ORMUND HIGHTOWER x Targaryen Princess (ward) ───
Ormund’s character “headcanons”
Warnings: age gap (15/20years difference), corruption kink, sexual content, idk dude just mdni :)
Author’s note: If you already know me from wp AO3 or TikTok, then you know I can’t stop yapping about this man, like it’s genuinely concerning at this point. So of course I’ve doubled down by starting a whole new fic about him! Since your girl loves deep character work (canon or otherwise) and plenty of smut, here’s my introduction to Lord Slaytower and the messy moral issues he has with his young ward (and their kinks and way of having sex until they can really have sex and all those things you can expect from me). The princess’s name isn’t mentioned in this piece but it’s meant to be Daena once I publish the story. Major spoilers for their plot ahead as always with me. Anyway, enjoy! Because I certainly do every single time I write about him :))
Ormund Hightower, who is raised as the undisputed golden boy of one of Westeros' wealthiest houses, acutely aware of his position from a young age (which, as everyone knows, always ends up with one entitled little boy growing into one deeply fucked up man)
Ormund Hightower, who enjoys above all the liberties that come with not yet being lord, spending his youth testing the limits of his privilege (being those freedoms the ones that shape the clever, arrogant, and prideful man he will one day become)
Ormund Hightower, who develops an unshakable belief in his own superiority and destiny, holding it as dearly as the Faith itself. Who comes to believe that men like him are tested more harshly by the Gods and rewarded twice over for their devotion and restraint.
Same conviction that leads him to believe that the Seven will always allow him to toy with the edges of sin more freely than lesser men, twisting his sense of righteousness into something self-serving (and leaving him forever caught between crushing guilt and an unwavering conviction that he had somehow earned the right to sin a little)
Ormund Hightower, who is raised alongside his cousin Gwayne in something close to brotherhood.
Left in Oldtown from a young age, motherless and under Hobert's care, Gwayne is both Ormund's closest friend and the boy forever destined to stand in his shadow. Even if their affection is genuine, so too is the cruelty that often flourishes between boys raised together, where one child's ego is too often built at the expense of the other's.
Ormund Hightower, who is in his twenties when the Queen's children are entrusted to Oldtown, and who discovers for the first time what it means to be displaced. The Targaryen twins eclipse him, his infant son and heir, and everyone else in Lord Hobert's eyes.
Oh to be jealous of two kids of only eight years old—kids with the blood of Old Valyria, a dragon of their own, and the fascination of a city and a father that have always belonged entirely to him.
Ormund Hightower, clever enough to quickly understand that the twins are the future of his House as much as his own blood was (and his future burden political asset, too). Who makes certain to win the young prince's trust and keep him close (only to find himself competing with their uncle Gwayne, whose warmth and charm the children seemed to prefer from the very beginning)
Ormund Hightower, who is the first to oppose Rhaenyra and Alicent's pact to betroth the young princess to Rhaenyra's eldest son, provoking his first clash with his father. Who defended the honor of the girl of twelve, insisting she could never be handed to a bastard whose claim to the Iron Throne was both unlawful and an affront to the Seven (because that birthright belonged by every law to her older brother) Who failed, but at least tried.
Ormund Hightower, who inherits his father's titles when the twins are five and ten, and from that day forward ensures the septas keep a sharper eye on the princess. Who insists upon her education and gives her a place as cupbearer in his council, (determined that if she is to be handed to the enemy, she will go prepared to survive Dragonstone)
Who feeds Daeron the belief that the Blacks (and his childhood bestfriend among them) mean to steal his sister.
Who never allows the princess to grow comfortable with the notion of one day becoming queen, making sure she never forgets who is the rightful heir to her father's throne.
Lord Hightower, who finds in the princess’s teenage years the first challenge to his long standing arrogance and prideful certainty.
Because she is neither easily impressed by his status nor intimidated by his authority. Her Targaryen blood mixed with her Hightower pride make her maddeningly resistant to his guidance whenever she chooses to believe otherwise (sometimes it is conviction, other times she simply delights in proving that the Lord of Oldtown can be baited into losing his temper)
Lord Hightower, who finds himself strangely delighted by it.
Lord Hightower, who soon convinces himself that playing house with his sixteen year old ward is perfectly normal and never consideres the long term consequences.
After all, what could possibly be inappropriate about his young ward befriending his children? What is wrong with letting her run his household when she does it so capably? Why should long walks filled with clever conversation be seen as anything but guardianship? Why would staying up until the hour of the owl playing cyvasse be considered strange? Why would their domesticity be wrong, when it feels so natural and comfortable for both? Why remarry, after all, when he already has the princess for himself?
Lord Hightower, who in his thirties comes to the realization that he is not just being outwitted, but deliberately toyed with by that girl of scarcely eight and ten (who slowly finds out her favorite game is turning debates into spirited arguments, asking "why" with relentless feigned innocence until his patience wears thin, and playing the foolish maiden while slipping in questions she knows will sour his temper for the rest of the day)
"Do you truly believe Prince Jacaerys would make such an unsuitable husband, my lord? I confess, I rather think I shall make an excellent Queen. Better, mayhaps, than my brother would ever make a King."
Who would have thought, Lord Hightower, that your wifeward would start to think like a wife in other senses, after years of treating her as such in all but the bed.
Who would have thought that your wardwife, with all her little issues, would misinterpret the boundaries you had long since forgotten yourself, and start giving you fuck me eyes across the Council Chamber, because she so desperately needs you to fuck her, Lord Hightower!
Lord Hightower, who occasionally slips and call her "girl" whenever she pushes him one argument too far, only to immediately correct himself to "princess" (because manners, unlike his patience, were not to be abandoned)
Who finds himself in a daily struggle between propriety, the urge to remind her who holds authority in the room, and an even stronger determination not to reward her insolence with the satisfaction of seeing him lose his temper (a man used to commanding the greatest respect wherever he stood should never have found himself praying so often for the Warrior's patience)
Lord Hightower, who soon finds himself uncomfortably aware of the beauty and cunning mind parading through his halls. Who rediscovers the meaning of true restraint when his entitled instincts from youth whispers that what is under his protection is, technically, his (who added restraint and mercy to his prayers, asking the Warrior for too much this time)
Lord Hightower, who starts begging nightly for strength, confessing vague "impure thoughts" about someone he has no right to imagine in such ways.
Lord Hightower, who begins repenting through fasting and grows more short-tempered
Nothing tests a man’s faith and spirits like the need to fuck the one person he is honor bound to protect. No one would have blamed him for taking himself in hand in the privacy of his chambers to relieve that torture, but Ormund Hightower blamed himself harshly, every day.
Lord Hightower, who begins correcting Prince Daeron whenever the boy calls him "uncle" in front of his sister.
He was not their uncle, he was their lord, their mother's cousin at most (a fascinating hill to die on for a man who loudly condemns incest and the Targaryens' customs, and who finds himself determined to believe that his desires somehow exist outside those same abominations)
Lord Hightower, who for all his pretense of being a good man, a pious man, and an honorable one, is simply a freak and a pervert who has spent years telling himself it is not incest or grooming if he never lays a hand on the girl (only to end up knuckles deep inside her three days before her wedding)
Lord Hightower, who fingerfucks the princess in his charge to “ease her fears of the marital bed” (all while telling himself that that is still noble somehow)
Lord Hightower, who punishes her attitude by edging her, overstimulating her until she is shaking and sobbing, delighting in every plea that leaves her lips.
