Been playing through Elden Ring properly this time around with a view to actually finish it. Can safely say Morgott has sealed himself as my favourite character. Of course I had to draw him!
The Marks of Courage - Baelor Targaryen x wife!reader
Summary: Loving Baelor Targaryen had never been difficult.
Carrying his child feels like the greatest joy of your life—until your body begins to change and doubt settles where certainty once lived.
You try to hide what you fear he might see.
Baelor, however, has begun to fear something else entirely.
Pairing: Baelor Targaryen x wife!reader
Warnings: Fluff, NSFW – fluff sex (p in v), oral (f receiving)
Author’s note:
As requested, a fluff fic – I hope you enjoy it!
English is my second language, please forgive me if I made any mistakes (:
Word count: 6.5 k
Other stories of mine
Other stories of Baelor Targaryen
You know of your betrothal long before you ever see the prince.
One evening, your father tells you this, surrounded by the scent of parchment and sealing wax, while the sun hangs heavy in the sky and radiates a quiet seriousness that he only displays when matters of the realm are more important than matters of the heart.
He speaks carefully, as though choosing words suitable for a daughter who must now be more woman than child. Prince Baelor, eldest son of King Daeron, heir to the Iron Throne. An honor to your house.
A bond of loyalty.
A future secured.
You listen with folded hands and a steady face, because this is what you have been raised for since the day you first learned to walk across polished stone floors without stumbling. Noble daughters do not marry for affection. They marry for peace, for alliances, for stability that will outlive them.
You do not protest.
You do not weep.
Yet that night you lie awake far longer than you intend, staring at the canopy above your bed and wondering not whether he will be kind, but whether he will ever truly see you at all.
Princes, you imagine, belong to history more than to people.
You meet him weeks later in the Red Keep.
You expect ceremony. You expect distance, gold, and judgment.
Instead, when you are presented before him in the garden court, you find a man who dismisses half the attendants with a quiet request, as though the formal gathering embarrasses him more than it does you. The spring air carries the scent of orange blossoms, and sunlight catches in his dark hair, but what unsettles you most is neither his appearance nor his title.
It is his attention.
He looks at you as though the conversation matters more than the arrangement that brought you here.
“I hope the journey from your home was not too harsh,” he says, and there is no rehearsed politeness in his voice, only genuine concern. “King’s Landing can be… overwhelming at first.”
You incline your head slightly, choosing your words with care. “The road was long, Your Grace, but not unpleasant. Though I confess…” A faint, almost self-conscious smile touches your lips. “The city is rather more lively than I imagined.”
A quiet warmth enters his expression. “That is a kind way of putting it,” he replies. “Many who arrive here for the first time find it… less welcoming than they hoped.”
“I should not complain,” you say gently. “Your father’s court has received me with great kindness.”
“Kindness offered by duty can sometimes feel different from the real thing,” Baelor answers after a moment, his voice thoughtful rather than critical. “If the city proves too much, the gardens here are quieter than most places in the Red Keep.”
You glance around at the shaded paths and the rustling leaves above you, realizing he has chosen this meeting place deliberately.
“Then I suspect,” you say softly, “that Your Grace already knew where a stranger might feel most at ease.”
The corner of his mouth curves slightly at that.
“Perhaps,” he admits.
You leave the garden unsettled in a way you had not prepared yourself for.
You had braced for indifference.
You had not prepared for gentleness.
In the weeks that follow, you begin to understand that the prince does not perform kindness; he lives it.
He walks with you through the library and asks which histories you enjoy rather than which ones you have studied. From the balcony above the training yard he explains the movements of the knights below with quiet enthusiasm, and when you admit you have never held a bow, he arranges a lesson at dawn before the court wakes.
There is nothing showy in his attention. He thanks servants by name, pauses for children in the corridors, and speaks of duty not as a burden but as a promise he intends to keep.
Slowly, almost without noticing when it begins, you stop thinking of the marriage as something to endure.
You begin to look forward to him.
