every sensation sharpened to an impossible, painful degree. She felt every moment: the searing touch of his lips—so firm and yet so gentle; his hands, like a steel band gripping her shoulders—his fingers digging into the fabric of her dress, surely leaving bruises; the frantic, mad pounding of his heart, which she felt even through the thick fabric of his tunic and her own ribcage. Her knees suddenly buckled, lost all strength, and she hung on him, suddenly powerless, like a rag doll. Her legs no longer held her—all the strength, all the fury, all the inhuman pain of the last weeks and months had drained out of her with her tears, leaving behind only an emptiness, which was instantly, immediately filled by a pulsating, all-consuming, painfully sweet desire to be even closer. To dissolve into him. To become him.
But her uncle's strong arms—beloved, the only one—did not let her fall. Caught her under her back, pulled her to him, pressed her against his body so tightly, as if afraid she would dissolve into the autumn air, disappear, turn into a ghost to mock him one last time. She clung to him with her hands—convulsively, feverishly, in a frenzy digging her fingers into the thick, rough wool of his travelling cloak on his back, crumpling the expensive fabric, not caring about anything in the world. She arched in his arms, pressing closer, grinding her hips against his, instinctively, by touch seeking that singular closeness she had been deprived of for so long. Feeling how tense his body was, how every muscle, every sinew trembled with barely restrained, bursting-forth passion, with years of hunger that now demanded its due.
She moaned—deeply, brokenly, unable to bear this sweet tension any longer, tension that still sought release. Her whole body trembled with a fine, uncontrollable shiver—whether from cold or from an excess of feeling—as Baelor's hands slid down her back, pressing into her sharp shoulder blades, tracing the line of her spine, descending lower, to her waist, pulling her even closer, if that were possible. She was burning. Burning alive in this dank autumn forest, under ancient oaks, and she wanted no salvation. No other salvation but him.
He tore his lips from hers only to draw in a ragged, whistling breath—and immediately pressed them to hers again, no longer kissing but seemingly devouring her, trying to drink her in, to sate himself with her for all the years he had deprived himself. To quell a hunger that tormented him more fiercely than any dragonfire. His palms roamed her back, buried themselves in her silver hair, tangled in it, gently tugging at strands, making her tilt her head back and bare her throat to his greedy, wet, burning kisses.
"My girl," he breathed into the hollow behind her ear, into the sensitive skin behind her lobe, and his voice sounded so unfamiliar, so foreign to the composed, impenetrable, calm prince and Hand he had been just an hour ago. "My little girl... What are you doing to me... What are you turning me into..."
She sobbed—not from pain anymore, but from an excess of feeling that swelled in her chest, finding no other outlet. From happiness so immense it barely fit within her body.
"I love you," she whispered into his neck, pressing her face into his heated skin, inhaling the scent she had known since childhood and which now, mixed with the smell of the forest and decaying leaves, seemed the most intoxicating aroma in the world. "I've loved you for so long... You have no idea how long. Since I was fourteen, and you first praised me for giving good counsel. You didn't even notice then, but I remembered it forever."
He froze for one endless moment, and then his hands clenched on her buttocks with such force that she nearly cried out—but it was a pleasant, sweet pain.
"I do," he replied hoarsely, burying his nose in the crown of her hair. "Oh, believe me, I do. Because I've loved you almost as long. I just never allowed myself to even think about it. I forbade myself. I strangled every feeling, every thought of you. And I thought I was succeeding."
She pulled back just enough to look into his eyes—those bottomless, multi-hued eyes that now, in the forest's half-light, seemed like two stars fallen from the heavens. There were no more storm clouds in them, no more lightning flashes, no more of that agonizing struggle that had tormented him just minutes ago. Only a quiet, calm, boundless sea, reflecting the autumn evening sky and her own face—happy, wet with tears, flushed with color.
"And now?" she asked almost soundlessly, with just her lips, afraid to frighten away this fragile, newborn happiness with a loud noise.
He ran his palm along her cheek—gently, tenderly—wiping away her tears with his thumb. Paused for a moment, tracing the line of her cheekbone, then moved to her chin, tilting her face up. And he smiled—that very smile she had loved so much in childhood: warm, a little sad, endlessly dear. The smile for which she would have done anything.
"And now," he said quietly, but in that quiet there was such strength, such resolve as she had never before seen in him, "we'll have to learn to live anew. Together. Not hiding, not looking back, not being afraid. If, of course, you haven't changed your mind. If this mad hour in the woods hasn't sobered you."
She laughed—ringingly, happily. Laughed, throwing her head back, and that laughter scattered through the forest, startling yet more birds, echoing somewhere in the distance.
"Never," she breathed, still laughing and crying at once. "Never in this world."
And she reached for him for another kiss—no longer that desperate, frenzied, almost bestial kiss like the first one. But a tender, long, promising one. The kind all their subsequent kisses would be.
Somewhere in the distance, a horn sounded again, drawn-out and bassy, reminding them of the world that existed beyond their small forest, beyond this oak, this clearing, this evening. Reminding them of the feast, of the guests, of the king, of duty, of the thousand little things that make up a life.
But they had no concern for that world. Today, that world could wait. Today, they had the right to nothing but each other.
Only someone thought otherwise.
Maekar's grumbling, dissatisfied voicerangg out quite nearby—seemingly just behind the nearest bushes:
"Where in seven hells are they?" He was clearly looking either for them or for his perpetually disappearing sons, who had taken it into their heads to go on a nighttime escapade. "I've walked the whole forest, and those scoundrels are nowhere to be found!"
They froze, staring at each other with wide eyes. The Princess pressed her hand to her mouth to keep from laughing—hysterically, from the surprise and absurdity of the situation. Baelor, cursing under his breath—something he'd never been known to do before—hurriedly began straightening her cloak, smoothing her disheveled dress, tucking away stray strands of hair. She, in turn, with trembling hands, straightened his tunic, smoothed his ruffled hair.
"Easy," he whispered in her ear, quickly kissing her temple. "We go out one at a time. You first. I'll follow in a few minutes. And pretend you were just walking and got lost."
She nodded, still unable to suppress a happy, foolish smile. And throwing him one last look, full of such light that it took his breath away, she stepped out from under the oak's canopy toward Maekar's voice and the life that awaited them ahead.
It Is Called Growth (Baelor Targaryen x Niece!reader)
A/N: Every time I think I’ve exhausted my brain, something new pops in. Thank you to @ghostlybfgf for writing such amazing fics that they inspire me!!! I feel bad for rushing this one but I just needed to write something smutty and all over the place.
Summary: At one point, you would have given everything to be betrothed to your beloved cousin. Now all you want is your uncle.
Word count: ~6.6k (I will no longer apologise for writing more than I thought I would)
Tags: 18+/MDNI, she/her pronouns, AFAB reader, some Valarr x reader, (significant) age gap, younger!reader (20s), not necessarily accurate ASOIAF lore (sorry), Targcest, canon typical incest, it’s fucked up and that’s ok, smut, fondling and fingering but that’s it, she calls him Uncle during it, never proofread, (please let me know if I missed any)
Your media consumption is your own responsibility.
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.
Always appreciate comments, likes, and reblogs :)
When you were little, a girl of no more than six, you had been convinced that one day you would marry your cousin Valarr. The boy was older than you by about six years as well, and luckily had the kind temperament (even at that age) to not be annoyed with a little girl constantly trailing him.
You had seen his pretty mismatched eyes, his soft brown hair with the white streak running along the back, but most of all, you had seen the way he was kind to you. He always brought you sweets and remembered your favourites, ensuring that he had some in his pocket whenever he saw you next. He always smiled at your approach, never sneering at you or telling you to buzz off like your brother Aerion did, and it had all culminated in you announcing to everyone that one day you would marry your sweet Valarr.
Everyone had laughed at you, pinching your cheeks and wishing you the best in your endeavour. Your mother had been sweet about it, kissing your cheeks and telling you that one day she hoped you would be married for love. Your father gruffly told you to stop thinking about Valarr, that he would kill off every man in your vicinity that even looked in your direction (to which you had responded with a glare and indignantly argued that you would marry Valarr even if it made your father angry, ever his daughter). Your brother Daeron was dismissive, smiling softly at you and humming a ‘yes, sure’ then turning away with haunted eyes, and Aerion pulled your hair and scowled at you and told you that you would never be married because you were a pathetic little girl who could not do anything for the house of the dragon.
At that you had run off crying, going to look for Valarr so he could comfort you and tell you that Aerion was being horrible and simply lying. You had raced through the halls of the Red Keep only to bash into the legs of your Uncle Baelor. He reached down quickly to scoop you up, holding you to his chest as you cried and blubbered, looking up at him with your big teary eyes. He frowned down at you, caressing your cheeks and wiping your tears, running a hand over your little head and hushing you, asking you what had happened to make you cry so. You clung to his doublet with your little fists, sniffing loudly and pouting as you told him about what Aerion said.
Your uncle smiled softly down at you, a glint of fondness in his eyes. He caressed your hair again and told you not to cry, to forget Aerion’s malicious words because he had no idea what he was talking about. He told you that you were a sweet girl with a big heart, that you had enough love to spare for many others and that was what made you strong. He had pressed a kiss to the top of your head and put you back down on the floor, telling you to run off and have fun now. You had beamed up at him then, wrapping your arms around his legs and hugging him for a moment as you mumbled ‘thank you Uncle Baelor’, then sprinted back off again.
Everything had been good, your childhood had been fun, then your father had been given Summerhall and suddenly you were being ripped away from it all. On your final day in the Keep, you could only sob, your little body shaking as you screamed and yelled at your parents. You had been resistant to being loaded into the carriage, crying and clinging to Valarr, telling him to keep you there, to tell your parents to leave you be, but he could only laugh sadly, bending down to hug you and press kisses to your little head.
He tried to convince you that it would be alright, that Summerhall was beautiful and that you would have an absolute whale of a time there, but you just shook your head and sobbed, clinging to him even tighter. You had only slightly loosened your grip when he promised you that he would come visit as often as you wanted, that you would never feel alone. You had pulled back and looked up at him, eyes red limned and full of tears, your lower lip pouting as you trembled out a ‘promise?’ and he hurriedly agreed.
“Will you not say goodbye to your uncle?” Baelor had asked then, hoping to distract you from Valarr, but that had simply set you off again, this time over him. You had thrown yourself at his legs, clinging to him in the hopes that you would not be ripped away. Your tears wet the knees of his trousers and he bent down to clutch you close to his chest, his eyes closing against the top of your head. You were such a happy and fun little girl, he knew he would feel your absence keenly in the Keep. He rubbed your back and told you the same things that Valarr had told you, that it would not be long before they were due for a visit, that you would not miss them too much because you would be so busy in your new home, and that everything would be alright.
It took your father physically gripping you under the arms and hauling you out of Baelor’s grip to finally get you in the carriage. He sat you on his own lap, pressing your face to his chest and shushing you against your ear, telling you not to waste your precious tears for you were far too pretty for that. You clung to him as the carriage pulled away, whimpering sadly the entire journey to Summerhall…
As the years passed, so did your fancy. You had been upset for the first few weeks at Summerhall, constantly begging your mother and father to write to Uncle Baelor and Valarr to come visit you, but eventually you had become far too busy with your own life to worry about that.
The promised visits never came, and it was mostly your father who went up to King’s Landing rather than the Crown Prince coming down for a visit. You grew into a lovely young woman, capable of beautiful embroidery and tapestry, swift on a horse and dainty on the dance floor. You spent so much time reading or traversing the woods around your beautiful home that you scarcely had time to think about the childish infatuation you had once harboured. Though your parents did remind you occasionally, forcing you to flush hot with embarrassment and beg them to hush about it once and for all.
