V

I’m a 20 year old girl who LOVES dilfs

[vixenya1]

Vowbound

IV. Dawn

Baelor Targaryen × OC/fem

Summary: Unable to sleep after her unexpected betrothal, Rosaelia escapes Starfall before dawn, seeking solace in the sea she has always called home. Instead, she finds Prince Baelor waiting. By day’s end, she leaves Starfall behind, bound for Kingslanding at the side of the Hand of the King.

Word count: 2.2k

Warnings: Mild sexual tension, implied nudity, wet clothing / revealing clothing, threats, harassment, family conflict, arranged marriage, age gap relationship, slow burn romance, protective behavior

A/N: if you guys hadn’t noticed I fucking hate Aerion lol. Anyways here’s more of Baelor and Rosaelia.

The stone corridors of Starfall were dead silent, save for the rhythmic, distant sigh of the sea echoing through the high windows.

Rosaelia slipped through the shadows like a ghost, a heavy wool cloak wrapped tightly over her thin muslin nightshift. She hadn't slept a wink.

In the lower courtyards, the air was sharp and biting with dawn chill. As she ducked into the stables, a sleepy figure emerged from the straw, rubbing his eyes and holding a pitchfork. It was Jory, a boy she’d known since they were children stealing plums from the castle kitchens.

"M’lady?" Jory blinked, his voice hoarse.

"It’s barely first light. The lords aren't even—"

"Shh," Rosaelia pressed a finger to her lips. She reached into her pocket and pressed a silver stag into his palm, though they both knew he’d have helped her for a copper.

"Just my mare, Jory. saddle her. And a blanket. And if anyone asks, you haven't seen me since yesterday's feast."

Jory looked at the silver, then at her determined face, and nodded quickly. "Aye, lady. Safe riding."

“Thanks, Jory” She replied with a small genuine smile.

Minutes later, Rosaelia was flying.

the wind whipping her long dark hair out from beneath her cloak. They tore down the winding stone paths of Starfall's cliffs, kicking up gravel until they hit the wide, desolate banks where the rushing waters of the Torrentine met the crashing waves of the Summer Sea.

The beach was completely empty, shrouded in the low, gray mist of early morning.

Rosaelia dismounted, breathing heavily. She pulled off her boots, unclasped her heavy cloak, and let it drop onto the sand. Left in only her loose-fitting, sleeveless white nightshift.

She ran straight into the surf.

The water was shockingly cold, a brutal, icy shock that drove the suffocating panic right out of her lungs. She dove under, swimming hard against the pull of the tide, letting the salt wash away the anxiety of the previous sudden events. gasping for air and laughing quietly to herself, she felt alive again.

The sea had always felt different after dawn. Quieter. As though the rest of the world had not yet remembered to wake.

Rosaelia floated upon her back, letting the current carry her where it wished. Above her, the sky was slowly paling. A scattering of stars still lingered. She watched them.

And without warning, she remembered. Not a dream but a vision. Or perhaps merely a foolish fancy from girlhood, she could no longer say.

She had been twelve, perhaps thirteen. Curled beneath a window in Starfall with one of her books, half asleep, half awake. In a strange place between dreaming and waking.

She remembered seeing a man, not clearly. Never clearly but only fragments, wearing dark armor and a broad silhouette.

The sound of waves crashing against stone. And a muffled voice she could never quite hear.

It had stuck with her. for years she had convinced herself it meant something. For years she had searched for signs hidden inside it. Until she finally grew older and realized that dreams were only dreams, at least most of the time. The memory made her smile despite herself.

Gods.

She had been ridiculous. Certain the gods were whispering secrets meant only for her. Certain fate lurked behind every shadow. Certain some grand destiny awaited. The sea lifted her gently.

A gull cried somewhere overhead, Rosaelia closed her eyes. Perhaps she had simply read too many stories or perhaps Aunt Shiera had filled her head with nonsense.

Perhaps there had never been a vision at all.

She opened her eyes. The dawn was brighter now. The stars were fading.

With a laugh, she pushed the thought away and dove beneath the water again, by the time she surfaced again, the memory had vanished.

Or so she told herself.

Then, she looked toward the shore.

Her breath caught, dying in her throat.

Sitting atop a massive, dark stallion at the edge of the surf was Prince Baelor.

He wasn't wearing his armor, nor his Hand's chain. He wore only a simple, dark wool tunic, riding leathers, and boots. He sat perfectly still, reins held loosely in one gloved hand, watching her or maybe he was watching the tide? She could not tell.

Panic and a sudden heat flared in her chest. She was entirely exposed.

As she began to wade back toward the shore, the wet, fine linen of her shift clung to her body like a second skin, turning completely translucent in the morning light. It outlined every curve, the dark crests of her breasts, leaving absolutely nothing to the imagination.

She stopped when the water hit her waist, crossing her arms over her chest, her eyes flashing with a mix of fury and intense mortification.

"Is it standard practice for the Hand of the King to hunt down women before the sun has even risen?" she called out, her voice trembling slightly despite her defiant tone.

For a moment, his gaze remained on her. Then his jaw tightened. He looked away toward the sea. The gesture was brief. Controlled.

Yet Rosaelia noticed it all the same.

He guided his horse a few steps deeper into the shifting foam

"A Hand must be vigilant, Lady," Baelor said smoothly, his deep voice carrying easily over the roar of the waves. "Especially when his newly betrothed decides to bribe a stableboy and ride out into the dawn without a single guard."

"I can take care of myself" She flatly replied, her voice shivering slightly.

"Against the sea? Perhaps," Baelor replied, his jaw tightening slightly. He dismounted, stepping directly into the surf without a care for his leather boots, standing tall, an immovable wall of a man.

