Fancast for young!Baelor: Constantine Corrino from Dune Prophecy ( saw this on TikTok) SEE HERE
Young!Baelor's looks are based mostly off of Book!Baelor ,or he looked more Dornish when he was younger but then spent too much time inside when he got older
This is a Young!Baelor fic, him and reader are around 19-21 years old and are newly wed.
Baelor, Daemon and reader are all about the same age
This specific fic is based BEFORE Blackfyre rebellion, Daemon and reader were childhood friends
Most importantly…. DRAGONSSSS and Young!TeenMaekar cameo
Word count: 6k
Vermithor was the first to notice you when you reached the summit of the Hill of Rhaenys.
The great bronze dragon had his massive head turned in your direction, eyes like molten gold; already fixed on you as soon as you came into view. Mayhaps he had caught your scent mixed in the wind, or the soft crunch of your feet against the gravel; it was hard to tell for a dragon’s senses were far greater than a human’s.
You approached him without hesitation, a feat that would have been impossible for you a few moons ago. Some time back, the sight of Vermithor even from a mile away had your heart racing, palms sweating, and throat dry. Now you approached him like he was one of the Red Keep’s domesticated cats.
As you stood in front of him, the old dragon lowered his enormous head until it hovered just inches from your own. His heat rolled off in waves; it felt like standing before a forge, and the scent of smoke, ash, and brimstone filled your senses.
Your hand lifted for a moment, silently asking for permission, though you and the beast’s relationship had come a long way. In the end, Vermithor was still a dragon, an older one at that; he didn’t always like being touched.
A warm huff escaped his nostrils, sending curls of smoke that tickle your face and stir loose strands of hair. Permission.
“Hello to you too.”
A laugh escaped you as you wrapped your arms around his snout, rubbing your hands along the rough bronze scales. Even through your layers of clothing, you could still feel the heat from them. Vermithor rumbled lowly at the feeling, and you felt the vibration travel through you.
Then the old beast pressed forward, shoving his head against you in a silent demand for further affection, the force of it nearly sending you stumbling backward.
“Seven hells,” you laughed. “You will have me tumbling back down this hill.” You spoke, knowing all too well he didn’t understand the Common Tongue.
“So I don’t get a greeting?”
The familiar voice came from above.
You tilted your head back to find Baelor who sat comfortably atop Vermithor’s saddle, his short, wavy dark hair sway softly in the morning breeze as he looked down at you with poorly concealed amusement.
“My lord husband,” you smirked, looking up at him with a playful eye roll.
“My lady wife,” he replied, his tone just as teasing.
He then slid off the beast with such ease. “You know, if we put in word now, I believe the blacksmith could create a two-seater for Vermithor before this month ends.”
You laughed with a scoff. It had taken time, and a great deal of it, to grow comfortable around Vermithor. Moons of patience, encouragement, and careful, slow interactions. Then, somewhere along the way, fear had softened into trust, and trust into affection.
You had grown so fond of the dragon that you often joked Vermithor was your first child together, but still, it would take a bit more time before you were comfortable being miles and miles above the ground.
“No need, I am quite content as a spectator.”
He joined you at Vermithor’s side, patting the dragon’s flank and commanding him in the ancient tongue to return to the Dragonpit, but the dragon ignored his rider entirely, not even blinking in his direction, choosing instead to continue basking in your attention.
The prince narrowed his mismatched eyes in mock offense.
“I am prone to believe he likes you more than me.”
You continued tracing your fingers along Vermithor’s rough scales, and the dragon’s orange eyes closed as if in bliss.
“Just wait,” you chuckled lightly, glancing over at Baelor. “When he gets his little brother or sister, I suspect you’ll be replaced entirely,” you teased.
Heat rose to his brown cheeks. Gods, he hated when that happened. It had already been half a year since your wedding. You shared a marriage bed and all that came with it, yet comments like that still had him smiling and blushing like a green boy.
You opened your mouth to tease him when suddenly the sky darkened. A massive shadow swallowed the sun, covering the world in darkness. Then came the sound……Seven hells, the sound. It was a shrill, violent screech that split through the air, followed by the thunderous beating of enormous wings.
Baelor stiffened instantly, every trace of mirth disappearing from his face. Most of his family had dragons, and he knew every one of their calls, and that was not one of them.
His hand firmly gripped your forearm, pulling you behind him. Vermithor needed no command. One massive bronze wing unfurled, shielding both you and his rider beneath its span. A deep growl rumbled from his throat as his head snapped toward the dark shape circling overhead.
When you finally looked up, you saw a dragon the color of the sea on a moonless night, and there was only one dragon alive that color; Cannibal. Which could only mean that upon his back was none other than Daemon Blackfyre.
The black dragon circled overhead several times, slow and deliberate. It reminded you of vultures wheeling above dying prey.
Vermithor took it as a taunt; it upset him, but the old beast would not attack unless his rider commanded it. Instead, his growl deepened, and his eyes never left the intruder.
After another circle, Cannibal finally descended. His immense wings beat against the wind, sounding like a king’s banner flapping in a storm. As he neared the ground, the powerful sweep of his wings sent loose stones and dust exploding outward. His massive claws stretched forward, reaching for the rocky plain below. The moment he touched down, the earth shuddered beneath the beast’s weight.
Thinking back on it now, you had never truly seen Cannibal. His scales were nearly as black as the formidable Balerion’s had once been. Scars crisscrossed his body in pale streaks, each telling unspoken stories of his violence and aggression. His wings were ragged and torn at the edges, and his emerald eyes seemed to burn with a thirst for blood.
Even standing there, the beast seemed restless, shifting under his rider, claws sharp enough to tear through steel digging into the rocky plain. But, he was smaller than Vermithor…..thankfully so, you prayed that difference would matter, if it came to it.
Your eyes then shifted up to Daemon, who looked far calmer than the beast he rode. It had been years since you had last seen him. The last time you did, he had still been a mere boy, but now he was a man, and by the Seven did he grow beautifully into his Valyrian features. He was taller now, his shoulders broader, arms muscular, and jaw sharpened. His silver-gold hair was much longer and had been pulled back into a warrior’s braid.
There were still a few things that remained the same about him from your youth together however, like those deep violet eyes that immediately settled on you, followed by that smile. The same smile that had once convinced you not to attend lessons with your septa, the one that talked you into climbing castle walls or exploring King Maegor’s secret tunnels. The one that had easily triggered your own so many times before.
You realized you were staring and quickly tore your gaze away, but Daemon had already noticed. His smile widened, and by the way Baelor’s jaw tightened, so had he.
Daemon dismounted in one fluid motion and began to stride toward you when Baelor’s voice cut through the air.
“That is far enough.” His voice was calm and steady, but a warning nonetheless.
Daemon paused for a moment before a chuckle slipped past his lips.
“You seem to resemble Daeron more and more every day,” Daemon remarked.
His gaze drifted leisurely over Baelor's features.
“Well... solely in personality, of course.”
He took another step despite the order.
Baelor’s hand settled on the hilt of his sword.
Behind him, Vermithor lowered his head beside Baelor’s shoulder, lips peeling back to reveal rows of sharp teeth, a deep growl rumbling at the back of his throat.
Cannibal hissed immediately in reply, shifting forward and raising his jagged wings, clearly trying to appear bigger, more fierce. He let out a loud shriek that pained your ears and had you gripping onto Baelor.
Vermithor didn’t seem fazed; instead, his mouth slowly opened as a strange sound began to build deep in his throat. It started as a low, uneven chitter, like two stones striking together, sparking the first breath of fire. The sound grew louder as smoke passed between his teeth in thin threads and the back of his throat began to glow with that infamous orange heat, brightening with every passing second. His mood quickly shifted from a warning into a promise.
Daemon raised a hand.
“Lykirī, Cannibal,” he said, far too calmly, his eyes not even looking back at his dragon. “We came to greet an old friend, not steal what has already been claimed.”
The black dragon reluctantly settled, but those deep green eyes remained locked on the bronze fury, and Vermithor’s orange ones remained locked on him as well.
Daemon stood a good foot away from you, now fully aware of the cost of taking another step. His hand rested casually on the pommel of his sword, feigning ease as though he hadn’t nearly been roasted like a pig moments earlier.
“It’s nice to see you again, Y/n.” His voice was smooth as silk.
“Daemon.” You answered, hoping your tone carried none of the warmth or familiarity that threatened to surface.
“I regret missing your wedding,” he paused briefly, shifting his weight. “I am sure you made a very beautiful bride.”
“I—” The words caught in your throat.
“But I thought it best not to attend. I imagine my presence would have caused more trouble than celebration.”
“Message received, Daemon.” Baelor’s voice cut in, the calmness from earlier slowly fraying like old rope. “I’m certain there are far more entertaining activities awaiting you elsewhere.”
Daemon’s eyebrow shot up in mock confusion.
“Am I not allowed to speak to an old friend?”
“Not when that friend is now my wife.”
You had seen Baelor serious before; during council meetings, training, and matters of state, but this was different. There was something sharper to his tone, more protective, angry… possessive even.
Daemon noticed it and seemed amused, his smile became taunting.
“I see marriage has made you territorial, dear nephew.”
“You said you weren’t here to stir any trouble. Now make good on that promise and go.” Baelor used the same tone of voice he did when commanding a council.
Daemon lifted his hands in mock surrender.
“As you wish, my prince.”
He mounted Cannibal, giving you one more glance before they launched into the sky.
The tension did not leave even after they were gone. Vermithor did not move, his great head still angled toward the fading speck of Cannibal, and Baelor remained just as rigid, his eyes fixed on the horizon long after the dragon and rider had vanished from sight.
Baelor had always just tolerated his half-uncle; that was the most polite way he could put it.
The easiest answer came from politics.
Growing up, he always had to hear how his grandfather, the foolish King Aegon IV, compared his father to his half uncle. The king delighted in humiliating his true heir, Daeron, whenever he could while praising his favorite bastard in the same breath. Even after Aegon’s death, the realm continued to compare them.
But that was the convenient answer.
The real one stood beside him.
Baelor knew you and Daemon had once been close.
Growing up in the Red Keep, you were rarely seen apart from him. Baelor could still picture it: finding you two in the gardens, seated close enough that your shoulders nearly touched, speaking in low voices meant for no one else.
The training yard was no better.
Whenever the squires sparred under Ser Quentyn’s watch, your cheers were always loudest for Daemon. Gods, that smile of yours so bright, so proud. Baelor found himself training even harder, hoping one day that smile might be directed at him. Moreover he had always tried to talk to you, but it proved impossible without the Waters boy intervening.
Then at fourteen, everything changed.
Before his death, Aegon the Unworthy legitimized Daemon and all his other bastards (the first spark of future discord). The Waters, now Blackfyre, was wed to a noblewoman of Tyrosh, then given his own lands along the Blackwater Rush by his half-brother, the now King Daeron. It served as both reward and leash, as Blackfyre had now become his newest threat.
When Daemon left King’s Landing, whatever childhood friendship and petty rivalry existed seemed to die there, or so Baelor told himself so often it felt like the truth.
Yet watching Daemon smile at you today, watching old familiarity flicker between you, even for the briefest moment, stirred something unpleasant in his chest. The same feeling his child self had once known, but for some reason it burned hotter now.
The wedding celebrations of Princess Daenerys Targaryen and Prince Maron Martell had transformed King’s Landing into history in the making. The wedding had been even grander than yours and Baelor’s.
Every inn was full and tavern crowded. Hundreds of pavilions lined the tourney grounds, spilling across the usually plain fields in a riot of color. Silken tents bearing distinctive heraldry stretched as far as the eye could see, their banners flying proudly in the summer wind. Golden roses of Highgarden fluttered beside the silver trout of Riverrun. Westerling seashells and Hightower beacons snapped sharply in the breeze, alongside countless others.
Your eyes swept across the jousting grounds. It seemed as though everyone in the Six, now Seven Kingdoms had come for the wedding.
Hundreds of nobles occupied the upper galleries beneath embroidered awnings displaying the colors of their respective houses, while below them hundreds more smallfolk stood shoulder to shoulder in the mud.
The royal family sat high above them all. A great three-headed Targaryen banner draped from one side of the royal box, while the sun-and-spear of House Martell hung from the other.
A symbol of two houses united in peace.
Yet, as with many decisions made by the Crown, not everyone celebrated. Arguments echoed through the streets of the realm. Many raised their ales to the gods, praising the end of years of war and bloodshed, while others grumbled into their cups, claiming the king had become far too influenced by the Dornish and favored them above every other house.
You slipped into the royal gallery just as Princess Daenerys laughed at something Prince Maron had whispered into her ear. The newlyweds already seemed to get along, and for that you were glad.
Arranged marriages, especially among nobles, rarely blossomed into true love. You had been fortunate that yours and Baelor’s had. From what you had seen so far, it appeared Daenerys had been just as lucky.
You were engaged in a small conversation with one of your handmaids when a trumpet sounded across the field.
Then came a familiar name.
“First born son of King Daeron the good, heir to the Iron Throne, Prince of Dragonstone; Baelor Targaryen!”
The cheers rolled across the tiltyard like distant thunder as Baelor urged his horse into a lap around the lists before making his way toward the royal box.
Your gaze drifted toward him, taking a moment to appreciate his armor.
Thousands of dark steel scales overlapped across his chest and shoulders, crafted to mimic those of a dragon. Upon the breastplate, countless tiny rubies formed the three-headed dragon of House Targaryen, glimmering brilliantly beneath the summer sun.
The moment he removed his helm, dark waves tumbled free from their confinement, falling slightly across his forehead. His skin was slightly more tanned than usual, something you had noticed always happened during the hottest months of the year, a gift from his Dornish blood, which was suited to withstand the unforgiving sun than most.
Those mismatched eyes, one darker and one lighter, lifted briefly toward you before shifting to his father.
Baelor lowered his head to King Daeron in respect. The king did not bother to hide the proud smile that spread across his face, he raised a hand and gave a small nod.
“Our beautiful boy,” Queen Myriah said fondly.
Baelor immediately looked away.
Even being heir to the Iron Throne did not spare a man from embarrassment at the hands of his mother.
He guided his horse closer to where you sat.
“May I ask for your favor, my lady?”
The smile he flashed up at you had laughter threatening to escape. It was that same boyish grin he always wore whenever he knew he was up to no good.
You leaned casually against the railing.
“Depends. Will you win?”
“Of course I will, especially when I have something worth riding for.”
you giggle, and the sound made his heart flutter. You knew all too well this was mock arrogance, Baelor was never the egotistical type.
You made your way down from the royal box, stepping in front of him and his horse.
You and Baelor’s courting days were long over, but still, you found joy in small gestures like this. You presented him with a purple ribbon.
Baelor extended his arm, allowing you to tie it around his bicep.
The soft lilac stood out beautifully against the black dragon scales of his armor.
“There.” You patted the knot as it fluttered softly in the wind. “You’d better not lose, or you’ll ruin my honor.”
Though you couldn’t have cared less whether he won or lost, the mere thought that he rode in your name was victory enough.
The thought barely settled before the sharp blast of horns split the air.
A herald’s voice followed.
“Son of the late King Aegon IV, wielder of the conqueror’s sword, Daemon Blackfyre!”