Sometimes you did think about Valarr though, with a fondness and thanks that one would have once they gained awareness. You were thankful he had always treated you nicely despite how surely annoying you must have been. It was funny now to think of how different you had become. And you thought about him in another way too, wondered how he had grown, if he was as handsome now as he had been before, if he would still be kind to you if you ever met.
And you were often hit by pangs of longing for your Uncle Baelor, wishing for his calm and assertive presence, particularly in the moments when Aerion took it upon himself to lecture you about your life or torment you in some way or other.
Then one day your father brought the news that you were all to leave for King’s Landing. He sat down at the dinner table and informed you all, saying that it was the King’s fiftieth year of rule and the whole family was to gather in the Red Keep for celebrations and joyousness. You nodded sagely at your father, but inside you were giddy. It had been too many years since you had been in King’s Landing, and you wished to see it now, with grown eyes and a mature mind.
The next few days were spent packing everything up and readying for the long journey. You would be gone for a while, and you spent a little time saying goodbye to some of your belongings before hurrying down and getting yourself into the wheelhouse before your father had cause to be angry with you.
When the lot of you reached King’s Landing, Prince Baelor and Valarr came out to greet you. You stepped out of the wheelhouse with eyes blown wide in wonder. You looked around you as if seeing everything for the first time. It felt like it, your memories from before slightly fuzzy and disjointed. You raked in all the sights, the yellow sandstone and towering pillars, the bustling courtyard and the windows set high up into the towers you could not quite see the tops of. You almost tripped stepping out of the carriage, the footman reaching quickly out to steady you.
You thanked him in a breathless little voice then continued looking around. You could hear your father ahead of you greeting his brother and nephew, your own brothers following suit, but you were far too busy trying to spot the birds that flew high up into the sky and listening to the Sept bells tolling across the city.
A throat cleared just ahead of you, and you looked back to find a handsome young man smiling warmly at you. He wore all black, little red accents here and there to denote his house. His hair was a nice warm shade of brown, oddly comforting, and he had lovely clear eyes, slightly squinted with his smile, one blue and one brown. And he was smiling at you, sweet and knowing and utterly, immensely charming.
“Cousin,” he greeted, offering you his hand as you stared up at him with wide awed eyes. It was only instinct that made you place your hand in his grip, watching him bend a little and bring the back of it to his lips so he could leave a little kiss there atop your knuckles.
“Cousin,” you answered, old enough now to know to mind your tongue and not blurt out the million thoughts that raced through your head and wished to escape through your lips. You stared at him, dazed and unable to fully close your mouth, and he was looking at you with bright eyes and a jovial smile.
“It has been far too long since I have seen you,” he told you kindly, continuing to hold your hand in his grip. “I last remember you clinging to me and crying, begging not to leave King’s Landing,” and his smile became mischievous then, teasing. You felt your entire body burn red hot, the shame and embarrassment of your past antics flaming through you.
You bowed your head, thinking your hair would fall forward and hide your face for a moment, but the braids were done just enough to keep it from your face and you felt far too exposed. Valarr squeezed your hand a little, warmth blooming in his chest at the sight.
“It has been upwards of fourteen years, yes,” you sighed, touching your face lightly and glancing away from him. You could not breathe. He had grown into the handsome young prince he ought to be, and it was not good for your nerves.
“Goodness,” he sighed in return, and before you could pull away, he threaded your arm through his and turned toward where your father stood with your Uncle Baelor.
And then it was like Valarr was forgotten, because for however handsome you found him, your Uncle Baelor was something else entirely. The man turned away from your father, and once his eyes caught sight of you, he was beaming with pleasure. His eyes widened, his smile too, and he beckoned you closer. You felt awe struck.
He was tall, broad shouldered, standing straight yet relaxed. The years had been good to him, white peppering his hair and beard but only serving to make him look dignified. His eyes were piercing, and when he held out his hand to you, you felt faint just at the size of it. Oh goodness, how were you to survive this trip if you could not even stay standing at the sight of your cousin and uncle?
You let go of Valarr, forgetting him like day-old plums, and rushed to greet your uncle Baelor, throwing yourself at him as you had done when you were a child. You were well aware it was not proper, but you would accept any chastisement if it meant you got to do it.
Baelor was happy to wrap you up in his arms, laughing loudly as he greeted you, rubbing his palm along your back as you pressed your face to his chest. He smelt of something spicy and clean and you took a deep inhale, letting your eyes flutter shut.
“My sweet girl,” he greeted, bending his head down so his chin rested on the top of your head. “You have grown into a marvellous young woman. Thank the Seven for it,” he sighed, pulling back to grip your upper arms and get a good look at your face.
You beamed up at him, blinking your eyes rapidly and not tearing your gaze from his face. He was smiling as well, bright and kind, the way you remembered, and it sent a warm pulse through you.
“Let go of him, silly girl,” your father instructed, and though he sounded gruff, there was never malice in his tone. Your father had a soft spot for you, you knew it, and he could never get himself to be particularly harsh to you. You yielded that to your advantage far too often.
You stepped back from Baelor’s grip, clasping your hands together in front of you and moving to stand just to the side of your father, but you kept your eyes on your uncle. He too continued looking at you, pride beaming through him.
Valarr stood to the side, his smile a little tighter than before as he watched you, completely oblivious to the attentions of anyone but your uncle. He stared at you discretely, looking over your hair, the strands that would have fallen forward onto your face pulled back into small intricate braids that rested prettily on top of the rest of your luscious head of hair.
He raked his eyes over your dress, immensely beautiful and denoting a princess. You wore red, as most of House Targaryen did, but this was beautiful and bright, like fresh blood, and the fabric was thin and airy, like that which came from Dorne and was best for the summer months. The bodice was tight and formfitting, accentuating your breasts rather too well, and he felt his cheeks flush as he averted his eyes. It was rather good that your thick black cloak clasped over your chest, hiding much else from view.
He looked at your face, your pretty eyes and long lashes that brushed your cheeks as you blinked, your lips, so plush and pouty and perfect, even your cheeks, just the right shape. Valarr could only describe you as pretty, beautiful, far too much of both of those things to be anything but dangerous. He felt a little off-kilter, his smile dropping from his face.
It was rather stupid to think now, but he had been expecting something of a repeat of the years past. He had believed you would be bashful and easy to tease, inadvertently falling into the patterns of your girlhood and trailing after him. How foolish he had been.
You had grown into a beautiful young woman, with grace and tact and respectability. You were kind and a little bashful, easy to tease, yes, but still able to handle yourself. And the worst bit of it all, you did not seem to care as much for him as you had once done, because you were far too busy being fixated on Baelor…
Baelor wrapped an arm over Maekar’s shoulders, shaking his younger brother a little in a way that annoyed him immensely, before telling him to come into the warm keep and rest and refresh a while. You sidled your way to your uncle’s other side, slipping your arm around his and clutching him close, continuing to look up at him with slightly wide, enamoured, eyes. Baelor smiled down at you, happily allowing you to hang onto him, and then led everyone into the Keep.
Valarr watched after you for a moment, feeling a little flabbergasted and indignant at the way you had forgotten his presence in mere moments, and found himself falling into step beside Aerion. He too was scowling, annoyed that you were getting all the attention and he was forced to step back and simply be a part of the crowd. Valarr glanced at his cousin and grimaced before quickening his step to follow after you. He had met Aerion more recently than he had seen you, and he knew he would rather walk alone than be forced to converse with the spoiled prince.
“How was the journey, not too rough I hope?” Baelor asked, looking between you and your father. You all sat around a table ladened with food and drink. You noticed lemon cakes and cherry tarts and all the things you had once (and still) loved, dotted about. Someone poured tea in your cup and you nodded in thanks before turning back to look at your uncle.
Valarr sat to your right, but your head barely turned that way, your gaze mostly fixated on Baelor. You were transfixed, shocked at how much his mere presence had affected you. Was this truly the uncle of your childhood, this strong-shouldered man with such pretty eyes and a voice that could make you commit the most grievous sins without question?
“Were these not your favourites once, little cousin?” Valarr asked, bringing the plate of little puffy rounds full of sweet cream closer to you. You finally turned to look at him again, smiling joyfully and nodding enthusiastically.
“Awh, it is sweet of you to have remembered,” you told him, reaching over and picking two up delicately and placing them on your plate.
“I remember when you were still a babe, just learning how to walk and grip your own food, and you used to squash those things in your little palms,” Baelor spoke across the table, looking at you with such fondness in his eyes that you flushed with warmth and preened under his gaze.
“Yes, she was rather a rambunctious child,” Maekar grumbled, though his eyes twinkled with humour and you leaned over and bumped his shoulder with yours.
“You say that, Father, but I must have learnt it from somewhere and mother was never anything less than elegant,” you responded, raising your eyebrows at him as he let slip a little smile. You truly were his most cherished child, the only one who (though still gave him grief) always made up for it with everything else.
“She was not rambunctious, she was joyful,” Baelor defended, and you smiled triumphantly, nodding toward him in thanks.
“And rather demanding,” Valarr added with a smirk. “My attention was not to be on anyone else when in your company,” and you could just hear the teasing in his tone. You felt red hot again though prepared. You knew it would come up at some point, your early infatuation with him, better to get it out of the way now.
You hid your face behind your hands, letting little embarrassed giggles fall from your lips. You peeked at him from between your fingers and shook your head.
“Of course you would remind me of that,” you sighed, dropping your hands back into your lap and looking down at them. “I knew I was not to get away without being teased about my childish obsession.”
“It would not be right of me not to tease you!” He responded, laughing and leaning a little closer to you. “You were so little yet so adamant on marrying me that I could not help but be flattered.”
You smiled at him then, softer and more appreciative, and you reached out and pulled the creampuff in half, the sweet middle spilling onto your fingers a little.
“It was your own fault, really” you argued, shrugging your shoulders as you brought one of the pieces up and close to your face. “If you had not been so free with your sweets, I should not have been so enamored!” A laugh passed around the table, interrupted only by Aerion’s angry silence and aided by your father’s quiet chuckle.
You brought the bit of pastry to your mouth and gently popped it between your lips, chewing a little and humming in pleasure. You did not think and licked the cream from your fingertips, sticking your tongue out a little.
Valarr froze in his seat, staring at you with slightly widened eyes. Did you not realise what a sight that was? His blood rushed out of his head and straight to his core and he suddenly felt immensely hot and ill. His hands tightened on the arms of his chair and it took every ounce of his self-control to lean back as if he was casually changing his posture.
Across the table, Baelor stared as well, though he was considerably better at hiding his own reaction. His eyes followed your fingers, the flick of your tongue, and he forced himself to look away. He was not meant to have seen that, to have felt that way, and he returned his eyes to his brother.
Maekar was glaring at his nephew, mentally thrashing him for looking at you in that way, and he too used all available control not to jump across the table and smack Valarr across the face and tell him to keep his eyes away from you.
“These are just as good as I remember!” You exclaimed, smiling happily and looking up between Valarr and Baelor. Both offered you similar grimacing, tortured, smiles. “I am rather excited for the festivities, I am sure they will be grand.”
“Yes, there is much to do and enjoy,” Baelor responded, his voice a little rougher than before, and he took a sip from his cup, swallowing strongly. “There is to be feasting and dancing every evening for a week straight, and fairs and markets for the smallfolk in the city proper.”