"Aerion spent the night drinking himself into a blind rage. Three of his personal guards left the castle gates after you did. Do you think they came down here for a morning swim, Rosaelia?"

The anger drained out of her, replaced by a cold spike of reality. Suddenly realizing how foolish she had been.

"I... I didn't see anyone," she murmured, her voice losing its bite.

Without a word, he walked up the beach to where her discarded wool cloak lay. He picked it up, shook the sand from it

"Come out," he commanded quietly.

"Then stop looking at me, Your Grace. Leave or turn around…"

A ghost of a serious smile touched Baelor’s lips. "Come out before the chill takes your lungs."

The sheer, unapologetic honesty of his words made her heart hammer a frantic rhythm against her ribs. Realizing she had no choice, and refusing was not on the table.

The wet shift clung hopelessly to her as she stepped onto the sand. The air hit her bare skin, making her shudder. Baelor stepped forward instantly, closing the distance between them. He threw the heavy wool cloak around her shoulders, his large, calloused hands gripping her covered upper arms to steady her.

He was so close she could feel the radiating heat of his body, a stark contrast to her icy skin. Rosaelia looked up, her breath hitching. She noticed his gaze dropping to her wet, parted lips for one long tense second before snapping back to her eyes. The silence between them on the desolate beach was thick.

"You are reckless," Baelor murmured, His hands remained on her shoulders long enough to make her aware of them.

"You are controlling," she whispered back.

"I am alive," His voice dropping softly lower. A shiver ran down her spine. "And I intend to keep you alive. The capital is a viper's nest, Rosaelia. If you run off alone there, I will not be able to find you on a quiet beach. You must trust me." He spoke as their eyes met for a long moment before he turned around and approached her horse, before she could gather her skirts to mount her horse, Baelor stepped close to her, one hand settled firmly at her waist. Rosaelia barely had time to catch her breath before he lifted her effortlessly into the saddle.

The moment his hand settled at her waist, her breath caught. It wasn’t even a lingering touch. Barely a second. Yet heat shot through her all the same. Ridiculous. She had spent years climbing cliffs, riding half-wild horses, and sneaking through Starfall’s corridors without needing rescuing by anyone—least of all a prince. And yet the simple pressure of his hand left her suddenly, painfully aware of how close he was.

“Hold the pommel.” He calmly ordered, his tone maddened her.

“I know how to ride.” She scoffed as she stared down at him.

“Good.” He stepped back.

“Then try not to drown again.”

Rosaelia’s eyes narrowed. “I was swimming. Baelor merely looked at her.

“I have done so since childhood.” Her voice came out sharp, irritated.

“And today you did so alone.”He calmly spoke, the calm certainty in his voice irritated her all the more.

“Gods forbid I spend a single morning without an escort.”

“Gods forbid you disappear before sunrise and expect no one to notice.”

Before she could think of a sharper reply, he turned toward his own horse. The ride back from the beach was a lesson in the maddening, shifting nature of Baelor Targaryen.

It was entirely silent. The only sounds were the rhythmic clopping of hooves against gravel and the distant, waking cries of gulls. Baelor kept his horse a half-pace ahead of hers, his eyes scanning the ridge lines and the thickets of brush. He was a commander in hostile territory, his jaw set in a hard, unreadable line.

By noon, the quiet of the dawn had been utterly obliterated.

The central courtyard of Starfall was a chaotic, deafening hive of activity. Iron-bound chests were being slammed into the luggage carts, royal squires were polishing armor, and the massive, gilded wheelhouses of the royal court creaked under the weight of their own opulence.

Rosaelia stood near the steps of the castle, dressed in her finest deep-purple traveling silks. Her mother, Princess Daenerys stood beside her, adjusting the heavy gold pins in Rosaelia’s hair with trembling hands.

"You look beautiful, my sweet girl," Daenerys whispered, her voice thick with an emotion she was trying desperately to hide.

"But you must be careful. King's Landing is not the Torrentine. The court is full of whispers."

"I am not afraid, Mother," Rosaelia spoke, she was determined not to let Kingslanding consume her.

"You should be," a low, harsh voice sneered from the shadows of the stone archway behind them.

Rosaelia stiffened. Turning, she found Aerion. He looked dreadful. His handsome face was marred by a dark, ugly purple bruise across his jaw where Baelor's lance had shattered his pride, and his posture was stiff, betraying the agony of his bruised ribs.

Yet his silver-gold hair was perfectly styled, and his violet eyes burned with a venomous, unhinged malice.

Princess Daenerys drew herself up,

"Aerion, You should be resting after your... unfortunate tumble the day before."

Aerion ignored his aunt entirely, his eyes locking onto Rosaelia. He took a slow, painful step forward, his voice dropping to a vicious whisper. "Enjoy your little triumph, cousin. Do you truly think my uncle wants you? He wants to keep your father’s spears aligned with the Throne because the Blackfyre shadows are still whispering in the East. Baelor is a creature of duty. He will bed you for heirs, and leave you to rot in the Red Keep while he rules the realm."

"Better to be a duty Baelor honors than the joke he groveled in the mud for, Aerion."

Aerion’s eyes flashed with pure rage, his hand twitching toward his own sword, but before he could speak, a heavy, gloved hand clapped down onto his shoulder with brutal force.

"That is enough, Aerion."

Prince Maekar stepped into the light, his face a thundercloud of fury. He didn't look at Rosaelia or Daenerys; his pride had been completely broken by his son's public disgrace. His grip on Aerion’s shoulder was so tight that Aerion winced. "Get to your horse. Now. The King's vanguard rides in ten minutes, and you will be at the rear."

Aerion shot Rosaelia one final, murderous glare before turning on his heel and walking away, his boots clicking sharply against the stone. Maekar gave a tight, formal nod to his sister Daenerys and followed his son without another word.

