SUMMARY. Bucky Barnes doesn’t lose control. He doesn’t blur lines. But when his new sous chef looks at him differently, control doesn’t feel so important.
WORD COUNT. 17.8k (she’s biiiig, i’m sorry)
WARNINGS. workplace romance, age gap, power imbalance, lowk grump! bucky, switching povs, smut, lowkey love/lust at first sight, MDNI, 18+, male masturbation, oral (f receiving), soft dom! bucky, unprotected pnv, tit play, food play, public-ish sex, misogyny and sexism in workplace (not from Bucky or Steve), miscommunication, angst, no use of y/n.
Switching povs - Reader is always referred to in second person — you/your, Bucky is always referred to in third person — he/him.
Reader is able-bodied, has hair, has a scar on her right hand (needed for plot) from a kitchen accident. It’s mentioned a couple of times. Bucky doesn’t have a metal arm, there’s a scar instead.
Hierarchy in the kitchen goes like this — executive chef > head chef > sous chef >>> line cooks. ‘Pass’ is the area/counter where finished dishes are kept to be picked up.
NOTES. Baby’s first collab yayy. I am beyond excited to participate in the Bucky’s dream house collab with these amazingly talented authors of the @stantastic-association. Thank you @miraclediviner for organising this and making it a reality and a success. I’ll always adore you. Also thank you for the ‘scar on Bucky’s arm’ idea, I owe you baby. Ilysm ❤️
READ ON AO3
BUCKY’S DREAM HOUSE MASTERLIST
Brooklyn's Taste opened three years ago on a Sunday when it wouldn't stop raining.
Bucky remembers standing outside in the downpour at 4 in the morning, staring at the sign above the door thinking he was going to throw up. Steve had been next to him, soaked through his jacket, grinning like an idiot. "We did it," Steve had said.
Bucky hadn't been able to say anything back.
Now the restaurant has three Michelin stars and a six-month wait list, and Bucky still feels like throwing up most mornings. Different reasons, though. Now, it comes from wanting something so badly it hurts, from knowing he has it and being terrified he will fuck it up.
He's got plans. Big ones. A whole chain of them someday, Brooklyn's Taste locations in every major city, his name synonymous with the best food anyone would ever put in their mouth.
It keeps him up at night. The planning. The obsessing. The constant loop of what if and what next. That and the fact he can't turn his brain off, ever.
5.30 AM and Bucky's already awake, lying in bed watching shadows move across his ceiling. The apartment's quiet except for Alpine purring somewhere near his feet. She's a small white ball of fur he found five years ago outside his previous workplace. Back when Brooklyn's Taste was still a fantasy and he was working himself half to death at some other asshole's kitchen. She'd been a tiny rain-soaked bundle, hissing and scared. He'd scooped her right up and taken her home. Now she's the only thing in his life that doesn't stress him out.
His phone buzzes on the nightstand.
Steve: You up?
Bucky: Yeah
Steve: Coffee in 10
Steve's got a key to the apartment, has had one since Bucky moved in three years ago. The place is right above the restaurant. It stays sleek and minimal, Bucky's never home long enough to decorate. There's a couch, a bed, a kitchen he barely uses. Photos on one wall. Him and Steve through the years, the night they got their first, second and third stars, Alpine in a patch of sunlight.
Everything else is downstairs.
True to his word, Steve lets himself in ten minutes later with coffees and a bag of bagels. He looks annoyingly awake for this hour. "You look like shit," Steve says, setting everything on the counter.
"Thanks."
"When's the last time you slept more than five hours?"
Bucky doesn't dignify that with an answer. Taking his coffee, he drinks it black.
Alpine's already abandoned him for Steve. The traitor. She's perched between his legs and purring loud enough to echo in the quiet apartment.
"You need to hire someone for the sous position," Steve says, pulling out a bagel. "We're drowning."
"I know."
"Interviews are today, right?"
"Yeah." Bucky grimaces. He hates interviews. Hates the whole song and dance of it, sitting across from people who think they want to work in a Michelin kitchen but have no idea what they're signing up for. Half of them quit within a month. "Got three lined up."
"Try not to scare them off this time."
"I don't scare people off."
Steve gives him a look. The one that says 'you absolutely do and you know it.'
They eat in comfortable silence, comes from knowing someone since you were kids.
Steve's been there through everything. The shitty apartment in Brooklyn when they were teenagers, culinary school, the restaurants that fired Bucky for having a mouth on him, the ones that kept him because he was too good to let go. When Bucky said he wanted to open his own place, Steve had been the first one to say 'I'm in.'
Now Steve runs the kitchen when Bucky can't. Head chef. The person Bucky trusts more than anyone.
"You think about seeing anyone?" Steve asks suddenly.
Bucky nearly chokes on his coffee. It's too much talk for this early morning. "What?"
"You know. Dating. Relationships. Human connection, the sorts."
"Fuck off."
"I'm serious." Steve's leaning against the counter, doing his concerned best friend routine. "When's the last time you went on a date?"
Bucky thinks about it. There was that girl three years ago, the one who'd lasted maybe a week before she got tired of him canceling plans because of the restaurant. Then a few one-night things that hadn't gone anywhere because Bucky couldn't turn his brain off long enough to pretend he cared about anything other than work.
Now it's been... a while. Long enough that his right hand and some website with questionable production value have become his primary source of release.
"I don't have time for that shit," Bucky mutters.
"You mean you won't make time."
"Same thing."
"It's really —"
"Steve." Bucky sets his coffee down, runs a hand through his hair. It's getting long, past his neck now. He should cut it. "The restaurant is the priority. You know that."
"I know you're gonna burn out if you don't let yourself have something outside of this place."
"I have Alpine."
"Your cat doesn't count."
Alpine meows, like she's offended.
They drop it after that, but Bucky can feel Steve watching him as they head downstairs.
The kitchen's dark and cold, stainless steel gleaming when Bucky hits the lights. This is his favorite part of the day. Before anyone else shows up, when it's quiet and full of possibility.
The kitchen starts filling up around seven. Line cooks filter in one by one, tying aprons and prepping their stations. Bucky watches from his spot near the pass, drinking more coffee, mentally preparing for service. Lunch is in a few hours. Then the interviews. Then dinner service.
Then he'll go upstairs and do it all over again tomorrow.
"You ever think about what you'd be doing if you weren't here?" Bucky asks Steve, the question coming out of nowhere.
Steve glances up from where he's working. "No. Why?"
"I don't know. Sometimes I think about it. Like what if I'd done something else."
"You'd be miserable."
"Probably."
"Definitely." A grin works up into Steve's face. "You're not built for anything other than this, Buck. It's like — you know how some people are good at things? You were made for this. Big difference."
Bucky wants to argue, but he can't.
Steve's right.
The kitchen is the only place that's ever made sense to him. The only place he doesn't have to explain himself or apologize for being intense or obsessive. Everyone here gets it. They're all a little fucked up, all chasing the same high of a perfect plate, a perfect service, a perfect night.
Brooklyn's Taste is his baby. His dream. The thing he's wanted since he was a kid watching cooking shows and thinking 'I could do that better.'
And he has.
The three Michelin stars prove it.
The first two interviews are disasters.
One guy shows up in a wrinkled shirt, can't answer basic questions about technique, kept calling Bucky 'boss' like they're on a construction site.
The second one's a girl fresh out of culinary school who talks about her 'passion for the craft' but goes quiet when Bucky asks her to describe how she'd handle a dinner rush.
By the time the second one leaves, Bucky's temple is throbbing.
He's got one more. Some girl from New England Culinary Institute, resume says she's done time at Rolo's and Per Se. Probably another disaster waiting to happen. He's subconsciously drafting the text to Steve: we're fucked, none of them can do it.
There's a knock on the door. "Come in," Bucky calls, not looking up from where he's scribbling notes.
The door opens followed by footsteps, quieter than the last two. Someone settling into the chair across from his desk.
"Give me a second," he mutters.
"Sure."
Something about your voice makes him look up.
Oh.
Oh.
You're pretty. That's the first thing his brain registers, and it is completely unhelpful. The second thing is that you're sitting there with perfect posture, hands folded in your lap, looking directly at him without that nervous energy the other two had. There's a defiance about it, like you're daring him to find fault.
Your resume's in front of him. He glances down at it, then back up at you. "You worked at Per Se," he states.
"For a year."
"Why'd you leave?"
"Wanted something smaller, more control over what I was doing. Plus the exec chef there was kind of an asshole."
Bucky almost laughs. Almost. "And you think I'm not?"
"You probably are. But at least you're an asshole about things that matter."
That does make him laugh.
You've read about him. Obviously. There's this way you hold yourself, confident without being cocky. Like you know exactly what you're worth and aren't interested in pretending otherwise. "What are you looking for in this position?"
"Honestly? A place that gives a shit. I'm tired of working in kitchens where it's all about the image and none of the substance. I want to make food that matters."
Bucky's quiet for a moment. That's... exactly what he would've said. Word for word.
"You know what it's like here." It's not a question. "Three stars means three times the pressure. Every plate has to be perfect. Every service. There's no room for error."
"I know."
"Most people quit all the time because they can't handle it."
"I'm not most people."
Bucky should laugh at this, send you out. If anyone else would've said this, he would've laughed. But there's a challenge in the way you say it, he feels something. Interest, maybe. Curiosity. Something he hasn't felt in a while when it comes to potential hires. "Why do you want to work here specifically?" Bucky prodes.
"Because I've eaten here twice. Both times I left thinking about the food for weeks. That doesn't happen often… Also because I want to learn from someone who actually knows what they're doing."
Flattery. But you say it like you mean it.
Bucky's eyes drop to your resume again, scanning the details he'd already read three times. Rolo's, Per Se, a semester in Paris. All good signs. He should ask more questions, grill you on technique, on how you'd handle specific situations, on —
"What happened to your arm?"
That startles and amuses him in equal measure. You're looking at his left forearm, where the scar runs from wrist to elbow, impossible to miss. He did not expect that. "Kitchen accident. Culinary school. Vapour burn."
Everyone has looked at him with pity. Not you. You're looking at it with something closer to understanding. Like you've got your own scars hidden somewhere.
"Does it hurt?" you ask.
"Sometimes."
"When you're stressed?"
Bucky's eyes bore into yours. That's when it hurts. How the fuck did you —
"I've got one on my hand," you say, holding up your right hand. There's a broad scar across your palm. "Culinary school too. Partner spilled oil on my hand. Happens when I'm tired."
There's an intimacy in this, trading scars like secrets. Bucky doesn't talk about his arm, doesn't like when people ask. Where people have been looking at him like fragile and broken, you look at him like you get it.
"You start Monday," he hears himself say.
"What?"
"Monday. 7 AM. Don't be late."
A slow smile spreads across your face, Bucky notices it more than he should. "I won't be."
Standing abruptly, you extend your hand across the desk. Bucky takes it, your palm warm against his, the slight ridge of the thickened skin. When you pull away, he can still feel the ghost of your touch.
"Thank you, Chef." You walk away with footsteps as soft as they were when you entered.
Bucky sits there for a full minute after you're gone, staring at the door.
If there's a worst day to wake up late, it's Thursday. And Bucky wakes up late on a Thursday. Steve's day off, which means the kitchen is running without either of them there, chaos ensuing already.
He checks his phone — 8:47 AM, fuck — and rolls out of bed, ready to practically run down the stairs. Alpine meows as he rushes past without noticing her.
The kitchen would be a disaster. People scrambling, stations a mess, someone probably crying in the walk-in. Bucky is expecting the worst.
Instead, it's... fine?
Everyone's at their station, prepping quietly. There's music playing low in the background. Was that Jazz in his kitchen?
Standing near the pass, organizing tickets that haven't even come in yet, is you. Unfazed expression on your face when you greet him, "Morning, Chef."
"What —"
"Deliveries came in an hour ago. I checked everything, sent back the fish because the eyes were cloudy. Produce is good."
"It's your second day."
"Third, technically. But who's counting." Your mouth tips, just a little, Bucky notices, though he shouldn't.
"How did you —"
"I got here at six. Figured I'd get a head start."
Six in the morning. On your third day. When you could've slacked off, could've waited for someone to tell you what to do.
Bucky's eyes land on your lips, not knowing what to say.
"Coffee?" You bring him back to reality.
"What?"
"Do you want coffee? You look like you need it."
He does. Desperately. "Yeah. Thanks."
You pour him a cup from the pot near the pass, hand it to him. Your fingers brush his for half a second, Bucky loses sight of his thoughts, the touch electric enough to freeze his brain.
"Sugar?"
"Black's fine."
"Of course it is." You're smiling again. Bucky's starting to realize that your smile is dangerous. Makes him forget what he was thinking about. Again.
"Chef, can you taste this?" Bucky's elbow-deep in prep when you appear next to him with a spoon in front of his face, with some kind of herb sauce pooled in it. You're holding it at mouth level, like this is completely normal.
Bucky eyes go from you — your face —, to the spoon, and then back to you. "What are you doing?"
You look confused by the question, head tilting slightly, which will drive him insane if you keep doing it.
The distance between you is too close, close enough that he can smell your shampoo, that same scent that's been distracting him all week. The spoon is still hovering in front of his mouth, attached to you looking at him like he's the one being weird here.
"I can —" He gestures vaguely at the spoon.
"Oh." A shy but sheepish smile blooms on your face, he has to press his lips together so he doesn't mirror it right back. "Sorry, at my last place we always just —"
The explanation makes sense. He knows of places that do it like this. But nobody's ever done it here because Bucky's never allowed it. The thought of someone just… feeding him feels too intimate for a professional kitchen.
But there's no attempt on your part to give him the spoon. The expression in your eyes is soft, makes him confused and mad and wants to let you do whatever you want.
"Right. Yeah. Okay." Just as he leans forward, you lift the spoon to meet him, his mouth. The movement is simple, but Bucky's heart is erratic in his chest. Your fingers are right there, practically brushing his chin. He can see the small scar on your palm.
The sauce hits his tongue and he forgets to think for a second. It's good. Really fucking good. Makes him want another taste immediately.
Pulling the spoon back, you watch his face, like if you do it with intent, you might be able to figure out his thoughts. Bucky really hopes you can't because most of them involve how pretty you look when you're nervous.
"Well?"
"It's good… really good. What'd you put in it?"
You rattle out an endless number of herbs and spices, which does not reach Bucky's ears. He can only see that you're smiling now, pleased with yourself. Somehow, that's even worse for his concentration. "I wasn't sure if you'd like it."
Bucky's brain helpfully supplies that he'd probably like anything you made, which is a deeply unhelpful — not to mention inappropriate — thought to have about his new sous chef. "It's perfect. Use it for the chicken tonight."
"Really?"
"Really."
You're beaming at him now. Bucky needs you to stop doing that immediately. He's supposed to be professional and not think about how your whole face lights up when you smile.
"Thank you, Chef." You turn to walk away and Bucky's brain finally catches up with what just happened. You fed him. With a spoon. Like it was nothing. And he took it. Like he was your golden retriever.
"Wait," he calls before he can stop himself.
You turn to look at him.
"Don't —" How does he phrase this without sounding insane? "The spoon thing. You're not putting that back in the sauce, right?"
Amusement coats your face as you try to mask a laugh. "Of course not. That would be a health code violation."
"Right. J-Just checking." Did he just fucking stutter?
You're definitely laughing at him now, he can see it in your eyes even though you're still trying to hide it. "Don't worry, Chef. I know how kitchens work."
Bucky's left standing there like an idiot trying to remember what he was doing before you appeared with your spoon and your smile and your complete disregard for his sanity.
"You good, Buck?" Steve materializes at his elbow, with the knowing look on his face that Bucky doesn't appreciate.
"Fine."
"You've been staring at the same onion for like thirty seconds."
Bucky looks down. He has, in fact, been staring at an onion for thirty seconds. "I'm thinking."
"About onions?"
"About the menu."
"The menu. That's what you're thinking about." Steve's definitely smirking now.
"Fuck off."
"Just saying, she's good."
"I know she's good. I hired her."
"That's not what I —" Steve stops, that grin getting wider. "Yeah, okay. Sure. The food's good, alright."
Bucky finishes his notes, checks the walk-in one more time, makes sure everything's locked down for the night. The kitchen empties out slowly. He can hear voices from the changing room, people saying goodnight, the back door opening and closing as they filter out into the cold.
He's putting his jacket on when you emerge. The first thing he notices is that you've changed. Obviously. You're in jeans now and an extremely thin sweater, with your hair down instead of tied back. You look different like this. Softer. Without the chef's whites, without anything to hide yourself behind.
The second thing he notices — and fuck, he really wishes he hadn't — is that it's cold in the kitchen. The sweater you're wearing is thin, and your nipples are hard.
Bucky's eyes drop before he can stop them. The sweater's fitted enough that he can see the outline clearly, and his brain just... stops working. Everything narrows down to that one detail, that one absolutely inappropriate thing he should not be looking at. He coughs, tries to hide that he wasn't looking at your tits, and looks away.
You're slinging your bag over your shoulder, completely oblivious. "Goodnight, Chef. It was a great day."
"Yeah. Goodnight."
You walk past him toward the back door, that clean, light shampoo mixed with the lingering smell of the kitchen reaches his nose.
The door opens, letting in a blast of cold air, and then you're gone.
Bucky stands there in the empty kitchen, staring at nothing. His pants are getting tight. "Fuck."
This is bad. This is really fucking bad. He's got a hard-on for his sous chef, the woman he hired less than a week ago, the one who's been nothing but professional and competent. And the one who's completely unaware that she's driving him insane.
You're at least ten years younger than him. Probably more. Way too young for him to be standing here with his dick hard just because he saw the hard outline of your nipples through your sweater. He's too old for this shit, too old to be crushing on someone like a fucking teenager.
But no.
Bucky adjusts himself. He needs to go upstairs. Maybe take a cold shower to forget this ever happened. He has to get his shit together before he does something monumentally stupid. Locking up, he heads upstairs to his apartment, thankful Steve wasn't there to witness any of that.
Alpine's waiting for him on the couch, curled up in a little ball. "Don't look at me like that," Bucky mutters.
She doesn't look at him at all.
Bucky strips off his jacket and shirt, heads to the bathroom. The shower has to be ice cold, to kill whatever this is before it becomes a problem.
But he shoves his pants and boxers down in record speed, and his hand's already on his cock.
Fuck it.
He's has been half-hard since the kitchen, and it takes almost nothing to get fully there. When he closes his eyes, he sees you, in that sweater, the outline of your nipples, hard from the cold. He wonders what they'd look like without the sweater, without anything.
His hand moves faster on his dick. He imagines peeling that sweater off you. You'd be in just your jeans, bare from the waist up. Your nipples would be hard peaks, he thinks. Taut and hard, begging to be touched, to be sucked. "Fuck."
In his head, you're in his apartment, on his bed, looking at him with that same defiant confidence you had in the interview, daring him to touch you. He'd start with his hands, palms cupping your tits, thumbs brushing over your nipples until you gasped. And then he'd use his mouth, tongue flicking over each peak, sucking them until you were squirming beneath him.
Would you be loud? Or quiet? Would you arch into his touch or try to stay composed?
His grip tightens. He's leaking slick now, desperate to blow. He imagines you on your knees. That's what breaks him, the thought of you looking up at him with those eyes while you take him in your mouth, those perfect lips wrapped around his cock, tongue doing things that should be illegal.
Or maybe you'd be on your back, legs spread, letting him taste you. He'd make you come on his tongue first. Wouldn't even touch himself, just focus on you, on making you fall apart.
Then he'd fuck you. Slow at first, just to watch your face. Then harder when you ask for it. And you would ask for it, he's sure of that. You're not the type to stay quiet about what you want.
The image of you underneath him, your nipples hard against his chest, your breath coming in gasps —
Bucky comes with a groan, spilling over his hand and onto the floor. The orgasm hits hard enough that his knees almost buckle, that he has to brace himself against the wall. He just stands there, breathing hard, covered in his own cum.