“If you step even a single foot outside these castle walls without my knowledge, I will have you locked up until your hair grows long enough for you to escape with it,” your father quickly warned, looking at you with his customary heavy glare. You scoffed indignantly at first, then you simply smiled brightly at him and leaned over to flick him on the arm. You had been given the good graces of your mother to always respond to your father with a smile and a tease.
“You say that now but then you would complain because you would be forced to keep me company!” And another laugh travelled around the table, you simply sitting back satisfied with yourself, and putting more of the pastry in your mouth.
You sat leisurely in the bath, humming softly to yourself as you moved your hands under the water, pulling them up and watching the water drip back down into the tub with little ‘plink’ noises. The hearth was well lit and you felt lovely and warm, the scent of fresh flower petals filling your nose as they floated around in the bath with you. This was perfect, exactly what you needed after a few busy and rather confusing days in King’s Landing.
Each morning you breakfasted with the whole family, Valarr and Baelor always joining you without fail. Valarr somehow managed to find a seat next to you each time, but you did not care much because your attention was always on your uncle. Baelor was so… wonderful.
You had never been so enamoured with someone, at least not in your recent memory. There had been a silly crush on a stable boy in Summerhall, but he had married a chambermaid and you had gotten over it with barely a tear shed. But Baelor…
You stared at him unabashedly, smiling when he met your gaze and watching him as you chewed distractedly. You felt frazzled, a little insane with how much you felt. But you could not stop. And Baelor did not help. He was always glancing up at you, always looking at you like he was seeing you for the first time, always looking away as if he had been caught doing something he should not. You did not want him to look away. You wanted him to keep his eyes on you forever…
You sighed quietly as you lay back a little further in the bath, closing your eyes and thinking of Baelor. It was funny, really, how you had become as obsessed with Baelor as the little version of you had been obsessed with Valarr. You liked to believe it meant growth.
There was a quiet knock at the door, and you sunk a little further into the bath, hoping to enjoy a moment more before the maids came in to take it all away.
“Come in,” you called quietly, opening your eyes just as the door opened and Baelor stepped in. Your eyes widened, hands instantly coming up to cover your chest under the water as you stared up at him. Baelor’s mouth dropped open a little as he looked down at you, before he swiftly turned around.
“I am sorry,” you began quickly, pulling your knees up to your chest to hide behind them. “I believed you to be the maids returning.”
“It is alright,” he responded, his words tight as he forced himself to look at the wall in the distance and keep his back turned to you. “I only wished to give you something but I can see I have intruded.”
“No!” You jumped a little, suddenly desperate to keep him there despite how exposed and vulnerable you felt in your position. It felt as if this was your only chance to get him to look at you the way you wished him to. Though you kept your knees up, you leant forward a little, as if silently begging him to turn around and look at you again to see how earnest you were. “No, please do not.”
He paused for a moment, his head bowing as he looked down at his shoes. Baelor clenched his eyes shut (though you could not see) but rather than helping him, it only flashed the image of you, relaxing in the bath, your breasts just dipped in the water and your nipples hardened to little points, over and over again.
“It is improper of me to be here with you in such a state,” he told you quietly, and his voice was still tight, gruff, pained, and you gripped the edge of the bath as you stared up at his back. He had not moved yet, neither to stay nor to leave, and you prayed he would not choose the latter.
“As long as there is no one to witness it, is it really impropriety?” You asked, half-joking, your tone a little lighter than before. Baelor huffed out a chuckle, one small sound that was not meant to come out so, and you saw his shoulders relax a little. He turned back, but stopped himself before he could face any farther than the door.
“That is simply an excuse people use to justify their improper actions. As long as it is being committed, then it is improper,” he retorted, one eyebrow raising.
“Hm, true,” you responded, furrowing your brows a little in thought. “But it’s alright,” you then broke out, as if you had come to a decision. “Sometimes one needs a little impropriety in their life to make it interesting,” and you giggled a little.
The sound sent a spike of warmth through Baelor and his smile was instant, uncontrolled. He turned a little more again, still not looking at you, but now you could see a good half of his face. It was better than nothing, and you relaxed some in the bathtub, your legs moving forward a little so they were not clutched as tight to your upper body.
“You speak as if from experience,” Baelor rejoinded, that same eyebrow rising again as he questioned you. Your smile was wide and cheeky, the water swishing as you adjusted yourself to sit up a little in the tub.
“Not much, but perhaps some,” you responded cryptically, though you knew it was a complete and utter lie. You were far too sheltered by your mother and father to have been exposed to impropriety of this sort before.
“You said you wished to give me something,” you spoke again before the room could fall into silence, resting your head on the edge of the tub and blinking up at him. “What is it?”
One of his hands was held in a fist, and he raised it a little, opening his palm flat and looking at what lay there.
“A present,” he answered simply at first, before he moved to hold the things with his thumb and index finger. It was a pair of earrings, beautifully crafted things more laden with rubies than many other pieces of jewellery you had seen. They looked like dragons, their spines inlaid with the rubies, and you were shocked at how a craftsman could even create something like that.
“Oh my,” you sighed, rising a little in the tub and wincing when the cold metal pressed against your breasts.
“A welcome present, something for you to wear during the festivities,” Baelor responded simply, but he hadn’t stepped closer to give them to you, hadn’t made any move other than to dangle them from his fingers like a tantalising temptation.
“Please bring them to me, I wish to see them up close,” and you reach out your hand in his direction, pressing yourself right to the edge of the tub and gazing up at him with bright, wondrous eyes. He did not move yet, frozen with indecision. He glanced at you from the corner of his eye, seeing only your outstretched arm and a little bit of your face. Instead of turning to face you, he took a few steps back and when he was only just in front of the tub, he reached down and back a little to hand you the earrings.
You took them from his grip, but before he could step away again, you gripped tightly onto his hand again to keep him there. You put the earrings in your free hand and examined them there, sighing with joy as you looked at how pretty they were. They would be perfect to wear with many of your dresses. And if Baelor gave them to you, then you would cherish them like nothing else.
“Thank you, Uncle Baelor,” you told him softly, returning your gaze to him. He was awkwardly turned, still trying to face away from you, to do the right thing, but unable as you kept your grip on his hand. You stared up at him, at his strong arms which somehow had not pulled away yet, and his broad back. He could have ripped his hand away a long time ago, he chose not to.
Slowly, carefully, you pulled his hand closer until it was caressing your neck. You pressed it there, spanning it along the soft skin there, and you shivered, sighing quietly.
“What are you doing, my girl?” He asked, voice low and gravelly, still not turning to fully face you. He kept glancing down though, and you knew that soon you would break him.
“I wanted to feel your hands,” you responded quietly, voice just above a whisper, slowly beginning to guide his hand a little further down your neck, splaying it onto your collarbone. “I wanted to know what they felt like against my skin.”
“You should not be doing this,” he said, that same quiet voice, tight and pained now. “I should not be doing this.”
“I know,” you whispered, still blinking up at him, lips parted. “But I want it so badly.”
His eyes fluttered closed as you guided his hand lower, dipping it under the water and curling it around your breast. You breathed out a little sound, this quiet little thing of pleasure as you cupped his hand around the fat, grazed his palm against your nipple. He swallowed harshly, his hand tightening there of his own accord, feeling the soft skin under the water. His hand was calloused from years of experience with a sword, and the roughness of it made you shudder, made you moan softly as he held you there.
“Please, Uncle Baelor,” you breathed out, running your hand up his arm a little. When his eyes finally fluttered open, he turned to fully look at you, awkwardly bent a little to keep his palm cupped around your breast. You stared up into his eyes, licking your lips as you gripped his hand and kneaded it there, moaning quietly. He stared at you, eyes hooded with pain and pleasure melded together.
You gripped his hand a little tighter, making sure he would not let go, then began traversing it further down your body. Baelor’s entire body shuddered, mouth opening to release a shaking breath as he slowly dropped to his knees beside the tub. His free hand came up and gripped the rim, his fingers turning white. You licked your lips, continued staring into his eyes. His sleeve became wet as his hand fully submerged under the water, running over your stomach then to the dark space between your legs.
He shivered again, his eyes closing as you dragged his fingertips over the lips of your core, as you gasped a little and then pressed firmer there, moaning and shaking. He clenched his jaw, his hand tensing, but he did not force you to let go. He could not understand how you were so warm there, so soft and hot, even under the water. His index finger separated the lips and pressed against the little nub of flesh that made you shiver and squirm, the little thing that made your entire body flush and caused sounds out of you that made Baelor begin praying to the seven.
“Uncle,” you breathed out, your eyes fluttering half-shut, and he panted a little, his hand tensing even further but staying there in your grip. Your other hand clenched around the earrings, the jewels and the hook digging into your palm.
You pressed his fingers there, rubbing yourself against the tips. Your stomach was full of warmth, the space between your legs sparking. Your limbs felt full of it too, those tendrils that reached out through you and softened near the tips of your fingers and toes. You dragged his hand down even further, right to your entrance and pushed in there with a gasp. His head dropped, chin touching his chest as he took control of his hand once more and pressed his middle finger up into you.
“Hah,” you let out sharply, mouth dropping open at the feeling. He pushed up until he could go no further, gripping the edge of the bathtub tightly as he felt your warm flesh fluttering around his finger, clenching so tightly then releasing then clenching again.
He moved it back a little then up into you again, the rub of it spiking warmth through you in a way you had only experienced very briefly in the dead of night. He looked up just so, his eyes opening to devour the sight of you there, wet from the bath, legs and hands trembling. Your knees were still bent, pressed up, and your thighs were trying to close around his hand, but it was there to stay.
“Uncle Baelor,” you breathed out, undecided between leaning back to stretch out in the bath and curling yourself up tight in an attempt to intensify the feelings shooting through you.
“Sweet girl,” he sighed, voice low and gravelly, and he continued the motions with his hands.
In, out. In, rub that spot with his thumb, out. In and out and in and out, and suddenly you were curling a little more into yourself, the heat and pleasure tightening in your stomach. And in and out and in and the water was disturbed, splashing a little at the speed and intensity. And out and in and out and in and you were gripping his arm tightly, moaning and gasping like you had never learnt how to to breathe. And in and out and-
“Unh! Uncle! Baelor!” And your eyes were pinched closed, mouth open, high keening sounds leaving you. Your chest heaved and you felt overcome, the pleasure like sunlight seeping through every limb and every nerve. Everything was tensed up, the water still sloshing from the intensity of each action, and his hand was still moving a little, easing you through it, waiting for you to relax a little against the wall of the tub before pulling his finger out of you.
Baelor stared at you, his own upper body moving up and down with heavy breaths. He allowed his hand to stay resting in the bath water, draped over the edge. His other hand stayed clenched on the edge, and if he was any stronger he may have cracked the metal.
You lay there, the water cooling your skin, and fluttered your eyes open, staring at Baelor with a new brightness, feeling a changed woman, your mouth still parted. He looked over you, running his eyes from your breasts up to your face, and then down along your arm that was draped over the other side of the tub. A little rivulet of blood raced down your palm and dripped into the water.
“Sweet girl,” Baelor mumbled, instantly reaching over to bring your hand close to him with a frown. You moved with the motion, leaning a little closer to rest your hand on the rim of the tub closest to him. He unfurled your fingers from around the earrings he had only just gifted you, and found that you had clutched them so hard in your pleasure that the hooks for your ears had dug in and welled a drop of blood.
He tutted quietly, a frown marring his features, and he softly took the earrings and placed them on the floor next to where he kneeled. He flattened your palm, using his wet hand to wash away the blood that had dripped down. Then, with slow and soft motions, he brought your palm to his face and kissed you over the tiny wound, his lips soft, his beard tickling. You felt as if you could reach your peak of pleasure from that alone.
