Hi all, I'm TheDovesAreDying, but you can all call me Dove or Griz for short. I like to write fanfics during my downtime and this blog is dedicated to my x-reader fics. I'm a passionate bird lover and when not at home I'm a veterinary technician in training. As an overall warning, this blog will contain content that many will consider dark. Not all fics contain it, but ensure to tread carefully.
warnings: obviously targcest! babytrapping, smut, dubcon? noncon? manipulation, older man/younger woman, woman viewed as a possession, time typical relationship dynamics.
Building off of this and the incredible asks from darkbaelorfreakanon! Mostly doing this to consolidate all the thoughts we've been having on my blog about Baelor if he survived the mega-whack he got.
Baelor survives the trial of seven at Ashford Castle, but he's not the same – the hit of the morningstar damaged the part of his brain responsible for rational thinking and impulse control, as well as the part that held his knowledge of social cues and politeness.
Baelor comes out a changed man, no longer the kind and thoughtful prince who gave hope to the Seven Kingdoms. Now, the people call him the reincarnation of Maegor the Cruel; he's brash, rude and quick to anger, and even his sons tiptoe around him now.
Before his injury, he was content with his widower status. He didn't have any need or desire to remarry, but deep down... he held a shameful secret – he lusted over his younger brother's daughter.
However, he'd never thought properly about acting on his thoughts. You were young, energetic and full of life. Which young woman would wish to be tied to an older, greying man such as him?
He was always eager for Maekar's annual visits to the Red Keep, pleased to spend time in your company. You never minded speaking with him, happy to discuss politics or literature unlike your twin. He grew fond of you, and despite how much he hated the feelings brewing inside of him, he denied himself. It wasn't right.
Maekar tried to betroth you once you were of age, hoping to find someone worthy of your hand, and yet every suitor seemingly fizzled out – either they revoked their offer, or a scandal of theirs would come to light. So here you were, unwed and on the edge of spinsterhood.
And then Baelor's accident happened.
No longer did he feel guilt, disgust, or shame at the sight of you. Instead, he felt young again... lustful, shamelessly this time. His desire to pull you into his lap had never been so strong.
When Maekar receives a letter demanding that you visit the Red Keep, it's clear to him what's happening. And yet, your father can't say anything against it.
Baelor is deceptive – he's gentle at first, reminiscent of the uncle you used to know. You don't feel so bad tending to his wounds or helping pour his wine at council meetings, not even when the looks start to grow. Baelor was growing suspiciously close to his niece now, more than appropriate, they were saying.
You don't even notice when he starts isolating you, replacing your guards from Summerhall with those loyal to him. You're too occupied being by Baelor's side, and his pain is worse now, he says. You spend evenings by his side in his chambers, reading the histories as he requests. But, truly, you've only ever seen him as your uncle.
Never had you wished to follow the strange customs of your ancestors, instead hoping to marry a kind lord far away from the Crownlands and live peacefully.
Soon, Baelor's making his way to his father, demanding the hand of his niece as payment for the grave wound he's suffered. He wants you, and he doesn't want to have to play polite anymore. But it's only been a few months since the trial, and King Daeron is still grateful that his eldest son is alive and healthy... and as a princess, it is your duty to marry.
Even when you're pleading with your father, begging him not to marry you to your uncle, there is nothing he can do. It's been decided. Maekar's guilt grows tenfold; first, he'd almost killed his brother, and now he's gifting his daughter into the arms of the monster he's created.
The wedding, or more aptly, the wedding night, was horrific for everyone except Baelor. He forces Maekar to watch the consummation, pretending it's to make sure he sees his daughter will be treated right. Instead, Baelor is on top of you, heavy and punishing with his thrusts, and you can only lie there and take it. He doesn't stop for hours, moving you however he likes, even when you grow floppy and weak. He's not a brute, though – he's going to bring you to your peak, as many times as he deems necessary, even when you tell him it’s too much. And when you can't move unassisted in the morning (after he's taken you once more)? Well, he knows he's consummated his second marriage properly.
After that, there's no telling what Baelor will do, for he holds no shame. He'll push you up against the stone walls and hike your skirts up, shouting at those around you to leave, lest he order their eyes to be plucked out. He'll make you ride with him through the forest, only to order you to ride him by the riverbank, his hands guiding your hips up and down before he’s dragging you back onto your shared horse, cum seeping down your thighs.
The injury made his hunger all the more insatiable, and he doesn't see anything wrong with taking you wherever he likes, whenever he wants. The court is too scared to say anything, having heard how the last man to comment on the 'prince's whore of a wife' disappeared from court overnight.
The one incident that made the King speak to him was when he demanded you, as his wife, sit on his lap during the council meeting. He made no effort to hide when he rucked your skirts up your thighs halfway through the meeting, slotting you down onto his hardened cock in front of the council members, despite the desperate twists of your head in resistance. He made you sit there with his cock inside for the remainder of the meeting, your cheeks warm and eyes teary with sheer embarrassment, clear to all in the room. But no one can say anything to the Hand of the King, and once they finally leave, he’s flattening you against the table and finally having his way with you.
He isolates you until you have no one but him, burning the letters your father sends you, and then holding you when you cry at your father's neglect. His moods are so volatile – one moment he's sweet, praising you, and making you reminisce on the man your uncle used to be, and then the next, he's telling you that the only way you will ever leave his side is if you kill him yourself. You can never quite keep up.
Speaking of, he's going to give you his babe, that way, you could never leave his side. He is determined to give you more than one, but he knows that the mother of the future King's heirs isn't going to make it far from the Keep if she does manage to get outside the walls. He's already got two sons, but he's whispering to you about how he wants a daughter, a chubby-cheeked thing with your hair and his eyes. How he hopes you'll only give him sweet daughters like you.
He's seen the way you eye the small, giggling children at court and play with your younger siblings – being a mother would suit you so well, whilst occupying all your time with tending to his children. They'll be as needy as he, he guesses, and you’d have no time to fill your head with other fanciful notions. Just him and the life he’s given you.
And well, when your belly starts to swell – much to the horror of your visiting father, he's overjoyed. Now everyone will know who you belong to, and he supposes that you'll warm even more to him when he gives you such a precious gift.
(90 years later, when Joffrey reads the histories, he’s speaking of his favourite couple - King Baelor II and his wife. He speaks of how in love they were, how she bore him a bounty of sons and daughters, and how she never left his side throughout the years… Baelor ensured their history was written to his liking, threatening the lives of those who dared to try and write the truth.)
before his head injury he lusts after you, he yearns for you sure but he’s righteous and he’s honorable and he would never abuse his power as prince of dragonstone to command maekar to give him your hand in marriage
after the tourney though?
Openly commands you to serve as his cupbearer, commissions the most scandalous dresses to be made for you to wear and openly oogles you in them in public
And he’s so much more cruel!! straight up sends your sworn knight to the nights watch because his hands lingered on you a little too long, he smiled at you a little too sweetly
maekar and daeron ii have their hands tied i mean maekar almost killed his brother the guilt alone already eats him alive, king daeron knows how popular his eldest son is within the realm AND he almost lost him, surely it’s worth the price to satisfy his son by giving him his granddaughter 🙏
God, this is delicious!!! Anonnie, you ate this!
He was holding back for years, yearning for his brother's eldest daughter. Even when Maekar suggested betrothals, there would always suddenly be something wrong with them, or their minds would change, and the princess would remain with her family. Baelor's favourite time of the year was when Maekar would bring his family from Summerhall to the Red Keep for a few months.
After his injury, he doesn't even think of holding back anymore. His actions are clear to all in the courts, and Maekar tried to protest when he demanded his daughter return to the Red Keep instead, but failed miserably.
Now his daughter is standing by Baelor's side, pouring his wine during council meetings, tending to his wounds when he complains of pain. The court notices how she's always suspiciously close.
The dresses... they're made just so to allow him to stare at the curve of her breast and ogle at the shape of her hips. He decides to visit Dorne one day too, and he's grinning at the sight of his shy niece dressed in the fashionable drapes of silk that barely cover her skin.
Baelor starts to pick apart the people around her, sending her guards away without even so much as a word to her. She's always with him anyway, and he could protect her well enough that she would not need a guard anymore. Baelor would strike down any man who tried to take her from him.
Maekar tries to send letters to his daughter, but Baelor intercepts them, burning them before she can read them. The King can only watch on in horror, seeing the kind of man that has been released. He fears the chaos Baelor could bring upon the kingdom, and wonders how much he should really intervene when he starts hearing from the maids that Baelor has started wandering into his niece's chambers at night.
imagine (spinster series): baelor/maekar/lyonel trying and completely failing to act nonchalant around or about you but it’s obvious to everyone else that they pay a ton of attention to you and think about you all the time. bonus points if they let it slip because they’re jealous that someone else has caught your attention!
Girl I am LIVING for these jealousy requests, makes me think I should have added a jealously side plot when he was still yearning big time for her.
Warnings: Innuendo, kissing, jealousy - Never proof read so feel free to point out my mistakes!
Masterlist
Spinster Series Masterlist
Storm’s End had never been a quiet castle, it was a place of crashing waves, booming laugher and men shouting across the training yard.
Which is why, when the training yard went suspiciously silent, everyone went on alert.
Lyonel noticed immediately, of course he had. He was looking forward to you watching him in the yard, even if you would roll your eyes and call him a showoff, something in him still preened beneath your attention.
Which was precisely why, when your attention was very clearly not on him, the laughing storm fell deathly quiet.
“Something the matter, my lord?” one of the knights asked cautiously, uncomfortable with the sudden silence of a man who was normally the loudest voice present.
“Nothing” Lyonel said easily, a practiced smile slipping into place. But his eyes has not moved from the other end of the yard.
You had fully intended to watch your husband that morning. Truly you had. There was something undeniably satisfying about watching him in the yard, broad shoulders rolling as he swung a blade, sending knights twice his size sprawling into the dirt.
You would tease him for it, of course, you knew he loved it.
But the sight of it stirred something warm and dangerous in your chest all the same. You had certainly been looking forward to racing him back to your chambers afterward for an afternoon “nap”
Unfortunately, on the way to your husband you had been intercepted.
A visiting knight from the Reach had stopped you near the edge of the yard. He remembered your sister and had been eager to ask after her, offering congratulations on her recent betrothal, recalling the last time he saw her.
“I assure you” the knight was saying with goodnatured exasperation, “your sister was quite determined that I was a terrible dancer”
You laughed “Ah yes, that does sound like her”
He smiled at that “I believe she said something along the lines of if you step on my foot again I shall consider it an act of war”
You covered your mouth to hide your grin, you sister definitely learnt that from you “That is actually one the milder threats I taught her”
The knight laughed outright this time “Well then I consider myself fortunate to have escaped with only bruised toes”
“Quite” you said dryly “If she had truly disliked you she would have invited you to play a game of cyvasse”
His brows lifted “Your sister plays cyvasse?”
“Oh yes” you replied sweetly “And she is very good, that is why she only plays with people she dislikes. So she can crush them”
The knight burst into laughter.
It was at that exact moment the training yard fell completely silent. You noticed the change only vaguely, still smiling as the knight tried to catch his breath.
Across the yard, however, your husband had just dropped his practice sword.
You were too busy saying, with perfect sincerity “Of course we all pretend it’s a friendly game. It spares everyone’s dignity”
The knight laughed again, louder and more boyish as a shadow fell across you.
You turned, already knowing who is was before you saw him, broad shoulders still dusted with training sand, dark hair damp with sweat, a smile on his face that you knew well enough by now to recognize as deeply suspicious.
You scrunch your eyebrows in confusion, wondering what has him so peeved.
“My lord” the Reach knight said quickly.
Lyonel clapped him on the shoulder with alarming enthusiasm, nearly crushing the poor boy “Enjoying Storm’s End?”
The knight nodded “Very much, My Lord” the boys voice a tad higher than before.
“Good” Lyonel simply replied as his eyes met yours. You stared at him question of why he was manhandling the poor boy.
Lyonel’s grin widened, moving around the knight to slide his arm easily around your waist, pulling you against him.
“Lyonel” you chide, falling against him. He looked down at you with that bright, wicked expression.
“Wife” he replied easily, looking pointedly back at the boy. Smiling in satisfaction when the knight’s eyes widened a fraction “Terrible habit of mine” he carried on casually “Interrupting conversations when my wife is involved”
The knight cleared his throat “Well em I should perhaps um” he stumbled over his words
“Of course not” You began
“Yes” Lyonel said cheerfully cutting in “You should”
The knight bowed quickly and retreated across the yard, practically running.
You watched him go. Then you turned slowly toward your husband, slapping his chest lightly “That was unnecessary”
Lyonel looked entirely unrepentant pulling you closer “He was smiling at you”
“Yes” you replied dryly “That is what people do when they are speaking politely. Perhaps you are unfamiliar with the concept”
“He leaned closer” he continued, as if proving his point
“He was trying to hear me over the noise of your men” you pointed out .
“There was no noise” he countered, grinning wildly.
You glanced across the still silent yard, every knight present was pretending to be extremely invested in their swords.
You looked back at Lyonel “You interrupted a perfectly civil conversation”
“He was flirting” he replied eyes dark, hand flexing at your waist,
You let out a short disbelieving laugh “He was asking after my sister! He does not give two figs about me!”
Lyonel hesitated at your smiling face, but only for a moment “Still suspicious”
You rolled your eyes “Gods give me strength from my territorial fool of a husband” You teased as you leaned up and placed a soft kiss on his lips.
Lyonel smiled again, slower this time, entirely unrepentant “Worth it” he murmured before pulling you back in for a deeper kiss.
Summerhall’s feasts were never as grand as those at King’s Landing. But they were warm. Lanterns glowed along the stone arches, music drifted softly through the hall, and the long tables were filled with visiting lords, knights, and household retainers enjoying wine and conversation.
You had escaped the high table, when Lord Tyrell wanted your husbands attention.
Not permanently, of course. Maekar would notice if you vanished entirely, and later that night he would undoubtedly show you in bed exactly how much he had noticed.
You merely wanted a moment.
Just long enough to speak with one of the visiting lord who had been telling you about the horses bred in the Dornish Marches.
“…and they claim the bloodline runs back three generations” the lord was saying, gesturing enthusiastically with his cup, faced flushed with wine.
You leaned forward with interest “Three?” you repeated skeptically. “That seems unlikely”
He laughed “You sound exactly like my stablemaster, my lady”
“I suspect your stablemaster has more sense than your breeder” you replied dryly.
He laughed at that deep and slightly drunkenly.
It was that laughter that carried across the hall all the way to the high table,
Where Maekar had been listening to a Lord Tyrell drone on about grain shipments. In truth he had been only half listening, but when his gaze followed that laughter across the hall he stopped hearing the man entirely.
His full attention was now fixed on you.
You were sat on the lower benches leaning slightly forward, animated in a way, that told him you were no doubt talking about riding or horses, one of your passions.
Under normal circumstances, he would have been content to simply watch you. His beautiful wife, planning all the sinful things he wants to do to you later that night,
However, his attention had shifted to the source of the laughter. The man seated beside you. He was too close, smiling at you, too broadly.
Maekar’s fingers tightened slowly around his goblet as he rose from the table, forgetting about the sputtering Lord Tyrell entirely.
You had not noticed the shift in your husband, too focused on the topic at hand.
You were in the middle of explaining why Dornish horses handled uneven terrain better than Stormlands stock when a shadow fell across the bench.
You look up to see your husband close behind you, tall and immovable, silver hair catching the lantern light.
You smile up at him, thinking nothing of the scowl on his features. A regular occurrence.
“My prince” the lord greeted quickly, scrambling to his feet in his drunken haze.
Maekar did not look at him immediately his gaze was on you smiling up at him “You left the table” he grumbled
You raised a brow “Lord Tyrell was no doubt preparing to pull you into a dull conversation, I made a quick exit. I was planning to come back” You gestured calmly to the man beside you “We were discussing horses”
The lord nodded eagerly “Yes, Your Grace. Remarkable animals”
Maekar finally looked at him. A long moment passed. The lord shifted under the weight of that gaze. You looked at your husband in confusion at his sour mood.
“Horses” Maekar repeated
“Yes” the lord replied, his voice suddenly much higher.
Another pause, the lord seemed to understand he should make a swift escape “Ah I believe I hear mywife calling me” he lied poorly before staggering away across the hall, even Daeron had more grace.
You watched him retreat, Then you turned your eyes slowly toward your husband “That was rude”
Maekar clasped his hands behind his back “He was sitting too close”
“He was pointing” you replied incredulously.
“He laughed” he countered
You stared at him “I said something amusing, I can do that, you know”
Maekar said nothing, but his expression did not change, nor the intense look in his eye.
You studied him for a moment. Then your lips curved slightly “You are jealous”
“No I am not” he replied defensively.
You raised a brow, clearly not believing him.
He paused, then corrected himself flatly “Yes. I was fucking jealous”
The honesty startled a quiet laugh from you “Gods help me” you murmured, getting up and stepping closer to him, your hands settling against his chest as his moved instinctively to your waist The hum of the feast forgotten for a moment.
“I did not realise when I married a Targaryen I married a territorial dragon” you tease
Maekar’s hand tightened slightly at your waist “You married a man” he continues “a man with eyes”
Your smile widened “Well then” you said lightly, stepping closer “a man with eyes should know I was only speaking about horses”
Maekar’s gaze dropped briefly to your mouth “That fucking lord was not thinking about horses”
“Perhaps” you replied calmly “But you are supposed to trust your wife” you added sweetly
Maekar studied you for a moment. Then said quietly “I do”
His thumb flexed slightly against your waist. “I simply dislike being reminded that other men possess vision”
You laughed again at that placing a firm kiss on his lips.
Across the feast at the high table Daella, who had witnessed the entire exchange, leaned toward her sister.
“He does realize everyone can see this, doesn’t he?”
Rhae just grinned “No”
She watched their father still holding you at the waist in the middle of the hall “He never does”
The gardens of the Red Keep had been opened for the afternoon gathering
It was meant to be a lighter affair than the feasts of the great hall. Tables of fruit and sweetwine had been arranged beneath flowering trees, musicians played softly near the fountain, and courtiers wandered along the paths enjoying the spring air.
You had escaped the cluster of ladies near the terrace with a smile.
They had been discussing embroidery. You had endured precisely fifteen minutes of it.
That was more than enough, especially as your mind wandered to your husband and the rather skilful use of his tongue that morning.
Instead, you had wandered toward the far end of the garden where several lords had gathered near the rose hedges. One of them had been speaking animatedly about the recent dragon histories uncovered in the Citadel archives.
That had caught your attention immediately.
“and the maesters insist the account is exaggerated” the lord was saying, clearly enjoying his audience “But the records suggest the dragon was nearly the size of Balerion himself”
You tilted your head slightly “That seems unlikely” you say quietly not realising you had been overheard,
The lord turned to you with interest “You disagree, your grace?”
“I suspect the maesters are correct” you replied calmly “Histories have a habit of growing larger in the retelling.”
He smiled “A fair point. Though it is refreshing to meet someone at court who has actually read those histories”
You smiled faintly “Despite all my septa’s warnings that reading would addle my wits,” you said dryly.
The lord laughed loudly at that, and you could not help joining him.
Across the garden, Baelor stopped speaking.
He had been standing beneath one of the flowering trees with several lords and his son Valarr, discussing trade matters that required far more patience than enthusiasm.
Your laughter carried easily across the garden. Baelor’s gaze lifted automatically and found you.
You stood near the rose hedges speaking with a Reach lord.
He watched you for a moment, just a moment. Then he realized the lord beside you had stepped closer.
Valarr noticed the silence first “Father?”
Baelor blinked and nodded once, though he had not heard the question
Valarr followed his father’s gaze. Across the garden, the Reach lord laughed at something you said.
Valarr’s mouth twitched “You are staring”
Baelor’s gaze did not move “I am observing” he replied calmly, though his voice had grown slightly tight.
Valarr hummed thoughtfully “That man appears very interested in your wife” he teased
Baelor’s jaw tightened almost imperceptibly “Yes”
Valarr watched his father in amusement, wondering how long it would take him to snap.
Baelor prided himself on composure. Prince of Dragonstone, hand of the King, man trained from boyhood to command a room with calm restraint.
Valarr watched the Reach lord lean slightly closer to you again.
Baelor sighed softly as through cursing himself, then he excused himself from the group.
Valarr grinned behind his back.
You were in the middle of explaining why dragon histories were often exaggerated when a familiar presence settled beside you.
You did not need to turn to know who it was “Your Grace” the Reach lord said quickly.
You glanced up to find Baelor standing beside you, expression calm as ever.
“My love” he said gently.
You smiled automatically “Dear husband” you greet sweetly.
The lord cleared his throat slightly “We were discussing the Citadel’s dragon records”
“So I heard” Baelor replied. His voice remained perfectly pleasant. But he stepped slightly closer to you all the same.
The lord nodded eagerly “Yes, my prince. Your lady was explaining why the historical accounts are often exaggerated.”
Baelor glanced down at you briefly, his mismatched eyes softening “My wife has always had a fondness for accurate histories”
The lord chuckled “Well then she has corrected me quite thoroughly”
“I imagine she has” he replied. You narrowed your eyes slightly at Baelor’s tone.
The Reach lord shifted awkwardly under the quiet weight of the prince’s attention.
“Well” he said after a moment “I should allow you both to enjoy the gardens”
He bowed quickly and moved away. You watched him go. Then turned slowly toward your husband “That was unnecessary”
Baelor folded his hands behind his back. “He seemed very interested in you”
“Yes” you replied patiently “We were having a conversation, interest is normally a part of it”
Baelor studied you quietly and you in turn watched him.
Then your lips curved slightly “You were jealous”
Baelor hesitated, only briefly “Yes”
The honesty startled a small laugh out of you “Seven hells, what for?”
Baelor regarded you as though the answer should have been obvious “You were laughing”
You blinked “I do that occasionally”
“With him” he continued
You stared at him for a moment before the amusement returned “Baelor” you said gently, stepping a little closer “half the court laughs with me at some point during the day”
“Yes” he agreed calmly “That does not trouble me.”
You folded your arms “But that particular lord does?”
Baelor’s expression softened slightly “You were speaking about something you love” he said quietly “You lean forward when you do that”
Your brows knit faintly “I…….what?”
“And your eyes brighten” he continued thoughtfully “You begin speaking faster. Your hands move when you explain things”
You stared at him, a soft smile forming. “You have noticed all that?”
Baelor met your gaze “I notice everything about you”
The warmth that rose to your face surprised you, making you feel like a blushing maiden again You cleared your throat lightly “Well” you said after a moment, recovering your composure “the lord was asking about dragon histories. I was hardly flirting.”
“I know” he replies in that insufferably calm way.
“Then why chase him off?” You ask
Baelor’s mouth curved in the smallest smile “Because he was enjoying it”
You laughed again despite yourself “Gods help me ”
Baelor reached for your hand gently, drawing it into his “I do trust you” he added softly.
Your smile returned “But?”
“But” Baelor said, eyes warm as they held yours “I have waited a very long time to call you my wife” His thumb brushed lightly across your knuckles “I do not particularly enjoy sharing your attention.”
You huffed a laugh and leaned closer “You are impossible” you mutter, giving him a soft kiss.
Baelor smiled faintly against your lips “Perhaps”
Across the garden, Valarr had been watching the entire exchange.
One of the young knights beside him tilted his head “Is the prince always so attentive to his lady wife?”
Valarr smiled faintly “No” Valarr watched his father still holding your hand as the two of you spoke quietly beneath the roses “He is usually worse”
When you had finally given Lyonel a healthy baby girl, you watched him visibly soften. The ever confident lord was now at a loss, terrified of the baby in your arms.
You saw his eyes widen when you'd asked if he wanted to hold her. You had to correct his posture, twisting his arms the right way before placing the sleeping infant in the crook of them.
Right in that moment, Lyonel became a different man.
…
You'd woke in the middle of the night two months later, sensing something was wrong. Often, the babe would cry in the next room over— as you had made next door the nursery.
Lyonel's side of the bed was warm, though empty.
You stretched, making your way to the nursery.
Lyonel paced the room with her in his arms. He rocked her so gently in the candlelight, watching her face as if it was the most interesting piece of art. So focused, he didn't notice you.
"I'll have a crown made for you, too," he cooed. "I will. It'll be a gold- no. Silver. Oh, yes, silver will go so well with your dark hair." He ran a hand over her forehead, brushing away the very little dark hair in question. "The grandest crown. Fit for a Stormland Princess."
"Lyonel?"
His head turned, a bit frightened by your sudden presence in the doorway. "Oh. My love. You're to be resting."
You shrug. "Couldn't. Bed's cold without you."
He smiles, walking to your side. "Forgive me for leaving you. Our girl decided she could not sleep either."
"And here you are," you tease, kissing his cheek, "awake with the both of us when you should be sleeping."
"Don't jest such a thing, woman. You know I am where I wish to be." He began to rock the babe again. "If I was not, you would know."
"Oh?" You wrap your arms around his waist and rest your cheek against his back. "How so? Would you lock us away?"
You giggle, but he tenses a bit. "Somedays I think about it, but not to keep you from me. To keep you away from wandering eyes, the both of you."
"You'd visit us then?" You say, pushing the idea.
"Of course, I would. Can't live without my girls, you know that." He adjusts the babe. "Though, even then, I don't think I could away from you for more than a few hours."
…
Four months later, the Ashford Tourney was announced to Lyonel by letter. He stood with excitement, a rush of adrenaline coming to him at the idea of a fight. It had been so long since he'd done something dangerous.
He'd packed you and your daughter into a wheelhouse. Your daughter, Ellyn, had now grown into a chubby baby. She was a joyful girl, truly the replica of her father. Dark curls wrapped at her scalp, brown eyes wide and curious.
You weren't entirely excited about the journey. A tourney sounded far from a place for you and your daughter. But Lyonel, the ever excitable man, ensured your safety. You'd stay in the tent, retire early even. He didn't expect you at every event if you did not wish. You could make your own schedule as you saw fit.
The wheelhouse bounced with each patch of rough grass or rocks. Ellyn, however, was having a joyous time. She sat in your lap happily with her rattle and wooden stag (that Lyonel himself carved) and entertained herself.
Lyonel would stop frequently, just to check on the two of you. It was rather endearing.
…
Finally, the company arrived at Ashford Meadow. You were tired, your legs ached, and you were growing lonely from a lack of company.
Lyonel opened the door with a broad smile. "My girls. There you are," he teased, watching Ellyn giggle. "I'll take her, love."
You hand her off, watching the two giggle at one another as if they hadn't seen each other in days. It had been 2 hours.
But you were happy to exit the wheelhouse. Ashford Meadow was pretty this time of year. A bit muddy, but the grass was a beautiful green.
With one hand, Lyonel carried the chubby babe, the other held yours, and he began to parade you two off to any Lord that had already showed and was willing to listen.
For once, you realized why Ellyn was such a happy child. For her father was quite the same.
As he spoke with a lord excitedly of what, you don't know, you watched as her smile matched his. Their expressions were quite the same. Even some of their hand gestures. It was as if you had no hand in making her.
When he called to you, she babbled like she wanted to do the same, kicking her legs out in emphasis.
You blinked out of your stupor, joining him as he walked down the trail.
The entire day, Lyonel carried her, despite your constant asking. You didn't want to keep him from interacting with whom he wished. Though, he made it sound as if it was no problem. You recognized the looks of a few who were surprised to see a baby in the great Lord Baratheon's arms. But if he noticed, he did not give it attention. She would babble, even wave at passerbys. Lyonel loved it.
When you moved back to your tent to get ready for supper, he finally set her on the rug of your private tent.
"You know, I'm enjoying this much more than I thought," he admits, tugging off his tunic in exchange for a fresh one. "And I haven't even started drinking yet."
"Ellyn and I will retire early. Perhaps I'll even have food brought—"
Lyonel looked as if you'd slapped him. He rushed forward, grabbing you as if you'd run away. "Don't you dare. I need my girls with me. If only for a few hours."
You brushed a stray curl from his forehead. "Supper. No more."
He grins madly. "Perfect. Just enough to show you off."
…
To your relief, Ellyn slept through the entire supper. Lyonel insisted on holding her. Her cheek was squished against his chest as he supported her. He talked and drank as if the child was no bother to him.
"Eat," he pointed at your plate. "I need to know you're being properly fed before I let you run off."
"Run off?" You ask, taking a bite. "It is not running off if I am simply going to bed."
"Feels the same. You're leaving me. You're running off with another," he exaggerates.
"With a girl that drools in her sleep," you quip, watching the spit wet his vest.
"Stiff competition, it seems," he jests. "Little does she know, I used to have you up for hours on end—"
"Lyonel—"
"I'm only mentioning that I had you first," he says, raising his free hand in surrender. He takes that moment to look you over, eyes darkening. "I dare say we could all retire early."
You scoff, moving your attention back to your food. "I know what retiring early means for you. That's how I got the drooly thing."
"Aye, but she's a wonder, isn't she? Wouldn't…" He looks out as if imagining to himself, "…six more suffice?"
"Six? You'd had better hope for a second wife, for my womb won't have six more."
"I'd settle for four, then."
"You'll settle for what I give you. And now, I'm going to give you space. Give me the babe. I'm retiring."
He holds her closer, as if you're stealing her away. "No. I'm not ready."
"Lyonel," you warn lowly.
His eyes widen and he reluctantly hands her over, careful not to wake her. He looks over her sleepy face one last time. "Maybe I'll steal her back later. She'd enjoy the party more than you."
You give him a not impressed look, but kiss his cheek anyway before leaving for the night.
With Ellyn already asleep, it was rather easy to lay her in the small cot next to the bed. You were exhausted from the travel, and a good night's sleep would do you well.
But Lyonel had other ideas.