Then reality crashes back in. He just jerked off thinking about his sous chef. The woman who works for him, who trusts him to be professional. "Fuck."
The water's cold. He stands under the spray and tries to figure out what the fuck he's going to do. This isn't going away. Whatever this is — this desperate want, this intense need — it's not going to disappear just because he got off once. If anything, it's worse now. Now that he knows what it feels like to imagine you, to picture you in his hands.
Bucky has been in a shit mood all day, snapping at people for things that wouldn't normally bother him. The fish is fine but he sends it back. When a line cook asks him a question, he bites their head off. Steve keeps giving him looks from across the kitchen, which says 'what crawled up your ass and died', but Bucky ignores him.
The problem is that he jerked off last night thinking about you. Now every time he looks at you, his brain goes straight back to that moment in the shower, and he hates himself for it.
You're his sous chef. His employee. Off limits in about a hundred different ways. Still doesn't stop his dick from getting interested every time you walk past him though.
Service goes fine. Better than fine, actually. You're good at your job. Great, even. And that somehow makes it worse. Now he can't even pretend you're incompetent to convince himself to not want you.
Post-service debrief happens in the kitchen like always. Everyone gathers around, tired and wired, waiting for Bucky to tell them what they fucked up and how exactly. He's halfway through talking about the timing on table two when he realizes you're not there. Bucky stops mid-sentence, scanning the group. "Where's my sous?"
Everyone looks around. Blank faces.
"She was here like two minutes ago," Steve offers.
"Well she's not here now. Nobody leaves before the debrief. That's the rule."
"Maybe she went to the bathroom?" one of the line cooks suggests.
"I don't care if she had to take a piss. She waits."
Steve gives him another look. Bucky ignores it and finishes the debrief quickly, distracted now, annoyed that you'd just disappear without saying anything. That's not like you. You've been nothing but professional since you started. "Alright, we're done. Good work tonight." He dismisses everyone and heads for the back door, needing air and also needing to figure out where the hell you went.
The cold hits him immediately when he steps out. And there you are standing with your back to him, still in your whites. Bucky's about to lose his shit.
You missed the debrief to stand outside?
"Are you fucking serious right now?" The words come out harder than he's ever used with you. "You just left?"
When you turn around, Bucky's brain stutters to a halt because Alpine's in your arms.
There's genuine panic on your face. "I'm sorry. She — She almost got into the kitchen and I didn't know what to do. I couldn't just let her walk in there."
Fuck, you weren't ditching the debrief. You were keeping his cat from causing about fifteen health code violations.
"I — Shit. I'm sorry. I didn't — I shouldn't have yelled at you." Bucky can see that Alpine's purring, completely content in your arms.
You're holding her carefully, one hand under her butt and the other supporting her back. "It's okay. I should've told someone, but she was about to go through the door and I just grabbed her."
"No, you did the right thing." Bucky's close enough now that he can see the way the cold has settled on your eyelashes. "I'm sorry I screamed at you."
"You didn't scream."
"I raised my voice."
"Barely." You smile a little, Alpine headbutts your chin. "Besides, I get it. The debrief's important."
"Not more important than —" Bucky gestures at Alpine. "You probably saved me from getting shut down."
A soft laugh leaves you. "I wouldn't let that happen to you, Chef." There's no hesitation in your voice, none at all. It catches him off guard, tight, right in his chest.
"She's really sweet." You're scratching under Alpine's chin. "I didn't know you had a cat."
"Yeah. Five years now."
"What's her name?"
"It's a he," Bucky doesn't know why he says that, only that he can't help himself, a smile slipping past.
"Wait, he?" You look down at Alpine, mortified now. "Oh my god, I'm so sorry. I saw the white fur and just assumed —"
"I'm kidding." Bucky's full-on grinning, a rarity. "It is a she. Her name's Alpine."
"Oh. You're terrible."
"Sorry."
"Nope. You're not."
Alpine meows, and you adjust your grip on her. She's not a small cat, Bucky's been feeding her too much. He can see the way you're starting to struggle with her weight. "You must be freezing," he says. He just wants you to get you in first, take Alpine off your hands. But his eyes drift lower. Can't help it. Your whites are barely thicker than that sweater from yesterday, but it's still cold enough here that he'd be able to tell if —
Nope. No. Fuck. Not doing this again.
"I'm okay," you say.
"You're in kitchen whites. Those aren't meant for standing outside in the cold."
"I've survived worse."
Bucky wants to ask what that means, wants to know everything about you actually, but Alpine chooses that moment to squirm in your arms. "I can take her… If she's getting heavy."
You pull back like you're offended, your acting mediocre at best. "Excuse me? Heavy? You take that back right now."
"What?"
"She's perfect. She's the perfect amount of chunky." There's a smile on your lips, and Alpine's looking between you both like she's enjoying this.
"I didn't —"
"No, the damage is done. Alpine and I are very offended."
"Are you two ganging up on me?" Bucky laughs. He can't help it. You're standing there in the freezing cold, holding his cat, giving him shit about calling her heavy, and he's laughing for the second time today. Both times because of you.
Alpine's staring at you with this dreamy expression, the same one she gives Bucky when she wants treats. Looks like he's not the only one developing a crush. "She likes you."
"Yeah?"
"Yeah. She doesn't usually take to people this fast."
"Well I'm very likable." You say it with a straight face. Bucky has to bite back another smile.
The back door opens and Steve sticks his head out. "Oh good, you found her." When he sees Alpine, his eyebrows go up. "What's Alpine doing out here?"
"Almost went into the kitchen. She caught her," Bucky explains.
Steve looks between you and Bucky, sort of an understanding crossing his face. "Right. Well, I'm heading out. You two should too. It's late and we've got an early morning."
"Yeah, just — give me a sec."
Steve's smirking as he goes back inside. Bucky knows he's going to hear about this tomorrow. When the door closes, it's just you, Bucky and Alpine in the cold. "He's right though. You should get home. It's late."
"Yeah… here." You seem reluctant, but you step closer to hand Alpine over. The transfer is awkward. Your hands brush his as you manoeuvre the cat between you, and Alpine protests the movement with a loud meow. For a second you're both holding her, your fingers tangled with his in her fur, close enough that Bucky can smell your shampoo again. Then Alpine's in his arms and you're stepping back. "Goodnight, Chef."
Bucky just nods. Anything else feels like it'd come out wrong.
The door swings shut behind you, the sound lingering in the quiet, as you head back inside. He's still standing, Alpine heavy in his arms, her tail flicking lazily against his chest like nothing just happened. Bucky exhales, a soft sigh, shifts his grip on her without really thinking about it. He can still feel the warmth where your hands brushed his a second ago, like it didn't quite leave with you. "I'm so fucked," he mutters, more to the cold air than anything else.
Alpine just purrs, completely unbothered. "Yeah, real helpful," he adds, scratching under her chin anyway.
Rushing back to his apartment, he makes a beeline to the window. But you're already gone. The buzzing of his phone brings him back to the room.
Steve: You're in trouble
Bucky: Fuck off
Steve: She's pretty
Steve: And she saved alpine
Steve: And you looked at her like she hung the moon
Bucky: I said fuck off
Steve: Good luck buddy
He's not attracted to you. He's not. You're his sous chef and you're young and you're off-limits and he's not doing this. But…
You're working on your station, breaking down vegetables for the service, when you catch movement in your peripheral vision. Bucky's at the stove testing a new recipe — you think —, his sleeves are pushed to his elbows. Forearms are on full display, tanned and muscular with veins running up under the skin and disappearing into the fabric bunched at his arms. There's the scar, cutting across his left arm. When he stirs the pan, his forearm flexes, the tendons shifting under skin, distracting you from whatever the hell you were just doing.
You've seen arms before. You work in a kitchen. Everyone's got their sleeves rolled up and everyone's got arms.
But this is different. This is Bucky's arms, and you're staring like you've never seen a man cook before in your entire life. He reaches for something on the shelf above the stove, the muscle making its existence known again. You almost make a noise.
But Bucky glances over and your eyes meet.
Did you moan out loud in the kitchen? Fuck.
He caught you. He absolutely caught you staring at his arms like some kind of pervert, eyebrows doing that thing where it quirks up slightly. Turning the heat down, he starts walking towards you. Your heart's trying to break out of your ribcage.
"You good?" he stops right next to your station. Close. Too close.
"Yeah. Yep. Totally fine." The words make their way out faster than it needs to be.
"You sure? You look a little flustered."
"It's hot in here."
He's not even pretending he doesn't know. "Is it? Could've sworn we fixed the ventilation."
"Must be coming down with something."
"Right." Bucky leans against the counter, crossing his arms to the front. That just makes it worse because now the veins are even more pronounced. "You were staring."
"I wasn't —"
"You were definitely staring."
Your mouth opens and closes, brain scrambling for literally anything to say that won't make this worse. "You have veins."
Bucky's eyelashes do a slow dance as he blinks, like he didn't hear you right. "What?"
"Veins. On your arms. They're very — I've never noticed them before. The veins, I mean. I've noticed your arms obviously because you have arms, everyone has arms, but the veins specifically are —" You're spiraling. You know you're spiraling, can't stop though. "It's the lighting in here. Makes them more visible. Or maybe you're dehydrated? You should drink more water. Hydration is important —"
Bucky leans in, close enough that his breath ghosts across your ear, making your entire body go rigid. "You're just digging your grave deeper, sweetheart."
Like he didn't just stop your heart, he's gone. Walks back to the stove, leaving you standing there holding a knife and a half-cut carrot, unable to move.
Service is a blur. You go through the motions, with your brain stuck on the way Bucky's voice sounded in your ear. Sweetheart. He called you sweetheart.
That's not a chef thing. That's a thing thing.
By the time service ends and the kitchen's cleaned down, you're wound so tight you might snap. You change quickly, needing to get out of here before you do something fucking dumb.
Like jump your boss.
You're heading for the back door when you hear footsteps behind you.
"Hey."
When you turn, Bucky's there. Changed out of his whites, wearing jeans and a dark henley that you immediately want to take off. "Hey."
"You rushing off?"
"Just — long day."
"Yeah." He's got his hands in his pockets, there's a nervousness about the gesture, kind of insane because Bucky Barnes doesn't get nervous. "So — uh — Alpine misses you."
If there's a loading screen on your brain, you just wish it doesn't show up on your face. "What?"
"Alpine. She's been sitting by the door all week waiting for you to come back."
"That so?" You can't help but smile.
"Yeah. Won't stop meowing about it." He shifts his weight, you wonder ig he really is nervous. "Thought maybe you could come say hi? If you're not too tired."
This is a terrible idea. You know it's a terrible idea. Going to Bucky's apartment, alone, is possibly the worst decision you could make. But there's no hesitation when you answer, "sure."
Bucky's face breaks into an expression you've never seen on him. Relief? "Yeah?"
"Yeah. I mean, can't leave Alpine hanging."
"Right. For Alpine."
"For Alpine," you repeat.
There's a beat where you both just stand there.
"C'mon… She's upstairs."
You follow him through the kitchen and up the back stairs you've never been allowed to use before, the ones that lead to his apartment. Your heart's pounding so hard you're surprised he can't hear it.
Bucky unlocks the door and pushes it open, stepping aside to let you in first. The apartment is somehow exactly what you expected. Minimal with large windows overlooking the street, couch, a kitchen that looks barely used, and some photos on the wall. It doesn't help that it smells like him. "It's nice," you say.
"It's —"
Alpine comes tearing around the corner, meowing loudly, making a beeline straight for you.
"Oh my god, hi baby." You crouch down as she headbutts your hand. "Did you miss me? I missed you too."
Bucky's watching you with this expression you can't read, soft and a little awed. "She really did miss you."
"I can tell." Alpine flops onto her back, demanding belly rubs, you comply immediately. "She's perfect. Aren't you perfect? Yes you are."
"I'm starting to think she likes you more than me."
"Well, I am very likable."
"So you've mentioned."
"Bears repeating." You scratch under Alpine's chin as she stretches out longer, completely blissed out. "So, does she have a story?"
"Found her outside a restaurant."
"And she just — came home with you?"
"She didn't have much choice. Was soaking wet and scared." Bucky moves to the kitchen. There's the sound of cabinets opening. "She hissed at me for like three days straight. Eventually she warmed up. Now she's spoiled rotten."
"As she should be. You're living your best life, aren't you sweetie?"
When you glance up, Bucky's leaning against the kitchen counter with two glasses of water, watching you play with his cat, the usual look in his eyes replaced by softness.
"What?" you ask.
"Nothing." He crosses the room and hands you a glass. "You looked thirsty."
"Thanks." Your fingers brush when you take it, the electric feeling you've been feeling shoots up your arm.
Bucky sits on the floor next to you instead of on the couch, close enough that your shoulders are almost touching. "She never does this with anyone else."
"Does what?"
"The belly rub thing. She barely tolerates Steve."
"Maybe she has good taste."
"That she does."
Alpine rolls over to climb into your lap, circling twice before settling. The weight of her is warm and grounding.
"I think you've been claimed," Bucky smiles, it makes him look younger.
"I'm okay with that."
You're sitting on the floor of your boss' apartment with his cat in your lap, with him close enough to touch. An excuse to flee the scene should be on the tip of your tongue. The reality is anything but as you find yourself leaning into Alpine more.
"Can I ask you something?" Bucky's voice is careful.
"Mhmm."
"Earlier. In the kitchen… What were you looking at?"
"I —"
"Because you were definitely looking at something."
"I wasn't — okay, yes. I was looking." You can't bring yourself to meet his eyes. "Your arms. The veins. It's — you were cooking and your sleeves were up and I don't know, it was distracting."
"Distracting," he repeats, like he's pleased with your answer.
"Don't."
"Don't what?"
"Sound so smug about it."
"I'm not smug."
"You're absolutely smug right now."
Bucky laughs, and you risk a glance at him. He's closer than you thought. Close enough that you can feel warmth radiating off him, smell him, see those little flecks of grey in his blue eyes.
"For what it's worth, I think it's cute." His voice is barely a whisper.
"What is?"
"That you were staring. That you got all flustered, started rambling about hydration."
"I wasn't rambling."
"You were definitely rambling."
"I was making valid points about water intake —"
Alpine pads off toward her food bowl, offended she's not getting enough attention, leaving you and Bucky sitting on the floor with nothing between you. The space feels smaller suddenly, or maybe he feels closer. You're hyperaware of every detail, how he's looking at you, how his hand is resting on his knee just inches from yours, how you're alone with him in his space and your brain won't shut up about it.
When Bucky shifts, your eyes drop to his mouth without permission. You look back up to see he's staring at your lips too. "Can I —" He gulps, building courage. "Can I kiss you?"
"Yes." It comes out way too fast, borderline desperate, but you can't seem to care.
One second, you're a safe distance apart and the next, his hand is cupping your jaw and he's kissing you.
Oh god, he's kissing you.
His lips are soft, sure. It's everything you've been thinking about for weeks. You kiss him back, probably too eager, definitely too hungry, and he makes this low noise in his throat that goes straight between your legs. His other hand finds your waist, pulling you closer. You go willingly, let him tilt your head exactly how he wants it, let him kiss you deeper, let him take whatever he needs. When he pulls back, you're both breathing hard.
"Fuck. I've wanted to do that for weeks." He kisses you again, shorter this time. "Since the interview."
"You hired me and immediately wanted to kiss me?"
"Something like that."
"That's very unprofessional, Chef."
"Don't care." He's moving before you can answer, hauling you up and then higher, until your balance goes and you're grabbing onto him just to steady yourself.
"Bucky — I — "
"Bedroom," is all he says as he carries you down the hall.
He sets you down on the bed — his bed — and immediately his mouth is on yours again, kissing you like he'll die if he stops. His hands find the hem of your sweater, breaking the kiss just long enough to pull it over your head. "Lie down."
You obey. You'd probably do anything he asked right now.
Bucky follows you onto the bed, settling between your legs as he starts kissing down your neck, sucking little marks into your skin, dragging his mouth over your collarbones and the soft swell between your breasts. His hands work your jeans open, you lift your hips to help him slide them down.
"These too," his fingers hook into your underwear. A soft whimper slips out of you, making him smirk. He strips them off and tosses them somewhere behind him. He's pressing hot, open mouthed kisses up the inside of your thighs, stubble scraping your skin as he works higher toward your aching pussy.
Your brain finally catches up to what's about to happen. "Oh my god."
"Relax," Bucky murmurs against your skin. "Let me take care of you." His breath ghosts over where you're already wet for him, your hips bucking into his face involuntarily.
The first slow, filthy drag of his tongue through your slick folds makes you gasp, back bowing off the bed. He groans like you taste good, like this is doing something for him too, then he's devouring your cunt with single-minded hunger, tongue fucking deep before switching to tight circles on your clit.
Your hands fly to his hair, tangling in the strands. That doesn't faze him in anyway, he just keeps working you with his tongue, alternating between broad strokes and tight circles that make your thighs shake.
He pulls back just enough to speak. "Fuck, your pussy tastes so goddamn good, sweetheart." His mouth attaches to your clit this time, making you cry out. He's ruthless about it, sucking hard on your swollen clit while his tongue lashes it. When you try to close your legs at the overwhelming sensation, he keeps them spread with his hands on your thighs, holding you exactly where he wants you.
"I can't — Buck — It's too much —"
"You can take it. C'mon, baby. Let me feel you cum."
Two fingers slide inside your soaked cunt. It's immediate how your breath stutters to come to a halt, the tight coil in your belly snapping without warning, pleasure rolling through you in waves while Bucky works you through it with his mouth and fingers. It goes on forever, ebbing and flowing, until you're boneless.
When you can finally think again, Bucky's kissing his way back up your body, chin wet with your slick, looking at you like you're the best thing he's ever seen.
When he kisses you this time, you can taste yourself on his tongue, impossibly hot. Your hands find his shirt and start pulling at it. "Off. This needs to be off."
Bucky sits back and yanks it over his head in one smooth motion, and you get your first full look at his chest. Broad and muscled with a trail of dark hair leading down to what you most want now.
He's working his jeans open now, shoving them down his hips along with his boxers. His cock is rock hard, flushed, and leaking precum at the tip.
"Oh my god."
"What?" He's smirking.
"That's — you're —" Your brain's stopped working again.
Bucky wraps a hand around himself and gives a slow stroke, and you watch like you're hypnotized. The veins running along his length stand out, prominent and thick. Like he's read your mind, "how about the veins on my cock? Like 'em?"
If you could, you'd hide yourself. "Bucky!"
"What?" He's fully grinning, looking way too pleased with himself. "You seemed interested in veins earlier."
"I hate you."
"No you don't."
"I really — oh —"
He's positioned himself between your legs, the head of his cock dragging through your soaked folds, teasing your entrance by coming close enough, but not quite in. Whatever you were about to say dies in your throat.
"Still hate me?" he asks, this time bumping your clit with the fat tip.
"Y-yeah."
"I'm so glad you cook better than you lie, you're a terrible liar."
He taps his cock against your clit once more and you nearly come off the bed. It's too much and not enough and you need him inside you right fucking now. "Bucky, please —"
"Please what?"
"Fuck me. Please fuck me."
"Well — Since you asked so nicely."
He pushes in slowly, the stretch perfect. You're so wet that he slides in easy, inch by inch, until he's fully seated and you're both groaning.
"Fuck," Bucky breathes. "You feel — fuck."
You can only hold onto his shoulders and try to remember how breathing works while he starts to move.
The first thrust punches the air from your lungs. The second makes you see stars. By the third you're moaning openly, not even trying to be quiet. "That's it," Bucky snaps his hips to yours, his cock . "Let me hear you."
Bucky fucks you like it's the only thing on his mind. Deep and perfect, dragging his cock along your most sensitive spots. One hand is braced by your head, the other gripping your hip so tight you'll probably bruise. "You're so tight," he groans. "So fucking perfect." Your legs wrap around his waist, pulling him deeper. "Fuck — Do that again."