Smallfolk surged against the barriers, young lads climbing atop benches or their fathers’ shoulders for a better view. Noble ladies leaned over balcony railings despite the protests of septas and husbands alike. Squires carrying shields and lances paused mid-step. Even knights mounted for the day’s contests turned in their saddles to watch.
Daemon Blackfyre rode onto the field beneath a storm of cheers.
His white destrier trotted proudly beneath him, tossing its silver mane as if even the animal knew all eyes were upon it.
Sunlight flashed across crimson armor etched with black dragons. His horse’s barding bore the same colors. Bastards, legitimized or not, could not wear their father’s arms as trueborn sons did. Instead, they bore them reversed, a cruel courtesy that acknowledged their blood while ensuring no one forgot the circumstances of it.
A roar rolled across the grounds.
Men leapt to their feet, noblewomen waved ribbons from the galleries, smallfolk women underclothes….
Not everyone joined them however, some lords remained seated, exchanging dark looks and muttering amongst themselves, others watched in silence, mouths drawn tight.
Yet whether they cheered or frowned, every eye followed him.
Attention had always come as easily to Daemon as breathing.
His squire handed him a bouquet of white roses, and Daemon began circling the lists, tossing flowers into the crowd.
Maidens squealed, leaning over to catch it, two girls nearly came to blows over a single bloom.
For a moment, it seemed the entire tourney belonged to him.
You glanced toward Baelor.
His eyes were already fixed upon the black dragon across the field. To anyone watching, he appeared perfectly composed and unbothered the image of a crown prince. Only the slight tightening of his grip on the reins betrayed him.
After allowing the crowd their adoration, Daemon guided his horse toward the royal box.
He bowed first to King Daeron, receiving a measured nod in return.
Then his gaze found you.
Your breath caught as he extended a single red rose.
Memories from when you were younger flooded your mind. He had always been the one to give out flowers during tourneys.
White roses for the crowd, a red rose for you.
Back then, he could not openly court you. He was still a bastard, and you were a maiden of a noble house, a scandal enough to make septas faint, but that had never stopped the two of you. It had merely meant the courting happened in the shadows.
Hidden behind the stables before a tourney. A red flower tucked behind your ear, his touch lingering longer than it should.
He had always worn red proudly during every tourney, a silent declaration that he rode for you.
“Wish me luck.”
The familiarity struck you so hard that your hand reached for the rose but then the sight of your gold wedding ring caught the sunlight struck harder.
…
“I wish all the knights a fair and honorable contest,” you said, folding your hands neatly before you in a way that left the wedding band impossible to miss.
Daemon’s arm remained extended until Baelor’s black stallion stepped sideways. Suddenly the prince and horse sat squarely between you and Daemon. A wall of black armor, red silk, and broad shoulders.
His gaze swept over your gown, the dark red and black silks, then the diadem resting upon your brow in the shape of dragon wings…… bronze dragon wings.
“Though I suppose I should call you Princess now.”
His smile curved into a smirk.
“I always knew you’d marry into royalty. I simply imagined it would happen by a different road.”
“Daemon.” Baelor’s voice was calm, but his eyes hardened in a way that said the opposite.
“What?” Daemon said lightly, glancing at him.
“You’ve already expressed respect to your king. You needn’t linger.” Baelor’s voice still remained courteous; his expression did not, dark eyebrows drawn together, eyes sharp and unyielding.
Daemon ignored him, violet eyes drifting downward, settling on the ribbon tied around Baelor’s armored bicep.
“She used to kiss the flat of Blackfyre before any of my duels. I never lost. Does she do the same for you?”
Baelor’s stallion shifted restlessly beneath him, a hoof digging into the dirt, pulling against the reins,displaying the emotion its rider refused to show.
For a moment that felt far too long, both men simply stared at each other neither looking away.
Baelor was all controlled fire beneath polished steel, rigid and unflinching. Daemon, in contrast, sat loose in the saddle like a man carved from confidence itself, smile faint but sharp at the edges, eyes unblinking and daring.
You were reminded, absurdly, of their respective dragons studying one another across the field that day.
"If I were you," Baelor said at last, his voice tight, he reaches out to pet the stallion’s neck to calm her, "I would be more mindful of how I speak about another man's wife."
Daemon tilted his head.
"And if I choose not to?"
"You'll regret it."
Daemon looked genuinely pleased at the reply, a laugh slipping past his lips.
"Ah, there he is.” he leans in “I'd begun to fear all that Dornish sand had extinguished the dragon out of you."
The insult hung in the air, a jab at Baelor's Martell blood. A reminder that some still whispered that too much of Dorne ran through the royal line.
Baelor did not react at least, not visibly anyways.
"I pray your horse carries you safely to the end of the lists, Daemon."
Daemon's smile sharpened.
"And I yours, my prince."
Neither man missed the meaning; courtesy, challenge and promise wrapped in one.
Then Daemon wheeled his horse around and rode off into the fields.
My love—"
You reached for Baelor, only then did he seem to realize how tightly wound he had become. His shoulders eased, the rigid set of his jaw softened and when he looked at you, every trace of tension vanished.
Whatever you were about to say died on your lips as he took your hand and pressed a kiss against your knuckles.
His heavy Valyrian steel gauntlet molded awkwardly around your fingers, yet somehow still held them with remarkable gentleness.
"The tourney will begin soon my heart, find your seat.”
The lists no longer felt the same after that.
The women of the royal court rarely cared for tourneys the way men did. You found yourself seated amongst them in a corner of the royal box while conversation drifted around you like distant waves.
Princess Daenerys spoke at length about her impending journey to Dorne, her excitement battling with her worries in equal measure. The ladies listened politely, offering soft reassurances and occasional smiles.
You heard almost none of it, your attention remained fixed on Baelor.
The tourney had scarcely begun, yet he had already unhorsed three opponents.
A lord of House Swann.
A knight sworn to House Tarly.
And now some hedge knight whose name you had already forgotten.
After the pass, Baelor guided his horse toward the edge of the lists where Maekar waited.
His youngest brother hurried forward at once. The boy took the reins with all the seriousness of a knight preparing for battle. Next year he would be six-and-ten, the age at which most squires hoped to earn their spurs, and he seemed determined to prove himself ready.
Maekar led the horse to water, checked the straps, and inspected the tack with an intensity that would have made an older squire laugh.
Baelor never laughed, he always thanked him and somehow that only made Maekar try harder.
As Maekar readied the horse for the next pass, Baelor slouched in a chair before his black-and-red pavilion, his helm resting on his lap.
Dark hair clung damply to his forehead. A faint flush colored his tanned cheeks from exertion, though he showed no sign of weariness. Whether he felt fatigue at all or simply refused to acknowledge it was difficult to say.
His gaze remained fixed on the Blackfyre, who was preparing for his first tilt.
It was something Baelor always did with every opponent. It did not matter who they were: highborn lord or hedge knight, tourney champion or green boy riding his first lists.
He studied them all with equal seriousness.
How they sat a horse, carried a lance, reacted to victory and defeat.
Every detail mattered.
But Daemon Blackfyre was not merely another opponent.
From the wolves of the North to the scorpions of Dorne, everyone knew what Daemon Blackfyre was.
Knighted at twelve.
Bearer of Blackfyre.
Victor of more tourneys than most men twice his age.
The very image singers filled their songs with.
Baelor respected that, whether he wished to or not. For all their faults, he could still recognize that Daemon was one of the greatest warriors in the realm.
Most of all, Baelor knew his chances of losing were higher than his chances of winning.
Across the field, Daemon raised both hands as the crowd cheered for him, acting as though victory was already his.
Considering his record, perhaps it was.
When the horns sounded.
His entire demeanor shifted, the smile vanished and the way he lowered his helm was almost ceremonial.
His attention settled wholly upon his opponent.
He became unnervingly still.
You had seen Vermithor do the same when stalking prey. The great bronze dragon would freeze moments before striking, every muscle coiled beneath his scales.
The signal was given.
They charged.
Hooves shook the ground.
The two riders met in a blur of crimson and steel.
Daemon struck like a hammer upon an anvil.
Once.
That was all it took.
The opposing knight barely managed to raise his shield before the lance shattered against him.
Horse and rider separated instantly, the mount continuing onward without its master.
The knight crashed into the dirt, dust exploded across the lists.
The crowd erupted.
Beside the barrier, Maekar's mouth actually fell open.
The boy had only been six or so the last time Daemon rode regularly in King's Landing. This was the first time he had truly witnessed the Black Dragon in action.
"Fucking hells," he breathed.
Next to him, Baelor said nothing.
He simply stood from his seat, to most it would have appeared he was unfazed, but for the briefest moment he let out a slow breath, his eyes closing before he placed his helm back on.Then the visor lowered, hiding whatever thoughts lay beneath, and he mounted as though it had been nothing more than another pass.
By late afternoon, the worst of the day's heat had faded. Long shadows crept across the lists as a cool breeze stirred through the grounds. The smell of roasting meat and fresh bread drifted from the kitchens behind the royal box, a quiet reminder that the tourney's final hours were approaching.
The field itself felt smaller now, ranks thinner.
Only two names remained, their names scrawled across the weathered wood in streaks of dripping black paint.
Baelor of House Targaryen.
Daemon of House Blackfyre.
It was a shame, the other men had ridden well enough but it did not matter by tomorrow nobody would remember their names.
All anyone would remember was this.
Dragon versus dragon.
Targaryen versus Blackfyre.
Certain future versus possible future…
To some it was merely a joust between two men of royal blood but to others it ran much deeper.
For years whispers had spread throughout the Seven Kingdoms like wildfire
Arguing which of the half brothers should be king.
Some argued that their king should be a strong warrior and that the wielder of Blackfyre should go with the crown. Others remained loyal to House Targaryen and King Daeron, believing wisdom and peace worth far more than martial glory.
Some houses had already begun drifting toward one side or the other, drawn by old loyalties, ambitions, and promises yet unspoken. Still, no one voiced such thoughts above a whisper, for wars involving Targaryens rarely remained ordinary wars.They either ended swiftly or consumed everything in their path with fire and blood
However, whatever the future held,it was not this day's concern.
A trumpet sounded across the field and the murmuring crowd fell silent.
As custom demanded, both riders met in the center of the lists before the final tilt.
Obsidian gauntlet met crimson steel as Baelor and Daemon clasped forearms.
Daemon leaned closer, whispering something into his nephew’s ear and judging by the grin tugging at his lips, it was not kind.
Baelor’s expression did not change but his grip visibly tightened, for a moment, neither released the other.
Only when the trumpet sounds again did they part and ride toward opposite ends of the lists.
The drums began.
Low and steady like a heartbeat.
At one end sat Daemon, impossibly confident even from this distance, as though this were merely another tourney and another victory waiting to be claimed.
At the other sat Baelor.
He looked like a man fully aware he might win or lose, and prepared to face either outcome. His gaze swept across the hundreds gathered around the lists until it found you.
The look lasted only a moment then he lowered his visor.
The marshal raised his scarf.
“READY!”
The horses tossed their heads and pawed at the dirt.
“RIDE!”
The scarf fell.
The drums quickened.
Hooves thundered.
The distance between them vanished in seconds followed by a sharp crack that echoed across the grounds. Both men defended in time, their shields caught the blows cleanly thus both men remained mounted.
The crowd roared and drums began again.
The second pass came harder.
The third both men pulled their strikes at the last moment, neither willing to risk a poor angle.
The fourth and fifth are even harder than the last.
Splinters now littered the ground, their shields were battered and scarred and dust coated their armor yet neither man had fallen.
The crowd groaned in disappointment and impatience.
By the sixth pass something changes in both men, both clearly growing impatient.
Daemon no longer feigned coolness; the charming knight adored by crowds was gone. Instead, the warrior people sang of emerged, the Black Dragon.
Across from him, Baelor sat straighter in the saddle, not in mockery but in equal determination.
The signal dropped again. They charged… somehow even faster and harder than any other and distance vanished in the blink of an eye.
Impact.
The crack echoed louder than anything else. Gasps swept through the stands as both riders were ripped from their saddles.
You were on your feet instantly.
“Baelor!”
He struck the ground hard. Far too hard and if he had rolled even half a second too late, he would have been trampled by Daemon’s stricken destrier, which continued running despite its rider falling.
Daemon fell just as bad yet he was already rising to his feet. He ripped off his helm; blood ran down one temple, silver-gold hair, now stained with dirt and blood. There was a slight limp as he stood, but he stood.
On the other side, Baelor did not move at first. He was clearly winded mayhaps for a second or two, but it felt like eternity. Then a hand pressed into the dirt, and slowly he pushed himself upright. Relief hit so hard that, if you weren’t holding onto the railing, you would have collapsed.
He removed his helm. There was blood at his lip, dirt across his brow, and a dark bruise already forming on his cheek. His face twisted in a grimace as his hand shot to his ribs.
Maekar is already at his side, the younger prince spoke urgently, pointing toward the waiting maesters but Baelor shook his head once firmly, muttering something.
Maekar’s expression flickered with worry for a split second before he nodded and went to grab another lance and shield.
It makes you feel sick
“Don’t.” You speak even though you knew he couldn't hear you.
Your stomach twisted as you watched Baelor mount again, but why? That last ride should have been enough. Both men were unhorsed no one would have questioned ending it there.
Something else in him however was clearly taking over, refusing to end it, Baelor climbed back onto his horse and put his helm on again. Across the field, Daemon’s eyes narrowed; he looked surprised, but followed, mounting his own steed.
When Maekar returned, he hesitated, then reluctantly handed over the lance and shield. Baelor gave his shoulder a firm squeeze for a moment before riding back into position.
It shook everyone that mounted again but they also loved it. The marshal looked toward the game maker, who looked sick to his stomach. If he ended the game now, the crowd would revolt but if he continued and the crown prince was injured further, it would be his head. Despite it, he slowly nodded.
The drums began again.
Everyone knew this was the pass to end things. Suddenly, even the ladies in the royal box turned their attention fully to the field. The signal dropped.
The drumbeat somehow becomes more menacing and it makes you shift in your seat.
“By the Seven, please protect him.” you prayed to any god who would listen.
They charged and everything seemed to slow till they made impact
Daemon’s lance shattered against Baelor’s shield but Baelor struck higher and harder across Daemon’s chest.
For one impossible moment, Daemon remained seated and the gods knew he tried, but gravity won the Blackfyre crashed into the dirt hard enough to shake the ground.
Baelor remained mounted.
Silence…complete, stunned silence follows
Then somewhere in the crowd, a voice shouted, low:
“Breakspear…”
Then another joined, more confident.
“Breakspear!”
Another five, then ten, then hundreds.
“BREAKSPEAR!”
“BREAKSPEAR!”
“BREAKSPEAR!”
The name rolled through the lists like thunder, thousands of voices, stomping feet, banging steel.
“BREAKSPEAR! BREAKSPEAR! BREAKSPEAR!”
Yet Baelor seemed not to hear them. He dismounts, removing his helm slowly, chest rising and falling in ragged breaths, as though he could not quite believe it himself.
Across the field, Daemon still sat on the ground, the second impact having hit far harder.
Baelor’s gaze caught something red, face-down in the dirt.