You sat beside Valarr in the gardens and watched Baelor and Maekar in the distance, sitting around their own table with a few other lords discussing something or other that you were not privy to.
“You have not given me nearly enough attention this visit, cousin. Nothing close to what you had once done,” Valarr teased, smiling softly at you. Baelor turned his head and gazed in your direction, his eyes meeting yours as you smirked a little. “You are far more interested in your uncle than me. Have you lost interest in me then?”
You tore your gaze from Baelor and smiled at Valarr, your eyes shining and a shiver running down your spine.
“Yes, dear cousin, unfortunately so. It is called growth, I fear. It is your father who entices me now.”
A/N: Literally being tormented by this fic idea and the only way to find peace was to write it. Also, I wanna fucking annoy this man sm omg.
Summary: As Aerion’s wife, you face many challenges everyday simply by being married to the man. So it’s only right that you get to vent to your father in law, the man who raised your husband and will understand better than anyone why you are so frustrated. But even he has his limits…
Note: I did not write this with targcest in mind BUT she calls him ‘Father’ as like a teasing/taunt thing and it does come up in the smutty bit. I’m imagining medieval daddy kink. If this makes you uncomfortable, please do not read it, your digital consumption is your own responsibility.
Word count: 4,895
Tags: 18+/MDNI, she/her pronouns, AFAB reader, SMUT, (significant) age gap, younger!reader (20s), grumpy x (complainy) sunshine, smut: pinv sex, spanking, fingering, kinda rough sex, 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.
Always appreciate comments, likes, and reblogs :)
“Father!” Came the high-pitched call, distant but echoing down the stone halls of the Keep. Maekar, sitting behind his desk in his study, the one place that was supposed to be his sanctuary, shut his eyes and let his head drop against his chest. A long sigh of irritation left him, something like a growl building in his throat. One hand clenched his quill, the other tightened on the edge of the table, and he refrained from the sudden urge to start banging his head against the desktop.
“Fatherrrrr!” The call came again, closer now, and Maekar would breathe fire if he could. This could not happen again. Not again.
Maekar had thought marrying off Aerion would take the boy off his hands, would make him someone else’s problem (or best case scenario: straighten him out). He did not think it would mean he gained another nuisance in his house, this one trussed up in pretty dresses and elaborate hairstyles, constantly pouting and complaining in his ear.
The marriage between you and Aerion had been quick. Maekar had reached his wit’s end with the boy’s attitude and knew that if nothing else, a marriage would distract him from his cruelties. He had felt a bit sorry for you when your parents first proffered you, a beautiful young woman who gave smiles easily and chatted up a storm. Though you were perhaps not his cup of tea, he had smoothed out his attitude and offered his best non-smile smiles to entice you into joining the family. He knew you would not find the change easy, but he had hoped that everything would smooth itself out and having a new bride in the house would at least lighten everything up.
You and Aerion met less than a handful of times before the wedding itself, a decision made and followed through in the blink of an eye. Aerion only agreed because of his father’s insistence, and the whirlwind timeline, not having a moment to catch his breath before he was betrothed and then standing in the Sept, wrapping you in the cloak of House Targaryen. And the thought of eventually breaking your spirit soothed him, the idea that you would be all his to toy with as he wished, something all for himself
Neither him nor his father expected you to be so… annoying. At first it was all well and good. Your fresh new face in the castle made everything seem new and exciting. You made fast friends with Daella and Rhae, sneaking them away from their lessons until scolded or making them little gifts that they cherished. You inserted yourself into the housekeeping, making sure the meals were always perfect and the decorations were modern and bright.
But then, as time passed and you became more comfortable in your position, the little things that had been so easy to ignore before, became apparent. You were spoiled, used to getting your way, even if it meant pouting and crying and whinging until it happened. Though your kindness and often cheerful attitude made up for much of it, it was still rather annoying for a house full of people who did not bow easily to the whims of others.
At first Aerion relished in all the possibilities that came with you being his wife. He wanted to bend you to his will, break you into a million pieces and then put you back together into a shape of his own choosing. But he could not stand your fucking whinging. You lay in bed next to him, and as he climbed on, wrapping an arm around your waist to begin pulling you closer, you were swatting at his arm, throwing your head back onto the pillow and kicking at the sheets a little.
“It’s too hot!” You whined, your short night chemise riding up your thighs, displaying the smooth skin in the orange candlelight. You were still wearing a throw over robe though you were in the bed, and you set about tossing it from your shoulders, exposing the skin there as well, leaving you in only the thin straps and airy fabric. “Why are there so many candles lit?” You continued, “it’s far too late.” And then you found another three things to complain about until Aerion growled in frustration and angrily ripped himself from the bed, yelling something about finding peace and going to sleep on the chaise with a stormcloud dangling over his head.
And after that episode, it was Aerion’s attitude that annoyed you to no end and caused your whinging. He had no interest in you, did not want to do anything with you, did not want to join you in bed, did not want to try the new meal you had commissioned, bla bla bla. The list was endless. And who should be forced to listen to all these complaints, if not your cursed blessed “father”.
When you had called Maekar that during the wedding feast, he had grimaced but allowed it, even found it a little endearing when you offered him that shy sweet smile of yours from under hooded eyes and your veil. You had simply seemed excited to be joining the family. But now even the sound of an ‘f’ leaving your lips made him tighten up and irritation crawl down his spine.
When you had first come to Maekar complaining about Aerion, you had been teary eyed and demure, your head bowed as you wept and pressed trembling hands to your mouth. He had sat you down on a comfy chair by the hearth, occupying the one across from you and leaned in to listen, however difficult it might have been to control his short patience. He had a soft spot for you, who wouldn’t for a pretty young girl with bright eyes and a sweet smile? What man could resist? He had even berated Aerion afterward, lecturing him on the duties of a husband and how he should never be the reason his wife cries.
But then it became a weekly thing, and soon the tears dried, and you were just pouting and whinging in his ear, throwing yourself into chairs in his company and talking for hours on end about how Aerion had annoyed you that day. He quickly realised what a mistake he had made by giving you that first evening of kindness, how it had spiralled and now he was praying for a crime he wasn’t sure he had committed.
It was a particularly twisted form of torture for Maekar. Because not only was he faced with your grating grievances, but also your careless attitude and the positions that put you in. The warm weather had been good and consistent the months after your wedding, and you took to wearing beautiful (and revealing) dresses in the Dornish fashion. You walked about in light, airy fabrics that billowed about you, your shoulders and arms bare.
Some of the dresses clung to your curves in ways that bordered on indecent, your shape so obvious to see. Too many times to count, his eyes had dipped down to the way your arse pushed out in a particularly form hugging dress as you bent over to pick up whatever you had dropped. The worst had perhaps been the powder blue with the deep v-neck, the curves of your breasts so tantalising that he was forced to chug his entire cup of ale if he wanted to be able to refocus on his dinner. Or perhaps it was the slinky red number, dyed so deep it looked like blood, silky fabric clinging to your curves and only flaring out by your knees.
It was in these tantalising, sin-worthy clothes that you always found your way to Maekar, throwing yourself carelessly onto a chair near him, the motion making your breasts bounce. Or you would lean over to get your face closer to him, and the position would give him a good long look down your collar and the shadows of your chest.
Once you had clearly come from your chambers, your hair still wet from a bath and a robe hanging loosely from your shoulders, showing skin and the thin straps of a pale blue chemise. He had almost yelled at you to leave him in peace then, and you had just pouted and grumbled a little longer before sighing and leaving his company. It had left him feeling full of fire, his entire body shaking with barely restrained anger and lust. He hated feeling so out of control, and you tested his patience like no other.
“Father!” And there you were, the door just opened, your voice exasperated and relieved as you practically fell into his study chamber, beaming at him as you straightened up and closed the door behind you. Maekar gritted his teeth, dropping the quill and clutching the edge of his desk with both his hands.
His study chamber was large, with his desk down the middle, facing the doors, and an area off to the side with two chairs on a rug, facing the hearth that glowed now. Candles lit up the entire space, giving everything a warm glow, and a welcome heat as the night chill set in.
It was long past dinner, the moon already traversing the sky. He had dismissed himself from the meal and made his way to his study, hoping to find some peace of mind by working through the boring parchments that awaited him. He had found some joy in watching you tease little Egg at the dinner table, kicking his legs and making him giggle over his food, but Aerion had been in a sour mood and kicked you in return to make you stop, and that had made you pouty and huffy.
Now here you were, like clockwork, though Maekar had hoped he might have found peace at last. It was the hope that killed people. You were still dressed the way you had been at dinner, a black velvet off the shoulder gown, the skirt sweeping the floor, and rubies dripped from your neck and ears.
“There you are, father,” you sighed, walking over quickly and placing yourself in one of the seats across from his desk. You crossed one leg over the other and shoved your mass of hair back so it stayed behind your shoulders. The motion pushed your chest out, the straight line of the neck moving a little lower and exposing the top crease of your breasts. He gritted his teeth again and looked away.
“What do you want?” He asked, voice low and grumbling, his head turning a little as he looked back down to the paper he had been writing on before your interruption.
You were undeterred. You had become used to your father-in-law’s demeanour. He was gruff and grumbly and growled half his words, but you did not mind. You preferred his company to most others, because he challenged you. He spent the first minutes in silence, his face growing redder, jaw clenching and hands tightening on whatever as he allowed you to natter on. But then he would begin to make sarcastic comments as his patience wore thin, little things under his breath, until you had pushed his patience enough that he would look up and simply begin saying them to you.
It was a funny thing, how you loved to see him angry. At first, you truly had been petulant, wanting to complain about Aerion, but each time you returned, you realised you could tick off his many reactions, and it became almost a game to you. You wanted to see how many levels of his temper there were to unlock, how many actions you could provoke from him, what - if any - were his limits? Though you were often still sincere in your complaints (you couldn’t help the way you were) it was easier to forget them in his company.
Not to mention that your father-in-law, despite how often people mentioned his aging, made you hot under the collar like nothing else. It was his broad shoulders, the slight taper to his waist, the way every movement of his contained a hidden strength that you wished to witness for yourself. It was his hands, veined and thick-fingered, constantly turned into fists and rough from years of battle and training. It was even his beard, framing such pretty lips and a little long in places. You often lay in bed thinking about rubbing your face against his like a desperate cat. Oftentimes you did feel like a desperate animal when you thought of him.
“For someone to explain why my husband hates me,” you sighed, long and dramatic, your signature pout already on your lips. Maekar closed his eyes, steadying himself.
“What do you mean?” He asked, though his voice begged you not to answer, halting at each word and low and somehow already angry. You almost giggled when you looked up at him then, but you forced the corners of your lips to remain down.
“Aerion hates me, I know it,” you huffed, slipping a little lower in your seat, one leg crossed over the other and your arms crossed tight over your abdomen. Your breasts were subsequently pushed up, and when Maekar opened his eyes to look at you again, it was all he could see.
“What makes you say that?” The same tone as before, asking out of courtesy, desperately hoping not to receive an answer.
“Did you not see how he treated me at dinner?” You grumbled, kicking your toe against the front of his desk. The sound annoyed him to no end, his neck stretching a little as he heard the ‘tap’ again and again. “I was only having a bit of fun,” you sighed, leaning forward again so you were bent in half against your thighs, the collar of your dress proffered at him. “I just wanted Egg to smile a little, he is such a serious boy sometimes. But of course Aerion found issue with that,” you spat, working your jaw a little.
“What’s new?” Maekar grumbled, rolling his eyes as he began looking for his quill, hoping that if you talked long and low enough, he may be able to tune you out and continue with his work. It was not to be.