Squeezing around him, you feel his hips stutter, so does yours.
"Fuck — you feel incredible, sweetheart."
Bucky shifts the angle and suddenly he's hitting something inside you that makes you cry out. "There?" he asks.
"There — fuck, right there —"
He just keeps hitting that spot over and over until you're climbing toward another orgasm embarrassingly fast. "Bucky, I'm —"
"I know. I can feel it." His thumb finds your clit to run frantic but perfect circles over it. "Cum for me, sweetheart. Cum on my cock."
The combination of his cock, his thumb and his voice is too much. You come apart, clenching around him, and he fucks you through it, just keeps going until you're almost sobbing from how good it feels.
"Where?" he grits out.
It takes you a second to understand what he's asking. "Inside. I'm on birth control — inside, please —"
Bucky groans and buries himself deep, pulsing until thick ropes of cum floods you, saying your name over and over again. Without pulling from you, he collapses next to you. "Holy shit."
You turn your head to look at him. He's looking at you, hair a mess, lips swollen, looking thoroughly fucked.
He reaches over to pull you close, your body finds his willingly, curl into his side like you belong there.
You wake up to Alpine sitting on your chest, staring directly into your soul. For a second you're disoriented, brain trying to catch up with where you are. Then, it does. The arm draped across your waist belongs to Bucky, who's still dead asleep next to you, face buried in the pillow.
Alpine chooses that minute to meow, loud enough that you're worried she'll wake him.
"Okay, okay," you whisper, carefully extracting yourself from Bucky's hold. He makes a small noise of protest in his sleep but doesn't wake. Instead, he reaches for the pillow you were using and pulls it close to his chest.
It's stupidly endearing.
Alpine leads you straight to her food bowl. Like she knows you'll give in. Which you will, because you're weak for both Barnes in this apartment.
The food's in the cabinet above the sink. You've stayed over enough times that you know where everything is.
It's been two weeks since that first night, and you still haven't talked about what this is and what you're doing. You just keep falling into bed together after service, wake up tangled in his sheets and pretend everything's normal while you're at work. It's easier that way. Safer. Putting a name to this thing between you, feels dangerous, like it'll make it real in a way you're not sure you're ready for.
Alpine crunches her food happily while you stand in Bucky's kitchen at six in the morning, barefoot and wearing his shirt from yesterday, trying not to think too hard about how domestic this feels.
"You're up early." Bucky's leaning against the bedroom doorframe, shirtless, wearing only the sweatpants he'd pulled on. His hair's a disaster, there's a crease on his cheek from the pillow. The most breathtaking thing about this is that he has a smile on his face.
"Your cat's very demanding," you say.
"Yeah, she gets that from me." He crosses the kitchen to wrap his arms around you from behind, chin hooking over your shoulder. The weight of him is familiar now, comforting, making you lean back without a second thought, without hesitation.
This is the part that scares you. How easy it is. How right it feels to stand here in his space while he holds you like this is something you do every day, like you belong here.
"You staying for breakfast?" His voice is still rough with sleep.
"I should go home. Need to change before work."
"You could keep clothes here."
The offer sounds casual, practical. But you know what he's really asking. If you'll stay. If this is more than just convenient.
"Mhmm, don't like seeing me in your clothes?" Deflection comes easy to you.
"I think I love it a little too much." His hands slide down to your hips, thumbs rubbing small circles through the fabric of his shirt.
"That so?"
He presses a kiss to your neck, right below your ear. You have to close your eyes against the rush of warmth that floods through you. "Looks good on you."
"Everything looks good on me."
"Can't argue with that."
You turn in his arms, his hands settling on your waist. "I'll think about it." The clothes thing. The staying thing. All of it.
The walk-in freezer is a blessed relief from the heat of the kitchen, even if you're hunting for duck at eight o'clock on a busy night. Your breath fogs in front of your face as you scan the shelves, fingers already going numb. There's a faraway sound of the door opening and clicking shut behind you.
"Can you tell the chef we were low on shallots —" you call over your shoulder, to whoever it may be.
A hand lands firm on your ass. "Found something way better than shallots." Bucky's voice is smug behind you. When you whip around, he's standing there, looking at you like you're what he wants to devour.
"Are you insane?" Heat floods through you despite the cold. "We're working."
His hand slides to your hip, over the kitchen whites. "Don't worry, sweetheart. I won't tell your boss."
There's a little smirk playing at his mouth, it makes you want to smack him and kiss him in equal measure. "You're the worst," it comes out breathy.
"Yeah?" His other hand joins the first, sliding down to cup your ass properly, squeezing hard enough to make you gasp. "Doesn't seem like you mind."
You think about pushing him back. There's staff right outside and this is wildly unprofessional even by your standards. It doesn't stick, though. Your hands bunch in his coat, pulling him closer.
Bucky grins, his hand draws back and cracks across your ass. The yelp that escapes you is mortifying. So is the way your pussy clenches at the sharp sting, the way you lean into him instead of away. He does it again, other cheek this time, and you bite down on your lip to keep from making another sound. "You've been thinking about this all day, haven't you? Everytime you looked at me during service."
"Shut up."
"Make me."
The audacity of this man. Leaning on your tiptoes, you kiss him. Hard and graceless, you taste the coffee he'd been drinking, he kisses you back, returning the same ferocity.
His hands knead your ass through your work pants, making you aware of how empty you feel, how badly you want his fingers, his cock, anything to fill the ache that's been building between your legs. Your hand drops down to palm him through his pants, already hard, thick and straining against the fabric. The groan he makes against your mouth goes straight to your heat.
"Fuck," Bucky breathes. His hips rock into your touch, shameless in its pursuit. His own hand slides between your thighs now, cupping you through the layers, but it's not nearly enough. You find yourself grinding against his palm like you've lost all self-respect, chasing the friction.
"Jesus, you're soaked already." His fingers press harder, rubbing over where your clit throbs. "Can almost feel it through your pants. You been walking around the kitchen like this all night? Drippin' wet for me?"
Ever since he brushed past you during prep, you've been aching for him. It's pathetic how easily he gets you like this.
"Answer me, sweetheart." He nips at your jaw. Your hand works him faster through his pants while he grinds the heel of his palm against you. "Tell me how wet that pussy is."
"So wet," you gasp out, head falling back against the shelf. "Bucky —"
"Want me to fuck you right here? Bend you over, make you scream where anyone could walk in and hear what a mess you are for me?"
Your fingers slip against his belt, not as steady as you want them to be. "Yes, please —"
Too engrossed, neither of you hear the door swinging open.
"Hey Buck, we need you on the — Oh my god." Steve stands frozen in the doorway. You watch in real time as his brain tries to process what he's seeing.
Bucky's hand is between your legs. Your hand is on Bucky's cock. Both of you look disheveled and panting. For half a second, it says that way.
Steve's face goes bright red. "I'm — fuck —I didn't—" He's backing away, hands up like he's been burned. "I'm leaving. Leaving right now. I didn't see anything. Bye."
The door slams hard enough to rattle the shelves, just stillness remaining. Bucky's pressed into you, forehead to your shoulder, shaking for a reason you don't yet know.
"Oh my god. Steve just — he saw us —" you gasp.
"Yep."
You owe Steve an apology. Probably several. Maybe a bottle of expensive whiskey. "Your bestfriend is gonna think I'm corrupting you."
"You are corrupting me."
"Shut up."
The difference in testing new recipes at Bucky's apartment is that his kitchen is a bit smaller than the one at the restaurant. Which means you're constantly in each other's space, brushing past each other to grab ingredients, hands colliding, his arm pressing against yours while you work side by side at the counter.
You're supposed to be perfecting a glaze for the spring menu. Something with honey that'll complement the duck without overpowering it. Bucky's doing the actual cooking part while you handle the sauce.
Everything's going fine until you try to pour honey from the jar into your saucepan. The jar, heavier than you thought, drips the golden stream of honey onto your hand, your skin, more than the saucepan. Like any sane person, you decide to clean yourself.
Angling your hand over the sink, you're trying to wash the honey off, when Bucky appears next to you. He grabs your wrist to bring it to his mouth, lips wrapping around your index finger, sucking the honey off, tongue swirling around your skin. Heat shoots straight between your legs.
His eyes are locked on yours the whole time. As he moves to your next finger, you forget how to breathe. He takes his time with each one. Licking. Sucking. Making sure he gets every drop of honey while you stand there trying to remember your own name. When he finally releases your hand, his voice comes out rough. "That tastes so much better than regular honey."
"It's — It's the same honey," you reply dumbly.
"No. It's not."
"Bucky —"
"I need more." The hunger, the possessiveness in his voice goes straight to your cunt. "Get on the counter."
There is a brief second where you wonder if reminding him would be better, that you're both working, that you have to get this sauce done before anything else. But your body has other plans, complying itself as he lifts you onto air and places you on the counter.
The granite's cold against your thighs. Bucky positions himself between your legs, and reaches for the honey jar with one hand, while the other stays rooted to your hip. Like you'd move if he moves. You won't. "What are you doing?" you ask, even though part of you already knows.
"Testing a theory." He dips two fingers into the honey and pulls them out, watching the way it drips. "About whether everything tastes better on you."
Honey coated fingers move across your throat, right over the dip of your collarbone, pulling a gasp out of you. Bucky leans in to lick a long stripe across your skin, following the honey trail with his tongue. "Fuck. I was right."
"Bucky — "
"What?" He has the audacity to look innocent. "This is an experiment." He's pulling your shirt over your head, tossing it over the barstool. Your bra follows seconds later. What's left is you half-naked in his kitchen while he looks at you like he wants to eat you.
"This is not an experiment."
"Sure it is." More honey on his fingers, he drizzles it just above your breasts. "Hypothesis: you make everything taste better."
Before you can respond, his mouth descends, tongue tracing the path of honey across your skin. He's meticulous about it, making sure he gets every drop. The combination of his tongue and the sticky sweetness has you squirming on the counter. "Bucky, please —"
"Please what?" He pulls back to look at you, pupils blown so wide his eyes look black. "Tell me what you want."
"More. I want —" The words die on your tongue when he drizzles honey between your breasts, watching it slide down your skin.
"Want this?" He leans down and licks up the valley.
"Yes —" you whimper.
"You taste so fucking good." He's lost to it now, completely focused on chasing every drop of honey on your skin. "Better than anything I've ever made." That's probably the highest compliment you'll ever receive.
"That's —" Your words cut off in a moan when he drizzles more directly onto your nipple. "Oh fuck —"
The honey sticks to the peak, driping down the curve of your breast. Bucky catches it with his mouth, tongue circling your nipple before taking it between his lips to suck.
"Bucky —" Your hands are in his hair now, holding him against you. "Please —"
Your back arches, pushing your chest more towards his mouth. He relishes in the invitation, tongue flicking over your nipple while he sucks, teeth grazing just enough to make you grind towards nothing in search of friction. "Oh my god —"
Bucky chases every drop with his tongue, until you're making sounds you've never made before. That doesn't seem to affect him, he casually moves to your other breast and does it all over again. More honey. More of his mouth. More of that devastating tongue. "You taste so fucking good," he says against your skin. "Could do this all day."
"We're supposed to be working —"
"We are working." He bites down gently on your nipple, making you cry out. "I'm working very hard right now."
Your laugh turns into a moan when his hand slides up your thigh. "These are in my way." He's working your shorts open. You lift your hips to help him shove them down along with your underwear. Completely naked on his kitchen counter, with him fully dressed and kneeling between your legs, Bucky speaks, "spread wider."
The way he looks at you, at how wet you already are, makes you clench around nothing. Bucky angles you so that your back is planted on the counter, and drizzles honey on your inner thigh, high enough that with the help of gravity, it drips down toward where you're aching for him.
Leaning in, he starts at your knee, working his way up with a patience that's going to kill you. His tongue is hot against your skin, chasing the trail once again. By the time he gets halfway up your thigh, you're ready to beg. "Bucky —"
"Mhmm?" He keeps licking, getting closer to where you need him but not close enough.
"Oh god —"
"Just me, baby." The smugness in his voice is a thing you'd like to hate, you would try if you weren't already too far gone.
"Please — Buck — touch me. P-please touch me."
"I am touching you." His breath ghosts over your cunt, sobs threaten to spill from you.
"You — You know what I mean —"
He reaches for the honey again, about to pour it on your other thigh — you think — but something in you snaps right before. Lifting up your body with purpose and determination, your hand shoots out to grab his collar. "If you don't fuck me right now —"
"But, I'm not done —"
"Barnes." You use your other hand now, pulling him up to your eye level. "Shut up and fuck me."
His mouth pulls into a grin that's all teeth, enjoying this a little too much. "Yes ma'am."
While he's working his belt open, you're pulling at his shirt, trying to get it off him. His cock finally springs free, a moan escaping you from just seeing it. "This what you want?" Bucky fists himself, giving a slow stroke that makes your mouth water.
"Yes. God, yes —"
"How bad?"
"So bad, I'm gonna die if you don't get inside me in the next ten seconds —"
Thankfully, he doesn't make you wait more, he lines himself up and pushes in, one hard thrust that punches the air from your lungs. The stretch is perfect and exactly what you needed.
Both of you groan at the same time, relief spilling past shamelessly. "Fuck — You feel — Jesus fucking Christ —"
He pulls out almost all the way and slams back in, hitting your cervix, making you scream. He's so deep like this, deep inside you, that your vision blurs.
"That's it," he groans against your neck. "Let me hear you." Bucky is fucking you in earnest, while you hold on to his shoulders and try not to fall apart. The lewd sounds of skin slapping against skin is mixed with your desperate noises and his low groans.
"Been thinking about this all mornin'," Bucky pants. "Watchin' you work, being all professional about the sauce — wanted to — fuck — wanted to bend you over the counter so fucking bad —"
You love his dirty talk. God knows you love it. But there's this intense need to be filled up, and his talking is currently slowing his dick. "Less talking," you gasp. "More fucking—"
Smirking, he shifts the angle, suddenly hitting that spot inside you that makes you see stars, makes you sob. "Right there?" he asks, but he knows, could tell from the way you're clenching around him.
"Don't stop — please —"
When his thumb finds your clit, you nearly come off the counter. Between that, his cock and the filthy sounds he's making, you're not going to last. "I'm close, Buck — I'm so close —"
"Yeah? You gonna cum on my cock? C'mon, sweetheart. Let me feel it."
His words and one more thrust sends you over the edge. You come hard, clenching around him. Bucky fucks you through it while cursing under his breath. Not long after, he buries himself deep. You can feel him pulsing inside you, filling you up.
There's something dripping down your thighs, you don't know if it's honey, cum or sweat. Probably all mixed together, but you can't bring yourself to care.
When Bucky pulls out, you both wince at the loss. He looks down at the mess you've made, there's honey smeared on your skin, cum dripping out of you onto his counter. He lets out a breathless laugh. "We're disgusting."
"Your fault."
"My fault? You're the one who told me to shut up and fuck you."
"You're the one who started the whole honey thing."
"You're the one who spilled it."
"Accidentally."
"Sure. Accidentally." He kisses you, slow, sweet. You kiss him back, tasting honey off his tongue.
You should probably be mortified of the scene Alpine might walk into, but all you can think about is how you want to do this again. "We really need to clean up," you try being the responsible adult despite what you're feeling.
"Probably." But he's kissing your neck again. "In a minute."
"Bucky —"
"Just one more taste."
"Alpine, no — that's not food." You're trying to rescue a hair tie from Alpine's paws while Bucky makes coffee in the kitchen.
It's early enough that the sun's barely up, that grey-blue light filtering through the windows of his apartment.
"She thinks everything's food," Bucky calls from the kitchen. "Found her trying to eat a receipt yesterday."
"She's going to make herself sick." Alpine bats at your hand, completely unrepentant. "You're a menace. You know that?"
She meows like she's arguing with you.
Bucky appears with two mugs, handing you one before sitting on the floor next to you. Alpine immediately abandons the hair tie to climb into his lap. "Traitor," you mutter.
The coffee's perfect. He's figured out how you take it. Same way you know he likes his black. "What time do we need to leave?" you ask.
"Hour. Maybe less if we want to prep early."
"We always prep early."
"Force of habit." He's scratching behind Alpine's ears, that absent-minded gesture he does when he's thinking. "You staying tonight too?"
The question should feel loaded but it doesn't. It's Bucky asking if you're staying, like he wants you to, like he's gotten used to you being here.
"If that's okay."
"It's okay. I like when you're here." His voice is soft.
You think about your apartment across town. How you haven't slept there in forever. How your fridge is empty and your bed feels too big and too quiet. How this feels more like home than anywhere you've lived in years.
"I like being here," you admit.
He pulls you closer with his free arm. You lean against his shoulder, coffee warming your hands, and let yourself have this.
"We should go soon," you say eventually. "Delivery comes at seven."
"Five more minutes."
"Bucky —"
"Five minutes. Please. Just want to sit here with you."
Alpine whips her head towards him, a 'did I hear that right?' look plastered on her face.
"And you too," Bucky admits, pulling you both closer.
"I'm just saying, the timing's convenient for her." The words make you freeze with your hand on the door. Jason's voice carries from somewhere near the dish station. It's so casual, the way guys get when they think they're being clever.
"What timing?" That's the new line cook. Miller? You can't remember his name and right now you don't care.
"Come on. Hired on spot? That's fast even for someone good."
"Maybe she is good."
Jason laughs like he doesn't care about what he's saying. "Oh, she's good. Question is what she's good at." The new guy laughs too, your stomach dropping straight through the floor.
"Oldest trick in the book," Jason continues. "Want a job in the best kitchen? Fuck the chef. Worked for her."
"Barnes seems smarter than that."
"Barnes is a guy. And you've seen her."
You probably should walk away. The opposite direction of all of this. You should not stand here and listen to them talk about you like you're not a person, like you're just a body that fucked its way into a position you spent years working toward.
But you can't move, can't breathe.
"Either way, smart play on her part. Get on your knees, get ahead."
They're still laughing when you finally force your legs to work, turning and walking in the opposite direction before they can see you, before they can know you heard every fucking word.
Your hands are shaking when you reach the prep station. Your chest feels tight, like someone's wrapped steel bands around your ribs and pulled them taut. Pressing your palms flat against the counter, you try to breathe normally.
Three weeks. That's all it took for people to start talking. To start assuming. To start reducing everything you've accomplished to who you're sleeping with.
And the worst part is if anyone finds out about you and Bucky, that's exactly what they'll think. Every single person in this kitchen will look at your position and assume you earned it on your back. They'll question Bucky's judgment, his professionalism, and whether he's running his restaurant based on merit or based on who's warming his bed.
You can't let that happen. You can't be the reason Brooklyn's Taste's reputation gets dragged through the mud, can't be the reason people stop trusting Bucky's decisions. Which means this thing between you — whatever it is, whatever it was becoming — has to stop.
Your throat burns but you swallow it down. You force yourself to get through the rest of prep, to plate during service like your world hasn't just shifted sideways. It almost kills you to smile and pretend everything's fine when Bucky catches your eye across the kitchen and mouths 'you okay?'
All you can do is nod. It's a lie. He probably knows it's a lie from the way his eyebrows pull together, but there's service and no time to get into this.
You tell yourself you'll deal with it later.
But when later comes, you're slipping out the back door before Bucky can corner you and ask what's wrong. You can't look him in the eye and pretend you didn't hear someone reduce your entire career to a transaction.
Bucky catches you by the lockers after service the next night. There's a doubt in his tone, like he already knows the answer. "You comin' up?"
"Can't tonight." You're pulling your jacket on, trying very hard not to look at him. "I'm not feeling great."
"What's wrong? Do you need —"
"Just tired. Long week."
It's Wednesday.
Bucky doesn't point that out but you can tell he wants to. You can see it in the way his jaw tightens, his hand comes up like he's going to touch you and then falls back to his side.
"Okay… feel better, okay?"
You leave before the guilt can stop you. You'll break down and tell him everything if you don't walk, the confusion in his eyes will kill you.