You wake up a few hours later to the sounds from the large Baratheon tent. The party would go on until the morning at this rate, and you weren't expecting Lyonel to even sleep.
You sat up, rubbing your swollen eyes to look at the cot.
The empty cot.
You panic, looking around. She was gone. She was taken while you were asleep.
You jump out of bed with an adrenaline rush, not caring to properly dress. You barely tied a robe around yourself before leaving the tent.
You'd decided to get Lyonel first. Even drunk out of his mind, he'd drop anything to find her.
Walking the short distance through the dirt while barefoot, you entered the tent.
It was louder than you'd left it. Minstrels played and the others clapped along. The dance floor was packed, spilled drinks sticking to the wood planks lining the floor.
Either they were all quite drunk or you were unrecognizable in your mere night clothes, for you managed to get by without them noticing.
Lyonel was not at the high table and you began to feel an even sicker twist in your stomach. You knew he was nearby. You could not lose a high lord. But the insecurity inside you began to think of worst case scenarios.
Then you heard it, a familiar yip.
You pushed through the crowd, not caring if you shoved. You bare feet were stepped on a bit, but you ignored the pain until you caught eyes with the man in question.
Lyonel was in the middle of the circle with a very tall man you did not recognize. And strapped to Lyonel's chest was Ellyn. On her head was the small antler crown Lyonel had made not long ago. You didn't even know he had packed it. The antlers were made of smooth wood, small and harmless, a leather strap wrapped under her chin to keep it on.
He yipped again without a care in the world, circling the tall man.
You were too stunned to speak for a moment. Thus, you became a bystander.
Lyonel had found some kind of fabric, wrapping it around himself and Ellyn to secure her back to his chest. Her arms and legs were free to kick and wave, and she did so happily. Her cheeks were pink from giggling. It seemed she liked the broad shoulder man, much like your husband did.
Mid spin, Lyonel stopped, eyes on you. He blinked a few times as if getting his eyes to focus. "W-What are you doing up?"
He quickly ducked out of the dance circle and pulled you to the side, but they hardly noticed.
You crossed your arms. "I thought my child was lost."
He smiled, gesturing down to her. "Well, she's not."
You squint at him. "Is that your apology?"
"My apology?" He slurs. "My apology for what? Introducing our girl to the wonders of dance?"
As if agreeing, Ellyn's feet kick as she tries to chew at her fingers.
"She's to be sleeping, Lyonel. You stole her from our tent!"
He points a finger at you. "I told you I'd do that, though. Didn't I? There. You can't be mad."
"I thought you were only joking. And what is this?" You ask, gesturing at the fabric that tied her to him.
He shrugs. "Tied it myself. Smart, isn't it? Then I have free hands to drink."
You sigh, pinching the bridge of your nose. "I'm glad you are having a good time. But it is loud. And crowded. And our child needs sleep. Give her back, and you can go about as you were."
"No, we couldn't possibly stop, my love. Please, you'd enjoy it." He takes your hand, trying to guide you back to the dance floor. "I know how much you love dancing—"
"I do, Lyonel. But not like this." You lean against him. "I'm so tired. I can think of nothing but sleep. And to do so, I need to know my child is safe."
Lyonel sobers up a little at your whine. "Ah. I'm sorry, doe. I didn't realize taking her would have an effect on you." He runs a hand over your hair. "I knew she would like it. I didn't think of the consequences."
"You don't think of the consequences for most actions," you mumble, leaning up to kiss his scratchy jaw. "But alas, I still love you most dearly."
Ellyn wiggles, trying to get attention for her parents.
Lyonel softens. "Well. Perhaps we'll retire for the night. I know it'll take a while to calm her again."
You hum. "You're enjoying yourself here, though. You shouldn't have to leave."
"I won't leave you to tend to an unruly girl."
You scoff teasingly. "Unruly? My daughter?" You lean down to the girl, kissing her cheek and listening to her giggle. "She's anything but."
As he guides you out of the tent, he begins to explain. "It was her idea, really. I knew you didn't want her out past her bedtime. But she's got these eyes, you see—"
Pairing: Baelor Targaryen x FemReader (no use of y/n)
Lyonel Maekar Spinster Series Masterlist
Warnings: Male gaze yearning (he wants that cookie bad) poor self image (reader is delulu) poor family dynamics. Explicit Smut - Minors DNI
A/N: Thank you so much to everyone who commented and left their love for this series, it is been a pleasure to write. Don’t forget to check out all 3 works, linked above.
You had avoided Baelor for days following your betrothal.
You told yourself you owed him that small mercy. You had already caused enough disruption.
The betrothal would be short one. The wedding already planned, the wedding that was meant to be your sister’s. Your father saw no reason in changing the arrangements simply because a different daughter would now walk down the aisle. You were not worth the inconvenience to him.
Once or twice you considered asking for a small change. Something simple like the flowers, you had never been fond of Lily’s. But each time you stopped yourself, believing you had caused enough trouble.
——————————————————————
You stood in your chambers, seamstresses arrived with trunks of silk and lace, their fingers swift, altering your sister’s gown to fit you. Even the dress would not be yours.
However you could not fault her taste. Ivory silk, with a nipped waist and a soft flowing train that shimmered when it caught the light. Your fingers traced the small golden dragon scales embroidered delicately along the bodice, rising toward the shoulders where Baelor would place his house cape. Claiming you as his.
The image lodged uncomfortably in your chest, a man who did not want you, forced to take you.
“It is exquisite my lady” one of the seamstresses breathed.
You met your own reflection in the tall mirror. The gown was beautiful. You were not. You felt like an imposter, wrapped in silk too fine for her.
You smoothed the fabric at your waist, unable to look at yourself much longer.
“Will I do?” you asked quietly
The seamstress blinked at you, startled by the question “You will do perfectly, my lady”
Maybe that would be enough.
——————————————-
Court did not make it easier, whispers followed you openly now.
“How fortunate for such a lady to secure such a match” one woman laughed behind her fan.
“I heard she brewed a potion to ensnare him” another replied cruelly “Why else would he choose her?”
You kept your chin lifted. You had learned long ago how to endure.
Court did not fracture around your sister, it embraced her. She was the wronged beauty. The gracious one, the younger daughter who bore disappointment with poise.
“How dreadful, stealing her sister’s propects right from under her nose” one woman tutted, looking right at you.
Your sister did not defend you, but she could not meet your gaze either. She simply accepted their sympathy, seeming brighter under the attention.
You left before anyone could see your face faulter.
—————————
There was only one place in the Red Keep that felt untouched by gossip. Balerion’s skull loomed as it always had, lit under the touch light.
You sat upon the stone ledge, in the dragon’s shadow and finally allowed your shoulders to fall, letting the tears slip from your eyes with a silent sob.
“I did not mean to ruin you” you whispered to the empty chamber.
The silence answered nothing.
You did not know how long you had been beneath the Red Keep. Sat with your head in your hands, your tears had dried without you noticing as you sat enjoying the silence.
After a while, you rose. It felt foolish to sit weeping beneath a dead dragon, it would not change anything.
You moved deeper into the cavernous hall, past Balerion’s vast skull into the smaller alcoves beyond where the skulls of each Targaryen dragon’s were kept. Each dragon diminished in size, less monstrous than the last.
You paused before one no larger than a cat. Baelor’s words echoing in you head ‘Time makes everything smaller’
You tilted your head slightly studying the tiny white skull. Perhaps that was true of fear and shame, perhaps one day all of this would not seem to large.
You almost laughed at yourself, you were comparing your circumstances to dragons now. “No wonder some Targaryens go mad” you mutter “its this damned place”
You moved further still, wandering slowly along the chamber wall, back towards Balerion, hands clasped behind your back. The world above felt distant, the Red Keep silent for once. It was peaceful.
You did not hear the echo of footsteps, too lost in thought. It was the sharp breath that drew your attention.
You turned and froze. Prince Baelor stood in the archway. Torchlight behind him cast his figure in shadow, but his face was visible. His eyes swept over you, fast, searching, almost frantic, as though confirming you were real.
You blinked, startled “Your Grace?” Your brows knit at the expression on his face.
His jaw was tight, his breathing heavy. For a moment he said nothing at all, as if fearing you might vanish if he disturbed the silence.
Then he crossed the chamber in swift strides stopping just short of you “You are here” he said, fingers flexing at this sides. His tone frayed with something you did not recognise.
You frowned slightly “Of course” you replied softly “Where else would I be?”
His gaze moved over you again, as though checking for injury. As though expecting blood.
You became suddenly aware that you had not told anyone where you were going “I did not mean to disturb anyone” you added gently “I only wished for quiet” your eyes dropping from his.
He exhaled slowly. It sounded suspiciously like relief.
“You have been searched for” he said at last, the words were controlled.
You blinked at him “Searched for?”
His jaw tightened “You have been absent for some time.”
You glanced around the cavern, almost bemused “Have I?”
He did not smile “The seamstress came to your chambers. You were not there. Nor in the gardens. Nor in the library.”
You felt a faint flicker of embarrassment “I did not realize I was required” you said softly “The gown is already chosen”
His eyes sharpened “This is not about the gown ”
You shifted slightly beneath his gaze. “I only wished for a moment of quiet. I did not mean to cause difficulty”
“Difficulty” he repeated, the word low.
You misunderstood the tone entirely “I know I am already disruptive” you continued, lowering your eyes “The last thing I intended was to trouble the household further”
For a heartbeat he did not speak. Then he stepped closer, enough that you felt the warmth of him in the cold chamber.
“You were not in your chambers” he said again, quieter now. “And no one knew where you had gone” the heat behind his words completely lost on you.
You looked up, confused by the intensity “I am hardly a child your grace”
He dragged a hand briefly across his jaw, regaining control “The city is not safe” he said evenly “Nor is this keep, as secure as it pretends to be”
The reminder of the market hung between you, of men with rough hands and cruel intentions.
You swallowed “I did not mean to cause alarm” you said at last, softer now “I thought no one would notice”
That was the line, that struck him hardest. His eyes darkened “I noticed” he said voice low.
The words settled heavily between you. For a fraction of a second, something in his expression was unguarded, raw.
You felt it. And promptly misread it.
“You are very diligent Your Grace” you said in faux lightness “ It would be inconvenient to misplace the bride this close to the wedding”
He took one slow step closer, your chest brushing his, his head craning down to you “Is that what you believe this is?” he asked
You tilted your head, puzzled “Is it not?” You gestured vaguely around the cavern “The court has already adjusted to the change. It would be terribly embarrassing to have to adjust again” you say completely misreading his words, not seeing the emotion in his ones.
His silence was not agreement.
You pressed on, unaware “I assure you, I have no intention of vanishing. I would not compound the trouble I have already caused”
There it was again. Trouble, inconvenience, disruptive. All the words that you used to describe yourself of late.
His gaze dropped briefly, then rose back to yours “You believe you have caused trouble”
You smiled faintly, almost apologetically “Have I not?” You say believing that you had doomed him to this, not noticing his eyes flicker over your face.
You glanced up at Balerion’s skull once more. “Dragons were simpler” you murmured “They burned what troubled them”
That earned the faintest exhale from him “And what troubles you?” he asked.
For a moment, your heart urged you to confess everything. The shame, the whispers, the certainty that you had stolen something meant for another.
But your mind intervened ‘Do not burden him further. You have done enough’
Brain won. “Oh, nothing so dramatic” you say in forced lightness.
And you walked toward the exit. Leaving him beneath the skull.
————————————
The feast before your wedding day was smaller than you expected. It settled the butterflies in your stomach.
You did not avoid Baelor that night. There was nowhere to hide, seated to his right as the top table, your arm brushing his.
The hall was loud with music and wine, but he did not drink heavily. His goblet remained mostly untouched, but you felt the weight of his eyes flick to you often.
“You have been quiet” he murmured beside you, close to your ear.
You smiled faintly “I was told brides are meant to appear composed”
“And are you?” He asked, eyes catching yours.
You considered the question honestly “I am trying to be” you say with a small smile, not noticing his eyes flick down.
“You need not try so hard” he said, in that soft ever reassuring voice of his.
You huffed softly “You have not seen me attempting embroidery, now that is trying too hard”
That earned the smallest curve of his mouth. You tried to ignore the heat raising to your face, dismissing it as the wine.
——————————————————-
Later, when the hall thinned and music softened, you stepped away from the table for air.
The balcony overlooked Blackwater Bay, the night breeze cooled your heated cheeks, the petals from the cherry blossoms above catching in the wind.
You smiled watching the white petals scatter as if fleeing to sea.
“You leave your own feast?” A voice asked behind you, you did not need to turn. He joined you at the balcony, his sleeve brushing yours.
“It is not mine” you replied before thinking.
His brow lowered slightly “It is”
You shook your head “It was arranged for another”
His jaw tightened, but he let the remark pass.
You rested your hands on the stone railing, close to his, pinkies almost touching “Do you ever tire of it?” you asked with a sigh.
“Of what?” He asked moving a fraction closer, like he was drawn.
“Court, politics, being observed” you say eyes meeting his.
A faint breath left him, sounding faintly amused “Constantly”
You glanced at him, surprised.
“Eldest sons are rarely afforded obscurity” he said honestly.
Something softened in you “Nor eldest daughters” you replied, his eyes focused on your face.
You continued, almost shyly “One is expected to be responsible, yield, endure and smooth what others disrupt.”
His expression shifted, something you could not name flashing though his eyes “Yes” he said quietly, the word carrying weight.
You looked out over the dark water “I used to think that meant something was wrong with me. That I was less suited to brighter things.”
He turned fully toward you now “And now?”
You gave a small, self deprecating smile “Now I think it simply means we are useful”
The wind blew slightly, a petal falling into your hair. You did not see the way his gaze lingered there.
“Useful” he repeated
You nodded “I think we will suit each other in that way” you said lightly “You require someone steady. I can be steady”
You thought you were offering reliability, support, someone to help carry the burden of the crown. He thought you were offering devotion.
His hand moved without conscious thought, catching the petal in your hair.
But instead of instead of retreating like normal, you smiled “You see?” you said softly “Already we are quite good at this”
“At what?” he asked, voice lower now.
“Being partners” you say softly.
The word landed between you. He studied your face carefully, for what, you were unsure “You believe that?” he asked his voice seeming rawer.
“Yes” you said, meeting his gaze steadily “I think we shall be great friends”
Friends. The word struck him like a blow, a knife slicing between his ribs. He stilled for a moment willing the emotion not to show on his face.
He nodded once “If that is what you wish”
You laughed softly “It is more than I expected” your mind whispering that a spinster should expect nothing.
That more than anything, undid him. He looked at you for a long moment, thoughts swirling in mind.
You expect nothing, but he intended to give you everything.
But he did not say it. Not yet.
———————————-
The bells began before dawn, ringing out from the great sept.
You however had not slept. You had sat through most of the night watching the sky lighten beyond your window, trying to quiet the steady hum in your chest.
Your hand maids gave a tentative knock “Enter” you order.
They piled in busying themselves immediately, one hanging your gown, another with hot waters preparing a bath. Another stripping your the sheets. You will be in another bed tonight, you tried not to think too much on that.
“Shall we, my lady?” one of the women asked gently.
You nodded. Prepared for your future.
They bathed and dressed you in careful silence. The gown slitting over your skin like butter, as the laced the bodice tight. They pinched your cheeks and painted your lips in a light rouge. They pinned your hair back, leaving a few strands to frame your face and set a delicate circlet against your crown.
When at last you stood before the mirror, you almost did not recognize yourself.
The gown was exquisite. The woman wearing it looked composed.
“Will I do?” you asked quietly repeating your earlier words.
“You will be radiant, my lady” one of them breathed.
You smiled a small sad smile, your mind telling you they were lying out of kindness.
Pulling yourself together, taking a breath as your fingers traced over the dragon embroidery. You could do this.
⸻—————————————
The Sept of Baelor gleamed in white marble and candlelight.
You stepped inside on your father’s arm, your house cloak pinned to your back. The court had gathered in full force, but you looked past those vipers and their whispers your attention caught by something else.
Cherry blossoms.
Your steps faltered almost imperceptibly, The marble columns had been wound with pale branches heavy with small white blooms. Petals scattered along the aisle instead of stark white lilies.
Lilies had been chosen weeks ago, you remembered your sister speaking of them with great enthusiasm. You remembered nodding along when your father had said you will keep the same plans.
Cherry blossoms had never been mentioned once.
You lifted your eyes, down the aisle to find Baelor was watching you.
You told yourself it was coincidence, perhaps lilies were unavailable. Perhaps the Sept had made the choice.
Perhaps……The music began interrupting your thoughts.
You felt every eye as you stepped forward, you father guiding you down, his head high. Your sister seated among the noble ladies, you did not look at her for long.
Your eyes again finding his, Baelor. Looking as devastatingly handsome as always in a formal red and black doublet, all the trappings of a Targaryen prince.
He did not look at the crowd, he looked only at you.
And for once you did not look away, your steps did not falter, your face did not heat.
You met him at the top of the steps, your father giving you hand to him. The touch of his Baelor’s warm skin grounding you, your eyes not giving his as the High Septon’s voice echoed through the great dome. Words of duty, lineage, ofthe joining of houses and blood.
You repeated your vows clearly “I am his and he is mine, from this day till my last” Without tremor, without hesitation.
When it was his turn, his voice carried easily across the Sept, strong and certain as always.
“I am hers and she is mine, from this day till my last” The way he said did not sound like obligation. It sounded like claim.
You told yourself that was imagination.
The final words were spoken, Baelor stepped forward and removed his cloak. The fabric was heavy when he settled it around your shoulders, red and black draped over ivory. His fingers brushed the back of your neck as he fastened it.
When he kissed you, it was steady and deliberate. His hand firm at your waist, your hand placed on shoulder as is mouth met yours. Firm, controlled and possessive in a way that made your pulse stutter. Your first kiss.
The Sept disappeared, the crowd, the eyes, your sister. There was only the feeling of him, the press of his lips against your own. It felt right.
When he withdrew, it was slow, his gaze now dark searched yours briefly, as if looking for something.
You gave him a small, polite smile, despite your heart hamming out of your chest. It was just a kiss you told yourself.
The court erupted into applause. You turned together, descending the altar steps as husband and wife.
His hand did not leave yours.
⸻
The feast blurred, congratulations, gifts presented, smiles too wide. Ladies who had once whispered now curtsied deeply to their princess and future queen.
You endured it, you had always endured. But this time you had Baelor’s hand in yours.
When the first dance was called, he led you to the center of the hall. The music was slower now. Lower.
His hand settled at your waist again, familiar as your hand rose up to his shoulders.
The dance was a simple one, but he was a good lead, your feet following him effortlessly.
“They were not lilies” you said eyes fixed on his doublet.
“No” he said quietly, guiding you into the first turn.
Your throat felt tight “Thank you” you say eyes reaching his.
His gaze darkened but he said nothing more.
The dance ended too soon, or perhaps not soon enough.
⸻————————————
When at last the feast began to thin, the time came. The bedding ceremony. Tradition demanded it.
You were escorted from the hall amid laughter and crude encouragement from lesser lords emboldened by wine.
You kept your chin lifted, you had survived worse.
As they pulled the dress from your skin, leaving you in your simple shift. You stumbled into the chamber, the laugher fading as the doors closed.
The hearth was lit and the candles burned low, the large chamber bathed in a warm low light.
You turned slowly, he stood a few paces away, his own doublet removed just in his shirt and breeches
“Your Grace” you said softly, formal even now.
His expression changed at that, you mistook it for impatience.
He stepped forward “You may call me husband now, or simply Baelor” he said quietly his voice carrying a rough edge
You swallowed “Yes… husband” The word felt foreign on your tongue.
He reached for the circlet in your hair, removing it gently, setting it aside
You held still, you had prepared yourself for duty. You had not prepared for the way he was looking at you.
“I shall endeavor not to disappoint you” you said softly.
Something in his expression hardened in an emotion you could not recognise “You could not” he replied.
The certainty unsettled you. You stood before him in nothing but your shift, thin linen skimming your skin.
He was close now. Close enough that you could feel the warmth of him, smell smoke and leather and something distinctly his.
You resisted the urge to fold in on yourself “You have been very gracious” you said carefully, mistaking his intensity for tolerance “I know this was not… your preference”
His brow shifted faintly “My preference?”
“Yes” You forced yourself to meet his eyes “I understand that affection may not come easily” you continued gently “You need not trouble yourself to feign it. I would not embarrass you by expecting” you trial off embarrassed
His jaw tightened “You believe I am troubled?” he asked quietly.
You misunderstood the edge in his tone “I believe you are honorable” you corrected quickly “And kind”
You gestured vaguely toward the bed, toward the chamber, toward everything that had changed.
“I know I am not…….” You swallowed, steadying yourself with logic “I know I am not what men desire”
Silence met you but kept going, because stopping would make it worse.
“You needn’t pretend” you said softly. “I know I am not much to look at” Your eyes finally meeting his face. You expect him to be kind. What do not expect is for him to look wounded.
Baelor’s brow furrows immediately “Pretend?” he repeats softly stepping forward, hoping he has misheard you.
You gesture vaguely toward the bed again.
His hands come up to cradle your face, warm and steady “I have seen the daughters of all the great houses” he says quietly, thumbs brushing over your cheeks, catching your lashes as you lower your gaze “And I have not once looked at them the way I look at you now” his voice dropping lower, his gaze following the line mouth, down your throat and the exposed curve of your shoulders.
“I have been exercising restraint all evening” he admits, one hand dropping from your face down your neck, his fingers teasing the sensitive skin there as you shiver in response.
He smiles faintly, something heated flickering beneath the gentleness. His lips brush yours first, soft, exploring.
However when you pull back to protest, he follows pressing down firmer stealing your breath as his strong hands pull you against him.
“Do not mistake my devotion for charity” he murmurs against your lips before he trails down your neck, unhurried, deliberate, as if he has all night to convince you.
You gasp, your body overwhelmed with the feel of him, your heart beating for him. But your mind, your terrible, treacherous mind focused on one thing. The word that struck you. Devotion.
You pushed against his chest, harder this time. He went still immediately, pulling back but not releasing you. His hands remained at your waist. His eyes, dark and searching, met yours
“This is kindness” you insisted breathe uneven “And I am grateful for it, truly, but you need not rewrite reality to spare me”
His hands tightened at your waist “Reality?” he repeated.
“You were courting my sister” you said, the words tumbling now, years of self erasure and doubt sharpening them “She is beautiful, bright and desired. I was a duty”
His expression darkened “You think I wanted her” his normally soft voice rumbling through his chest.
You lifted your chin “The court certainly believed so” your voice soft.
“I was doing my duty” he cut in, voice low and dangerous.
“And now you are not?” you shot back.
His jaw flexed “You think this is duty?” Hands tightening at your waist
“What else could it be!” you demanded, your composure finally fracturing “You are the Prince of Dragonstone, Heir to the Iron Throne, The Hand of the King. You had your choice any woman in the Seven Kingdoms”
“I did” he said softly, the words landed like a blow all the same “You were never my obligation,” he continued, one hand leaving your waist to cup your face “You were my distraction” he admitted
You frowned in confusion, despite the feeling thumb brushing the corner of your mouth.
“Since first day in the library” he said, voice roughening “When challenged the Sept’s account without hesitation”
You remembered the book of Aegon’s conquest, his hand near yours.
“You burned” he said quietly “Do you know that?” His beautiful mismatched eyes holding yours as your breath hitched. “When your fingers brushed mine, I felt it for hours after. Like a brand.”
Your heart began to pound.
“When you placed your hand over mine to still my fidgeting, I nearly lost what composure I had left. I wanted to pull you into my lap in front of every book in that room and claim you right there”
Your face flushed violently
“That night beneath Balerion’s skull” he continued, voice tightening “When you said you would leave, that you were never meant to stay” His jaw clenched “You spoke of vanishing as though it would cost nothing”
You swallowed, stepping back as he followed you.
“The market” he went on, the words harder now “When those men laid hands on you” His restraint cracked visibly for a heartbeat “I have fought rebellions. I have seen war. I have executed traitors without hesitation. And yet I have never known rage like that”
Your pulse thundered in your ears.
“And when you disappeared beneath this keep” he said advancing, until the back of your knees brushed the edge of the bed “I thought I had been too late again, to tell you”
You stared at him “Tell me?” you whispered.
“To tell you I choose you” he admitted, his voice raw and soft all at once “You were never second” he said, each word deliberate. “You were never convenient. You were never charity.”
His hand came to your jaw again, lifting your face gently but firmly “You were the only one who ever stood in this city and spoke to me as though I were simply a man”
Your lips parted, his thumb brushed your bottom lip “And you believe I would not desire the woman who sees me?”
Your eyes filled before you could stop them “You wanted her” you whispered weakly “You must have”
“I respected her” he corrected. “I admired her spirit. But I did not lose sleep over her voice, over the look in her eyes, the touch is her skin and how she would feel beneath me“ His gaze burned now.
Your breath shuddered.
“I have loved you since the day you believed you were nothing” he confessed
The word hung there. Love.
“That is not” you tried, shaking your head, words not coming out “That cannot be”
“It is” he spoke steadily
You looked at him, truly looked at him “I am not her,” you whispered, last defense faltering.
“I know” His forehead lowered to yours “I thank the gods for it.”
The room felt impossibly small. Your certainty wavered.
Your breath trembled.
“And I do not love you out of duty” he murmured “I love you because you are you”
You did the only thing you could think of. The thing you have yearned to do since your eyes first met his that day in the solar. You kissed him.
Soft, exploring, a tentative press that sends a spark through your veins. You part your mouth slightly, unsure, and he takes the invitation, deepening the kiss with a slow, deliberate hunger. His tongue slips past your lips, tasting you, coaxing your own to meet it in a gentle dance.
Your hands rise hesitantly to his shoulders, gripping the fabric of his shirt as the kiss intensifies.
He groans low in his throat, the sound vibrating against your mouth, the arm around your waist tightens pulling you flush against him. The heat of his body seeps through your thin shift, his chest hard and solid under your palms.
The hand on your face tilts your head back, fingers threading into your hair, and the kiss turns fervent, lips moving in a rhythm that leaves you breathless, your pulse racing.
Baelor pulls away as you gasp for air. Forehead resting against yours he murmurs against your lips “I've wanted this since I first saw you” His breath is warm on your skin. Before you can respond, his lips claim yours again, hard enough to make your knees weaken.
You cling to him, lost in the sensation, the world narrowing to the slide of his mouth, the faint scrape of his stubble.
With a gentle but firm push, he guides you backward toward the bed, his body following yours. Your calves hit the edge of the mattress, and you tumble onto the soft furs, him coming down with you, careful not to crush you under his weight.
He braces one arm beside your head, the other hand stroking down your side as he hovers above, eyes dark with desire “Let me take care of you. Let me make love to you” he whispers, voice husky, and kisses you again, slower now, savoring.
His fingers find the hem of your shift, tugging it upward inch by inch. You lift your hips instinctively, helping him as he peels the linen from your skin, exposing your bare body to the warm glow of the hearth.
The cool air kisses your flesh, but his gaze warms you instantly, reverent, tracing every curve from your breasts, your waist, your hips. He tosses the shift aside and settles between your legs, his clothed form pressing lightly against you.
Baelor lowers his head, lips brushing your collarbone in featherlight kisses that trail down to the swell of your breasts. He cups one gently, thumb circling your nipple until it hardens under his touch, then takes it into his mouth, sucking softly.
A gasp escapes you, pleasure blooming sharp and sweet “Bealor” you maan as he hums in approval, switching to the other side, lavishing it with the same tender attention. His free hand roams your body, palm gliding over your ribs, your stomach, mapping you like sacred ground.
“You are beautiful” he breathes against your skin, voice thick with awe, as his mouth continues its worship, kissing the underside of your breast, nipping lightly at your ribs, then lower, to the sensitive skin of your inner thigh.
He spreads your legs wider with his knees, settling more comfortably, and you feel exposed, vulnerable, but his touch is so caring it eases the nerves fluttering in your chest. His fingers trace the edges of your folds, not yet entering, just stroking lightly to feel your growing wetness.
He looks up at you then, eyes locking with yours, seeking permission. You nod, biting your lip, and he smiles that heated smile again.
One finger circles your entrance, gathering your slickness, before sliding inside slowly, carefully “ahh’ you breath. It's a stretch, unfamiliar, but he moves with such gentleness, curling just right to brush that spot that makes your back arch.
“Relax for me” he soothes, adding a second finger after a moment, scissoring them to prepare you, his thumb pressing firm circles over your clit.
The sensation builds, a warm coil tightening in your core as he works you open, his mouth returning to your breast, sucking in time with his thrusts. You moan softly “Bealor” hands fisting the linens, and he kisses his way back up to your lips, swallowing your sounds.
“That's it, feel it, let me care for you” he murmurs, fingers pumping steadily now, stretching you for what's to come.
Just on the edge of pleasure he pulls back, fingers leaving you wanting, his mouth curling slightly at your whimper of protest. You watch as he sheds his shirt and breeches quickly. Your eyes taking in the sight of his board chest, slight scars glimmering in the light. Dark hair peppered with sliver stands cover his chest, your eyes follow that trail down his stomach to between his legs.
His cock springs free, thick and hard, the tip already glistening, he takes it in hand Your eyes spring back to his to find him watching you, you gulp and nod.
He crawls back over you, kissing up your body and positions himself at your entrance, rubbing the head along your slit to coat himself in your arousal.
“I'll go slow” he promises, and pushes in inch by inch, watching your face for any sign of discomfort.
The fullness is overwhelming at first making you cling to his shoulders, a burn that fades into pleasure as he bottoms out, holding still to let you adjust.
Your face meets his as he kisses you, your forehead, your eyelids, whispering endearments “My wife, my love” you relax beneath him, capturing his mouth and rocking your hips slightly, urging him on.