"Vipers," Daenerys murmured, gripping Rosaelia’s hand tightly.

A moment later, the crowd parted. Lord Olyvar Dayne walked down the steps alongside his eldest sons and daughters—Rosaelia’s father and her older siblings, all dressed in the pale silver and violet of House Dayne. A royal wedding in the Great Sept of King's Landing meant the entire household would ride north; the Daynes would not let their youngest girl stand before the High Septon without the full strength of the Star behind her.

At the head of the royal vanguard, Prince Baelor appeared. He sat atop his horse,

he guided his horse through the chaos, stopping directly in front of the Dayne family. He looked down at Lord Olyvar and Princess Daenerys, offering a respectful bow of his head.

"Lord Olyvar. Sister," Baelor said, his voice ringing clearly over the noise of the courtyard. "The road through the Dornish Marches is long, hot, and dusty. I would not have Lady Rosaelia confined to a stifling wheelhouse for weeks on end."

He turned his dark, intense gaze down to Rosaelia.

"I have had a fine Dornish filly saddled for her. She will ride at the front of the column. Beside me. Under the personal protection of the Hand."

A quiet gasp rippled through the nearby handmaidens. To ride at the head of the King's vanguard was a position of immense honor—a public declaration to the entire realm, and to the bruised Aerion watching from the back, that Rosaelia Dayne was untouchable.

Lord Olyvar looked at his wife, then at his youngest daughter. Seeing the fierce, defiant spark in Rosaelia's eyes, the Lord of Starfall nodded slowly. "Keep her safe, Prince Baelor."

Baelor said softly, extending a gauntleted hand toward her, Rosaelia stepped forward, placing her small hand into his massive, steel-clad palm. The heat of his grip was instantly recognizable, sending that familiar, dangerous shiver down her spine. With a practiced ease, Baelor helped her mount the sleek filly waiting beside him.

As the trumpets sounded, signaling the departure, the massive royal procession began to snake its way out of the gates of Starfall. Rosaelia looked back one last time at the pale stone towers of her childhood fading into the afternoon haze, before turning her eyes forward.

[vixenya1]

Vowbound

IlI. Nameday

Baelor Targaryen × OC/fem

Summary: Aerion rides to shame her. Baelor rides to stop him. After a brutal tourney witnessed by half the realm, Rosaelia Dayne receives a crown of winter roses—and an offer that will change the course of her life forever. Duty, politics, and whispers of scandal collide beneath the stars of Starfall.

Word count: 1.3k

Warnings: Violence, tournament/jousting violence, attempted serious injury, public humiliation, family conflict, political manipulation, age gap relationship, arranged marriage, slow burn romance

A/N: I know I give little to no scenes of Baelor and Rosaelia but it’s just for the plot I’m trying to build. Also I know Baelor seems like a cold asshole but i swear he’s not i’m just trying to make him as accurate as possible to canon Baelor.

Air inside the royal pavilion was suffocating, thick with the scent of roasted almonds, turned dirt, and the heavy musk of horse sweat. Rosaelia sat rigid between her parents, her fingers buried so tightly in the silk of her skirts that her knuckles were white.

Across the field, the whispers of the court were louder than the fanfare of the trumpets. Word had traveled fast through the tents. Aerion had entered the lists with a black malice in his eyes, openly boasting to his companions that when he won the day, he would pass over the highborn ladies to crown a common camp-follower.

It was a calculated, public slap to Rosaelia’s face, a way to tell the Seven Kingdoms that the girl who had pulled steel on him was worth less than the dirt beneath his hooves. A few seats down, her uncle Maekar sat with his face a grim, stony mask, ignoring the furious glares Lord Olyvar shot in his direction, seemingly trapped between disgust for his son's antics and royal pride.

Then, the master of games announced the final challenger.

The crowd went utterly silent. Emerging from the southern tents was not a younger knight looking for glory, but a man clad in heavy, battle-tested dark steel. His shield bore the three-headed Targaryen dragon, quartered with the gold sun and spear of Dorne.

Prince Baelor.

Rosaelia’s breath caught in her throat. He hadn't been scheduled to ride. He was the Hand of the King, the arbiter of the games. But as Baelor guided his massive warhorse into the lists, his dark eyes cut through the distance, locking onto Rosaelia for one brief, burning second.

Aerion’s mount pranced impatiently at the opposite end of the barrier, its dark flanks frothing with foam. Even beneath his ornate helm—crested with roaring, stylized silver flames—Aerion’s rigid posture betrayed his shock. But shock quickly turned to spite.

The green silk flag dropped.

The thunder of hooves shook the ground, a deafening crescendo that echoed against the stone walls of the castle. On the first pass, the lances met with a splintering crack that sent jagged shards of ash wood flying into the air. Neither man left his saddle.

On the second pass, Aerion rode with reckless fury, his lance striking Baelor’s breastplate so hard that Baelor was forced back against his horse's rump. Yet, the Prince of Dragonstone kept his seat, recovering with a terrifying, seasoned grace.

"He's going to kill him," Norah whispered from behind Rosaelia, her voice trembling. "Aerion is going to try to kill him."

“Aerion is no fool, he won’t make such a mistake. Let’s pray no accidents happen” Rosaelia spoke, her voice slightly shaking with stress.

As if proving Norah right, Aerion spurred his stallion into a desperate, breaking gallop for the third tilt. As they closed the distance, Aerion deliberately cheated—lifting the point of his lance at the last possible fraction of a second, aiming it directly at the vulnerable gap beneath Baelor’s throat-guard. It was a strike meant to permanently maim, if not murder.

The crowd gasped, but Baelor was a veteran of the Redgrass Field. He anticipated the foul play.