You stood from your seat suddenly, walking around your chair and beginning to pace a little, chewing on your lower lip as you hummed. You glanced at him from the corner of your eye, and you could see his neck had begun to turn red at his collar.
“Do not you see it though, Father?” You asked, draping your arms over the back of your chair and resting your chin on them, pouting at him. How did your mouth not tire of pouting? You blinked your eyes at him expectantly, waiting for him to validate what you said. He did not look up at you, focused as he was on the parchment.
“I don’t,” he grumbled, ignoring the indignant noise you made.
“What do you mean you don’t?” You argued, standing up straight and coming around the chair to stand directly in front of his desk.
“I mean I do not,” he responded simply, and you huffed, stamping your foot a little.
You were silent for a moment, and Maekar (foolishly) believed he might find some peace despite your company. But then you were moving again, rounding his desk, and suddenly there you were, shoving your hip against his arm as you sat yourself on the armrest of his chair, throwing your legs over his lap and laying yourself on his shoulder, the top of your forehead pressing into his neck.
Maekar froze, mouth parting and eyes darting about as he went rigid. He stared down at your legs, long and splayed haphazardly, at your arm coming to curl around his chest to cling you to him. His arm naturally ended up behind you, as if he was keeping you to him, and he could feel the curve of your spine against it, could feel your breasts pressed to his chest. Your hair tickled his neck and the way you made little noises of discomfort as you nuzzled further into him made his trousers tight and his mind spin.
“What the fuck are you doing?” He asked loudly, turning his head to try and get a glimpse of your face. His limbs had hardened and he felt like hot steel under you. You pulled back a little to gaze at him innocently, your lower lip jutted out as you blinked at him in faux confusion.
“Seeking comfort, Father,” you answered softly, stringing your arms over his shoulder and clasping your hands at his back. Maekar stared at you, jaw clenched and neck turned bright red. You could almost see him shaking with barely controlled rage and there was a spark inside you that began to burn brighter.
“This is not appropriate,” he spat, moving to grip your waist and to throw you off, when you made a long whining sound and huffed petulantly, clinging tight to him.
“What is so wrong with seeking comfort, Father?” You asked, your brows gaining an angry tilt to them. Maekar gripped your waist tightly but did not move you off. Instead he pulled you onto his lap and one hand came up to grip your jaw tightly, craning your head up a little to force you to look into his eyes.
You panted, body contorted oddly, but you were hot at the apex of your thighs and your skin tingled like never before. His blue eyes were ablaze and you could feel his own heavy breaths fan over your lips. You licked yours in response.
“Did your own father never teach you some fucking manners, you insolent girl?” He gritted out, his teeth almost baring at you. “You and your constant whinging and whining and pouting, as if the whole fucking world revolves around you.”
His thumbs and fingers dug into your cheeks until your lips pushed out into a pucker and a throb began in your jaw. Maekar’s other hand continued gripping you at the waist, but pulled you suddenly up against him, pressing your thighs together and forcing the throb in the middle to pulse harshly. “Has no one ever put you in your fucking place?” You shook your head as much as you could, staring up at him with shining eyes.
He kept you there a little longer, breathing heavily and staring at your face, before he suddenly released his grip and put both hands on your waist. Without warning, he simultaneously pushed his seat back and picked you up, hauling you around and onto your front. Your chest hit his firm thighs, your knees stopping just short of scraping the ground before you were able to get your feet under you a little better. You let out a long breathy sound, something like a moan tapering into a breath.
You clung to his thigh with your hands, digging your fingers into the trousers to keep you steady as he leaned his forearm onto your back, keeping you down. You could hear Maekar breathing heavily, grumbling something low under his voice about what an infuriating girl you were. Then there was a whoosh of air on the backs of your legs, the backs of your thighs, on your arse.
“Someone must teach you a lesson,” he finally said loud enough for you to hear, a determination to his voice you had not heard before. “Someone must begin setting you right.”
You gasped when you felt his calloused palm rub over the soft skin of your behind, a tingling feeling beginning before he had even done anything. Your core throbbed, a slick wetness building there that made you desperate for release.
Aerion had hit you there before in the throes of pleasure, when he took you from behind and could not resist but to bring his palms down on each side until you were squealing and bucking back onto him. But this entire situation was new, and utterly tantalising.
Maekar rubbed over the skin until each side was warm, taking his time to tease and enjoy the sight of your legs kicking a little but your trembling form staying prone for him. He wet his lips, pulled his hand back, and then brought it swiftly down with a loud smacking sound. You made a loud breathy ‘ah!’ sound at the impact, jolting forward across his thighs, clenching your hands against his leg. He did it again, against the other cheek this time, watching the rippling movement, listening to your panting breaths. Your hair was mussed and tangled over your back, and he gathered it all up into one hand, tugging on it tightly like the reins of a horse. Then he smacked your arse again. You felt tears build in your eyes, the sting travelling straight through you.
His callouses made it feel worse each time. As the skin got more sensitive, the rub got more vicious, and after far too many hits and far too long, he finally allowed you a pause. Tears wetted your cheeks, your nose twitching with sniffles and your pout as prominent as it had ever been. Your behind was on fire but you could not keep yourself from rubbing your legs together like some desperate creature, trying to create friction to urge on the flame that was building there.
Over the ringing of his ears and the bloodrush, Maekar listened to you whine and moan softly through a closed mouth. He stared down at you again, at the crease of your arse and the slight sheen on your thighs that he could now pick up in the candlelight. His stomach filled with fire, his cock pressing up at you through his trousers, and he slowly dragged his hand down your skin, then up the backs of your thighs, relishing in the little breathy whines you release.
“You would do well to listen to me,” he finally breathed out, voice low and gravelly and so so alluring. You were hit by the desperate desire to stick your tongue in his mouth.
He prods with the blunt tips of his fingers at your delicate skin, breathing in sharply at the wetness there, collecting it and simply rubbing it back into the skin. You flutter your eyes shut, allowing yourself to feel each teasing touch as he runs his fingers over your lips, then presses between them. You gasp as he presses one finger steadily into you, rubbing at the textured skin of your insides as you shivered in his grip.
His finger was cold, but you were hot inside, and the contrast made it far better than you would have thought. He pulled it back and pressed again and you keened at the warm tingles that ran through you, the feeling frenzying a little. His other fingers splayed on either side and slid a little in the slick there, rubbing wetly over that spot that made everything feel thicker and hotter.
You pushed your hips back into his hand, forcing him to continue pressing in and out of you. He allowed it without reprimand, far too fixated on the slightly muffled sounds coming from there, on the feeling of you convulsing around him.
The hot feeling began to build the more he rubbed and pulled and prodded and pressed and pulled and in and out and in and out and your head was thrown back and you could feel it creeping up and up and up…
Maekar pulled his hand swiftly away from you, leaving you tingling on the edge, then slowly descending back from the precipice. You heaved your breaths, squirming with annoyance and dissatisfaction and the horrible feeling of being unfinished. Your mouth was open, and you were panting like a dog in heat, and if your brain didn’t feel like it was made of porridge, you would have cried and argued and told him to continue until you had cum all over his hand.
“Father!” You breathed out angrily, trying to turn your head to face him as he leaned back in his seat and removed his forearm from your back. He gritted his teeth again at your voice. He hated that you called him father. And he hated that he liked it so much.
“Hush!” He scolded, “I do not want to hear your fucking voice again for the rest of this evening unless you’re moaning like a pup in her first heat.”
He picked you up by the torso again, wrapping an arm around your stomach and hauling you up before half tossing you onto his desk. Your arms knocked into everything, sending things tumbling to the floor or crumpling papers under your weight. You lay sprawled on your front, your breasts uncomfortably squished against the desktop, your back arched and your arse pushed up and offered to him. Your arms stretched out in front of you and your hands grasped the far edge of his desk, desperately craving something to hold onto. You felt lightheaded and airy, like there was everything and nothing. Your nails dug into the lacquer over the wood.
Maekar hurriedly shoved the fabrics of your skirts up and over your waist again, bunching them just above your arse and ensuring that the space was clear for him. He too was desperate now, wanting nothing more than to sink himself inside you and clear all the tension and ache that had built up in his muscles.
Maekar untied his trousers and shoved them just far enough off his hips to release his cock, bobbing thick and hot into the air. A sigh left his lips at the cold feeling, and he gripped himself, pumping it once then twice. When you wiggled your arse back and forth at him, as if calling him back to attention, Maekar made a prayer to the Seven before gripping your hips and pulling you back a little.
You gasped as he notched himself between your legs, feeling the thick and blunt tip of him adding to your slickness. He pressed himself first between your lips, teasing in a way you did not appreciate, before he pulled back and notched himself at your hole again. He pressed in. Hot, thick, wet, your eyes closing, your entire body tensing, your hands clenching harder, your entire lower half full of sparks like a hearth. Maekar let out a loud groaning sound, focused only on the heat of you engulfing him, so tight, so good it could be nothing but sin.
Your mouth was open, drool dripping onto the desk below your cheek. You were moaning and panting and breathing heavily, and he was moving behind you, his hips pressing all the way against your arse, then pulling back. Each drag was heaven and hell. One hand gripped your waist, tight and unforgiving, the other buried in your hair, clenching a handful against your scalp and pressing you further into the desktop.
“Ah! Please!” It was everything and nothing coming out of your mouth, pleas and begs and instructions and utter gibberish that not even you could understand.
Smack! Out, In, Smack! His hand on your arse again, adding to the hot and sharp sensation. In and out, in and out, your clit pulsing, your heart racing, in and out, in and out. He was moving quicker now, faster, in and out and in and out and in and out… You thrust back onto him, legs too weak to even do that so it became a pathetic wriggle.
You were close, climbing and climbing, shooting straight up into the sky. Perhaps this was what it felt like to ride a dragon into the sky. It was hot all over, it was tingling all over, you were clenching, tingling, buzzing, sparking, and still the climb went…
In and out and in and out and in and in and out and in and in and out and ah! There you were, floating, spasming, moaning so loud and so sharp that Maekar slid his hand from your hair and slammed it over your lips in case a wandering servant were to hear. He was shaking against you, his eyes clenched shut, his mouth dropped wide open as he groaned and moaned, hips thrusting and stuttering as he fucked his own finish into you.
You were limp, made of piles of crushed and dried leaves, so heavy but so easy to blow away with a gust of wind. Your eyes remained closed, your tongue poking out to lick over your lips. You were sticky with sweat, and you couldn’t quite feel your fingers. You made a little ‘mmh!’ as Maekar pulled out, falling back onto his seat, releasing his grip on you. You could hear him breathing heavily too, groaning a little as he adjusted in his chair.
“Learn your lesson,” he finally managed to grumble out, but you began giggling, eyes squeezed shut and the laugh breathy out of your lungs.
“Yes, Father,” you sighed.
Oh you had definitely learnt your lesson. You would have to infuriate him to the seven hells and back everyday if it meant he taught you a lesson! And oh how funny it was, that Maekar felt he had found peace at last!
It would be so cool if patience-testing fanfics took place in the same universe, and while Maekar is with his daughter-in-law who teases him until he sleeps with her, Baelor also has the same problem with his own daughter-in-law. One fine day they both discover this and end up talking about it. Maybe because they're both in the office discussing kingdom matters and the daughters-in-law keep coming in to torment them as if it were a relay race hahahahahaha. I LOVE these stories! Thank you for writing. ❤️❤️❤️
Stop, this is far too funny. Firstly, thank you so much! I'm so happy you enjoyed it and messaged me about this!!!