Lord Hightower, who may not have been strong enough to keep from touching her, but still possesses enough restraint not to take her maidenhead even as she begs him to (thank the Seven for how honourable he is. Fuck the Seven for it, actually)
Lord Hightower, who presses his forehead to hers and whispers “forgive me” against her lips as she keeps begging for him to claim her. Who will force her to kneel beside him in prayer for the sins they had just committed, keeping his aching cock untouched as some kind of repentance.
Lord Hightower, who will break again the very next day and teach the princess how to take a man into her mouth (feeding his corruption kink as she acts naive and submissive, and calls him “my lord” knowing what that does to him)
Lord Hightower, who always tells her “this is the last time” and “we must stop this madness” while she is on her knees beneath his desk during the day, sucking him with devotion.
Then he spends the nights on his knees in the sept, begging the Seven for forgiveness once again.
Lord Hightower, who becomes a nightmare to everyone around him the moment they tear his precious girl away to give her to a boy (a boy who will claim the maidenhead he has so kindly preserved)
Lord Hightower, who sees his prayers answered soon enough after that damned wedding (reaffirming to himself that perhaps the gods do not find his sins so terrible after all, if they so eagerly give her back to him)
Lord Hightower, who leads the greatest host of the Greens as the Dance erupts in full, only to end up fucking the King’s own sister in his command tent. Who delights in covering her mouth so her twin brother does not hear her cries (and because he comes harder when she bites down on his hand) Who adores the power play, the risk, and the thrill of his authority over her.
Lord Hightower, who knows the best way to end a long day on the march is taking care of his darling girl, still flushed and buzzing with adrenaline from dragonback. Who thanks her for her aid by dropping to his knees like a man possessed, devouring her until she shakes and cries out, then seizes what little energy she has left and makes her ride him slow and deep.
“You’ve been riding that beast of yours all day, my poor princess. You must be so, so tired. Let me take care of you, darling. You just have to sit on my cock and ride me gently, I’ll hold you and do the rest.”
afterward, they share a long bath together (“you still reek of dragon, wretched girl” “maybe you should stop fucking me before I wash, my lord”) then he holds her against his chest until she falls asleep, exhausted again.
Lord Hightower, who knows better than to risk it, who tries so hard to be responsible, often growling “not inside” right before he is about to come, only for her legs to lock around him or for her to giggle at the pathetic attempt, making him lose control completely and fill her anyway.
Lord Hightower, who can barely meet Daeron’s eyes anymore, knowing exactly what he is doing to the boy’s twin sister behind his back.
Lord Hightower, who keeps a piece of her favor tucked inside his armor during battles (a scrap of cloth always carrying her scent, his most precious token, kept close to his heart)
Lord Hightower, who falls in love harder than he has ever thought possible, and who decides that no sin, no god's wrath, and no man’s law will ever be worthy of loosing his true heaven.
cw: 18+(mdni), monsterfucking!!, fluff, tail humping, scenting, possessiveness, slight workaholic baelor, praise, dirty talk, p in v, knotting, oral(f!receiving), oral(m!receiving), nesting!!, breeding, cock-warming, overstimulation if u squint, tail fucking(?).
a/n: OUR BIG DRAGON IS FINALLY HERE!! i might've gone overboard with this one oops. but alas, i put my whole freakussy into this!!! apologies for any mistakes, and thank you for being patient about this one! i appreciate it a lot < 3
✧ LOOKS
⤷ dragon hybrid!baelor's tail is on the thicker side. heavy, long, and very sturdy. it's missing any membrane, with the scales smooth and hard along its length. nothing fancy, nothing that'll catch people's eyes when it swishes and curls behind baelor. the end of it is pointy, and could definitely hurt someone if aimed at a more vulnerable part of their bodies, which the prince keeps in mind, but rarely uses, if ever. he likes knowing that, if no weapons are at his disposal, he has an ace up his sleeve that he could use, and with full control as well. that's the thing about baelor: he has near full control of his dragonic side, having exercised it since he was a boy. rarely losing control, rarely having the kingsguard to get a hold of him to stave off any outbursts. but of course, he doesn't use his tail only in perilous situations. baelor also enjoys exploiting it for your own benefit: grabbing things for you, steering you in the right direction when you are next to him, wrapping it around any part of your body for contact—as long as it's proper, of course, if in public settings—to soothe you or himself, when court weights too hard on his shoulders or you get rather overwhelmed at feasts. he likes to stroke your skin with the tip of his tail, just soft, rhytmic brushes that lull you back into comfort.
⤷ baelor's talons are not the sharpest, but not the dullest either. as said prior, he likes knowing he has ways of besting his opponents if need be or defend himself if by any chance he gets attacked. we have to remember he is next in line to the throne, which means he needs to stay alive and well long enough to have the crown placed upon his brow. he cannot and will not take any chances of being caught defenseless. he might have the kingsguard around, but even then, the odds of being hurt are never zero. dragon hybrid!baelor sharpens his talons just enough to prick at skin if dug into with intent, but never enough to injure if he just scratches lightly at skin, which he does often when you're near. he never draws blood with you, hates to see any of his dragonic features ever being used to hurt you in any way, shape, or form. if it wasn't for you, his talons would be sharp enough to draw blood forthwith, but alas, he takes measures for that never to happen unless willed by him towards people who wish him harm.
⤷ his scales are scarlet in color. they look akin to rubies in the sun, shifting and glittering with the rays of warmth. baelor does not particularly care to show them off, but makes sure they are visible, especially in court meetings or when he is called upon in some corner of the realm on princely duties. he wants people to know he is blood of the dragon, which runs so deep in his veins that even his features took after the ancient beasts people so feared. that is what he wants, for people to make the connection between what once was and what is now, that he is the closest thing to the dangerous, ruthless beasts of time long gone and fit to rule; strong enough to do it. the scaly plates encompass the whole width of his shoulders, swirling up the length of his nape and disappearing into the fine hairs there. they dip along his spine, a cluster of them, like freshly spilled blood, ending in that sturdy, glorious tail. you love the ones along his navel that travel slowly towards the base of his cock; it always makes your pupils dilate with want just at the sight. but you're not so crass as to not appreciate the reddish scales that dust his temples and ears, even a few stray ones here and there down his chest.
⤷ dragon hybrid!baelor has horns, but not in the way you might think. they're almost entirely of solid bone, with a cluster of scales at the bottom from where they sprout on either side of his head. the horns are extremely sturdy and rather sharp at the end. in the beginning of your courtship, baelor was worried at times that he might accidentally nip or hurt you with them, but with time, he learned to maneuver around you in such a way that the threat of them towards you is very minimal. it's quite bothersome for him to wear helmets, which is why he asked for one that allows for his horns to sit comfortably inside the steel without hurting him, or simply, to have two gaps at the top for the horns to pop out outside the helmet. baelor ended up wanting both. he wears the latter at tournaments and jousts to intimidate his opponents a little. it's the one time where he can prance around and preen, not weighted down by duty and crown.
⤷ his wings are kept against his back, but not all the way. they're ruddy and wide, the membrane thick and vibrant, expanding way past his body when unfurled fully. baelor commands a room quietly, without raising his voice, without making a fuss. the dominance is in the way he holds himself: the way he walks, looks, and comports himself. he uses the wings to his advantage, letting them unfurl just enough to shroud his broad back and the width of his shoulders, but not more than that. it's calculated, and it works wonders at letting him take up space and be imposing when he walks into a room, without even needing to speak. sure, he is the heir to the iron throne, and the title demands obedience, but how long would a mere legacy hold courtiers in check if he didn't have proof that he could fill the role waiting for him? having people stepping aside to make room for him fills baelor with pride; of his house, his name, and the man-beast he is.