With a sudden, brutal shift of his weight, Baelor leaned into the blow, letting Aerion’s lance glance harmlessly off his reinforced shoulder guard. Simultaneously, Baelor brought his own lance down like a falling thunderbolt, driving the point dead into the center of Aerion's shield.

The impact was cataclysmic.

A sickening screech of twisting steel tore through the afternoon air. The ash wood exploded into a thousand splinters. Aerion was lifted violently out of his stirrups, flying backward off his horse like a broken doll. He hit the track with a massive, breathless thud, his ornate armor rolling through the churned mud. His black stallion galloped away empty-saddled, leaving the cruel prince groveling in the dirt, gasping for air.

The silence that held the commons broke into a roaring, deafening torrent of cheers. Smallfolk and lords alike screamed themselves hoarse.

Baelor didn't even look down at his nephew. He wheeled his great warhorse around, his movements calm and entirely unhurried. A squire rushed forward, presenting him with a fresh lance, its tip bearing a woven crown of pale winter roses.

Slowly, Baelor guided his mount to the base of the royal pavilion. He stopped directly beneath Rosaelia.

With his gauntleted hand, Baelor raised his visor. He didn't look at his furious brother Maekar. He didn't look at the cheering lords. He raised the lance, gently lowering the point until the wreath of winter roses slid off the wood and dropped perfectly into Rosaelia’s lap.

Her hands trembled as she touched the soft petals. She looked at him, her eyes meeting his two colored eyes.

Thousands of people were screaming around them, but in that moment, the silence between them returned—heavy, breathless, and charged with a dangerous new fire.

The cool night air of the terrace did little to stop the heat rising in Rosaelia’s cheeks. From the great hall behind her, the muffled sounds of string music, laughter, and the clinking of wine goblets faded into the background.

Rosaelia slipped out into the high terrace, letting the cool, salty night air hit her face as she looked at the sky. Above her, the stars stretched endlessly across the sky. Most girls might have thought about the prince who had crowned them. Rosaelia found herself wondering whether the old stories were true. Whether the sword Dawn truly drank starlight and whether dragons dreamed. And whether the gods ever sent signs. Only after all that did she think of Baelor.

"They will wither if you keep pressing your fingers against the stone so hard." A deep voice interrupted her. She gasped, spinning around.

Baelor stood at the entrance of the terrace. He had changed out of his dark armor into a simple, deep-charcoal doublet, the silver at his temples catching the moonlight.

"Your Grace," she breathed, her heart hammering against her ribs.

"You shouldn't have crowned me today. Aerion looked as though he wanted to murder the entire front row, and Prince Maekar left the box without a word. The whole castle is talking."

"Let them talk," Baelor said smoothly, walking out to join her. He leaned his forearms against the stone balustrade, looking out at the crashing waves of the Torrentine below.

"A whisper is easily crushed by a louder truth. They needed to see where the favor of the Throne lies."

“For Dorne? Or house Dayne? Or perhaps for my mother?” She asked, and before he could answer she took a hesitant step closer to his broad frame, her eyes searching his profile. "They say you intend to take me to Dragonstone. They say you are stealing your nephew's bride to punish him."

Baelor turned his head, his dark eyes locking onto hers with that intense, unreadable gravity that always made her breath catch.

"If I wanted to punish Aerion, I would have stripped him of his spurs,"

He stepped away from the ledge, closing the distance between them until she had to tilt her chin up to look at him. Up close, the silver-white strands in her dark hair shone like starlight.

“Aerion saw defiance. Maekar saw a scandal.” Baelor’s gaze drifted briefly toward the sea. “I saw a girl defending her family.

"You are the Hand of the King, Baelor-your grace…You do not marry for sentiment." She slipped

“No.” His answer came without hesitation.

The sea crashed against the cliffs below.

“I marry for duty.”

Rosaelia looked away first. “And yet you offered for me.”

Baelor was silent for a long moment.

“When I became Hand,” he said at last, “my father taught me that every choice costs something.”

His gaze drifted toward the dark sea.

“This was the least costly choice I could find.”

He let his hand drop, but his gaze held her captive. "Your parents have given their blessing. When the royal wheelhouses leave Starfall, you are coming with me. Not as a prisoner, and not as Aerion's victim. You will come as my betrothed. Do you accept?"

[vixenya1]

Vowbound

Il. Shadow

Baelor Targaryen × OC/fem

Summary: After drawing steel against Prince Aerion to protect her brother, Rosaelia is summoned before Prince Baelor to answer for her actions. As old grievances, family loyalties, and political realities collide behind closed doors, she learns that her defiance may cost far more than punishment alone. By morning, whispers spread through the castle-and with them, a solution no one saw coming.

Word count: 2.5k

Warnings: family conflict, political pressure, brief mention of blood and injuries, references to imprisonment and punishment, emotional distress and anxiety, implied age-gap, Aerion Targeryen, Contains fantasy violence, threats with weapons, political/arranged marriage themes, a sword being drawn, threats of harm, mentions of blood and injuries, discussions of punishment and political coercion.

A/N: this is a longer chapter i know but i enjoyed writing it so much. If you guys have any ideas to include in the storyline i would love to know.

Anyway, enjoy!

Baelor motioned for the guards to stay put, not to engage.

“You have let him be a nuisance to everyone and have never batted an eye-“ she angrily yelled at Maekar, her voice shaking.

“Put the sword down, Rosaelia” Baelor calmly spoke.

She stared at Maekar for a long moment, then turned around after she lowered the sword. Her eyes scanned everyone present and then Baelor. They held eye contact for a long moment before she broke it when she threw the sword on the ground.

All eyes snapped to the fallen sword.

But Baelor watched her—and then he saw Vaemond’s bloodied face—and something dark flickered across his expression.