Daemon’s shield.
He picked it up and stared at the red surface with the black dragon painted across. The crowd gradually quieted as Baelor neared him. Daemon looked up as Baelor stopped before him. Baelor held out the shield and Daemom stared at it for a moment before taking it.
Neither spoke though no words were needed however.
The gesture said everything;he would not take his horse, nor his armor, nor demand ransom. Daemon could keep it all.
The Blackfyre could only manage a single nod before he was helped back toward his pavilion.
Only then was the victor’s wreath placed into Baelor’s hands that it truly hit him what he had just achieved. Fresh green leaves and bright colorful flowers. Delicate things strangely out of place against muddied gauntlets and battered armor.
He is ripped from his thoughts when he is suddenly lifted into the air.
Older knights who had watched him grow from a gangly boy into a prince worthy of song hoisted him onto their shoulders, while younger men, those he called friends, brothers in all but blood banged against his armor and ruffled his hair.
The chant continued to roll across the lists as he was lifted above the crowd.
Only when the Kingsguard approached did they begin to lower him, creating a path for King Daeron, who strode through with a smile brighter than any crown.
“My son.”
His hands came up to cup Baelor’s face before pressing a kiss to his cheek. The king had never hidden his love for his children.
A few nearby knights chuckled, and the tips of Baelor’s ears immediately turned red.
“Father…”
He tried to pull away, though not very hard.
It was only when Queen Myriah laid a gentle hand upon her husband’s arm that Daeron finally released him.
“Let the poor boy breathe,” she said fondly.
Baelor’s expression softened into something only ever reserved for you when you appeared.
Suddenly, it felt like the first day of your courtship all over again. He couldn’t quite meet your gaze. Instead, his fingers fumbled briefly with the flower crown before he slowly dropped to one knee.
The afternoon sun caught him just right, highlighting his usually smooth cheeks now marked with faint scuffs of battle, a bruise begins to bloom along his cheekbone, and he now has a split lip still dark with drying blood. One brown eye glowed warm like honey, while the lilac one flecked in the sun like light catching a shard of glass.
He lifted the wreath up to you like a relic and when he looked at you, he smiled for the first time since jousting that same easy, teasing, boyish one.
“See?” he grinned. “I told you I’d win, if I had something worth riding for.”
You accepted the wreath, turning it carefully in your hands.
“Yes,” you said dryly. “You only nearly killed yourself doing it.”
A sheepish look crossed his face.
“Well…”
His fingers rubbed at the back of his neck.
“Did I at least look heroic?”
You laughed despite yourself.
Stepping forward, you reached up and brushed a thumb across his split lip, carefully wiping away the last trace of blood.
“Annoyingly so.”
His grin softened.
“Then I suppose it was worth it.”
His smile faltered for a second.
“But…” he said more quietly, “I am sorry if I frightened you.”
The sincerity caught you off guard.
You had watched him ride into danger without hesitation, watched him thrown from a horse and climb back into the saddle while barely able to stand.
Yet this was what concerned him most was your fear.
“Forgiven,” you said.
His shoulders relaxed immediately.
“And giving Daemon back his shield makes you ten times the man he’ll ever be.”
A breathy laugh escaped him.
“Ah.”
His gaze drifted briefly toward the Blackfyre pavilion.
“I must admit that part was difficult”
Silence settled between you, but it was a comfortable, familiar one.
Your fingers tightened slightly around the wreath, and you sighed, knowing you should have said this sooner.
"Daemon is my past, Baelor."
His attention snapped back to you immediately.
"And you are my future."
Everything else seemed to fade away. The glory of his victory slipped to the back of his mind, replaced by something sheepish and vulnerable.
"Oh... was I truly that transparent?"
You smiled.
"Terribly."
A groan escaped him.
"Gods."
You tsked
"I've always been able to read you."
That seemed to embarrass him more than being kissed by his father in front of half the realm. Color crept into his tanned cheeks beneath the bruises. Both your hands came up to cradle his face as you smiled at him, gentle and true.
His breath caught.
"And if I had to choose again, I would still choose you."
For a moment, he simply stared. The great victor of the tourney, the prince who had just defeated Daemon Blackfyre none of it seemed to matter anymore.
He rose slowly to his feet, you expected him to take your hand.
Instead, his arm slipped around your waist, pulling you against him.
"Baelor—"
"I think I liked that answer better than winning."
Before you could respond, he dipped you backward. The world tilted, and the flower crown nearly slipped from your hands. Around you, the crowd erupted, wolf whistles, laughter, and a few scandalized cries from older ladies that sent heat rushing to your face. Baelor paid them no mind; his attention remained fixed solely on you.Then he kissed you not the triumphant kiss of a tourney champion, but the kiss of a young man hopelessly in love with his wife.
Oh, gods! Where has Tumblr been hiding you??? Your writing is PRIZES WORTH GOOD! 😍 I love all your works!!! You portray the characters PERFECTLY! I feel like I'm reading canon! Please, put me on your tag list! 🥹🙏🏻
Awwwwwwwww this is so sweet 🥲🫂❤️❤️❤️❤️❤️❤️
Thank you so much beautiful this truly means a lot to me 🥺
Lmk if you mean all my fics with any characters orrrrrr there’s fics with specific characters you’d like to be added to!
I’ve been working on this young!Baelor (21-23) fic x newly wed wife reader ft young!Maekar (13-15) who has a one sided crush on reader for a week now but I’m sooo stuck with ideas ugh
Notes: female reader, age gap loosely implied, soft Baelor, lowkey bratty reader, fluff and comfort, Bealor being king on moonblood mood swings
Baelor was not trying to sneak out of your bedchambers truly, he was not.
It was simply that you'd fallen asleep only a few hours prior, after a long, restless night. You tossed and turned endlessly, soft groans of complaints slipping from your lips as pain twisted deep in your womb, a pleasant gift given to you from your moonblood. He had stayed awake through most of it, soothing where he could, murmuring gentle reassurances, his large warm hand on your stomach as he knew heat assisted, till at last sleep had claimed you a little before dawn.
He would not take that from you.
So he had waved off the servants, dressing himself quietly in the dim morning light, moving carefully and quietly so he would not wake you.
He nearly succeeded…
His fingers had only just curled around the door handle very slowly turning it causing the softest click noise he barely heard himself.…then your voice cuts through the silence sharp as Valyrian steel.
“Where are you running off to?”
Baelor paused instantly, slowly he turned towards you, back straightening, his expression gentle and voice low, calm, and soft in the way one might use to soothe a temperamental horse.
“I am not running, my dear,” he said calmly. “I have a meeting with the septon. I promise it will not be long.”
“You always have a meeting with someone,” your voice laced with irritation and eyes narrowed, still heavy with sleep but no less fierce.
“I do,” Baelor replied simply, no bite to it, only truth. “I am a prince.”
That only made your lips press tighter.
“It’s almost like you prefer everyone else’s presence over your own wife.”
“You know that is not true,” he said at once, walking back toward you. “I would rather be nowhere else but here… with you.”
“Liar”
Your voice came more broken and choked out than you intended, and before he could reach you, you had already pulled the thick duvet over your head, burrowing beneath it like a wounded creature.
“You’d rather be with the entire castle before me,” came your muffled, tear-thick accusation from beneath the covers.
Baelor paused letting out a soft sigh,he did not argue back nor grow annoyed. He never did and he never will, for he was always gentle when you were storming, steady when you were snappy.
You felt the mattress dip as he sat beside you. You knew he was looking at you, you could practically feel it. That stupid annoying gentle and patient look in his mismatched eyes.
You refused to look back because you knew if you did, you would fold far too easily.
So you stayed hidden.
A moment later, you felt his hand, warm even through the blankets, settling lightly against your leg. He gave a soft, absent pat before his palm began to move slowly, soothingly, up and down in quiet comfort.
“You have been… rather unkind to me this morning,” he murmured.
A small pause.
“…Well,” he added with a soft, fond chuckle, “this entire week, if I am to be honest, my sweet wife.”
That made you pop up immediately, glaring at him with damp, shining eyes.
“Then go,” you huffed. “If I am so unpleasant.”
And just as quickly, you disappeared back beneath the covers.
Baelor only smiled; he could not help it. There was far too much fondness in him for you, even like this.
“You know I would never say such a thing.”
Your face pressed into the pillow as you muttered something entirely incomprehensible.
He leaned forward then, carefully, resting a bit of his weight atop the blankets
“Will you at least give me a goodbye kiss, mummbles?” he asked gently, fingers finding the edge of the duvet and tugging lightly which you held on with surprising strength.
“Absoluty not.”
“Absoluty not?” he echoed, teasing.
“yes.,” you repeated, quieter this time but stubborn. “Go to your precious septon.”
Baelor ignored that entirely.
“I shall simply have to steal one, then.”
He says leaning down to press a soft kiss to the top of the blanket where he guesses your head is.
You huffed… but did not stop him.
“I will return soon,” he murmured, giving the covers one last gentle stroke before finally rising and leaving.
…..
It seemed the gods were against him that day.
The meeting stretched far longer than promised, the septon speaking as if he was giving a sermon while Baelor’s thoughts wandered elsewhere ... .back to you, tucked away in bed, likely still aching, still uncomfortable and upset.
So he made arrangements, having a bath drawn warm and fragrant, your favorite sweets brought for you to indulge in as you soaked, extra blankets laid out, even heated coals wrapped carefully in cloth to rest against your aching stomach. Everything he knew helped most when you were unwell brought forward.
He had smiled fondly when he heard you indulge in it…..bregundunley so.
It was late when he saw you again.
Baelor sat in his study, candlelight flickering softly across his features as he read through his ledger.
He looked up the moment you entered. Your hair was still slightly damp from the bath, soft strands clinging faintly to your temples, and you were wrapped in your nightgown and thick warm robe. The earlier strain had softened from your features, though not entirely gone, leaving behind a small, stubborn pout that tried very hard to be angry… and was failing.
“…Ah,” he said lightly, a small, knowing smile tugging at his lips. “Has my fearsome dragon come to scold me further, or may I hope for mercy this time?”
You tried….truly, you tried to hold onto your anger, to be crossed for his “abandonment” but gods knew and you knew he made up for it
The guilt had been sitting heavy in your chest all evening, pressing and pressing until it ached. And now, seeing him still so calm, so soft,so kind despite your… bitchy mood it only made the guilt worse.
Your throat tightened.
Your eyes stung.
He noticed immediately.
“Oh,” Baelor murmured, his entire demeanor shifting at once, setting everything aside as he held a hand out toward you. “My poor love… come here.”
That was all it took.
The moment he spoke the dam broke, the tears came hot and sudden, impossible to stop.
“I’m sorry,” you blurted, voice breaking. “I didn’t mean to be—I don’t know why I—”
You didn’t even finish before you were climbing into his lap, settling there as naturally as breathing, as if that was where you belonged.
His arms wrapped around you instantly, one hand smoothing up your back while the other came to cradle the back of your head, guiding you gently into his shoulder.
He let out a soft, breathy laugh, not mocking, never that, only full of affection and endarment.
“You refused me a kiss, scolded me as though I had committed some great offense,” he murmured, thumb brushing slow circles at your nape, “and now you weep as if I abandoned you for a year.”
You only pressed closer, small, broken sounds leaving you as you tucked yourself into him, clinging as though you might disappear otherwise.
“Baelor…?”
“Hm,” he hummed softly, pressing a kiss to your hair.
“Are you angry with me?” your voice came out muffled against his chest.
“Of course not, my heart,” he answered gently with a soft kiss following. “Not even a little.”
“I was being a huge bitch,” you sniffled.
He gave a quiet hum, his hand continuing its slow, soothing path along your back.
“No… I would say you were being a little grouch,” he teased
“You’re making fun of me,” you huffed, though a small laugh slipped out anyway.
“Only a little,” he admitted, brushing a kiss to your damp cheek.
You pulled back just enough to look at him, lashes clumped with tears, cheeks flushed.
“However I am truly sorry—”
“There is no need to be,” he interrupted softly. “I can survive a morning without your kindness.”
He paused, just briefly, a faint smile danced on his lips.
“Though I will admit… it does make the day significantly less pleasant.…I nearly preferred speaking with Aerion.” he quips as he tickles your side which causes you to snort and giggle.
“There she is,” he murmured fondly. “My sweet girl… all returned to me.”
He held you there a while longer, rocking you ever so slightly, treating you like something precious and fragile that required great care and constant tending to and for Baelor he would gladly do so forever.
This is so greedy of me to ask, but when is your next young Baelor fic coming out? 😅
I'm obsessed!!
Hello! idm at all I love all the love!!!
mhm I am working on part 3??? ish for the last fic i wrote as well as a completely different young!Baelor. Not sure which will come out first though butttt im thinking either Wednesday or Friday since those are my most free days!
Material girl: is a person (typically a woman) who prioritizes wealth, luxury goods, and high-status possessions, often seeking them as gifts from admirers. While frequently associated with being high-maintenance or superficial, the term can also signify confidence, independence, and a love for financial stability or luxury. (Please don’t sing the other song LOL)
Notes/warnings: fluff! Fic, Reader’s nameday celebration, Baelor x wife!reader, female reader, quick appearance of Maekar and Egg mhm I think that’s it
Gold and white threaded banners draped from every archway. Lanterns, hundreds upon hundreds, hung low from the great hall’s ceiling, looking as though they had captured all the stars in the sky for this very night. Roses, hyacinths, and peonies spilled lavishly from intricately carved vases, petals falling in delicate ruin across the marble floors.
The tables were no less excessive. They bent beneath the sheer weight of it all. Tiers of cakes glazed in spun sugar and gold leaf, colorful creams piped into delicate shapes that looked too perfect to eat, each finished with a cherry on top. Candied fruits glistened like polished gems, honeyed pastries flaked at the slightest touch, and the imported delicacies were the fastest to go, for few in the realm would ever taste them again. Roasted meats, lacquered in rich, expensive spices, carried a scent that whispered wealth many could hardly afford, and the center piece was tower of wine. tall and reaching to kiss the ceiling. The golden color of expensive wine filled each and every glass but it was not meant to be touched but for display only. To tie it all together with a pretty, laced bow was soft, gentle music curling through the halls viols, flutes, and harps weaving a melody rich and lavish.
The great hall of the Keep had looked more like something straight out of a dream. Hundreds of highborn sway gently to the music, the silk banners catch the glow of a thousand lanterns making the halls shimmer with warmth. The abundance of flowers replaced the Keep’s usual damp scent with a sweet perfume one and their colorful petals scattered across the floor adding a romantic touch.
Baelor had spared nothing for this celebration not coin, not effort, nor thought.
Because this was for you, his very beating heart.
Still, even all of this could not quite measure how much he truly he loved you.
You sat at the center of the room, placed there deliberately, meant to be seen, meant to be adored.
It had come as a surprise to none. Your gown was no less spared from expense; it was pale blue with blush pink accents, the colors soft and delicate to the eyes, the skirts spilling outward in layers upon layers of ruffles that folded into each other, gathered and edged with lace. Tiny blush pink bows and tassels were worked throughout the skirts, each and every one sewn in by hand with careful attention to detail, ensuring it was neither too much nor too little.