⤷ baelor's eyes are slitted, like any dragon's. he tries his best not to make it known when he has been slighted, especially in court, but his pupils always give him away. they thin so, so much when something gets on his nerves, even if otherwise his body gives no sign of his irritation. but, in the same measure, when he looks at something he likes, something he loves, something that pleases him, his eyes turn to almost black with the way his pupils expand and widen, overwhelmed by the warmth he feels in his chest.
⤷ dragon hybrid!baelor's tongue is slitted, but just a bit at the end. does not like to showcase such a detail, unless it's with you, and only for your viewing. but there are times when a lord or sycophant says something too daring or out of place in court, and baelor would lick at his lips, letting the tip of his split tongue slither out just a bit, enough to be seen, with the barest hiss, before addressing the offender. it works like a charm in making himself heard and obeyed.
✧ BEHAVIOUR
⤷ dragon hybrid!baelor is all about control and appearance. to the outside world, at least. he needs to appear like he is in control of himself and his dragonic side, especially when members of the court are around. proving oneself does not leave room for mistakes, and no matter how kind and benevolent he is, one slip could crumble it all away. baelor has the favor of the small folk and lordlings alike, and wants to keep it that way until he can feel the cold touch of the crown upon his brow and have the realm at his fingertips. until then, restraint and impeccable etiquette must be exercised every moment of the day in the presence of others. not that it does not come naturally to baelor, but some days are harder than others, and reigning in his more baser, primal instincts proves to be a challenge.
⤷ as the heir to the iron throne, baelor is very busy and well known to be a bit, or more of a workaholic. he dislikes it because it keeps him away from you, his mate, for too long at times. perhaps from an outside perspective, he might seem like a serious, kind husband who will tend to his wife as duty demands, but not much more. that could not be further from the truth, for he craves you even when you are right next to him. you are a balm to his senses, softening the hard edges that come with the incessant demands of duty he is subjected to every single day. there is no better cure for his self-destructive ways of working himself to the bone than a stern look from you or a plea for respite. it shatters every shackle that binds him to his solar, his desk, his stack of letters and reports, and guides him right back to you, where he belongs.
⤷ unfortunately, there are days when he cannot simply disregard duty and has to lock himself in his solar for hours on end, at times the whole day, just to be able to make a dent in all the stacks of papers he has lying around on his desk. it unnerves him, because he is aware that it makes you lonely. a wife should never go too long without the presence of her husband, and he would be remiss in letting you wallow in too much solitude. so, he comes up with a solution that will allow you to be close to him and grant him the possibility of working on his princely duties. he builds nests for you in his solar.
⤷ as a dragon, the urge to provide his mate with a nest is as old as time, and baelor knows how much you love the one he had built for you in your shared chambers, so why not... give you more? he makes sure the necessary materials are the softest gold can buy, from silks to wool to rich cotton, all just for your comfort. the way your face lights up when he offers the idea makes his chest rattle with a pleased rumble, knowing he has made his mate happy. the nests are placed in his solar a fortnight after: one close by the windowsill so you can soak up the sun while you read and knit, one in a more secluded corner, where the temperature drops just a bit, ideal for taking naps and resting, and baelor's favorite, one right under his desk, tucked beneath it, as close to him as possible.
⤷ despite what the realm might think, baelor craves you like no other; needs to be close to you as much as duty allows, and will do anything to make it happen. he loves it when you just curl up onto the nest under his desk, fingers gripping onto the hem of one pant leg or holding onto his tail. it's a heady feeling, having his mate seek him, wanting a point of contact even like this. the beast prowling in his chest almost purrs with delight when he feels you tug as much of his tail as you can towards yourself to cuddle it, cheek pressing against scales as you use it as a pillow while you slumber. baelor always takes a couple of minutes just to watch you, the tip of his tail slowly caressing your sleep-flushed cheek so, so tenderly, unable to help himself from touching, his heart skipping a beat when you unconsciously lean into the contact.
⤷ but, that is not the only way he uses his tail, especially when he has you so close to him, so sweet and warm. spending time next to him, just watching him pore over documents and work himself to the bone, bores you at times, as much as you want to wave it off and continue being a supportive wife. many a time have you enticed him to give in to less... princely endeavours, using all the weapons at your disposal to make his resolve crack bit by bit. a flutter of your lashes here, a whine there, a tug on his tail or breeches, all in favour of his attention, if even just for a few moments. and baelor, your dear dragon, your ever dutiful husband, was powerless to resist for too long, especially when you leaned back fully into the nest, parting your thighs while you slowly inched your skirts up to your waist, showing off your smallclothes, or at times, lack thereof. always wet, folds glistening with your arousal, calling to him like a siren song, he was too enamored of a man to resist.
⤷ do not think that baelor would push his chair back and crawl under his desk after you. no, not at all. work could not wait, now could it? so, he used his tail to give his pretty, needy wife what you so sought after, hands still busy writing letters and grain reports, delighting himself in the sounds of your moans and pleasured sights from under his desk. it was so easy to brush the tip of his tail upwards along the soft skin of your thigh, slow and steady, letting you feel him, building the anticipation before giving you what you wanted, swiping through sodden folds and drenching his scales in your slick. baelor always loved that sharp, breathy intake you took whenever the tip of his tail finally flicked against your clit, circling the sensitive nub in relentless motions, before tapping against it enough to make you gasp but never enough to sting, unless you asked for it nicely. it always reminded you of how your husband loved doing the same thing with the head of his cock whenever you fucked. mimicking the action with the tip of his tail always made you heady and bashful with lust.
⤷ flicking and playing with your clit, dipping his tail just a bit into your wet hole to tease, ever careful not to hurt you, swiping through your folds again and again. baelor does anything to get you to cum as much as you want, multitasking between continuing his work and drawing out the most delicious sounds from your plush lips, letting you soak his tail to your heart's delight, happy that he's able to offer you release. at times, you get so overwhelmed, fingers grasping at his tail, needing something to ground yourself to, ending up pressing the scaly muscle against your soaked cunt and grinding against it, humping it eagerly to get yourself off, whining high in your throat at the feel of the bumps and ridges against your clit. your dragon always finds it so endearing, making sure to curl his tail just right, helping you chase that delicious heat, wanting his wife to never want for nothing.
⤷ he loves to croon at you, even if he cannot see you. "feels good, my sweet?" baelor would hum as he continued writing, a small, pleased smile curling onto his lips as your moans got a little higher at the sound of that rumbled tone of his. "that's it, that's it. good girl." his praise washes over you in waves, bringing warmth to your skin and more slick between your thighs, only getting you to hump his tail faster. "you're dirtying me, my love," your dragon would continue, but not as a reprimand, the candor of his voice too gratified to sound like a reproach. "are you marking me, hm? getting that sweet honey all over my scales? is that how you scent your dragon, sweetling?"
⤷ it gives both of you a sort of thrill. you're under his desk, in a nest he crafted for you, and he cannot see you, the wood obscuring everything you are doing. but he can hear all the sounds, all the whines, everything. the wet noises your cunt makes when the tip of his tail prods at your sopping hole. the rustle of your skirts as you grind your hips. the way your feet and elbows sometimes hit against the side of the desk, making the wood rattle just a bit, his handwriting skittering against paper, making him huff. never angry, always pleased. baelor cannot see you, but he can feel you around his tail, onto it, and hear every single sound your body makes; you make. it's maddening.