At first you tell yourself it is only comfort in an unfamiliar court. Yet your days begin to arrange themselves around his presence—lingering near the gallery when he trains below, choosing the gardens in the evenings he walks there after council. When a day passes without seeing him, the Red Keep feels strangely emptier than before.
It is only then you realize the truth you had tried not to name.
You had prepared yourself to marry a prince out of duty.
You had not prepared yourself to care whether he might one day care for you in return.
The thought follows you into the sept on the morning of your wedding, where candlelight and incense blur together beneath the watchful eyes of court and crown. The vows are spoken, blessings given, and before you can fully grasp the weight of them, the ceremony has passed and the celebrations begin.
Yet one thing stays with you through it all: Baelor never treats the moment as possession. He remains at your side with quiet attentiveness, offering his arm through the crowded hall not to claim you, but to steady you.
By the time the doors of your chambers close behind you that night, the silence feels heavier than the ceremony ever did.
For the first time you stand alone with the man who is now your husband. You expect obligation, perhaps awkwardness.
Instead he stops several paces away, as though uncertain whether approaching might trouble you.
“You have been very brave today,” Baelor says gently. “I would not have you think you stand here without choice.”
“It was arranged,” you answer.
“Yes,” he says quietly. “But what is arranged is not always freely given.”
He waits.
And in that moment you understand he will not cross the distance unless you invite him.
So you do.
From that night onward, your marriage no longer feels like a duty assigned but something slowly built between you.
Baelor never presumes upon your closeness. Even in private he approaches as though you might still refuse him, and because of that you find yourself crossing the distance more often than he does — lingering beside him after conversations should have ended, sharing small thoughts from the day, staying a little longer each time.
Your evenings settle into quiet familiarity. He reads while you embroider, sometimes pausing to ask your thoughts on a tale’s ending as though your opinion matters more than being right.
At night he speaks more freely than he ever does before others, sharing worries for the realm and the burdens he has carried since boyhood, and you become the one place where the heir to the Iron Throne is allowed to be simply a man.
It is not passion that claims you first.
It is trust.
Without noticing when it begins, you start to seek him without thinking — sitting closer at table, waiting for him in the evenings, feeling the day incomplete until he returns. His smiles, once rare, become something meant only for you.
You realize the truth one quiet night as he sleeps beside you, his hand loosely holding yours: if the crown were taken from him, if he were no prince at all, you would still choose him.
And the knowledge brings not fear, but peace.
Seasons turn almost without your noticing. Courtly life continues — councils, audiences, obligations — yet your happiness settles into something gentle and familiar. You begin to measure time less by feasts and ceremonies than by shared mornings and the quiet comfort of hearing Baelor’s voice outside your chambers.
It is within that calm certainty that the change begins, so subtle you barely notice it at first: a lingering weariness, a strange tenderness, a restlessness you cannot quite explain.
Only when the maester requests to see you privately one morning does unease stir within you.
Baelor enters moments later, summoned by a hurried servant. You grasp his hands before you can find the words.
He studies your face at once. “Are you unwell?”
“No,” you whisper, your voice trembling for an entirely different reason. “No — Baelor…”
Before you can say more, the maester clears his throat gently and begins asking questions you do not at first understand. Then he smiles — a soft, knowing smile.
“My prince, my lady,” he says, “you are with child.”
For a moment the room seems to still around you.
A laugh escapes you, breaking almost immediately into tears, and when you look up you see the same stunned wonder dawning across Baelor’s face. He says nothing at first. Instead he lowers his forehead to yours, as though grounding himself in the moment.
You are with child.
Baelors fingers tighten around yours, careful but unsteady, and you see something in his eyes you have never seen before — not pride, not relief, but wonder.
“You need not stand,” he murmurs to the maester, though the old man is already bowing himself out. He scarcely notices. His attention never leaves you.
Slowly he kneels before you, his hand resting lightly against your abdomen with almost reverent care.
“I have asked much of you,” he says quietly. “More than I ever wished to.”