She quietly walked out of the courtyard, no one followed and they knew better not to. Everyone hurriedly gathered around Vaemond and Aerion to ensure both are well..

Rosaelia sat in her solar after she changed her attire. She stared ahead at the fireplace as she quietly brushed her hair over and over, lost in thought of the earlier events. Her thoughts kept wandering if what she did was right at all or if she should have called for Baelor or Maekar before she lunged at him.

A soft knock on the door broke her thoughts.

“Come in” she softly spoke before the door cracked open to reveal a maid coming in.

“My Lady, Prince Baelor has requested your presence”

The corridor to Baelor’s study was quiet—candle sconces flickering softly, casting long shadows on stone walls. Servants bowed as she passed, guards stood at attention, not questioning her presence.

She knocked. At his summons, she stepped inside and quietly closed the door behind her.

Baelor sat behind a massive desk strewn with maps of the Marches and letters bearing the King’s seal, still dressed in the same attire he had worn earlier that day. He looked tired—not from lack of sleep, but from burden. The sort a man carried when too much had gone wrong beneath one roof.

“You asked for me, your grace” She flatly spoke.

She felt exposed in a way she never had before. Her formal dress and glittering gems were gone. She wore only a simple, cream silk nightgown beneath a heavy velvet robe, loosely tied at her waist. Her thick, dark hair fell in a massive wave all the way down to her hipbone. In the flickering candlelight, the distinct silver white strands woven through her dark locks, a striking reminder of the dragon blood she carried.

Baelor sat behind a massive desk strewn with maps of the Marches and letters bearing the King’s seal. When he looked up, he paused. The furious young woman from the courtyard was gone. In her place stood a tired young lady wrapped in a velvet robe, her dark hair loose around her shoulders. For a moment he was struck not by her beauty, but by how young she suddenly seemed. Then the moment passed, and his expression settled once more into its usual composure.

"Forgive the hour, Lady Rosaelia,” his deep baritone cut through the quiet room as he rose to his feet. “And forgive the summons. But what happened in the courtyard cannot wait until morning.”

Rosaelia pulled her robe a bit tighter around herself, her chin lifting defiantly despite her racing pulse. “You already know what happened, your grace.” She sharply replied.

Baelor noted her temper and her lifted chin.

“Aerion has hit my brother, and put a knife to his throat” She added, her voice low and cold.

“And it isn’t as if anyone did anything before to curb his cruelty” She let out a breath before speaking again.

“He only stopped years ago because I threatened to hex him.” The words slipped from her mouth before she could catch them. Silence enveloped the room. Baelor blinked once.

“You threatened Aerion with sorcery.” He repeated her words as he looked at her.

“It was only to make him stop. A very small hex.” Rosaelia sheepishly shrugged

“A very small hex?” He repeated again.

“Yes.” There was a long pause before Baelor spoke, his eyebrows slightly furrowed.

“And what does ‘a very small hex’ entail, Rosaelia?”

She considered for a moment before speaking again “A rash. Or maybe some insect bites” She shrugged again “or night terrors” She quietly added the last part.

For the first time, Baelor looked genuinely uncertain whether she was joking.

She let out a long breath before speaking again "If uncle Maekar demands my arrest, Your Grace, then go for it. I will not apologize for protecting Vaemond." She cut before he could answer anything.

"My brother does not wish to see you harmed, Rosaelia. He loves your mother, but he also knows Aerion’s nature all too well," Baelor said calmly, walking around his desk. He stopped a few paces away, his tall, broad frame casting a long shadow over her.

"But Maekar is a proud man, and his son has been insulted. He demands a harsh lesson to restore order.”

“And so have I! So has my brother! Aerion insulted me and shamed my family. Does that count for nothing? Is that what you call honor, Uncle?” She angrily cut him.

“Your grievance is just, Rosaelia. I do not deny it. But justice and politics rarely walk hand in hand. Maekar seeks satisfaction, not fairness.” He calmly spoke.

She let out a slow, disbelieving breath, a thin smile ghosting across her lips as she looked away and shook her head.

“And what does Uncle Maekar want? Did he truly expect me to stand aside while my brother was being beaten? Would he have me thrown into a cell and struck by Aerion as well, simply to balance the scales?”

“No, he wants you stripped of your prospective matches and sent to the Faith. Aerion, meanwhile, is whispering of blood duels."

A cold shiver ran down Rosaelia's spine, but she held his gaze, her honey brown eyes locked onto his. "And what do you demand, Prince Baelor? You are the Hand. The choice is yours."

“I have not decided upon a punishment.” He spoke.

“Then why am I here?” She asked with a slight head tilt.

Baelor studied her. Up close. He glanced down at her hands, still faintly red from gripping the training sword.

"I demand a solution that keeps the peace," his voice softly dropping lower.

"I spent the last hour ruling out options. I considered marrying you to Maekar’s eldest, Daeron."

Rosaelia flinched, her lips parting. "Daeron? He can barely stand up straight at a feast, Your Grace."

"I know," Baelor admitted.

"Which is why I crossed his name out. I considered sending you to King's Landing under the King's direct protection, but my father is old. The Red Keep is a viper's nest. Aerion would find a way to make your life miserable there."

She took a step forward, her long hair shifting over her shoulders, the silver white strands catching the firelight. "Then what is left for me? Am I to be a political exile because I wouldn't let my brother bleed?"

Baelor fell silent. She met his gaze without flinching. Since his wife’s death, he had buried himself in reports, councils, and the endless burdens of governance. Yet he found himself returning to the same conclusion. Every alternative left her vulnerable.

If she stays unwed, unprotected Aerion will hunt her.

"There is one other option," Baelor said quietly, his dark eyes locking onto hers with an intensity that made her breath hitch.