⤷ and you have a perfect view of how hard his cock gets. how he spreads his thighs just a bit to relieve some of the pressure, the length tenting his breeches obscenely, making you even wetter. you try not to fall prisoner to the pull in your gut that tells you to move closer, to assist your husband the way he does you. but how could you ever, when you see his cock twitch every time your moans pitch higher because of the way the tip of his tail taps wetly against your clit? how could you not sit up and crawl between his legs, dipping your head to mouth and mewl along his clothed thigh, rubbing your cheek against the hard print of his cock insistently, offering him the friction he so craves?
⤷ he's weak for you, forgoing his papers in favour of petting at your hair, humming as he watches you paw at his crotch, mouth open, tongue licking at him through his breeches. you're so eager, and he's never felt more powerful than in that moment, with his pretty wife between his thighs, willing to offer him pleasure in return. your fingers make quick work of his breeches, whining impatiently until you can get your mouth onto his cock, lips stretched around the girth of him, muffling your noises. "good?" baelor rumbles, letting his talons scrape and pet at your hair, tender and soothing, lulling you along as you suckle and lick at his cock. the expression on your face is serene, almost peaceful, and your husband knows what you need. "rest on my thigh," he coaxes. "hm, yes, like that, my love. good, good. stay like that for me." and you do, mouthing at his cock, swirling your tongue around the length, cockwarming it while it rests inside your mouth. baelor knows this is relaxing for you, even if it takes a lot out of him not to thrust inside that perfect, wet warmth enveloping him, but he holds back, petting your hair, brushing your cheek and crooning soft praise as your eyes lower, half-lidded and drowsy, mouthing at his cock lazily, suckling occasionally. he makes sure to rub your back with his tail, wanting you as pliant and melting as possible.
⤷ of course, your mouth is not the only one being used for pleasure, for there are days when he hauls you from under the desk, placing you flush atop of hardwood, not caring about the papers and ink spilled for once, needing one thing and one thing only: to service you with his mouth. baelor is uncaring if he rips your skirts a little or not as he hikes them up your thighs, revealing your pussy to him, wasting no time in smushing his face right into the slick heat of you, inhaling the musk into his lungs and letting it fester, growling deeply into sodden folds. long tongue, the forked end of it lapping at you with fervor as he holds you against his mouth, tail wrapping around your waist to press you as close as possible, feasting to his heart's content. your juices coat his beard, nose, and chin, the pepper-salt hairs glistening with your slick in the candlelight. he preens at the way you arch off the desk, your fingers threading through his hair to press him further into you, grinding against his tongue until you cum. your husband is more than delighted to pull as many orgasms out of you as possible until you're spent and boneless.
⤷ he doesn't wash off the scent of you from his beard. baelor leaves it there until the morrow, way past when the council has finished, loving the thought of having your scent clinging to him, just as his is all over you, for he had nuzzled you incessantly before leaving your bed that morning. your husband never lets you leave his side until you reek of him, wanting every single courtier that comes into contact with you to smell him in you first, and then your sweet scent warping around his own. a dragon needs to protect his treasure, to hoard it close and deter any grubby paws from touching it. baelor always leans close and sniffs at you at the end of the day, when you both retire to your chambers, nose pressing to skin and clothes and hair, making sure there are no other scents cling to you. only his. only ever his.
⤷ scenting you so thoroughly ties into the need for him to breed you every time he fucks you. rutting into you deep and slow, too frustrated from working so late into the night, sometimes knotting the air, too eager and wound up, his body not having the patience to be all the way inside. but then again, having the pleasure to stuff you full, nudging his fat knot inside of your wet hole, groaning "shh, i know, sweet girl, i know." as the girth stretches you wide, one broad palm smoothing down your back soothingly to coax you to relax. "s' too big, hm? but you can take it, my love. just a bit more." when he's finally all the way to the hilt, your walls squeezing around his knot so deliciously, he can't help but blanket you with his body as he fills you again and again with every snap of his hips. "so good. gods, you're so warm, my heart. just right for my clutch to grow."
⤷ and a clutch will eventually grow, for baelor is sure to keep his cock inside you as deep as it'll go, his knot keeping all his seed where it needs to be: in your womb.
⤷ as much as he loves the heated moments, your dragon also wouldn't trade the tender ones for the world. the way you ask the maesters to prepare oils and creams for his scales and horns, your gentle fingers rubbing them in so carefully, making sure to get the salves in all the ridges and crevices. baelor's scales are so shiny afterwards, making him preen with delight when you fawn over them, admiring the way your dragon looks, all pampered and taken care of. you love helping him like this, making sure he looks impeccable for court, for the realm, feeling warmth in your chest when you see how regal and powerful your husband is, scales glistening in the light like rubies.
⤷ even as busy as he is, baelor would always put you first, the realm is his duty, but you are his heart. he cannot imagine not having you close as his wife, his mate. having you close is no longer a need, but a constant in his life. wrapping himself around you as you sleep, tail curled around your waist or thighs, pressing you flush to him as he scents and sniffs at your throat and hair, whispering how much he loves you, how blessed he is to have one such as you next to him. his duty to the realm is, by extension, his duty to you, as well. baelor wants to make the seven kingdoms a better place so you can live and exist in a better place, safer, happier, less concerned by misfortunes. he truly wishes no harm to befall you and will do everything in his power to make sure that one day his wife breathes with less weight on her shoulders because he willed it so.
Dude tell that to the asoiaf fandom. There are hours of two very much not sane people just talking about every. single. food discription in the books. And you know what? I love that people love these books enough to do shit like that.
A Knight of the Seven Kingdoms: Prince Baelor Targaryen x niece!reader
Rating: Teen
WC: 6.5 k
Tags/Warnings: Character death, canon divergence, angst, grief, budding romance, slow burn, brief suicidal intentions, blood, brief mention of vomit, very mild Targcest, Baelor lives.
A/n: I was just in the mood for some angst. Comments and reblogs are always appreciated. Please let me know if you'd like to be added to any tag lists.
Summary: Prince Maekar dies during the Trial of Seven and changes the fate of the Targaryen family.
You heard your brother's wounded cry. Shrill and high, like a child in pain.
"AERION!" You heard your father's voice thunder.
You watched as Baelor tried to grab for him, to pull him back from the chaos. Too many swords, too much heated blood, too much confusion. For a moment, you were worried that Ser Duncan might kill Aerion, and you knew that was your father's fear. Despite his children's aggravation, you knew he loved you all dearly, and he would protect you all to the ends of the earth.
"MY BOY! MY BOY!" Maekar pushed through, making his way towards Aerion.
You gripped Egg's hand as you watched your father move like a man possessed. He drove a lance through Lord Lyonel's horse, sending the Baratheon man toppling to the ground. That fateful moment changed the tide. The slaying of his horse sent Lyonel Baratheon into a rage.
It all unfolded too fast to comprehend. The heavy swing of Lyonel's sword, your father's block with the shield. The crack. The splinter. This spar continued as the two skilled warriors faced off, each holding their own. A heavy silence filled the air as the two men battled, one driven by rage and a noble cause and the other by concern and fear for the life of his son. The very son who had caused such a mess. Then the sharp tip of Lyonel's sword pierced your father's flesh through a small gap in the armor. The mace fell from his hand, Lyonel scooping it up, swinging it in his powerful hand, and dealing the fateful blow to the back of your father's head. You did not think he meant to kill your father, but in the violent throes of a fight, blood was spilled, and a life was taken.