Then he begins to move, slow thrusts that rock your hips in rhythm, his body covering yours protectively.
His eyes keep hold of yours soft, sensual, each slide of his cock into your pussy deliberate, building a steady heat “Baelor” you whimper as the pleasure builds inside you.
He grinds against your clit with every deep push, his hand slipping between you to rub it directly. He captures your mouth in lazy kisses, breaths mingling as the pace quickens just enough to tip you toward the edge.
“Bealor I think I” you don’t get to finish as your climax crashes over you first, walls clenching around him in waves. Your back arches as your hips rock against his, the sensation like nothing before.
Just the sight of pushes him over the edge, he follows soon after, groaning your name into your neck as he spills inside you, hips stuttering.
He doesn't pull away, staying buried deep, holding you close as you both come down, his lips pressing soft kisses to your temple.
In the afterglow, he rolls to the side, pulling you into his arms, bodies entwined, He rolled onto his side and drew you with him, one arm sliding beneath your shoulders, the other settling at your waist. Your skin still warm, your limbs pleasantly heavy, your body fitting perfectly against his.
Your cheek rested against his chest. You could hear his heartbeat. Slower now. Steady.
His fingers traced idle patterns along your spine, absentminded, as though reassuring himself you were real. For a long moment, neither of you spoke.
“Are you well?” he asked quietly. The question was gentle, careful
You smiled faintly against his skin “Yes”
His arm tightened slightly “I did not wish to rush you,” he said, after a pause. “If at any moment you had asked me to stop”
“I would not have” you said softly cutting him off
He went still at that. You lifted your head just enough to look at him. Your fingers traced lightly over his chest, following the line of muscle and scar. Mapping him the way he had mapped you.
“You frightened me” you said quietly.
His expression sharpened slightly “Tonight?”
“No” You shook your head “When you said you loved me”
His breath caught almost imperceptibly, his hands holding you a fraction tighter
“I thought” you continued carefully “if I believed you… and you did not mean it…” your voice wavered “I do not know that I would survive it”
His hand stilled entirely. He lifted himself slightly on one elbow so he could see you properly “I do not speak lightly” he said.
“I know” you say fully believing him. You drew a slow breath “I have loved you since the library” you confessed softly.
His eyes darkened holding your face.
“I loved you more beneath Balerion’s skull” you continued, voice trembling faintly “When you told me you remembered everything I said”
He watched you as though afraid to move.
“And I loved you beyond reason when you came for me in the market” you finished “Not because you are a warrior. But because you were afraid for me”
His hand tightened against your waist.
“I did not think it could be returned” you admit looking down.
His thumb brushed beneath your eye, causing you to look back at him “It is returned” he said with such assurance that for once in your life your mind listened
You smiled a true and genuine smile “I love you, Baelor”
He exhaled slowly, as though something long restrained had finally eased, bending his head forward and kissed you.
Pairing: Bealor Targaryen x FemReader (not use of Y/N)
Part Two
Lyonel Maekar Original Imagine Masterlist
Warnings: Male gaze yearning (he wants that cookie bad) attempted assault, poor self image (reader is delulu) poor family dynamics
Imagine: You were the eldest daughter of a great house. Your mother had sadly passed many years ago, bringing your sister into the world, and from that day forward, you were no longer simply a daughter. You were lady of the house in everything but title.
Your father, too grief-stricken to wed again, turned to you instead. The duty of running the household and raising your sister had fell to you, just a girl yourself at the time. You learned quick, avoiding your loneliness by through work and sharpening your keen mind.
There was a time you thought your father would secure a match for you. You remembered that conversation, a pit in your stomach “I cannot spare you. Who would care for us if you were gone?”
It had hurt then, but like always you buried it down, hoping it would hurt less overtime. Eventually, you believed the words true. You were useful, dependable, practical. But not loved, not desired. You believed it was somehow your fault.
Now years had passed and you felt well past your marriageable age. A spinster. The word had once stung. Now it simply fit.
Your sister, bright and beautiful and just spoiled enough to be charming, had blossomed into the perfect bride.
Your father had arranged an exceptional match, not for you, for her. And so the household prepared to travel
—————————————————————————————————————
The Red Keep was not a welcoming sight. It loomed over King’s Landing, Targaryen banners snapping in the wind. It was loud, hot and restless, nothing like home.
Your sister loved it immediately. She gasped as the gates opened “It is magnificent!” already imagining the balls and feasts.
You felt uneasy, feeling the weight of eyes on you. Court vipers, the lot of them. The word ‘spinster’ already being whispered behind giggles.
You lingered half a step behind your sister and father. As you always had.
—————————————————
Prince Baelor received you in a solar overlooking Blackwater Bay. Preferring a smaller audience to meet his future bride.
He was not what you expected, you had heard stories of the dark haired Targaryen prince, Breakspear, The Hammer, Hand of the King. All of his titles suggested someone hard and fearsome.
He was tall, broad shoulders, white hairs peppering his dark hair and beard, he gave the full picture of a warrior. And yet when he smiled, it was sincere.
He greeted your father first as the old man bowed to him, the prince inclining his head in acknowledgment. His gaze turned to your sister, as she brazenly stepped forward dropping into a deep curtesy with a giggle, the picture of youth. He greeted her kindly, if not a little restrained. Then his gaze turned to you, as you gave a simple curtesy remaining a step behind your sister.
His expression changed almost imperceptibly, surprise, as though he had not expected you. Your father clearly omitting his elder daughter in his correspondence with the crown. ‘Not for the first time’ pyou think bitterly.
His gaze lingered on you a fraction too long before returning to your sister. You told yourself you imagined it.
Your sister gushes about the city, the markets, the heat and the promise of feasts
“King’s Landing overwhelms at first” Bealor says warmly.
“It is everything I hoped it would be!” she replied brightly “I should like to see the throne room tomorrow, if it pleases you” she added forgetting herself.
He nodded softly “It will be arranged” He turned then, to you. “And you, my lady? What would you wish to see?”
You blinked, surprised to be addressed “The library, your grace” you answered before you could soften it, your eyes dropping to the floor.
Your sister laughed lightly “She prefers books to all else!” It was not a cruel jest. But it struck all the same as you felt heat rise in your face.
Baelor did not laugh, his eyes remained on you “The Red Keep library is worth preferring” he said evenly “It contains original records of Aegon’s Landing and back to the kings of old”
Your gaze lifted despite yourself. Meeting his eyes for the first time, eyes which you noticed where beautifully mismatched “Truly?” You asked, your interest immediately peeked.
His mouth curved faintly “Truly”
It was a small exchange. Brief, something one could easy forget. But yet it made your heart beat faster all the same.
Your sister resumed speaking of tourneys and feasts. Baelor offered her his arm and escorted her toward the gardens, your father following as chaperone.
You remained behind, as you always did. There were rooms to arrange, servants to direct and trunks to unpack. Practicalities fell to you. They always had.
As you turned down the corridor toward your chambers, you could not shake the faint, unsettling thought that when he had looked at you, he had looked curious.
You dismissed it at once, with a shake of your head. Curiosity was for beautiful and breathtaking things. Not for spinsters.
——————————-
The Iron Throne was smaller than you expected.
In the stories you had read you expected a towering throne as high as the ceiling of the Great Sept, a monstrous, jagged thing of legend and shadow.
In reality, it was a big chair of melted swords.
Your sister was breathless, or at least pretending to be “It is magnificent” she whispered, eyes shining as she stared a the throne, no doubt was imagining herself upon it.
Prince Baelor stood beside her, hands clasped loosely behind his back. “It is a reminder” he said evenly “Of what was conquered”
You noticed he did not say “won” tilting your head in interest. Your sister of course did not.
She stepped closer, peering upward “One must feel powerful sitting there” she preened.
“One must feel responsible” Baelor corrected gently, a heaviness to his words.
She smiled as though he had made a jest. You did not smile, your eyes on his back, like he was a riddle you could not figure out.
Your sister studied the blades “Oh they are still quite sharp, one would think you would have them dulled. To be more comfortable of course” she says with a sigh.
“It is not meant to be comfortable” you say without thinking, your face flushing as you see him turning around.
Baelor turned eyes on you, that curious look in his eyes again “Exactly” he said simply, keeping his gaze on you. Something unreadable in is tone.
Your sister shrugged, already turned away, distracted by a tapestry along the wall.
You move to follow her, keeping your head down feeling foolish for interjecting. You did not notice Baelor’s gaze lingered on you longer than it should have.
⸻————————————
The Red Keep library smelled of parchment and dust and old ink. It was glorious.
Your sister lasted perhaps four minutes before she was bored. She ran a finger along a shelf and recoiled at the dust. “I cannot imagine spending an afternoon here”
“I can” you murmured, walking through the shelves eyes wide.
Baelor heard you but did not comment. He moved between shelves with familiarity, pulling down a large volume bound in cracked leather. “The original record of Aegon’s Landing” he said, offering it to you.
You took it carefully, reverent, your fingers brushing his “Thank you your grace” you say a bit breathless as your hands skimmed over the cover.
Your sister sighed softly “I believe I shall explore the gardens instead” clearly expecting the prince to follow her and she scurried off with her maids.
However, he held back, just for a moment “You read histories often?” he asked, that look in his eyes again.
“When I can” you say softly.
“And when you cannot?” He asked amusement tinged in his voice
“I remember them” you say simply. You have always had a great memory for even small details.
That earned the smallest lift of his brow, challenging or impressed, you could not tell. However, your mind chimed in that he would not be impressed by a spinster like you.
You stepped closer to the window for better light, opening the text carefully, you did not notice that he had come to stand beside you, till you could almost feel the warmth of him.
‘Targaryens must run hot’ you think, maybe the blood of the dragon is not a far off description.
Focussing your eyes on the page you greedily read, before a line caught your attention “This contradicts the Sept’s later account” you mumble to yourself, not expecting to him to be answer or even interested in what you had to say.
Much to your surprise, he leaned in to see. Too close, your shoulders brushed, causing you to take in a silent breath.
He did not move away immediately, instead his eyes fixed on the line your finger hovered over “Few records survive unaltered, there is a later account that confirms it” he said softly, reaching over to turn to the mentioned page.
Your fingers met, you withdrew quickly, ignoring the tinging from the heat of his skin.
His hand stilled a fraction longer before turning the page.
You told yourself it meant nothing, and innocent accident, nothing more.
Especially since after he turned the page to the right section he quickly bid you a goodday and left. Fleeing like you had grey scale.
⸻———————-
The hour was late, you should have been in your chambers.
Instead, you found yourself back in the library after supper, sleeves rolled slightly, questioning the Maester on trade records from Dorne.
The old man blinked at you in mild astonishment, this strange spinster haunting him like spector in the night “You are certain those tariffs shifted after the rebellion?” He questioned
“I am certain” you insisted animatedly, feeling more like yourself then since you arrived “If you compare the port ledgers you will see things have been omitted like they wanted it hidden from the histories” you flipping through the pages.
“You are comparing port ledgers?” came a familiar voice from behind you, causing you to jump. Prince Baelor stood at the entrance
The Maester straightened hurriedly “Your Grace” you dropped into a quick curtsy, book still clutched in your arms.
His gaze flicked between you and the Maester “You may leave us” Baelor said calmly.
At first you think he means you, and make quick work to move, till you see out the corner of your eye, the Master bow and disappear into the shelves.
You look back Bealor, still in his tunic from supper though the collar has been opened. You suddenly felt very aware of the hour “Apologise you grace, I did not expect”
He cuts you off with a raise of his hand “No apologies needed, you are my guest” He moved deeper into the room, gaze settling on the open scroll before you and the book your hands “It gladdens me to see you returned”
You try not to flush “It seemed a waste not to” you admit.
He huffed softly in what you sensed was approval. Still unable to meet his gaze. “You were correct earlier” he said “The Sept’s account is sanitized”
You looked up sharply, unable to help the triumphant grin from spreading across your features “You checked?” You asked somewhat astonished.
“I did” he said simply, smiling softly through his eyes had seemed to drop to your mouth. You suddenly became very self aware of your smile, not bright or beautiful like your sisters.
You swallowed dropping your gaze stepping back “The hour is late. I must return to my chambers. Good night your grace” you say with a curtsy unable to meet his gaze yet again as you all but run from the library.
Not feeling his gaze follow you, shifting from curiosity to something else entirely.
——————————————
Time at court passed surprisingly slowly. Well for a spinster it did. Whilst your sister was included in teas, garden walks and afternoons with the ladies of the court, you were a social outsider.
You did not mind too much, used to being alone. You found things to occupy your days, mainly the library. The measter grown used to your presence and questions.
Prince Baelor was another thing. He had a knack for seeking you out whist you where roaming the halls and in the library, not for anything in particular it seemed, just to talk. He would ask your options on books and your day, dropping in little fragments of his own work as hand of the king which fascinated you. You also found he seemed to include you more on your chaperoning trips.
Today was such a day.
The Dragonpit was not what your sister expected, despite all but begging the prince to go, she had done nothing but complain, from the moment you left the keep “It smells” she declared, pressing a scented cloth to her nose.
“It is ruin” Baelor replied mildly “Ruins rarely perfume itself”
You stood at the edge of the collapsed dome, staring down into the vast hollow where dragons had once been chained. Beautiful terrifying creatures, chained and unable to fight back “They died here” you mutter to yourself.
“Yes” Prince Bealor said from too close behind you.
“Not from weakness” you added quietly “From fear”
That caught his attention, you felt it. But he did not comment, instead your sister took his attention kicking up some old sand, bored by dust and history.
You wandered in a bit further, stepping forward slightly to peer over the broken edge. Stone shifted beneath your slipper, your hands shot out feeling yourself begin to slip.
You feel a firm hand close around your elbow, pulling you back.
You inhaled sharply as you regain steady footing, his warm hand still on you “Thank you, your grace’ you say flushed and feeling foolish
His grip lingered “Careful” he said evenly, eyes sweeping over you, before pulling away. You missed the way his hand flexed at his side as if burned.
You nodded, pretending your pulse had not jumped.
⸻——————————-
You had not meant to wander. You told yourself that twice as you turned down the corridor that led toward the council chamber.
You peeked around corner, the door to the chamber stood closed, guarded by two Kingsguard.
Voices filtered through the heavy wood, too low to make out. You paused a few paces away.
It was not eavesdropping, you told yourself. It was simple observation.
You had spent your life observing.
The meeting ended sooner than you expected, the door opened abruptly and lords filed out, still speaking in tight, irritated murmuring.
You stepped back at once, gathering your skirts, intending to disappear, however too late. One councillor’s brows lifted sharply “My lady?” His voice carrying through the hall.
You froze. Another lord laughed “Were we entertaining guests?” His eyes roaming over you.
Heat rushed to your face “I was merely passing” you began meekly.
However, the implication hung heavy anyway. Eavesdropping. A unknown lady, attempting to overhear the governance of the realm, the kings business. Not only was it improper, it was suspicious, bordering on treasonous.
The kingsguard begin to approach you, when Baelor’s voice cut through the corridor “She was not disturbing anything” he said evenly, his gaze sweeping over you.
“She stood at the door listening” one councillor replied, disapproving.
Baelor’s expression did not change “She is my guest” he replied simply. However as heir and hand, that was all he needed.
One by one, the councillors inclined their heads and moved, passing you with lingering looks mixing between disapproval and suspicion.
You wished the floor would open and swallow you whole.
Your gaze lifted to see Baelor in the doorway still watching you “I apologise” you say quietly.
“For what?” he asks, eyebrow quirking
“For appearing……improper” you say meekly, eyes dropping again.
He studied you, a small smile on his features “You were curious” he states.
“Yes” you nod softly
“And you believe curiosity a crime?” He asks in that irrefutable soft tone of his.
“When it is unwelcome or causes issue” you say, thinking of betrothals and whispers and ruined prospects.
He regarded you for a moment. Then he stepped aside “Come” he said.
You blinked “Your Grace?”
“If you are to stand at the door, you may as well see what is behind it” he spoke softly, a hint of teasing in his tone.
You hesitated, but crossed the hall to him and stepped inside.
The chamber was smaller than you thought. Maps lined the walls. Wax seals marked positions along carved wooden tables.
“This is where decisions are made” Baelor said quietly, a weight behind his words, eyes still on your form.
You walked slowly around the table “Not on the throne” you say already knowing the answer.
“No” he says from behind you, closer than before.
You stopped beside a map of the Narrow Sea, eyes sweeping over it “Storms will disrupt these routes by autumn” you said softly.
He did not ask how you knew. He only nodded once.
“And what would you do?” he asked genuinely curious.
“Diversify shipments, stagger arrivals, store more before summer ends” you say your fingers tracing the ports on the map
“You speak as though you have governed a port” you could hear the smile in his voice
“I have governed a household” you replied quietly “Supplies run thin there as well”
He stepped closer, you are sure you felt the brush of his chest upon your back “And when supplies did run thin?” He asked voice lower
“People grow resentful long before they grow hungry” you say softly.
That earned a small pause. He shifted slightly and you believed he had stepped back, however when you turned, you nearly collided into him.
You caught his arm, as he caught yours “You think ahead” he said as you pulled back quickly.
“I was raised to” you answered, willing your heart from pounding.
His hand lingered a fraction longer than necessary.
“You should not stand outside council doors” he said at last, a small chide in his tone.
Heat rushed your face “I did not mean to” you begin
“I know” he cut in gently “Curiosity is not a flaw, it is an asset”
You looked up at him then. You were not accustomed to being described that way. An asset. You where silent for a moment, before saying softly “Thank you, for allowing me inside”
He simply nodded, but you noticed that odd look back in his eyes.
When you left the chamber moments later, your heart was pounding. You told yourself it meant nothing.
——————————————-
The heat in King’s Landing was relentless. Your sister declared that northern dresses were suffocating and insisted that the ladies of your household adopt “Something more appropriate to the climate” you felt your stomach drop at that “And to the Prince’s Dornish heritage” she added brightly.
The seamstresses were delighted, you were less so.
The gown laid out for you was lighter than you preferred. The sleeves exposing your arms and the neckline far lower than anything you have worn before. The fabric soft and flowing.
You told yourself you were being foolish, you had simply grown accustomed to hiding.
The gardens shimmered in late afternoon light when you joined them. Your sister looked radiant in pale gold, fabric draped elegantly across her shoulders, laughing already as Baelor approached.
He greeted her warmly. Then almost by habit his gaze shifted to you.
He stilled, his eyes traced you once. Taking in the bare curve of your collarbone, the lighter fabric at your waist, the way the sun caught against your skin.
His jaw tightened almost imperceptibly. Then he inclined his head politely “My lady”
You dipped into an awkward curtsy, suddenly very aware of the breeze moving your light skirts.
You told yourself it was disapproval. That must look foolish. Unsuited for such gowns.
You were not the kind of woman princes noticed that way.
——————————————
It was late again, the sun long set and you were back in the library.
The Maester had been digging through the shelves when Baelor joined you at the great oak table, scrolls scattered between you.
His fingers tapped absently against the wood as you spoke animatedly about Rhaenys and her role in the conquest, as the Measter’s often downplay her role “So without Rhaenys—”
Tap. Tap. Tap.
The tapping of his fingers causing you to lose your train of thought. It was maddening. Without thinking, you reached across the table and placed your hand over his.
“They wouldn’t have even claimed the Stormland’s, as Argilac had broken through Oryl’s centre. It was Rheanys and Maraxes that felled the personal guards, leaving Argilac vulnerable” you finish smiling not noticing the warm hand beneath yours had stilled completely, his eyes fixed on you.
You scrunch your eyebrows at his silence then realise your mistake. Quickly you pull your hand away “My apologies” you say unable to look directly at him, feeling foolish
You had not notice his gaze had darkened “You need not apologize” he said rougher than usual.
The Maester chose that moment to re-emerge from the shelves, mercifully oblivious, saving you from your embrassment.
————————-
You had mentioned Balerion only once, in passing, when truth he should have been talking with your sister.
You had not expected him to remember.
“Come” Baelor said one afternoon, appearing beside you in the corridor.
You look at him confused, but follow without question as he takes your arm.
The passageways beneath the Red Keep were cool and dim. Torches burned low against ancient stone, the air colder he deeper you go.
When the chamber opened before you, you stopped. Balerion’s skull dominated the space, illuminated by candles. A vast white skull with teeth longer than spears.
You stepped forward without thinking “He was larger in the stories” you murmured eyes fixed on the magnificent beast before you.
“He was larger in life” Baelor replied. “Time makes everything seem smaller”
You circled slowly, reverent, your hand reaching out, fingertips brushing the cool bone “You remembered that I wished to see this” you said quietly
“I remember most things you say” he says simply.
“A great pity for you” you teased lightly, continuing around the skull, unaware of his gaze following you.
Silence settled between you.
You turned toward him “Thank you” you say softly.
“For what?” He asks voice deeper than normal.
“For showing me this. I will not have many more chances to see such things” you smile at him before turning back to the skull.
His expression shifted “Why would you not?”
“My sister will be wed” you said lightly, as though it were obvious. “And I shall return home. I imagine the Red Keep will not miss me haunting its corridors” You smiled faintly to soften it.
You did not see the way he stilled “I had not considered that” he said slowly.
You laughed, embarrassed. “It was never my visit, you did not even know I existed”
It was your sister’s courtship. Your sister’s future. Your sister’s place.
“You speak as though you are already gone” he said voice tight with an emotion you could not name.
“I was never meant to stay” you say simply. You had told yourself the same since the day you arrived, this was not your future.
His jaw tightened almost imperceptibly. The torchlight caught in his eyes, darkening them “It is time for us to leave” he said sharply. He turned without waiting, walking away. You did not see the way his hands had curled into fists.
You blinked, unsure what you did to offend him. Casting one last look back at the skull, you followed him out of the chamber.
——————————-
The carriage ride to the Great Sept had been meant to be brief.
Your sister was in high spirits, chattering about embroidered veils and how beautiful the ceremony would look beneath the marble dome. The visit to the Great Sept had been arranged to discuss wedding details.
Baelor rode horseback rather than in the carriage. You told yourself he would not care that you were leaving soon. You must have offended him beneath the Red Keep somehow, perhaps your touching of Balerion.
Baelor did not look at you once when the carriage stopped before the Sept. He dismounted smoothly, offering your sister his hand first. You stepped down without assistance.
You did not notice his hand flex at his side as though restraining reaching out to you.
The meeting within the Sept was long, endless discussion of procession order, seating, even candle placement . Your mind drifted, but you kept your gaze from drifting toward him.
When it finally concluded, your sister was flushed with excitement “The market is just beyond the square” she breathed “Only a moment”
“We do not have the escort for wandering” you warned quietly. Refusing to ask Baelor who had returned to his horse.
“It is daylight” she answered naively, as though daylight itself were armor. Before you could stop her, she slipped toward the side street, laughing and beckoning you to follow.
You hesitated, your eyes quickly scanning for Baelor, but your sister was already disappearing into the crowd.
You went after her. Of course you did, it was your duty.
⸻
The market swallowed sound and sense alike. Color and fabric and shouting vendors. Bodies pressing too close.
Your sister moved too fast, laughing, pointing, delighted by everything.
You tried to stay close, but when a group of ship workers pushed between you, you were jostled hard against a stone wall.
You looked for your sister and could no longer see her colourful dress. You called her name but had no answer when suddenly, a voice slurred too near your ear “Oh what a pretty one”
A hand caught your wrist, strong and forceful. You twisted immediately. “Release me!” you demanded as he tightened his grip enough to leave a bruise.
Another man stepped closer, wine on his breath, “Lost are you?” He grinned, teeth missing.
“I am not alone” you say evenly despite the panic rising within you.
They laughed pushing you back against the wall as you cried out. One man leaned closer “Pretty thing to be wandering about” his hand stroking your face, then dragged down the front of your bodice as you writhed to break free.
“Let me go!” you demanded furious and terrified at once, letting out a cry as larger man ripped open the front of your dress. You closed your eyes unable to watch what came next.
The man’s grip tightened. And then it was gone. The man stumbled backward with a strangled cry.
Baelor stood between you and them. He must have followed, or sensed it, you did not know, you could only let out a relieved sob as you covered yourself, holding your dress together.
“You will not touch her” he said dangerously quiet, twisting the mans wrist sharply enough that the bone threaten to break.
The second man lunged for the dagger at his belt. He never drew it.
Baelor moved first, sword drawn. A single, brutal strike to the man’s throat.
The dagger clattered uselessly to the stones as the man staggered back, blood pouring as he collapsed.
The first man dropped to his knees, wheezing. Bealor cuts off his hand with one clean swipe, the man screams dropping down onto the floor.
“You laid hands upon a lady under my protection” Baelor said, voice quiet and carrying “You will count yourself fortunate to leave breathing”
You had not realized you were shaking until his hands came to your arms, still holding your dress. His gaze drops down, something in him shifting as he pulls off his cloak wrapping it around you.
“Are you hurt?” he asks softly, but his jaw was tight enough to splinter.
“No,” you managed voice shaking slightly “my sister” you say in sudden panic
“My kingsguard have her, she is safe” he assures “Come” he prompts softly, arm coming around your shoulders, directing you to the carriage.
He guides you inside, hands never leaving you. You half expect him to remount his horse, but he steps in after you, the small space feeling smaller as the door closes
You hold his cloak tighter around you, the dark material smells like him, you take a deep breathe without meaning to, his scent calming you.
You are very aware of the man opposite you, knees touching, eyes roaming over you checking for injury like you might bleed out infront of him.
“Are you hurt?” He repeated, his voice still carrying that rough edge.
“No” you say softly, unable to hide your wince as you pull his cloak tighter.
He notices, of course he notices. He holds his hand out toward you in silent instruction. You take your hand out from the cloak, careful not to expose the torn dress beneath.
He takes your wrist gently, examining where the man had gripped you, bruises already forming. His thumb brushed the inside of your pulse point as you take in a shaky breath.
“They touched you” he said, quieter now voice carefully controlled.
“It was my fault” you insisted “I should not have followed—” you start to explain
“You followed because your sister is careless child” he says sharply, his hand not letting you go. The sharpness of his words surprising you. “You will not wander without escort again” he said in a tone you did not recognise, akin to fear.
You looked up at him “I was trying to protect her. I did not think”
“That is precisely the problem” he cuts you off.
Silence fell heavy between you.
His gaze lingers on your wrist, fingers still stoking over the bruised skin. Then slowly rose to your face “You are not to place yourself in danger” his voice stern.
Your breath caught “I did not mean to” you say looking down “but she is my sister, my responsibility, if something happens to her it will be my fault” you take in a breath “I am of no consequence”
The words fall softly between you, you think little of them, as though they have lived in you for years.
His hand stops moving. The carriage continues to rattle over stone, but inside it becomes very, very quiet. Slowly, deliberately, he lifts his eyes to yours.
“What did you say?” His voice tighter than before.
You swallow, suddenly uncertain. “I meant, my sister is the one who matters. This is her future. Her marriage. If she were harmed” you trail off
“And you?” he asks eyes furious.
You hesitate “I would manage”
His jaw tightens “You would manage” he repeats, as though testing the phrase and finding it unacceptable “You place yourself between danger and your sister” he says quietly “Without hesitation”
“That is my duty” you say having no other answer
“And who stands between danger and you?”
The question lands harder than any rebuke, you look down unable to keep his gaze. He releases your wrist only to move closer, not enough to trap you, but enough that your knees press firmly together.
“You are not inconsequential” he says as through it is a fact. “You have been responsible your entire life” he continues. “That does not require you to be expendable”
The word hits you harder than the attack did. Expendable.
You draw in a careful breath, unsure what you are about to confess when the carriage slows.
Voices outside swell faintly, guards, attendants. The world returning.
———————————————
Your father sent for you before supper. You knew before you entered that something had shifted. Servants would not meet your eye, ladies no longer whispering behind their hands, they now fell silent as you passed.
You stood before his desk, hands folded taking in a shaky breath “You called for me, Father”
He did not ask if you were well “The court has been speaking” he began his voice stern and measured
You lowered your gaze “I see” you say softly.
“The incident in the market has…..complicated matters” his voice unchanged.
You swallowed “The prince and I did nothing improper” you said quietly. A part of you wanted to take whatever shame there was, if it spared him.
“I believe you” he replied “That is not the point”
Of course it wasn’t. You braced yourself thinking of the options. Perhaps you were merely to be sent home, or worse he was shipping you off to the silent sisters.
He continued evenly “Your sister’s position has become precarious. There are whispers. Speculation regarding the Prince’s attentions and your involvement”
Heat crept up your throat “I never sought”
“This is not about what you sought” he cut sharply, banging his hand on the table.
Silence pressed in for a moment as he regained his composure “The Prince has offered a solution”
You prepared yourself to be dismissed. To be sent away before more damage could be done.
“You will be betrothed to Prince Baelor ”The words landed so softly you were almost sure you misheard him.
You simply stood there numb. Feeling the shape of your life rearrange itself.
“For the sake of your sister” he said firmly “And to preserve honor” added as an afterthought.
Of course, you summised. This was never about you.
Now you had trapped a prince, one you where sure did not want you.
Pairing: Maekar Targaryen x FemReader (no use of y/n)
Lyonel Baelor Spinster Series Masterlist
Warnings: Male gaze yearning (he wants that cookie bad) poor self image (reader is delulu) poor family dynamics. Explicit Smut - Minors DNI
A/N: Thank you to everyone who has commented and shown their love for this series, it is truly been a pleasure to write. Don’t forget to check out the 3 works linked about. This one is a little longer then the rest as is you cannot tell by my page Maekar is my favourite 🤭
You stood at the window of your chamber, the morning sun bright against the hills.
A day had passed since the fire, since your betrothal.
Summerhall carried on as if nothing happened. Repairs underway, servants cleaned away ash and debris, the lords and ladies of the reach returned home. Everyone returned to normalily.