“You asked nothing,” you answer softly. “I wanted this.”
He looks up then, searching your face with a seriousness deeper than joy.
“I would have wanted you,” he says, “even without it.”
And you understand he does not mean the child.
You cradle his face between your hands, the future suddenly feeling less like a role to perform and more like a life you will share. With a soft laugh you sink down in front of him, your fingers brushing through his beard before you lean forward, your forehead nearly touching his.
Then your lips meet in a gentle kiss.
The first months are gentle ones.
Baelor becomes almost comically careful. He dismisses servants so he may help you himself, walks at your pace through the halls of the Red Keep, and when you tire he pretends he wished to stop anyway, pointing out some distant sail in Blackwater Bay or some small detail in the gardens so you may rest without embarrassment.
At night he listens to the maester’s instructions with grave attention and remembers them more faithfully than you do. If you stir, he wakes. If you wake, he is already awake.
You tease him for it.
One evening you smile as he tucks the blanket around you yet again, though it has not moved in the slightest. “If you watch me any closer, my prince,” you murmur softly, “the maester will think I am made of glass.”
A faint amusement touches his expression as he settles the coverlet with quiet care.
“I am a knight,” he replies gently. “It is my nature to guard what is precious to me.”
Your teasing fades at once, warmth rising unexpectedly in your chest as he lies beside you and draws you closer.
You have never been happier.
For a time, nothing seems changed except the knowledge you now carry together. Days pass in peaceful rhythm, and you grow used to the quiet steadiness of his presence at your side.
Then, slowly, your body begins to remind you that it is no longer only your own.
At first the changes are small. A gown that once fastened easily resists your maid’s fingers. Steps you once climbed without thought leave you pausing midway for breath. The maester assures you it is natural, even healthy, and everywhere you go the court treats you with gentle reverence.
Yet the mirror does not praise you.
Your reflection alters by degrees you cannot halt. Your figure softens, unfamiliar marks bloom across your skin, and though you tell yourself it is natural, expected — honorable, even — uncertainty settles quietly where certainty once lived.
But you remember the way Baelor once looked at you in the candlelight — quiet admiration, gentle warmth — and fear settles where certainty once lived. He could never keep his hands to himself for long when you both retired to bed for the night.
And you realize, with a small, unwelcome ache, that you still want him to look at you that way.
More than you wish to admit.
One evening he enters your chambers earlier than expected.
You stand before the mirror, your maid only just gone, the laces of your gown loosened to ease the pressure at your ribs. For a moment you do not notice him, your attention caught by the unfamiliar curve of your body — the fullness where your waist once narrowed, the faint pale lines beneath your fingers.
The door opens softly.
You see his reflection before you hear his voice, and instinct overtakes thought.
You turn away at once, pulling your robe tightly around yourself. The movement is hurried enough that the fabric slips before you catch it, heat rising sharply to your face as though you have been discovered in some wrongdoing.
Baelor stops.
“My apologies,” he says immediately, already stepping back toward the door. “I did not mean to disturb you.”
He does not question. He does not linger.
The door closes again with quiet care.
Only then do you realize how tightly you are clutching the robe around yourself.
You remain standing there long after he has gone, the strange embarrassment settling deep in your chest.
Nothing has truly happened — no harsh word, no judgment, not even a lingering glance — yet the shame remains, born not from anything he has done, but from what you fear he might have seen.
After that evening, the change between you comes quietly.
You choose heavier gowns, telling yourself it is only for comfort. When he sits beside you, you find reasons to stand. When he speaks, you answer warmly, yet keep your hands occupied — embroidery, letters, small tasks that spare you from meeting his eyes too long.
You do not mean to withdraw.
You only wish to avoid the moment when his gaze might confirm the fear you cannot name.
Baelor notices.
He always would.
One evening you sit together near the window while the last light of sunset fades across the chamber floor. Your needle rests idle in your embroidery hoop, though you pretend to work.
After a time he closes the book he has not been reading.
“You are tired,” he says gently.