Tragedy oft loomed close to the dragon house: you wondered if that was a curse, and true happiness would be impossible for your family. A brother must die for another to prosper.
Your nails dug into Egg's flesh as you watched your father twitch on that muddy field, blood pouring from him. Baelor pushed his way through as Raymun and a heavily injured Dunk dragged the powerful Laughing Storm away. Your father had managed to crack Lyonel's visor in his wake, and you believed the Baratheon man had swung the mace blindly. Baelor cradled Maekar's head in his lap after removing his helm.
"I yield, I yield," Aerion brayed, tears streaming down his face as he crawled toward his uncle and dying father.
Maekar sputtered, blood foaming from his mouth. "My boy," he whispered, reaching up with a frail arm to cup Aerion's face. You ran, feet barely touching the ground, with the mud desperately trying to pull you down. It clung to your crimson gown as you cupped your father's face, falling beside him and Aerion. You clutched his armored hand tightly.
His violet eyes watered as he gave you a soft smile before his body went rigid. A part of you died with him that day. His blood dripped into the mud, mixing with it, turning a russet color.
"No, no, no," you whimpered before turning a sharp gaze on Aerion. "This is your doing, you selfish, vain prat."
"Stop! This is not the time," Baelor said firmly, his mismatched eyes filled with unshed tears. You could see the pain etched deeply on his face. An older brother mourning the loss of the younger. "I was supposed to die first, you fool." His voice shook as his palm pressed against Maekar's eyes to shut them.
Your father's body was carried off the field, and Baelor helped you to your feet, pulling you close as you trembled.
"You need to set your anger aside. You are the eldest, and your siblings will need you."
You pulled out of his grip and stormed away, not wanting your father to be alone. Perhaps that was silly with all things considered. The septon, still a green boy, paled as he stood watch over your father's body. He was barely out of boyhood, and you felt pity for him. You stroked your father's cold face and placed a kiss on his forehead while your tears fell. It was hard to see him in such a state. Such a formidable man with a large presence, even if he often felt in the shadow of his eldest brother. Gently, you slipped the rings from his fingers, placing them on yours.
"I will take care of them, do not worry. Say hello to mother for me, at least you will be safe with her," you whispered before leaving the room. Egg ran into your arms, clinging to you as his tears soaked the fabric of your gown. You planned to burn this horrible frock once the day was done. You sat down, cradling him in your lap as Baelor and Daeron paid their respects.
"I want to see him," Egg whispered.
"Are you certain?"
"Yes." His voice trembled.
You took him back into the room where Baelor was holding Maekar's cold hand, his head bowed in reverence. Daeron had his hands folded in front of him, his head dipped low. Both your brothers had taken quite the beating in the trial. Egg stepped forward, his indigo eyes swollen as he placed his small hand on Maekar's leg.
"Father," he whispered before a heart wrenching sob tore through him and he clung to Baelor's leg while his small body shook with tears. Baelor held his nephew close.
Your back hit the stone wall as grief consumed you, making you sink towards the ground. Thick tears streamed down, making it hard to breathe until Baelor lifted you into his arms. The Silent Sisters filed in to finish preparing the body and wrap him in a shroud.
Maester Yormwell fixed a sleeping draught for you, but you knocked it from his hands. Baelor sighed, exhaustion seeping into his bones. A purple bruise blossomed over his right cheek.
"Please, sweet girl, allow yourself some relief," he tried to reason.
"No, I want to feel it all, Uncle," you whimpered.
His palm rested against your forehead. "Your father would not wish to see you tormented."
"Do not," you growled. How dare he? The rage curled inside you like a hissing dragon.
Normally, he would have scolded you for such behavior, but he allowed it for now. You were entitled to it. A sudden panic replaced the anger boiling beneath your skin. You gripped Baelor's arm tightly.
"What is to become of us now? We are orphans," you whimpered. You thought of Rhae, poor little Rhae, who had never known her mother and was now robbed of the father she loved so dearly.
Baelor cupped your chin, his thumb smoothing over your flesh. "You are not without family, sweet girl. You need not bear this burden alone. Make her another, Yormwell."
The maester fixed another draught, and you allowed Baelor to help you drink this one down. Your uncle tucked you against his chest, holding you until sleep took hold. It was blissful, black, and dreamless, and when you woke, you discovered yourself out of your soiled gown and wrapped in a black and red robe belted tightly around your waist. Fresh tears sprang to your eyes when you realized the robe was your father's. You found the gown draped over a chair, and you tossed it into the blazing fire, watching the flames consume it.
Baelor was asleep in the chair, chin resting on his hand, and you took a moment to study his bruised and battered face. None had emerged from the trial unscathed. You tucked yourself at his feet, resting your head in his lap, a position you often shared with your father when you had been upset. You had been a rather affectionate child growing up, and Maekar never minded when you attached yourself to him. Baelor and Maekar had long held a strong bond, you needed your Uncle now. You needed him to help guide and support you, but above all else, you needed his love.
Baelor stirred, puffing out a small stream of air before stroking the top of your head tenderly. "Do not sit on the floor." He reached down, pulling you into his lap and letting your head rest on his shoulder. Perhaps you were too grown for such treatment, but it comforted you. "We will burn his body on the morrow."
"No, we must send for my sisters first," you insisted.
Baelor sighed. "Alright, I'll have them sent for; it should not take them long to arrive. I know it will be hard, but you must be strong."
"I…will do my best," you murmured, breathing in the warm scent of his skin. Cloves. Oranges. Spice.
"Little Aegon is quite distraught. I had Yormwell fix him a draught as well," he told you.
"I should see to him," you whispered.
"When you are ready."
You drew in warmth and strength from him before standing carefully. Baelor steadied you with his hand, and you went to Egg's room. You couldn't wait to be rid of Ashford Castle. You supposed Summerhall would be Daeron's now, as he was the eldest son. After a heavy sigh, you entered Egg's room. The small boy was curled up tightly in the center of the bed; you sat next to him and placed a gentle hand on his shoulder. Slowly, he unfurled and crawled into your lap, his arms wrapped around your neck.
"It is my fault," he hiccuped.
"Shhh, do not speak such nonsense." You blamed Aerion.
"If I h…had not asked Ser Dunk…"
"Oh, Egg," you sighed, squeezing him close and rubbing his back, remembering when you first held him in his arms after he was born. How proud your father was to have yet another healthy son. "Father would not wish for you to blame yourself. He died in battle, defending his son. It was an honorable death."
He gave a pathetic sniffle. "I want my hair back," he sobbed. How he had once hated that he looked like Aerion, but it was his father's hair too, and now he wanted that part of him back.
You had to bite back a smile. "Now, now, that will grow back in time." You rocked him gently, staying with him until the sun fell in the sky while his tears dried on your skin.
None had much of an appetite, so food was left untouched, but you found solace in a flagon of sweet Arbor gold. When you were halfway through it, Baelor pulled the cup from your hand. Egg remained attached to your side, his small face tucked against your bodice. Aerion was still recovering from his wounds, and you wickedly hoped he would succumb to them.
"You're going to make yourself ill," he scolded, doing the same with Daeron. Even though your brother had fallen in the mud as he had promised, he was worse for wear with his own wounds. Missing half an ear, a cheek ripped open, and a burst vessel in his eye. You wondered if your father thought him dead when he saw him face down in the mud.
"Do you mean to parent us now?" Daeron groaned, squeezing the bridge of his nose.
"If I must," Baelor replied seriously. "I do not intend to abandon my brother's children."