"A match that Maekar cannot overrule. A shadow so large that Aerion would never dare cross it."

Rosaelia frowned. “Who? Valarr is wed. Matarys is a boy…” The words died on her lips. There was only one name left.

Her breath caught as the realization settled over her.

“Yes,” Baelor said. For a moment neither of them spoke.

A marriage. The thought came unbidden, and Baelor dismissed it at once. There were a dozen reasons it was folly. She was young. He was not. The realm would whisper that he had used his authority to secure a bride, no matter his intentions.

More than that, she deserved the chance to choose her own future, or at least to enter a match born of alliance rather than desperation. To bind her to him simply because every other path led to danger felt less like a solution and more like another injustice.

Yet with every alternative he considered, he arrived at the same bleak conclusion. Left unwed and unprotected, she would remain exposed to Aerion’s malice. Sent away, she would merely trade one peril for another.

And so the impossible thought refused to leave him.

"Go back to your chambers, niece," he said, his voice returning to its calm, measured tone. "Get some sleep and do not worry about my brother, or his son."

Rosaelia stared at him for one long, stunned moment, her mind spinning. She offered a hesitant, quiet curtsy, before turning and slipping out into the dark corridor.

Left alone in the study, Baelor did not sit back down. He walked to the window, looking out into the Dornish night, his hand tracing the edge.

The morning after her late night meeting with Baelor. Her older sisters, Nora and Helaine, burst in.

The heavy oak door slammed back against the stone wall. Norah marched in first, her face flushed and her hands planted firmly on her hips, looking every bit the fierce, protective older sister. Behind her lounged Helaine, holding a half eaten pear.

"Tell me it isn't true," Norah demanded, storming over to the vanity table where Rosaelia sat. "Tell me the kitchen maids are suffering from sunstroke and making things up to amuse themselves."

"What are they saying now, Norah?" Rosaelia boredly asked

"Oh, only that you’ve managed to completely break the Seven Kingdoms before breakfast," Helaine chimed in, biting into her pear. She wandered over and casually plopped herself down on the edge of the bed.

"You know, usually when girls don't want to marry their cousins, they just weep into their pillows like normal people. They don't pull live steel on a royal prince, threaten to decapitate him, and then summon the Hand of the King to their room at midnight."

"It was HIS study," Rosaelia corrected quickly, her cheeks instantly burning with embarrassment. "And it was a royal summons. I didn't invite him."

"Oh, structural details, brilliant," Helaine smirked, waving her pear in the air. "I'm sure when Maekar is having you loaded into a cage, you can argue the architectural semantics of where you threw yourself at his brother."

"I did not throw myself at him!" Rosaelia defended herself.

"Will you two stop?" Norah hissed, smacking Helaine’s leg

"I don't care if it was the top of the Sword Tower," Norah spoke again, grabbing Rosaelia by the shoulders. her eyes wide with a frantic, protective panic. "Rosa, the entire lower yard is whispering. The maids, the guards, the stable boys, the laundresses. They say Prince Maekar wanted you stripped of your name and sent to a motherhouse in Oldtown to pray away your sins. But Prince Baelor refused."

"He... refused?"

"Worse," Helaine chuckled

"Or better, depending on how much you like older men with massive kingdoms. They say Baelor stood right in front of Uncle Maekar and our parents and told them that if Aerion is too much of a feral dog to hold a Dornish alliance, he will just claim you for his own bed instead."

"Well," Helaine added thoughtfully, taking another bite of her fruit. "I suppose if you're going to ruin a betrothal to an evil prince who throws cats off walls, you might as well replace him with the heir to the Iron Throne himself. Personally, I think it’s a massive win, sister. And his shoulders are twice as broad as Aerion's."

"Helaine, hush! This is serious!" Norah snapped" She threatened royal blood! Aerion could slip into her room at night to get his revenge! And you're sitting there evaluating uncle Baelor's shoulders?"

"I’m only saying, if I had to choose a Targaryen husband, Baelor Breakspear would be at the top of my list. He has all his teeth, he doesn’t terrify the servants, and unlike Aerion, he appears to possess a conscience.” Helaine muttered defensively.

“Aren’t you already married to be making such comments” Rosaelia turned to Helaine shooting her a look.

"When I saw him last night... he only said he would find a shadow so large Aerion could never cross it. I did not think... I did not think he meant himself."

Norah’s frantic energy suddenly softened, her fingers gently squeezing Rosaelia’s shoulders. "Rosa... if this is true, it changes everything. You won't just be a lady of Starfall anymore. You'll be the future Queen."

The heavy silence that followed was broken by a sharp, formal knock on the outer door. All three sisters flinched.

Norah straightened her back, smoothing her skirts, while Helaine quickly hid the remainder of her pear behind her back, suddenly trying to look regal.

A senior house maid stepped into the solar, bowing deeply. "Lady Rosaelia. Princess Daenerys and Lord Olyvar request your immediate presence in their private solar. Prince Maekar and Prince Baelor have just left their council."

Helaine let out a low, sympathetic whistle. "Well. Time to go face the dragons, sister."

Norah gave Helaine a fierce glare before turning back to Rosaelia, offering a tight, supportive nod. "Go. We will be right here when you get back."

The atmosphere in her parents' chambers was entirely different—quiet, heavy, and thick with the scent of burning Dornish incense.

Her mother sat on the velvet settee looking visibly drained, her pale lilac eyes tracking Rosaelia as she entered. Beside her stood Lord Olyvar Dayne, his hand resting on the pommel of his sword, pacing the length of the silk rug.

"Sit, Rosa," her father said softly, using her childhood pet name. The tension in his jaw told her how close he had come to losing his temper.

Rosaelia remained standing near the sofa. "Is it true? What the servants are saying?"