“Only a little,” you reply. “The maester warned me I would be.”
“You did not rest this afternoon,” he says. “The servants told me you dismissed them early.”
“I was not sleepy.”
His expression softens with quiet concern. “You seldom sleep through the night either.”
You laugh lightly, hoping to end the matter. “Nor do you, my prince. Yet I do not summon the maester for it.”
He leans slightly nearer, careful not to crowd you. “Are you in pain?”
“No.”
“Dizzy?”
You finally meet his eyes. “I promise you, I am well.”
He studies you for a moment, the restraint so natural to him holding his questions in check.
“Shall I ask the maester to attend you again?” he asks softly. “It would ease my mind.”
You reach for his hand then, hoping reassurance will quiet the worry you cannot bear him to carry.
“There is no need,” you say. “Truly. Nothing troubles me.”
He turns his hand beneath yours, holding it gently. “I trust your word.”
And he means it.
That is what troubles him.
He does not press you further. Instead he grows more careful, giving you space whenever you seem to want it, speaking softly as though fearful of causing discomfort he does not understand.
And so the distance widens precisely because he loves you.
One night, half-asleep, his hand reaches for yours as it always has, seeking you in the darkness without waking. You feel his fingers brush your own and, seized by sudden self-consciousness, you draw your hand away before you are fully aware of doing so.
He stills.
You lie motionless, eyes closed, hoping he believes you asleep, yet you feel the moment he understands. Not anger, not hurt — but restraint.
He withdraws his hand. He does not reach for you again.
When labor finally begins, it is still before dawn.
At first it is only a tightening, an ache you mistake for restless sleep, but it deepens steadily until speech itself becomes difficult. Servants hurry, the midwives are summoned, and the maester arrives with grave efficiency. The chamber fills with movement and whispered instructions, and you are guided toward the bed while the world narrows to breath and pain and the steady effort of enduring.
You do not expect him to remain.
Men rarely do.
Yet when the door closes and the women of the birthing chamber prepare their linens and basins, Baelor is still there.
The midwife hesitates, glancing toward him uncertainly, but he does not move toward the exit. Instead he comes to your side, not interfering, not questioning, only taking your hand with quiet resolve.
“If I am permitted,” he says calmly, though his voice is softer than you have ever heard it, “I will stay.”
No one refuses the heir to the throne — yet he does not stay as a prince. He stays as a husband — and you are infinitely relieved, clinging to his hand.
Hours pass. The pain rises and breaks and rises again like relentless tide, and more than once you lose all sense of time, clinging only to the steady warmth of his hand. He speaks little, only murmuring reassurance when you falter, steadying you when fear overtakes you, letting you grip his fingers as tightly as you must without once pulling away.
You hear him pray once, very quietly, when he believes you cannot hear.
When at last the child’s cry fills the chamber, sharp and alive, the sound seems almost unreal.
The midwife laughs with relief. “A boy, my prince.”
For the first time Baelor releases your hand.
Not to step away — but to receive the small, wailing bundle placed carefully into his arms.
You have never seen his composure break before. Not in council, not in court. Yet as he looks down at his son, something in his expression yields entirely. Wonder, pride, and a tenderness so open it almost startles you.
He approaches your bedside slowly, as though afraid the moment might vanish if he moves too quickly, and kneels beside you so you may see.
“Our son,” he whispers.
The words tremble.
He does not speak of heirs or legacy. He does not speak of the realm. He only looks between you and the child with a quiet awe, as though the two of you together have given him something far greater than a crown.
You have never loved him more.
The days after the birth pass in a gentle haze of recovery and quiet routines. Time loses its sharp edges, measured instead by the child’s sleep, by the careful visits of maids and maesters, and by the soft light that crosses the chamber walls from morning to evening. Baelor comes often in the days that follow, though he carries himself with the same careful restraint he has shown you these past months. When he enters, his first attention is never the cradle but you. He approaches your bedside quietly, as though unwilling to startle you, and his voice lowers instinctively.