It was a sleepless night as all of you remained in the solar among the blazing candles, fire, and books. You and Daeron took turns tending to Egg, who eventually fell into a sleep from such a state of exhaustion in your lap. You placed him on the chaise, draping a blanket over him. Sweat beaded over Daeron's forehead, his hands shaking.
"Yormwell made a draught for me, I did not dream," you whispered to him, rubbing your hand between his shoulder blades.
"I've tried them before; they do not work for me," Daeron sighed.
You stood, grasping the flagon and pouring him a cup.
"I do not think…" Baelor started to say.
"I do not wish to watch Daeron suffer this evening," you interrupted, placing the cup in your brother's hand.
A stern look settled over Baelor's face, but he dropped the matter for now. Daeron whispered his thanks before diving into his cup. Aegon slept on the chaise and you picked the chair by Baelor's side, settling your hand over his as the fire crackled and sputtered. The firelight caught on the large ruby resting on your middle finger. Baelor's thumb grazed over it.
"Your mother gave him that one," he whispered.
"I remember well. Shortly after Aerion was born, for father's nameday," you smiled.
"A very joyous occasion as I recall."
"He and Uncle Rhaegel got drunk on Dornish sour red and sang that blasted song," you smiled, letting your head drop onto his shoulder.
"My sweet girl, we must continue to share our memories; we will not let him fade away."
"No, we cannot allow that to happen."
Just before the sunlight bled onto the horizon, you fell asleep against your uncle. Two days later, Daella and Rhae arrived at Ashford, having traveled with your beloved Lady Jessa Blackmont. Rhae's silvery hair streamed behind you as she ran into your arms while Daella took Baelor's hand. Both their faces were red and tearstained.
"I cannot believe father is dead," Daella whispered. Rhae sniffled against your shoulder.
"It is hard to believe, my dear girls," Baelor said, drawing them both into his embrace.
The funeral pyre was prepared, and your father's body was set ablaze as the young septon recited the rites. Rhae and Egg clung to you while you held onto your uncle's hand for dear life. You noticed Ser Dunk lingering towards the back, the poor man battered and swollen. Valarr helped to support Aerion, and rage bubbled in your stomach once more. Beside you, Baelor let out a soft groan.
"Dear girl, your grip," he whispered softly, and you released your hand. You managed to dig your nails into his palm, leaving behind crescent shapes and a soft well of blood.
"Apologies," you murmured. He gently squeezed your elbow. You lingered behind, wishing to watch the flames finish their job and turn your father to ash. Winds carrying him away to the afterlife, and you wish it would take away this void forming inside you. Strangely enough, it unburdened your heart, lifting a bit of the grief. You twisted his signet ring around your forefinger. "I love you, father."
Preparations were made to return to the Red Keep, and further arrangements would be made to bring some things from Summerhall. None of you could stomach going back home just yet. Maekar's presence loomed large in those halls. His mark on every corner. Valarr kissed your cheek as the carts and wheelhouses were prepared.
"I've told Father that I will help with anything that is needed, including minding the little ones."
"Thank you, I remember when we used to frighten you when we were children," you teased.
"It was all those violet eyes," Valarr chuckled. "And an endless sea of them staring into my very soul."
"I promise we will not disrupt everyone's lives too much."
"We are family, cousin, do not make yourself small on account of us."
"You say that now."
You felt Egg's arms circle around your waist. That spirited little boy seemed so broken, and it tugged on your heart. Gently, you patted his hands.
"Would you like to ride with your brother and cousin? Perhaps that would make you feel better?"
"Mayhaps," Egg murmured.
"Let us make sure a horse is prepared for you then."
As you walked with your cousin and brother, you noticed Baelor conversing with Dunk.
"Dear niece, might I borrow you for a moment?" he called out.
"Go with Valarr," you told Egg and stepped over to your uncle.
"Good morrow, Ser Dunk," you said, greeting him politely.
"Good morrow, princess."
"I have asked Ser Duncan to accompany us back to King's Landing. I mean to make him your sworn shield for the time being if you agree, though he has also agreed to protect your siblings as well."
"Even Aerion?"
"Yes, princess. It would be my duty."
You nodded. "Yes, I agree, and perhaps having you around might help cheer up Egg."
You wiped some sweat from your brow with the back of your hand, eager for some wine. It was almost as if Daeron had read your mind, passing you the bloated wineskin as he walked past. You took a hearty gulp before going to thank Lord Ashford for being such a gracious and accommodating host, then joining your sisters in the wheelhouse, cradling them against your sides.
There was a state of disarray once arriving at the Red Keep, and you noticed Rhaegel lingering behind a column in Maegor's Holdfast.
"What has happened?" he whispered.
You stepped closer, gently taking his hands in yours. "Maekar died at Ashford, during combat."
"Heavens no!" Rhaegel gasped.
"Please fetch Lady Alys," you whispered to one of the guards as you held Rhaegel's trembling hands while he wept openly.
"Oh my brother, my sweet little brother. I remember when he was born, you know? Little scowl on his face. He was a good man, a very good man. Always good to me," Rhaegel rambled through his tears as you held him in your arms.
You stayed with him until Alys arrived, gathering her husband into her embrace.
A state of weeping fell over the castle, your grandmother confined to her rooms with her ladies, your younger sisters and Egg. You were thankful to be surrounded by family, for the help they would provide attending to your siblings, otherwise you feared you might be drained dry of all your energy. But perhaps that was better than being left with your grief. You pressed a hand to your chest after rubbing Rhaegel's shoulders before gathering your skirts and continuing to your rooms. On your way, you passed by your grandfather's quarters and paused to listen.
"My boy, my boy," King Daeron sobbed as Baelor knelt before him, one hand pressed to his father's knee. The sound of that made your heart briefly stop as you remembered your father's cry for Aerion. Your throat tightened, the grief sticking inside it.
Dunk stood outside your rooms as you filled the void inside you with wine. Too much wine, which left you heaving over your chamber pot. Your mouth was dry, your vision blurry, and your stomach ached, but you felt numb.
"Princess? Might I send for the maester?" Dunk asked gently.
Your hazy gaze fell on the dagger around his waist. Two little slices were all that would be needed.
"Give me your dagger, Ser Duncan." Your tongue felt heavy and fuzzy, slipping over your words.
"No, I will not."
"I gave you an order!"
"I swore an oath to protect you, even from yourself," he reasoned. He may have been thick in the head over some matters, but he understood all too well what you meant to do with the dagger. He picked you up with ease, depositing you onto the bed.
"I will tell my uncle of this," you slurred, hot tears rolling down your cheeks.
"I think he will support my decision, milady," he reasoned. You dropped your head and sniffled, knowing he was correct and shame burned your cheeks.
"Egg told me you lost your Ser Arlan. Did you feel despondent?" you whispered.
"Um, begging my pardon, but I don't know that word, milady," he admitted, his cheeks red.
You gave him a soft smile. "It means to feel a profound sadness, almost a hopelessness," you explained.
"Oh! Yes, I did. He showed me such kindness even if he could be harsh at times, was for my own good really. He was a good man, an honorable man. Much like your father, I reckon. I still feel a sadness inside me at times."
"I am sorry you lost him."
"And I am sorry you lost your father, milady. If only…"
"Hush, what's done is done. I do not blame you any more than I blame Egg. You had every right to defend your honor," you whispered. "Return to your post, Ser Duncan."
"Yes, milady."
"And thank you," you whispered.