Everyone except you.
You did not notice at first, but then you saw it, servents bowed lower, whispers quieting as you passed, doors opening before you even reached them. They all knew.
The maester was happy with your recovery, your throat still burned faintly but the rest was soot and ash, easily washed away with a good bath. You had been confined to your room this till this morning when the maester had declared you in good health.
You had asked after Rhae, the girl was in perfect health. That had eased something tight inside your chest.
You had not yet seen Maekar, you were unsure if you should be grateful about that.
Lost in your own thoughts, you barely caught the knock at the door.
“Enter” you called, smoothing down your shirts.
Your sister slipped inside, pale but composed. For a moment neither of you spoke. Then she crossed the room in quick steps and pulled you into an embrace.
It startled you enough that you did not immediately return it.
“I thought” she began voice breaking “When the fire”
“I am fine” you said automatically, your arms wrapping around her, smoothing her hair like you did when she was a girl.
She pulled back, studying your face as though checking for injury.
“You were foolish to put yourself at risk like that” she said quietly, tears in eyes.
“I did it to save a child” you said evenly “That is not something I regret”
Her gaze flickered “And now you are to marry her father”
There it was.
“It is was the only option, to avoid scandal” you said trying to keep your voice even, but you did not meet her eye.
“Is it?” she asked
You blinked at that “What else would it be?”
She hesitated “He does not look at me the way he looks at you” she said finally “When I speak, when I laugh. He is watching you”
You almost laughed “That is absurd”
“It is not” she said evenly, her arms squeezing your lightly as through willing you to believe her.
You shook your head “You imagine meaning where there is none” refusing to believe a man like that could ever want you.
She studied you for a long moment, then softly “In truth I am relieved”
That surprised you more than anything else “Relieved?” you repeated.
She nodded “I do not think I would have been happy here” the admission was quiet, honest.
“He is formidable” she continued carefully “And kind, in his way, but I never felt……” She searched for the word “Chosen”
The word struck deeper than it should have. You were not chosen either, simply given out of duty.
“You will be well married” you said firmly, your hands coming to cup her face “You are bright, you are warm, you will have your pick of handsome lords. You will be wanted and truly happy”
She stepped closer “And you?”
Before you could answer, a small body collided with your legs, nearly knocking you over. Rhae.
She clung to your skirts as though you might vanish “You are not allowed to leave!” she declared fiercely
You blinked down at her “I was not aware I had requested permission?”
She frowned at that “Father said you are staying forever”
You felt your sister’s eyes on you “Yes” you answered carefully “It seems I am”
Rhae studied your face with alarming intensity of someone her age “Good” She glanced at your sister, then crooked her finger requesting you to come down to her level, leaning in to whisper conspiratorially “I like you better”
Your sister choked on a laugh.
“It is not a competition princess” you replied, fighting a smile at the innocent words
“It is” she said seriously, looking very much like her father in that moment. A true dragon.
Behind her, a shadow fell across the doorway. You straightened slowly. Maekar stood there.
His gaze moved first to Rhae clinging to you. Then to you.
His violet gaze was intense as always, but here was something new there now “My lady” he said evenly.
The formality stung more than expected “Your Grace” curtsying awkwardly as two bodies still clung to you.
Rhae turned, brightening “Father, she is staying!” She repeated despite the face she heard it from him first.
“I am aware” he replied his gaze never leaving you.
Rhae tugged at your hand again “She promised to take me the herb garden”
You had not, but nodded anyway. You moved toward the door, passing close enough that your sleeve brushed his arm.
“Do not overexert yourself” he said quietly as you passed, eyes fixed on yours.
You nodded, unable to find your voice for a moment. Then Rhae pulled you forward again.
You told yourself you did not feel his gaze on your back as you walked away. You did not allow yourself to consider why he had not once looked at your sister.
——————————————————-
The dining chamber was smaller than the great hall, intended for family.
The dinner had been called to mark your formal betrothal. Your father sat at one end of the table, posture rigid, fingers steepled as though even supper were a matter of negotiation. Your sister sat beside him, composed but quieter than usual.
Opposite them sat Maekar, the children placed down the length of the table. You took the remaining seat, that had been set deliberately, beside him.
Your father cleared his throat “Summerhall has shown admirable composure in managing the recent incident”
Recent incident. You resisted the urge to stiffen at his words, the near loss of a child and his daughter a mere incident to him.
Your sister attempted brightness “The repairs to the archway are already underway”
Rhae leaned toward you, whispering loudly, “Father shouted very much”
Daella muttered, poking her “Rhae.”
You hid a smile “Did he?”
Rhae nodded solemnly “He frightened the silly knight. I liked it” Next to you, Maekar’s mouth twitched, clearly fighting a smirk.
A servant reached across you to refill a goblet. The movement forced your shoulder to brush his. He did not move away, nor did you.
“So” your father carried on “the betrothal will be brief”
You stiffened slightly, but Maekar did not hesitate “Yes”
“And the wedding?” You father asked evenly, as through this was a matter of business only.
“Here” Maekar replied “At Summerhall”
Your father studied him. “You are certain”
Maekar turned slightly toward you then “I am” he said.
Two words. The felt very heavy but you refused to examine why, reaching for your wine instead.
The meal continued in controlled civility, conversation circled safe topics, weather, repairs and trade routes.
Rhae yawned dramatically clearly close to her bedtime, as her septa came to collect her for bed, she asked her father “Will she sit beside you every night?”
“Yes” he answered simply
You felt that answer far more than you should have.
The dinner ended without spectacle, but when you rose from your seat, Maekar stood at the same moment. His hand brushed briefly against the back of your neck as he drew your chair away from the table.
You refused to acknowledge the way your skin heated beneath his touch.
————————————
After dinner you found Daella at the back of the library, curled into the corner of the long couch you favored. A book lay open in her hands, though her eyes had not moved across the page.
You sat beside her, silent for a moment.
“I know this must be difficult for you” you said gently at last “I lost my mother at your age and the thought of another woman coming into my home would have felt like an intrusion”
The page did not turn but she die not look up “I am not afraid of you being his wife” she said finally.
You studied her profile “No?”
“No” She lowered the book slowly. “I am afraid of being unnecessary”
The word struck like a bell, a memory of yourself clearly reflected.
She continued, voice steady but quieter now. “Rhae looks to me, the servants listen” She hesitated “Father relies on order”
“Yes” you said softly “He does”
“I have tried to be useful” The word was too familiar, like catching an old scar. You understood it too well, you had built your life upon it, being useful, dutiful.
“You should not have had to” you replied, placing your hand gently on hers.
Her jaw tightened slightly “Someone had to”
You leaned back into the cushions, staring at the ceiling beams “When my mother died, I believed if I worked hard enough, if I never complained, if I anticipated every need, I would earn my place”
Daella turned to look at you fully now, her violet eyes much like her father’s.
“It does not work that way sadly, not for unmarried women of the realm” you said with a small breath of humor.
“No” she admitted “It does not”
“I do not wish to take anything from you” you said after a moment “If anything I wish to give you something back. Your freedom”
“I do not need another mother” she said carefully “I remember mine”
“I would not presume to replace her” you answered gently
“I know” her voice softened “But it would be easier, I suppose, not to be alone” she trailed off, looking very much her age that moment.
You looked at the girl in front of you, who was trying very hard to be a woman “You have been very brave” you said softly.
She smiled softly at that “I would not object to assistance”
A faint smile touched your mouth in return “Assistance?”
“A friend” she corrected
Warmth bloomed in your chest in way you had not expected “I think” you replied gently “I would like that very much”
Daella nodded once, as though a matter of governance had just been settled, very much like her father.
But as she settled back she moved closer a smallest fraction, still a child seeking comfort, allowing herself not to be alone.
—————————————-
The weeks passed quickly, your time mainly consumed by wedding preparation.
However, never seeming to be able to do anything alone these days, you had 3 little shadows, your sister, Daella and Rhae. All of whom insisted on managing the wedding planning, Daella had ledges, Rhea had flowers and your sister had options.
Summerhall was beautifully placed amongst rolling hills and woods, but had little of close markets and traders. You were unperturbed, not expecting anything too grand.
“We will use what the castle has” you explained calmly to the steward, who looked increasingly strained beneath your sister’s mounting frustration “It need not be excessive”
“It is your wedding, not a harvest supper!” your sister snipped
You shrug, never been one to expect grandeur “It is sufficient”
She looked personally offended by your contentment but, for once, did not argue further.
The true battle with her came over your dress. With no nearby towns and no time to commission one from the Reach, you decided to simply have one of your existing ones altered.
“You cannot be wed in something altered!” She exclaimed in youthful outrage
“I am marrying at Summerhall” you replied evenly “Not before the entire realm”
“That is not the point” she pouts
“It is precisely the point” you say with a smile.
She hurls as ribbon at you, but you duck with a laugh. She drew a breath about to argue further when Maekar spoke.
In truth you had not heard him enter the solar, he was avoiding you as much you where him it seemed. You believed it was because he was getting saddled with a spinster rather than a thing of youthful radiance.
“There are silks in the south vault” he said simply, you and your sister stilled “They were never used” he added, his violet eyes on you.
You slowly turn to face him “Never used?” You asked, momentarily taken on how striking his eyes are in the daylight.
“They were gifted, as part of my mother’s dowry” he replies evenly “They belong to this house”
You hesitate “I cannot accept, it’s too generous” you add ingonring your sisters face “they where your mothers”
“They belong to summerhall and the Lady of this house” he replied smoothly.
Before you could protest further, your sister was already halfway to the door “Well then!” she declared “We shall inspect them at once!”
———————————————————
The vault smelled faintly of cedar and old stone as you all journeyed down, your sister bouncing excitedly in front of you. However your mind too distracted by Maekar so close behind you as you descended the stairs, warmth radiating from him.
He guided you to the trunks, black and dusty. But as he opened them you were assaulted by color.
Burnished gold that shimmed, midnight blue that swallowed light, pink the colour of a rose. Your sister made a small, reverent sound.
You reached out before you could stop yourself, fingertips brushing fabric that felt like water. It was nothing like the structured gowns of the Reach. It draped and clung, it would not hide a woman’s shape. Heat climbed your neck at that thought.
Your eyes caught on a bolt of fabric, deep red like aged wine. Without thinking lifted a length, letting the silk fall against you, the weight settling over your shoulder and down your figure.
You did not see the way Maekar’s jaw tightened as his eyes swooped over you. Your sister did.
“This” she decided firmly pointing at the fabric in your hands “With gold stitching”
You smiled faintly, still lost in the feel of the silk against your skin. You did not feel the full weight of violet eyes on you.
———————————————
The afternoon was warm enough to coax you into the gardens again.
Rhae had declared she wished to learn “proper dragon words” as she called them, after overhearing something in the yard that morning. You had foolishly agreed to sit with her.
“I only know a few” she insisted, seated crosslegged on the grass with a book in her lap “Daeron says them when he thinks no one listens”
“That sounds promising already” you replied dryly, tucking your skirts beneath you.
She squinted at the inked lines “This one” she announced, pointing. “Nyke…”
You leaned in, reading the script “I do not know that word”
Rhae blinked at you as though you had betrayed her “But you are clever!”
“That does not make me Valyrian” you said lightly with a smile
A shadow stretched across the grass next to you “Nyke” came a low, familiar voice “means I”
You did not jump, you had grown accustomed to him appearing from nowhere. Maekar stood next to you both, hands clasped behind his back looking down at you on the grass.
Rhae brightened instantly “Father! You will teach us.”
His gaze flicked briefly to you before returning to his daughter “Us?”
“She agreed to learn with me” Rhae declared
You opened your mouth to protest and found his eyes already on you.
“If my lady wishes” he said evenly.
Your chin lifted slightly, refusing to flush at his phrasing “I did not realize it required permission”
His mouth almost curved “It requires patience” he corrected
Rhae scrambled upright, tugging you with her. “Say it again!”
Maekar stepped closer “Nyke”
You repeated it carefully “Nee-keh”
His gaze dropped to your mouth “Shorter” he said quietly “Nyke”
You tried again, slower this time “Nyke” the word feeling word feeling unfamiliar against your tongue.
“Better” he said his eyes not leaving your lips.
Rhae clapped once “What next?” He obliged her, though his attention seemed divided now.
“Ābrar” he continued “ It means Woman”
Rhae grinned mischievously “That is you” she informed you.
“Is it” you smiled at her
“Ābrar” Maekar repeated.
You shaped the word cautiously “Ah-brahr”
His jaw tighten almost imperceptibly “Your r is soft”
You frowned faintly “It sounds fine to me”
“It does not” he replied, his usual grumpy tone returning.
You folded your arms in defiance “Then perhaps you should demonstrate more clearly, Your Grace”
Before you could protest, he crouched before you and his hand lifted. His fingers settled lightly at your chin, two fingers beneath your jaw, his thumb near the hinge.
“Relax” he murmured, eyes on your mouth.
Your breath betrayed you immediately.
Rhae leaned closer, fascinated “Father, you are squishing her!”
“I am instructing” he corrected evenly
But his hand did not leave. His thumb shifted slightly, angling your chin upward, his touch warm “Ābrar” he said again, slower this time.
You watched his mouth as he formed it, momentarily distracted by his lips. Then repeated it meeting his eye “Ābrar” your voice softer than intended
For a suspended moment, neither of you looked away, trapped in each-others gaze.
Rhae groaned loudly “You are both terrible teachers” The spell fractured
Maekar exhaled slowly through his nose, his fingers lingered a fraction too long before releasing you, standing and stepping back half a pace.
“One more” Rhae demanded “Say something longer!”
Maekar looked at you instead of his daughter “Nyke jorrāelagon ao hen se nyke ēdruta ao” he said quietly. The words rolled from his tongue low and smooth, eyes not leaving yours.
You blinked, feeling an odd bloom of warmth in your chest despite not understating.
Rhae blinked harder. “That was many words.”
“Yes” he agreed evenly, his gaze still on you.
You tilted your head. “And what does it mean?”
His eyes never left your face “It is not for children” he said calmly.
Rhae gasped in outrage. “That is unfair!”
You arched a brow “I am not a child”
“No,” he said quietly, the single word felt heavier than it should have “But it is a lesson for another day” he continued.
Rhae groaned in protest. You did not miss the way his voice had changed. Nor the way he turned away before you could ask further.
And you absolutely did not examine why your pulse had quickened when he watched you speak.
—————————————-
You had not meant to be gone so long.
The morning had been clear, the air cool and you were anxious with only a day to go before the wedding. You decided a ride was best, riding had always settled you.
You had told a groom you would take the lower trail, careful to let someone know where you had gone.
The mare moved beautifully at first. You let her stretch into a canter along the ridge, wind tugging pins loose from your hair, laughter escaping you before you could stop it. For a little while, you forgot everything else.
It was only when you turned back toward Summerhall that you felt the uneven step. You slowed immediately.
The mare tossed her head, her gait faltering again “shhhh” you mummered claiming her. Dismounting at once and crouching to inspect her foreleg.
“A shoe” you muttered “Of course” Inconvenient, but hardly disastrous.
“Well” you muttered to the mare “we shall walk” taking the reins in hand as you guided the mare.
It was farther than you had anticipated, you did not realize how much time had passed as the sun lowered down the tree line.
You heard the horse before you saw it, a hard gallop, fast and intent. You turned instinctively, tightening your grip on the reins, mind briefly thinking of bandits. You relaxed a little when you saw a familiar black stallion.
Prince Maekar crested the rise at speed and reined in sharply when he saw you, the horse reared slightly, saying his hooves back to the ground.
For a moment, you simply stared at one another, his eyes swept over you rapidly searching ,as though expecting blood “Seven fucking hells, where the fuck have you been” he exclaimed at last, The words were not measured or princely.
For a moment you resisted the urge to laugh at his outburst “A thrown shoe” you answered trying for dry composure despite the twitch of your lips “I assure you, I have not been abducted”
“You were gone” he stated, voice sharper now at your joke
You frowned faintly “I did not realize I required a chaperone”
He dismounted in one fluid, impatient motion. His boots hit the ground hard. He strode to you, not stopping until he stood far too close “Do not do that again” something unreadable in his tone.
You told yourself it was irritation that drew him out here, nothing more.
He crouched briefly to confirm what you had already diagnosed. His hand brushed yours as you both reached for the strap at the same moment.
You withdrew first “I was just walking back” you insisted.
He rose slowly “You will not walk back”
“I am perfectly capable” you argued
He did not argue. He simply stepped into your space. Both arms circling your waist, you inhaled sharply as your feet left the ground.
“Maekar!” You exclaimed, forgetting yourself in the shock.
He set you in the saddle of his stallion and mounted behind you before you could gather your wits. The world narrowed instantly. His thighs bracketed yours, his arms around you to take the reins, his chest settled against your back.
You went very still.
The stallion shifted beneath you, and with it, his hips pressed forward against yours.
Your breath hitched before you could stop it as heat climbed instantly up your neck.His breath warmed the curve of your neck when the wind shifted, you became acutely aware of how solid he was. How inescapably close.
You shifted slightly in the saddle. A mistake. His hand flattened firmly at your hip to steady you. The pressure drew you tighter against him.
Your breath caught, you did not look back, you did not dare. You told yourself you imagined the sudden tension in him.
You stared ahead, pulse racing “You assumed something terrible had happened” you said, because silence felt far more dangerous.
“I considered” he replied, voice low and threaded with something fierce “that I might reach that ridge and find nothing”
You swallowed “That is dramatic”
His arm tightened fractionally “Forgive me for not finding your disappearance fucking amusing” he said flatly
You frowned faintly. It was an odd answer for inconvenience.
When Summerhall finally came into view, you felt relief far sharper than it should have been.
He dismounted first,then lifted you down despite your protests.His hands remained at your waist one heartbeat longer than required.
Then he stepped back, handing the reins to a waiting groom.
You turned away first. You told yourself the warmth still lingering at your hips was embarrassment. Nothing more.
———————————-
Your wedding day had come, you were not as nervous as you expected to be, that was until you put on the dress.
You had worn silk before. You had never worn silk like this.
The Dornish fabric clung, it did not conceal, itfollowed the lines of your body as though it had been waiting for them. Deep wine red, nearly black in shadow, the silk shimmered when you moved. The bodice dipped lower than any gown you had ever permitted yourself, cut in a softened V that revealed the delicate hollow of your throat and the faint curve beneath. The sleeves were narrow and fitted to the wrist. You had not expected the back. It fell open in a graceful sweep between your shoulders, held together by delicate chains of gold that draped across your spine.
Along the hem and bodice, golden dragon scales had been embroidered in fine thread, subtle but unmistakable. Not overwhelming but just enough to remind anyone watching that you wedding a Targaryen
You stared at your reflection longer than you meant to. Behind you, your sister adjusted the fall of the silk at your hips, uncharacteristically quiet “You cannot hide in this” she said softly with a small smirk.
“I had not planned to” you answered, though your pulse betrayed you.
Daella stood nearby in pale violet, her gown structured and elegant. Rhae twirled in her own softer shade, flower crown slipping sideways in her excitement. She had chosen them herself. Small white blossoms with faint purple centers, woven with trailing ivy and sprigs of rosemary.
Daella approached you now, studying the finished effect with an assessing eye far too old for her years “He will forget how to breathe” she said calmly, you sister letting out a soft snort.
You nearly laughed “Your father does not forget anything”
Daella’s smiled slyly “We shall see”
——————————————-
The ceremony was held in the inner courtyard beneath the open sky. The stone still bore faint scorch marks high along the archway, repaired but not erased. Lanterns hung between pillars. The scent of garden blooms carried on the breeze. It was perfect.
Your father walked you forward. He did not squeeze your arm, he did not whisper comfort.
At the far end stood Maekar, tunic of black and crimson. His silver hair brushed back, violet eyes steady, eyes fixed on you.
Daella had been right, he stopped breathing. His gaze dragged down your form slowly. Heat climbed your spine at that but bou told yourself it was the sun.
The vows were brief, both of you not suited for a long drawn out ceremony. When you repeated yours, your voice did not shake.
When he spoke his, they were steady, but there was something under them “I am hers and she is mine, from this day until my last” his eyes never leaving yours.
He stepped forward to fasten his house cloak at your shoulders. His fingers brushed the bare skin of your upper back where the dress dipped low.
You did not flinch. But your breath betrayed you.
When he kissed you, it was not the restrained press of the lips as you expected. His hand came to your waist the other coming to your face, pressing a deep kiss to your lips that stole your breath away. When he pulled back, his thumb brushed the line of your jaw as though steadying himself, eyes dark on your flushed face.
The courtyard cheered, Rhae the loudest among them.
Daella did not look at you, she looked at her father and she smiled.
————————————————————
The feast was smaller than others you had attended in your life. But it was perfect, just for those who mattered.
You sat to Maekar’s right, the girls in pale violet flanked you both, Daeron was down the other end making a serving girl blush, your sister sat across from him rolling her eyes.
Maekar’s hand found the small of your back whenever you shifted. Or perhaps that was your imagination.
As the night drew on the lanterns burned lower and the courtyard slowly emptyied. One by one, guests withdrew until only family and the closest retainers remained. The girls sent to bed hours earlier.
Maekar rose first. The movement alone quieted what little noise remained.
“It is late” he said simply offering his hand to you.
You placed yours in it, keeping your breathing steady. Your sister giving you a smile as you headed into the castle.
—————————————————————
The walk to his chambers felt longer than it had any right to. His hand remained warm around yours, steady and certain.
You felt like a fraud walking beside him. When the chamber doors closed behind you, the world shifted quieter
The hearth was already lit, candles burned low. The large bed stood untouched, heavy carved posts casting long shadows. He released your hand. You moved first, because standing still felt unbearable. Crossing to the hearth, pretending interest in the flames.
“I suppose” you said lightly, staring into the fire “this is the part where I am meant to be nervous”
“You are not?” he asked behind you.
You swallowed and turned slowly. He had removed his cloak. The black and crimson doublet loosened at the throat. Silver hair catching firelight.
He was watching you as though you were something rare. You mistook it for assessment.
“You needn’t pretend. I know I am not much to look at” you say watching.
Maekar goes completely still, The silence stretches, your head lowers, unable to endure the weight of his stare
He crosses the room, is fingers slide beneath your chin, tilting your face up until you are forced to meet his gaze “Is that why you stand so far away, you believe I pretend?” he asks quietly, but there is a hardness beneath it.
You swallow “I assumed you would prefer to sleep alone”
The air changes. His thumb drags slowly across your lower lip. As if he cannot decide whether you are testing him or truly this blind.
“You think” he says carefully “that I would dismiss my wife on our first night” It is not a question.
He steps closer, your breath catches as his chest brushes yours. The heat of him seeps through the silk. His other hand settles firmly at your hip, fingers flexing once as though holding himself back.
His head lowers as lips trace the line of your throat, slow and deliberate. Silver hair of his beard grazing your skin, the faint scrape of it makes you shiver.
“If I did not want you” he murmurs against your neck, voice roughened “you would know”
His teeth catch lightly at the sensitive place beneath your ear. You inhale sharply.
You open your mouth to protest, to argue, to insist he must be mistaken
When something in him finally breaks. His mouth claims yours in kiss that steals breath and thought in equal measure. His hand tightens at your hip as he lifts you without warning. A soft sound escapes you as your hands fly to his shoulders, instinctively bracing.
He urges your legs around him, his hands holding your thighs “You are mine” he says against your lips.
You should melt You should believe him as you gasp into his mouth. Instead, your traitorous mind tells you he is lying. Who could possibly want you.
You pull back just enough to breathe, just enough to look at him, your hands still braced against his shoulders “This is obligation” you insist, breath uneven
His jaw tightens, as does his hands on your thighs “You think I would marry you to preserve fucking appearances?”
“It would be the honorable choice” you press, stubborn even now “You are an honorable man”
His eyes darken “Honor” he repeats, almost distastefully.
You press on, because you cannot stop once the fear begins spilling out. “You were courting my sister. She is bright, gentle, easy to admire. I am difficult, argumentative and entirely unwanted” you finish quietly.
For a heartbeat he only stares at you. Then something shifts. He sets you down slowly, but he does not step away. His hands remain at your waist, firm enough that you cannot retreat. “You want honesty?” he asks.
“Yes” you say, even though your heart breaks
“You had me since the first day you stood in my hall” he says voice rough
You still, heart pounding
“You did not look away,” he says. “Every lord bows, every lady curtsy, every man fucking measures his words before a prince.” His thumb presses into your hip, grounding you “You did not”
Your breath catches.
“You looked at me as though I were only a man. As though I could be questioned. As though I could be wrong” His voice lowers “I had not been spoken to that way in a very long time”
You shake your head faintly “That is not love”
“It was the beginning” His hand slides up your back, fingers splaying over the bare skin revealed by your dress. His touch is warm, deliberate “You with my daughters” he continues. “You did not try to win them. You did not flatter them. You corrected them. Challenged them”
A faint, almost incredulous breath leaves you.
“You made Rhae braver. You allowed Daella to be a child again” His jaw tightens “You have no idea what that did to me”
Your throat tightens.
He leans closer, voice roughening “On that ride” he says, eyes searching your, “when you took the hedge without hesitation , when your thighs gripped the saddle and you laughed like the world could not touch you” His hand tightens at your hip involuntarily. “I imagined you like that with me, what it would be like to feel you”
Heat floods your face.
“You should not say that” you whisper
“And that fucking hedge knight” he continues, voice darkening “When he put his hand on your waist” His jaw clenches visibly “I wanted to end him”
Your pulse pounds.
He does not look ashamed “And in the tower” he says more quietly now “When I reached the stairs and saw the smoke” His voice shifts “I thought I would be too late”
Your breath stutters.
“I have lost before” he says, softer now. “I know what it is to reach for someone and find them gone from this world” His hand comes to your face again, rough thumb brushing your cheek “When I saw you fall in that smoke” he admits, voice nearly breaking through restraint “I would have given my life without hesitation”
The room feels smaller.
“You still believe this is duty?” he asks.
You can barely speak.
“Nyke iā jorrāelagon iā ābrazȳrys hen nyke gevie se nyke ēdruta” The words roll from him smoothly, intimate and powerful all at once
“I do not understand” you whisper
“It means” he says quietly “I have loved you since the first moment I saw you”
Your breath catches as the word lands between you.
Love.
His nose brushes lightly against yours, eyes fixed on you as through begging to believe him. You surge forward sealing your lips to his, kissing him with all the passion of the words you did not say. He responds immediately groaning into the kiss. Gasping as you pull away for air, his lips trial down your neck.
Your heart races as his words sink in, each one unraveling the walls you've built around yourself. The warmth of his hand on your back sends shivers down your spine, and you tilt your head slightly, exposing more of your neck to his lips. He presses another kiss there, softer this time, lingering as if savoring the taste of your skin.
"Maekar" you breathe, your voice trembling with a mix of uncertainty and longing. Your hands, tentative at first, rise to his chest, fingers curling into the fabric of his tunic. The steady thrum of his heartbeat beneath your palms grounds you, pulling you closer to the edge of surrender
He pulls back just enough to meet your gaze, his eyes dark with desire but softened by something deepe."I love you" he says again the words a vow etched into the air between you. His fingers trace the laces of your dress, not rushing, but with a quiet intent that makes your breath hitch.
You nod, a small smile breaking through your nerves "Show me" you whisper, your body pressing against his.
His response is immediate, a low growl rumbling in his throat as his mouth claims yours in a deep, hungry kiss. Tongues tangle, breaths mingle, and the world narrows to the heat building between you. Your hands roam up to his shoulders. His calloused fingers deftly working the ties of your gown, loosening them until the silk whispers down your arms.
The fabric slips lower, exposing your shoulders, then your breasts, the cool air of the chamber raising gooseflesh on your skin. Maekar's gaze drops, reverent, and he cups one breast gently, his thumb brushing over the hardening nipple. You gasp into his mouth, arching toward his touch, your thighs clenching with the unfamiliar ache growing low in your belly.
"So beautiful" he murmurs against your lips, breaking the kiss to trail his mouth down your jaw, your collarbone, until he takes your nipple between his lips. He sucks softly at first, then harder, his tongue flicking in a rhythm that draws a moan from deep within you. Your fingers thread into his silver hair, holding him close as pleasure sparks through you.
Emboldened, you tug at his tunic, pulling it up and over his head in one fluid motion. His broad chest is revealed, marked by old scars that speak of battles long past, and you trace them with your fingertips, feeling the muscles tense under your touch. He straightens, helping you discard the garment, then reaches for the last tie at your waist, unfastening it with steady hands.
Your dress falls completely now, leaving you in nothing but your small clothes. Maekar's eyes roam over you, and he steps back to shed his own breeches, kicking them aside. His cock springs free, thick and hard, already leaking at the tip, and your eyes widen slightly at the sight, intimidating, yet stirring a fresh wave of heat between your legs.
He notices your stare and smiles faintly, a touch of pride and reassurance in his expression "We will go slow" he promises, closing the distance again.
Your hands explore him in turn, sliding down his back to grip his ass, pulling him closer. He groans, nipping at your earlobe before capturing your mouth once more.
Together, you stumble toward the bed, lips locked, hands wandering. His fingers hook into the waist of your smallclothes, tugging them down your strong legs. You step out of them, kicking them away, and return the favor, shoving his undergarments lower until he's as nude as you.
The back of your knees hit the edge of the bed, and you both tumble onto the soft furs in a tangle of limbs. He lands half atop you, careful not to crush you with his weight, propping himself on one elbow as his free hand cups your face.
The kiss that follows is slower, deeper, pouring all his love into it while his body settles between your thighs.
Your legs, strong from hours in the saddle, wrap around his hips instinctively, pulling him nearer. The friction of his cock sliding against your slick folds makes you both gasp. You're wet already, arousal coating you from the intensity of the moment, but he doesn't rush. He kisses down your neck again, then lower, to lavish attention on your other breast.