“How do you fare this morning?” he asks, drawing a chair nearer yet not sitting until you nod your permission. “You look pale still. Did you rest?”
“I slept,” you answer softly, though the night had been broken by the child’s waking.
He studies you with patient concern. “You need not spare my worry. I would rather know truth than comfort.”
You offer a faint smile. “Then the truth is only that I am tired, as any mother must be.”
Only after that does his gaze move toward the cradle. He rises and approaches it slowly, almost reverently, as though the child might startle and vanish if he moves too quickly.
“May I?” he asks, though you have never once refused him.
You nod, and he lifts the boy with a care that would astonish any knight who has seen him in the training yard. His hands, so certain with sword and reins, support the small weight with remarkable gentleness, his attention fixed on every movement of the infant’s face.
“He grows,” he murmurs quietly. “I swear he was smaller yesterday.”
“He eats well,” you say, watching him rather than the child.
A softness enters his expression that few beyond this chamber would ever witness. “He has your calm.”
You shake your head faintly. “He has your stubbornness. He refuses sleep unless he chooses it.”
The corner of his mouth lifts, though his gaze remains upon the boy. For a long moment he simply watches the child breathe, as though committing the rhythm to memory.
Then, more quietly, “And you? Are you in pain still?”
You hesitate only briefly. “Less than before.”
“If it worsens, you must tell me,” he says gently, still not looking away from the child. “I cannot ease what I do not know.”
He remains beside the cradle even after the boy settles again, one hand resting lightly along its edge as though reluctant to leave. Yet he does not sit beside you as he once would have. He does not reach for your hand. Even when you speak, he keeps a careful distance, mindful of the space between you as though afraid closeness might burden you.
You know this gentleness is meant as kindness, yet it only deepens your unease. You taught him this caution, you remind yourself, though knowing it does little to quiet the ache growing in your chest. As your body slowly heals, your uncertainty does not fade with it. If anything, it grows sharper, because now you can no longer blame it on pain or weakness. Now you fear it is simply you.
Several days later he returns earlier than usual.
Late afternoon light fills the chamber, warm and golden. You sit near the cradle with your son in your arms, feeding him, too tired to guard your movements as carefully as you have in recent days. Your thoughts are quiet for once, your attention resting only on the small weight of the child and the steady rhythm of his breathing.
The door opens softly.
You look up — and see Baelor.
Your reaction is immediate and unthinking. You draw your robe closed at once, turning slightly away as you cover yourself. The motion is small, instinctive, yet in the stillness of the room it feels louder than any spoken word.
Baelor stops.
This time, however, he does not retreat.
For a long moment he stands where he is, watching you with a stillness that is neither anger nor accusation, but something more painful — the dawning realization that he does not understand what stands between you.
“My lady… why do you hide from me?”
You cannot answer at once. Your gaze lowers, your arms tightening slightly around the child.
He steps nearer, his voice gentle but steadier than it has been in many weeks. “You have done so since before the birth. I believed at first you required rest, that my nearness troubled you. Yet even now you turn from me as though I cause you distress.” His expression softens, though the concern remains. “If I have wronged you, tell me how. I would mend it if I could.”
“You have done nothing wrong,” you whisper.
He studies you carefully, restraint and worry warring quietly in his expression.
“Then I have misunderstood your heart,” he says at last. “And that troubles me more.”
His gaze moves briefly to the child before returning to you. “I would not keep you in a marriage you endure only out of duty. If you wished only for a son… I would bear it. But I would know the truth.”
The words break something in you.
Tears gather before you can stop them. “No — you cannot believe that.”
“I believe only what your actions teach me,” he answers softly. “You shrink from my nearness. You will not let me see you. I fear I have become unwelcome where once I was not.”
Your composure falters completely. “I hide because I am ashamed.”
He stills.
You draw a shaky breath. “I am not as I was. My body has changed. I feared that if you saw me, you would remember how I once looked and regret it. I wished you still to want me… and so I could not bear you seeing what I have become.”