The bodice was tight-fitted, decorated with floral embroidery, and atop it sat a large flowing pink bow, making you look as though you were the gift yourself. Your sleeves reached just past the elbows, ending in soft cascades of lace that brushed against your skin. a delicate bejeweled swan ornament sat atop towers of powdered curls, as if your hair was its nest. Tiny pearls and diamonds were threaded throughout, catching every flicker of candlelight, while soft white feathers, like drifting clouds, completed the airy, majestic look. It was quite heavy and Baelor had worried if it was too much strain on your neck, but you wave it off with a lie ( he knew it was and knew you’d be whining for a massage the morrow).
Everything about you unapologetically took up space and was impossible to miss. The fashion was not that of Westeros, it was vastly different from the muted colors, heavier silks and furs, but it drew nothing but admiration, as most things you did. By the next season, highborn ladies would be rushing to follow.
Your fingers glittered with rings, each one a gift from Baelor, each carrying its own story of when and how it had been pressed into your hand. Any single one of them could have purchased a ship…….hells, specific ones a fleet. Your single hand displayed such wealth, devotion, power… yet you wore them carelessly, as though they were nothing more than pretty little trinkets.
Resting to the side was a finely crafted fan, its surface painted with delicate pastels depicting a garden of swans drifting across a glassy lake beneath a golden sky, framed in gilded edges. You opened and closed it idly, letting the faint breeze cool your warmed cheeks. Curled contentedly in your lap was your small dog, the tiniest of its litter, The lord who had gifted it had urged you toward the grander, stronger pups, but you had chosen this one without hesitation for it had reminded you so much of Valarr, it’s coat was dark but had a single white dot at the center of it’s head.
“I am going all in,” you announced, your voice light with mischief as you pushed your gold dragons into the center.
A chorus of groans and laughter followed immediately.
“Your Grace, be merciful.”
“You said that last time.”
“She never wins.”
“’Tis does not matter if I win or not,” you insisted, your grin betraying you. “The real prize is the fun.” You quipped as a pretty, light blue and pink painted nail swiped frosting from a nearby cake; you licked it away, the sweetness bursting across your tongue.
You reached quickly to pick up the dice only to tip your chalice in the process. Expensive wine spilled across the table.
You gasped, then giggled, covering your heated face.
A servant rushed forward at once, cleaning the mess and replacing your drink as though it had never happened. You apologized through soft laughter, pressing a colorful sweet into their hand. They blushed, bowing, but quietly set it aside on another tray.
Little did you know or perhaps little did you care that such familiarity was not permitted.
Your brother-by-law and nephew, Aegon V approaches and behind them four strong servants carrying a large vanity, an opulent piece of carved ivory and gilded wood and golden knobs stamped with swan images. They placed it near the table, where a mountain of gifts already stood, offerings from eager lords and adoring ladies.
Your face lit up at the sight of it, already imagining how it would replace your plain old mahogany one.
“Happy nameday,” Maekar said, standing before you, his tone gruff but softened, as it always did for you.
“Oh, Mae, I am absolutely obsessed, thank you,” you said, handing the dog off to a maid as you leaned forward, allowing him to place a polite kiss to your cheek.
“Happy nameday, Aunt Y/N!” little Aegon beamed, handing you crumpled wildflowers bent at the stem, wrapped in brown parchment.
“Oh my, aren’t these lovely,” you smiled, holding them to your chest. “Thank you, Egg. This may just be my favorite gift.” You patted his head, and he puffed his chest proudly.
You turned to Maekar again.
“Will you join us?” you asked, gesturing dramatically to the poker table.
Young Egg’s eyes gleamed. “Can I play—” but he was gently pushed aside by his father’s large hand.
He shook his head. “Daeron has managed to sleep with half the court’s daughters, and Aerion has insulted a Dornish lord within a single hour. I am required to keep my sorry excuse for sons from starting a war before sunrise.”
You laughed softly, nodding. “A noble task.”
You thank them for coming waving them off as they walk away before your attention drifted back to the game. Downing your wine as you clasped your hands together, any rational thought and sound financial decision slipping away as you acquired even more golden dragons and had more wine poured into your cup.
You were not the slightest bit exhausted, even though the festivities had begun at sunrise.
You remembered it faintly, Baelor’s warmth behind you, his arms drawing you close, soft kisses pressed against your temple, your cheek, your lips as he murmured a gentle “happy nameday” against your skin. Soon enough, his kisses had lingered elsewhere, disappearing beneath the covers, settling between your legs, drawing a soft gasp from you as your back arched beneath his touch.
It was now late into the night, and Baelor left a while ago, duties forcing him away.
Baelor never cared for such celebrations. They were excess too much coin spent, too much indulgence, too little restraint. Normally, he would not mind if duty pulled him away, but this time, because it was for you, it had pained him to leave.
When he entered the hall again, he was fully expecting the party to be dead or dying, but celebration had not dimmed in the slightest. If anything, it grew louder, more chaotic, more alive.
But that was how things were with you ever the catalyst of everything.When he spotted you in the center of it all, laughing, flushed and glowing in a way not even the sun could replicate in his eyes. He shook his head faintly at the sight of the dice, the colorful chips, the wine and scattered coins…..your reckless little game you enjoyed far too much. You had always lost far more than you had won.
Something he would scold you for later, gently of course.
“It is late, my heart,” he murmured from behind you, leaning down so only you could hear.
“Baelor!” you brightened instantly, turning toward him with delighted surprise.
You had not heard him.
Or perhaps you simply chose not to.
You raised your hands, dice still clutched between your fingers. He smiled despite himself, lowering his head to press a soft kiss to your knuckles before you rolled again, clapping at your result with delighted pride.
Your hand reached again for your chalice, but his was quicker larger hand lift it easily out of reach and passing it to a servant without breaking his gaze from you.
“Let us go to bed, hm?” he murmured, his hand settling warmly at your shoulder, thumb brushing slow, grounding circles into your skin. He pressed a kiss to your flushed cheek, his beard tickling the soft skin.
“Noooo,” you whined, leaning your head back to look up at him, eyes hazy and bright.
“Yesss,” he teased softly, amusement threading through his voice. As he holds the swan ornament in one hand threatening to slip off.
“Two—no, three more hours, please,” you pouted.
He bent, pressing a slow kiss to your lips, stealing the pout away.
“And who will suffer your temper when you must wake early on the morrow?” he murmured against your mouth, quiet and warm.
“Oh! But what about the cake? I waited for you to come back so you could watch me blow the candles!”
He rolled his eyes, though the fondness in them was unmistakable.
“Very well. Cake, then bed.”
The breath left your lungs as the grand cake rolled in.
It was a spectacle, tier upon tier , frosted in pale blue and blush pink to match you, gilded details curling along its edges, spun sugar shaped into delicate swans perched along each tier. Sparklers crackled and hissed from its top, casting shimmering light across the room like falling stars. It was large….. even larger than two grown men standing atop each other (though not as large as your wedding cake.)
Your heart felt so full, your face so warm, as the entire room gathered, voices rising in song, some slurred, some off-key, all entirely devoted to you.
Baelor’s arm slipped around your waist, pulling you gently against his chest, both to steady you from your drunken state and to keep you close.
When the singing ended, a servant hurried forward with a much smaller, simpler cake, it had more candles than cake, you reckoned.
You giggled at how difficult it was to blow them out, needing the aid of your fan, still conveniently strapped to your wrist.
“I do hope your wish was not for the next nameday to be even more grand,” he murmured, knowing full well that if it was, he would see it done.
You laughed softly, pressing your face into his chest as exhaustion finally began to creep in.
“Do you know the flavor?” he asked.
You turned your head to the cake only for him to swipe a bit of frosting onto your cheek. You gasped dramatically swatting lightly at his chest but laugh.
“Baelor!”
“I believe it he vanilla,” he said simply, far too pleased with himself.
You glare but there is so real heat behind your eyes.
“There,” he says as he darts his tongue out licking it away causing you to snort.
You two soon entered your shared, quiet chambers. It had been such a perfect reflection of you. Soft pastel colors, white silks, gilded designs, delicate florals curling along the walls and furniture alike.
How rude, one might think, that you had taken over a shared bedroom.
But it had been Baelor.
Entirely Baelor.
He designed it so, knowing you would spend far more time within it than he ever could. He even commissioned a hidden adjoining room, firmly decreed off-limits to all, no maid, no lady, no servant allowed without your express permission.
He helped you undress once inside your chambers, crouching before you, his hands gentle as he unfastened the delicate silver heels from your feet. His thumbs pressed lightly into the arches, easing the strain before slipping your stockings away.
For a moment, he looked less a prince and more simply a man devoted beyond reason.
He rose then, moving behind you to untie the bodice, fingers careful as he loosened each fastening, freeing you at last from your pretty pink and blue prison. The gown slipped away, leaving you in far softer, far more comfortable layers, your hair already half-fallen and untamed a problem for another time.
You collapsed face-first onto the bed with a groan.
He allowed himself a small smile, shaking his head and making note to not even bother try waking you in the morning.
With you distracted he moves to a drawer left in plain sight ( though he knew you would never think to look there as you never got yourself dressed) to retriev a hand carved box.
“Would you like your last gift or are you too exhausted”
Your head snaps up immediately, and you quickly crawl to the edge of the bed, hands outstretched with a smile. He knows he has no right to be “annoyed” or “displeased” with such behavior for it was because of him that you were this way.
He presses it into your hand, and you open it slowly.
Inside rests a necklace fit for a queen.
Crafted from the rare Valyrian steel, its dark surface gleaming with liquid sheen. It is adorned with deep crimson rubies that catch the light like drops of fire, at the center, an intricate dragon design coils with elegant precision, its wings slightly spread and its form both graceful and powerful.
When you place it on, the metal is cool against your skin, sending a quiet shiver down your spine.
“Oh, Baelor…” your voice softened, almost reverent. “I fear it might be too perfect to wear.”
Your fingers hovered, hesitant to touch it.
“Exactly why it is just right for you.” he said simply.
You turned your head slightly, catching the faint reflection of it in the mirror across the room, the gems glinting softly against your skin.
You wrap your arms around him without hesitation. He exhaled softly into the embrace, his arms coming around you just as naturally, holding you close
“Thank you, you spoil me beyond reason" you murmured against him, your voice no longer playful, no longer teasing.
He pressed a kiss to the top of your head.
“There is nothing you could ask for that I would not give you, my beating heart” he said quietly.
You pulled back just enough to look at him, something warm and knowing in your eyes.
“I know and i will need more than one life time to thank you"
You shifted then, tucking yourself against him, far more boneless now, the weight of the day finally settling in. He smiled faintly, guiding you down against the bed, adjusting the blankets around you before settling beside you.
Read part 1 here, you don’t HAVE to tho, two completely different plots
Important notes for a better read:
Fancast for young!Baelor: Constantine Corrino from Dune Prophecy ( saw this on TikTok)
Baelar looked more Dornish when he was younger but then spent too much time inside when he got older
This is a Young!Baelor, around 19-21 years old, Baelor and reader are newly wed.
Plot?: Baelor is acting weird and avoids consummating the marriage
Lysa, Lyra and Lynora are triplets now that I think of it that part may be a wee bit confusing and I am sorry I thought I ate by giving them similar names LMAO.
Tag list: @singinghamtaro-blog Ty sm for showing interest!
You pass the training yard with your skirts gathered delicately in your hands, careful not to let the hem drag through the mud. You can’t help but smile as you watch Baelor spar with his youngest brother. Despite sharing blood and both being trained by Ser Quentyn, they had vastly different fighting styles. Baelor’s moves were thought-out, measured and calculated; in contrast, Maekar’s strikes were impatient, brute, and fast, a clear hunger to prove himself ( mayhaps even a lingering urge to best Baelor).
Nearby, Aerys sits in the shade, nose deep in a book, utterly disconnected from the clashing sounds as he turns a page. Next to him, Rhaegel leans forward with bright, supportive eyes, following every strike. Rhaegel’s lungs were far too weak to join them, and Aerys far too uninterested, but still, they were all together. The sight warms you because you know how much Baelor loves his family, always happy to spend time with them no matter the activity. You wonder, briefly, what it would be like when you two had one of your own.
Baelor soon notices you.
“My heart,” he smiles softly, walking up to you.
He’s slightly out of breath. His chest is bare, muscles shifting with each heavy breath and you try (unsuccessfully) not to stare. His dark waves, damp with sweat, cling to his temples, yet still look softer and lavish than they have any right to be after such exertion.
He takes your hand, lifting it with gentle care as if made of glass, and presses a kiss to your knuckle. A common, innocent ritual he does often.
“Have you come to see your dear lord husband knock his younger brother on his arse?” His voice is light and teasing.
You shake your head, smiling. “I am only passing, I am having tea with the Lannister triplets now.”
Baelor’s smile falters just for a moment, a faint furrow appears between his brows before it smooths away.
“Ah… the golden lionesses,” he says, tone still warm, though a hint of concern lingers beneath. “And you’ve agreed… willingly?”
You laugh. “Yes. Willingly.”
He hums, unconvinced.
“I could always save you,” he offers, his fingers brushing absently over the embroidery at your sleeve, tracing the thread with appreciation. “Claim the Queen Mother requires you. She is ever eager for another embroidery session… and I do enjoy seeing you match.”
You did love spending time with Myriah, truly, but she was far more seasoned in womanhood, in ways you had yet to understand. Sometimes conversations had been difficult because of that gap. You hoped it would be easier, perhaps, to be among girls your own age, even if they were not as gentle.
“Yes, Baelor, I am sure. I do not need saving,” you hum, a hand lifting to his cheek. “If anyone does, it may be you.”
There is a faint bruise beginning to bloom along his cheekbone, violet against the gold of his skin. Your thumb grazes near it, but not too close to irritate it further.
A soft chuckle escapes him, he was not embarrassed, not annoyed, but proud.
“Ah, yes. That would be Maekar, he grows stronger by the day, I suspect soon I shall be the one in the dirt, but good luck with your tea party if you change your mind me and Vermithor will be more than happy to swoop in and save you.” He teases sending you off with a kiss on the cheek.
………………………………………………………………………………………………
Lynora pours your tea with grace. You had noticed she was always the gentlest of the three.
“I do love your rings,” you say, admiring them.
She brightens immediately, lifting her hand so the gold catches the light, one shaped like a lion, ruby eyes glinting.
“The jeweler will arrive soon, I could have one made for y—”
“Enough of that,” Lysa cuts in. “Tell us of your trip to Dragonstone… tell us the details.”
You blink. “Details?”
Lysa leans forward slightly, chin resting on her hand, gaze sharp with interest.
“Like how was he?.”
The question is so blunt it nearly steals the breath from your lungs.
“He is tall, composed, annoyingly well-mannered and kind,” Lyra hums, tapping her finger against her cup, gaze tilting skyward in mock thought.
“But I do wonder,” she adds slowly, a smirk tugging at her lips, “if all that composure remains… in private.”
Heat creeps up your neck.
They laugh softly, sipping their tea as though discussing fabrics for a new dress.
“I…. I h-hardly see how that concerns you,” you stutter out.
There’s a long stretch of uncomfortable silence. Lysa tilts her head, studying you for a moment too long, like a lion assessing prey.