Your toothbrush is still in his bathroom. Your clothes are still in his closet. There's a drawer full of your shit in his dresser, your shampoo in his shower and probably a hair tie on his bedside table.
But you can't go back, can't step foot in that apartment again. If you do, you'll crack. You'll tell him what you heard and he'll say it doesn't matter and you'll believe him because you want to believe him so fucking badly it hurts.
But it does matter. It matters that people are already talking, that your relationship could damage his restaurant — his life. It matters that every time someone questions your abilities, they'll be questioning his judgment too.
So you go home to your empty apartment and try not to think about how Alpine's probably waiting by the door for you.
It gets easier after that. Or maybe it gets harder and you just get better at it. You start showing up to work right on time instead of early. You make excuses when he texts — headache, early morning, catching up on sleep. All technically true, all curated to create distance.
Bucky notices, of course. He's not stupid. "What's going on with you?"
You're in the office doing inventory counts, and he's standing in the doorway looking at you like you're a puzzle he can't solve. Maybe if he stares long enough, he'll figure out what broke.
"Nothing's going on."
"You haven't stayed over in a week."
"I've been tired."
"You're avoiding me."
"I'm not —"
"You are." He steps into the office and closes the door behind him. The small space suddenly feels smaller. "Did I do something? Because if I did, just tell me so I can fix it."
You did everything right, you want to say. He made space for you in his life. In his home, his bed, his routine. Now that space is a liability, ammunition for anyone who wants to question whether you earned your position or fucked your way into it.
He looks so worried, so confused. All you want to do is cross the room and kiss him, tell him it's not his fault, scream about Jason and the new guy and the sick feeling that's been living in your stomach for days.
But you can't. Telling him means admitting the relationship is a problem, and admitting it's a problem means either ending it or ignoring it. You can't do either.
"You didn't do anything. I just need space."
You watch Bucky's face change, as he tries to hide the hurt, nod even though you can tell he doesn't understand.
When he leaves, you sit there staring at inventory sheets you can't read anymore because your eyes are burning.
Bucky brings Alpine to you a week later. You hear her distinctive meow that makes your heart clench, before you can even see her. When you turn around, he's holding her like an offering. "She missed you."
Alpine's purring, looking at you with those big blue eyes. You want to take her and bury your face in her soft fur, breathe in that familiar smell and pretend everything's okay. "Bucky —"
His voice is soft, pleading. "Just for a minute… please."
You wipe your hands on your apron and take her before you can think better of it. She immediately curls into your chest, purring loud enough to vibrate your whole ribcage. Your hand runs down her back automatically, that familiar motion you've done a hundred times in Bucky's apartment. "Hey, baby," you murmur. "Hi, sweet girl."
When you look up, Bucky's watching you, eyes glassy. There's so much longing there, so much confusion and hurt, and you can see him trying to understand why you're doing this. Why you're pulling away, why you won't talk to him.
"I miss you… Alpine's not the only one."
"Buck —"
"Come over tonight. Please. Even just for five minutes, I don't care, I just — I hate that you're not there."
The apartment must feel so empty without you, frozen in time waiting for you to come back. Except you're not. You can't, not when being with him means people will assume the worst about both of you. "I can't."
"Why not?"
"I just can't."
"That's not an answer."
Alpine headbutts your chin, demanding attention. You focus on her instead of the way Bucky's looking at you.
"Something's wrong," he says.
"Nothing's wrong."
"Everything's wrong!" An octave rise in his tone, desperation bleeding through as frustration.
Alpine meows softly, like she can sense the tension. You hand her back to Bucky before you do something stupid like cry. "I need to get back to work."
"Wait —"
"Please don't make this harder than it already is." You walk away before he can respond. You cannot see the devastation on his face, you will completely fall apart in the middle of the kitchen.
Behind you, Alpine meows again, sad and confused, and you hear Bucky's quiet, broken, "I know, baby."
Bucky looks like shit. There are dark circles under his eyes, hair's a mess like he didn't bother combing it, and he's wearing the same shirt he wore yesterday, a small stain on the collar from the sauce he was testing last night.
He barely looks at you during prep, barely speaks except to call out orders. And when Steve asks him a question, Bucky just stares at him for a solid five seconds before answering like he forgot how words work.
You did this. You're the reason Bucky looks like he hasn't slept in a week. The reason he's moving through his own kitchen like a ghost.
You're in dry storage counting inventory when Steve finds you. "We need to talk."
You don't look up from your clipboard, you can't. You can't lie to one more person. "I'm working."
"So am I. And part of my job is making sure this kitchen runs smoothly, which it's not doing right now."
"Everything's fine."
"Really? Because Bucky's been a mess for three weeks and you look like you're about to cry every time you're in the same room as him. So either tell me what's going on or I'm going to assume the worst."
"There's nothing to tell."
"Bullshit."
"Steve —"
"Did he do something?" Steve's voice goes rough, restrained. "Because if he crossed a line or made you uncomfortable —"
"No." The denial comes out quick. Nothing of that sort should even be spoken into existence. "No, of course not. It's — it's nothing like that."
"Then what?"
"It's personal."
"Personal is affecting professional. So it's my business."
Looking at Steve is hard. Talking about this is hard. So you turn back to the shelves. "Can you just drop it?"
"No."
"Steve —"
"He's my best friend. I've known him since we were kids and I've never seen him like this. He won't eat, he barely sleeps, and yesterday I caught him just standing in his apartment staring at nothing. So no, I'm not going to drop it."
Words refuse to come out, but you force them. "He'll be fine."
"Will he? Because from where I'm standing, you're both miserable and too stubborn to do anything about it."
"You don't understand —"
"So, help me understand. Explain it to me."
"I can't."
"Why not?"
"Because it's complicated."
"Try me."
You slam the clipboard down on the shelf. "Because if people find out about us, they'll think I slept my way into this kitchen. Happy?"
Steve looks at you with confusion. "What?"
"You heard me."
"Who the hell would think that?"
"Everyone, Steve. Everyone will think that. Woman gets a competitive job? Must've fucked the boss." A laugh comes out, it's anything but humourous.
"That's — no one here would —"
"They already are."
Steve goes very still, like he cannot believe his own ears. "What?"
You shouldn't tell him. You should probably keep your mouth shut and let this go. But you're so tired of carrying this alone, so tired of pretending it doesn't hurt.
"I heard Jason and that new line cook talking. About how convenient the timing was. How I must be 'good at my job', if you know…" Your voice cracks, a hiccup in your words, you can't help it. "They laughed about it. About me." Tears well up in your eyes.
"Son of a bitch. When was this?" Steve's knuckles go white, even though he doesn't have anything in his hand. Purely from rage.
He should've been able to make out the timeline, but you know he's stressed. "Three weeks ago."
"And you didn't tell anyone?"
"Who was I supposed to tell? Bucky? So he could fire them and prove their point?"
"Their point is bullshit —"
"Is it? Because if people find out about me and Bucky, that's exactly what they'll think. Every single person in this kitchen will assume I fucked my way in. And worse, they'll think Bucky's judgment is compromised. That he's not professional, and running this place based on who he's with, instead of who's qualified."
Steve lets out a sigh, you know he's not seeing your point. "So your solution is to break up with him?"
"We weren't together."
"Bullshit."
"Fine. It doesn't matter what we were. It matters what it looks like."
"To who? Jason? Some asshole line cook who's probably jealous he's not good enough to make sous?"
"To everyone. To food critics and investors and other chefs, to everyone who's watching Brooklyn's Taste and waiting for Bucky to fuck up. I can't be the reason his reputation gets ruined."
"His reputation? What about yours? And what about happiness? Both of yours?"
You ignore the latter. "My reputation doesn't matter —"
"The hell it doesn't."
"Steve —"
"You think hiding this is going to make it better? You think people are going to stop talking just because you and Bucky aren't together?"
You don't have an answer for that.
His voice softens slightly. "Look, I get it. People are assholes. But you're not protecting him by shutting him out. You're just making him miserable."
"Better miserable than —"
"Than what? Happy? Than having something good for once in his life?" Steve runs a hand through his hair and lowers his voice again. "Do you know what he said to me when you started seeing each other? He said he finally understood what everyone meant about coming home to someone. That for the first time in years, he wasn't coming home to an empty apartment."
Blurry eyes make it hard for you to see him. "Steve —"
"He's in love with you. Even if he hasn't said it yet, it's obvious. And you're killing him."
"I'm trying to protect him."
"From what? From people talking? They're going to talk anyway. People always talk."
"Not if there's nothing to talk about."
"You really think that's going to work? You really think you can just walk away and everything goes back to normal?"
"I don't know. I — I don't know, okay? I'm just trying to do the right thing."
"The right thing is being honest with him."
"I can't."
"Why not?"
"Because if I tell him, he'll want to fix it. He'll either fire Jason or reprimand him or do something that'll just make everything worse." You swipe at your eyes fast. "Any way this goes, it makes him look bad. If he fires them, people will say he's protecting his girlfriend. If he ignores it, the rumors get worse. There's no winning here."
"So you're just going to keep avoiding him? Keep pretending nothing's wrong?"
"I don't know what else to do."
Steve's quiet for a long moment. "You could try trusting him."
"I do trust him —"
"No, you trust him to cook, to run his kitchen. But you don't trust him to handle this. He's stronger than you think. And he deserves to know what's going on."
"If I tell him —"
"He'll want to fight for you. Yeah. That's what people do when they care about someone."
You close your eyes and let the tears fall freely now.
Bucky's going through the motions of prep when Steve walks back into the kitchen looking like someone just punched him in the gut.
"What's wrong with you?" The question comes out automatically, that reflexive check-in he's been doing since they were kids.
"We need to talk. Office. C'mon."
"I'm working —"
"Now, Buck."
Steve never uses that tone unless something's seriously wrong. Wordless, Bucky puts down his knife and follows Steve into the office. The door closes behind them with a click that sounds too loud in the small space. "What happened? Someone quit?"
"No. But I just talked to her."
Bucky wants to speak, but words fail him. His jaw clenches so hard his teeth hurt.
"And I know why she's been avoiding you," Steve continues.
"Why?" Three weeks of emotions bundled into one single word.
Steve runs a hand through his hair, clearly debating how to say whatever he's about to say. "Jason and one of the new guys were talking shit, about her. Said she… slept her way into your kitchen."
The words don't register first. Bucky's brain refuses to process them, like if he doesn't acknowledge what Steve just said then it won't be real. "They said what?"
"She overheard them three weeks ago. That's why she's been pulling away. She thinks if people find out about you two, everyone will assume the same thing."
"That's —" The rage building in his chest is so intense he can barely form coherent thoughts, much less sentences. "That's — that's fucking insane. She earned that position before we ever — we weren't even —"
"I know."
"She's the best cook I've had here in years. She works harder than anyone. She —" His hands are trembling with the effort of not putting his fist through the wall. He shoves them in his pockets. "Who the fuck do they think they are?"
"Assholes. But that's not the point —"
"They're talking about her like she's — like she —" The sentence dies in his throat. Saying it out loud will make it real, will make him lose the last thread of control he's got. "I'm firing them. Both of them. Today."
"That's exactly what she said you'd do."
"Good. Then she knows me."
"Buck —"
"No. You don't talk about people like that. You don't —" Bucky's palm connects with the desk hard enough to rattle the papers on it. "Fuck. Does she really think I'd let anyone believe that? Does she think I give a shit what people say?"
"She's trying to protect your reputation."
"My reputation? What about hers?" The question comes out louder than he means it to, weeks of frustration packed into a question. "She's been dealing with this alone for three fucking weeks because she was worried about what — me?"
"Yeah."
"That's — Why didn't she tell me?" He starts pacing. Standing still feels impossible right now, all this energy with nowhere to go.
"Because she knew you'd react exactly like this."
"Like what? Like someone who gives a shit?"
"Like someone who's in love with her."
Steve is watching him with this knowing expression that makes Bucky want to punch him, mostly for being right. "Steve —"
"You're in love with her. Anyone with eyes can see it. The way you look at her, the way you —"
"I know. Fuck, I know, okay? I'm in love with her." Bucky finally, finally admits. But saying it out loud doesn't make it easier. If anything, it makes his chest ache worse, knowing you're out there thinking you have to protect him from gossip while he's in here realizing he'd burn this whole place down if it meant keeping you safe.
Steve's expression softens. "Yeah. I know."
"And she's been avoiding me because she thinks — what? That I care more about what some asshole line cook thinks than I care about her?"
"No. She thinks she's protecting you."
"From what? From being happy?" Bucky lets out a humourless laugh. "I finally — for the first time in years I actually wanted to come home. Wanted to wake up. And she thinks I'm going to choose this place over her?"
Bucky loves his restaurant. Built it from nothing, bled for it. But it’s never felt like this, like something pulling him forward instead of just giving him somewhere to stand. This is the first time in a long while he's felt more than just getting through the day.
"She thinks if people find out, it makes you look bad. Like you compromised your standards."
"My standards?" Bucky's voice goes sharp. "She exceeds every fucking standard I have. She's brilliant and she works her ass off and she —" He takes a breath to calm down. "I hired her because she's good. The best. Everything after that was just — it was just us."
"I know. She knows that too, I think. But she's scared of what everyone else will think."
"I don't give a fuck what everyone else thinks."
"She does. Or at least she cares about how it affects you."
Bucky sinks into his desk chair. "So what do I do?"
"Talk to her."
"I've tried. She won't — every time I try, she shuts down."
"Try harder."
"Steve —"
"You love her, right?"
"Yeah."
"Then fight for her. Make her understand that you don't care what people think. That you're not going anywhere."
Bucky looks up at his best friend. "And if she still won't listen?"
"Then you keep trying until she does. Because that's what you do when you love someone." Steve moves away towards the door. "But first you need to deal with Jason and whoever else was talking shit."
"I'm firing them."
"I figured." Steve pauses with his hand on the doorknob. "For what it's worth? She's miserable too. I've never seen someone look that sad while trying to do the right thing."
"The right thing would be talking to me."
"Yeah. But she's scared… and in love. Those people? They tend to do stupid things."
When Steve leaves, Bucky sits there in his office, trying to breathe through the mess of emotions churning in his gut.
Three weeks. Three weeks you've been carrying this alone because you were trying to protect him. Three weeks of him lying awake wondering what he did wrong, replaying every conversation, every touch, trying to figure out where he fucked up. And the whole time you were just scared, of people talking, of damaging his reputation, of being reduced to some cheap rumour.
He gets it. He does. The world's not kind to women in kitchens, not kind to women who get ahead. But what he doesn't get is why you thought you had to handle it alone, why you thought he wouldn't fight for you.
Because he would. He will.
He's in love with you. Has been for weeks, maybe longer. Since the interview, probably, when you looked at him like you could see right through all his bullshit. Since that first night when you fell asleep in his bed and he laid there watching you breathe, thinking this is what he'd been missing his whole life.
He's in love with you and you're out there thinking you have to protect him.
And some asshole has been running his mouth about you and still working in his fucking kitchen.
Bucky stands up. His hands are still shaking for a different reason now, pure, concentrated rage.
When he walks into the kitchen, everyone's in the middle of prep, focused on their stations, and the familiar sounds of chopping and sizzling fill the space.
Bucky's voice cuts through the noise. "Everyone stop what you're doing. Meeting. Now."
The sudden silence is almost jarring. People look up from their stations, confusion flickering across faces that quickly shift to wariness when they clock his expression. They start gathering near the pass, wiping their hands on their aprons.
You're standing near the back. When Bucky's eyes find you, his heart breaks clean in two. You look exhausted. Scared. Like you're bracing for whatever's about to happen.
He tears his gaze away from you and focuses on the rest of the kitchen. "Someone want to tell me," Bucky keeps his voice calm even though he wants to scream, "what gives anyone the right to talk about their coworkers like they're pieces of meat? In my kitchen?"
Silence. He watches a few people shift their weight, suddenly fascinated with the floor.
"No? No one? Let me be more specific then. Someone — multiple someones, apparently — have been running their mouths about my sous. Starting rumours in my kitchen."
More uncomfortable shifting.
"You know what the really fucked up part is? She earned this job. She's got more talent in her fucking pinkie than most of you have in your entire bodies. And instead of respecting that, instead of learning from someone who's better than you, you reduce her to a cheap rumour."
"Chef —" Jason starts.
"I'm not done. This kitchen runs on two things. Talent and respect. You need both to work here. Both. Not one or the other. I don't care if you're the best cook I've ever seen. If you can't treat your coworkers with basic fucking human decency, you don't belong here."
Bucky's eyes scan the group, making contact with each person individually. He wants them to understand this isn't just talk. "This is me telling you how this kitchen works. How it's always worked. This isn't negotiable. And if you have a problem with that, there's the door."
No one seems to move.
"I've spent years building this place. Years earning the stars, making sure every plate that leaves this kitchen is perfect. And I will not let anyone ruin that because they can't keep their mouths shut and their opinions to themselves."
He turns to look at Jason directly. "Especially when those opinions are rooted in misogynistic bullshit that has no place in my kitchen."
Jason's face goes from pale to flushed red in seconds, stain of embarrassment creeping up his neck. "I didn't —"
"You did. I know you did. And you know what really pisses me off?" Bucky takes a step closer and watches Jason try not to flinch. "You made her feel like she had to hide. Like being good at her job wasn't enough, like she had to prove herself over and over again because assholes like you can't accept that a woman earned something on her own merit."
"Chef, I —"
"Save it. You're fired. Clear out your station and get out of my kitchen."
Jason's mouth works like a fish out of water, opening and closing without any sound. "You can't —"
"I can. I just did. Out. Now."
"This is bullshit —"
"It's consequence. There's a difference. And whoever else was part of this conversation? You know who you are. You've got two minutes to come forward."
The new line cook — Miller, Bucky thinks his name is — raises his hand like he's in grade school. "I'll resign."
"Smart choice."
Jason's still rooted to the spot, eyes darting around the kitchen like he's waiting for someone to come to his defense. But there's only silence. Nobody meets his gaze.
"I said out," Bucky repeats.
Jason rips off his apron and throws it on the ground, storming toward the back door. The new guy follows him. When the door slams behind them, the kitchen stays silent.
"The rest of you, get back to work. We've got service in three hours and we're down two people. Figure it out."
The kitchen erupts back into motion immediately, everyone returning to their stations like they can't get away fast enough.
Bucky's eyes find you again. You're staring at him with an expression he can't quite read, makes his heart squeeze painfully in his chest. There's shock there, definitely. Disbelief. But underneath it all there's something that looks like it might be hope. It's breaking his heart and healing it at the same time.
He wants to go to you, pull you aside and tell you that you didn't have to protect him, that he would've done this two weeks ago if you'd just told him, and firing Jason is one of the easiest decisions he's made ever.
But the kitchen's watching. Bucky knows better than to push right now. He just holds your gaze, trying to pour everything he can't say into that single look. Then he turns and heads back toward his office before he does something dumb like forget where he is and kiss you in front of everyone.
Bucky's staring at his laptop screen without actually seeing anything, waiting for the kitchen to clear out, to come find you.
When the office door opens and you step in, he cannot believe his eyes. You close the door behind you and stand there frozen on spot.
You both are. Waiting for the other to make the first move. It's stupid, honestly, the two of you stuck on opposite sides of this tiny office like there's some invisible line neither of you knows how to cross first.
The human heart is a wonderful organ, capable of supplying the entire body without missing a beat. Bucky's heart, though, trips over itself right now, like it forgot how this is supposed to work.
Thankfully, you're crossing the small space in three strides and he's standing, reaching for you, every tense muscle in his body finally remembering how to relax, his heart knowing how to function properly again.
Your arms wrap around his waist, bury your face in his chest, hard enough he feels the shape of your nose, your forehead. You're shaking, just this fine tremor he can feel everywhere you're touching him. Like you're trying really hard not to fall apart and it's not quite working. His arms come around you immediately, one hand cradling the back of your head while the other presses flat against your spine. "I'm here," he murmurs into your hair. God, you smell the same. Like the shampoo he's still got in his shower, the one you left behind three weeks ago. "I'm here, baby. Please don't cry."