For the first time since you have known him, Baelor does not answer immediately.
The silence gathers around him as he considers your words. You have seen him address lords and knights without hesitation, yet now he studies you as though the matter before him is far more uncertain than any council chamber.
He steps closer, slowly enough that you could still turn away if you wished.
You do not.
For a moment his gaze lowers to his own hands.
“Do you find my scars displeasing?” he asks quietly.
The question startles you. You shake your head at once, remembering how often you traced the faint lines with your fingers. The faint lines along his hands and body, the marks earned in tourney, battles and training, are things he has never hidden, never apologized for.
“Never. They are proof of your courage.”
His eyes lift again, something softer settling within them.
“And these changes,” he says, his hand resting gently over yours where it lies against the child, “are proof of yours. You bore pain I could not bear in your place. You gave our son life at cost to yourself, and you think I would find you lesser for it?”
His voice remains low, but utterly certain.
“I did not love you because you were untouched by hardship. I loved you because of who you are. That has not altered. If anything, it has only deepened.”
Your tears fall freely then, relief and grief loosening the fear you carried for months. Baelor gathers you gently into his arms, careful of both you and the child, holding you not as something fragile, but as something precious returned to him.
And that night the castle is unusually quiet.
The servants withdraw early, the torches in the corridors burn low, and for the first time since the birth there are no interruptions, no maester’s visits, no hushed footsteps beyond the door. The child sleeps in the cradle nearby, his breathing soft and steady, and the chamber holds a calm you had almost forgotten.
You lie beside Baelor beneath the coverlets, exhaustion heavy in your limbs, yet sleep does not come.
He does not speak at once. He never forces conversation when silence is needed. Instead his hand rests lightly over yours where it lies between you, his thumb moving slowly across your knuckles in a rhythm meant more to soothe than to claim.
“You are troubled still,” he murmurs after a time, his voice low so as not to wake the child.
You hesitate, though not as you once would have. “I fear… I do not yet look as you remember.”
His hand stills only for a moment before he shifts closer, careful, giving you time to pull away if you wish. When you do not, he lifts his hand to your cheek, brushing away a strand of hair with such gentleness it tightens your throat more than any argument could have.
“I remember you as you are,” he says quietly. “Not as you were.”
His fingers trace slowly along your arm, not hurried, not expectant, simply present. The touch is warm and patient, and you feel the tension in your shoulders ease without realizing you held it. He waits at every movement, allowing you to guide the distance between you, until you lean nearer of your own accord.
You feel his hesitation when his hand comes to rest at your waist, as though he asks permission without words. When you do not pull away, he exhales softly, and his hand remains there, steady and reassuring.
Carefully, he presses a kiss to your temple, then to your cheek — not possessive, not seeking more than you offer, only reminding you of something familiar you had feared lost.
His hand moves lower, slow enough that you can stop him, resting lightly along your hip. You stiffen at first, instinctive self-consciousness rising again, but he pauses immediately.
“Tell me if you would have me stop,” he whispers.
You shake your head.
The coverlet shifts as he draws a little nearer, and his touch remains reverent, never lingering where you shrink from it, always waiting for your breathing to steady before continuing. When his hand brushes the faint lines along your skin you tense, but instead of withdrawing, he bends his head.
The kiss is light, almost weightless against your collarbone.
Then another.
He does not hurry, nor does he speak for a moment, as though the gesture itself must carry what words cannot. You feel his hand steady at your side, anchoring rather than claiming, and slowly the embarrassment you had braced for never comes. There is no surprise, no hesitation, no polite pretense.
Only tenderness.
“These are not flaws,” he murmurs softly against your skin. “They are part of the story we share.”
Your breath trembles, but you no longer pull away. The careful affection in his touch leaves no space for the fear you had nurtured in silence, and your hand rises of its own accord to his shoulder, holding him there rather than keeping distance.
When he looks up at you, he does not ask anything further.
You lean toward him first.