And secondly, Anon, your brain is beautiful because this did not even cross my mind before. This made me think so many thoughts that I decided to write a little scene for it here: (mentions of smut...)
The original 2 fics:
Whining and Pouting (Maekar x Aerion's Wife!reader)
Patience Testing (Baelor x Valarr's Wife!reader)
Tags: 18+/MDNI, she/her pronouns, AFAB reader/s, I wrote it in both 2nd and 3rd person so sorry for any confusion lol, (significant) age gap, younger!reader-characters (20s), never proofread, (please let me know if I missed any)
word count: ~2.7k
Baelor sighed as he settled down behind his desk, reaching over and pouring wine first in Maekar's cup, then his own. His brother grunted in thanks, grabbing the cup then leaning back in his seat with a groan, one leg crossing over the other.
Both of them looked a little weary, tired from their separate lives and happy to have this moment of peace under the guise of discussing governing matters. Baelor slowly drank the wine, enjoying the sweetness of the Dornish red, the distinct taste of home, he liked to believe. Maekar too was happy with his cup, humming in pleasure and draining half the cup in one go.
"Tired, then?" Baelor asked quietly, smiling at his younger brother who grunted and raised an eyebrow a little as he scoffed and nodded.
"Not a moment of fucking peace in this place," Maekar grumbled, taking another sip from his mug as he looked over Baelor's desk.
"Hm," Baelor nodded, pursing his lips, and neither realised that images which were far too similar flashed in their heads.
"Needy cunts," Maekar said, voice low and gruff and grumbling once more. And again, neither realised that immensely similar images flashed through their heads. Because though it sounded like Maekar was speaking about the vultures that descended on the royal family, the lords and ladies who wished to better their lot by means of flattery, both of their minds went to the very literal sense of the word.
Baelor thought of you, sitting at his feet, pawing at his legs, your wide glassy eyes blinking up at him. He thought of you, mouth sucking his finger like the most delectable treat as you moved yourself on his cock, aided only by his hand at your waist, your huffing and puffing whines. He thought of you, of your needy cunt, of the slick and the warmth and the way he could not quite get himself to think right in the presence of it.
Maekar thought of you draping yourself all over him, not a thought as to what propriety dictated. He thought of you bent over his lap, moaning and gasping as he smacked his hand against your ass, the bucks of your hips as you desperately chased him. He thought of your hands caressing his beard, you pressing your lips to his like a man traversing the desert having his first sip of water. He thought of your cunt, wet and hot and painted in his own seed.
Both men adjusted in their seats, their eyes lost to the memories of women who had whirled so unexpectedly into their lives and then into their beds. Of women who had taken their sanities firmly in their grasps and would now not let go...
There was a knock at the door, a few raps, then before either of them could tell the person on the other end to 'please come back later- fuck off!' the door opened and in whirled a girl in a dress of black and red. Maekar turned in his seat to face the door and Baelor watched his eyes begin to blaze. His frown turned into something of agitation and desire, as if he was already burning with rage merely at the sight of her.
Baelor smiled as the girl came forward, her own beaming smile aimed at him first.
"Your grace," she greeted politely, curtseying low and elegant, accepting his nod and smile before setting her eyes on her father-in-law.
Baelor liked Aerion's wife. She was chatty, sweet, a little girlish and always walking the line of propriety, but she made up for it with her pretty face and personality. He had never had cause to dislike her, though he knew Maekar had become fed up with her constant complaints and mission to seek him out for whatever petty reasons she found. Baelor could empathise with that, his own daughter-in-law had become clingy in such a way, though he had no cause to complain now...
"Father," she called, walking over to Maekar's side, gripping the armrest in both hands and getting down on her knees beside his chair so she could look up at him.
Baelor stared at the scene, a lump forming in his throat and a sudden tightness to the clothes around him. You called him the same thing, used that same breathy-intense tone that was both aggravating and endearing. Had this become a new custom he was unaware of? Did all young, promiscuous, women of Westeros make it their mission to torment their father-in-law's? He watched Maekar's hands tighten on the armrest and the cup, his eyes flitting down to look at her as his frown deepened.
"What is it?" He asked, gruff as always, and she just smiled up at him, placing her hands under her chin and blinking so sweetly that Maekar knew some absurd request was coming.
"Could I perhaps go into the city to visit the fabric market? I hear a convoy from Dorne has arrived with a new blend of fabrics that is said to be the most beautiful material! I would like to see it for myself." She was smiling so prettily up at Maekar that Baelor knew the man must have felt it in his chest. "Aerion says I cannot go because it would be 'stupid' and 'below my station' but it is only a quick trip, and I am sure we can spare one or two of the King's Guard for me. Ser Roland Crakehall has already said he would be happy to accompany me."
Maekar's scowl deepened, his cup being set down with a 'thump!' as he twisted his upper body to look right down at you.
"Yes, I'm sure Ser Roland would be more than happy to accompany you," his voice coloured with that angry sarcasm so characteristic of him. "I bet he dreams of accompanying you," Maekar spat, jaw tight with rage. He was glaring down at you, hands tense in his lap. "And for once in his life, that idiot of a boy is right. You cannot go galavanting into the city simply to see some fancy fucking fabric. Have you lost your wits?"
She pouted, brows furrowing as she leaned even closer to him, placing her chin on the armrest and clasping her hands tight together and placing them on his lap.
"Father!" She huffed, indignant. "The city is safe now, because of you and Prince Baelor!" She glanced toward Baelor, the barest gleam of a smile in her eyes. "And the King's Guard will protect me from whatever other possible dangers may lay ahead." And then her eyes brightened a little, her pout smoothing out just so as she raised her face even closer to Maekar's. "I wished to buy some and make a dress in red to match the one I wore that evening when you punish-"
"Enough!" Maekar had turned fully red, his beard shining stark and white against his skin. "Cease this at once." And he reached forward and gripped her chin tightly, between his thumb and forefinger, craning her head up until the back of her neck began to protest and she gasped. Her eyes were bright. "You are in the presence of a prince and the future king, and I will hear no more of this. Return to your chambers and test my patience no longer." Then he abruptly let her go, turning away and reaching for his cup of wine, finishing it off in one swoop before gesturing at Baelor to hand over the jug.
Baelor had raised his own cup to his lips, eyes wide and intensely focused on the scene in front of him. His mouth was parted just behind the cup, shock coursing through him. The girl stayed on her knees in front of Maekar for a few moments longer, simply staring up at him with bright eyes and parted lips before she pouted again, huffed, stood, and stomped out of the room without a farewell.
Baelor looked at his brother, his face finally turning a shade lighter as the flush faded. His eyebrows were furrowed and the anger still blazed in his eyes, his body rigid. Maekar had finished another cup of wine before he slumped in his seat, pressing one hand to his forehead and shaking his head. He glanced up to Baelor who had his eyebrows raised, a look of questioning and simultaneous knowing on his features.
"Do not. Say. Anything." Maekar grumbled, bringing his cup to his lap and twirling it between his hands, his head still shaking a little.
"She is..." Baelor began despite his brother's warning, but he could not find the words to finish his sentence.
"Insolent, demanding, improper, a brat to rival Aerion?" Maekar supplied, one eyebrow raising as he looked at his brother. Baelor chuckled, nodding and taking a big gulp of his wine.
"Yes, and..."
"Fucking irresistible," Maekar huffed under his breath, staring into his cup. Again Baelor's eyebrows raised, something dawning on him, and he adjusted himself in his seat, sitting up a little.
"Brother-" And before he could finish what he was going to say, there was a knock at the door.
"Father, may I come in?" And for a moment Maekar believed it was you returning. But when Baelor tensed a little in his seat, his eyes suddenly gaining an intense quality, he furrowed his brow and turned to look at the door as Baelor called out for the person to enter.
It seemed both daughter-in-law's were playing a game of tag. One of Maekar's brows raised as he watched Valarr's wife enter the room, closing the door softly behind her as she stepped daintily in. She was beautiful, like his own girl, but her fashions were a touch more modest (though she too seemed to favour the off-the-shoulder sleeves).
He had not known that she too called Baelor father, that she too was apparently a thorn in the side. Maekar glanced in Baelor's direction then back to her.
"My Prince," she first curtseyed to Maekar, then turned to her father in law.
"What is it, my girl?" Baelor asked, his face softening as he noted the gentle upturn of her lips and the crinkle of a smile at her eyes. Maekar's eyes glanced between them both, his mouth parting a little as the tension crawled over his skin. What the fuck was going on here? What was going on between Baelor and 'his girl'?
"I..." she trailed off, pursing her lips to suppress her smile before stepping forward casually, her dress swishing around her legs. "I have a request, and I fear you will be annoyed with me, but I must ask."
Baelor raised an eyebrow, and Maekar adjusted himself in his seat so he could lean further back, so he could get a better view of the two of you. There was something about this interaction that made him feel as though he was watching the most enticing performance curated by the most talented of playwrights. He sipped from his wine.
"Is it related to what your good-sister has just come to ask my brother about?" Baelor smirked, leaning back in his seat a little as the girl stepped forward again, her smile widening as she nodded, moving around the desk to stand closer to him.
"Yes," she dragged out the word, reaching down to grasp his hand in both of hers, running her fingers along the veins and the backs of his fingers.
Maekar's eyebrows shot up, a smirk pulling at his own lips as he watched the scene. Hm, perhaps he had misjudged Baelor all these years...
"We only wish to go straight to the market and back. We will go in the wheelhouse, and the King's Guard has men to spare." Her voice was soft, so immensely sultry that Maekar too felt his neck go hot as he watched her.
Maekar did not know Valarr's wife well, had only met her in passing at her wedding feast and she had smiled gracefully, kindly, accepted the hand he pressed to the top of her head and curtseyed low. This was not a side he had expected.
"You must know my brother has denied his good-daughter from embarking on this task," Baelor told her, allowing her to fiddle with his fingers. He watched her nod, watched her twist back and forth a little at the waist like a bashful girl.
"Yes," she dragged out the word again, averting her gaze to his hand instead of his eyes. "But... I suppose we thought, if we asked you, perhaps you could convince the prince. Or perhaps, you might be more willing," and Baelor huffed a chuckle at that as Maekar scoffed, rolling his eyes and taking a long drink from his cup.
"You thought wrong, my girl," Baelor told her, grasping one of her hands and tugging a little to force her attention to return to his face. "I agree with my brother, it is foolish and unnecessary. Send word to the merchants and have them attend you both in the Keep. I believe that is an acceptable compromise?" Baelor reached up and cupped her cheek, running the pad of his thumb over her cheekbone.
Maekar watched this all from where he was slumped in his seat, his eyes following each little movement. He could see the girl preening under Baelor's attention, could see the fire in her eyes as she stared right into Baelor's. He felt as if he was intruding, as if she would jump on Baelor given another moment. Instead she nodded, licking her lips before turning her head and pressing a chaste kiss to the pad of Baelor's thumb.
Again, Maekar's eyes widened, eyebrows raising, mouth dropping open a little as he watched Baelor's figure tense, his eyes going hard. The girl giggled, leaning down and pressing a similar kiss to Baelor's cheek.
She whispered something in Baelor's ear but Maekar only caught the words "very grateful" and the way Baelor's eyes fluttered, his hands tensing on hers and the sudden shift in him. Then she slipped from his grasp, curtseying in farewell to Maekar and rushing from the room, allowing the door to slam closed behind her.
Baelor stayed frozen for a moment staring after her before his eyes finally landed on Maekar. The younger brother slowly began to chuckle, a deep sound right from his chest as he shut his eyes and shook his head. He slapped his knee once then leaned forward and poured a generous amount of wine first into Baelor's cup, then his own.