Crying like this is hardly strong. But his arms are around you and he smells like home, and the last thing you want to be is strong. You've missed him so much it physically hurts. The sob that escapes you is wet against his shirt, "I missed you. I missed you so much."
"Yeah? Whose fault is that?" There's a soft, familiar teasing in his tone, makes you pull back just enough to look at him. Your lips jut out before you can help it, the one that only comes out when it's just him, when you don't have to keep your guard up. Everyone else thinks you're tough and competent, and you are, but with Bucky you've never had to pretend you don't also want to be soft sometimes.
He wants to kiss that pout off your face. Wants to do a lot of things, actually, but first he needs to make sure you're okay. His thumb comes up to wipe under your eyes, catching tears.
"You're being mean." Your lips are still doing the thing he adores most.
"You're the one who disappeared on me for two weeks."
"I had a reason —"
"A stupid reason."
You want to argue but he's smiling at you. One of those real smiles that makes his eyes crinkle at the corners. You've missed that smile so much you ache with it. "It wasn't stupid. I was trying to protect you."
"I know." His expression goes serious but still soft. "I'm sorry for doing that without asking you first. The meeting, firing Jason — all of it. But I was so fucking mad, and I would never let anyone talk about you like that. Never."
The fierceness in his voice does something to your chest, makes it warm and painful at once. "I know. I just — I'm sorry I didn't tell you. I should've told you."
"Yeah, you should've." But his voice is gentle, at odds with the words, hands never leaving you, holding you like you're something precious even though you fucked this up. The tears start again, harder this time, and you hate it. You hate crying, feeling this vulnerable, that you can't just pull it together for two seconds.
"Sweetheart, no —" Panic flashes across his face, knows he's said the wrong thing and scrambling to make it right. "No, baby, I'm sorry. I'm stupid. I shouldn't have — I should've just read your mind or something —"
That startles a laugh out of you, wet and a little broken but still a laugh. "You're not a mind reader."
"Clearly. Would've saved us both a lot of trouble if I was."
"You would've been horrified by what I was thinking."
His eyebrows go up, that interested look he gets. "Oh yeah? What were you thinking?"
"That I was in love with you and terrified you'd figure it out." The words come out before you can stop them, honest and raw and so vulnerable it makes you want to grab the words back out of the air and shove them back in your throat. But you don't, you can't. Not when Bucky's looking at you like that.
"You're in love with me?"
You can feel your face heating up, but you nod. "Yeah. I am. Have been for — I don't know. A while."
"Mhmm, that's good. Because I'm in love with you too."
The relief that floods through you is so intense you actually sway a little, his hands tightening to keep you straight. "You are?"
"Yeah. I am. Have been for — I don't know. A while." He's using your words back at you, a soft smirk playing on his lips. You want to hit him and kiss him in equal measure.
"Don't make fun of me."
"I'm not. I'm —" How does he explain this? That he's been miserable without you? That his apartment felt wrong? That Alpine's been waiting by the door every night? "I've been going crazy without you. Alpine too. Keeps waiting for you."
Guilt speaks for you, "I'm sorry. I should've —"
"Stop apologizing." His hands frame your face, thumbs brushing your cheekbones. "We both fucked up. You should've told me what Jason said. I should've pressed more."
Standing in his cramped office with your faces inches apart, it feels like you can finally breathe again after weeks of suffocation. "I missed this."
"Yeah?" His thumb traces your bottom lip and your breath catches. "What specifically?"
"You being annoying. Me wanting to hit you. The usual."
A soft smile curves his lips as you study his face, taking in details you'd memorized weeks ago. The small scar on his chin you liked to trace, the way his hair falls across his forehead. But now there's darkness under his eyes, that you've caused. "You look tired."
"Haven't been sleeping."
You pull him closer, words failing, conveying what you want through touch alone. Bucky seems to understand, a soft kiss placed on your temple as he speaks, "we're really bad at this."
"At what?"
"Being apart." He says it like a confession, like admitting weakness, but his hands are still gentle on your face. "I don't want to do it again."
"I don't want to do it again either."
Bucky has to kiss you now. Can't not kiss you when you're looking at him like that, all soft and more importantly, his.
The apartment looks exactly the same as you remember. The book you were reading is still on the table. There's your coffee mug on the counter. From the faint ring outside, it looks like Bucky's been using it.
Alpine appears the second you step inside, meowing so loud it's almost accusatory. She's looking at you like you personally betrayed her. You sink down onto the floor right there in the living room, don't even make it to the couch, Alpine immediately climbing into your lap. She's purring, that rumbling engine sound that always makes you smile. "I'm sorry, baby," you murmur, scratching behind her ears. "I missed you too."
Bucky watches the way you curl around Alpine like you're trying to make yourself small enough to fit in her world. This is what he wanted. This. You in his space, in his world, with his cat, looking like you belong here. Without a second thought, he's drops down next to you, close enough that his thigh presses against yours, arms around both of you. One around your shoulders, pulling you into his side, and the other joining yours in Alpine's fur.
You let yourself lean into him, head finding that spot on his chest that feels like it was made specifically for you. Alpine's purring gets louder, pleased to have both her people back where they belong. "This is nice," you say.
His chin rests on top of your head. "Yeah. It is."
"I'm sorry I left."
"I'm sorry too. Can we stop apologising now?"
The laugh out of you, however soft, startles Alpine enough that she whips her head around to glare at you, but she recovers and nuzzles back into you, apparently deciding to forgive the disruption.
It's the most peace you've felt in weeks. Possibly longer. Alpine's warm weight in your lap, Bucky's arm solid around your shoulders.
"I was thinking," Bucky says eventually.
"Mhmm, dangerous."
He pinches your side gently, making you yelp and squirm in his grasp. "I was thinking you should move in."
"What?"
"Your stuff's already here. Work's downstairs. Commute's easier. Just makes sense."
"That's very romantic."
"I'm in love with you and I want you here all the time. Better?"
You're smiling so hard your cheeks hurt. "A little better."
"Is that a yes?"
You think about your empty apartment, waking up alone, not having this — Bucky and Alpine and home. "Yeah. That's a yes."
The kiss he presses to your temple is soft and lingering. "Thank God. Because I actually cleared out more drawer space — you know, before all this."
Alpine meows, annoyed at being squished between you, and you both laugh. But neither of you move. Neither of you want to.
"I love you," you say. Testing the words out loud now that you can, now that you know how to say it, and that he feels the same.
His arm tightens around you. "I love you too." He's smiling. You can feel it, the curve of his lips on the top of your head.
Alpine purrs louder, like she's agreeing, and you let yourself sink into this. Into Bucky and Alpine and the feeling of home.
COLLAB MASTERLIST ✧ MY MASTERLIST
EXTRAS. Thank you so much for reading! Please do support all the amazing authors who are participating in this collab!
Did I know anything about chefs? No. Did I one day watch a random ass movie and decide chefs are hot? You know.
Don’t forget that Saint Patrick is not the only saint whose feast day is March 17. It is also the feast of Saint Gertrude, the patron saint of cats and the people who love them.
{Baelor Targaryen x f!Reader}
Newly married and still untouched, you seek out your husband in the tower of the hand. Luckily, the prince is always willing to set aside his duties... for a hands-on demonstration.
♡♡ He's so fine... dark haired targ supremacy!! ♡♡
2.7k words - Warnings: smuttttt, age gap, teaching, virgin!reader, innocent!reader, heavy on consent because I don't play about that, fingering, daddy without saying daddy lol, lots of praise && more lessons to come...
"Your Highness," You dipped into a curtsy at the threshold of the Hand's office.
The sight that greeted you made you pause. Papers carpeted the floor in drifts, quills lay scattered like fallen branches after a storm, and an open inkpot teetered at the very edge of the desk, one careless elbow from disaster.
Baelor hunched over his work, scratching at parchment with single-minded focus. An empty glass sat by his side, a half-empty bottle of wine beside it. His dark hair stuck up at odd angles, and his tunic bore wrinkles that suggested he had slept in it. Or simply never bothered to change.
"You needn't call me that in informal settings, my dear." Baelor did not even glance up. "I am nothing but your husband when we are alone."
You still did not know quite how to behave around him. He was a good deal older than you, a widower with two grown sons. The rushed wedding had been more treaty than ceremony, your house’s loyalty in exchange for your hand. In the fortnight since, you had shared meals, exchanged polite conversation, and slept alone in chambers that felt far too large.
But you remembered how he had looked at you in the sept. Not with the cold appraisal you expected, but something softer. Almost wondering.
You stepped further into the room, picking your way carefully over the strewn papers. You reached for the empty wine glass, intending to fetch a clean one from the kitchens. You were not much for politics, but you understood enough to know his position was stressful. The least you could do was bring him fresh wine.
He watched you fuss from the corner of his eye, setting down his quill as you collected his empty plate. "You do not need to do that." His voice was quiet, gentle, though still he had not fully turned to face you. "There are servants who can tend to it."
"I want to." You smiled, moving the inkpot to safer ground and wiping at the black splatters staining the wood.
He rose and rounded the desk, his hand closing over yours. The touch sent a strange tightening through your belly, a knot pulling taut, low and warm. You were still learning the weight of his hands, the way they dwarfed yours completely.
"Leave the papers be." He squeezed your fingers, smiling gently down at you. "Come and sit. Tell me of your day."
"You have been busy. I did not wish to disturb you."
"You are never a bother."
He led you to the chaise by the window, where the afternoon sun cast warm light across the cushions. He sat and tugged your hand, urging you to join him, you sat a respectful distance from him. Your hand was still clasped in his, his thumb tracing a line over your knuckles.
"You have been married to me a fortnight," he said, "and I have been locked away with ledgers and ravens. I wish to make it up to you."
You flushed, feeling the heat creeping up the back of your neck. "It is your duty to rule. I would not expect you to abandon that for me."
"I am your husband first." His hand settled on your hip, heavy and warm through the fabric of your gown. "And I have neglected my duties to you."
You swallowed hard. You had heard the whispers…servants who thought you could not hear. Still not consummated. Poor thing, probably terrified of him. Or perhaps he is too old to-
You shook the thoughts away, glancing at him from beneath your lashes. He was strikingly handsome, with dark hair and mismatched eyes. His face bore the marks of his years, the lines beside his eyes when he smiled, but they only made him look distinguished. Powerful. His chest was broad, his hands large and gentle. It did not matter what the servants said. They were not the ones married to him.
"What are you thinking, sweet girl?" His thumb stroked the curve of your hip.
"Nothing important."
His hand slid from your hip to your thigh, fingers splaying wide. "Let me try again. What are you thinking?"
Your face burned. "I... the servants talk. They say we have not…that you have not-"
"Taken you to bed?" He said it plainly, without shame or hesitation. "Consummated our marriage?"
You nodded, unable to meet his gaze.
His sigh was soft, not frustrated but something tender. "You were forced to wed a man near twenty years your elder and brought to a court you do not know. I wanted to give you time. Time to know me, to trust me, to want me.... Not because duty demands it. Because you choose it."
You sat silent, his words settling over you like a warm cloak. Your flush deepened. Choose. No one had ever asked if you would choose.
"Have you chosen me?" he asked quietly.
Slowly, your hands reached out and came to rest against his chest. You felt his heartbeat there, steady and strong. You were still learning him; his warmth, his patience, the way he watched you like you were something precious.
"Yes," you whispered. The word felt enormous. "I choose you."
His arms came around you, drawing you closer until you found yourself in his lap, knees bracketing his hips. You could feel him beneath you, solid and warm, and you leaned in, pressing your lips to his, all gentle and questioning.
He answered by kissing you back, soft and slow, letting you set the pace. His lips moved against yours like he had all the time in the world. Like there was nowhere else he'd rather be.
Then his hand slid from your back to grip the curve of your backside, and the sudden boldness startled a gasp from you. He took the opportunity, his tongue sweeping into your mouth as his fingers kneaded the soft flesh through your gown.
That strange feeling in your belly had returned, hotter now, spreading like honey through your veins. You clutched at his shoulders, unsure whether to pull away or press closer, that terrible knot drawing ever tighter.
"My prin-husband," you gasped, breaking the kiss. "I fear I ...feel strangely."
He chuckled, low and warm against your ear. His hand crept to your stomach, pressing gently against the tension. "This is what you should feel, sweet girl." His palm slipped lower, fingers sliding down to brush against the apex of your thighs. "It will only grow from here."
"I - ah." You grasped his arm, torn between pushing him away and pulling him closer.
He smiled, kissing the hollow of your throat. His fingers moved in slow, firm circles, the friction growing warmer and wetter by the moment.
"A woman is different from a man," he explained, his mouth pressed against your ear. "When we touch each other, it is not the same."
"Yes," you said softly. "I know how it's supposed to happen. My husband... I mean- you put your cock inside me."
He chuckled, a sound that rumbled through his chest. "A crude description, but yes."
A wave of embarrassment washed over you, and you hid your face in the crook of his neck.
"Tell me, my dear," he whispered, "did your mother explain it to you?"
"She...she told me not to struggle."
He stiffened, his fingers pausing their gentle motion. "What else did she tell you?"
"She said...she said that once the lord finishes, I will be bound to him." You felt foolish, reciting the words as though they were a poem or a lesson.
"My dear girl." His tone was pained, and you dared to look up at him. "It is a good deal more than not struggling."
He drew his hand back and cupped your face, his mismatched eyes searching yours. "Your husband should never hurt you."
You swallowed. "Is ...is it not painful? your highne-"
"Baelor," he corrected, his lips curving into a smile.
"Baelor." Your heart fluttered, your skin prickling at the way his name sounded on your tongue.
He leaned in and kissed you again, slower this time, deeper. His hands moved to the front of your gown, finding the delicate laces that ran from your chest to your waist. He did not rush. Each tug was slow, deliberate, his knuckles brushing against your breasts through the fabric.
"I have thought of this," he murmured against your mouth. "Since the moment I first saw you in the sept. The unwrapping. Like a gift I do not deserve."
Your heart hammered. "You deserve everything, my prince."
He shook his head slightly, a ghost of a smile on his lips. "I deserve nothing. But I shall endeavor to earn you, all the same."
The laces loosened, and his fingers slipped beneath the edges of your gown, pushing the fabric aside. Cool air kissed your skin, raising goosebumps along your arms and chest. You wore a thin shift beneath, the linen so fine it was nearly transparent.
Baelor's breath left him in a long, slow exhale. His hands smoothed over your shoulders, pushing the gown down your arms until it pooled at your waist. The shift clung to you, revealing the shadowed peaks of your nipples, the curve of your breasts.
He bent his head, his lips skimming the bare flesh above the neckline. His beard scratched pleasantly against you, and you squirmed. His hands moved to your breasts, cupping their weight. His thumbs circled your nipples, and they tightened into hard points beneath the thin linen.
"So soft," His voice was thick with admiration.
He nudged the shift down with his chin, his tongue darting out to flick against your nipple. You gasped, your back arching. He closed his mouth over you, sucking gently, and you felt the wetness between your thighs growing, that terrible pressure building.
You had never felt anything like it. It was a pleasure so sharp it was almost painful, a wanting that was both a comfort and a torment. Your fingers tangled in his dark hair, holding him to you.
"Baelor," you gasped, your hips moving unconsciously against his, seeking something you did not understand.
He released your nipple with a soft pop, switching to the other, giving it the same attention. His hands slid down your back, gripping your backside again, pulling you flush against him. You could feel him, hard and thick against your stomach.
"That's it, sweet girl," he murmured against your skin. "Move with me. Let your body feel."
His words were a permission you didn't know you needed. You let your hips rock against him, the friction sending jolts of pleasure through you.
He guided your movements, his hands on your backside, until the rhythm was set. He trailed kisses from your chest up your throat, to the sensitive spot beneath your ear.
"Can you feel it, my love?" he breathed.
"Yes," you gasped.
"Good. Do not be afraid of it."
His hands slid beneath your skirts, his fingertips tracing slowly how your bare thighs, his palms warm and rough against the soft skin. He urged you to part them, his fingers dipping between your legs.
You gasped as his fingertips brushed against the source of the ache, your most private place.
"It is alright," he murmured, stroking the seam of you, his thumb teasing the nub at the top. "Your body knows what to do. Let it."
His touch was a revelation. Your hips canted forward, searching for more of the sensation. You gripped his shoulders, your nails digging into the soft linen of his tunic.
He dipped his fingers lower, tracing the edges of your entrance. You felt the wetness gathering there, coating his fingertips.
"That is how it is meant to feel," he said softly. "Not a duty, not a burden. Pleasure. For you and for me."
He gathered the wetness, dragging it back up to that sensitive spot, his movements smooth and sure. He watched your face, his gaze intent, cataloging every shift in your expression.
His fingers dipped back down to circle your entrance, testing, teasing. Then, slowly, one finger pushed inside you.
You gasped at the foreign sensation. His finger was thick and calloused, stretching you as it slid deeper.
"There," he whispered, his middle finger slipping inside you. "Does that feel good?"
You could only whimper in response, the sound needy and high. He curled his finger, stroking the velvety walls of your cunt, the heel of his palm still pressing against that sensitive spot.
"It will be a stretch at first," he murmured, sliding his finger out before pushing back in, all the way to the knuckle. "But we will take it slow."
You had heard the whispers, the jokes, the lewd suggestions. But the reality was different. It was not some awkward tumble in the dark, a quick, painful thrusting. It was this, the press of his palm, the rasp of his beard against your collarbone. Not just one sensation, but many, all working together to build something new and wonderful inside you.
He added a second finger, and the stretch was more pronounced. You felt your walls flutter around him, and his soft chuckle tickled your skin. "Easy, let it ache a moment."
You forced yourself to breathe, the pressure giving way to pleasure as you followed his guidance, rocking your hips against his hand.
"Yes," he breathed. "Just like that. Ride my fingers, sweet girl."
Your blush returned, but it was distant. Your body's needs eclipsed any sense of shame, and you ground against him, your eyes squeezing shut as the tension coiled ever tighter.
"Eyes open," he murmured, his voice gentle but insistent. "Look at me, my love."
You forced yourself to open them, looking into his eyes. They were darker than usual, swallowed by his dilated pupils. He watched you, his gaze roaming your face, your chest, his lips parted slightly.
"That's it," he murmured. "Let it take you."
You did not know what that meant at first, but then it struck you all at once, a wave crashing over you. The tension snapped, a flood of wetness coating his fingers as pleasure radiated from your core, spreading to every inch of you. Your hips stuttered, no longer able to keep a rhythm, and a soft moan from your throat.
He held you as the wave crested, murmuring soothing words against your hair. He slowed his fingers, drawing the sensation out, his palm pressing gently.
You collapsed against him, breathing hard, and he slipped his fingers from you. They glistened with your slick, and he brought them to his lips, his tongue darting out to taste them.
"My sweet wife," he murmured. "You honor me."
The haze of pleasure had not yet left you, and you blinked at him, your stomach twisting at the sight, a fresh heat blooming within you.
He smiled and kissed you softly. You could taste yourself on his tongue, a bitterness that was not unpleasant.
"That is only the beginning," he said. "You will learn, and I will show you."
You nodded, dazed, unable to find words. He kissed you again, lacing your dress back into place. "But for now, let us stop there."
"I-" You did not know how to tell him the way his touch still made you ache, the way your body seemed to crave more. "You're still..." You gestured vaguely to the place where his breeches strained.
"I am." A rueful smile. "But that is not your concern tonight."
Before you could argue, he shifted you gently from his lap. He stood, adjusting his breeches, it was quick, almost private, and you felt a strange pang at being shut out.
He turned, offering his hand, helping you to your feet. His hands found your hips and he pulled you close, his lips finding yours.
"Will you join me for dinner tonight?" he asked, his nose brushing against yours. "In my chambers?"
You nodded.