His hand trails downward, over your ribs, your belly, until his fingers reach the curls at the apex of your thighs. He parts your folds gently, finding your clit with his thumb and circling it slowly. You buck against him, a whimper escaping as sparks of pleasure ignite "Maekar... please..."
"I have you,my love" he soothes, sliding one finger inside you you're tight, unaccustomed, and he moves carefully, curling his finger to stroke that sensitive spot within. Your walls clench around him, and he adds a second finger soon after, scissoring them to stretch you, his thumb never ceasing its rhythm on your clit.
Your hips rolling to meet his hand, strong thighs flexing as you ride his fingers. He watches your face, attuned to every gasp, every flush, adjusting his pace to draw out your pleasure. "Fuck you feel so good" he whispers, kissing your temple. "So ready for me"
When you're trembling on the edge, he withdraws his fingers, positioning himself at your entrance. His cock nudges against you, slick with your arousal, and he pushes in slowly, inch by inch. The stretch burns sweetly, fullness unlike anything you've known, but his loving gaze holds yours, grounding you through it.
"Breathe with me" he murmurs, pausing to let you adjust, his hand stroking your thigh. You nod, exhaling as he sinks deeper, until he's fully sheathed, hips flush against yours.
He settles inside you, letting you adjust as you gasp under him, holding his shoulders. His forehead lowers to yours “Aō nyke lēkia” he says against your lips.
He begins to move then, a gentle thrust at first, building to a steady rhythm that has you moaning his name “Gods Maekar! Yes!” Your legs tighten around him, urging him on, and he responds with deeper strokes, one hand bracing beside your head while the other intertwines with yours.
Passion surges, loving and fierce, as you move together, breaths ragged. He kisses you through it all, whispering words in High Valyrian you don’t understand between thrusts, until ecstasy crashes over you both, his release spilling hot inside you as your own climax clenches around him.
He stays buried deep, collapsing gently atop you, forehead to forehead, you hold him close, the world remade in the afterglow. His forehead rested against yours, breath warm and uneven. One arm slid beneath your shoulders, the other braced beside your head as though even now he would shield you from the world beyond these walls.
You wrap your arms around him without thinking. For a long moment neither of you speak. The world outside the chamber felt distant, he presses his nose lightly to your cheek, breathing you in.
“What did it mean?” you asked softly.
He does not move at first “What?”
“The words you said” you murmured, thumb brushing lightly along the line of his shoulder
He lifted his head just enough to look at you. Violet eyes steady now and unguarded in a way few had ever seen “It means” he said quietly, “I love you”
“Say it again” you whispered.
He studied your face as though committing it to memory “Aō nyke lēkia”
“Aō…” You stumbled slightly over the shape of it, earning the faintest ghost of a smile from him. You tried again, slower “Aō nyke lēkia”
The pronunciation was imperfect. The meaning was not.
Something in him softened in a way you had never seen.
He lowered his forehead to yours again, eyes closing briefly as though the words had undone him more thoroughly than anything ever could “Careful” he murmured, voice rough but lighter now “You are not meant to use my own language against me”
You huffed a faint breath of laughter, brushing your lips against his “I am your wife” you reminded him softly “I may use whatever weapons I please”
A short quiet laugh left him as hand tightened at your waist, but this time there was no urgency in it.
And for the first time since you arrived at Summerhall, you did not feel like a compromise.
Pairing: Maekar Targaryen x FemReader (no use of y/n)
Part Two
Lyonel Baelor Original Imagine Masterlist
Warnings: Male gaze yearning (he wants that cookie bad) fire at summer hall (I could not help myself) cursing, accidents, poor self image (reader is delulu), poor family dynamics
Imagine: You were the eldest daughter of a great house. Your mother had sadly passed many years ago, bringing your sister into the world, and from that day forward, you were no longer simply a daughter. You were lady of the house in everything but title.
Your father, too grief-stricken to wed again, turned to you instead. The duty of running the household and raising your sister had fell to you, just a girl yourself at the time. You learned quick, avoiding your loneliness by through work and sharpening your keen mind.
There was a time you thought your father would secure a match for you. You remembered that conversation, a pit in your stomach “I cannot spare you. Who would care for us if you were gone?”
It had hurt then, but like always you buried it down, hoping it would hurt less overtime. Eventually, you believed the words true. You were useful, dependable, practical. But not loved, not desired. You believed it was somehow your fault.
Now years had passed and you felt well past your marriageable age. A spinster. The word had once stung. Now it simply fit.
Your sister, bright and beautiful and just spoiled enough to be charming, had blossomed into the perfect bride.
Your father had arranged an exceptional match, not for you, for her. And so the household prepared to travel
————————————————————————————————————
Summerhall was not what you expected. For a family home of a prince and supposedly six children, the air was chillingly quiet.
The great hall was long and ceiling high, banners of the three-headed dragon hanging heavy in the still air. Sunlight filtered through tall windows, catching on polished stone and red silk.
Prince Maekar stood at the far end of the hall, not flanked by guards but by his children, only 3 you counted. One boy (or man you supposed by his age) and two girls
He was taller than you expected. Broad shouldered, sliver hair brushed back neatly, he was handsome, undeniably so. However his expression was carved into something stern and restrained.
His violet gaze moved first to your father, then to your sister who smiled at him brightly, Then to you, you did not smile, you met his gaze steadily.
He did not look away first, you did. Only because your father nudged your arm sharply in reminder. He was a prince, after all. You curtsied in silence as introductions were made.
All formality, the herold announced each child.
“Prince Daeron” He stepped forward slightly. Handsome, you noted, near your sister’s age. But the red rim of his eyes betrayed him, as did the faint scent of wine. His gaze lingered on your sister, but not with warmth. Then he glanced at you, just for a moment. His expression flickered, almost in recognition. You did not know why.
“Princess Daella.” She stepped forward with a composed curtsy, Trying very hard to appear older than she was. Her posture impeccable, her gaze openly assessing your sister with fascination.
“And Princess Rhae.” The smallest peered from behind her sister’s skirts, violet eyes bright with bold curiosity. She was not watching your sister. She was watching you.
“Are you the one Father is marrying?” she asked loudly before anyone could stop her.
Your sister blushed violently. Your father stiffened. Maekar’s expression did not change, though you did catch a faintest tightening in his jaw.
You crouched slightly so you were level with her, a habit long engrained from raising your own sister “No princess” you said gently “My sister is to be your father’s new bride” very careful not to refer your sister as her new mother.
Rhae tilted her head, her violet eyes studying you ”You look braver”
You smiled at her, feeling her father’s sharp gaze on your back. “Bravery is not required when meeting your new family” you said “Only good manners” you finish with a wink.
Rhae considered that seriously, her little brows furrowing.
Maekar finally spoke “Rhae” The single word was not loud, but it carried authority. She stepped back at once.
Your sister laughed nervously, introducing herself to her future family.
However your gaze was pulled back to Meakar to find him watching you.
You met his gaze head on, like you were both measuring each other up.
—————————————————————————
The gardens of Summerhall were beautiful, carefully cultivated. It was easy to spend the day out there in the sun.
Your sister and the prince walked the gardens, as you played the part of chaperone.
Maekar walked the garden path beside your sister, hands clasped behind his back. She spoke pleasantly of home, of music, of her fondness for embroidery and hawking in mild weather.
Across the lawn, beneath the weirwood, you sat with Daella and Rhae.
Rhae was speaking quickly, hands flying as she recounted some grievance. Daella tried to appear dignified but leaned closer all the same.
“And did you climb the tower again?” you asked Rhae with a smile
The girl hesitated “…Yes”
“Then you cannot be surprised that you were forbidden from supper!” You laughed, head falling back.
“It is not fair” Rhae insisted
“Fairness and consequence are rarely the same thing,” you replied calmly “Or so my once Septa told me”
Daella laughed at that, clearly having heard the same lecture more than once. You lay back across the grass, sunlight warming your face. Rhae copies you, slipping her hand into yours without thought.
You let her, a faint smile crossing your face, remembering your sister at this age.
You had not noticed Maekar had stopped walking. Your sister faltered mid sentence “Your Grace?”
He did not answer at once, his eyes gaze has shifted toward you. Toward the easy way laid across the warm grass, shirts raised slightly in the breeze. His youngest daughter’s hand resting trustingly in yours.
Rhae laughed suddenly at something you whispered to her, bright and unguarded, Daella following suit.
Maekar changed direction without comment. Your sister hurried after him, confused but unwilling to question.
He stopped a short distance from the tree. Rhae noticed him first and straightened. Daella followed suit.
You rose smoothly, brushing grass from your skirts “Your Grace” you said evenly.
He looked at his daughters. “Rhae” he said “You were instructed to practice your letters”
Rhae flushed opening her mouth to no doubt apologise. “She was telling me of the tower” you interjected calmly saving the girl from a scolding “I believe she understands now why it was unwise”
His gaze shifted to you, staring at you for a moment longer that courtesy required, his eyes unreadable.
“Do you?” He finally asked, turning his attention back to Rhea.
Rhae nodded quickly “I do”
Maekar studied the girl a moment longer. Then he said “Very well. Letters after supper”
Rhae brightened. Daella glanced between you both, something thoughtful in her expression.
Maekar continued walking through the garden as if nothing had happened. Your sister followed, attempting to resume her previous line of conversation.
Behind him, Rhae’s laughter rose again. He did not look back. But his steps slowed.
———————-
When you suggested a ride, your sister had been delighted. In truth, she was struggling to find common ground with Maekar. While not a skilled rider herself, she was certain the effort alone would interest him.
And so your ‘simple ride’ became a chaperoned outing with two princesses in tow.
Your sister hesitated at the mounting block, smoothing her skirts carefully as a groom steadied her mare. Daella mounted neatly with practiced precision, posture straight and proper, all the training of a princess.
You did not wait for assistance, riding a second nature at this point. You took the pommel, placed your boot in the stirrup, and swung yourself astride in one clean motion.
You did not notice the Prince’s gaze linger as you settled in.
You settled easily into the saddle, knees firm, back straight but relaxed. When the groom handed you the reins, you gave the horse a light squeeze of your thighs.
The mare responded instantly
“You ride often?” Daella asked, curious.
“Every day I am permitted” you replied lightly “It is my favourite pass time”
Your sister laughed “She races the stable boys and refuses to lose”
“I do not refuse” you corrected “I simply do not lose” Rhae giggled at that
Maekar mounted without flourish, trodding up to you all on his black stallion.
The ride began at an easy pace along the tree line. Your sister remained careful, guiding her mare delicately as she tried to entice the prince into a conversation. Daella focused intently on posture and rein control. Rhae bounced slightly on her pony, too eager, too confident.
You noticed the girls careless movements “Shorten your reins princess” you called gently “And heels down”
Rhae adjusted at once, turning to you with a bright smile. Maekar’s eyes flicked to you, something unreadable in his expression.
The path widened ahead into open grass with a hedge. Without thinking, you pressed your heels and leaned forward. Your mare surged, making the jump a a good speed, the wind caught your hair, laughter spilling from you before you could stop it. Your cheeks were flushed in exhilaration.
For a brief moment, you forgot entirely that you were being watched. Maekar’s eyes gaze tracked the strong line of your thighs against the horse’s flanks. His jaw tightened almost imperceptibly.
You guided your mare back toward the others “You show off” your sister accused lightly
You smiled back at her “I had to correct your assumption that I lose” you replied teasingly
Unaware that behind you Rhea attempted to mimic you. She kicked too hard and the pony startled. There was a sharp cry as Rhae tumbled sideways into the grass.
Everything stopped. Maekar dismounted instantly, with you right behind him.
“Rhae!” Maekar’s voice carried panicked urgency as he dropped beside her “Look at me”
She blinked rapidly, shocked more than hurt “My arm” she whimpered
You dropped next to him, unconcerned how your body brushed his. You examined it quickly, hands steady “You landed well. It is only bruised” you smiled reassuring at her.
Her lower lip trembled. She did not look at her father. She threw herself toward you.
You gathered her without hesitation, the force her movement pushed you backward into Maekar. He caught you both instinctively, his hands coming to your hips to steady you, his chest brushing your back.
Rhae’s arms tightened around your neck. Once of Maekar’s hands came to his daughter’s hair, the panic in his eyes only just fading.
“She is not injured” you said calmly, turning your head to meet his gaze, as he knelt behind you “Only shaken” suddenly aware of how close he was.
He nods briefly, his shoulders relaxing marginally, letting out a “thank the fucking seven” under his breath. Neither of you move, his one of his hands still at your hips, your eyes locked for just a moment too long. You assume it must be from the shock.
It was you who looked away first, breaking the spell.
“Come on, you ride again” you say softly to the girl in your arms.
Rhae stiffened “Must I?”
“Yes” you said, brushing dirt from her sleeve as her father still stroked her hair “If you do not, you will fear it next time”
“She is right” Meakar adds quietly, his breath ghosting by your ear. Flexing his hand slightly at your hip, before removing it from your body. You think nothing off it, nor the way the heat of his touch lingers like a brand on your skin.
“I will ride with her” you assured him as you stand, girl still in your arms “She will be safe with me”
Maekar’s gaze dropped to where your arm secured his daughter. To the way Rhae leaned back into you without hesitation.
He mounted again without comment. The ride resumed. But this time, his stallion drew closer to yours. You unaware of his gaze on you.
——————————-
The ride ended without further incident. Rhae, pale but determined, completed the ride with you. Daella rode quieter than before, thoughtful, you mean to ask her later how she is.
By the time the stable yard came into view, the panic had settled into something steadier. You dismounted first, lifting Rhae down carefully before handing her reins to a waiting hand.
“You were brave” you told her softly smoothing her hair down.
She straightened at once “I was” her big eyes looking up to yours.
“Yes” you agreed nodding gently, placing a kiss to her head.
Daella lingered long enough to give you a searching look before following her sister inside. Your own sister had already gone ahead, chattering nervously about how dreadful it had all been.
Soon, the yard emptied. Only you and Maekar remained, unaware that his eyes had been on you the whole time.
You brushed dust from your skirts, smoothing the fabric as though nothing unusual had occurred.
“She rode again” he said simply, in his usual grumbly tone.
“She did” you replied meeting his gaze
He regarded you a moment longer, assessing “Most would have carried her inside” he challenged
“And let her live in fear?” you met his challenge calmly
A faint shift in his posture made him stand taller “She is not fucking timid” he said firmly. You could almost hear the ‘blood of the dragon’ speech the Targeryan’s where so fond of.
“I did not say she was” you reply, just as firmly.
He pauses for a moment studying you “You were correct”
The words were simple, unadorned, but send a warmth through your chest all the same
“She needed to mount again” he continued “You saw it quickly”
“I have seen it before” you answered simply, feeling suddenly bashful at his praise.
“With your sister” he summarised his gaze casting over you in question.
“Yes” you nod.
He studied your face as though measuring “You were quite young to be raising a child” he said more a fact than a question.
“It was necessary” you offered simply.
Something in his expression altered at that, but he did not say anything further. The breeze moved between you.
“I did not mean to overstep” you added after a moment, feeling awkward in silence “She reached for me”
“She did” he said, his eyes swimming with that undistinguishable emotion again “Thank you” he said finally. You sense it was not something he offered lightly.
You inclined your head, smiling softly “She is a brave child”
“She is” he agreed, his gaze lingered on you a fraction too long. Then, almost as an afterthought “You ride well”
Warmth bloomed through your chest again despite yourself “So I have been told” you say a small smile on your lips, missing the way his eyes dropped to them.
A groom approached from the stable doors, breaking the moment.
Maekar stepped back, as though only then aware of how close together you stood, but before he turned away, he said almost offhand “She will ride with you again” a question disguised as an order.
“If you permit it you grace” you replied, smiling faintly.
His eyes flicked back to your mouth for just for a second “I do” he said finally.
And then he turned and left without another word.
———————————————
The weeks passed quietly, you surprisingly grew to like Summerhall, its once silent halls now filled with children’s laughter.
Rhae began bringing you ribbons to braid into her hair. Daella began lingering after lessons, asking questions that were not truly about history. Even Daeron, in his own way, gravitated toward you. It had not been intentional.
One evening you had been crossing the corridor heading to your chambers when you heard a retch and the clatter of boots against stone.You found him half collapsed beside a window, wine staining the front of his tunic. “Prince Daeron” you said evenly looking down at the sorry sight of him.
He squinted up at you, unfocused “You are not my septa”
“No, I am not” you simply
He attempted to stand and failed spectacularly. You sigh quietly and knelt beside him, gathering his hair back from his face just as he leaned forward again “You will thank me for this tomorrow” you informed him calmly.
He laughed weakly between bouts of sickness. “You smell like grass” he muttered.
“You smell like wine” you hummmed, patting his back as he retched.
When he had finished, you guided him carefully to sit upright against the wall.Daeron’s gaze drifted unfocused again. “The dragon does not choose wrong” he said “He only pretends” Then he slumped fully unconscious against the wall.
You stared at him for a long moment. Then sighed and called for a servant. The next morning, Daeron greeted you at breakfast as though nothing had occurred. But when his gaze met yours across the table, it lingered, unsettlingly knowing.
———————————-
Your sister tried. She dressed carefully. Laughed brightly. Sat beside him at supper and attempted conversation. She had tried everything in her arsenal to get the prince’s attention but nothing seemed to work
You on the other hand could not seem to get his attention off you. His violet gaze, found you often. Across the garden paths, the training yard, and the supper table.
You told yourself it was because of his daughters, because you had inserted yourself into their routines and he was assessing your influence.
It could not be anything else. You were not the beauty, you were not the bride.
⸻—————————————-
The gardens of Summerhall had become a sanctuary of yours, spending you days often with the girls. Rhae had declared she wished to grow her own flowers. Daella, not to be outdone, insisted upon herbs of practical use.
You knelt in the soil between them, sleeves rolled up, hair falling out of your pins. “You must cut the stems cleanly” you instructed, guiding Rhae’s hand. “Like this”
You reached for the pruning knife. Distracted by Rhae’s chatter, you did not notice your fingers slick with crushed leaves. The blade slipped, against your skin. A thin line of red opened across your palm as you sucked in a breathe.
“Oh!” Rhae gasped.
“It is nothing,” you said quickly attempting to hide your hand. It was not nothing. Blood welled faster than expected, warm and bright against your skin
Daella stood at once “You are bleeding”
“I had gathered as much” you say sardonically. You rose looking for your handkerchief meaning to bind it yourself.
In the activity you did not notice him walk up beside you “What has happened?” Maekar asked
The girls straightened instinctively “She cut herself” Rhae supplied.
“It is hardly dramatic” you replied “Just a small cut”
He stepped closer. Too close.
“Your hand” he ordered his own outstretched.
“This is hardly necessary—” you argued before he cut you off.
“Your hand” he repeated. The command left no room for refusal.
You took a breath and extended your hand out like a naughty child.
He took it in his. Until that moment you had not noticed how large his hands were. His grip was firm, steady, turning your palm upward. His thumb pressed at the base of your hand to examine the cut. The warmth of his skin against yours startled you more than the injury had.
“It is not deep” you said lightly
“Hold fucking still” he commented gruffly. His thumb shifted, pressing against the inside of your wrist. Where your pulse fluttered.
He felt it. You saw the faint tightening of his jaw. For a suspended heartbeat, the air between you thickened as heat climbed your neck.
Ridiculous, you told yourself. You were imagining it. He was courting your sister, he would never want someone like you.
He slowly binded with wound, tying it off tightly, his fingers grazing your skin.
“That should hold it” he said voice lower than before.
“Yes” you answered quickly.
He did not release you immediately. Just long enough for your pulse to betray you again.
You looked away unable to keep his gaze as it flicked over you. No doubt assessing the lowly spinster who was so affected by a man’s simple touch. Not sing the way his violet eyes darkened.
“Do not be careless” he added, voice rumbling through his chest.
“I was distracted” you answered, biting your lip.
His gaze flicked briefly to your mouth. Then away. You told yourself you imagined that too.
Rhae cleared her throat loudly. The moment fractured, he checked you binding once more then turned and walked away.
You exhaled slowly, watching him go. He had not looked at you as a man looks at a woman. Of course he had not. He was ensuring you did not faint in front of his daughters.
That was all.
You were not foolish enough to believe otherwise.
——-
One evening, the household gathered in the library. Firelight warmed the dark wood shelves. The scent of old parchment and smoke filled the air, you loved it here.
Your sister sat near the hearth beside Maekar, a goblet in her hand. She was attempting to coax him into telling some story of his youth during the Blackfyre Rebellion.
You sat on the rug nearby, skirts pooled around you. Rhae knelt on the chair behind you, fingers tangled carefully in your hair as she attempted an ambitious braid.
“You are pulling” you warned mildly with a wince.
“I am not” she said petulantly, but eased her hold.
Daella sat crosslegged across from you, watching with narrowed, curious eyes “We should play a game” she announced suddenly.
“That is dangerous” you replied a small smile, willing to indulge the young girl.
“That is the point” she said smiling sweetly.
You glanced toward the hearth, your sister still talking, but Maekar’s attention had shifted. Not obviously, but was now clearly he was listening to you and the girls
“Very well” you sighed “Within reason” pointing a finger at her warningly.
Daella leaned forward eagerly like she had been waiting for this chance “Why are you not married?”
You smiled faintly, straight to it “Because no one has ever asked me”
“That cannot be true” Daella pressed.
“It can” you shot back teasingly.
“You are pretty enough” Rhae added helpfully, tugging too tight on your hair
“Ow! And thank you” you mutter, rubbing at the spot where she tugged.
Daella continued on ignoring her sister “Do you not wish to marry?”
You hesitated only briefly “It has not been necessary”
“That is not the question” she shot back eyes narrowing, looking very much like her father in that moment.
You tilted your head. “Very well. Yes. When I was girl”
“And now?” Daella asked head tilting,
You gave a small shrug “Now I am content” you say attempting to believe your own lie.
Daella studied you for a moment clearly seeing through your words “Would you want children?” she asked next, softer now.
You sucked in a breath, as you hear you sister’s laughter falter slightly near the hearth. Feeling his violet gaze on you without needing to look.
“Yes” you said simply, your voice not giving away the pain in your heart.
Rhae leaned over your shoulder. “I would like more brothers” she announced brightly “Or sisters”
“That is fortunate” Daella muttered dryly, clearly uninterested on what her sister had to say.
Rhae continued, entirely earnest “Father could give you children, he gave mother lots of babes”
There was a sharp choking sound from the hearth as Meakar coughed hard into his goblet, a string of curses between his coughs.
Your sister startled, patting his back. You flushed, as Daella burst into uncontrollable laughter, clearly understanding the innuendo.
Rhae blinked innocently “What?” You felt heat rise up your neck with each mortifying second that passed.
“Rhae” Maekar said still coughing slightly “That is not appropriate”
“I only meant—” she began clearly confused
“It does not matter what you meant” he said low. Silence settled thickly over the room.
You cleared your throat lightly, rescuing the child. “Your braid is slipping” you said calmly. Rhae immediately returned to fixing your hair.
Daella wiping the tears from her eyes was watching her father now. Watching the way his hand had tightened around the goblet Watching the way he was not looking at your sister. But at you, eyes dark, with something unreadable.
—————————
The feast at Summerhall had been arranged long before your sisters courtship. In honor of the visiting lords from the Reach, a way to keep them in line with the Crown. It was nothing grand, merely music in the lower courtyard, lanterns strung between stone arches, wine flowing freely enough to encourage laughter.
You had not intended to attend, but Rhae insisted, and Daella declared it improper for you to remain hidden when the household gathered. Even if you insisted you were not part of their household.
Your sister was radiant in pale blue, seated beside Maekar beneath the archway, smiling brightly, speaking animatedly.
You kept to the edges at first, until you were noticed “My Lady” the visiting knight said with an easy bow “You shame the rest of us by attempting invisibility” He was handsome in a polished way, confident, the sort of man most find charming.
“You mistake me” you replied lightly, trying not to flush under his attentions “I have never claimed to be invisible”
He smiled at that “Then allow me the honor of your company” he said holding out his arm.
You had never been asked to dance before.
You glanced briefly toward your sister, she was smiled encouragingly. Next to her Maekar simply watched, you did not notice the tightening of his jaw as his eyes burned holes into the knight.
You placed your hand in the knight’s. The dance was simple, he was a skilled partner.
“You dance well” he said as you turned.
You laughed “I merely attempting not to fall!”
The music swelled. Lantern light flickered against warm stone. On the next turn, his hand settled at your waist. Closer than strictly necessary.
His thumb pressed lightly into the small of your back as he drew you through the movement. You stiffened only slightly. He did not seem to notice.
Across the courtyard however, Maekar did. He had not taken his eyes off you, his knuckles white as he gripped his goblet tightly. Daella, seated near him, noticed also.
When the dance ended the knight bowed “May I claim another later?”
You hesitated “I believe I will be retiring soon” you say not feeling at ease with this knight.
Surprised flickered across his face, clearly used to not being told no “As you wish”
You curtsied quickly and slipped away, returning to where the girls stood. Rhae grabbed your hand at once “You were beautiful” she whispered loudly. You laughed softly, still unsettled, slipping your arm into Rhea’s as she showed you the lanterns, Daella close behind.
Across the courtyard, Maekar finally looked away.
The music continued after you withdrew from the dance. You remained with the girls, Rhae still clutching your hand as though the act of dancing had elevated you to something grand in her eyes.
Unfortunately for you, the visiting knight had not withdrawn. If anything, he seemed emboldened by your refusal.
A few cups of wine loosened his restraint, he was animated, eager to impress. Near the far end of the courtyard stood a ceremonial bonfire set before one of the older tower archways. It had been prepared for lighting at dusk, oil pooled thickly beneath stacked wood.
The knight gestured toward it grandly. “Shall we have proper light?” he called. “Or must we wait for servants to do what a man can manage?”
A few of the visiting lords laughed, The knight seized a torch from the wall and strode toward the bonfire.
You felt something tighten in your chest, as your eyes instinctively searched the courtyard for Maekar to put a stop to this madness.
“Perhaps he should not—” Daella murmured, as you cried out “NO!”The knight plunged the torch into the oil
For one breath, nothing happened. Then the flames roared upward, fast and high. The oil caught along the lip of the pit and spilled in a thin, gleaming line where the knight had sloshed it carelessly across old stone. The decorative fabric draped along the tower archway ignited almost instantly.
Gasps rippled through the courtyard “Water!” someone shouted. The knight stumbled back, startled, dumbfounded in his wine fogged mind
Servants rushed for buckets. Men shouted orders. The knight stood frozen.
In the chaos, Rhae’s hand slipped from yours. You did not feel it at first. Then you looked down at the empty space
“Rhae?” You call out quickly looking around you.
She had darted toward the archway, toward where the fire was now crawling. Perhaps frightened. Perhaps curious. Perhaps simply too young to understand the danger.
“Rhae!” You screamed.
“No!” Daella shouted grabbing at your arm. The smoke surged suddenly, swallowing the tower entrance in gray. And Rhae disappeared inside.
“Go to your father!” you order Daella. You did not think, you ran, straight toward where Rhae had disappeared.
The smoke burned your lungs the moment you crossed beneath the arch. “Rhae!” you called, coughing. Inside the old stairwell, heat climbed fast along the stone.
You could hear her crying. You followed the sound.
The stairwell was choking with smoke. Each breath scraped your lungs raw. Heat rolled down the narrow stone steps in suffocating waves.
“Rhae!” you called again coughing
“I’m here!” she sobbed from above.
You climbed blindly, hand sliding along the wall until you found her near the first landing, curled into herself, coughing violently.
“I can’t see” she cried.
“I know, I have you” you said reaching for her. You pulled her close, turning your body to shield her from drifting sparks. The wood near the ceiling had caught.
“We are leaving. Hold tight” you say trying to keep the panic out of your voice.
She wrapped her arms around your neck, you tried to back the way you came, but the smoke thickened and behind you something heavy collapsed.
You staggered back instinctively, dragging Rhae with you. The way down was gone. Your heart slammed against your ribs.
Above you, at the bend in the tower wall, a narrow arrow slit window stood cracked open. The old iron lattice had rusted through on one hinge, leaving a gap barely wide enough for a child.
You moved without thinking. You lifted Rhae toward it. “Listen to me” you said firmly, gripping her shoulders. “You must climb through”
“I don’t want to—” she started weakly
“You must” you demand, wheezing slightly
Smoke thickened around you. Your eyes streamed. You boosted her upward, ignoring the burn in your arms. She scrambled, terrified but obedient. Hands reached from outside. servants below had seen her. You smile as they pulled her through the gap, exhaling in relief.
The gap was too small for you, you knew it. You turned your gaze turned toward the stairs. They were fully ablaze now. You covered your mouth with your sleeve and tried to move lower, crouching where the smoke was thinner.
Your vision swam. Your lungs refused to draw in air. The world tilted as you leaned against the walls.
And then. A shape burst through the smoke, smashing through the fallen wood. Too blurry for you to see. He reached you in three strides and caught you just as your knees buckled.
His hand closed around your arm, dragging you upright.
“I have you” he said, voice rough with smoke and something else.
“She’s out” you managed wheezing
“I know” He pulled you against him, one arm locking around your waist, shouldering through smoke and heat without breaking pace.
You barely felt the courtyard air when he emerged. You only felt him as he halfcarried, halfdragged you away from the arch, as you coughed not finding air.
He lowered you only when you were clear of smoke and even then, his hand remained at your waist.
Your gown was scorched at the hem. The shoulder seam torn. Ash streaked your throat.
When you swayed, he did not ask. He lifted you into his arms “Get me the fucking Maester” he growled at nearby staff.
—————————————
The last thing you remembered was Maekar’s arms and his voice growling through his chest.