"I see now you are faced with the same problem as I, dear brother," Maekar told him, catching his breath and wiping at the corner of his eye where a tear had escaped.
"Tis a stubborn one indeed," Baelor sighed, though he had relaxed again, smiling as he slumped in his seat and drank from his cup, the wine finally beginning to have its effect, the warmth, the tingling under the skin, the haze in the brain only just settling.
"It seems insolence is bred into the young women of Westeros," Maekar grumbled, but Baelor just smiled and shook his head.
"No, brother, I do not think so. I think our house has been blessed with two very special maidens who have found a place to their advantage. I do not believe there is another out there to their likeness."
"To that I can agree," Maekar nodded, smiling a little as he thought of your fucked out dazedness, at the satisfaction that coursed through you when he put his eyes fully on you and answered your whims with sharp retorts.
Baelor thought of the way you softened around him, like a cat who began with the intention to scratch and instead curled up at one's feet, purred with pleasure and laved with love.
"But for fuck's sake, I am far too old to be keeping up."
"Seven hells, my back cannot take it. This is ten times as difficult as the Blackfyre Rebellion."
"...insatiable. No end to their desires and lust."
"...and she cannot breathe but she will still tell me to keep going..."
"...cannot hear a complaint and not go fucking mental now...so fucking annoying but so enticing..."
"...so obedient sometimes, yet so insolent others... one's head spins trying to keep up..."
A/N: Got requested a version of ‘whining and pouting’ for Baelor and I couldn’t not write it… and sorry to my man Valarr, we had to cheat on you tonight. Your dad too sexy.
Summary: However much you try to annoy your father in law, it never works for he has the patience of a saint. Perhaps you will try a different strategy…
Note: I did not write this with targcest in mind BUT she calls him ‘Father’ as like a teasing/taunt thing and it does come up in the smutty bit. I’m imagining medieval daddy kink. If this makes you uncomfortable, please do not read it, your digital consumption is your own responsibility.
Word count: ~4.8k
Trigger Warnings: 18+/MDNI, she/her pronouns, AFAB reader, (significant) age gap, younger!reader (20s), infidelity (sorry Valarr), spoilt/bratty/kinda annoying reader, SMUT, oral (m!receiving), finger sucking, PinV sex, 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.
Always appreciate comments, likes, and reblogs :)
You sat yourself down beside Baelor with a huff, pouting and turning to him with a little frown. He was in one of two chairs by the hearth in the solar, absorbing the warmth of the fire as he read. He only smiled, closing the book he had been reading, marking his place with his index finger, and adjusting in his seat so he could face you a little better.
“What is it, my girl?” He asked softly, knowing what you were like.
Since your marriage to Valarr, this had become a sort of an arrangement between you and Baelor. Your husband was a young man with so many interests other than you. He had happily married you to do his duty, but he had no interest in being committed to the marriage just yet, and you could do nothing to stop him. You were not sure you wanted to either, for you found that Valarr incited no interest in you either. He found his pleasure in training and hunts, in royal council chambers and feasts. You enjoyed reading and embroidering, having tea and talking all the afternoon long with your ladies. Despite possible similarities, there was not much overlap between your preferred pursuits.
But in the time since your wedding, you had made yourself a staple in Baelor’s life, weaselled your way in where there had supposedly been no space, and situated yourself even against resistance. In the evenings, when he would retire to his study for some peace and quiet, or if he chose to sit in the solar for a cup of wine, you would find your way to him, slowly and carefully at first, a polite smile on your face. You would sit yourself down near him, sighing long and low, or pouting already by the time you entered the room, and it would be his duty to ask what had bothered you. If it was not that, then you would ask him what he was reading, ask him if you could drink some of his wine, pester him about something or other that stopped him from putting his attention on anything other than you.
Often Baelor wondered how you had grown up. It seemed necessary to your peace of mind to attempt to provoke a rise out of him once a day, and it sometimes made him think about your father’s role in your life. He was aware that many fathers did not take much interest in their daughter’s lives beyond their marriage prospects, and he wondered if this had somehow stemmed from that. If he had had daughters, he would have made sure they knew he loved them every second of the day.
And with that in mind, he always tried his best to be an anchor for you, rather than give you the reaction you so desired. Never once did he crack. He never told you to stop complaining, simply offered up suggestions to fix the problem. Never once did he lose his patience. He always answered your questions, politely and with care. Someone needed to be a steady post in the storm for you, and he would do that, however much it tested his patience.
“‘Tis nothing, Father,” you huffed again, arms crossed at your chest, pushing your breasts a little higher. He continued smiling, gentle as ever, and nodded a little.
He remembered when you had first called him that, your gentle voice saying it as you curtseyed in front of him on your wedding night, your veil pulled back off your face but still draped over your head, framing your face in an image of beauty comparable to the maiden herself. And he had allowed it, appreciated it even, smiled when you said it and allowed you to kiss the back of his hand as had become customary among the young women of Westeros. He had been happy that Valarr had found such a good and charismatic woman. Oh if only he had known…
“If it is nothing, then why do you look so sour?” He asked, raising an eyebrow at you as you huffed again. You looked petulant and childish, and he found it rather cute.
You wore a pretty red dress, dark velvet and cut so the sleeves sat off your shoulders and exposed them to the air. You had a matching pair of slippers, peeking out from under your dress where you had crossed your leg over the other and were now moving it about.
“I suppose I had a goal, and I did not even know I had that goal, and now I am realising that that goal is not being achieved, and I am annoyed,” you spoke cryptically, your words halting as you tried to say what you wanted to say without giving away anything at all.
Baelor’s brows furrowed, trying to piece your words together, and he hummed in thought. You finally turned to look at him properly, your eyes flitting all over his face. You seemed to melt into your seat a little more, your frown easing away into something akin to peace.
“Perhaps a new strategy is in order,” he finally said, voice low. “In battle as in politics, you switch your strategy to achieve the goal if the original does not prove fruitful.”
You hummed in thought as well, mirroring the sound he made. He did not say anything else, for he was completely unsure what you were referring to, and did not believe he could help you with whatever issue you possessed without more information.
“Hm, perhaps,” you answered quietly, and for once, you stayed silent the entire time you kept him company. He returned to his book, continuing to read on the history of the houses of the riverlands, and you sat beside him, occasionally stealing the wine cup from his hands and drinking from it yourself (perhaps the one thing that truly did irk him), and simply existed in the space beside him.
You entered Baelor’s study without knocking, breezing in like a feather on the wind and shutting the door with a little kick from your foot. He looked up from the letter he was writing, raising an eyebrow at you as a firm look descended on his face. It was rude to interrupt someone so, especially without a knock or a greeting, and he knew you were aware of that.
You began pacing in front of his desk, behind the chairs that faced it, your hair pushed back over your shoulders as you pursed and unpursed your lips, preparing to say something. You wore a black dress this time, velvet again and with off-the-shoulder sleeves like the one before. But this had long bell sleeves that draped over your wrists and hands.
“‘Tis rude to enter without knocking,” he told you first, glancing back down to the parchment on his desk, aiming to reread what he had already written. “And it is rude not to greet the person you interrupt.”
You did not say anything in response for a moment, just watched Baelor refocus on the parchment, then you walked over and rapped your knuckles against the desktop near the corner, smirking a little as you stared directly at his face, still turned down toward the parchment.
“Hello dear Father, how do you fare this evening?” You asked, voice a little clipped, and he just smiled with mirth, shaking his head a little before finally looking up at you once more.
“I fare well, my dear girl, how do you do?” He asked in response, and he suppressed his own smirk. He knew how it irked you for your attempts to fail, for him to simply play along with your game of borderline disrespect.
“I fare rather miserably, Father, and that is why I have come to see you,” you huffed, throwing yourself down in one of the seats in front of his desk, pouting as you looked up at him.
“What has happened, dear?” He asked, frowning a little as he put his quill down and laced his hands together on the desktop. It was most likely frivolous, but he could never be too sure that it would not turn out to be a real issue, and he would hate the day it did and he treated you carelessly.
“I have torn my favourite dress, and I cannot find my favourite necklace, and the bathwater was far too cold this morning and no one seems to care! No one cares about what I think or feel or anything!” And he could see tears of frustration begin to well in your eyes, your elbow on the armrest as you rested your face against your hand. He sighed a little, and you looked up again, your mouth pulled down in a frown, your lower lip pouting aggressively and your brows pinching together. You sniffled, taking a shaking breath in, and you allowed the tears to begin falling.
“How did you tear the dress, my dear?” He asked softly, his silky voice soothing you in and of itself.
“I chose to walk through the courtyard to reach the stables. I wanted to go feed my Duchess, she has not been handfed sugar in far too long, and there was a rather large stone in my path. The hem got caught under my foot and ripped right there, an entire strip coming to dangle loose.” Your words were a little blubbery and sniffly, your hand coming up to swipe haphazardly at your tear-stained cheeks.
“And the necklace?”
“I do not know! I looked all over my vanity and it was nowhere. I cannot remember where I took it off and Valarr does not know. If it has truly been lost I will never be happy again!” You clenched your hands in your lap, your voice raising dramatically. Baelor simply raised his eyebrow at you again, sighing softly at your antics.
“Why do you think no one cares how you feel?” He then asked, his voice a little more serious and simultaneously, a little more caring. You mumbled something in response, your chin dipping to your chest as you looked at the desktop rather than at him. “Hm?”
“Because it feels like it,” you murmured, a little louder this time, and he just smiled sagely at you.
“You have eaten well today, yes?” He asked, watching for your nod. “And had plenty to drink?” Again, you nodded, morose and small. “Did you sleep well the evening before?” At that you paused, shaking your head like a scolded child. “You did not sleep well then?”
“No,” you responded quietly, shaking your head again. “I could not find sleep. I tossed and turned, and everything just felt wrong in the bed.”
“Then perhaps today has felt so difficult to manage because you are due rest, my girl. Do not you think so?” And he had that fatherly smile on again, that soft and gentle thing that showed he was caring and had enough experience to figure these puzzles out.
You nodded, going silent in your torment, then you looked up at him and wiped at your cheeks. You stood from your seat, then rounded the desk instead of leaving. You threw yourself at his feet, wrapping your arms around his leg as you rested your head on his knee, turning so your face touched the fabric of his trousers. You fluttered your eyes shut, sighing and simply holding yourself there.
Baelor froze for a moment, looking down at you like this, clinging to his leg like a pup to its mother. But your face looked so peaceful, and you had settled so well, a vision in the way your dress splayed around you, that he did not have the heart to urge you to get up. Instead, he gently rested his hand on your head, beginning to stroke over your hair, encouraged by the way you sighed and shivered happily, your lips moving softly against each other. Like a kitten, he thought, small and curled and clinging.
You brought your elbow to rest on the knee of his other leg so your forearm rested along his lap, your hand draping on the thigh just above his knee where you lay your head. He continued stroking your hair, but he watched your movements carefully, knowing that you were still awake, still as sharp as a tack despite your current soft demeanour.
Your hand slowly stroked his leg there, absent-minded, your fingertips grazing with just enough pressure for Baelor to feel it on his thigh under the fabric. You hummed, lifting your head only just enough to crane it a little so you could look Baelor in the eye. You smiled, gentle and cute, a smile he had not seen from you since your wedding night, happiness and satisfaction.
“You are far too kind to me, Father,” you whispered, blinking your eyes slowly. “You get no thanks, but you continue to take such good care of me.” You pursed your lips, Baelor’s eyes following the motion, staying there for a moment longer than appropriate.