Princess Daenerys let out a soft, trembling breath and reached out, pulling Rosaelia down onto the cushions beside her. Her mother’s hands were warm, smooth, and laced with royal rings.

"Baelor came to us this morning," Daenerys said quietly. "Maekar was furious, Rosaelia. He wanted you sent away to satisfy the insult of the sword. I refused, and your father nearly drew steel himself to protect you from being discarded into a convent."

Lord Olyvar interrupted, stopping his pacing. He looked at his daughter with a mixture of disbelief and profound relief. "“Baelor argued that the Dornish alliance could not be risked over Aerion’s temper. He told Maekar that House Dayne would not be humiliated for protecting their own blood from Aerion's madness. He said the alliance with Dorne must stand at all costs—and that since he has been a widower for years and has no intention of marrying into the Great Houses of the West or the Reach, he would take you as his princess."

Rosaelia’s breath hitched. “And… you accepted?”

Daenerys and Olyvar exchanged a long glance.

“He is the Crown Prince, sweetling,” her mother said softly. “No mother dreams of arranging such a match under these circumstances. But there is no man in the Seven Kingdoms I would trust more with your happiness.” Lord Olyvar gave a slow nod.

“We gave our consent. The terms are already being drafted.”

[vixenya1]

Vowbound

I. Steel

Baelor Targaryen × OC/fem

Summary: A Lady of Starfall is promised to a Targaryen prince, but not all blades are meant to remain sheathed. One encounter changes the course of her future-and catches the attention of a man who says nothing at all.

Word count: 1.9k

Warnings: Arranged betrothal, verbal harassment, threats of violence, drawn weapons, attempted intimidation, canon-typical misogyny, court politics, and mild physical confrontation. Aerion being an evil labubu as usual.

A/N: So this is my first time ever writing anything so i'm kinda nervous and English isn't my first language so excuse any mistakes. And it's gonna be a long story with slow burn and smut just hold on tight.

The Dornish sun had always been starkly different in comparison to King’s Landing — less suffocating somehow. Salt instead of smoke. Sun-warmed stone instead of damp red walls. Dorne breathed where the capital merely endured.

Voices echoed through the hall below as servants rushed to prepare for the royal arrival. Her brothers had been unbearable for days, arguing over hunts and races and whether Prince Valarr would join them in the cliffs beyond the Torrentine. They had always been fond of prince Valarr.

But she had heard only one name.

Even now, years later, it lingered in her mind strangely.

Not because she knew him well. She did not.

Only fragments remained: a tall figure in black and red bending to speak to her when she was small, a steady voice in the gardens of the Red Keep, two deep colored eyes that always seemed to notice more than they should and it always made her uneasy to be seen that much, almost like he can see through anyone.

Her mother, Princess Daenerys: the only daughter of king Daeron the good. She always likes to call him the best of the five of them.

She sat there as her maids were finishing braiding her hair and putting violet gems in her hair matching her flowy dress. she had been lost in thought forgetting about time and about everything else…

She kept rethinking the talk she had with her parents about the betrothal between her: Lady Rosaelia of house Dayne and Prince Aerion of House Targaryen. Her cousin through her mother’s side. But she loathed him, he has always been cruel, inadequate and evil to say the least about. Both houses had postponed the alliance enough and it was finally getting to a head.

Rosaelia hated Aerion since childhood, not able to comprehend that she would ever be betrothed to such a person! A person who is apathetic. She kept thinking how she would get married to someone who threw Aegon’s cat from the wall. She had gifted Aegon that cat as a present for his fifth nameday.

Besides the malicious things he used to torture her with just for being younger than him. She kept telling herself ’perhaps he has changed!’ or ‘maybe he has grown?’.

But wasn’t the only reason he stopped tormenting her was because she threatened to hex him if he didn’t stop. And it isn’t a secret that Rosaelia is fond of her great aunt Shiera and always spent time with her when she visited kingslanding, Rumors of her practicing magic has already been whispered countless times.

She was shaken out of her thoughts by the horns sounded from the yard below.

“They’ve arrived,” one of the ladies breathed. She took one last look at her reflection in the mirror before she left.

By the time she descended, House Targaryen had already flooded Starfall. Knights, banners, white cloaks gleaming beneath the sun. Prince Maekar stood near the center speaking sharply to Aerion lounged nearby with that familiar cruel amusement curling at the corner of his mouth. Even from across the courtyard she disliked the sight of him.

She stood next to her parents as Prince Baelor approached, her eyes landed on him as he spoke to her father, Lord Olyver.

He stood apart without trying to. Taller than the others, broader, dressed plainly for a Prince — dark velvet, no unnecessary jewels. Time had changed him less than it should have. Until his eyes looked at her.

The memory she carried of him had not prepared her for that gaze as a woman.

Gods.

It was not improper. Not even close. Prince Baelor was too disciplined for that. But his eyes settled on her with unmistakable recognition, and for one long moment her breath hitches. The intensity of it nearly made her look away first.

Then he crossed the courtyard toward her as the conversation around seemed to dim despite the noise.

He gave that same kind smile “My Lady” he said, inclining his head. His voice had deepened with age — calm, measured, impossible to fluster. She suddenly remembered being fourteen and unable to speak more than two coherent words to him during a feast in King’s Landing.

“Your grace” she calmly replied with a practiced bow.

“You have grown, I see” He said with his usually kind tone.

“Well, it has been long since I have visited. How’s the King? I hope he’s in good health?” She shyly replied.

“A few grey hairs here and there, but he’s still the same. he would have loved to see how much you’ve grown” He said as his eyes lingered for a second.

“We will be visiting soon enough, my prince.” She kindly spoke, they both knew what it meant. She was soon enough be Aerion’s bride.