Your lips meet in a gentle kiss, causing you to sigh softly. The tenderness of his lips gently reminds you of his devotion. All too soon, he breaks off and moves his lips down your neck and onto your cleavage. His hands gently pull at your nightgown, slowly and hesitantly, as if waiting for you to protest, but you never do. Determined not to stop, he continues.
His hands glide along the familiar path — and you relish every moment. You don't focus on how your body may have changed; you focus on how good it feels.
His hands begin to explore your body with purposeful intent. He can feel the slight swell of your breasts, the gentle curve of your belly, the lush roundness of your hips. All evidence of the life you carried inside you, the child you bore for him. It only makes him desire you more.
With his hands, he slides your nightgown down. His lips follow the path of the fabric, kissing and nibbling your soft skin as it is revealed.
His large hands skim reverently over your body, mapping out every dip and curve. Calloused fingers trace the sides of your breasts, thumbs circling the sensitive peaks until they pebble under his touch. He palms the full globes, kneading gently as he lowers his head to lave one nipple with his tongue. Sucking it into his hot mouth, he flicks the bud with the tip of his tongue, sending jolts of pleasure straight to your core.
“Your body is a temple… Each change is a gift, a testament to your strength and beauty. Never doubt how much I adore you, in every way,” he gasps against your skin.
He releases your breast with a wet pop, trailing open-mouthed kisses across the valley of your cleavage to lavish the same attention on ist twin. His large hand splays across your lower belly, caressing the faint lines there with tenderness.
The feeling of his tongue on your nipples sends electric shocks through your body and you squirm with need, until he focuses his attention elsewhere. When he starts kissing your belly, your let out a shuddering sigh.
He gently kisses the faint lines, every one of them.
The sight of you, flushed and wanting beneath him, stirs his blood to boiling. His manhood swells, pressing insistently against your thigh as he continues his sensual assault on your flesh. He nuzzles into your stomach, peppering it with tender kisses.
He looks up at you from where he’s nestled between your thighs, his mismatched eyes blazing with hunger and something deeper, more primal.
“These marks are a badge of honor, my love… Proof of the miracle we created together. Our son, born of your womb, nurtured by your body. “
Leaning back on his heels, he slides your nightgown down your legs and tosses it aside.
Sliding further down, he nudges your legs apart, settling between them. His broad shoulders push your thighs wider as he gazes hungrily at your dripping sex.
You gasp sharply as he spreads your legs and expose your most intimate area to his hungry gaze. Your face flushes with embarrassment and arousal at the same time. No one has seen you like this since giving birth.
But immediately, he plants gentle kisses along your inner thighs, “So beautiful... so perfect...” he murmurs against your skin, making you whimper. And with no further preamble, he parts your lower lips, exposing your glistening pink flesh to the cool air. Leaning in, he drags the flat of his tongue along your slit in one slow, sensual stroke.
The musky-sweet flavor of your essence bursts on his tongue and he groans in approval.
Your sighs of ecstasy spur him on, driving him to please you, to claim you utterly with his mouth. His tongue delves between your slick folds, probing your entrance before flickering rapidly over the sensitive bundle of nerves at the apex.
But he can't take it anymore. With a soft pop, he release your clit and moves back up to hover over you. His breath is heavy and he spreads your legs a little more as he pulls down his smallclothes.
His hand slides along your thigh, gripping it gently as he rolls his hips. In this moment, he wants nothing more than to bring you pleasure, to show you how deeply he cherishes you.
“I need you, my love... I need to feel you,“ he pants and the rawness of this confession makes your heart stutter. After all these months without his touch or feeling him, you just have to feel him again.
“I need you,“ is all you can say, and he wouldn't dream of denying you. His hips roll again and the tip of his cock nudges your opening. Your eyes flutter as you follow his movements, your hands sliding up his arms and holding him tightly. Gripping himself at the base, he notches the blunt head of his member more against at your entrance, pushing forward slowly.