"In a few hours." His thumb traced your cheekbone. "Wear nothing beneath."
You felt the heat rise in your cheeks, your hands clutching at his chest. He chuckled, low and warm, and kissed you once more before stepping away.
You hesitated, feet rooted. He stood by the desk, papers waiting, but his eyes were still on you.
A smile tugged at his mouth. "You can walk down the steps, can you not? Or do I need to carry you?"
"Oh- no... I can walk." You flushed and turned, forcing yourself not to look back as you stepped out into the corridor, closing the door behind you.
As you walked toward your chambers, you couldn't stop thinking about his hands, his words. His tongue. And the promise of the evening.
You couldn't wait for all the other lessons to come.
pairing 𓂃 prince!Baelor Targaryen x targaryenfem!reader and aerion Targaryen x targaryenfem!reader (forced)
series masterlist 𓂃 here <3
part 𓂃 5/?
A dream of golden light and gentle hands shatters into cold stone and fresh bruises. Baelor sees the truth at last, while the world narrows to shared tears and whispered vows. Healing begins in fragments, a child’s fierce love wrapped in stories, and the soft confessions of love spoken over cracked lips and bound ribs.
genre and tags 𓂃 Dark Angst, Forbidden Love, Heavy Emotional Weight, Aftermath of Trauma, Protective Rage, Tender Comfort, Found Family Moments, Healing (Slow), Mutual Confession, Quiet Despair Turning to Fragile Hope, Grief & Guilt
Trigger Warnings 𓂃 Aftermath of marital rxpe / non-con (detailed descriptions of bruises, bite marks, handprints, blood, rib fractures, throat contusions, soreness), references to physical & sexual violence, emotional breakdown, crying / trembling, psychological trauma, power imbalance, heavy guilt, descriptions of injury cleaning & medical care
(If you want to be added or removed from the taglist, just let me know ♡)
Sleep comes in fragments, shallow and feverish, but tonight it drags you under like black water.
You dream.
The sun is golden, not the sullen red of King's Landing dusk but true summer light spilling across the Water Gardens of Dorne. Children laugh somewhere beyond the lemon trees—small voices, bright and fearless. You walk barefoot on cool marble, a simple white gown brushing your ankles, no bruises, no tears dried on your cheeks. Your skin is unmarked, your throat bare and breathing easy.
Baelor is there.
He waits at the edge of the arched colonnade, leaning against a pillar carved with twisting vines. No armor, no crown of heir-apparent weight—just a loose linen tunic the color of sea foam, sleeves rolled to the elbows, silver hair unbound and catching the breeze. He looks younger than you have ever seen him in waking life, the lines of duty smoothed away.
When he sees you he straightens, a slow smile breaking across his face like sunrise. He holds out both hands.
You go to him without hesitation.
His arms close around you gently—careful, reverent, as though you are made of spun glass and moonlight. No grip that bruises, no teeth at your shoulder. He buries his face in your hair and inhales like a man who has crossed deserts to reach water.
"My heart," he murmurs against your temple. "My brave one."
You press your cheek to his chest. His heartbeat is steady, deep, a drum that drowns out every nightmare. His hand strokes down your back in long, soothing lines—comfort, not claim.
"You are safe here," he says. "Always."
Baelor's fingers threading through yours, leading you to a cushioned bench beneath a trellis heavy with jasmine. He sits and draws you into his lap as though it is the most natural thing in the world. You curl against him, head tucked under his chin, and for the first time in what feels like years your body does not tense at a man's nearness.
He speaks of small, ordinary futures. A daughter with his eyes and your smile. Summers in Summerhall, winters by hearths where no one ever raises a hand in anger. He promises to teach you the old Valyrian songs his mother sang, to show you the stars from the highest tower until you know each one by name.
His lips brush your forehead—soft, lingering.
"I would burn the world before I let it hurt you," he whispers. "But I will never be the one who does."
You believe him.
The dream shifts, softens. His hand cups your cheek, thumb tracing the line of your jaw with aching tenderness. You tilt your face up and he kisses you—slow, deep, tasting of salt and sunlight and everything good that has been stolen away.
For one perfect heartbeat, the future feels real.
Then the light changes.
The jasmine scent sours to smoke. The marble beneath you turns cold stone. Baelor's arms tighten—not in protection, but in warning.
He pulls back, eyes wide with sudden grief.
"No," he says, voice cracking. "Not yet. Please—"
The dream fractures.
You wake gasping, heart hammering against ribs that ache with fresh bruises. The room is dark. The fire is dying.
Dawn is still hours away when the door opens.
You do not stir. You assume it is another maid sent to pretend nothing happened, or perhaps Aerion himself, restless and already ready to punish you again. Your body curls tighter beneath the thin, ruined sheet, every bruise and bite throbbing in time with your heartbeat.
But the footsteps are heavier. Measured. Familiar. Not the careless swagger of youth, not the light tread of servants. These are the steps of a man who has carried steel and grief in equal measure for decades.
Maekar.
He stops at the foot of the bed. The dying firelight catches the hard lines of his face, the mail shirt he still wears, the sword at his hip. He looks older than he did yesterday—lines carved deeper around his mouth, eyes shadowed.
He sees you first—curled small, shift torn and blood-specked, hair tangled. Then he sees the rest.
You are small against the great bed, knees drawn to your chest, the torn shift clinging to sweat and dried blood. Hair snarled and matted across your face. He sees the handprints on your throat—dark purple-black collars that will take weeks to fade. He sees the crescent bite-marks on both shoulders, crusted and angry. The swollen left cheek, the split lower lip still weeping sluggishly. The mottled map of violence across your breasts, ribs, hips, thighs: finger-bruises in sets of five, nail-rents like red lightning, the repeated open-palmed imprint of fury laid over and over again.
Maekar’s breath catches. Not loudly. Just a small, sharp inhale, like a man who has been punched in the gut.
He does not speak at once.
Then he crosses to the wash-stand in three measured strides. You hear water poured, the soft scrape of linen. He returns and lowers himself to one knee beside the bed, close enough that you smell steel, pine resin, and the faint metallic tang of old blood that always clings to him after a long night.
“Child,” he says quietly. The word is rough, almost broken. “Let me see.”
You flinch when he reaches out. He stops immediately.
“I will not hurt you,” he says. “I swear it on my honor. On my wife’s memory. Let me help.”
Slowly—agonizingly—you uncurl enough for him to see the full extent.
He does not gasp. Does not curse. But something in his face fractures.
He has seen battlefields. He has seen men torn apart by steel and claw. He has buried children, brothers, a wife who died gentle and loved.
But this—his own son’s handiwork on the woman his brother loves—cuts deeper than any blade.
He presses the cool cloth to your cheek first. Gentle. So gentle it makes fresh tears spill. He works with a tenderness that feels almost obscene coming from such a large, scarred man—slow strokes, never pressing, never lingering where it might hurt more.
“I raised him,” he says, almost to himself. “I held him when he was born. I taught him to hold a sword. I told myself the cruelty was just youth, just wildfire that would burn itself out. I told myself he would grow into something better.” His voice cracks on the last word. “I lied to myself.”
He moves the cloth to your throat, careful not to press the bruises.
“My wife—” He stops, throat working. “She was soft. Kind. When I touched her it was always with care. Even in passion, even when the dragon rode us both, I never left a mark she did not ask for. I never made her flinch. And I raised a son who thinks pain is proof of love.”
Fresh blood wells where one of the bites has reopened under the cloth. He winces as though the wound were his own, dabs more gently still.
“I am sorry,” he whispers. “For every moment I let him run unchecked. For every time I told Baelor to wait. For every promise I made that kept you here tonight.”
You close your eyes. “It’s not your fault.”
“It is,” he says flatly. “I am his father. I should have chained him before he learned to bite.”
He works in silence after that—cleaning, wiping blood, pressing cool cloth to fever-hot skin. When he finishes he pulls the ruined shift back over your shoulders as best he can, then drapes his own cloak over you—plain black wool, smelling of steel and pine.
The silence stretches long after Maekar finishes tending your wounds. The fire has burned low, casting only faint, flickering light across the room. His cloak still drapes heavy over your shoulders, warm against the chill that has settled into your bones deeper than any bruise.
You shift slightly on the bed, wincing as fresh pain radiates from your ribs. Maekar remains kneeling beside you, elbows on the mattress edge, hands clasped so tightly the knuckles stand white.
He speaks first, voice low and rough, like stone grinding against stone.
“I have spent these last days… searching old records. Scrolls from the Conquest era, judgments preserved in the Citadel’s copies here in the Keep. I needed to know what the law allows—and what it forbids—even for a prince.”
You watch him, silent. Your throat aches too much for easy words.
He exhales through his nose. “There is a precedent. From Queen Rhaenys herself, in the days when the Targaryens still held court at the Aegonfort. A man beat his wife to death after finding her with another. He claimed it was his right to chastise an erring wife. The Faith and the old laws agreed a husband could strike such a woman, but only with a rod no thicker than his thumb. He used such a rod… and claimed the blows were lawful.”
Maekar’s gaze drops to the floor. “The brothers said he struck her a hundred times. Rhaenys consulted septons and maesters. She ruled that an adulterous wife offends the Seven, who made women to be faithful and obedient. Thus chastisement is permitted—but only six blows. One for each of the Seven faces save the Stranger, who is death. The seventh blow would be murder. The first six were lawful… the remaining ninety-four were not. She sentenced the man to receive those ninety-four blows from the dead woman’s brothers, using rods of lawful size. And from that judgment came the ‘rule of six’ and the ‘rule of thumb’—no implement thicker than a thumb may be used, even in lawful chastisement.”
He looks up at you then, eyes dark with something like shame. “Aerion did far more than six. He used hands, teeth, weight. No rod at all, but the law does not distinguish intent from outcome when the result is this.” His hand gestures vaguely toward your battered form. “What he did was no lawful chastisement. It was torture. Attempted murder, if the Stranger had claimed you tonight. And even if the Faith twists itself to call a wife’s… indiscretion grounds for discipline, you gave no offense that warrants death or maiming.”
A long pause. His voice drops quieter. “The king will hear of this. From me. There will be a trial. Witnesses. Evidence. The maesters who can attest to the extent of your injuries. And judgment.”
You swallow, tasting copper. “And who will judge?”
Maekar’s jaw tightens. “Baelor. As heir, as hand of the king. The king will insist on impartiality, but he knows the truth. Baelor will sit in judgment.”
Your heart stutters. “No.”
Maekar raises a brow.
“He will not be able to stay calm,” you whisper. “The moment he sees—” You gesture weakly at yourself. “He will not sit in calm judgment. He will want blood before the first word is spoken.”
Maekar does not deny it. “Perhaps. But that is why it must be done this way. A formal accounting. A sentence handed down by the hand himself, witnessed by the king, the small council. Exile, perhaps. Or the Wall. Or confinement. Something that ends this without open kinslaying in the shadows.”
You shake your head, slow and painful. “He will never accept quiet exile. He will fight it. He will rage.”
“Then let him rage,” Maekar says grimly. “Better he snarls before the throne than strikes in secret. The realm will see what he is. The Faith will see. The king will see. And if he refuses to bend to judgment… we will deal with that when it comes. But first we force the truth into the open.”
You close your eyes. Tears leak from the corners, stinging the swollen skin. “I never wanted this. Any of it.”
“I know, child.” Maekar reaches out—hesitant—then lays one careful hand over yours. “But it has come. And I will not let my son’s madness bury you both. Not while I breathe.”
He rises slowly, joints creaking like old armor. “Rest now. I will send for a trusted maester at first light—one who will keep silence until the trial is called. And I will speak to Baelor before Aerion wakes. He must hear it from me, not from whispers or from seeing you like this.”
You nod faintly, too weary to argue more.
Maekar pauses at the door, hand on the frame. “You are stronger than either of them knows,” he says quietly. “Stronger than I was, at your age. Hold to that.”
Then he is gone, the door closing soft behind him.
The silence lingers after Maekar leaves, thick and heavy as the dying fire. You remain curled on the bed, Maekar’s black cloak pulled tight around the torn remnants of your shift, every breath a small, deliberate effort against the fire in your ribs. The room is dim, only embers now, and the Keep feels impossibly still—like the whole castle is holding its breath for what comes next.
Then the door bursts open.
Not quietly. Not cautiously.
It slams against the wall with a crack that makes you flinch hard enough to tear fresh pain through your side. Torchlight from the corridor floods in, harsh and sudden, and there he is.
Baelor.
He stands frozen in the doorway for one heartbeat, Maekar right behind him—face grim, one hand outstretched as though he had tried and failed to hold his brother back. Maekar’s mouth opens, perhaps to speak, perhaps to warn, but the words die unspoken.
Baelor’s eyes find you.
And the world stops.
He sees everything.
The way you are curled small and defensive on the edge of the bed. The blood-specked shift clinging to your skin. The purple-black handprints ringing your throat like a noose of bruises. The swollen cheek, the split lip still crusted with salve. The mottled marks blooming across collarbone and shoulder, the bite marks crusted dark on both sides of your neck, the red palm-prints repeated again and again over ribs and hips where the cloak has slipped open just enough.
His face changes in stages.
First shock—pupils blowing wide, color draining until he looks carved from pale marble.
Then recognition—his gaze tracing each mark like a map of violence he already knows the author of.
Then something breaks.
A raw, animal sound tears out of him—half choke, half roar—and he is moving before anyone can stop him. Three long strides across the room. He drops to his knees beside the bed so hard the frame creaks.
His hands hover over you—trembling, hovering, terrified to touch and terrified not to.
“Gods,” he rasps. The word is shredded. “Gods, no—”
His forehead presses to your stomach, right over Maekar's oversized tunic you’re wearing, over the place where ribs ache and bite-marks burn beneath fabric. He doesn’t grab. Doesn’t clutch. He simply rests there—brow against the soft wool, while his entire body trembles.
You feel the shaking in waves: his shoulders, his arms, the shallow, ragged breaths he drags against your middle. Hot tears soak through the tunic almost instantly, darkening the gray in small, spreading circles.
You try to speak, to say something—anything, but your throat is too raw; only a cracked whisper escapes. “Baelor…”
You feel your own face crumple. The sight of him like this—Baelor Targaryen, the unbreakable heir, kneeling and weeping into your lap—rips something open inside your chest all over again. You were holding yourself together in brittle pieces; now those pieces threaten to dissolve completely.
He lifts his head just enough to look up at you—eyes red-rimmed, glistening, pupils still blown with grief. The sorrow in them is bottomless. He reaches then. Slowly. So slowly. One hand cups the uninjured side of your face, thumb brushing feather-light beneath the swollen eye. The other settles on your shoulder—over the cloak, not pressing, just resting there like he needs proof you are still breathing.
"He did this?” he asks, though he already knows. The question is not for information. It is for confession. For permission to unleash what is already uncoiling inside him.
You swallow blood and salt. “Yes.”
Baelor’s breath shudders out. His hand on your face tightens—just a fraction—then forces itself to loosen again. He looks over his shoulder at Maekar, who has not moved from the doorway. The older man’s face is stone, but his eyes are grieving.
“You knew,” Baelor says. Not a question. A blade. “You came here. You saw her like this. And you let me sleep?”
Maekar does not flinch. “I came to tend her wounds. I told you everything right after. I did not want you to see—”
“I should have seen.” Baelor’s voice cracks like dry wood. “I should have been here. Not you.”
He turns back to you. His thumb strokes once—barely there—along your jaw, avoiding the split lip. Fresh tears gather in his lashes but do not fall.
“I’m here now. I’m so sorry—I’m so sorry I wasn’t—”
You shake your head—small, frantic—tears spilling faster. You don’t want apologies. You just want him to stay.
“I am going to kill him,” he says. Quiet. Certain. Like a vow made to the old gods under a heart tree. “Tonight. Before the sun rises. I will drag him from his bed and I will—”
“No.” The word rips out of you, sharp enough to make him still. You force your hand up—shaking, aching—and catch his wrist. “No.”
His gaze snaps to yours. “My love, you cannot ask me to let this stand.”
“I am asking.” Your fingers tighten on his wrist, nails digging in just enough to ground him. “Maekar found the law. Rhaenys’s judgment. The rule of six. What Aerion did exceeds every limit—lawful chastisement or no. There will be a trial. The king will hear it. You will judge him.”
Baelor laughs—short, jagged, disbelieving. “Judge him? While you lie here broken because of him? I will not sit on a chair and speak pretty words while he smirks—”
“You will,” you say, and the steel in your voice surprises even you. “Because if you go to him now, in rage, in the dark, they will call it kinslaying. They will take you from me. They will hang you or send you to the Wall or worse, and he will walk free to do it again—to someone else, or to me if I survive him. But a trial… a trial puts it in the light. Evidence. Maesters. Witnesses. The king cannot ignore it. The Faith cannot twist it. And when sentence is passed, it will be lawful. Final.”
He stares at you. Breathing hard. The hand on your face trembles.
“I cannot sit and watch him breathe the same air as you,” he whispers. “Not after this.”
“I don't ask you to sit.” You turn your face into his palm, just enough that your lips brush the callused skin. “Stand. Be the judgment itself. Be the punishment. Make him face what he did before the whole court, before his father, before the gods. Make it impossible for anyone to pretend it did not happen.”
For a long moment he is silent. Then he leans forward—careful, agonizingly careful—and presses his forehead to yours. His breath is ragged against your cheek.
“I hate this,” he says again, voice cracking open. “I hate that you are still protecting me. Even now.”
“I am not protecting you,” you murmur. “I am protecting us.”
He closes his eyes. A single tear escapes, tracks down his cheek, falls onto your collarbone.
Maekar finally steps forward—slow, deliberate. “She is right, brother. Let it be done in the light. Let the realm see. Let the sentence be iron, not blood in the shadows. You're a knight, act like one.”
Baelor does not move for a long time. His forehead stays pressed to yours, his hand cradling your face like something infinitely fragile.
Then—quiet, almost inaudible—he says, “I will wait.”
The words cost him. You feel it in the way his shoulders shake once, then still.
“But when the trial comes,” he continues, voice low and lethal, “when he stands before me… if he denies a single mark, if he smirks, if he so much as looks at you—I will not sit idle. I swear it.”
You nod—small, pained, grateful.
He kisses your forehead then. Soft. Reverent. Over the swelling, over the bruise, over everything that hurts.
“I’ve got you,” he whispers, echoing the words he spoke beneath the heart tree so many lifetimes ago. “Just hold on a little longer. I’ve got you.”
You close your eyes and let yourself lean into him—just a little—while the embers die and the first gray promise of dawn creeps under the door.
Reckoning is coming.
But for this one fragile moment, you are not alone.
The first true light of dawn is pale and thin, more mist than sun, when Maekar rises from the chair beside your bed.
He has not left your side since the small hours—not truly. Baelor had wanted to stay too, but Maekar had spoken low and firm: “One of us must go to the king before the court wakes. You stay. She needs you here more than she needs another voice in the throne room right now.”
Baelor had not argued. He had only looked at you—long, anguished—then nodded once and taken the seat Maekar vacated. Now he sits close enough that his knee brushes the edge of the mattress, one hand resting near yours but not quite touching, as though he fears even that small contact might hurt you more.
Maekar pauses at the door, hand on the frame. “I will bring the maester myself. Calwyn—old, discreet, trustworthy. I will return as soon as I can.”
You nod faintly. Baelor does not look away from you.
Maekar leaves. The door closes with a soft click.
Silence settles again, broken only by the faint crackle of dying embers and your own shallow breathing.
Baelor watches you for a long moment. Then, very slowly, he reaches out. His fingers brush the edge of Maekar’s cloak where it has slipped from your shoulder, drawing it back up with infinite care. The motion is so gentle it makes your throat tighten.
“I should have been here sooner,” he says quietly. The words are raw, scraped over hours of guilt. “I should have known. I should have—”
You shake your head—just a fraction, the smallest movement your bruised neck will allow. “Stop.”