…
“You have started to try for an heir, no?” she pries, voice laced with mock concern.
Suddenly, the amber color of your tea is very intriguing. The truth of it all was, your time away on Dragonstone, once you got over the impending fear of war. You and Baelor had spent it enjoying each other’s presence, the newness and innocence of your newfound love. The idea of consummation, hells, even an heir, was a “worry” for some other time.
“Do you think he is impotent?” Lysa asks, turning lazily to Lyra pulling you from your thoughts.
Lyra shrugs. “The king has four sons. It seems unlikely.”
They continue speaking as though you are not there.
“Perhaps he is simply… uninterested,” Lysa adds, sipping her tea. “He does seem to take pleasure in everything else.”
“But her,” Lyra finishes.
They giggle, and something in you stills.
Slowly, you set your cup down. “You will remember who you are speaking to,” tone firm, eyes glaring “and who you are speaking of.”
The twins go silent.
“How would the crown prince feel if he caught wind he was being mocked?”
In all honesty, if Baelor ever heard, he would not care, he had always been the more mature and forgiving person, would tell you to let it go… but Baelor wasn’t here, and those two did not deserve it. They immediately turn pale and quickly try to talk over each other with apologies and claims it had been a mere jest, but you only scoff and begin to walk away.
Lynora catches your wrist gently.
“I am sure none of it is true,” she says quickly, her smile strained, uncertain. “Some men simply need more… encouragement.”
Encouragement.
Right
………………………………………………………………………………………….
After a long day of court, Baelor returns to his chambers and he stills when he sees you there
“…Y/n?”
His gaze finds you immediately, lying comfortably upon his bed as though you had always belonged there.
“What are you doing here?” he asks.
You frown faintly. “Am I not allowed in my husband’s chambers?”
“No—no, that is not what I meant,” he says quickly. “Of course you are, I am only… surprised, is all.”
You were so grateful when he had gifted you the second-largest room in the keep after his parents, never even questioning why you two had separate chambers. It was not uncommon, of course, for highborn couples to sleep separately; however, those were built solely on duty and lacked love. Yes, your marriage started off as duty, but it was quick to develop into something deeper, pure, and real, so it made no sense for you two to sleep separately.
His gaze linger on you for just a moment too long, taking you in. The natural shape of your body, no longer hidden beneath heavy skirts or the rigid lines of a corset, the soft natural state of your hair unadorned and free, no jewels or gold that sometimes made you look more ornament than woman. It was not that he had ever found those things unpleasing, on the contrary, he had always thought you beautiful in them but this was different. This was you….truly you and something about it stirred something in him in a way no expensive silks or diamonds ever could.
In a less innocent way he can’t help but notice how thin your nightgown is, leaving little to the imagination. Moreover, he notices you are cold, with the way the peaks of your breasts press against the flimsy fabric—
He looks away, almost abruptly, as if the sight had burned him.
He then begins to get ready for bed, moving almost deliberately slowly. When he turns toward the wash basin, he reaches for the hem of his shirt and pulls it over his head in one smooth motion.
Now it is your turn to stare
The candlelight traces along his tanned back, catching on the subtle shift of muscle as he moves. The muscles are lean and defined, not yet hardened by war but still strong in a natural way. There are a few faint bruises scattered across his skin, faint purples staining the gold, remnants of training with Maekar no doubt; other than that, it is smooth and clean.
He bends over to splash cool water over his face. Water beads form at the ends of his dark hair, falling in slow drips. You continue to stare as he lifts a hand, pushing the damp strands back from his face, and the movement pulls at his bicep, the muscle tightening briefly beneath smooth skin. the movement simple, mundane, but it draws your gaze all the same.
And for a moment, he is unaware of your gaze.
Or perhaps…
He is aware of it, and chooses not to turn.
When he finally joins you in bed, the distance is not so large…..but painfully obvious, and seems deliberate.
An awkward silence settles, a rare thing for you two.
“It is cold,” you murmur softly, forcing a small laugh as you shift closer, closing that distance yourself.
“I could call for a maid,” he says quickly, already half-moving. “Have them add more wood to the hearth—”
You catch his wrist.
“No,” you say gently. “I think your warmth will be enough.”
And before he can retreat again, you settle against him, your head resting lightly on his shoulder. He allows it, because it is sweet and innocent, the kind of touch that carried no meaning beyond simple closeness. It is only when your touch begins to linger, to deepen into something more, that he freezes.
Your hand goes to rest lightly against his abdomen, feeling the firm line of muscle beneath his shirt. You press yourself even closer, burying your head in the crook between his neck and shoulder; he smells faintly of ink, steel, and polished wood. Your fingers begin to trace the hem of his shirt before slipping them in, his abdominal muscles tense immediately under the brush of your fingers.
“Y/n—” he murmurs, voice already strained.
“Mhm?” you reply coolly, fingers moving up and down his chest, fingers smoothing over the soft skin, nails slightly dragging.
His breath hitches.
You shift, leaning up to press a kiss to his sharp jawline, but he turns his head…..just slightly.
So slight, so subtle, it could have been imagined.
Either way it now leaves your lips to meet nothing at all.
“Your hand feels like an icicle,” he lets out a light, breathy laugh.
His fingers close gently around yours, taking it from its place to press a soft, fleeting kiss to your knuckles before placing your hand back at your side, as if returning an item you misplaced.
He shifts again, creating even more distance…..so much he’ll damn near fall off the bed.
He sees you staring… sees the way words linger on your tongue, about to speak, but he speaks first, not because he wants to, but because if he allows you to speak, it will force him to say the truth he does not wish to reveal.
“Maekar chose a weapon today,” he says suddenly.
Any words you’d wanted to speak die on your tongue with his sudden declaration.
“What?”
“The mace,” his tone struggled for steadiness and normalcy. “I had thought it too heavy for him, but he… exceeded my expectations.” He lets out a forced soft laugh “I only hope he does not injure the wrong person with it. It is… quite the weapon.”
You stare at him… for a moment too long trying to decipher the emotion you felt at the moment. anger? Confusion? Concern? Maybe one, maybe all three because why of all times he chose now to mention his little brother.
“Baelor—”
“We trained most of the day,” he adds quickly. “And because of that” he lets out a dramatic exhale and stretches his arms for emphasis “ I am exhausted.”
He leans in to press a feather-light kiss to your forehead before retreating back into the distance.
“Goodnight, my love.”
He turns to lie facing away from you, the sheets drawn just slightly higher, as though they might protect him from something unseen.
You remain still beside him, before curling up for sleep. Though the hearth burned the room felt cold and though he is right there, you have never felt further from him.
………………………………………………………………………………………..
Baelor entered the great hall later than usual, for sleep had not come easily, so he stole a few extra minutes from the morning.
He had lain awake long after your breathing softened, staring into the dark, every instinct in him at war with itself…want and restraint, longing and fear, duty and something quietly blazing beneath his waist.
“Good morning.” He comes up behind you, voice warm despite the exhaustion beneath it.
You lift a small bowl filled with a variety of berries, each deep and rich in color, gleaming with excitement. “My garden seems to be doing so well.”
His gaze softens, finding your excitement and pride endearing.
“You have quite the green thumb, my love,” he praises softly. “I remember when they were but tiny seedlings.”
Your face warms, a grin spreading across your lips, no matter how small, Baelor’s praise always stirred something sweet and fluttering within you.
You lift a strawberry to your mouth, biting into it.
Baelor watches… watches too closely at way your plush lips wrap around the fruit as you bite into it, the way berry juice clings to the corner of your mouth only to be licked away with a quick dart of your tongue, and the way how the fruit stains your lips the lightest shade of red. His breath increases and he forces himself to look away. You then raise a hand with the half-eaten berry…..a clear, silent offer.
For a heartbeat, he almost leans in.
Almost lets himself bend to take it from your hand…..or mayhaps lean closer tasting the sweetness from your lips instead.
But then honor, restraint, and fear take hold.
He reaches past your hand instead, taking a different berry directly from the bowl. He eats it quickly, humming in satisfaction as he gathers his composure. “I think I should have a maid fix me a bowl as well.”
You lower your hand slowly, the half-eaten berry no longer appealing, the small thing suddenly feeling heavy in your grasp. Though you smile and nod, something inside you feels as though it is quietly shattering into a thousand fragile pieces.
………………………………………………………………………………………….
It was late, and Baelor was still not in bed. You were fairly certain the council meetings had ended ages ago, yet he was not there… you had a deep feeling you knew why.
The library greets you in silence and there he is, exactly as expected bent over a book. In his free time, if it was not spent with you or sleeping, he would be here. The gold of the candlelight rests against his smooth skin and his soft lips moving faintly along the page, he was dressed in a simple tunic and trousers, he looked like the picture of comfort but you were about to ruin that…. intentionally or unintentionally that was up for debate.
“It is late,” is the first thing you say as you lean on the doorway.
He looks surprised to see you.
“It is. Should you not be asleep?” he asks.
“I could say the same to you.”
“Ah,” he forces out a chuckle, “sleep just cannot find me, I suppose.” His gaze locked in on the pages of the book but not truly taking in its contents.
A lie. A blatant lie. With the amount of duties and training he goes through in a single day, Baelor had always been the first to pass out. And now suddenly, since you are in his chambers… he cannot?
Your throat tightens, heat rising sharply in your chest. That had been the straw to break the camel’s back, all that hurt and pain that had been slowly suffocating turn into burning anger. You feel mocked, lied to, did he truly have to go through all of this instead of simply saying he has no desire to fuck you.
“Do you not know how to perform?”
His head snaps up, shock and bashfulness written all over his face, a light flush spreading across his tanned cheeks.
“S-Sorry?”
“Or is it you do not care to?” the next words fly out.
“Y/n, please,” his tone is soft and delicate.
“Do you find me repulsive? Are you too shy? Are you insecure about your abilities?” you spit out, not giving him the slightest chance to speak.
His hand raises in defense, he can see you are livid and tries his best to calm you, but gods be damned only if you would give him the chance to speak. He was fine with your insults, taking no offense until the next one comes out.
“Do you have a whore?”
Shock, disgust, and quite rage fill him at the mere idea of betraying you.
“Never,” he says firmly.
“Liar,” you snap, so caught up you do not notice the way his eyes grow darker. “That is, mayhaps, the real reason why you are so spent when it is time for bed,” you laugh, venom in your voice, “because you’ve already dumped your load in some streets of silk whore! Or mayhaps even three……four! the gods know the crown prince can afford it—“
“That is enough!”
His voice cuts through the chamber. Baelor rises too quickly, the legs of his wooden chair scraping harshly against the stone floor, the sound grating in the quiet. The book in his hand snaps shut with a firm, echoing thud.
You jump, he had never yelled at you before, never used such a sharp, demanding tone. It startles you, and by the flicker in his expression, it startles him as well.
He stills for half a breath, instant regret already filling him for letting anger get the better of him, a rare thing but still. His hand drags through his dark, wavy hair, pushing it back from his face, only for it to fall forward again in unruly strands. The light from the candle catches the strain in his features, carved faintly between his brows. A ringed finger begins to travel up and down the spine of the book he just shut, his mismatched eyes refusing to meet yours.
gods was he was trying, not to snap again, though there are words still wanting to spill from him. After a painfully long stretch of silence he finally speaks.
“It is late…” he says at last, his voice low and strained, tension clinging to every word. “And we are both… crossed.” He massages the crease between his brows as exhales through his nose. “It will serve neither of us to continue like this.”
It was not dismissal, not your feelings that do not matter, but rather I do not wish to fight.
damned Baelor always the peacemaker, even now.
…………………………………………………………………………………………
The next few days stretch endlessly. You make every attempt not to cross his path. He tries, at first to see you or at least to acknowledge you. He watches you from across the hall, and when your eyes meet, he offers a small, apologetic smile, a shy wave but you turn your head.
He understands and takes no offense rather sees it as a you need more time.
Baelor was certain he had been doing the right thing, giving you space. He did not want to, of course, but all the honor in him convinced him it was best. He believed that when you were ready, you would come to him.
But it stretched for four painful days.
One day he sees you alone, you are kneeling by the weirwood tree, back turned. His mind tells him to walk away but his heart pulls him toward you, like the moon pulls the sea.
“Hello” he says, voice quiet and careful not to startle you.
“Leave me be,” you reply not bothering to turn to him, your voice sounds exhausted.
His foot shifts back, ready to turn, to give you the space you had asked for. To do the honorable thing.
But then he hears a small quiet sniff and sees the quick, almost desperate motion of your hand brushing across your face, as if you could hide the tears before they ever existed.
Something in him breaks.
The distance he had so carefully kept these past days suddenly feels unbearable. How he think himself cruel for it moreover even more cruel for hiding the truth… it was clear him hiding it was hurting far more than just saying it.
“Y/n…” he starts, mouth opening then closing again every alarm in his head telling him not to do it.
His throat tightens, words caught between duty and honesty.
And then, before he can stop himself—
“I do want you, Y/n.”
He stands a few paces away, stopping himself from coming closer without permission.
“Gods…” he exhales, “I want you more than the very air that fills my lungs.”
You let out a quiet, bitter breath, refusing to turn.
“Forgive me“if that is difficult to believe. you say, sharper than you intend, “We sleep in separate chambers, and when I come near you… you draw back, as though my touch carries the plague.”
Silence stretches, taut as a drawn bow.
“It is not you that is the problem,” he says. “It is me… me and my fears.” His voice is quiet, vulnerable, honest.
You turn to him, and his heart breaks at the sight of your red eyes.
“Fear?” you scoff. “Of what.”
There is no composure left on his face, no restraint, all of it gone and now replaced by something raw and vulnerable.
“Of how much I want you,” he confesses. “The desire I feel for you is not fleeting, not a flickering flame…… it is insatiable, it feels like an inferno that wants to consume you… until there is nothing left.”
You stand now, facing him fully.
“I fear that if I let myself have you… if I give in to it… I might forget myself that I might become possessive, obsessed and do something to you in the heat of the moment…..”
You shake your head softly, stepping closer.
“You would never hurt me. You have never given me reason to believe so.”
His jaw tightens
“You know what runs in my blood,” he says more quietly, but no less intensely. “They are quick to speak of the blood of old Valyria, the dragons…. but they are silent when it comes to the madness…..the cruelty.”
His hands curl at his sides, knuckles paling.
“The men in my family… what they have done to those meant to be cherished…..Their own wives.” His voice dips, rough with disgust. “Their so called ‘love’… it is dark, twisted, possessive and borderline monstrous.
“You are nothing like them, Baelor,” you say softly. “Not in body, and not in soul.”
“You cannot know that,” he insists. “When you are away from me or in in a room full of people it is easy to master my desire for you ” His breath falters.“But when you are near…. When we are alone.”
A beat.
“I do not know if it is love or lust,” he admits, barely above a whisper, “or something far more deeper. All I know… is that it is an overwhelming need to claim you, to make you mine in in every way possible.”
“So no, I am not lying when I say I want you y/n” his voice goes back to his usual soft and gentle tone “ I want you more than I have ever wanted anything, but I am afraid that in trying to claim your heart…” his voice falters, “I will break it instead.”
You walk towards him slowly slowly, as if approaching a wounded dragon.