His hand mirrors your movement, gripping your thigh tighter as he slowly slides into you. Your slick heat engulfs him inch by excruciating inch until he’s fully sheathed within your tight sheath. He slides back home, making you gasp and whimper as that familiar stretch takes hold and fills you with an indescribable feeling of pleasure.
He groans, his forehead dropping to rest against yours as he savors the exquisite sensation of your walls gripping him like a velvet vise. He remains still, allowing you to adjust to his girth stretching you wide.
He captures your lips in a searing kiss, pouring all of his love and devotion into the embrace. Slowly, carefully, he begins to move, rolling his hips in a steady rhythm that allows you to adjust to his considerable girth stretching you open once more.
When he feels you relax beneath him and meet his movements, he begins to move more. Long, languid strokes that withdraw nearly completely before sinking back into your welcoming depths. He sets a steady pace, rolling his hips to grind against your sensitive pearl with each pass. Gathering your hand in his, he interlaces your fingers, holding it beside your head.
You can feel every ridge and vein of your cock as he slides in and out of you. It’s so different than before, but in a good way. More intense, more connected.
Your joined hands squeeze together as the tension mounts, your bodies moving in perfect sync. Sweat slicks our skin, making it easier to slide against each other. The obscene sound of flesh meeting flesh fills the room, punctuated by our shared moans of pleasure.
The feeling is overwhelming, and you can't get enough of it as he slides deeper with each movement, making your moans grow louder.
After all this time, he can barely bear to feel your walls clenching around him again, milking him for his seed. His scent fills your senses as you press your face into the crook of his neck, unable to resist leaving soft kisses as you pant against his skin.
That pressure, which you recognise so well, is already spreading through your abdomen—a sensation you've desired for so many nights—and Baelor appears to be aware of it. His hips thrust faster but still gently and purposefully as his hand slides between your legs. His movements are quick and precise on your sensitive pearl, causing you to clench tightly around him and moan, while he growls.
“Come for me, my love... show me how much you've missed this,“ he pants in your ear, and you cry out. Your hands wander over his body, sliding down his arms, shoulders, and back, trying to touch as much of him as possible — nothing is enough.
Then it snaps and your fingers scratch down his back, making him growl, while your walls flutter uncontrollably. Baelor follows immediately, his hips twitching. His eyes are tightly closed as the sensation flows through him, causing him to spill his seed deep inside you.
Your walls continue to flutter as he slowly slides in and out, pushing his seed deeper inside you where it belongs.
His movements slow until they finally still, and when he lifts his head to look at you, the world seems to narrow to the quiet space between you. For a moment neither of you speaks. The intensity of what has passed between you lingers in every breath, in the warmth of his hand against your skin, in the softness of the way he studies your face as though reassuring himself that you are truly there.
Your cheeks are still flushed, your hair loosened from its careful braids, and the crooked smile that slowly forms on his lips is gentler than any triumph. There is no pride in it, only quiet happiness—an unspoken understanding that something fragile between you has been mended.
You remain like that for a long moment, sharing the same breath, the same stillness.
At last he leans a little closer, his voice low and slightly unsteady.
“Never think that I could stop wanting you,” he murmurs. “Not now. Not ever.”
The tenderness in his words makes your throat tighten. You can only nod, your answering smile shy but certain as you lift your hand to his cheek.
Then you draw him back to you, your lips meeting his once more, soft and unhurried.
This time, no words are needed.
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I’m so happy that A knight of the seven has really brought popularity to the acting skills of Bertie Carvel! He’s of course amazing as Prince Baelor Targaryen.
If anyone knows me then they’d know that I’m a fiend for a detective show. I grew up watching Foyles war, murder she wrote and diagnosis murder. So when I saw the show Dalgliesh a couple years back I was proper intrigued. What’s not to like? A handsome poet detective who hates injustice and calls out behaviours towards women and minorities. With that I’m so excited more people are discovering this gem of a show (I will recommend the books and other adaptations). I only hope we get a few more seasons as there are some more books still left.
Anyways here’s a quick sketch of Adam Dalgliesh to tide you over.