You felt like all of the seven hells when you woke the next morning, your head pounding like thundering horse hooves galloping through, and you were annoyed to find all your wine was gone. A sickness came over you, and you dropped to your knees, wretching into your chamber pot. Your door creaked open, and Baelor stepped in with Lady Jessa.
"I'll have a bath arranged for her, my lord," Jessa said.
"Have some food sent up as well, some bread and a fried egg would do her good. Gods be good, dear girl," Baelor sighed. Jessa turned on her heels, dashing off to make arrangements.
"Please do not stand there and watch me vomit," you whimpered.
"I can assure you I have seen many people vomit during my days on this earth," Baelor scoffed. "It might even shock you to learn I have done so myself."
You wiped the back of your mouth, a small laugh toppling forth.
"I do not wish to be stern, but I will not accept this behavior from you much longer. I will not witness you descend into drink and madness," he scolded.
"I feel…so lost," you whispered.
He knelt before you, using his handkerchief to wipe up your face. "That is understandable, but you can come to me. No one expects you to shoulder this alone."
"I get my stubbornness from my father," you jested.
Baelor helped you stand, made you sit, then carefully dragged a brush through your tangled hair. You pressed a hand to your mouth, choking back a sob as the feeling reminded you of your father brushing your hair shortly after your mother's death. The awkwardness of his large, thick fingers, the slight pull of the bristles, though he refused to let it defeat him. Maekar had gotten better as the years went on, and you enjoyed the nighttime ritual of him brushing your hair before tucking you into bed.
"I have sent a missive to the Citadel to request leave for young Aemon. I believe it would do everyone some good to have him around," Baelor said as the servants filed in to prepare the bath and serve food.
"Thank you, it would be nice to have him join us for a bit," you murmured. Baelor placed the plate of fried eggs and crusty bread before you. "Do you mean to watch me eat?"
"I do," he said, sitting across from you and fixing you with a stern look.
You sighed and tucked into the food, feeling famished, and it did make you feel better.
"Good girl," Baelor praised. "I will leave you alone to bathe." He squeezed your shoulders before departing.
The hot, steaming bath was heavenly and had you feeling better by the end. You dressed and had Dunk escort you to your grandmother's chambers, where your sisters and Egg had been lodging.
"My darling girl," Myriah smiled. Rhae was folded into her lap, her pale hair spread over the vivid yellow of your grandmother's dress as she was cradled like a small babe. You stepped closer to kiss her cheek. Egg played on the floor with an orange and cream cat.
"Grandmother says he can be mine if I wish," Egg murmured.
"That is lovely," you smiled.
Daella sat in a chair by the window, staring listlessly up at the sky, swelling with gray clouds. A few raindrops pattered to the ground.
"The Gods are finally crying for father," she whispered.
You sat with her, watching the skies open and the rain flood down. Your hand quickly covered her eyes when you spotted Rhaegel walking naked through the rain, his arms raised to the sky.
"Ser Duncan, I require your help!" you called out.
Soon, Rhaegel was tossed over the tall hedgeknight's shoulder as if he weighed nothing. Luckily, your uncle found this rather amusing.
"Gods, you are a big man!" Rhaegel laughed, clapping Dunk along the back.
"I am, milord," Duncan agreed.
Alys was waiting to attend to him once Rhaegel was returned to his quarters.
"Many thanks, Ser Duncan," she told him kindly, wrapping her wet, naked husband in a cloak.
"I'm sure this is not how you were envisioning things," you sighed.
"It is a bit unexpected, milady, but I'm grateful for what Prince Baelor has given me."
"I'm certain once a position opens, he will make you a Kingsguard," you assured him.
"One day, I hope," he smiled down at you.
The rains continued, and on one sleepless night, you found yourself before Baelor's doors, in need of his company. Ser Donnel announced your presence, and your uncle guided you inside his rooms.
"I could not sleep, and I'm tempted to drown my sorrows," you told him softly.
"Well, I am very glad you came to me instead," he said, wrapping you in a warm hug. A chill had set inside the castle as the rains poured, and Baelor placed a black fur over your shoulders to keep you warm. "Yormwell tells me your brothers are healing nicely, though both will bear their scars."
"My father had plenty of them, marks of the warrior," you murmured. "Though I fear my brothers are not warriors."
"You have not spoken to Aerion since Ashford."
"I cannot find it in my heart to forgive him."
"I know it's hard, but you must. Your father would not wish for his children to splinter apart."
"Do not weaponize my dead father against me," you frowned.
"That is not what I'm doing." His tone was clipped and sharp.
"I will try," you sighed.
You stayed up most of the night with him, exchanging stories about Maekar and allowing yourself one cup of wine. If anything good had come from this tragedy, it was that you had grown closer to your uncle. When the hour of the wolf approached, Dunk came to collect you and take over his shift from Ser Roland. The fur remained around your shoulders, and you snuggled beneath it, not scared of the dreams that would come that night.
Sun came with Aemon's arrival, and his presence seemed to lift everyone's spirits. You stood with Dunk as Aemon and Aegon reunited with one another, as the two had once been close. Daeron ruffled Aemon's golden hair and you noticed the sparse silvery locks springing from Egg's scalp.
"Now I know what Egg looks like with hair, milady," Dunk chuckled.
"Yes, they do resemble each other," you smiled and watched Aerion hobble over slowly to embrace his brother. You glanced down at the rings on your hand, fanning out your fingers as the conversation with Baelor echoed in your ears. You hated it, but it was what your father would wish you to do.
When Daella and Rhae swooped in, you stepped in and gently touched Aerion's arm. The bruises and cuts on his face had faded, but the limp remained as he healed from the deep cut Dunk's sword had laid. There was a broken look in his violet eyes. Your father's eyes.
"Come," you said gently, leading him away and allowing him to use you for support.
"I do not need your sharp words. I blame myself. There is nothing you could say that would make me feel worse," he told you.
"I'm certain I could think of one or two," you teased, and he snickered.
"You always were the clever one.
"I think Aemon is far cleverer than I. I did blame you; perhaps there is a small part of me that still does, but we are all that's left of our parents. We cannot be driven apart."
Aerion squeezed your hand. "Every time I close my eyes, I hear him screaming for me."
"I hear him, too, at times. His voice echoes in my ears. I'm afraid of it stopping, I'm afraid of closing my eyes and not seeing his face. I'm afraid he will slip away entirely."
"Me as well, I think all of us are," Aerion admitted.
"He loved you. He loved all of us, even if we drove him absolutely mad. You could irritate him to no end, and yet he still came to save you. To defend you. Father was a good man," you whispered. "He was so happy when you were born, Aerion. I remember the smile on his face."
"He was the best man," Aerion agreed, tears smattered over his cheeks. You decided that your brother was not truly lost in his way, there was still time to bring him back to the sweet boy he had once been.
"Then be a better man for him, be a better man because he allowed you to live," you told him seriously before pressing a kiss to his cheek.
As the weather remained sunny, Baelor took you all for an outing into the Kingswood. The peppery, earthy scent of the grass made you think of the time when you were about four, riding in the saddle with Maekar on one of the hunts. You felt so special and important, even if it was a bit bloody for your tastes. Aemon enjoyed sending a hawk forth to collect prey. Matarys picked wildflowers for Daella to braid in Rhae's hair while Valarr went hunting with Aerion. Daeron lazed by the river before showing Egg how to fish. Baelor stood behind you, showing you how to draw a bow.
"Very good, select your aim and release," he instructed, his beard tickling your cheek.
You let the arrow fly, and well, it did not hit the center, but it at least landed on the target.