You awoke to cool linen beneath your hands. Your throat burned, your head ached and you are alone.
For one foolish, fragile moment, you expected him to be there. Then you remind yourself you are not her.
You push yourself upright slowly, ignoring the protest of your lungs. A knock sounds at the door, your father enters.
He does not embrace you, he does not ask how you fare. He closes the door carefully behind him. “You have caused considerable difficulty” disappointment evident in his tone.
You swallowed against the rawness in your throat. “I saved was saving a child” you protested
“Yes” he replied evenly. “And in doing so, you have placed yourself in a compromising position”
“Half the Reach saw Prince Maekar carry you from flame” your father continued. “Your gown torn. His hands upon you” Heat flooded your face despite the lingering chill in your bones.
“I was unconscious” you mutter
“That will not matter to those who whisper” he reasons
Silence settled heavily in the chamber.
“I have spoken with the prince” your father said.
Your heart stuttered painfully.
“He understands the necessity of preserving both your reputations” ever the calculating lord, your father.
“What does that mean?” you asked quietly.
“It means” your father says with a sigh “that he has agreed to marry you”
The air left your lungs. “He was courting my sister” you managed.
“He was considering an alliance” your father corrected
“He agreed?” you asked again, softer now.
“Yes” he says simply with no hesitation or elaboration.
The simplicity of it hurt more than argument would have. Your father turned to you. “You will prepare yourself. The betrothal will be announced at first light ” He left the room without another word.
You sat in the quiet, smoke still lingering faintly in your hair, the taste of ash heavy on your tongue.
You had saved a child.
You had ruined a courtship.
You had been carried through fire.
And by morning, you would belong to a prince. One you believed, did not want you.
Pairing: Lyonel Baratheon x FemReader (no use of y/n)
Maekar Bealor Spinster Series Masterlist
Warnings: Male gaze yearning (he wants that cookie bad) poor self image (reader is delulu) poor family dynamics. Explicit Smut - Minors DNI
A/N: Thank you to everyone who has commented and left their love for this series, it has truly been a pleasure to write. Don’t forget to check out all 3 works linked above.
The wind had not softened since the night you nearly drowned, nor the sea swirling below.
You stood near the same stretch of wall, looking out at the storm clouds rolling in, much like you had done for the last few days. Since the announcement.
You remembered very little of waking in his chambers. Only fragments, your father’s voice, your sister crying. And Lyonel, unmoving at the side of the bed.
You remembered the word ‘honor’ being tossed around, but the time you fully woke it was already decided.
You remembered asking if he agreed. You remembered him saying “I chose this” You had decided he meant he chose responsibility, for salvaging everything you disrupted.
Part of you thanked him for it, was grateful. But you could not quiet that part of your mind which was angry, angry that he was forced to take you out of pity and a skewed sense of nobility. So you did what you did best, pushed your feelings down and did your duty.
Footsteps sounded behind you, but you did not turn, used to this dance by now “I thought I would find you here” His voice carried easily over the wind
You kept your gaze on the sea “Then your investigative skills are improving, my lord”
“Move back from the wall” was all he said as he approached.
You exhaled slowly through your nose “No”
A sharp breath left him “Must you oppose me in everything?”
“If you begin with commands, then yes” you finished as he stepped beside you “You would prefer I hide indoors?” you continued “Tremble at staircases? Weep at the sound of waves?” You argued
“I would prefer” he bit out “that you not stand where you could fall again” his tone carrying something you could not distinguish. His hand coming to your elbow, like you planned to lunge over any moment.
“That was an extraordinary accident, it will not happen again” you say, unsure if you are assuring him or yourself
The wind filled the silence between you, but his grip did not loosen
“You cannot guard me from weather, my lord” you said after a moment “Nor from my own decisions”
“No” he agreed, that damned smile coming to his face “But I can damn well try”
“You are insufferable” you muttered
Then at last, for the first time since the night you fell, he laughed “So I have been told”
———————————————
You had not only been avoiding Lyonel, your sister had been avoiding you. You found her in the solar overlooking the inner courtyard. She sat curled near the window seat, her hair unpinned, eyes red from weeping.
Silence fell between you, “I was foolish” she said at last
You exhaled “Yes” you said simply.
She huffed a watery laugh “You are not even going to soften it?”
“You nearly went over the edge” you say, coming to sit beside her.
“And you did” her voice wobbled.
You did not answer, unsure of what to say to that. Her hands took yours “I did not think” she whispered “I never think long enough”
You softened then, just slightly. “That is why I do, its my job”
Her eyes filled again “I do not deserve you”
“That is dramatic” you say wiping her tears
I mean it” she insisted “You have always fixed things. Even when I did not notice”
You looked down uncomfortable with praise, but she carried on “And now you are to be Lady of Storm’s End because I wanted to see the sea” she added
“That is not why” you said firmly.
“Is it not?” she challenged quietly.
You hesitated “No” you repeated “It is because of duty”
Her gaze sharpened in a way it rarely did “He did not look at me the way he looks at you”
Your breath caught “That is nonsense” shaking your head “You imagine things”
“If you insist” she spoke in a tone clearly not believing you. Then, gently added “I would like to help”
“With what?” You frowned
“Your wedding” she added brightly
You blinked “Oh, are you sure?”
“It was planned for a Baratheon bride” she added lightly “It still will be”
You turned fully to her “You are not angry? That it is me instead of you? ”
She shook her head “I nearly lost you” The simplicity of it undid you more than jealousy ever could have. She smiled faintly, though her eyes were still damp “If you are to stand beside him, you will not do so looking like an afterthought”
And for the first time since the announcement, something in your chest shifted.
Not enough to believe you were wanted, but enough to soften the ache in your chest.
——————————————-
You came to find planning a wedding with your sister was akin to a military operation. You were more than happy for her to take the lead. Just thinking of the wedding, filled your stomach with butterflies and not the pleasant kind.
She coordinated guest lists, flowers and the septon with alarming enthusiasm. However, the one thing she refused to help with was your dress.
“Sister, you cannot go down the aisle looking like you have just returned from a morning walk!” she declared, all but dragging you to the carriage. Insisting on heading to town for the finest silks.
The carriage had stopped in the market square of the nearby town, bolts of silk displayed beneath striped awnings. Your sister had already vanished toward a stall of lace, leaving you to inspect fabrics. Your stopped before darker silks, running your fingers over them.
You felt him before you saw him “You intend to wed in mourning?” Lyonel asked lightly from behind you. You rolled your eyes, of course he had followed, you had managed to steadfastly avoid him for days.
You did not turn, you hands instead running over the fabrics still “Storm’s End is not known for summer skies, my lord”
He stepped closer “You are doing it again”
“Doing what?” You say, still refusing to look at him.
“My lord” He mimicked
You finally looked at him “It is your title it is not?” You challenged.
His mouth twitched. He reached past you, fingers brushing yours as he lifted a bolt of deep blue silk “You have not looked at me properly in a fortnight.”
You tried to step aside, but he blocked you “We have been occupied, planning a wedding takes work” you say with a huff.
“Mm” He leaned closer, voice dropping “You have been avoiding me”
“I have not” You say meeting his eye
“You have” he fired back, that infernal smile on his face again.
You exhaled slowly “I am attempting to grant you peace.”
He stared at you as though you had spoken nonsense “Peace?”
“Yes. You need not endure my presence more than required, my lord” you say with a mock curtsy, attempting to pass him.
His jaw tightened, before you could pass, he stepped into your path again.
“Move” you said evenly
“No” he smiled
You folded your arms “You are blocking the thoroughfare.”
“I own the thoroughfare” he replied lazily.
Your eyes flashed “Arrogance is unbecoming, my lord”
His smile faded a fraction, his hand lifted, not quite touching your jaw, but close enough that you felt the heat of it “Say my name” he murmured.
You held his gaze “My lord”
His eyes darkened, something flashing in them. He leaned closer, voice roughened “You enjoy tormenting me”
“I have learned from the best” you replied, heat rising in your chest. You told yourself it was anger.
For a heartbeat neither of you moved.
Then your sister called your name from across the square. You stepped around him cleanly and walked away.
He did not follow, but his eyes did not leave you.
———————————
The next few weeks passed in a blur of plans and pleasentires. What did not lessen was Lyonel’s habit of appearing precisely where you least wished him to be.
You would round a corner and collide squarely into his chest, every time. He would tease you and provoke you.
“You should watch where you are going” he would say mildly, as though he had not been standing directly in your path, grin etched into his features.
“You should not lurk in shadows like a bandit, my lord” you would reply, smoothing your skirts.
“And you should stop calling your future husband ‘my lord.’” He would quip, often mocking your tone
You replied sweetly “Your title remains intact, does it not?”
“It sounds wrong in your mouth” missing the way his gaze would drop to said mouth
You smiled without warmth and stepped around him “If you will excuse me, my lord”
He began escalating after that.
In the solar, he would drop into the seat beside you without invitation. In the library, he would lean over your shoulder until you were forced to look up. Your sister giggling a theatrics between you both.
Once, he lifted the parchment clean from your hands. He leaned closer, forcing your eyes up to meet his.
“There she is” he murmured.
Your pulse betrayed you.
You snatched the parchment back. “If you have nothing useful to contribute to our wedding, then kindly refrain from hindering it”
He only grinned.
On your walks, he would fall into step beside you, close enough that your sleeves brushed, as though daring you to comment. Till one day you finally snapped.
You stepped toward him, jabbing a finger into his chest “What could you possibly want today, Lyonel? To mock me? You block doorways, take things from my hands, stand too near as though I am deaf and blind and must be directed like livestock”
He stared at you eyes bright but did not stop you. Your finger poking his chest with each sentence “If you regret your choice, then say so. But do not circle me like this and pretend it is amusement”
Silence. Then he laughed, deep, rough and almost relieved.
He stepped closer. Your finger was still pressed against his chest, you became acutely aware of it, of the solid warmth beneath your touch. Before you could remove it his hand came up, covering yours “You have not raised your voice at me in two weeks, you have been polite and distant ” His thumb pressed into your knuckles lightly “I despise it”
You stared at him, stunned.
“I do not want your courtesy” he said “I want you furious. You fight me, you challenge me, you correct me in front of my own household.”
“And that pleases you?” you demanded incredulously.
“It does” he answered honestly.
You faltered, you brow furrowed. His mouth curved, slow and deliberate.
“There she is” he murmured “The woman who accused me of cheating in my own hall”
You hated that warmth creeping up your neck “You are infuriating”
“Yes”
“And arrogant”
“Yes”
“And entirely too pleased with yourself.”
“Yes”
You threw your hands up in exasperation walking away. He looked delighted.
—————————————
Tomorrow. The word sat heavy in your chest as you stood in your chambers staring out at the sea as it crashed against the stone.
A knock sounded. Your sister swept in without waiting for permission, bright eyed and bubbly as ever.
“You are not allowed to brood” she declared at once.
“I am not brooding” you shot back
She hummed like she did not believe you in the slightest. You sighed but allowed her to pull you toward her chambers where seamstresses waited with the final fittings.
The gown lay draped across a chair, a deep blue silk, the exact bolt you had argued over in the market. Gold thread had been worked into the hem and bodice in delicate stag embroidery, antlers curling upward across the skirts.
You let them dress you for the final fitting. The silk was heavier than you expected. It fit cleanly along your waist, structured, commanding, the neckline a v shape. The gold thread caught the light when you moved.
You looked at your reflection. You did not look like a bride who had been someone’s second choice.
But you still felt like one.
Your sister stepped behind you, adjusting the shoulders, before pulling your neckline down with wink, getting the seamstress to sow it there.
“This will certainly give him a reason to stare” she said simply
You gave her a look in the mirror “He stares at everything” you replied offhandedly
She only smiled in that infuriating, knowing way. You refused to ask what she meant.
—————————-
You had promised yourself you would not avoid him and not hide.
The feast swelled around you that evening. Music rose toward the rafters, tankards slammed against oak. Baratheon men roared laughter well into their cups, their Lord not far behind them, voice louder than usual as he delivered a speech that wandered and recovered in equal measure.
He looked alive, victorious, smiling wide.
His hand found yours during a toast, warm and firm, fingers curling around yours as though the gesture were natural. As though it had always been so.
Your stomach tightened. You told yourself it was the wine.
He raised your joined hands slightly when someone cheered. He did not look embarrassed. He did not look burdened.
You felt like something he had salvaged and still you were entirely convinced he deserved someone brighter.
————————————-
You did not sleep, every time you closed your eyes you saw disappointed eyes and vicious whispers of ‘spinster’
Your sister came bursting in early morning, all bright and bubbly, with hordes of maids trailing behind her. You were already up, ready to face the day.
They all fluttered around you at once. Hands adjusting, laces tugged, pins placed. Your sister insisted on fastening your jewellery herself, smoothing the gold against your throat, tugging the neckline of your gown lower with a mischievous little hum.
You gave her a look. She only grinned.
When they fastened the final clasp of your deep blue gown, you lifted your chin and took a steadying breath. Looking at the woman in the mirror.
“Lady Baratheon” your sister said softly this time, almost reverent.
You did not correct her.
⸻
Storm’s End did not host weddings quietly.
The great hall roared even before you entered. Banners of the crowned stag hung between stone columns, torches blazing.
You stepped forward on your father’s arm, at far end of the hall, beneath the carved stag of House Baratheon, Lyonel stood waiting.
Black and gold suited him too well. His doublet strained slightly across broad shoulders, dark curls loose around his brow. His eyes fixed only on you.
Your father’s grip tightened briefly before he placed your hand into Lyonel’s.
His hand was warm, steady, you tried to take comfort in that as you lifted your gaze to his. His eyes were dark, fixed on you in a way that made your pulse stumble.
The septon’s voice began, words about duty and union, about strength and legacy. You repeated your vows clearly, you did not tremble.
When it was his turn, his voice carried easily through the hall “I am hers and she is mine from this day until my last” his eyes never leaving yours.
It sounded less like recitation, more like promise. You told yourself that was imagination.
He removed his house cloak and fastened it around your shoulders, black and gold heavy over blue silk. His fingers brushed the back of your neck as he secured it, as he grinned at you the entire time.
When he kissed you, it was not restrained. His hand slid to your waist and held you there, firm and unyielding as his mouth met yours, in a deep kiss.
The hall erupted. You barely heard it, too focused on the warmth of him, the way his lips stole your breath, your first kiss.
When he pulled back, something burned in his eyes. You swallowed telling yourself it was just theatrics.
—————-
The feast that followed was thunderous. Baratheon men drank to their lord, to their lady, to sons and strength.
Lyonel did not leave your side, not once.
His hand remained at your back. His thumb traced slow circles at your waist during toasts. He leaned close when he spoke, voice pitched low so only you could hear.
“You look formidable my bride” he murmured once, eyes dragging over the blue silk, stopping at the neckline once or twice.
“You look intoxicated” you returned lightly.
He grinned in response.
Later, when the dancing began, he did not ask. He simply took your hand.
The dance was fast, loud, laughter echoing upward. He spun you once, catching you firmly when you landed against him “I told you” he said low near your ear “I would not let you fall”
Your breath caught despite yourself. You forced coolness back into your voice “Do not grow sentimental on me now, my lord.”
His eyes darkened at the title “You will tire of that” he said, voice rough.
You lifted your chin “I doubt it”
He only smiled. As though he knew something you did not.
⸻———————
The hall had grown louder with every passing cup of ale “Bedding!” someone roared from the lower tables.
You stiffened instinctively. Lyonel felt it.
He rose slowly from his seat, still smiling, still flushed from wine and celebration. The room quieted a fraction at the sight of him standing.
“Well?” one of his bannermen called boldly “Will you deny us the custom, my lord?”
Lyonel’s grin widened “Oh I know the custom” he said easily, voice carrying without effort “And I know my men”
Laughter rippled “But I would very much like to keep my wedding feast festive” he continued lightly “And I have no desire to break a man’s jaw on my wedding night”
The hall erupted, cheers, whistles and few groans.
“So we will spare the dramatics. You may drink to our success. You may wager on sons” His grin sharpens “But you will keep your fucking hands to yourself”
He was laughing but there was no joke beneath it, even drunk, they heard it. No one argued.
You told yourself it was simply pride. A lord protecting what was his.
He turned to you then, eyes bright, unrepentant “Come, my beautiful bride” he said, offering his arm as if nothing unusual had happened at all.
You assumed it was performance. He had always enjoyed an audience.
—————————-
The door closed behind you with a heavy thud, for the first time all day, it was just you and him.
You moved a few steps inward, your eyes going to the bed but you did not approach. Your eyes went back to him to find him already watching you.
You forced steadiness into your voice “You needn’t pretend. I know I’m not much to look at”
He laughed, for one fleeting second, he thought you were teasing him. Then he saw your face and his laughter died.
He crossed the room in three long strides, so quickly you nearly stepped back on instinct “You think I pretend?” he asked quietly.
His hand came to your jaw, thumb firm beneath your chin, lifting your face. His other hand slid down your side gripping your hip.
You gasped at the sudden closeness.
“You think I take you to my bed out of duty?” His eyes searched yours with something close to offense.
You held his gaze, stubborn even now “You are an honorable man, you would do your duty regardless”
“And that is your answer?” he shot back almost angry. His grip tightened just slightly at your hip, drawing you closer until you could feel the heat of him through layers of silk and linen “I have imagined you under me since the day they told me you were to be mine” he said, jaw tight.
Your breath caught.
He pulled you fully against him then, and you felt the unmistakable proof of his desire, through his breeches.
Your pulse stuttered violently.
“That is not duty” he added roughly.
Your mouth opened to argue, to insist he was proving a point, being theatrical, enjoying shocking you.
But he kissed you instead.
His mouth claimed yours, firm enough to steal your breath as his hand spread across your back, pressing you flush to him. The kiss deepened, heat surging, his control fraying at the edges as his hands mapped the curve of your waist, your ribs, the line of your spine.
When he pulled back, you were both flushed.
His forehead rested against yours “Never insult my wife in my presence again” he said lowly.
Your heart was racing, your lips tingled. And still your traitorous mind clung to doubt.
“You are very persuasive” you managed, pushing lightly at his chest “You almost sound convincing”
His eyes darkened. “Almost?” he repeated.
You step back from him, chin lifted in defiance even as your pulse races “This is a jest to you” you insist “A game you mean to win”
“You think this is a game?” he asks quietly.
You hold your ground. “You enjoy sport, you enjoy pursuit, you enjoyed provoking me. This is simply the final victory”
For a heartbeat he just stares at you. Then something in him breaks.
He closes the distance again, as you back up, your knees hit the bed. As he traps you against the post
“You think I have pursued you for sport?” His voice is no longer teasing.
“You followed me through corridors” you fire back. “Blocked doorways, mocked me, you courted my sister and then claimed me when given no other choice. What am I meant to believe?”
He exhales sharply through his nose eyes fixed on your “I have wanted you since the moment you accused me of cheating in my own hall”
You blink taking in breath “You were cheating” you mutter.
His mouth twitches “And you did not flinch” he presses on. “You did not giggle, you did not preen, you did not seek my favor. You challenged me.”
Your breath grows shallow.
“I began seeking you out because I could not stand a day without hearing you correct me” he says bluntly “I told stories larger than life because I wanted to see you cut them down”
You shake your head faintly “That is amusement”
“It was more” he corrects.
“When you laughed at me on the cliffs” he continues, voice roughening “I have never wanted anything the way I wanted that sound again”
Your throat tightens.
“And that last night ,at the feast” he says, stepping closer still “when you spoke of leaving Storm’s End as though it cost nothing, it took everything in me not to drag you to my chambers and make you understand you were not going anywhere, claim you as mine”
Your pulse thunders.
“You were never second” he says fiercely
“You were to wed her” you whisper.
“I was” he agrees “Until the day you fell” The shift in his voice makes you still “You think I chose you out of pity?” His jaw tightens “Do you know what it was like to see you go over that wall?”
You swallow, unable keep his eye.
“I have fought men twice my size. I have bled in battle” His voice grows harsher “I have never known fear like the second your head disappeared beneath that water”
Your chest aches.
“You did not breathe” he says, and now there is no teasing left in him at all “You were cold in my arms. And I thought” He cuts himself off, jaw clenching “I would have this burned curse place to the fucking ground, for taking you from me”
You stare at him, stunned.
“I did not choose you because you were compromised” he says, gripping your hips again, firm and certain “I chose you because the thought of losing you felt like being gutted alive”
Your eyes sting in tears, but you blink them back.
“No one” he continues, voice lowering but no less intense “has ever spoken to me the way you do. No one has ever stood in front of me without fear or flattery. No one has ever made me want to be better simply so I might be worthy of her respect”
Your breath trembles.
“I did not want bright and easy” he says. “I wanted fire. I wanted challenge. I want you”
You shake your head weakly “I am not”
He cuts you off, thumb pressing under your chin again “You are exactly what I want”
Your defenses crack.
“And if you insult yourself again”” he adds, voice dropping into something fierce and possessive “I will prove to you, slowly and thoroughly, exactly how much I want you”
In a moment that surprises even yourself, your lips crash against his. He stills for half a heartbeat and then he is kissing you back like a man starved.
His hands tighten at your waist, lifting you slightly as your fingers twist into his tunic. You rise onto your toes without thinking, pressing closer, needing to erase every foolish doubt you ever spoke.
He makes a low sound in his throat, something between a growl and a groan, and his hands slide up your back, pulling you flush against him.
You break for air first, chest heaving, but you do not step away. Your forehead rests against his, your fingers still holding him tightly
“Say it again” you whisper, shaken by your own boldness.
He searches your face, breath warm against your lips “I want you”
Your heart stutters, almost laughing through the tears threatening your lashes “Lyonel” you breathe, finally giving in.
The sound of his name on your tongue changes something in the room. His eyes darken, not with temper now, but something deeper “Again” he murmurs against your lips
“Lyonel” you whisper
This time he kisses you slower. His hand comes up to cradle the back of your head, thumb brushing your temple as if steadying himself.
“You are going to ruin me” he says quietly.
You almost smile “Then we are even”
And this time when he kisses you, there is no doubt left between you. His mouth crashed back onto yours, fiercer this time, tongue thrusting past your lips to claim every inch.
You moan into him, as he devoured you, sucking on your tongue, nipping at your lower lip until it swelled under his teeth. His fingers dug into your hips, pulling you impossibly tighter against the hard ridge of his cock straining through his breeches. It throbbed against your belly, thick and insistent, sending a jolt of heat straight to your core.
"Gods I've wanted this, since the moment you first yelled at me" he growls against your mouth, voice breaking with raw need. One hand slid up your back, tangling in your hair to tilt your head back, exposing your throat.
He dragged his lips down your jaw, sucking hard at the sensitive skin below your ear, marking you with a bruise that would bloom tomorrow. You gasped, arching into him, your nipples hardening to peaks that rubbed against the silk, aching for touch.
His free hand roamed lower, bunching the fabric of your gown at your thigh, inching it upward until cool air kissed your bare legs. You trembled, a mix of nerves and fire twisting in your gut.
His touch was everywhere, like he couldn't get enough.
He broke the kiss to trail his mouth down your neck, dipping into the V of your gown. His tongue flicked over the exposed curve of your breast, then he pulled the neckline aside with a gentle tug, freeing one breast to the air.
You cried out as his mouth latched onto your nipple, sucking hard, teeth grazing the sensitive bud. Pleasure shot through you. His hand under your skirt found your thigh, stroking upward until his fingers brushed the wetness between your legs.
He looked at you for a moment as if asking permission “Take me Lyonel” you reply breathless, lips retuning to his.
He pushed a finger along your slit, parting the folds gently, circling your clit with a pressure that made stars burst behind your eyes. You bucked against him, clinging to his shoulders, but he held you steady, his other arm banded around your waist.
"I'll take care of you, but you need to go slow, so I wont hurt you” You nodded, breathless, as he laid you back on the bed and he sank to his knees, hiking your gown higher around your waist.
The silk pooled at your hips, leaving your lower body exposed. He looked up at you eyes dark then buried his face between your thighs. His tongue licked a broad stripe tasting you fully, groaning like a man starved.
You threaded your fingers through his hair, pulling him closer as he lapped at your clit, sucking it into his mouth while one finger teased your entrance “oh gods! Lyonel!” you moaned
He pressed his fingers inside, you whimpered, the slight burn mixing with building pleasure as he worked his finger deeper, curling it to stroke that spot inside that made your legs shake.
He added a second finger slowly, scissoring them to open you up, his tongue never stopping its relentless assault on your clit. Juices slicked to the hair at his chin, your arousal coating his hand as he pumped in and out, preparing you with deliberate thrusts.
Your hips rocked against his face, chasing the coil tightening in your belly "Please Lyonel" you begged, voice breaking
He rose then, capturing your mouth in a kiss that tasted of you, his fingers still buried deep, twisting to hit every nerve. With his free hand, he tore at the laces of his breeches, freeing his cock. It sprang out, thick and veined, the head flushed purple and leaking pre-cum.
He crawled over you, carful not to press his weight down, and notched his cock at your entrance, rubbing the tip through your wetness "Breathe" he ordered then pushed in slowly, inch by inch.
The stretch burned, your walls fluttering around his girth, but his fingers found your clit again, rubbing circles to ease the way.
You bit his shoulder to muffle your cry, nails digging into his back as he filled you completely, bottoming out with a guttural groan "So perfect" he panted, holding still to let you adjust, his forehead pressed to yours.
You kissed him before wrapping your legs around “It’s okay” you assured before he finally started moving, shallow thrusts at first, building to deeper ones that slammed into you, his cock dragging along your inner walls.
The pain faded into bliss, your pussy gripping him like a vice as he fucked you harder, the wall scraping your back with each snap of his hips. His mouth found your breast again, sucking the nipple while his hand gripped your ass, angling you to take him deeper.
"My perfect wife" he moaned pounding relentlessly, he groaned low in his throat, the sound vibrating against your skin.
His fingers kept working your clit in firm, steady circles, drawing out whimpers that mingled with his own heavy pants. You wrapped your legs around his waist, pulling him closer, urging him to move faster.
He didn't need more invitations, he pulled back almost to the tip before driving in again. Lyonel leaned down, capturing your mouth in a fierce kiss, tongues tangling as he set a rhythm. His free hand roamed your body, squeezing your hip, then sliding up to pinch your other nipple, rolling it between his fingers until you moaned into his mouth.
Breaking the kiss, he trailed his lips to your neck, teeth scraping over your pulse point. He fucked you harder then, hips snapping forward with unrestrained need. The pressure on your clit intensified, his thumb pressing just right, and you felt the coil in your belly tighten unbearably "Lyonel oh gods" you gasped, your walls clenching around him.
"Come for me, my sweet girl" he demanded voice rough, eyes locked on yours. He shifted his angle, hitting that spot inside you with every thrust, relentless. The world narrowed to the slide of his cock, the friction, the way he filled you completely.
Pleasure crashed over you like a wave, your pussy spasming around him as you came, crying his name. He didn't stop, drawing out your orgasm with deep, grinding rolls of his hips until you were trembling.
Only then did he let go, burying himself one last time as he spilled inside you. His body shuddered above yours, a guttural moan escaping him.
He collapsed gently onto you, both of you slick with sweat, breaths syncing in the afterglow. After a moment, he lifted his head, brushing a tender kiss to your swollen lips “I love you”
And for once you did not argue
You tilted your head slightly, studying him. Lyonel Baratheon, Lord of Storm’s End, conqueror of stags and apparently of you.
“You are insufferably certain” you murmured
One corner of his mouth lifted “I am”
You smiled at him then, a real true smile “I love you too” you kissed him again, slower this time, fingers threading into his hair.
Pairing: Lyonel Baratheon x FemReader (no use of y/n)
Part Two
Maekar Baelor Original Imagine Masterlist
Warnings: Male gaze yearning (he wants that cookie bad) almost drowning, alcohol, poor self image (reader is delulu) poor family dynamics.
Imagine: You were the eldest daughter of a great house. Your mother had sadly passed many years ago, bringing your sister into the world, and from that day forward, you were no longer simply a daughter. You were lady of the house in everything but title.
Your father, too grief-stricken to wed again, turned to you instead. The duty of running the household and raising your sister had fell to you, just a girl yourself at the time. You learned quick, avoiding your loneliness by through work and sharpening your keen mind.
There was a time you thought your father would secure a match for you. You remembered that conversation, a pit in your stomach “I cannot spare you. Who would care for us if you were gone?”
It had hurt then, but like always you buried it down, hoping it would hurt less overtime. Eventually, you believed the words true. You were useful, dependable, practical. But not loved, not desired. You believed it was somehow your fault.
Now years had passed and you felt well past your marriageable age. A spinster. The word had once stung. Now it simply fit.
Your sister, bright and beautiful and just spoiled enough to be charming, had blossomed into the perfect bride.
Your father had arranged an exceptional match, not for you, for her. And so the household prepared to travel
—————————————————————————————————————————
Storm’s End was not what you expected. Much like its lord.
Lyonel Baratheon laughed too easily. Fought too eagerly. Smiled at your sister in a way that made the younger girl preen and glow beneath the attention.
You thought him too loud, too proud and not a good a fit for your sister. You had told your father as much, but he simply replied “Lord Baratheon is a good match for this family, he will make her happy”
And you were not convinced.
So when Lyonel joined you both for a game of cards and deliberately cheated, you called him on it.
“You moved that card” you say eyes on the offending card snuck up his sleeve.
He did not even glance down, just smiled at you, that infuriatingly handsome smile and simply replied “I did not”
“You absolutely did” you say narrowing your eyes.
Your sister made a small distressed sound, mortified at the accusation.
You leaned forward boldly, reaching for his wrist, your fingers brushing warm skin beneath linen. You tugged the hidden card free from his sleeve, ignoring the tingles in your fingers from touching his skin.