“Then I will wait,” you say gently, all anger and annoyance from earlier gone.“I will not force you into something you are not ready for, because I know if the roles were reversed, you would do the same.”
You take his hands, pressing a soft kiss to his knuckles before cupping his cheek. He leans into the warmth without thinking.
He lets out a shaky exhale
“I do not deserve that… I am the lord husband… the man. I should be mocked for even having these struggles .”
You scoff but it is not out of bitterness “and another thing you Targaryens fail to mention is you are all still human at the end of the day and those so called struggles just tells me that you are completely and utterly hopelessly in love and I have you wrapped around my finger” you quip.
Alas he smiles letting out a weak laugh
“I am sorry… truly. If I made you feel like you were not enough.”
You shake your head.
“No… I should be the one apologizing. I was selfish. I did not take a moment to consider your feelings……only my own.”
“Then we are both sorry,” he says quietly.
The rest of the day is spent in the garden with gentle, innocent puppy-love like touches. Him placing a flower behind your ear, helping you off the ground from where you sat, a sweet kiss to the temple…. All sweet all innocent and simple but still all meaningful
Read part 1 here, you don’t HAVE to tho, two completely different plots
Important notes for a better read:
Fancast for young!Baelor: Constantine Corrino from Dune Prophecy ( saw this on TikTok)
Baelar looked more Dornish when he was younger but then spent too much time inside when he got older
This is a Young!Baelor, around 19-21 years old, Baelor and reader are newly wed.
Plot?: Baelor is acting weird and avoids consummating the marriage
Lysa, Lyra and Lynora are triplets now that I think of it that part may be a wee bit confusing and I am sorry I thought I ate by giving them similar names LMAO.
Tag list: @singinghamtaro-blog Ty sm for showing interest!
You pass the training yard with your skirts gathered delicately in your hands, careful not to let the hem drag through the mud. You can’t help but smile as you watch Baelor spar with his youngest brother. Despite sharing blood and both being trained by Ser Quentyn, they had vastly different fighting styles. Baelor’s moves were thought-out, measured and calculated; in contrast, Maekar’s strikes were impatient, brute, and fast, a clear hunger to prove himself ( mayhaps even a lingering urge to best Baelor).
Nearby, Aerys sits in the shade, nose deep in a book, utterly disconnected from the clashing sounds as he turns a page. Next to him, Rhaegel leans forward with bright, supportive eyes, following every strike. Rhaegel’s lungs were far too weak to join them, and Aerys far too uninterested, but still, they were all together. The sight warms you because you know how much Baelor loves his family, always happy to spend time with them no matter the activity. You wonder, briefly, what it would be like when you two had one of your own.
Baelor soon notices you.
“My heart,” he smiles softly, walking up to you.
He’s slightly out of breath. His chest is bare, muscles shifting with each heavy breath and you try (unsuccessfully) not to stare. His dark waves, damp with sweat, cling to his temples, yet still look softer and lavish than they have any right to be after such exertion.
He takes your hand, lifting it with gentle care as if made of glass, and presses a kiss to your knuckle. A common, innocent ritual he does often.
“Have you come to see your dear lord husband knock his younger brother on his arse?” His voice is light and teasing.
You shake your head, smiling. “I am only passing, I am having tea with the Lannister triplets now.”
Baelor’s smile falters just for a moment, a faint furrow appears between his brows before it smooths away.
“Ah… the golden lionesses,” he says, tone still warm, though a hint of concern lingers beneath. “And you’ve agreed… willingly?”
You laugh. “Yes. Willingly.”
He hums, unconvinced.
“I could always save you,” he offers, his fingers brushing absently over the embroidery at your sleeve, tracing the thread with appreciation. “Claim the Queen Mother requires you. She is ever eager for another embroidery session… and I do enjoy seeing you match.”
You did love spending time with Myriah, truly, but she was far more seasoned in womanhood, in ways you had yet to understand. Sometimes conversations had been difficult because of that gap. You hoped it would be easier, perhaps, to be among girls your own age, even if they were not as gentle.
“Yes, Baelor, I am sure. I do not need saving,” you hum, a hand lifting to his cheek. “If anyone does, it may be you.”
There is a faint bruise beginning to bloom along his cheekbone, violet against the gold of his skin. Your thumb grazes near it, but not too close to irritate it further.
A soft chuckle escapes him, he was not embarrassed, not annoyed, but proud.
“Ah, yes. That would be Maekar, he grows stronger by the day, I suspect soon I shall be the one in the dirt, but good luck with your tea party if you change your mind me and Vermithor will be more than happy to swoop in and save you.” He teases sending you off with a kiss on the cheek.
………………………………………………………………………………………………
Lynora pours your tea with grace. You had noticed she was always the gentlest of the three.
“I do love your rings,” you say, admiring them.
She brightens immediately, lifting her hand so the gold catches the light, one shaped like a lion, ruby eyes glinting.
“The jeweler will arrive soon, I could have one made for y—”
“Enough of that,” Lysa cuts in. “Tell us of your trip to Dragonstone… tell us the details.”
You blink. “Details?”
Lysa leans forward slightly, chin resting on her hand, gaze sharp with interest.
“Like how was he?.”
The question is so blunt it nearly steals the breath from your lungs.
“He is tall, composed, annoyingly well-mannered and kind,” Lyra hums, tapping her finger against her cup, gaze tilting skyward in mock thought.
“But I do wonder,” she adds slowly, a smirk tugging at her lips, “if all that composure remains… in private.”
Heat creeps up your neck.
They laugh softly, sipping their tea as though discussing fabrics for a new dress.
“I…. I h-hardly see how that concerns you,” you stutter out.
There’s a long stretch of uncomfortable silence. Lysa tilts her head, studying you for a moment too long, like a lion assessing prey.
…
“You have started to try for an heir, no?” she pries, voice laced with mock concern.
Suddenly, the amber color of your tea is very intriguing. The truth of it all was, your time away on Dragonstone, once you got over the impending fear of war. You and Baelor had spent it enjoying each other’s presence, the newness and innocence of your newfound love. The idea of consummation, hells, even an heir, was a “worry” for some other time.
“Do you think he is impotent?” Lysa asks, turning lazily to Lyra pulling you from your thoughts.
Lyra shrugs. “The king has four sons. It seems unlikely.”
They continue speaking as though you are not there.
“Perhaps he is simply… uninterested,” Lysa adds, sipping her tea. “He does seem to take pleasure in everything else.”
“But her,” Lyra finishes.
They giggle, and something in you stills.
Slowly, you set your cup down. “You will remember who you are speaking to,” tone firm, eyes glaring “and who you are speaking of.”
The twins go silent.
“How would the crown prince feel if he caught wind he was being mocked?”
In all honesty, if Baelor ever heard, he would not care, he had always been the more mature and forgiving person, would tell you to let it go… but Baelor wasn’t here, and those two did not deserve it. They immediately turn pale and quickly try to talk over each other with apologies and claims it had been a mere jest, but you only scoff and begin to walk away.
Lynora catches your wrist gently.
“I am sure none of it is true,” she says quickly, her smile strained, uncertain. “Some men simply need more… encouragement.”
Encouragement.
Right
………………………………………………………………………………………….
After a long day of court, Baelor returns to his chambers and he stills when he sees you there
“…Y/n?”
His gaze finds you immediately, lying comfortably upon his bed as though you had always belonged there.
“What are you doing here?” he asks.
You frown faintly. “Am I not allowed in my husband’s chambers?”
“No—no, that is not what I meant,” he says quickly. “Of course you are, I am only… surprised, is all.”
You were so grateful when he had gifted you the second-largest room in the keep after his parents, never even questioning why you two had separate chambers. It was not uncommon, of course, for highborn couples to sleep separately; however, those were built solely on duty and lacked love. Yes, your marriage started off as duty, but it was quick to develop into something deeper, pure, and real, so it made no sense for you two to sleep separately.
His gaze linger on you for just a moment too long, taking you in. The natural shape of your body, no longer hidden beneath heavy skirts or the rigid lines of a corset, the soft natural state of your hair unadorned and free, no jewels or gold that sometimes made you look more ornament than woman. It was not that he had ever found those things unpleasing, on the contrary, he had always thought you beautiful in them but this was different. This was you….truly you and something about it stirred something in him in a way no expensive silks or diamonds ever could.
In a less innocent way he can’t help but notice how thin your nightgown is, leaving little to the imagination. Moreover, he notices you are cold, with the way the peaks of your breasts press against the flimsy fabric—
He looks away, almost abruptly, as if the sight had burned him.
He then begins to get ready for bed, moving almost deliberately slowly. When he turns toward the wash basin, he reaches for the hem of his shirt and pulls it over his head in one smooth motion.
Now it is your turn to stare
The candlelight traces along his tanned back, catching on the subtle shift of muscle as he moves. The muscles are lean and defined, not yet hardened by war but still strong in a natural way. There are a few faint bruises scattered across his skin, faint purples staining the gold, remnants of training with Maekar no doubt; other than that, it is smooth and clean.
He bends over to splash cool water over his face. Water beads form at the ends of his dark hair, falling in slow drips. You continue to stare as he lifts a hand, pushing the damp strands back from his face, and the movement pulls at his bicep, the muscle tightening briefly beneath smooth skin. the movement simple, mundane, but it draws your gaze all the same.
And for a moment, he is unaware of your gaze.
Or perhaps…
He is aware of it, and chooses not to turn.
When he finally joins you in bed, the distance is not so large…..but painfully obvious, and seems deliberate.
An awkward silence settles, a rare thing for you two.
“It is cold,” you murmur softly, forcing a small laugh as you shift closer, closing that distance yourself.
“I could call for a maid,” he says quickly, already half-moving. “Have them add more wood to the hearth—”
You catch his wrist.
“No,” you say gently. “I think your warmth will be enough.”
And before he can retreat again, you settle against him, your head resting lightly on his shoulder. He allows it, because it is sweet and innocent, the kind of touch that carried no meaning beyond simple closeness. It is only when your touch begins to linger, to deepen into something more, that he freezes.
Your hand goes to rest lightly against his abdomen, feeling the firm line of muscle beneath his shirt. You press yourself even closer, burying your head in the crook between his neck and shoulder; he smells faintly of ink, steel, and polished wood. Your fingers begin to trace the hem of his shirt before slipping them in, his abdominal muscles tense immediately under the brush of your fingers.
“Y/n—” he murmurs, voice already strained.
“Mhm?” you reply coolly, fingers moving up and down his chest, fingers smoothing over the soft skin, nails slightly dragging.
His breath hitches.
You shift, leaning up to press a kiss to his sharp jawline, but he turns his head…..just slightly.
So slight, so subtle, it could have been imagined.
Either way it now leaves your lips to meet nothing at all.
“Your hand feels like an icicle,” he lets out a light, breathy laugh.
His fingers close gently around yours, taking it from its place to press a soft, fleeting kiss to your knuckles before placing your hand back at your side, as if returning an item you misplaced.
He shifts again, creating even more distance…..so much he’ll damn near fall off the bed.
He sees you staring… sees the way words linger on your tongue, about to speak, but he speaks first, not because he wants to, but because if he allows you to speak, it will force him to say the truth he does not wish to reveal.
“Maekar chose a weapon today,” he says suddenly.
Any words you’d wanted to speak die on your tongue with his sudden declaration.
“What?”
“The mace,” his tone struggled for steadiness and normalcy. “I had thought it too heavy for him, but he… exceeded my expectations.” He lets out a forced soft laugh “I only hope he does not injure the wrong person with it. It is… quite the weapon.”
You stare at him… for a moment too long trying to decipher the emotion you felt at the moment. anger? Confusion? Concern? Maybe one, maybe all three because why of all times he chose now to mention his little brother.
“Baelor—”
“We trained most of the day,” he adds quickly. “And because of that” he lets out a dramatic exhale and stretches his arms for emphasis “ I am exhausted.”
He leans in to press a feather-light kiss to your forehead before retreating back into the distance.
“Goodnight, my love.”
He turns to lie facing away from you, the sheets drawn just slightly higher, as though they might protect him from something unseen.
You remain still beside him, before curling up for sleep. Though the hearth burned the room felt cold and though he is right there, you have never felt further from him.
………………………………………………………………………………………..
Baelor entered the great hall later than usual, for sleep had not come easily, so he stole a few extra minutes from the morning.
He had lain awake long after your breathing softened, staring into the dark, every instinct in him at war with itself…want and restraint, longing and fear, duty and something quietly blazing beneath his waist.
“Good morning.” He comes up behind you, voice warm despite the exhaustion beneath it.
You lift a small bowl filled with a variety of berries, each deep and rich in color, gleaming with excitement. “My garden seems to be doing so well.”
His gaze softens, finding your excitement and pride endearing.
“You have quite the green thumb, my love,” he praises softly. “I remember when they were but tiny seedlings.”
Your face warms, a grin spreading across your lips, no matter how small, Baelor’s praise always stirred something sweet and fluttering within you.
You lift a strawberry to your mouth, biting into it.
Baelor watches… watches too closely at way your plush lips wrap around the fruit as you bite into it, the way berry juice clings to the corner of your mouth only to be licked away with a quick dart of your tongue, and the way how the fruit stains your lips the lightest shade of red. His breath increases and he forces himself to look away. You then raise a hand with the half-eaten berry…..a clear, silent offer.
For a heartbeat, he almost leans in.
Almost lets himself bend to take it from your hand…..or mayhaps lean closer tasting the sweetness from your lips instead.
But then honor, restraint, and fear take hold.
He reaches past your hand instead, taking a different berry directly from the bowl. He eats it quickly, humming in satisfaction as he gathers his composure. “I think I should have a maid fix me a bowl as well.”
You lower your hand slowly, the half-eaten berry no longer appealing, the small thing suddenly feeling heavy in your grasp. Though you smile and nod, something inside you feels as though it is quietly shattering into a thousand fragile pieces.
………………………………………………………………………………………….
It was late, and Baelor was still not in bed. You were fairly certain the council meetings had ended ages ago, yet he was not there… you had a deep feeling you knew why.
The library greets you in silence and there he is, exactly as expected bent over a book. In his free time, if it was not spent with you or sleeping, he would be here. The gold of the candlelight rests against his smooth skin and his soft lips moving faintly along the page, he was dressed in a simple tunic and trousers, he looked like the picture of comfort but you were about to ruin that…. intentionally or unintentionally that was up for debate.
“It is late,” is the first thing you say as you lean on the doorway.
He looks surprised to see you.
“It is. Should you not be asleep?” he asks.
“I could say the same to you.”
“Ah,” he forces out a chuckle, “sleep just cannot find me, I suppose.” His gaze locked in on the pages of the book but not truly taking in its contents.
A lie. A blatant lie. With the amount of duties and training he goes through in a single day, Baelor had always been the first to pass out. And now suddenly, since you are in his chambers… he cannot?
Your throat tightens, heat rising sharply in your chest. That had been the straw to break the camel’s back, all that hurt and pain that had been slowly suffocating turn into burning anger. You feel mocked, lied to, did he truly have to go through all of this instead of simply saying he has no desire to fuck you.
“Do you not know how to perform?”
His head snaps up, shock and bashfulness written all over his face, a light flush spreading across his tanned cheeks.