He exhales, ragged. His hand lingers on the cloak, then falls to rest on the bed beside yours. Close, but not claiming.
“I will not leave you alone again,” he says. “Not tonight. Not ever, if you will let me stay.”
You manage the ghost of a nod.
He stays like that—silent sentinel—until the door opens once more.
Maekar returns first, expression harder than before. Behind him comes the maester.
He is an old man named Calwyn—gray as winter stone, hands steady from decades of stitching battlefield wounds and birthing royal heirs. Maekar brings him personally. The door opens quietly this time; the maester carries a small satchel of herbs and salves, his face already schooled into professional blankness. He has been told only that a lady of the court requires discretion and silence until further notice.
He stops short when he sees you.
Even with Maekar’s cloak draped over the worst of it, even with the worst of the blood cleaned away, the evidence is unmistakable. Calwyn’s eyes flick from the handprint collar at your throat to the bite marks peeking above the cloak’s edge, then to the way you hold yourself—curled but not quite able to hide the sharp angle of pain in your ribs.
He does not gasp. Does not exclaim. He simply bows once, low and careful, and says, “My lady. Prince Maekar has explained the need for privacy. Prince baelor." He inclines his head to each in turn. "I am here to serve.”
Maekar stands by the door like a sentinel, arms crossed, watching every movement the old man makes.
Baelor does not rise, but his shoulders tense. His voice is low, controlled, but the fury beneath it is unmistakable. “Do what you must. But cause her no more pain than necessary.”
Calwyn nods without offense. “I will be as gentle as I know how.”
Calwyn approaches slowly, setting his satchel on a low table. He washes his hands in the basin Maekar used earlier, then draws out a small lamp and lights it with a taper from the dying fire. The soft golden glow reveals more than the embers ever did: the full purple bloom across your cheekbone, the faint split at the corner of your mouth that reopens with every word, the way your breathing is shallow to spare your cracked ribs.
“May I examine you?” he asks gently.
You glance at Baelor. He gives the smallest nod—permission, encouragement, whatever you need.
You nod—small, hesitant.
Calwyn works with practiced, impersonal care. He lifts the cloak just enough to see, never exposing more than necessary. Baelor’s eyes never leave you; every time you wince, his hand twitches as though to reach for you, but he holds himself still.
The maester murmurs to himself as he goes: contusions to the larynx, probable fracture of two lower ribs on the left, multiple contused abrasions consistent with blunt force and human dentition, ecchymosis in repeated open-handed patterns across torso and thighs. He palpates your ribs with feather-light pressure; you hiss through your teeth anyway. Baelor’s jaw clenches so hard you hear the grind of teeth.
Calwyn applies fresh salve—cool, numbing, scented of wintergreen and myrish fire—then binds your ribs with long strips of linen, tight enough to support but not to constrict. He is careful, methodical, explaining each step in a low voice so you are never surprised.
When he finishes he steps back, folds his hands, and addresses both princes.
“The injuries are severe but not mortal. The throat bruising will make speech painful for several days; the ribs will ache for weeks and must remain bound when she moves or breathes deeply. No internal bleeding that I can detect, though I would prefer to monitor her closely for the next two days. Fever may develop tonight from the open wounds. I have left milk of the poppy—small doses only. She must remain lucid.”
Baelor’s voice is rough. “She will have whatever she needs."
Calwyn inclines his head. “As you command, my prince.”
Maekar has been silent until now, arms crossed, watching every movement. He steps forward.
“You will say nothing of this to anyone,” he tells the maester. “Not septons, not other maesters, not even Pycelle. Not until the king himself commands it.”
“My silence is given freely, Prince Maekar.”
Maekar nods once, satisfied.
The maester gathers his satchel, preparing to leave, but you shift slightly on the bed—wincing as the movement pulls at your bound ribs—and force your raw throat to work. The words come out hoarse, barely above a whisper, cracked and trembling.
“Wait.”
All three men turn to you at once. Baelor’s hand tightens around yours instinctively, careful not to squeeze too hard. Maekar’s brow furrows in concern. Calwyn pauses, satchel half-closed.
You swallow against the fire in your throat, tasting blood and bile, and meet the maester’s eyes. Your free hand drifts—almost without thought—to rest low on your abdomen, over the soft wool of Maekar's tunic.
“The… moon tea,” you rasp, each word scraping like broken glass. “Please. I need it. Now.”
The room goes still.
Calwyn’s expression doesn’t change—professional, impassive—but his eyes flick briefly to your hand, then back to your face. He understands. Maesters always do.
Baelor’s breath catches audibly. His thumb stops its slow circles on your knuckles. You feel the tremor that runs through him, the way his shoulders go rigid for a heartbeat before he forces them to relax.
Maekar exhales through his nose—sharp, pained—but he doesn’t speak. His jaw works once, twice, as though chewing on words he can’t quite swallow.
Calwyn nods once, slow and measured.
“Of course, my lady.” His voice is gentle, almost kind. “It is… prudent, given the circumstances. I carry the necessary herbs with me; many maesters do, for discretion’s sake.”
He sets the satchel down again and begins to rummage with practiced efficiency. You watch him measure out small pinches—tansy leaves, dried mint, a twist of wormwood, a single dark drop from a tiny vial that must be pennyroyal—into a small mortar. He adds a spoonful of honey from a jar, grinds it all together with a pestle, then pours steaming water from a kettle one of the servants must have left warming by the hearth. The sharp, bitter-green scent rises almost immediately, cutting through the lingering smell of salve and blood.
Baelor hasn’t looked away from you. He lifts your hand to his lips, pressing a feather-light kiss to the bruised knuckles, to show his support.
Calwyn stirs the brew once more, then strains it into a small silver cup. The liquid is dark amber, steaming faintly. He brings it to you himself, kneeling beside the bed so you don’t have to sit up too far.
“It will taste foul,” he warns quietly. “Bitter, with a bite that lingers. Drink it slowly; it works best taken all at once, but sip if you must. The effects… may begin within hours. Cramping, bleeding, if there is something, of course. It is not gentle, but it is sure. If fever comes tonight from your wounds, send for me at once—I will not leave the Keep.”
You take the cup with shaking hands. Baelor steadies it with you, his larger fingers wrapping around yours from beneath, supporting without taking control.
The first sip burns your raw throat like fire, bitter and metallic, but you force it down. Another. Another. Until the cup is empty.
Calwyn takes it back gently. “Rest now. I will return at dusk to check the bindings and… to see how you fare.”
Maekar nods and turns to Baelor.
“I must go to the king now. The council will be summoned at midday. Aerion will be fetched last—in chains if he resists. Stay with her. Maybe you should escort her to your quarters, this room is full of memories.”
Baelor meets his brother’s eyes. “Go. I will not leave her side.”
Maekar looks at you one last time—something almost tender in the hard lines of his face—then turns and strides out. The door closes behind him with quiet finality.
Calwyn gathers his satchel. “My lady. Prince Baelor.” He bows again and slips away.
The room falls quiet again after the door closes behind Calwyn. The only sounds are the soft crackle of the last embers and your careful, shallow breaths.
Baelor does not move at first. He stays seated beside the bed, your hand still cradled loosely in both of his, thumb tracing slow, absent circles over your knuckles—careful to avoid any bruised skin. His eyes are fixed on your face, as though memorizing every line, every mark, every place where pain has settled.
After a long moment he speaks, voice low and rough from lack of sleep and everything else.
“Maekar is right,” he says quietly. “This room… it reeks of him. Of last night. You should not have to wake here again.”
You meet his gaze. The violet of his eyes is darker than usual, shadowed with exhaustion and something fiercer beneath it. You nod—just once, small enough not to jar your throat.
He exhales, as though the small permission eases something tight in his chest.
“Then let me take you to my quarters. They are higher up, quieter. No one will enter without my word. You can rest there until… until this is settled.”
He waits for your answer. When you give the faintest nod again, relief flickers across his face—brief, fragile, quickly buried under resolve.
He rises slowly, careful not to jar the bed. First he fetches a fresh basin of water from the corner stand, dips a clean cloth, wrings it out. He returns and kneels beside you once more.
“I need to help you dress,” he says gently. “Nothing hasty. Nothing that hurts more than it must. Tell me—always tell me—if anything is too much.”
You swallow. The motion pulls at the bruises on your throat, but you manage a hoarse whisper. “I trust you.”
His eyes close for a heartbeat, as though the words strike deeper than any blade. Then he opens them again and begins.
He lifts Maekar’s heavy black cloak away first, folding it carefully and setting it aside. Beneath it your shift is little more than rags—torn at the shoulders, blood-specked, clinging uncomfortably to dried sweat and salve. Baelor does not look away in disgust or pity; he simply reaches for the small bundle of clean linens one of the silent servants must have left earlier at Maekar’s quiet order.
He helps you sit up—slowly, one arm behind your shoulders, the other supporting your back so your bound ribs do not protest too sharply. You bite your lip against the flare of pain anyway; he freezes instantly.
“Too much?”
You shake your head. “Keep going.”
He eases the ruined shift over your head with painstaking care, never letting fabric drag across open bites or swollen skin. When it is off he drapes a clean linen sheet across your lap and shoulders at once, preserving what modesty remains. His movements are deliberate, almost reverent—nothing like the possessive haste you have come to fear.
He wets the cloth again and washes away the last traces of blood and grime from your arms, your collarbones, the hollow of your throat—cool water, gentle pressure, never lingering. Each stroke is accompanied by a murmured apology, even when he has done nothing wrong.
“I’m sorry,” he whispers again and again, as though the words can undo what was done. “I’m so sorry.”
When your skin is clean he helps you into a fresh shift—soft, undyed wool, loose enough not to press against the bindings or the worst bruises. He guides your arms through the sleeves like threading silk through a needle, then smooths the fabric down your back and sides with the flat of his palms—light, steadying touches meant only to comfort.
Over that he layers one of his own tunics—far too large, the sleeves falling past your fingertips, the hem brushing mid-thigh. The neckline is wide enough to avoid your throat entirely; the soft gray wool smells faintly of cedar and him—clean, safe, familiar in a way that makes fresh tears prick your eyes.
He rolls the cuffs back twice so your hands are free, then drapes Maekar’s cloak over your shoulders again for warmth and modesty.
“Can you stand?” he asks.
You try. Your legs tremble; the room tilts once. Baelor is there immediately—one arm sliding behind your back, the other catching beneath your knees. He lifts you as though you weigh nothing, cradling you against his chest.
“I’ve got you,” he murmurs into your hair. “Just hold on.”
You loop one arm around his neck—weak, but enough to steady yourself. His heartbeat thuds steadily beneath your ear, strong and even, nothing like the frantic drum of nightmares.
He carries you from the room without pause.
The corridor outside is empty—Maekar must have ordered the guards away. Dawn light filters through high arrow-slits, pale and cold. Baelor moves quickly but smoothly, boots soft on stone, never jarring you. You keep your face tucked against his shoulder, hiding from the world.
His chambers are on the next level, past a guarded stair and a heavy oak door banded with iron. He shoulders it open without setting you down.
Inside it is warmer—fire already lit low in the hearth, heavy tapestries muffling sound, a wide bed piled with furs and pillows. The air smells of parchment, ink, polished steel, and the faint green scent of summerhall rosemary he keeps in a bowl on the table.
He crosses straight to the bed and lowers you onto it as carefully as if you were made of blown glass. He arranges pillows behind your back so you can sit half-reclined, then pulls the thick fur coverlet up to your waist.
“Better?” he asks.
You nod. The pain is still there—ribs aching, throat raw—but the room feels different. Safer. His.
He kneels beside the bed again, brushing a strand of tangled hair from your face with the backs of his fingers.
“I will send for food—something light, broth and bread. And fresh water. Whatever you can keep down.” He hesitates. “I can send for a woman to help you bathe properly later, if you wish. Or I can stay. Whatever you need.”
You reach out—slow, trembling—and catch his hand. Your fingers curl around his.
“Stay, please.” you rasp.
His throat works. He nods once, fierce and grateful.
He pulls a low stool closer, sits, and rests his forearms on the edge of the mattress so his hand remains in yours. “You are stronger than anyone I have ever known.”
The words come out soft, almost reverent, as though he has been holding them inside too long and they have grown heavy.
You turn your head just enough to meet his eyes, the storm in them calmed to something quieter, deeper.
He lifts your hand—carefully, always so carefully—and presses his lips to the back of it, over the faint bruises there.
“I have seen knights endure arrows and blades and still stand,” he murmurs against your skin. “I have seen my father bury grief deeper than most men could bear and keep walking. But you…” His voice cracks, just a fraction. “You have been torn open by someone who should have protected you, and yet here you are—still breathing, still speaking, still telling me no when every instinct in me screams to burn everything down for what he did.”
“You are beautiful,” he says, voice breaking open. “Not in spite of these marks. Not because I pretend they are not there. You are beautiful because you are you—fierce and gentle and unbreakable in ways I can only hope to learn. And I swear to you : I will spend every day proving I am worthy of the trust you give me. I will keep you safe. I will keep you loved. And one day—when the bruises are gone and the nightmares have faded—I will show you a world where no one ever dares raise a hand to you again.”
He presses the softest kiss to the corner of your mouth—avoiding the split lip, lingering just long enough to let you feel it.
“I love you,” he breathes against your skin.
Your hand, still tangled with his, tightens. You turn your face into his palm, lips grazing the rough skin there in silent answer first. Then you lift your head—slowly, painfully aware of every bruised muscle—and meet his gaze.
“I love you too,” you whisper. The words scrape over your raw throat, quiet and cracked, but they come out clear enough to carry every ounce of truth behind them. “I have for longer than I knew how to say it. Even when I was afraid. Even when I thought it would destroy me to feel it.”
His breath catches. For a moment he simply looks at you—really looks—as though the confession has rearranged something fundamental inside him.
Then he leans in again.
This time you meet him halfway.
Your lips find his—tentative at first, mindful of the split, the swelling. He is achingly gentle, kissing you the way one might kiss something newly fragile and infinitely precious: no pressure, no demand, only the slow press of warmth against warmth. His mouth moves over yours with deliberate care, tracing the uninjured corner, the curve of your lower lip, the faint seam where pain still lingers. Each brush is a question and an answer at once.
You sigh into it—small, shaky—and he deepens the kiss just enough to let you feel the tremor in him, the way his control frays at the edges because this is real, this is allowed, this is yours.
One of his hands slides to the nape of your neck—fingers threading lightly into your hair, cradling rather than holding. The other stays entwined with yours, thumb stroking over your knuckles in time with the slow rhythm of the kiss.
When you finally part—just enough to breathe—your foreheads rest together again. His eyes are closed, lashes dark against pale skin, a single tear tracking silently down his cheek.
"I’m sorry,” he breathes. “For everything that led here. For not protecting you sooner." he murmurs, voice thick. "I thought I had lost you."
You shake your head the smallest amount, nose brushing his.
“None of it is your fault," you whisper. “And you didn’t lose me.” Your free hand lifts—trembling, weak—and cups his jaw. Your thumb wipes away the tear track. “You found me. Right here. Right now.”
He exhales raggedly, then presses another kiss to your temple—lingering, reverent—before drawing back far enough to look at you properly.
“We have time,” he says quietly, as though reminding himself as much as you. “Not all of it today. Not all of it tomorrow. But time. For this. For healing. For whatever comes after the trial.”
You nod, letting your hand fall to rest against his chest, over the steady beat of his heart.
The quiet in Baelor’s chambers stretches on, broken only by the low crackle of the hearth and the distant murmur of the waking Keep. You lie half-propped against the pillows, eyes heavy, the new shift and his oversized tunic soft against your skin. Baelor sits on the low stool beside the bed, one hand still wrapped gently around yours, thumb moving in the same slow, soothing circles. He has not spoken in minutes; he simply watches you breathe, as though counting each rise and fall to reassure himself you are still here.
Then—footsteps.
Not the measured tread of a guard or servant. Quick, uneven, almost stumbling. A child’s footsteps trying to be quiet and failing.
The door bursts open without a knock.
Egg—Prince Aegon, barely ten, silver hair wild from running, cheeks flushed, eyes wide and frightened—skids to a halt just inside the threshold. His nightshirt is askew, one sleeve half-rolled, bare feet dirty from the corridors. He clutches a small wooden dragon in one fist so hard the carved wings dig into his palm.
He sees you first.
His mouth opens in a silent gasp. The wooden dragon slips from his fingers and clatters to the stone floor. For one frozen heartbeat he stands there, small and stricken, eyes tracing the bruises on your throat, the bindings peeking from the loose tunic, the way you’re propped against pillows like something fragile that might break if the air moves wrong.
Then something in him snaps.
“Cousin—” The word chokes off into a sob. He launches himself forward—bare feet slapping stone, arms outstretched, heedless of everything.
Baelor starts to rise, hand outstretched to stop him—“Aegon, careful—” but the boy is already moving too fast.
Egg crashes into the side of the bed and scrambles up without pause, small hands grabbing fistfuls of the fur coverlet. He throws himself across the last distance and buries himself against your chest—arms wrapping around your waist as tight as he dares, face pressed into the soft wool of Baelor’s tunic where it drapes over you. His whole body shakes with the force of the tears he’s been holding back.
You flinch at the sudden weight—ribs protesting sharply—but the pain is distant compared to the fierce, trembling warmth of him. You wrap your arms around his narrow shoulders before you even think, one hand cradling the back of his head, the other resting lightly across his back. He’s so small. So fierce.
“I’m sorry,” he mumbles into your shoulder, voice muffled and thick. “I’m sorry, I’m sorry—I didn’t know—I should’ve told someone—he’s always been mean but I thought—I thought—”
“Shh,” you rasp, throat raw but steady enough for this. You stroke his hair the way your own mother once did for you—slow, gentle circles. “Shh, Egg. Breathe.”
He shakes his head against you, clinging harder. “He hurt you. Aerion hurt you. And I—I just hid. Like a baby. I should’ve—”
“No.” You tighten your hold just enough for him to feel it. “You are not supposed to fight monsters. That is for grown-ups.”
Egg pulls back just enough to look up at you. His cheeks are streaked with tears, violet eyes huge and shining, lashes clumped. “Does it hurt very much?”
You manage the ghost of a smile, though it pulls at your split lip. “It hurts. But it will heal. And having you here… that helps more than any salve.”
He sniffles hard, wipes his nose on his sleeve—then remembers himself and tries to use the edge of the coverlet instead. “I won’t let him come near you again. I swear it ! I’ll—I’ll sleep outside your door if I have to. With my dragon.” He glances down at the wooden toy on the floor, then back up at you, fierce despite the tears. “It’s got sharp wings. I could poke him.”
A small, broken laugh escapes you—more breath than sound—and it makes fresh tears well in his eyes, but happy ones this time.
Baelor finally speaks, voice low and thick. “No one’s sleeping in corridors tonight, Aegon. But you can stay right here, if your cousin wants to."
Egg looks between you and Baelor, then back to you—searching your face for permission.
You nod, brushing a tear from his cheek with your thumb. “Yes, you can stay. But only if you tell us some stories.”
Egg looks between you and Baelor one more time, then back to you—his violet eyes still shining, but the fear in them softening at your words. A tiny, hesitant smile tugs at his mouth.
“Stories?” he repeats, as though testing the idea. “Really?”
You nod again, careful not to jar your neck. “Really. Come here properly. And you—” You turn your head toward Baelor, voice hoarse but firm enough to carry. “You too. Sit beside me. Not on that stool. I want you close.”
Baelor’s brows lift in faint surprise, but the corner of his mouth curves—small, almost shy. He doesn’t argue. He rises smoothly, careful of the bedframe, and settles on the edge of the mattress beside you. The dip of the feather mattress pulls you gently toward him; he steadies you with one hand at the small of your back until you’re comfortable again. Then he stays there—thigh pressed lightly to yours, one arm braced behind you on the pillows so you can lean into him if you wish.
"Actually…” he says slowly, a mischievous glint appearing in his violet eyes, “I do have story. One Old Nan never told anyone else because she said it was ‘too cheeky for little princes.’ But I think it’s perfect right now.”