You held the card up to him defiantly “What is this then?”
He had stared at you then, not at the card, at you. His eyes bright with something you could not name, before he barked out a laugh, real and honest.
“Ah that card! I simply misplaced it” he said still smiling taking joy in your disapproval.
“Misplaced a winning hand up your sleeve?” You say keeping his gaze, something in you unable to back down.
“Exactly” he replied, enjoying watching the tick in your jaw. His eyes flicked to your mouth then back to your eyes, as if gauging whether you would retreat.
You did not. Something in you would not allow it.
“Your definition of misplaced is most creative, my lord” you say, spinning the card in your fingers.
Your sister whispered your name in warning. But Lyonel did not look offended, worse, he looked entertained.
“And yours is most severe, my lady” he countered smoothly, teasing evident in his tone “No one has ever accused me of cheating” he admitted, tilting his head slightly, studying you as though you were a puzzle “Not to my face at least” he said with a smile
“Then I am pleased to be of service” you replied coolly “You are a lord, after all It would be remiss of your guests not to correct you when you stray”
“Stray?” he echoed, brows lifting. His fingers coming up to take the card from your grasp, but you refuse to let go, your fingers touching in a silent battle.
“From honor” you stay unable to stop yourself. Your sister looked as though she might dissolve into the floor.
For a heartbeat neither of you moved. You became acutely aware of your fingers touching his, both of you clinging to the card. His touch sending small sparks through your skin.
Your sister cleared her throat loudly. Remembering yourself, you withdrew your hand at once, folding it in your lap.
“If we are to continue” you said briskly, though your pulse had quickened traitorously “perhaps we might attempt to do so honesty”
His gaze dropped briefly to your mouth before returning to your eyes, but you missed it entirely.
“And if I prefer a challenge?” He asked an undercurrent of something you could not name in his tone.
“You have one” you replied without hesitation, fighting the rising heat in your chest.
His grin returned, slow and teasing “Then I shall endeavor to be honourable. I would hate to disappoint you”
When he dealt the next hand, he did not cheat. What you did not notice is that for the rest of the game, he did not look at your sister. He looked at you.
——————————-
Over the following weeks, you find that despite being a lord, courting your sister and running a household, Lyonel seemed to have an astonishing amount of time on his hands. Time he seemed determined to spend finding you.
You would be in the solar enjoying afternoon tea, he would appear in the doorway.
You would be walking the gallery or the battlements, he would fall into step beside you.
You would be speaking quietly with the maester in the library about the book selections, he would lean against the nearest pillar and listen with infuriating patience.
“Does Storm’s End not require governing?” you asked irritated, without looking up from the book in your hands.
“It does,” he replied easily with a hint of amusement in his voice.
“And yet here you are” you say with a sigh
“And yet here I am” he agreed brightly, dropping down next to you at the tables.
You refused to give him the satisfaction of further inquiry. He lingered anyway, immensely amused.
——————————————-
However, you were able to get your own back. In the time you have spent in his presence (forcibly or not) he seemed particularly vexed by one thing.
You did not laugh at him.
The other ladies and lords did, your sister did most of all. But you did not, a fact that greatly entertained you.
But when he exaggerated a hunting tale at dinner, claiming he had wrestled a stag into submission with his bare hands, you merely lifted your brow.
“With your bare hands?” you repeated unimpressed.
“Yes” he smiled his eyes twinkling with that emotion you could not place, he seemed to do that a lot lately.
“And the stag politely waited for you to finish boasting before expiring?” You say taking a sip of your wine.
The table snickered, even your sister despite herself. His jaw twitched, but his smile remained.
“I see no reason it would not” replied
“Ah foolish me of course it did, you are very persuasive my lord” you say sardonically.
He stared at you for a long moment. Then, he laughed, loud and booming.
It became a game, despite yourself.
He would tell a story larger than life. You would pare it down to size.
He began embellishing simply to see how you would correct him.
It was meant to be a quiet walk along the cliffs. Your sister had insisted upon it as for the first time since you arrived it was not raining. The sky bright, the sea restless below, and Lyonel was in rare form.
You trailed a few steps behind, far enough to allow conversation between them. You there as her chaperone.
“I tell you” Lyonel was saying, gesturing broadly as he walked beside your sister “the boar was monstrous! Tusks like swords! It charged straight for me!”
Your sister’s eyes widened “And you did not run?”
“Run?” he scoffed “I stood my ground”
You inhaled slowly through your nose “Of course you did” you murmured under your breathe.
However despite the wind, he did not miss it “I beg your pardon?” he called back over his shoulder
“I said” you replied sweetly “that the beast was fortunate to encounter such bravery, my lord”
He slowed his steps just enough that you were forced to draw nearer.
“It was bravery” he insisted, eyes meeting yours.
“I do not doubt that you believe it so” you say head tilting.
Your sister glanced between you both nervously laughing.
“And what would you call it?” he asked.
“Overconfidence” you answered without hesitation, walking ahead.
He quickened his pace, falling into step beside you and leaving your sister momentarily behind “And if I told you it charged from the brush without warning?”
“I would suggest you were making too much noise” you fired back.
Lyonel’s jaw ticked, but there was that spark in his eyes again. That same spark that had appeared at the card table “And if I told you” he said slowly “that I wrestled it to the ground with nothing but strength and will?”
You folded your hands neatly, coming to a stop. “I would ask whether the boar consented to such theatrics”
Your sister gasped, opening her mouth to apologise for you, as she had done several times this trip alone.
However true to form, uninsulated by your statement, Lyonel just laughed “The truth then. The boar charged. I slipped on mud. It ran headfirst into a tree” he admitted, holding your eye.
You searched his face for mockery and found none. The image struck you suddenly and vividly. Lyonel Baratheon, Lord of Storm’s End, felled by mud.
The laugh escaped before you could prevent it. Loud and real, carried by the wind. You laughed until your cheeks flushed and your composure slipped entirely.
For a moment he just stared.
You were sure you looked very unappealing, wind-tangled hair, cheeks flushed, laughter far too loud and unladylike.
You cleared your throat quickly “It was the mud then, a most fearsome opponent” you said a hint of amusement still in your tone, your hands moving your hair out of your eyes.
He did not answer immediately. When you finally looked up, he was still watching you, that twinkle in his eyes darker, you told yourself it was the sunlight
“You laugh as though you are surprised” he said his voice slightly deeper than before, eyes flitting over your face.
“I am, I did not expect such honesty” a small on your face despite yourself.
“You prefer it?” His gaze down to your lips.
It must be because you were still smiling, you reasoned, your smile was not bright nor charming like your sisters, you told yourself.
“I prefer accuracy” you say, dropping his gaze, feeling self conscious.
A corner of his mouth lifted “And did I improve my standing?”
You blinked “In what regard?”
“As a storyteller” he shrugged.
“Oh!” you said lightly “Marginally” you say, with a slight tease.
He huffed a quiet laugh “You are impossible to please” though he looked very pleased in that moment
You matched his previous shrug “I am difficult to mislead”
Your sister hurried to rejoin you interrupting the moment, still smiling brightly from the tale “That was dreadful” she said fondly.“You in the mud!”
Lyonel glanced at her, smiled politely. Then his gaze returned to you. You turned away first, entirely unaware of the way his eyes lingered on you as you walked ahead.
Unaware that he was no longer telling stories to impress your sister. Unaware that he had already decided your laughter was something he now craved.
————————-
The feast was a grand affair, music filled the hall, candles lit the air and entire household seemed to vibrate with anticipation for the announcement to come. Your sister’s formal betrothal.
You had dressed plainly, in the colours of our house, your dress simple with a square neck, tightly laced at the waist. Nothing remarkable. You had no wish to compete, not that you believed you could if you tried.
You remained near the edge of the hall while your sister shone beneath the torchlight, laughing easily with the household knights. She was radiant tonight, you smiled softly at her.
You told yourself it was right, it was fitting that she would have her happier ever after.
You were startled out of your thoughts when a shadow fell across you.
“My lady” a voice too close to your ear, you jumped slightly, turning.
Lyonel stood before you, already watching you with that unreadable twinkle in his eye, that had become far too familiar.
“You seem determined to hide” he observed lightly teasing.
“I am not hiding” you replied unable to meet his eye “I am simply observing”
“You have observed enough” he spoke, extending his hand “Dance with me”
You blinked surprised, no man has ever asked you to dance “Surely my sister would be a better partner” you hesitated
“She is otherwise occupied” he said smoothly, grabbing your hand before you could protest further. His fingers closed around yours, warm and certain, guiding you toward the center of the hall.
You were acutely aware of every eye upon you as you placed your hands upon his shoulders. His hand settling at your waist as the dance began.
“You are quiet” he murmured, feeling too close to you.
“I am focussed on not tripping” you said, eyes not meeting his, staring resolutely at his doublet in concentration.
“I would not let you fall” he replied easily, slight amusement in his tone despite his hand flexing at your waist.
“You are very confident” you muttered, suddenly aware of how close he stood. How plainly dressed you were. How unremarkable you must seem close up.
A faint smile touched his mouth “You think me arrogant”
“I think you certain of yourself” you say eyes finally meeting his.
“And you are not?” He challenges, amusement clear in his tone.
You almost laughed at that “You have me there” you say smiling slightly.
His hand tightened at your waist just slightly, enough that you felt it. He held your gaze as the dance turned you in a slow circle.
“You must be glad” you said after a moment “That tomorrow everything will be settled”
“Settled?” He says voice lower now.
“When my sister becomes your betrothed. When we return home after the wedding” You forced a polite smile. “You will have peace again. No more interfering sisters” you joke lightly.
But he does not look amused as you expect. You falter a step, quickly correcting yourself.
“Have I misspoken?” you asked quietly, unsettled by the seriousness in his face.
“Return home?” he repeated, as though testing the words.
“Yes” you said lightly “Once you are wed, my presence will hardly be required. I imagine you wont miss our arguments” you say teasing.
His hand at your waist tightened, not playful, startled ”You mean to leave Storm’s End” he said like he could not absorb the words.
“Of course” You gave a small shrug “I was never meant to remain”
He stared at you as though the notion had never occurred to him “You will return to your father’s keep” he pressed.
“Yes” you say slowly your eyebrows scrunching in confusion of how he was not getting this.
“And then?” He prompted
You blinked “And then nothing” you say confused.
The word settled between you, simple and unadorned.
You attempted a smile “I shall manage the household as I always have. There is no shortage of work for an unmarried daughter past her prime” you joke aware of your spinster title.
His expression darkened at that “You are not past-”
“It is hardly a tragedy” you interrupted gently “Not everyone is meant for grand romance” you say referring to him and your sister.
The music shifted, the dance drawing you closer again. “You speak as though it is decided” he said, something rough in his tone.
“It is decided” you replied with quiet certainty “My sister is the beauty. It was always my duty to see her settled”
“And you?” he asked again, voice lower now.
“I am content” It was a well practiced lie. You delivered it smoothly, almost convincing yourself.
Lyonel however, did not look convinced, his eyes searching your face. The music came to its final note. You stepped back at once, despite the slight flex in his hands almost like he didn’t want to let go.
A foolish thought you told yourself. You dipped into a quick, proper curtsey and withdrew before he could say anything further.
You told yourself you needed air, felling very hot and flushed all of a sudden. As you reached the edge of the hall, your gaze instinctively searched for your sister.
You found her at once, slipping toward the side doors, laughter bright and careless, a young household knight leaning far too close as he murmured something in her ear.
Your stomach dropped, she was flushed with wine and attention. You did not hesitate. You gathered your skirts and followed.
You did not notice Lyonel watching you go.
——————————-
The corridor was cooler than the hall. Music dulled behind stone walls.
Ahead, you heard your sister’s laughter echo up the stairwell that led toward the battlements.
You quickened your pace as you muttered “Stupid, foolish girl” under your breath.
When you emerged into the night air, the wind struck your face at once, sharp and bracing.
Your sister stood far too near the edge of the battlements, sea swirling below, her skirts gathered in one hand, the knight beside her pointing into the darkness.
“It is beautiful” she was saying, her wine soaked voice carrying through the wind.
“It is dangerous, you silly girl, have you lost all hold of your senses!” you answered sharply, striding toward her.
She startled “Oh, sister do not begin scold me” say says, cheeks flushed, eyes glassy.
“You will come inside at once” you said reaching for her.
The young knight straightened, embarrassed “My lady, I assured her the footing is safe”
“I do not care what you assured, stupid boy” you snapped.
Behind you, unseen in the shadows of the stairwell, Lyonel stepped onto the battlements.
He took in the scene at once. Your sister near the edge, you advancing without hesitation. The slick shine of the stones. He opened his mouth to call out as your sister’s slipper slid.
She shrieked as her balance tipped backward toward the void.
You lunged without thought, your fingers caught her wrist, nearly tipping over the low battlements. The impact jolted your shoulder, pain flaring, but you held fast as you gritted your teeth.
The knight scrambled forward, seizing her other arm. Together you hauled her back from the brink, however the momentum caused your own footing to gave way.
You felt the sickening slide, the world tilted and you fell.
You hit the water hard, sea swallowing you whole, as the cold water stole your breath away.
Your skirts dragged you downward instantly, heavy, despite the desperate kicks of your legs.
On the battlements, your sister’s scream split the night “She cannot swim!”
The words tore through the wind. Lyonel was already moving the moment you fell, the one terrible second he saw only the dark water closing over where you had vanished.
He did not think, he did not shout orders, he jumped.
———————————————
The cold hit him like a blow, but he forced himself downward, eyes open against the sting of salt.
Your dress billowed like a pale ghost, signalling him down. You were sinking. He swam to you in powerful strokes, grabbing for you as your movements slowed.
Your eyes were closed, your body unmoving. He hooked an arm around your waist and kicked hard for the surface.
He reached the surface, breaking through with a violent gasp, as you remained unmoving in his arms. He shifted his grip, sliding one arm under your thighs to lift you higher against his chest so your face would remain above water.
Above, your sister sobbed helplessly.
He found purchase, against a jagged outcrop when he found one and began maneuvering you toward the narrow shallows carved into the cliffside.
By the time he hauled you from the water, you were frighteningly still.
Sea water spilled from your mouth as he laid you on the stone.
He dropped to his knees beside you and, for the first time in his life, did not know what to do “Breathe” he orders, voice breaking.
Nothing
Your gown is plastered to your chest, bodice laced tight. He pulls out his dagger, slicing through the laces at your bodice with one sharp movement. Cutting through wet ribbon and fabric so your lungs can expand fully.
“Breathe” he growls again, more a plea than command, near frantic now.
And then, you cough. Violently. Water spills from your lips as you drag in a ragged desperate breath.
He exhales something that is almost a broken laugh and almost a sob.
He gathers you up immediately, pulling you against his chest to keep you upright, not even noticing that your ruined bodice gapes where he cut it.
——————————————
The climb from the shore felt endless. Lyonel did not wait for servants, he carried you himself needing to get you to the maester.
You were half-conscious in his arms, soaked through, your bodice sliced open where he had cut the laces.
“Move” Lyonel barked, voice echoing off stone as he charged through the corridors
He did not take you to the guest chambers. He took you to his.
The heavy door slammed open at his shoulder and he strode inside, laying you carefully upon his bed as though you were made of glass.
His maids quickly scrambling “Maester!” someone shouted down the corridor.
Your sister burst in moments later, pale and shaking, skirts gathered in her fists. “I did not mean, I never meant” not able to speak through sobs.
Lyonel did not look at her, his hands coming to your face, You stirred then, a faint sound in your throat as your lashes fluttered.
Relief hit him like another wave.
The maester arrived in a flurry of robes and concern, ushering everyone but Lyonel back.
He looked over your soaked form “She must be warmed. Dry cloth. Quickly!” He barked, voice strong despite his age.
Maids rushed forward, with warm towels, only then did Lyonel step back, though he did not leave the room.
Your sister stood near the door, trembling, watery eyes fixed on your form
And then your father entered. He took in the scene in a single, devastating glance. His jaw hardened “What has happened?” your father said slowly, dangerously
Your sister tried to speak first, words tumbling over one another “She slipped— I went to the battlements— she followed— she saved me—” she sobbed.
Your father’s gaze shifted to Lyonel. Lyonel did not flinch, explaining all that had occurred, his eyes not leaving you.
“I had intended” he said carefully, “to announce my younger daughter’s betrothal this evening, but instead my eldest is now compromised”
Your sister inhaled sharply.
Lyonel’s gaze flicked to her only briefly before returning to you “If there is any question of your daughter’s honour” Lyonel said evenly, “it rests with me”
Your father’s expression sharpened “And how do you propose to answer it?”
Lyonel did not hesitate “She will be my wife”
Your sister’s breath caught, fresh wave of tears building as your father stared at Lyonel “You are to wed her sister”
“I was” Lyonel agreed, no one missing the use of past tense.
Your father exhaled slowly, the choice between his eldest and youngest clear “Then we will correct the announcement” he said lowly.
On the bed, you stirred again, unaware of the storm shifting around you. Unaware that your life had just altered entirely.
And when you woke properly later, weak but breathing, you would believe it had happened because of scandal.
Because of duty. Because you had ruined something meant for your sister.
You would not yet understand that he had already chosen you.
Fic that can be read as a complement to this one: here
— summary: baelor is really busy being the perfect, responsible king while you and maekar are busy... well, populating westeros!
— pairing: baelor targaryen x wife!sister!reader x maekar targaryen
— word count: 2k
— content: +18 (minors dni!), targcest, throuplet, implicit smut, established marriage, domestic bliss, humorous undertones, pregnancy, maekar & reader going at it like rabbits, parenting, soft!baelor & maekar, they are so in love with their wife.
Six children borne of Maekar and two of Baelor make for a kind of domestic chaos that no septa’s lessons nor queenly composure could ever truly prepare you for.
The Red Keep, vast as it is, feels too small when filled with their cute voices, Maekar’s children loud and willful as their sire, Baelor’s gentler in their tempers, yet no less spirited. They are yours all the same, they have learned your art of charm, wielding your tongued grace and your wit in their laughter.
Baelor had always been the most responsible of the three of you. He was the very image of what a king ought to be, honorable to a fault, steadfast in his duty, beloved by smallfolk and lord alike. The realm had been blessed the day the crown was set upon his head.
But, even so, together the three of you represent the perfect combination of kings and queen.
You love your Baelor for that, for being so good, so kind and gentle in his ways. But there are times when the Iron Throne snatches him from your arms in a way that drives you to exasperation.
In times like that, it leaves you with only fragments of him. A modest kiss on the forehead or the cheek, a quick cuddle in the morning just before he rushed away to another meeting.
This time, it had been worse than most.
Your poor husband had been immersed in scrolls, wax seals, and discussions with the Small Council. And when that was not enough, the Riverlands had called for their king, and Baelor—your dutiful, noble Baelor—had gone without hesitation.
He always did.
Maekar, however, had never possessed his brother’s patience for enduring such prolonged separation from you.
They joked that whenever Baelor was gone more than a sennight, Maekar took it as a personal challenge to ensure you wouldn't be able to fit into your favorite silk gowns by the time he returned.
And just in the ten days Baelor had been gone, Maekar had been relentless.
“He's serving the realm, Maekar,” you try to ease your husband, running your fingers through his silver hair as he holds you close, all tangled up in the satin sheets of your massive be. On your other side, Baelor’s place remains untouched, the pillows smoothed and cold. “Someone's gotta do it.”
“I have no love for the realm,” he hums contentedly, his face nuzzling your neck, pressing a path of warm kisses as he slowly makes his way down to your chest. “I prefer to serve you”
His hands slide down to your thighs, intimately familiar with every detail of your skin as if it were a carefully memorized map, effortlessly lifting you up so you can wrap your legs around his waist.
He rises from the bed with you, the atmosphere in the room quickly heating up in the mood of romance and passion, but you chuckle softly when he nearly trips over the sheets that are still tangled around your bare bodies. Your arms hug his neck, demanding his lips with your own in a passionate kiss.
Maekar lays you down gently on the oak table near the bed, sweeping aside the maps and goblets that are in the way with a swish of his arm, sending them clattering to the floor to make room for you.
“Six children, and I still feel like I haven't had enough of you,” he growls in between kisses, gazing down at you from above with worshipful eyes, darkened with desire. “I might as well fuck another into you while we're at it, hm? Just one more, my love.”
It’s a familiar lie. He had said the exact same thing the last four times, swearing it would be just one more time, insisting he just loved the sight of you carrying his baby. At this point, you are certain he won’t stop until every corner of the Red Keep is filled with little silver-haired versions of himself, scowling at the world.
You laugh, a breathy little sound that gets lost against his disheveled hair.
“You're a liar, Maekar,” you accuse him, arching your back when his lips find that sensitive spot in the hollow of your neck. “You said the same thing with Aemon, and with the twins, and— and with Aegon...”
“And I'll say it with the eighth, and with the ninth if the Seven allow me,” he sighs dreamily, kissing his way down your chest.
His warm tongue drags slowly over your abdomen, his lips lingering over your womb in a tender, worshipful kiss.
Baelor finally walks into the great hall of the Red Keep, wearing a look of exhaustion and the weariness of weeks of diplomacy pressing down on his shoulders. He is still wearing his traveling cloak, fresh from an unexpectedly long trip to the Riverlands.
He is expecting silence, perhaps a glass of wine, and the comfort of your loving arms.
What he finds is Maekar seating on the floor, frowning, trying—and failing—to keep little Matarys from crawling toward a pewter jug, while Aerion tugs at his doublet and the twins chase each other around.
“Welcome back, brother,” Maekar greets him, glancing up as he brings Matarys into his arms to end his misbehavior. He looks more exhausted than if he had been fighting in three wars in a row, but still, his furrowed expression softens into a hint of a tired smile—only for it to quickly wiped away when Aerion gives his hair a sharp, unforgiving yank. “Aerion, stop it!”
“Aerion, obey your father, love,” your voice falls like that of a divine, gentle being through the hall.
And Aerion instantly complies, his defiant spark replaced by a flashing smile so sweet it could hide a thousand crimes. “Yes, Mother. I’m sorry.”
You walk through one of the hallways of the children's chambers, cradling Aegon in your arms, your hair slightly disheveled from the day’s demands, yet with a radiance of joy as you finally see your other husband.
“Baelor, dearest, how was the journey?” You walk up to him with a warm smile,and Baelor's hand finds your waist to pull you into a deep, lingering kiss, greeting you properly.
He kisses you again before he pulls back only to shower Aegon with the same affection, he kiss the babe’s brow, coaxing a bright, bubbling giggle from him.
“Painfully lonely and boring without any of you,” he answers, letting out a sigh as he sets his crown down on one of the nearest tables.
The children erupt at his arrival, a tide of high-pitched squeals and cheers as they swarm him, cheering his name with joy.
Baelor can't help but burst into hearty laughter as he kneels on the ground, allowing the tide of children to symbolically knock him down. The twins cling to his shoulders like little burrs, while Aerion scrambles up his back as if conquering a fortress. Valarr is hugging one of his hands, grinning sheepishly.
“My sweet dragons,” Baelor chuckles, bestowing kisses on the tops of their heads and holding them with a tenderness he reserves only for this dear family. “I’ve brought sweets from the Riverlands, assuming you’ve been on your best behavior while I've been away.”
Maekar huffs at that as you help him stand up, having tucked Aegon safely into his crib. As he leans slightly into your touch, you can feel the tension in your husband's shoulders melt away as he watches his older brother. Understanding, like you, that there is a strange and perfect peace in this chaos.
Baelor stands up with some struggle, a lingering chuckle on his throat as the children scrambled away, their laughter echoing as they shared the spoils of the Riverlands. He brushes the dust off his knees and turns his gaze back to you, noticing the way Maekar is hugging you close to him, both gazing fondly at his interaction with the children.
His expression softens even more, taking on a more attentive stance. His eyes move down from your beaming face to the rounding curve of your belly, which the silk dress accentuates in a way that wasn't there a month ago.
A spark of amusement glints in his two-toned eyes as he raises an eyebrow, his eyes dancing between you and Maekar.
“By the Seven...” Baelor mutters, his lips curling into a lopsided smile as he walks over to you two to take advantage of the newfound moment of privacy. Still, he is careful to keep his voice down, in case any of the little ones are eavesdropping. “I see that while I was busy negotiating grain taxes and peace treaties with the Tullys, you two have been... far more productive.”
He comes to your side to place a gentle, protective hand on your belly, bending down once more to kiss you, his previous exhaustion turning into pure contentment. You can savor the bliss that the news brings him through his lips.
“Another one, Maekar?” he still teases, attempting to feign a seriousness he does not feel as he glances over at his brother, who is clinging to you on your other side. “At this rate, we’ll have to build a new wing in the Red Keep just for your brood.”
“Someone has to populate the realm you work so hard to rule, brother,” Maekar replies with a smug little smile, his arm tightening around you with quiet pride.
“I suppose I’ll have to be very diligent to catch up to your lead, then,” Baelor whispers, making you blush with anticipation
The birth of little Baena—Maekar’s seventh child and your ninth overall—had brought a brief, blissful lull to the Red Keep. For a few weeks, the chaos was muffled by the soft coos of a newborn. Maekar was insufferably smug, walking through the halls with the beautiful babe cradled against his chest, looking at Baelor with a silent, triumphant glint in his eyes that clearly said: Seven to two, brother.
Two moons had turned after the birth, when Baelor finally clears his schedule, dumping every responsibility onto Maekar’s shoulders. No Small Council, no grain taxes, no border disputes for him.
He walks into your shared chambers and found you relaxing by the hearth, finally free of the heavy weight of the pregnancy.
“You look radiant, my love,” Baelor whispers, leaning down to press a lingering, much more intense kiss to your lips.
“I feel lighter,” you laugh, your heart fluttering as you lean into his warmth.
Baelor pulls back jus enough, his hand sliding down from your waist to rest flat against your stomach—now soft and reclaiming its shape.
“Maekar has had his fun,” Baelor says, lifting you into his arms with a strength that reminds you he is the greatest knight of his age. “And as much as I love our brother, I think it’s time the next babe looks a little more like me.”
He carries you toward the bed, his intent clear.
“Baelor! The maester said I should rest a bit longer,” you tease, your hands, very contrary to your words, are already undoing the clasps of his pretty doublet.
“The maester doesn’t have to deal with Maekar’s smug face every morning at breakfast,” Baelor rolls his eyes, laying you down on the silk sheets.
He hovers over you like some god, his gaze treating you like the open gates to paradise.
Just as he begins to trail kisses down your throat, the door creaks open. Maekar stands there, holding a crying Baena, looking completely exhausted.
“She won't sleep,” Maekar grumbles, stopping mid-sentence when he see Baelor over you. He took in the scene and let out a sharp, dry laugh. “Oh. So the King has finally put down the pen to pick up the sword, has he?”
Baelor doesn't even bother to look back, too absorbed in the fantasy of kissing your breasts.
“Take the babe to the maids, Maekar,” he commands, his skilled fingers pulling down his trousers all the while his lips continue to cover your stomach with kisses. “And don't forget the mountain of paperwork currently piling up on your desk.”
Maekar lets out a mocking grunt, shifting the babe to his other hip as he feasts his eyes in delight on the sight of your arching back, looking back at him with pleasure-filled pupils. “As you wish. Good luck to you catching up, brother—you’ve got a long way to go to reach seven.”
“Watch me,” Baelor challenges softly, a competitive smile tugs at his own mouth.
Synopsys: Four days without his wife, and Prince Valarr Targaryen is certain he is dying.
The court calls it excess. His brother calls it pathetic. Valarr calls it devotion.
And he intends to survive it. Probably.
Word count: 2.6k words
The sun had no right to be shining.
Valarr Targaryen knew this with every fiber of his being, the certainty of it settled deep in his bones as he lay sprawled across the vast, empty expanse of his marriage bed. Outside the windows of Maegor's Holdfast, the morning light spilled across Blackwater Bay in a display of golden indifference, painting the room in cheerful hues that made him want to scream.
It had been four days.
Four days since his wife—his sun, his moon, his very reason for drawing breath—had climbed into a wheelhouse and rolled away from him, bound for whatever minor keep happened to be housing her brother and his excessively fertile wife. A daughter. They had produced a daughter, and apparently this was cause for such celebration that Y/N simply had to attend.
He understood this, theoretically. In the same way one understood that the sun would eventually set or that winter would someday come. He understood that sisters loved brothers and that new nieces were supposedly wonderful creatures worth traveling for. He understood all of this with his mind, which was a traitorous organ that had clearly never been in love.
His heart, however—his poor, neglected, Y/N-less heart—understood nothing except that she was gone.
Valarr rolled onto his stomach and pressed his face into her pillow.
It still smelled like her.
He had forbidden the servants from changing the linens. They had looked at him strangely, which was absurd. Who wouldn't want to preserve the last traces of their wife's scent? The faint floral notes of whatever oil she used in her hair, the warm sweetness that was simply her, the way the fabric seemed to hold the memory of her cheek against it—
A knock at the door.
"Go away," he said into the pillow.
"Your Grace, the King requests your presence at the small council meeting." It was his squire, a boy of twelve who sounded far too cheerful for someone whose master was clearly in mourning.
"I'm ill."
"You said that yesterday, Your Grace. And the day before."
"And I remain ill. It's a persistent illness. Very serious. Possibly fatal."
A pause. "Should I fetch a maester, Your Grace?"
Valarr considered this. A maester would poke at him and ask questions and inevitably conclude that he was suffering from nothing more than a severe case of missing his wife. Which was true, but also humiliating to have spoken aloud by a man in grey robes.
"No. Tell my grandfather I am... indisposed. With grief."
"Grief, Your Grace?"
"My wife is gone." He said this with such profound tragedy that the boy actually went silent for a moment.
"Ah. Yes. For... four days now, isn't it, Your Grace?"