“S-Sorry?”
“Or is it you do not care to?” the next words fly out.
“Y/n, please,” his tone is soft and delicate.
“Do you find me repulsive? Are you too shy? Are you insecure about your abilities?” you spit out, not giving him the slightest chance to speak.
His hand raises in defense, he can see you are livid and tries his best to calm you, but gods be damned only if you would give him the chance to speak. He was fine with your insults, taking no offense until the next one comes out.
“Do you have a whore?”
Shock, disgust, and quite rage fill him at the mere idea of betraying you.
“Never,” he says firmly.
“Liar,” you snap, so caught up you do not notice the way his eyes grow darker. “That is, mayhaps, the real reason why you are so spent when it is time for bed,” you laugh, venom in your voice, “because you’ve already dumped your load in some streets of silk whore! Or mayhaps even three……four! the gods know the crown prince can afford it—“
“That is enough!”
His voice cuts through the chamber. Baelor rises too quickly, the legs of his wooden chair scraping harshly against the stone floor, the sound grating in the quiet. The book in his hand snaps shut with a firm, echoing thud.
You jump, he had never yelled at you before, never used such a sharp, demanding tone. It startles you, and by the flicker in his expression, it startles him as well.
He stills for half a breath, instant regret already filling him for letting anger get the better of him, a rare thing but still. His hand drags through his dark, wavy hair, pushing it back from his face, only for it to fall forward again in unruly strands. The light from the candle catches the strain in his features, carved faintly between his brows. A ringed finger begins to travel up and down the spine of the book he just shut, his mismatched eyes refusing to meet yours.
gods was he was trying, not to snap again, though there are words still wanting to spill from him. After a painfully long stretch of silence he finally speaks.
“It is late…” he says at last, his voice low and strained, tension clinging to every word. “And we are both… crossed.” He massages the crease between his brows as exhales through his nose. “It will serve neither of us to continue like this.”
It was not dismissal, not your feelings that do not matter, but rather I do not wish to fight.
damned Baelor always the peacemaker, even now.
…………………………………………………………………………………………
The next few days stretch endlessly. You make every attempt not to cross his path. He tries, at first to see you or at least to acknowledge you. He watches you from across the hall, and when your eyes meet, he offers a small, apologetic smile, a shy wave but you turn your head.
He understands and takes no offense rather sees it as a you need more time.
Baelor was certain he had been doing the right thing, giving you space. He did not want to, of course, but all the honor in him convinced him it was best. He believed that when you were ready, you would come to him.
But it stretched for four painful days.
One day he sees you alone, you are kneeling by the weirwood tree, back turned. His mind tells him to walk away but his heart pulls him toward you, like the moon pulls the sea.
“Hello” he says, voice quiet and careful not to startle you.
“Leave me be,” you reply not bothering to turn to him, your voice sounds exhausted.
His foot shifts back, ready to turn, to give you the space you had asked for. To do the honorable thing.
But then he hears a small quiet sniff and sees the quick, almost desperate motion of your hand brushing across your face, as if you could hide the tears before they ever existed.
Something in him breaks.
The distance he had so carefully kept these past days suddenly feels unbearable. How he think himself cruel for it moreover even more cruel for hiding the truth… it was clear him hiding it was hurting far more than just saying it.
“Y/n…” he starts, mouth opening then closing again every alarm in his head telling him not to do it.
His throat tightens, words caught between duty and honesty.
And then, before he can stop himself—
“I do want you, Y/n.”
He stands a few paces away, stopping himself from coming closer without permission.
“Gods…” he exhales, “I want you more than the very air that fills my lungs.”
You let out a quiet, bitter breath, refusing to turn.
“Forgive me“if that is difficult to believe. you say, sharper than you intend, “We sleep in separate chambers, and when I come near you… you draw back, as though my touch carries the plague.”
Silence stretches, taut as a drawn bow.
“It is not you that is the problem,” he says. “It is me… me and my fears.” His voice is quiet, vulnerable, honest.
You turn to him, and his heart breaks at the sight of your red eyes.
“Fear?” you scoff. “Of what.”
There is no composure left on his face, no restraint, all of it gone and now replaced by something raw and vulnerable.
“Of how much I want you,” he confesses. “The desire I feel for you is not fleeting, not a flickering flame…… it is insatiable, it feels like an inferno that wants to consume you… until there is nothing left.”
You stand now, facing him fully.
“I fear that if I let myself have you… if I give in to it… I might forget myself that I might become possessive, obsessed and do something to you in the heat of the moment…..”
You shake your head softly, stepping closer.
“You would never hurt me. You have never given me reason to believe so.”
His jaw tightens
“You know what runs in my blood,” he says more quietly, but no less intensely. “They are quick to speak of the blood of old Valyria, the dragons…. but they are silent when it comes to the madness…..the cruelty.”
His hands curl at his sides, knuckles paling.
“The men in my family… what they have done to those meant to be cherished…..Their own wives.” His voice dips, rough with disgust. “Their so called ‘love’… it is dark, twisted, possessive and borderline monstrous.
“You are nothing like them, Baelor,” you say softly. “Not in body, and not in soul.”
“You cannot know that,” he insists. “When you are away from me or in in a room full of people it is easy to master my desire for you ” His breath falters.“But when you are near…. When we are alone.”
A beat.
“I do not know if it is love or lust,” he admits, barely above a whisper, “or something far more deeper. All I know… is that it is an overwhelming need to claim you, to make you mine in in every way possible.”
“So no, I am not lying when I say I want you y/n” his voice goes back to his usual soft and gentle tone “ I want you more than I have ever wanted anything, but I am afraid that in trying to claim your heart…” his voice falters, “I will break it instead.”
You walk towards him slowly slowly, as if approaching a wounded dragon.
“Then I will wait,” you say gently, all anger and annoyance from earlier gone.“I will not force you into something you are not ready for, because I know if the roles were reversed, you would do the same.”
You take his hands, pressing a soft kiss to his knuckles before cupping his cheek. He leans into the warmth without thinking.
He lets out a shaky exhale
“I do not deserve that… I am the lord husband… the man. I should be mocked for even having these struggles .”
You scoff but it is not out of bitterness “and another thing you Targaryens fail to mention is you are all still human at the end of the day and those so called struggles just tells me that you are completely and utterly hopelessly in love and I have you wrapped around my finger” you quip.
Alas he smiles letting out a weak laugh
“I am sorry… truly. If I made you feel like you were not enough.”
You shake your head.
“No… I should be the one apologizing. I was selfish. I did not take a moment to consider your feelings……only my own.”
“Then we are both sorry,” he says quietly.
The rest of the day is spent in the garden with gentle, innocent puppy-love like touches. Him placing a flower behind your ear, helping you off the ground from where you sat, a sweet kiss to the temple…. All sweet all innocent and simple but still all meaningful
This is my dyslexia speaking but i just misread bear instead of baelor in your young baelor x new wife fic.
Seemed a fitting nickname for a new love struck wife to give to give her husband, I can imagine calling him bear and seeking him out for warmth and cuddles. xxx
Lowkey I struggle to spell that bc I’m like it cant the spelled the same way as the animal right ???😭😭😭 so completely understandable.
Yesss! I’m a firm believer Targaryens run a little warmer than normal so he’d def be warm and cozy like a fresh clean blanket right out the dryer
Ok but like nickname can also work for Maekar except we’re calling him mama bear hahaha
This is sooo cute awwwww Ty for sharing! Little baby Valarr in pink? Yes please. I can see him still wearing small hints of pink when he’s older to remember his mama 💖
Young!Baelor x newly-wed wife reader ft. Vermithor !
Bear with me ok just bear with me! I know we love Baelor bc he’s a DILF, salt and pepper daddy but but I wanted to try something a bit different.
Important notes to improve read:
Loosely based off of the first Blackfyre rebellion, Baelor is younger here than he was in the book (he’s about 19-21 here )
Young!Baelor is a wee bit different from from daddy older Baelor in personality
Fancast for young!Baelor: Constantine Corrino from Dune Prophecy ( saw this on TikTok)
Baelar looked more Dornish when he was younger but then spent too much time inside when he got older
OH AND DRAGONSSSS (Dance never happened )
Taglist: @entitled-fangirl my beautiful moot 💋
The sea was louder, that was the first thing you noticed about Dragonstone.
Waves crashed endlessly against the black, jagged cliffs below, restless and unyielding. The wind never ceased, howling through the stone corridors and across the open terraces, sharp and cold against your skin. The second thing you noticed was how much darker it was. Storm clouds gathered often, heavy and dark, pressing low over the island, yet they never cried. The fog was thick and endless. It clung to the island like a veil, swallowing the horizon whole and leaving the world beyond unseen. For the first time, you found yourself wishing for the Red Keep. At least there, the sea stretched wide and clear beneath the sun.
You stood by the open window as salty air that smelled of smoke and brimstone rushed in. In the distance, a war galley passed again, its shape barely visible through the fog, though the royal banner fluttering in the wind could be made out. It circled endlessly around the island, ensuring that what was within stayed, and what was without remained so.
Aside from that, there was little else to look at on the island but wind and waves.
You supposed the heavily detailed dragon gargoyles and reliefs were also a sight, though they felt more haunting than leaving you in awe.
Not quite the honeymoon you had imagined.
You turned at the soft sound of movement behind you.
Baelor lay across the bed, half-draped in black and deep red silks that rested low on his hips, leaving the rest of him exposed. His skin held that warm, sun-kissed bronze of his Dornish blood, smooth, unmarked, and untouched. The body of a young man who has yet to be scarred by the harsher realities of war. Dark, wavy hair fell loosely across his brow, slightly tangled from sleep, and mismatched eyes gazed upon you with a quiet intensity.
“Your loud thinking has woken me from my slumber,” he teased, his voice rough with sleep as he ran a hand through his hair.
You turned back toward the sea, letting out a quiet, dry laugh. “I wasn’t aware that thoughts made a sound.”
“Well, yours do,” he replied, slipping on a robe against the chill, though it hardly seemed to bother him. “Louder than the storm, I believe.”
You only hummed in response, not bothering to turn back again, keeping your gaze fixed on the open sea.
He noticed, he always did.
“Come here,” he said softly, reaching for you.
You didn’t move, not out of defiance, just heaviness.
He took no offense, coming to you instead.
He stood close, close enough that you could feel the warmth radiating off him. He had always run warmer than most. You had often wondered if it was his Dornish blood or something of the dragon in him.
His hand hovered near yours, hesitant to take it.
Even now, as your husband, bound to you lawfully under the eyes of the Seven, he still hesitated to touch you at times.
It was not from lack of want, nor from any absence of affection for you. The gods knew how much he wanted to hold you. It was rather from a mixture of care and worry. Baelor had no wish to overstep, no desire to make you uneasy or uncomfortable. Even something as simple as taking your hand left him overthinking, as though the smallest touch carried far more weight than it should. Even with your constant reassurances, he still held back.
For all that he already was at such a young age, dutiful, composed, willing to bear the weight of a crown, being intimate was where his confidence faltered.
He had no reason to doubt himself, no reason to think he would go too far. Hells, even in your two year long engagement, he had always kept himself so respectful.
But still he worried.
A quiet flaw he carried, but his mother said his father had been the same. Mayhaps it had something to do with his grandfather, but in time it faded, and his own shall too.
“You’re thinking too much,” he murmured, shifting to lean lazily against the window, his gaze studying your every feature as he always did so lovingly. “When you should be relaxing with your husband.”
The word still felt new on his tongue, but welcomed.
“I am married in the middle of a rebellion,” you replied quietly. “And my husband will be sent to war in three days. I think I am allowed to overthink.”
He hesitated with a reply.
His gaze dropped, fingers idly turning his wedding band, an old nervous habit he had once told you his septa tried, (and failed) to break.
You had been married in haste two springs too early. What should have been years away was rushed into a single week, sealed with silks, gold, and urgency.
Two houses bound not for love and peace, but by necessity.
He knew how overwhelming it had been on you.
So he had asked his father for just three days, three days for you and Baelor to be away from court.
It was granted, but not freely.
There were always guards, servants, always some watchful eyes. Even your walks along the beach were monitored, as though the sea itself might try to steal him away.
But it was not the lack of privacy that had you so down. It was the fact that the war remained. You and Baelor’s three day getaway did not change that.
One message sent by a raven and he would mount his dragon and be off to war.
That possibility made it impossible to relax, had your head snapping to the sky when a bird, any bird, would fly by.
Baelor knew it was your sole source of discomfort, and he did not try to downplay it, nor try to comfort you with sweet lies either. He had never been the type. Baelor knew he could not change what was to come, but he could try to distract you from it, however briefly.
You sat in the library of Dragonstone, a book resting in your lap as your eyes traced over the elegant curves of the script in High Valyrian, your lips moving faintly as you sounded out each word in a quiet murmur.
A small surprise you had for Baelor, something you were originally going to reveal when you thought your first honeymoon would be two years from now. You had meant to be fluent by then, but for now you settled for smaller phrases, but still useful.
Your finger traced a line again, whispering the phrase under your breath, testing its shape on your tongue.
“oskisagon nyke vēttor… kiss me harder.”
You grinned at the translation. Yes, very useful indeed.
Suddenly, Baelor appeared at the entrance of the library. You nearly jumped out of your skin, quickly shutting the book, trying to discreetly hide its cover. He noticed, because of course Baelor noticed everything you did, but he did not call it out, respecting your privacy.
You took a moment to take in his appearance, a dark cloak swallowing his frame and a hood hiding his dark locks. He looked more rogue than prince.
“walk with me.” He says already turning to leave.
“To where?”
He wore a smile, soft and unguarded, something almost childlike in its purity. The hood shadowed most of his face, revealing only part of his smooth cheek and that one warm brown of his eye, catching the candle light. Gods, if only he knew how much he resembled Myriah when he smiled like that.
“It is a surprise, the less questions, the better.”
………
Mayhaps you should have asked questions when he began to lead you through the hidden doors and winding passages carved deep into Dragonstone’s bones. The air grew hotter, and the heavy scent of something burnt filled your senses. The lantern he held flickered against towering stone walls, casting long shadows over dragon shaped gargoyles that seemed almost alive in the dim glow. You felt as though if you were to look away, one would take the advantage and swallow you whole.
You did not even realize yourself pulling on the edge of his cloak.
He paused, smiling gently when he looked back at you.
“It’s okay… just keep your eyes on me.”
And when you obeyed, you felt all fear leaving.
“They are pretty unsettling,” he admitted. “When he was a boy, Maekar hated coming down here because of that and I think he still does.” He pressed a finger to his lips, subtly saying it was a secret, and you giggled.
You two continued for a few more minutes until finally the tunnel opened.
Fresh air and a cool breeze hit you as you stepped out.
You stepped onto a narrow cliffside path, the sea far below crashing against the rocks, silvered under the pale glow of the moon. The wind was softer here, but still present, pulling gently at your clothes and still carrying the scent of salt and smoke.
And there,
you saw him.
Standing near the edge was the massive and ancient Vermithor.
The dragon turned his large head toward you, two bronze eyes staring into you, and suddenly every stone carving you had passed looked ridiculous.