You sat up a little, shuffling on your knees until you were situated right between Baelor’s legs, one knee on each side of your shoulders, just pressed there. He sat up a little in his seat, his eyes losing that smile, gaining a far more serious look that sent a shiver down your spine. One of his hands splayed on top of his thigh, firm there, and the other came up to rest just under his chin, the backs of his fingers just brushing along his beard there.
“It is only my duty,” he answered simply, his voice low and gravelly all of a sudden. Your eyes fluttered, warmth blooming within you as you leaned even further into the space between his legs, your hands coming up to rest on each of his thighs, pulling yourself even closer until you were practically leaning over his lap now.
“Hmm, yes,” you answered, voice low, a seductive quality to it that made Baelor swallow harshly. How had you both come to be in this position?
“But…” you trailed off, licking your lips distractedly, blinking up at him as you leaned even lower, closer to his legs now. “Do you not deserve to be thanked for your patience? You have been ever so patient with me and my whims.” He could see your lips moving, could hear the words you said, whispering like the most sinful of creatures, and he felt his core tighten up. He was hot at the back of his neck now, unable to move, unable to stop you.
Your hands moved upwards on his thighs, grazing there and then dipping down a little where a bulge had begun to grow. You pressed there, lightly, teasingly, and he took a slow breath in, deep in the hopes of jogging himself awake. You ran your hand up the length of it, pressing and releasing a little so he could not quite guess when he would feel that delectable sensation there.
Instead of continuing with that though, your eyes landed on the hand that was splayed on his thigh. His strong fingers, the prominent knuckles and the veins running along the backs of his hands, all so immensely enticing. You changed course and gently took his hand in yours, stroking your fingers along the back of it before bringing it to your mouth. You kissed him where your fingers had just been, right over the soft skin and veins, the same way you had done the night of your wedding. You pressed another, moving upwards until you reached the tips of his fingers. Baelor’s breath had become shallow, a rough swallow moving down his throat.
Without a word of warning, you licked the tip of his index finger, your tongue curling seductively, snake-like. You did not give much opportunity for objection before bringing that same finger to your lips and enveloping it in your mouth, sucking on it right down to the second knuckle, just above where his ring rested.
He tasted like clean skin, warm now that it was in your mouth. You knew he always took a moment to freshen up after dinner before going to work in his study, hoping that a quick wash would keep him awake a little while longer. You appreciated it immensely at this moment.
You pulled his finger slowly back out between your lips, and just before it could fully leave your mouth, you pressed it back in again. Your eyes had closed at some point, a little sound leaving your lips as you just grazed your teeth along his skin.
Baelor took deep breaths, swallowing harshly as saliva built in his mouth. His eyes never once left your face, never once left the sight of your lips, puckered a little around his finger. He focused on the feeling of your mouth, warm, wet, just the right amount of suction. He saw your closed eyes, the way your free hand dug into his leg a little as you leaned over him eagerly. He could not breathe properly.
You slowly pulled off his finger, eyes fluttering open, and you continued gripping his hand, pressing a kiss to his thumb as well before leaning back a little. Baelor’s hand went limp, and you put it back on his thigh, his wet finger going a little cold in the open air.
You took deep breaths in, steadying yourself, glancing up at him for a moment before continuing on your original path up his legs. Your fingers were nimble as you brought them up to where his laces kept his trousers together. The black ties were done neatly, a proper bow. Just as you reached the knot, he quickly gripped your hands in one of his own. His breath was heavier than before, his lips parted just a little. You blinked up at him, feigning a look of innocence, as if you had done nothing egregious. He just stared down at you, grazing his eyes over your face.
“I am only thanking you, Father,” you whispered, voice so seductive he was sure you could convince even the most devout of maesters to renege on his vows. “You deserve to be thanked, always having so much patience for my whims,” and then slowly, he unfurled his fingers and allowed you to continue, as if having come to some irrevocable decision.
You did not smile despite how much you wanted to, and simply bowed your head a little to focus on undoing the knot and pulling the laces down.
“You deserve to be thanked, always listening to my complaints,” and you reached in, your hands a little cold where the space was warm, and you shuddered as you gripped his cock in your hand. The skin was soft, of course it was, and you gently stroked it with your fingers, an almost ticklish feeling.
You glanced up at Baelor, moving your hand slowly up it, and you licked your lips again, the saliva pooling so quickly in your mouth you feared it was spilling from the corners.
“You deserve to be thanked for your benevolence,” and you pressed a kiss right to the tip of it, watching him suck a harsh breath in, his hand moving to clench the armrest.
“You simply deserve to be thanked,” and then you stuck your tongue out, and licked one long stripe from the base right to the tip of his cock. A grunt-like sigh left Baelor’s mouth, his hand clenching on the armrest again, the other one twitching where he had laid it on his thigh.
You came back up and engulfed the tip of his cock into your mouth, sucking gently before moving as far down as you could go, the feeling of his skin and veins such an odd sensation against your tongue and the inside of your mouth. Baelor’s eyes fluttered closed, but he kept attempting to reopen them, not wanting to miss a moment.
You were not experienced in these matters, and you went purely off instinct. Which meant you could not fit much of it in your mouth, and you attempted to make up for that by using your hands on what was left. You sucked, mouth and lips tightening, and he groaned, and so you did it again. Your hands stroked up and down, and he shivered, and so you tightened your grip a little, pulling back to lick at him like a cat with cream.
“You are a good girl,” he breathed out, eyes hooded as he watched you. “If a little misguided.”
Though he did react, everything he did was still controlled, subtle. His shivers were not full-body, just the littlest movement at his shoulders. His groans were low, under his breath, almost muffled by the sounds of your mouth on his cock. You would not have known he was reacting if you had not made it your life’s mission to observe him since your wedding night.
You preened at the praise, a spike of pleasure shooting through you, and you pressed down again, deeper this time despite the discomfort to your jaw. The space between your thighs was slippery, and you shifted side to side, clenching around nothing, trying to amp up the heat that now lived there.
Baelor moved the hand that did not grip the armrest to the back of your head, not pushing nor pulling, just caressing your hair, and your eyes fluttered closed, a small moan falling from you, vibrating through your mouth and over him. He clenched his hand a little, not tight, but just enough that you felt it.
In, out, a slurp, the slick sounds of your hands moving, the taste of him, hot and musky in your mouth, his heavy breaths, your groans and moans. Baelor could feel himself pushed to the edge, so ready to release, but then you pulled off, catching your breath as you looked up at him. He did not react past the tightening of his hand on the armrest, just opened his eyes a little more and looked down as you leaned back onto your heels, your chest heaving and your mouth shiny with saliva. You looked dazed, a sheen of sweat on your skin, hands trembling a little, and you blinked slowly up at him.
Though you had every intention of going back in, of finishing him off, when you looked up at his face, at the serious set to his brow and the intensity in his piercing eyes, you could no longer ignore your own desire.
You stood on shaky legs, then leaned down to clench the fabric of your dress and pull it up a little. Then, unceremoniously, you shoved one knee between Baelor’s hip and the armrest, and did the same with the other, settling yourself desperately on his lap as he moved to grab you by the hips and steady you there. You let go of the dress and reached up to grip his shoulders, panting a little as you threw your head back to shift your hair, then looked right at him.
He was watching you still, eyes flitting from your own to your lips then back up. He wrapped one arm around your waist and hoisted you closer, until your core was pressed to his lower abdomen, his palm coming to rest on your arse and hold you there. His other hand came up to your face, shoving your hair back over your shoulders then cupping your cheek. He ran his thumb over your lower lip, dragging it down a little then letting it jump back up. You blinked rapidly at him, a sharp kind of focus in your eyes that made everything look ten times as salient.
And it was like the fire in your veins could no longer be controlled, like you were lost to it. Your skin was hot, your core tight and pulsing, and everything just felt frenzied. You leaned forward, hands cupping the back of his neck, and you kissed him.
His lips were warm, yours were wet, and his beard rubbed against your chin and cheeks. His hands grasped you tighter, and you made little noises as you pressed yourself as close to him as possible. His tongue invaded your mouth, wet and firm, and you licked it back, mouth opening against his.
Baelor’s hand left your face to begin gathering the skirt of your dress, pulling it up and pushing it higher so he could reach his hand beneath. He felt over your thighs, slipped down to the space between your legs, and a muffled groan rumbled against your mouth when he realised there was nothing else to stop him. Had you come with this seduction in mind?
He rubbed you there, your wetness slicking over his fingertips. You moaned against his lips, mumbling his name without pulling your face away. He caressed you there, soft with his motions, and felt an immense sense of pride when you shifted your hips, chasing the feeling. You were desperate.
“Father,” you whined, nuzzling your nose to his cheek, moving so your lips brushed his ear. “Father, please.”
“Alright, my girl, alright,” he huffed, pulling his hand away only to begin situating his cock against your entrance.
You fluttered where he presse into you, your core feeling tight and excited. You pressed your cheek to his, lifting your self on your knees before pressing down as he guided your hips. He made little shushing noises as you keened and whimpered against his ear, his hand coming up to smooth over your hair and the back of your head as you pushed yourself fully down onto him. He was inside you. It was like nothing else.
You could feel the stretch, the pressure, the rub, the hotness and everything else. Your eyes stayed clenched shut, just feeling the pleasure course through you. Baelor’s hands at your hips did much of the work for you, carrying you a little as he moved you up and back down, aided the smoothness of your moves. Occasionally you just stayed sitting, pressing your hips back and forth so he did not slip out of you but simply rubbed within you. You were lost to yourself, moving whichever way felt good, whichever direction made your skin spark and your insides clench and feel like the heat was shooting all the way up through you to your brain.
And Baelor was as lost as you, grunting and groaning at your ear, holding you close because he could not do much else. “My girl,” he spoke, “oh my girl.” You were all around him, surrounding him. He could feel your hair over his shoulders and neck, could smell your perfume and your sweat mingling, could taste your mouth, still like the summer strawberries you had indulged in after dinner. And he felt hot all over too, in his stomach and through his cock, on his skin and in his head.
In, out, back, forth, sharp pleasure through you as your clitch catches on his lower stomach. In, out, back, forth, your panting breaths brushing over his neck. In, out, back, forth, back forth, it was climbing now. You could feel it, more intense than ever before. Your core tingled, your clit pulsed, you were clenching, tight and tighter and higher, and oh seven, it was there, it was all there, in your limbs and in your mouth and in your brain.
“Father!” You moaned, high and loud and final. Your entire body tightened and froze on top of him, trembling with the rush of it. He hoisted you up a little, slipped out of you, and with a loud grunt of ‘my girl’ against your neck, released against the inside of your dress.
You fell on him, your face pressed against his neck, and panted there. He wrapped his arms around your torso, holding you there as you moved up and down with his heavy breaths. He caressed the back of your head, threading his fingers through your hair, and you clutched at his sides, hands pressed flat to his ribs.
It was a while before you felt capable of lifting your head, and when you did, you only just raised it enough to bring your nose right by Baeor’s. Your eyes sparkled, and you reached up and caressed his bearded cheek as he half-opened his eyelids to meet your gaze.
“Thank you, Father,” you whispered, leaning in and pressing a soft kiss to Baelor’s mouth. “For everything, but especially your advice.”
Baelor’s brows furrowed at that, his head tilting a little. He did not say anything, hoping you would elaborate on your own. You pressed another kiss to his mouth, gently nuzzzling his nose with yours before your smile widened at his confusion.
“I changed strategy, and I have achieved my goal.” You giggled and kissed him again, not allowing him to answer.
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