"Four days, seventeen hours, and—" He squinted at the window, trying to gauge the sun's position. "Approximately six and a half hours. Not that I'm counting."
"Of course not, Your Grace."
"The counting would imply that I have nothing better to do than track her absence, which I don't—because she took my purpose in life with her when she left."
Another pause. Valarr imagined the boy standing in the corridor, shifting from foot to foot, wondering if the prince had finally lost his mind. He probably had. It didn't matter.
"Shall I bring you breakfast, Your Grace?"
"No."
"Lunch?"
"I said no."
"Dinner? Perhaps some wine? Bread? A boar? Anything at all?"
Valarr lifted his head just enough to glare at the door. "Do I sound hungry to you? Does a man whose heart has been ripped from his chest and carried away to some distant keep where he cannot reach it sound like he wants bread?"
The boy wisely retreated.
Alone again, Valarr flopped back onto the pillow and resumed his vigil of misery.
---
An hour later—or perhaps three; time had lost all meaning—he found himself in his chambers, seated at the desk where he had once, in a former life, attended to correspondence and other tedious duties. Now it served a far more important purpose.
He opened the locket.
It was a beautiful thing, commissioned three days ago from a goldsmith who had clearly thought him mad but was wise enough not to say so. The outside was simple enough, a smooth disc of gold that fit perfectly in his palm. But inside, nestled against the fine enamel work that had cost him a small fortune and the goldsmith's entire week, was her face.
Her face.
The painter had captured her perfectly—the curve of her smile, the warmth in her eyes, the way one eyebrow always lifted slightly when she was about to tease him. Valarr had described every detail with the precision of a maester cataloging a rare specimen, and the man had somehow managed to translate those fevered descriptions into art.
He kissed it.
Then he kissed it again.
Then he held it against his chest and stared at the wall, imagining that she was here, that she was laughing at him for being so dramatic, that she would wrap her arms around his neck and press her forehead to his and tell him that four days apart was nothing, that he was being ridiculous, that she loved him anyway.
He would take that. He would take her calling him ridiculous a thousand times over if it meant having her here.
The door opened.
"I told you I don't want—"
"Brother." It was Matarys, his younger brother, standing in the doorway with an expression of unholy amusement. "Still alive, I see. The servants were placing bets."
"Get out."
"I've come to save you from yourself." Matarys strode in as if he owned the place, flinging himself onto a chair with the careless grace of someone who had never known true suffering. "Four days, Valarr. Four. She'll be back in another fortnight, at most."
"A fortnight?" Valarr sat up so fast the locket swung wildly on its chain. "You said a sennight yesterday."
"I was being optimistic. Babies are unpredictable. Births take time. Celebrations take longer. You're looking at ten more days, minimum."
Ten more days.
Ten more days without her laugh, without her hand in his, without the way she hummed while she brushed her hair at night, without—
"I'm going to die," he said flatly. "I'm going to expire from lack of her, and they'll find my body here, clutching this locket, and the maesters will write treatises about it. 'The First Recorded Case of Death by Wife-Absence.' They'll name it after me. Valarr's Malady."
Matarys snorted. "You're pathetic."
"I'm devoted. There's a difference."
"There really isn't." His brother leaned forward, expression shifting to something almost like concern. "Valarr, listen to me. You need to do something. Anything. You haven't left these chambers in days—"
"I left yesterday."
"To stand on the battlements and stare at the road south for three hours. That doesn't count."
"It counted to me."
Matarys pinched the bridge of his nose. "Father is worried. Grandfather is worried. Even Aerion looked mildly concerned, and he's usually too busy practicing his cruel smile to care about anyone's wellbeing. You're making a spectacle of yourself."
"Let them watch." Valarr touched the locket again, tracing the outline of her painted smile. "She is my wife. I love her. I am not ashamed to miss her."
"No one expects you not to miss her. We expect you to miss her like a normal person. Go to council meetings. Eat food. Bathe, for the love of all the gods, you're starting to smell like a stabled horse."
Valarr sniffed his own armpit. It was... not pleasant. But that was beside the point.
"The small council can function without me. Food is unnecessary without her to share it. And bathing—" He paused, considering. "Would it be strange if I used her soaps?"
"Yes."
"They smell like her."
"I know. That's why it would be strange."
Valarr disagreed fundamentally with this assessment, but he was too tired to argue. He slumped back against the pillows, pulling the locket out to gaze at it once more. Her eyes. Her smile. The little mole near her left eyebrow that he kissed every morning without fail.
"She's so beautiful," he murmured.
"We know. You tell us constantly."
"Do you think she's thinking of me? Right now, at this moment? Do you think she misses me too?"
Matarys stood abruptly. "I'm leaving. I came to help, but I find I have no stomach for watching my brother dissolve into a puddle of sentiment. If you need me, don't find me."
The door closed behind him.
Valarr hardly noticed. He was too busy imagining her in some distant keep, holding her new niece, perhaps glancing toward the window and thinking of him. Perhaps touching her chest where a matching locket—because of course he'd had two made, one for each of them, so she could look at his face too—rested against her heart.
He hoped she was looking at it.
He hoped she missed him even half as much as he missed her.
Another knock.
"What?"
A servant entered, this one older and wiser to his moods. She carried a tray with bread and cheese and a cup of wine, which she set on the table without comment.
"Your Grace," she said, her tone carefully neutral. "The Princess Y/N's wheelhouse was spotted on the Rosby road an hour ago. Moving south. Away from the city."
Valarr's heart plummeted through the floor.
"Away?" He sat up, clutching the locket like a talisman. "Why would she be moving away? She's supposed to be moving toward me. The world is meant to bring her closer, not farther. That's the natural order of things."
"The messenger said the princess decided to accompany her brother's family part of the way to their next destination. She'll be delayed by another few days."
Another few days.
He was going to perish. Truly and completely. They would find him dead of yearning, his cold fingers still wrapped around her painted smile, and on his lips would be her name, and the singers would compose ballads about his devotion, and—
The servant was still there, watching him with an expression that might have been pity.
"Leave the bread," he said weakly.
She left.
Valarr stared at the tray. The bread looked dry. The cheese looked plain. The wine looked like the kind that would make him maudlin rather than numb, and he was already so deep in maudlin that any further descent would require ropes and a guide.
He reached for the locket again.
Four more days. Possibly five. Possibly a whole sennight of additional Y/N-less existence stretching before him like an endless grey sea.
He could do this.
He could survive.
He had her locket. He had her pillow. He had the memory of her voice, which he replayed in his mind constantly, and the way she laughed, which he conjured up whenever the silence grew too loud.
He would be fine.
He would be fine.
---
He was not fine.
Three hours later, he had migrated to her solar, where he sat surrounded by her things—her books, her embroidery, her little pots of color for painting, her shawl still draped over the back of her chair. He held the shawl in his lap, stroking the soft wool, breathing in the fading scent of her.
"Y/N," he whispered to the empty room. "Y/N, Y/N, Y/N."
It helped, somehow. Saying her name. Keeping her present through sheer force of vocalization.
"You have to come back soon," he continued, addressing the shawl. "I'm running out of things to do. I've stared at the locket so much I might have worn a hole through the enamel. I've read every letter you ever wrote me—twice. I've counted the floorboards in our bedchamber. There are forty-seven. Did you know that? I didn't know that. I know it now."
The shawl offered no response.
"I talked to your pillow this morning. Told it about my day. Which was nothing, because you weren't here, but I described the nothing in detail. The pillow was a good listener. Better than Matarys, certainly."
He sighed, slumping lower in the chair.
"Do you remember our wedding? Of course you do. But do you remember how I couldn't stop staring at you? How they had to nudge me to say my vows because I was too busy looking at your face? The septon thought I was nervous. I wasn't nervous. I was just—you were so beautiful. You're always so beautiful. I'm not sure you understand how beautiful you are. I should tell you more often. I'll tell you every day when you come back. Every single day. Multiple times a day. You'll get tired of hearing it."
He paused, considering.
"No, you won't. You love me. You think I'm wonderful. You tell me that all the time, and I never get tired of it, so why would you get tired of—"
A knock. He was going to have words with whoever kept interrupting his mourning.
"Your Grace?" A different servant, this one young and nervous. "There's a raven. From the princess."
Valarr was on his feet before the sentence finished, crossing the room in three strides and snatching the tiny scroll from the servant's hand. He unrolled it with shaking fingers, devouring the words:
My love,
My good sister is recovered and the babe is healthy and beautiful. They have named her Valerya, after you. (I may have suggested it.) We will be delayed another few days as we travel with them to—
He stopped reading.
They had named the baby after him.
A tiny girl, carrying a piece of his name. Because his wife had suggested it. Because his wife thought of him even while holding a newborn, even while surrounded by her own kin, even while separated by miles and miles of road.
He read the sentence again.
They have named her Valerya, after you.
"Your Grace?" The servant was still there, hovering uncertainly. "Is all well?"
Valarr looked up, and for the first time in four days, he smiled.
"All is well," he said. "All is very well. Tell the kitchens to prepare a feast. Tell my brother I'll be at council tomorrow. Tell my grandfather I've recovered from my illness."
The servant blinked. "You have, Your Grace?"
"I have." He pressed the letter to his chest, right over his heart, where the locket rested against his skin. "My wife has sent word. I am cured."
---
That night, he wrote her a letter.
It was very long. It contained approximately seventeen declarations of love, twelve descriptions of how much he missed her, three jokes that she probably wouldn't find funny but he hoped she would anyway, and a detailed account of his conversation with her pillow.
He did not mention the forty-seven floorboards. That seemed excessive even for him.
At the end, just before sealing it with wax, he added a postscript:
I have commissioned a third locket. This one will have two paintings—one of you, one of me—side by side. So that when I look at you, I can also imagine you looking at me, and we can be looking at each other even when we're apart. I know it's not the same as having you here. But it's something.
Come home soon.
Your devoted husband,
Valarr
P.S. If you see this baby Valerya, tell her her uncle loves her already. Not as much as I love you. Nothing could be that much. But a respectable amount for a niece.
He sent it with the fastest raven in the rookery, then climbed into bed—her side, always her side now—and fell asleep with the locket pressed to his lips and her name on his tongue.
Five more days.
He could survive five more days.
Probably.
---
Author's Note:
Normalize men being this pathetic about their wives. The dragons may be gone, but dramatic devotion should not be.
Ghost, coming home late from a night out with the team, drunk off his ass and hardly coherent, realizes he's lost his keys.
He's lost his keys, but he has not lost the lockpicking set he always has on him. Thank god he is still good at lockpicking while drunk.
...unfortunately he's not as skilled at reading the apartment numbers.
He's in the middle of wondering who rearranged his furniture when there's a sharp pain in the back of his skull and it all goes black.
Cue you promptly freaking out because you probably killed your weird neighbor, he just crumpled onto the floor and– a sudden groaning, and the body rolls over to stare at you.
Did he just tank a bat to the head?? Nevermind. More importantly, you kneel down next to him and subtly press a touch to the back of the head, feeling for damage "sir? Are you okay? Should i call someone?"
"....god, love, yer pretty. Good swing." He slurs, head tilting back "...wanna get dinner sometime?"
The room smells like disinfectant, warm blankets, and that weird hospital air that feels too clean to be real. You’re half propped up in bed, exhausted in that bone-deep, cosmic way, staring at the absolute UNIT swaddled against your chest.
Your baby is… enormous. Respectfully. A marvel of biology. The nurses kept saying things like “wow” and “that’s a strong baby” with the same tone people use when they see a truck doing something illegal.
And Simon?
Simon is unwell.
He’s standing too close to the bed. Too stiff. Like if he locks his knees he’ll pass out. His skull mask is gone, because apparently hospital staff draw the line there and without it, he looks wrecked. Red-eyed. Hair a mess. Hands shaking like he’s about to diffuse a bomb using chopsticks.
Soap walks in first and immediately stops dead.
“…Jesus Christ.”
Price follows. Gaz behind him. All three of them stare.
Soap points. “Is that— is that the baby?”
Gaz squints. “That’s not a baby. That’s a loaf.”
Price clears his throat, deeply impressed. “Strong start. Good head on ‘em.”
Simon makes a noise that’s somewhere between a laugh and a sob.
“Shes breathing,” he says urgently, like this is breaking news. “She just— she breathes and then she sighs.”
Soap grins. “Yeah mate. That’s what babies do.”
“No,” Simon insists. “This one does it… meaningfully.”
You adjust the baby slightly and Simon flinches like you just tossed a live grenade.
“Careful!” he blurts, then clamps his mouth shut, horrified. “Sorry. I’m sorry. You’re doing perfect. I just”
The baby lets out a tiny grunt. A chunky, offended little noise.
Simon’s entire soul leaves his body.
“She’s mad,” he whispers. “I’ve upset her.”
Gaz is already losing it. “Lt, you look like you’re about to apologize to the Prime Minister.”
Soap leans over the crib. “Blimey. Look at those cheeks. You could lose a man in there.”
The baby’s hand escapes the blanket and immediately grabs Simon’s finger.
Simon freezes. Again.
“…she’s got me,” he says quietly. “I can’t move.”
Price sips his coffee. “You’re a parent now, Simon. Accept your fate.”
Simon looks at you. Completely undone. Voice shaking, eyes soft, like he’s staring at the sun but it’s wrapped in a blanket.
“I don’t know how you did that,” he says, reverent. “You’re incredible. Both of you.”
The baby yawns. Wide. Dramatic. Fat
Soap actually clutches his chest. “I can’t believe this. The scariest man I know just got emotionally KO’d by a newborn.”
Gaz snaps another picture. “This is going on the fridge.”
Simon doesn’t even protest.
He just gently presses his thumb against the baby’s knuckles, whispering like a vow, like a promise, like a man who is absolutely, irrevocably gone.
“Hi, love,” he murmurs. “I’m yer dad. I’ll sort it out. Promise.
Simon Ghost Riley, will not survive becoming a father.
Summary: Your first Christmas together in your quiet woodland cottage.
Snow had piled against the windowpanes overnight, soft as feathers and twice as silent.
When you stepped into the sitting room, still warm from yesterday’s fire, you found him standing in the centre of the room with a bundle of pine branches in his arms.
He looked like a statue caught in the act.
He turned to you slowly.
“You said… we decorate today.”
You smiled.
“We do. That is why I brought the branches yesterday.”
He shifted, uncertain, glancing from the greenery to you as though unsure what came next. It was endearing, the way he always approached new things cautiously, desperate to do them right for your sake.
You walked over and reached for his hand.
“Would you like me to show you?”
He nodded immediately, relief softening his features.
Together, you spread the branches across the table, the air filling with the scent of resin and winter forests.
You showed him how to twist thin string around the stems to bind them together, forming small garlands for the mantle and windows.
He copied your movements, fingers enormous and hesitant.
“If I press too hard, I will break it.”
“You will not. You are more careful than you think.”
He paused, the corner of his mouth lifting in the smallest, shyest hint of a smile.
When the garlands were hung, you brought out the small box of ornaments you had collected over the years. He stared at the fragile glass baubles as if they were made of spun gold.
“I should not touch those,” he whispered.
You took one and placed it into his hand.
“You can. And you will not break them. Trust yourself a little more.”
He held the ornament like a newborn bird, studying it from every angle. After a moment, he lifted it to a branch of the small pine tree standing in the corner. His hand trembled, but he managed to hang it without harm.
You applauded softly. His eyes widened in surprise.
“I did it.”
“You did.”
He hung another. Then another. And slowly, his movements became less rigid, less fearful.
You watched him warm to the task, watched the lines of worry fade from his face.
By the time the tree was finished, he looked almost proud.
“It is…” he searched for the word, “…beautiful.”
You touched his arm.
“Just like our home.”
He lowered his gaze, touched by the idea that he had contributed to the beauty of something you shared.
“I never thought I would live somewhere like this. Somewhere warm. Somewhere safe.”
“Somewhere loved,” you added.
Before he could speak, you moved across the room to fetch the last decoration, the one you had hidden away purposefully. A small sprig of mistletoe tied with a red ribbon.
You held it up.
He blinked. “What is that?”
“Mistletoe,” you said, stepping closer. “You hang it above a doorway and… Well, if two people stand under it, they are meant to kiss.”
He stared at the little plant as though it held ancient secrets.
His voice was quiet.
“So you are supposed to kiss under it?”
You nodded.
He reached up, gently taking the mistletoe from your hand. He studied it for a moment, then looked at you.
“Show me where to put it.”
You pointed to the beam above the doorway. He lifted it with ease and secured the ribbon, stepping back when it hung neatly overhead.
He turned to you.
“You said… if two people stand under it…”
“Yes,” you whispered.
He stepped under the mistletoe.
Then he offered you his hand, inviting you to join him.
You walked toward him, your heart beating softly but quickly. When you reached him, he looked down at you with wonder in his eyes, as if unsure how something so gentle could be real.
“May I?” he asked.
You nodded.
He cupped your cheek with both hands, his touch careful but warm, and leaned down.
His kiss was soft, slower than usual, warmer than the fire in the hearth. A kiss meant not to claim, not to reassure, not to calm fear, but simply to share joy.
“I like this tradition,” he murmured.
“So do I.”
He brushed a thumb over your cheek.
“Thank you… for showing me these things. For… sharing your celebrations with me. I never believed I could belong in moments like this.”
“You belong more than anyone.”
Snow fell outside, the fire crackled, and underneath the mistletoe, you kissed him again, laughing softly against his mouth as he finally relaxed into the magic of the season.
Warnings/Notes: gender neutral insert reader, established relationship, embarrassed/anxious Simon, kissing, nicknames (sweetheart, love), Reader comparing Gazerbeam to Simon, teeny tiny angst, fluff/reassurance. Also, I finally wrote it!! Honestly, I'm surprised that I didn't just make Simon faint at some point...
Summary: After concluding that Simon is Gazerbeam, the Reader is prepared to show Simon what evidence they've come up with.
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It had been a few days since your literal run-in on the streets of the city. Days of knowing, absolutely convinced, the secret identity of the Super Gazerbeam.
As the days had passed as usual, you kept to your routine. You were by no means avoiding discussing such a delicate topic with your partner. Oh, no. There was not even a hesitant bone in your body about the matter. No. This was something important. Highly classified. There was only one thing to do.
"Hi, Simon," you beamed as you welcomed him into your home.
"Hello, sweetheart." Simon smiled, pressing a loving kiss to your lips. "I hope I did not keep you waiting too long. There was more traffic that I anticipated."
"Not at all," you assured. Taking his hands in yours, you leisurely lead him over to the couch. "How was your day, today?"
"Quite well," he mused at the thought. "Continuing with organizing a defense for my client."
You smiled, stopping in front of the furniture. "You're too good, Simon."
A breath of a laugh left his lips from the surprise of your compliment. He shook his head, searching for the right words amongst the couch cushions. "I only do what I can."
"And what you can do is amazing," you practically cooed at him. "Here, take a seat, and I'll be right back."
Once Simon sat down, you pecked a kiss to his lips. "You have something to show me?" He asked, a curiosity lifting his features.
"Yes, I do." With a growing grin and an extra pep to your step, you left the room.
Once you were out of sight, the sound of your bedroom door closing changed Simon's demeanor entirely. The at ease posture that was unconsciously sinking him into the couch, stiffened. His back became so rigid, someone could have pasted paper on him and it would be perfectly straight.
Had this man been dating you exclusively for quite some time?. Yes. Absolutely. But Simon J. Paladino had no training whatsoever. Not in his assumption of what you could have been up to. In any respective romance novel whose pages he has ever touched, such an interaction was always followed by a further exploration in the narrative couple's relationship. What else could it possibly be? You had even shut the door behind you.
The pulsing anxiety grew with each passing moment. He brought a hand up to his neck, only to find a throbbing heartbeat under shaky hands. Surely there was no reason for him to be reacting in such a manner. There was a cool, calm, and collected nature about himself. No matter the situation. No matter who was involved. And yet, somehow by such a small action, he was rendered completely incapable of any sensible thought.
When the bedroom door is opened once again, an unfamiliar panic shoots through Simon's veins. In a flail of limbs, he covered his eyes, shutting them completely from whatever he was not prepared for. The sound of your footsteps echoed in his ears as you made your way back into the room. What could he have possibly gotten himself into?
An adjustment and a small shift to keep upright, everything was finally in place. "Simon," you giggled, "I didn't mean for you to cover your eyes. It's not exactly a surprise…just something that I wanted to show you."
And it was a rather cute sight. Simon sitting so properly, eyes actually shielded behind his hands. "I…I was not sure," he said, his voice shaking in the slightest. However hesitant, he lowered his hands.
Despite his initial anxious quivering, his brows bundled in confusion and study over the frame of his glasses. "What…"
A few feet in front of him, you stood beside a full presentation board. Held up by a small easel and some hope. "I present to you…my partner, the Super. A visual presentation by me."
Across the board was a well labeled and organized collection of images and bullet point lists. From newspaper clippings to carefully placed personal photos, it appeared very thought out.
"Exhibit A," you pointed to a set of photos with a prominent yellow ruler that he had failed to notice, "body type."
Simon slowly shook his head in disbelief. Deep in the bright irises of his eyes, a different emotion began to take hold. Panic.
"Here, we have a newspaper photo taken roughly one year ago. In this unobstructed image, we can clearly see the overall body shape of the Super, Gazerbeam. Wide shoulders in comparison with the ratio to his hips. A detail noticeable with the well-fitted suit."
On the couch, Simon sat silently. His eyes looked intensely at your hardwork, bouncing between images and even underlined words. How was he to deny any of this? Odd coincidence? Overactive imagination?
"This is an image of you, Simon Paladino, graciously helping with the dishes about two months ago. Admittedly, I wanted to capture the moment because it was a sweet gesture…but also, your torso without your blazer made me lose the ability to speak for a good five minutes." You tried to hide the smile spreading over your lips, but the tint of blush over Simon's cheeks was no help at all.
You could only imagine what must have been going through that mind of his. There were a variety of ways that he could react to it all. Maybe even something that did not occur to you one of the late nights you were working on the presentation. However, beyond the moment of him blushing at your comment, you could not let yourself get distracted.
"And now…for the most obvious and undoubtedly raw evidence from a close, and dare I say intimate space," you announced, accidentally slapping the ruler on a set of portraits. "Facial features."
Behind his lenses, Simon's eyes widened a fraction. He did not know how long he was going to last. Much less, what he was going to say.
Raising his hand slowly, he asked, "May I interject?"
Catching a word before you began the next section of your presentation, you looked to him. "No," you said softly. "Not yet."
"Sorry," he apologized quietly.
Hearing such a small voice from your partner tugged at your heartstrings. He was always so sure of himself. Albeit, cautious at times. You hoped that the whole display was not making him uncomfortable. But you could not phantom any other way to communicate such a topic with him without it being brushed off somehow.
"There's no need to apologize, you wonderful man, you," you assured. "Where was I?" You mumbled, peering back at the board. "Facial features! Have you seen your jawline? Granted, I'll keep it simple. The angle, the tappering, the little thing that your chin does--it's cute--but that's beside the point."
Simon soon found himself smiling. There was no harsh or finger pointing accusations. No. His partner was pointing out details, yes, but comparing photos of himself to Gazerbeam with such tenderness and familiarity. Not even in his wildest late night thoughts did he imagine you taking the time to create and meticulously gather your own evidence.
Letting out a laugh, you pointed briefly at him. "And don't get me started on your lips, Mister Paladino. I think I've stared at those lips longingly enough to know them on sight. Chapped or not."
His entire face flushed. Even up to the tips of his ears. The rush of nerves coursed through him in a sudden warmth. Compliments, especially such intimate ones, were still so foreign to him. And never did he recall you admitting a statement quite like that. "Longingly?" He asked, hands smoothing down the fabric on his thighs as if he did not know what to do with them.
You nodded firmly. "Yes, longingly. When we first started to date. It had hardly been a week before I thought about kissing you."
"Oh," he breathed out quietly.
"And finally…in the most unprofessional manner… How could I not recognize a voice that I've heard so closely to my ear? A voice that I have so keenly listened to for hours at a time, if I'm lucky."
Silence hung unbearably between you. It was starting to feel like the longest minute of your life. And if you did not step up the courage to break it now, you might have lost all hope.
Setting down the ruler, you clasped your hands together. "Listen," you began softly, "I know that this is…a lot, but I can't let this go. If this is a part of your life, then you won't have to make yourself uncomfortable with digging up an excuse to leave or cancel plans that we've made. I've accepted every reason that you've ever given me."
Simon shifted on the couch cushion. It was true that he had given one reason it another to leave just as a date was going well. He was just surprised that beyond a second date that you continued to pursue and preserve the relationship blooming between you. The thought, your understanding gesture, made his heart warm his entire chest.
"I know that this is a secret for a reason. Obviously. But I'm your partner, Simon, of course I want you to be safe and happy. I want to be there for you in all aspects of your life like you are with mine." You ran a hand over your hair to take a breath, not realizing your heartrate rising. "I care about your well-being, so why in the world would I ever tell or even remotely hint at knowing or sharing your identity? I care about you too much to ever consider it."
The tears brimming your eyes tore at Simon. His eyes kept flicking back to the genuine honesty within them. But how could he ever handle what may become of such an acknowledgement? He found his hands trembling again before he sucked in a breath and finally stood. "I am Gazerbeam," he said with a wave of confidence that sent a chill up your back.
You sighed, your shoulders dropping in the relief you felt wash over you. "That certainly explains a few extra details."
In his confusion, his brows knitted together in a way that was too cute for you not to smile at. "Extra things?"
"Yes," you took two short strides to reach him. A smirk quirked up the corner of your mouth. "A few specific physical details," you emphasized by placing your palms on his chest. The warmth of his body radiated through his blazer. Though your fingers itched to reach his crisp button down shirt underneath.
"I…um…" The bashfulness hitting him tore away his usually articulate vocabulary. Reducing him to a flutter of eyelashes in his attempts to blink his way back to his senses.
"And believe me when I say that I have no problem having a strong lawyer for a boyfriend." You grinned playfully up into his blue eyes even as they shifted their focus away from you and back again. "I just don't think that I ever can comprehend how you make time for everything. Even me, somehow…"
Concern flashed over his eyes, the space between his eyebrows crinkling from your words. Gently, he reached up to cradle your face in his hands. "I have--want to make time for you," he said, hardly above a whisper. "I…care too much to even phantom ruining the relationship we have… And now that you know…"
Cutting off his pause of thought with a kiss, you bumped the tip of your nose to his. "I will love and understand you all the more."
A small gasp left Simon's mouth as he gazed at you for a short moment with tears welling around his lids. "You're, uh, quite a discerning individual," he mused with a joyful grin. "I think your capacity for empathy is most admirable."
"Yeah?" You asked, fingers trailing up the collar of his blazer.
"Yes," he nodded quickly. The way he kept looking around your face with increasing speed sent his heartrate up gradually. But it was your nearing closeness that had his head already spinning before your lips pressed to his in a soft exchange of kisses. One of his hands slid away from your cheek, curving around the back of your neck gingerly. To have you so close to him made him simaltaneously dizzy and elated. As if everything was right with the world at an expodential level.
Pulling back slightly, you giggled at Simon's expression. His eyelids were heavy, a contrast to his parted lips. And the blissful sigh that slipped out made you all the more pleased at how your presentation turned out.
"Admirable, was the last thing you were saying," you reminded with a brush of your lips to his.
"Right," he sighed again, his forehead leaning against yours. "As much as I like that you set up an entire presentation…it would be best to dismantle it as soon as possible."
"I know." You pursed your lips, not wanting to take apart all of your hard work just yet. But, you knew it needed to be done eventually. A glimmer shone in your eyes at his other acknowledgement though. "Did you really like it?"
The pad of his thumb smoothed over your cheek. How was he to formulate the correct words to fully articulate the depths of how he felt? "I do."
The most giddy of grins took over your face. Not only did he trust you with his secret, but he liked how you portrayed your evidence to him. As silly as it may have been, you found yourself bursting with joy. Diving your fingers into his well-kept hair, you tilted your head just enough to deepen the next kiss. And the many others to follow after.
Between the rising heat of kisses, Simon spoke complimentary of you. "I can't believe…you figured it out… You're so perceptive," he murmured, lost in the very essence of you. "Only you could have come to this conclusion."
"I would certainly hope so," you snickered. "I'm the only one who gets to be this close. At least in this way."
"That is true."
"And Simon?"
"Hmmm?"
"Your baratone and speech pattern aren't exactly common, love." You pointed out softly, adjusting his tie slightly.
"I…suppose you're right about that as well." He mumbled, his frown not lasting a single second as your lips met his once more. "But…now that you know, I must confess that I do have a meeting to attend."
"So soon?"
"If you wish it of me," he took a steadying breath, "I can return later. Though it will be night by then."
"Simon," you smiled at him fondly, "I'll give you a spare key. You can come over whenever you're ready tonight."
"Thank you. I will try to return at a reasonable hour, but if that's not the case," he swallowed thickly, "I will be quiet, as to not disturb your night."
"You can't possibly disturb me," you laughed gently. Patting his chest, you forced yourself to step back. "Now don't be late. You have important things to do, Mister Paladino."
As he made his way toward the door, you held up an index finger. He indeed waited while you hastily darted into the bedroom to retrieve the spare key and return to him.
"I'll keep this safe," he assured, placing the key into a pocket.
"You keep safe," you pecked your lips to his.
With a confirming nod, Simon left.
And though you did not know what exactly he would be doing, or if it were to be dangerous, you knew one thing for sure: your favorite Super would do everything in his power to return to you that evening.
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Thank you for reading!
✨ I fully intend to make more fanfics for Gazerbeam next year ✨
Already commented, but I'm obsessed with these two cuties! I'm picking up Simon and tucking him into my pocket, he deserves a little smooch on the forehead.
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