Before he could answer they were suddenly cut by the rest of the family, her mother: Princess Daenerys has finally finished dotting on Rhae and Aegon and came to chat with her older brother. She excused herself and went to welcome her cousins that stood in a distance with her siblings.

The great hall of Starfall was deafening, a cacophony of scraping silverware, spilling wine, and the heavy talk of politics. At the head sat the elders. Her mother, Princess Daenerys, looking every bit the Targaryen regal beauty as she conversed with Prince Baelor, while her father, Lord Olyvar, tried to keep pace with Prince Maekar’s stern, demanding talk of politics.

Further down, the hall felt lighter. Her older brother and sisters, Myles, Nora and Helaine were laughing with Prince Valarr and his wife, completely charmed by the golden heir to the Iron Throne. Next to them sat Daeron who was drunk already and Aerion who was listening to his father’s conversation with her father.

Her eyes drifted to the far end of the table where the children sat. Egg, Rhae and both her nephew and niece, Sylas and Faeryda were eagerly listening to her brother Vaemond and their cousin Matarys as they were speaking of their swords training.

“You aren’t eating, cousin.”

The voice cut through her warmth like frost.

Rosaelia stiffened, her gaze snapping across the table.

Aerion was lounging back, a chalice of arbor gold dangling loosely from his fingers. His older brother, Daeron, sat beside him, already half-drunk and staring blankly into his soup. But Aerion was entirely sober, his bright, lilac eyes locked onto her.

“I have eaten, Prince Aerion.” She replied before pointing at his dish with a look.

“You don’t seem to have enjoyed the Dornish spices,” Rosaelia added, keeping her voice smoothly polite, though her skin crawled. “I recall it can be overwhelming for those not born to them”

“Oh, I find I rather like the heat,” Aerion murmured, his smile widening into something sharp and predatory. “I look forward to taming it.”

The implicit threat of their unspoken betrothal hung heavily in the air between them. Rosaelia felt the urge to probably strangle him. She lowered her eyes, looking anywhere else-and found herself meeting the gaze of Baelor from across the table.

Baelor had paused mid-sentence with her mother. His dark eyes shifted from Aerion’s smirk to Rosaelia’s rigid shoulders. He didn’t say a word, but the sudden narrowing of his brow told her everything. He had noticed.

Overwhelmed by the heat of the room, the noise of Valarr’s laughter, and the weight of Aerion’s eyes, Rosaelia quietly excused herself before the final course was even served. She needed air.

She wandered around freely for a long while before retiring to her solar, it had gotten late already. A few maids passing by and guards around when she heard noises and clashing near the courtyard as she passed by on her way back inside. She followed the sounds and happened to walk on Aerion holding a knife against Vaemond’s throat, threatening him with something she didn’t quite comprehend from surprise. She froze in place for a second.

Before she could even think she has burst in and pushed Aerion away as she yelled from the top of her lungs.

“What is wrong with you, get your filthy hands off of my brother!”

Aerion staggered back from her push—staring coldly at her. For all his cruelty, Aerion had never been challenged by anyone but her in their younger years. And she knew the look in his eyes, he’d assumed she would cower behind silk gowns and courtly manners now that Rosaelia has become a Lady and he is a Prince. But luckily enough they were not betrothed, not yet.

Vaemond stumbled back, pale and wide-eyed—still clutching his throat where the knife had grazed, his face bloodied.

“You dare lay hands on my brother?!” Her voice cracked through the night air sharp enough to cut steel.

Aerion sneered at her and raised the knife again.

“Get out of my way,” he growled. “This is between me and this little coward.”

The guards had ran inside, but no one moved to stop him. They wouldn’t dare touch him and Aerion knew it well enough.

Aerion lunged forward, she stepped back until her back hit the wall. Her hand scrambled against the stone wall, her fingers wrapping around the hilt of a decorative training sword resting in the courtyard rack. With a harsh scrape of steel, she unsheathed it, thrusting the blade forward just as Aerion closed the distance.

The tip of the steel stopped mere inches from his throat. Aerion froze as she heavily breathed.

“You impudent little rat,” he hissed. “What do you think you are doing?”

“Step back,” she warned. Her voice shook, but the blade held steady.

A smirk curled his lips. He took a slow step forward, the steel almost brushing his skin. “Put it down, darling. This isn’t a maiden’s courtly play.”

Rosaelia lunged. A gasp rippled through the growing crowd: guards frozen at the edges; Maekar pushing forward along with the rest of both families.

The flat of her blade slammed into his chest, throwing him back against the wall. The knife clattered from his grip. Before he could recover, the edge of her sword kissed the soft skin beneath his jaw.

“If you ever lay a finger on my family, Aerion. I will have your filthy hands for it. And I do not care if they will excute me for it so I might as well cut your throat off too!” she shouted at him.

The tension in the air was thick enough to choke on. Guards stepped forward now; knights moved in formation.

“Rosaelia, let him go”, her father broke the silence but was stopped by Baelor with a hand gesture.

“You fucking dared to put a knife against my brother’s neck, I ought to have your throat for it, eh?” She pressed the blade against his throat.

No one had ever done this to him. Aerion didn’t flinch. Only she could see his pulse jump as he stared down at her.

Maekar reached them first.

“Enough!” He barked.

In one swift motion, he grabbed Aerion’s wrist—and wrenched it aside and with his other hand, Maekar seized her shoulder.

The thin red line on Aerion’s throat marked the moment the alliance was broken.

He touched it with his fingers. Just a graze. And yet… no one shouted for her arrest.

Maekar studied her—and then glanced at Vaemond—then back at Aerion.

“You..” She breathed as she pointed the sword to Maekar’s face. A loud gasp came from the gathered crowd. The king’s guard stepped closer ready for a word to interfere, perhaps seize her…