Baelor, without a thought, walked over to him. You followed suit, but just a few paces behind. He stood in front of the beast, his hand patting against the dragon’s snout as though he were petting a mere horse.
“Will you join me on a ride, my love?”
You blinked. “What?”
He turned, grinning bright, reckless, young.
“You said you cannot relax for a day,” he started. “Then don’t, do it for a night…..escape with me to the skies, where it’s just us two—” Vermithor huffs out smoke as if protesting, and he chuckled. “Us three.”
“Baelor, your father…” you began.
“Tomorrow’s problem.”
“Ser Doran will notice you are missing and start searching.”
“Then we had best hurry and take to the sky.”
You faltered with excuses for a moment.
“It… is it cold…” That one had not really been an excuse, and the gods assisted you in it when a particularly strong breeze passed through.
He stepped closer, shrugging off his cloak and draping it over your shoulders, fastening it carefully. The cloak now gone, revealed his sun-yellow tunic adorned with Sunspear sigils, his mother’s colors.( Something he had often worn when he was younger, though you were not sure when or why he stopped as he grew older.)
“Now you will be cold,” you murmured, but you pulled the cloak tighter against you.
He laughed softly.
It took far more than wind to chill him.
His hand trembled just briefly before steadying as it found yours, the other settling at your waist as he guided you to Vermithor.
“There is nothing to worry about,” he spoke softly. “Just remember, I am right here.” as you now stood right in front the beast
His presence was warm and comforting, his hands on yours carefully easing your fingers open as he slowly guided your hand forward to Vermithor’s snout. His golden eyes stared down at you. Your hand trembled as Baelor inched it closer, fear curling tight in your chest, but just before your fingers could brush his scales, his great eye shifted, and a thin, ghostly film swept across it, and you jumped.
“Baelor,” you said weakly, freezing just before touching.
“I swear to the old gods and new ones, it will be okay.” His other hand gently squeezed your waist, steadying you, his voice low and reassuring at your ear. “ Vermithor knows my heart better than any man ever could,” he whispered, his hot breath tickling the shell of your ear.
“He has felt my anger… my fear… my love.” The last part was said in a low and slow tone that causes your breath to hitch.
“He knows how deeply I love you,” Baelor said softly. “And he would never harm what I would give my life to protect.”
You trusted Baelor, more than your own self at times, so though you still shook a bit, your hand pressed to the dragon’s scales. The scales were extremely warm, but not an uncomfortable warmth rather one like standing near the hearth.
Vermithor exhaled, a low rumble beneath your palm, steam pushing through his nostrils, closing his eyes, relaxed. You let out a breath you had not realized you were holding.
—
The takeoff stole your breath.
Vermithor surged forward, then down, so close to the water that the tips of his tanned wings skimmed the sea, sending cool spray into the air. You gasped, then laughed as droplets kissed your skin.
Behind you, Baelor softened at the sound.
“Higher?” he asked carefully, testing to see how comfortable you were.
You blinked in surprise, but nodded.
“Vēzo, Vermithor,” he commanded.
And the world fell away.
You climbed high and fast, the island becoming a small black dot.
Vermithor broke through the wind like an arrow.
Clouds swallowed you whole, thick and dark. It felt chilly and damp against your skin, a bit prickly but bearable.
When you finally broke through, your breath was taken away.
Above the storm, the sky was endless.
Still and quiet, as if the world froze.
The moon shone bright and clear, untouched by the chaos below.
You can only stare in awe, words dying on your tongue as Vermithor glides through it . You and Baelor do not exchange any words but you do not need to anyway.
You looked back to find him already looking at you.
Baelor’s hand went to your chin. This time, he did not hesitate or shake.
He leaned in, his forehead brushing yours before his lips followed, a gentle, warm kiss.
It was so peaceful, and for the first time, you were not thinking of war, not of the next three days, not Daemon Blackfyre.
Young!Baelor x newly-wed wife reader ft. Vermithor !
Bear with me ok just bear with me! I know we love Baelor bc he’s a DILF, salt and pepper daddy but but I wanted to try something a bit different.
Important notes to improve read:
Loosely based off of the first Blackfyre rebellion, Baelor is younger here than he was in the book (he’s about 19-21 here )
Young!Baelor is a wee bit different from from daddy older Baelor in personality
Fancast for young!Baelor: Constantine Corrino from Dune Prophecy ( saw this on TikTok)
Baelar looked more Dornish when he was younger but then spent too much time inside when he got older
OH AND DRAGONSSSS (Dance never happened )
Taglist: @entitled-fangirl my beautiful moot 💋
The sea was louder, that was the first thing you noticed about Dragonstone.
Waves crashed endlessly against the black, jagged cliffs below, restless and unyielding. The wind never ceased, howling through the stone corridors and across the open terraces, sharp and cold against your skin. The second thing you noticed was how much darker it was. Storm clouds gathered often, heavy and dark, pressing low over the island, yet they never cried. The fog was thick and endless. It clung to the island like a veil, swallowing the horizon whole and leaving the world beyond unseen. For the first time, you found yourself wishing for the Red Keep. At least there, the sea stretched wide and clear beneath the sun.
You stood by the open window as salty air that smelled of smoke and brimstone rushed in. In the distance, a war galley passed again, its shape barely visible through the fog, though the royal banner fluttering in the wind could be made out. It circled endlessly around the island, ensuring that what was within stayed, and what was without remained so.
Aside from that, there was little else to look at on the island but wind and waves.
You supposed the heavily detailed dragon gargoyles and reliefs were also a sight, though they felt more haunting than leaving you in awe.
Not quite the honeymoon you had imagined.
You turned at the soft sound of movement behind you.
Baelor lay across the bed, half-draped in black and deep red silks that rested low on his hips, leaving the rest of him exposed. His skin held that warm, sun-kissed bronze of his Dornish blood, smooth, unmarked, and untouched. The body of a young man who has yet to be scarred by the harsher realities of war. Dark, wavy hair fell loosely across his brow, slightly tangled from sleep, and mismatched eyes gazed upon you with a quiet intensity.
“Your loud thinking has woken me from my slumber,” he teased, his voice rough with sleep as he ran a hand through his hair.
You turned back toward the sea, letting out a quiet, dry laugh. “I wasn’t aware that thoughts made a sound.”
“Well, yours do,” he replied, slipping on a robe against the chill, though it hardly seemed to bother him. “Louder than the storm, I believe.”
You only hummed in response, not bothering to turn back again, keeping your gaze fixed on the open sea.
He noticed, he always did.
“Come here,” he said softly, reaching for you.
You didn’t move, not out of defiance, just heaviness.
He took no offense, coming to you instead.
He stood close, close enough that you could feel the warmth radiating off him. He had always run warmer than most. You had often wondered if it was his Dornish blood or something of the dragon in him.
His hand hovered near yours, hesitant to take it.
Even now, as your husband, bound to you lawfully under the eyes of the Seven, he still hesitated to touch you at times.
It was not from lack of want, nor from any absence of affection for you. The gods knew how much he wanted to hold you. It was rather from a mixture of care and worry. Baelor had no wish to overstep, no desire to make you uneasy or uncomfortable. Even something as simple as taking your hand left him overthinking, as though the smallest touch carried far more weight than it should. Even with your constant reassurances, he still held back.
For all that he already was at such a young age, dutiful, composed, willing to bear the weight of a crown, being intimate was where his confidence faltered.
He had no reason to doubt himself, no reason to think he would go too far. Hells, even in your two year long engagement, he had always kept himself so respectful.
But still he worried.
A quiet flaw he carried, but his mother said his father had been the same. Mayhaps it had something to do with his grandfather, but in time it faded, and his own shall too.
“You’re thinking too much,” he murmured, shifting to lean lazily against the window, his gaze studying your every feature as he always did so lovingly. “When you should be relaxing with your husband.”
The word still felt new on his tongue, but welcomed.
“I am married in the middle of a rebellion,” you replied quietly. “And my husband will be sent to war in three days. I think I am allowed to overthink.”
He hesitated with a reply.
His gaze dropped, fingers idly turning his wedding band, an old nervous habit he had once told you his septa tried, (and failed) to break.
You had been married in haste two springs too early. What should have been years away was rushed into a single week, sealed with silks, gold, and urgency.
Two houses bound not for love and peace, but by necessity.
He knew how overwhelming it had been on you.
So he had asked his father for just three days, three days for you and Baelor to be away from court.
It was granted, but not freely.
There were always guards, servants, always some watchful eyes. Even your walks along the beach were monitored, as though the sea itself might try to steal him away.
But it was not the lack of privacy that had you so down. It was the fact that the war remained. You and Baelor’s three day getaway did not change that.
One message sent by a raven and he would mount his dragon and be off to war.
That possibility made it impossible to relax, had your head snapping to the sky when a bird, any bird, would fly by.
Baelor knew it was your sole source of discomfort, and he did not try to downplay it, nor try to comfort you with sweet lies either. He had never been the type. Baelor knew he could not change what was to come, but he could try to distract you from it, however briefly.
You sat in the library of Dragonstone, a book resting in your lap as your eyes traced over the elegant curves of the script in High Valyrian, your lips moving faintly as you sounded out each word in a quiet murmur.
A small surprise you had for Baelor, something you were originally going to reveal when you thought your first honeymoon would be two years from now. You had meant to be fluent by then, but for now you settled for smaller phrases, but still useful.
Your finger traced a line again, whispering the phrase under your breath, testing its shape on your tongue.
“oskisagon nyke vēttor… kiss me harder.”
You grinned at the translation. Yes, very useful indeed.
Suddenly, Baelor appeared at the entrance of the library. You nearly jumped out of your skin, quickly shutting the book, trying to discreetly hide its cover. He noticed, because of course Baelor noticed everything you did, but he did not call it out, respecting your privacy.
You took a moment to take in his appearance, a dark cloak swallowing his frame and a hood hiding his dark locks. He looked more rogue than prince.
“walk with me.” He says already turning to leave.
“To where?”
He wore a smile, soft and unguarded, something almost childlike in its purity. The hood shadowed most of his face, revealing only part of his smooth cheek and that one warm brown of his eye, catching the candle light. Gods, if only he knew how much he resembled Myriah when he smiled like that.
“It is a surprise, the less questions, the better.”
………
Mayhaps you should have asked questions when he began to lead you through the hidden doors and winding passages carved deep into Dragonstone’s bones. The air grew hotter, and the heavy scent of something burnt filled your senses. The lantern he held flickered against towering stone walls, casting long shadows over dragon shaped gargoyles that seemed almost alive in the dim glow. You felt as though if you were to look away, one would take the advantage and swallow you whole.
You did not even realize yourself pulling on the edge of his cloak.
He paused, smiling gently when he looked back at you.
“It’s okay… just keep your eyes on me.”
And when you obeyed, you felt all fear leaving.
“They are pretty unsettling,” he admitted. “When he was a boy, Maekar hated coming down here because of that and I think he still does.” He pressed a finger to his lips, subtly saying it was a secret, and you giggled.
You two continued for a few more minutes until finally the tunnel opened.
Fresh air and a cool breeze hit you as you stepped out.
You stepped onto a narrow cliffside path, the sea far below crashing against the rocks, silvered under the pale glow of the moon. The wind was softer here, but still present, pulling gently at your clothes and still carrying the scent of salt and smoke.
And there,
you saw him.
Standing near the edge was the massive and ancient Vermithor.
The dragon turned his large head toward you, two bronze eyes staring into you, and suddenly every stone carving you had passed looked ridiculous.
Baelor, without a thought, walked over to him. You followed suit, but just a few paces behind. He stood in front of the beast, his hand patting against the dragon’s snout as though he were petting a mere horse.
“Will you join me on a ride, my love?”
You blinked. “What?”
He turned, grinning bright, reckless, young.
“You said you cannot relax for a day,” he started. “Then don’t, do it for a night…..escape with me to the skies, where it’s just us two—” Vermithor huffs out smoke as if protesting, and he chuckled. “Us three.”
“Baelor, your father…” you began.
“Tomorrow’s problem.”
“Ser Doran will notice you are missing and start searching.”
“Then we had best hurry and take to the sky.”
You faltered with excuses for a moment.
“It… is it cold…” That one had not really been an excuse, and the gods assisted you in it when a particularly strong breeze passed through.
He stepped closer, shrugging off his cloak and draping it over your shoulders, fastening it carefully. The cloak now gone, revealed his sun-yellow tunic adorned with Sunspear sigils, his mother’s colors.( Something he had often worn when he was younger, though you were not sure when or why he stopped as he grew older.)
“Now you will be cold,” you murmured, but you pulled the cloak tighter against you.
He laughed softly.
It took far more than wind to chill him.
His hand trembled just briefly before steadying as it found yours, the other settling at your waist as he guided you to Vermithor.
“There is nothing to worry about,” he spoke softly. “Just remember, I am right here.” as you now stood right in front the beast
His presence was warm and comforting, his hands on yours carefully easing your fingers open as he slowly guided your hand forward to Vermithor’s snout. His golden eyes stared down at you. Your hand trembled as Baelor inched it closer, fear curling tight in your chest, but just before your fingers could brush his scales, his great eye shifted, and a thin, ghostly film swept across it, and you jumped.
“Baelor,” you said weakly, freezing just before touching.
“I swear to the old gods and new ones, it will be okay.” His other hand gently squeezed your waist, steadying you, his voice low and reassuring at your ear. “ Vermithor knows my heart better than any man ever could,” he whispered, his hot breath tickling the shell of your ear.
“He has felt my anger… my fear… my love.” The last part was said in a low and slow tone that causes your breath to hitch.
“He knows how deeply I love you,” Baelor said softly. “And he would never harm what I would give my life to protect.”
You trusted Baelor, more than your own self at times, so though you still shook a bit, your hand pressed to the dragon’s scales. The scales were extremely warm, but not an uncomfortable warmth rather one like standing near the hearth.
Vermithor exhaled, a low rumble beneath your palm, steam pushing through his nostrils, closing his eyes, relaxed. You let out a breath you had not realized you were holding.
—
The takeoff stole your breath.
Vermithor surged forward, then down, so close to the water that the tips of his tanned wings skimmed the sea, sending cool spray into the air. You gasped, then laughed as droplets kissed your skin.
Behind you, Baelor softened at the sound.
“Higher?” he asked carefully, testing to see how comfortable you were.
You blinked in surprise, but nodded.
“Vēzo, Vermithor,” he commanded.
And the world fell away.
You climbed high and fast, the island becoming a small black dot.
Vermithor broke through the wind like an arrow.
Clouds swallowed you whole, thick and dark. It felt chilly and damp against your skin, a bit prickly but bearable.
When you finally broke through, your breath was taken away.
Above the storm, the sky was endless.
Still and quiet, as if the world froze.
The moon shone bright and clear, untouched by the chaos below.
You can only stare in awe, words dying on your tongue as Vermithor glides through it . You and Baelor do not exchange any words but you do not need to anyway.
You looked back to find him already looking at you.
Baelor’s hand went to your chin. This time, he did not hesitate or shake.
He leaned in, his forehead brushing yours before his lips followed, a gentle, warm kiss.
It was so peaceful, and for the first time, you were not thinking of war, not of the next three days, not Daemon Blackfyre.
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