"Not bad for a first attempt," he grinned. "With more practice, you'll get better." His hands squeezed your arms, and you felt like you were floating.
Evening fell, and Dunk started a fire. You sat with Baelor under the pavilion, sharing good and wine with him. His mismatched eyes met yours, and you felt a strong pull, like. a string wrapped around your heart and the other end attached to him. You wondered if he felt it too.
Weeks passed, and you began to yearn for home.
"I think it may be time for us to return to Summerhall," you told Baelor one evening over dinner. It was Daeron's by right as eldest son, but you knew he would let you run the household.
"If you're certain. I have to admit it's been wonderful having you all here. Little pieces of my brother to remember, little Rhae possesses many of his expressions," he smiled, letting you have the last piece of honeyed chicken.
"She does," you laughed.
"Would you mind if I accompany you? I would feel better knowing you are settled instead of sending you alone."
"Yes, bring Valarr and Matarys as well. You can make a proper visit out of the trip," you smiled.
"That sounds lovely," Baelor smiled, reaching across the table and settling his hand over yours. You felt a warm spark like a flickering ember. You spent nearly every night dining with him when you weren't with your siblings. The two of you enjoyed exchanging stories about Maekar before slumber.
"I must admit it will be strange to be separated from you. I've come to enjoy our nighttime ritual," you admitted softly.
"As have I, we'll find a way to continue it. We can exchange letters."
"It would not be the same."
His thumb tucked under your palm, squeezing your hand tighter. "Well, I will stay with you at Summerhall for as long as I can, and we can worry about the issue another day."
"Yes, thank you."
You stayed awake that evening, thinking about Baelor's hand on yours. It made your heart beat faster, and you could taste your pulse in your throat.
"Princess, I was hoping that I might stay on with you at Summerhall," Dunk said as preparations were made for departure.
"You do not wish to remain at the Red Keep? I'm certain my uncle could assign you to another member of the family," you said kindly.
"I have grown fond of you, if you will have me, and I do not wish for my secret to be discovered," he admitted, his cheeks flushing.
You gently touched his arm. Dunk could not read, and you had taken to teaching him during the afternoons. Though you suspected Egg knew as well because there were times you'd discover the large hedgeknight hunched over a book with your brother. "Fear not, I shall not reveal it, and would be happy to take you on at Summerhall. We have a good master at arms, who helped train my brothers and father, he can assist you as well while I continue to handle the other matter," you smiled.
"Thank you, milady."
As the horses were readied, you noticed the small wisps of silver hair had emerged as curls. "It's growing back," he grinned, the orange cat in his arms.
"So it is."
Your grandfather leaned on his cane and took your hand. "If you are in need of anything, my dear, write to me at once."
"I will," you promised and kissed his cheek, doing the same to your grandmother.
"Do not stay away too long, please visit from time to time," she said, smiling and holding your face in her hands.
"I promise."
You watched Baelor walk along the courtyard with Rhae in his arms, her face snuggled in his left shoulder. She had been rather upset to be torn apart from Myriah, and he calmed her down.
"I promised your sister I would ride in the wheelhouse with her," Baelor told you.
"Father always said she had a gift for getting her way," you smiled, rubbing Rhae's back.
"The youngest often do. Our father often crumbled when it came to Maekar," Baelor smiled. "Mother was made of sterner resolve."
"You will have to tell me some of those tales."
"I have many to tell you yet, sweet girl."
The wheelhouse felt cozy with your three youngest siblings, Baelor, and the cat, but you liked it. It reminded you of the journeys with your father, how you would curl against his side and fall asleep on his chest. Just as Rhae was doing with Baelor now. There was a sudden ache in your womb, a feeling not yet discovered, but now one that plagued your mind. You shook it off and stroked the cat purring in your lap.
"Uncle, will you live with us forever?" Daella asked.
"No, not forever, dear one, but for a while, until you are sick of me," Baelor teased, a twinkle in his mismatched eyes.
"We could never be sick of you," Daella said seriously.
Summerhall seemed so quiet when the party arrived. Lord Jackar Celtigar held stewardship over Summerhall until Daeron's return.
"Prince Maekar would be happy to see his family has returned. Rooms have been prepared, and the staff has settled. Should you need any assistance, please reach out," he said.
"Thank you, Lord Jackar," you smiled.
The silent house came to life again with the Targaryens nestled inside. Your cousins enjoyed the training yard with your brothers and Dunk. Though everyone gathered around, when Baelor demonstrated his skills. The mighty Hammer showing off his sword skills. You never realized how swift he was on his feet. A spry finesse, while your father had been brute force.
"You are a force of nature, Father," Valarr grinned, exchanging a look with his wife . Kiera had accompanied him as your sisters had taken a liking to her.
"Years of practice, my boy," Baelor said, clapping him on the back.
"The lad is right, milord. You are truly a sight," Dunk grinned. Egg sat on the fence with Matarys.
"Don't give him a big head about it," you called out, a twinkle in your eye. There was an excited thrumming in your chest, a heat in your cheeks as you looked upon him.
Baelor's lips quirked as his gaze fell on you. "Come now, show me what you can do," he told his sons and nephews, and soon the training yard was filled with dueling boys.
Spring brought a fresh bloom and with it a terrible sickness that spread throughout King's Landing, Oldtown, and Lannisport. Summerhall was positioned in a more rural area, cut off from major cities, and you instructed everyone to remain under a tight quarantine to keep everyone safe. The small decision to bring Baelor and your cousins to Summerhall spared their lives, but sadly claimed King Daeron's.
"I suppose you will leave us now that you are to be king," you whispered to Baelor on a warm night beneath the pomegranate tree. A tree your father had planted for your mother. How she loved to crunch the seeds, staining her mouth red. Though his favorite had been the plum tree with its dark purple leaves. He had once tried to find a silk to match the hue, loving how unique it was. None would have suspected Prince Maekar's love for foliage, but he found peace in nature. Perhaps because there were no chattering voices to vex him, but you suspected because it reminded him of your mother and the time he spent with her in the gardens.
"I do not have a choice," he said softly, taking hold of your chin.
"I know. You make a wonderful king, uncle, father always said so."
"I wish he were here to share in this moment with me."
"He is smiling down on you, I can feel it."
He stroked your cheek with his thumb. "And do you think he would smile down on me falling in love with his eldest daughter?"
A soft smile crossed your face. "I think if she also has fallen in love, he would approve."
"And have you?" He moved closer, his face just a hair's breadth away.
"Fallen in love with you?" you teased. "I believe so."
His lips melded against yours in a firm, commanding kiss. More intense than you expected, though you didn't have many to compare it to. A silly one with Daeron as children, a jealous one from Aerion when he learned you had kissed Daeron, and more curious ones with a few servant boys, but never one with a skilled man before. An overwhelming sensation flooded through you, making your belly twist and tighten.
"We would not need to rush things, would we?" you asked softly.
"I would never push you into anything, sweet girl," he promised.
"It is just, I have only returned home and wish to manage here for a bit. Marrying you would make me queen; I'm not blind to the matter."
"It would indeed. Shall we give it a year or two? I do not mean to pursue another."
"Neither do I," you smiled.
You stayed beneath the tree with him, with his fingers laced through yours. You pondered if this would be your fate if your father had not been slain on that muddy field. Would the tides have turned another way?
On the day you married Baelor, a warm breeze blew through the ward, bringing with it a swirl of purple leaves. You touched the ruby ring on your finger and smiled, knowing it was your father giving his blessing. His presence lingered on long after his death.
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