Baelor raises an eyebrow, already suspicious. “Aegon…”
Egg grins—small, impish, the first real smile you’ve seen on him since he burst through the door.
“It’s about a very serious knight,” he begins, lowering his voice to a dramatic storyteller whisper, “who thought he was the most solemn, most dutiful, most boring person in the whole Seven Kingdoms.”
You feel Baelor’s chest rumble with a silent huff of amusement behind you. His arm tightens just a fraction around your shoulders—protective, but relaxed now.
“This knight,” Egg continues, “had silver hair like moonlight and eyes like storm clouds before rain. Everyone called him Prince Baelor the Strict, because he never smiled, never laughed, never did anything fun. He spent all day reading dusty books, practicing sword forms until his arms ached, and frowning at anyone who dared enjoy themselves. He even frowned at butterflies. Butterflies! Can you imagine?”
Baelor makes a low sound that might be a groan. “I do not frown at butterflies.”
Egg ignores him completely, warming to his tale.
“But one day, the strict prince met a girl. Not just any girl—a girl who laughed at storms, who danced barefoot in the rain, who once convinced a whole kitchen full of cooks to make honey cakes shaped like dragons just because she wanted to see if they could fly when you threw them (they couldn’t, but they were delicious). She wasn’t afraid of him. Not even a little. When he frowned, she laughed. When he told her to be serious, she asked him why being serious was better than being happy.”
You turn your head just enough to catch Baelor’s expression. His mouth is twitching, fighting a smile. His free hand—the one not around you—reaches over and gives Egg’s ear a very gentle tug.
“Keep going, storyteller,” you rasp, voice still rough but fond. “I like this one.”
Egg beams.
“So the girl started following him everywhere. She sat next to him while he read, asking questions about the boring parts until even the boring parts sounded interesting. She dragged him outside to watch sunsets, made him try honey cakes (he pretended he didn’t like them, but she caught him licking honey off his fingers when he thought no one was looking). She even convinced him to dance once—just once—in an empty hall at midnight. He was terrible at it. All stiff shoulders and perfect steps like he was fighting an invisible opponent. But she laughed and laughed, and for the first time anyone could remember, the strict prince laughed too. Just a little. But it was real.”
Egg pauses for effect, looking between you both with exaggerated solemnity.
“And do you know what happened next?”
Baelor sighs theatrically. “Enlighten us.”
“The girl told him a secret,” Egg says, dropping his voice even lower. “She said, ‘You’re not boring. You’re just afraid that if you stop being strict, the whole world will fall apart. But it won’t. The world likes you better when you smile.’ And the prince… he listened. Slowly. He started smiling more. He started laughing—quiet laughs, like he was still practicing. He even let her win at cyvasse once (don’t tell anyone—he still claims it was an accident).”
Egg leans in conspiratorially toward you.
“And every time someone asked why the strict prince wasn’t so strict anymore, he would look at the girl and say, very seriously, ‘Because someone taught me that duty is important… but joy is the reason we survive.’”
Silence for a heartbeat.
Then Baelor lets out a soft, genuine laugh—low and warm, the sound vibrating through his chest into your back.
“That,” he says, “is the most inaccurate, slanderous, and yet strangely accurate thing I have ever heard.”
Egg looks triumphant. “So it’s true?”
Baelor glances down at you, eyes soft in the firelight. His thumb resumes its slow stroke along your arm.
“Most of it,” he admits quietly. “The part about the girl teaching me joy… that part is truer than anything in the histories.”
You feel heat rise in your cheeks despite the bruises, despite everything. You turn your face into his shoulder for a moment, hiding a small, aching smile.
Egg, pleased with himself, nestles closer between you both.
“See?” he says smugly. “Even strict princes can have happy endings. Especially when they have the right girl.”
Baelor presses a light kiss to the top of your head—barely there, but warm.
“And the right little cousin to tell terrible stories about them,” he adds dryly.
Egg giggles—actual giggles—and burrows deeper under the fur coverlet.
“Want another one?” he asks hopefully.
You and Baelor exchange a look over his head.
“Later,” Baelor says gently. “Rest now. Both of you.”
Egg nods, suddenly sleepy again, and curls up smaller, wooden dragon clutched to his chest.
You lean heavier into Baelor’s side, exhaustion finally winning. His arm settles more securely around you.
“Thank you,” you whisper—to Egg, to Baelor, to the quiet room itself.
You rose late. Later than you ever had in your life. Sometime in the grey stretch between dawn and midday, you stirred, half-buried beneath a scandalous mound of impossibly plump pillows, a heavy book sprawled open across your chest. The faint ache in your neck and the soft crease of linen against your cheek were your only clues that you had not, in fact, fallen asleep as a Lady should. Tucked up in her nightdress and linens.
A copy of Aegon’s Conquest lay discarded on the foot of the bed. You had devoured it sometime during the night, barely recalling when exhaustion had finally claimed you. The second book still rested in your hands, fingers curled loosely around its edges, your thumb marking the place.
You had every intention of reading every single volume that had been gifted to you. Every one.
You might have slept well into the afternoon had it not been for the sudden, collective gasp that erupted inches from your face.
Your eyes flew open.
Three unfamiliar young women loomed over your bedside, skirts rustling, hair carefully pinned, silk sleeves fluttering as they recoiled in matching alarm. You spluttered upright, lashes batting furiously as they squeaked in startled unison.
For a heartbeat, the four of you simply stared at one another.
They were not dressed as maids. Their gowns were too fine, their jewels too delicate, their posture too precise. Ladies of the court, every inch of them. About your age, perhaps a touch younger or older… it was hard to tell beneath the layers of silk and anticipation.
“My lady, forgive us!” one burst out breathlessly. “We feared you were unwell.”
“Yes,” another chimed in anxiously. “We thought you might have taken sick. The Kingsroad is so terribly arduous, and you traveled nearly a fortnight’s journey in less than a week. Perhaps we should summon…”
“Shush!” a third hissed.
“Do not tell me to shush,” the second snapped back. “We were tasked with ensuring her health. Prince Baelor will have our heads if…”
“You are such a dolt,” the third cut in sharply. “You are going to make her complain about us. And I have already written to my father that I was personally asked by the Prince.”
You blinked at them. Once. Twice.
“Sorry,” you said faintly, sitting up straighter, clutching the book to your chest. “Who… exactly… are you?”
They froze.
Then, as though struck by the same invisible command, they straightened in perfect unison, skirts smoothing, shoulders back, chins lifting. A heartbeat later, they curtsied together, precise and elegant.
“I am Lady Breannei Lannister,” the tallest announced, her golden curls arranged with painstaking care, her pride practically radiating from her stance.
“I am Lady Carlys Mollen,” said the second, dark-eyed and eager, lips curved in a hopeful smile.
“And I am Lady Mysa Dayne,” said the third, pale-haired and quick, eyes bright with curiosity.
Mysa rose first, hands clasped tightly before her.
“And we are your ladies-in-waiting.”
Your jaw dropped.
“Three?”
“Oh, no,” Carlys said at once. “Not only us. You also have Taryne, Airis, and Helenys, but they lost the draw to greet you first. They’re sorting through your effects.”
“My effects?” you echoed weakly. “I only brought one small saddlebag,” you added helplessly. “I hardly think I require…”
“No, no, my lady,” Carlys interrupted brightly. “The seamstresses and dressmakers delivered trunks upon trunks this morning. Gowns, cloaks, underthings, slippers, creams, oils, perfumes, writing supplies, embroidery silks…”
“And books,” Mysa added reverently.
“So many books,” Carlys finished, nose scrunching in faint horror.
Breannei cleared her throat pointedly, stepping forward with practiced grace. “I must apologize to my companions. They have never served as ladies-in-waiting before. I once attended my aunt, Lady Lannister of Casterly Rock.” She lifted her chin just a touch, pride shimmering in her eyes like polished gold. But it reminded you much more of a peacock then lion.
You opened your mouth. “I…”
A sharp knock interrupted you. A muffled male voice called through the thick oak door. “Ladies. Is our lady savior well?”
“Ser Duskendale!” Carlys and Mysa squealed in perfect harmony.
They scrambled toward the door, cracking it open just enough to reveal a flash of silver armor and white cloak beyond. Breannei moved swiftly to stand between you and the threshold, posture stiff and protective.
“A lady does not oversleep,” Breannei declared loftily. “She merely takes additional time to contemplate the day’s obligations.Now please leave,” Breannei continued firmly. “We must dress her and ensure she is arranged in a proper manner.”
You barely had time to process any of it. The moment the door shut, the room erupted into motion. Bells rang. Servants poured in. Trunks were opened. Gowns unfurled. Hands pulled you gently but insistently to the dresser
Breannei muttered about sleeping in gowns and posture. Carlys darted between tables, issuing frantic instructions. Mysa hovered at your side, wide-eyed and whispering apologies as she dragged comb through your hair as you stood in the center of it all, dizzy, barefoot, clutching a book you no longer remembered picking up.
Xxxxxxxx
Baelor’s morning unfolded with much more disciplined precision than yours.
He woke at the first bell, long before the sun even hinted at rising. Darkness still draped the city in shadow as he lit a single candle and rose from his bed, moving carefully so as not to wake the ache slumbering in his bones. The flame cast soft gold across stone and silk, across stacks of parchment already waiting for him.
There would be no indulgence today. Not even for anticipation.
He set to work at once. Ravens first. He broke each seal, reading swiftly, eyes skimming reports of trade disputes, border patrols, harbor inspections, grain tallies, repairs. He dictated responses, sealed orders, rearranged schedules, and revised council agendas with tireless efficiency. Scroll after scroll vanished beneath his hands.
Food stores were audited. Transport routes revised. Provisions allocated. A shipment of wheat redirected from Rosby. Salt fish ordered from Driftmark. Plans outlined for fortifying several aging sections of the city wall,suggestions drafted carefully for his father’s consideration.
The prince worked with ruthless focus. Yet even as his hands moved, his thoughts returned, again and again, to the speed of your retrieval. To Maekar’s impatience. To his brother’s brutal efficiency.
He had wanted you brought safely. Carefully. With dignity. Instead, Maekar had thundered across the realm like war itself, forcing you into a relentless pace that cut weeks from the journey. Hard riding. Long days. Cold nights. Unforgiving roads. His jaw tightened. You were no soldier, seasoned by war and battle, nor were you a court-hardened lady, accustomed to endless travel. You were soft. Thoughtful. Given to books and quiet reflection, he bet you were used to quiet prays and embroidery. You tended with delicate hands. The thought of you bouncing hour after hour in the saddle then bundled into an unfamiliar wheelhouse to be jolted though the cobbled street of Kingslanding twisted uneasily in his chest. He would make sure that the streets were repathed before your next journey, which at least would give him some time, he did not expect you to need to leave this city till after… Baleor stopped that train of thought. A thought that required much more than a single meeting. Instead he forced them back on your present care rather then the future.
Had you eaten enough on the journey? Did your stomach now require more delicate meals? Will you settle? Had you slept? Was your current room suitable? Had the cold nights from the road seeped into your bones and made it difficult for you to sleep? Had your hands blistered on reins? Had the constant motion unsettled your stomach, left you pale and nauseous? Did you wait in your chamber and need tending too?
And worse, had fear accompanied every mile? Did you still fear? Do you cry in the night and have no one there to comfort you?
Maekar had not explained. Had not softened the command. Had not offered comfort. Only orders and Kingsguard steel. He just hoped that the Ladies in Waiting might soften the blow of being in a strange keep.
Baelor exhaled slowly, steadying himself. He would speak to his brother. Later. For now, there was nothing to be done but trust the gods and the resilience he hoped you possessed.
Modesty kept him from appearing at your door the moment dawn broke. Nor did allow him to spend any time alone with you to explain the rawness of his feelings. Even if it did, duty demanded his presence in council chambers. Honor restrained the deeper urge. The longing to gather you into his arms, to assure himself that you were truly here, that the long year of searching had not conjured some fragile dream.
He wanted to hold you. To feel the warmth of your breath. To reassure himself that you were not some half-remembered fever vision, summoned by pain and hope.
The thought tightened something fierce in his chest.
Despite the long ride escorting the wheelhouse back to the city, despite the jarring rhythm of the road and the ache that lingered in his head, he had slept better than he had since before the accident. Deeper. Quieter. As though some restless piece of him had finally been soothed. You were here and for once, the pain had not followed him into sleep.
A soft knock interrupted his work. “Your Grace,” a guard murmured, opening the door just enough to bow. “The King has called an emergency council regarding harbor tariffs and the grain shortfall.”
Baelor exhaled slowly.
“Of course,” he said, already rising.
The cane waited beside his desk. He took it up, settling its weight into his palm, steadying himself. The day would not yield easily. But neither would he. Not now. Not when you waited beyond stone walls and guarded doors, weary from a brutal journey, wrapped in fresh silks and sunlight and books reading his words, breathing his air, walking his halls.
Xxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxx
The ladies left you in a whirl of skirts, soft laughter, and barely restrained bickering, the scent of perfumes and flower oils lingering long after the door had closed behind them.
Your hair had been brushed until it gleamed like polished silk, every strand coaxed into place. Your skin glowed faintly from unfamiliar creams and fragrant waters that smelled of citrus and rose and something warm you could not name. They had fussed and fluttered around you, ignoring your protests entirely, tugging, pulling, adjusting, muttering about hems and sleeves and draping.
Before you could gather yourself, you were dressed.
The gown was silk and fine linen, pale and luminous in the morning light. You lifted your hands slowly, fingertips tracing the embroidery stitched along the bodice and sleeves, intricate patterns of vines and delicate blossoms, working with a skill that rivaled even your mother’s finest handiwork. It was far too beautiful for someone from your station even as a Lady of a noble house. Far too costly. Far too elegant.
The dress cinched neatly at your waist before falling in graceful ripples to the floor, its skirts whispering softly as you moved. The back of the bodice dipped to reveal your shoulder blades, modest yet daring, a cut uncommon at home but clearly the height of fashion here in King’s Landing.
You hardly recognized yourself.
The girl reflected in the polished bronze mirror seemed a stranger, adorned in silks meant for courts and kings. The dress clung to you in all the right places, the delicate embroidery catching the light as you moved. Your hair fell in soft waves over your shoulders, threaded with tiny pins of silver and pearl that glittered faintly when you turned your head. Even your posture had changed, as though the weight of the fabric itself demanded poise.
It was unsettling.
You lifted your hands, turning them slowly, half-expecting them to belong to someone else. A noblewoman. A lady of the court. Not the girl who preferred dusty books and architectural plans to embroidery hoops and idle gossip.
A soft knock interrupted your thoughts.
“My lady.” The title sent a faint jolt through you.
You turned to find Ser Duskendale standing just inside the doorway, his tall frame filling the space easily, the pristine folds of his white cloak falling straight and immaculate against polished armor. Light from the window glinted off the curves of his breastplate, throwing pale reflections across the stone floor.
“Ser Duskendale,” you replied, dipping into a careful curtsy, suddenly acutely aware of the sweep of your skirts.
“I see you have managed to escape,” he said dryly. There was a smile somewhere beneath his helm,you could hear it in his voice.
“Only just,” you admitted, smoothing your palms lightly over the silk at your hips, grounding yourself in its familiar texture. “I thought a gallant knight might charge the foe to save a damsel in distress.”
“Even the Kingsguard tremble in fear at the horrors of determined Ladies in Waiting” he replied solemnly. “I would not dare.”
A soft laugh escaped you, breath loosening in your chest as the tension ebbed. You glanced toward the door the ladies had vanished through, then back at him. “It was kind of the prince to lend me ladies-in-waiting, but surely one would have sufficed. I should thank whoever has so kindly seen fit to lend me their services.”
“They are your own,” he corrected gently. “At your disposal. Those are the prince’s wishes.”
Your brow creased, fingers curling lightly into the fabric of your skirts. “That is far too much. Why would I possibly need so many at my station?”
Ser Duskendale stepped past you, clearing his throat as he did, the faint scrape of steel against leather echoing softly in the chamber. His armor glinted faintly in the light as he turned to face you fully. “What is your will, my lady?”
“My will?” The phrase felt foreign on your tongue.
“Your will. I am at your disposal until the third bell, when Ser Crakehall will relieve me.”
“That truly isn’t necessary,” you protested, heat creeping into your cheeks. “You must have far more important duties.”
“There are no duties more important than this.”
You tilted your head slightly, studying the rigid line of his posture, the quiet conviction in his stance. “Why?”
For a moment, the knight was very still. The bustle of the keep beyond the walls seemed to fade, the distant calls of servants and clang of steel dissolving into silence.
Then he straightened fully, voice quiet but resolute.
“You saved Prince Baelor’s life, my lady. Where I could not.”
The words struck deeper than you expected. The weight of them pressed against your chest, squeezing tight until your breath hitched. Heat flared behind your eyes, sudden and unwelcome.
“But…”
“I am remiss,” Ser Duskendale cut in smoothly, sparing you further embarrassment. “You have not yet been given a tour. Shall we? Your ladies would be most eager to show you the newest additions to the keep, and there is an excellent view of both the city and the bay from the battlements.”
Gratitude washed through you. You beamed. Your uncertainty melted into something bright and irrepressible, a bubbling excitement you could no longer contain. The thought of exploring the vast halls, the hidden corridors, the towering battlements of the Red Keep sent a thrill skittering down your spine.
And somewhere beneath his helm, Ser Duskendale released a silent sigh of relief, grateful to have steered you away from words he did not want utter. Words he had no business speaking.
Xxx
Baelor was halfway down the eastern gallery when he saw you.
Morning light streamed through the tall arched windows, spilling molten gold across the marble floors and throwing long shadows along the carved columns. Courtiers drifted in murmured knots, servants hurried with trays and folded linens, guards stood immobile as statues, but all of it faded the instant his gaze found you.
You. For a heartbeat, he forgot to breathe.
The gown you wore was pale silk threaded with delicate embroidery, soft as dawn against your skin. It clung modestly at the waist before falling in graceful ripples to the floor, catching the sunlight with every step. Tiny stitches shimmered along the bodice, so fine they might have been spun by spiders and dew. The neckline, modest yet daring in its cut, revealed just enough to make his thoughts falter. Your hair had been swept back into an elegant cascade, pinned with silver and pearls that glinted faintly as you moved. Hair bouncing from side to side flashing him a sliver of soft skin that invited him to touch.
Gods help him, you were beautiful. Not in the loud, practiced way of noblewomen bred for admiration but in something quieter, softer, the kind of beauty that crept up on a man and took root before he realized it had done so.
For a fleeting, treacherous moment, he imagined you dressed in his own house colors, black and red, standing beside him beneath the banners of the dragon. You would make it look less severe and harsh, make the outlook gentle and loving. The image struck with such force that he had to steady himself against the cane in his hand.
When he finally moved again, it was with measured control. By the time he reached you, the faint drag of his injured leg made itself known, but he held himself straight, refusing to let pain steal dignity from the moment.
“My prince,” Ser Duskendale said, bowing.
Baelor inclined his head. “Ser Duskendale.”
Then his gaze softened as it returned to you. “My lady.”
You curtsied at once, smooth and precise, your skirts whispering against the marble.“Your Grace.”
The words stirred something sharp and restless in his chest. Gently, he said, “You need never curtsy to me.”
Your eyes widened slightly, uncertainty flickering across your features. “I…” A faint flush crept into your cheeks.
He found himself studying that too closely. “I trust you slept well?” he asked, lowering his voice.
“It was comfortable,” you replied, though hesitation lingered beneath the words. “Your arrangements were most generous.”
“I worried it might have been too much,” he admitted, his brows knitting faintly. “You were pushed hard. My brother has many strengths. Patience is not one of them. Any comfort I can provide to aid your transition will be done.”
Your lips curved in a small, warm smile.
“And now?” he asked. “You are being shown the gardens?”
“At her request, Your Grace,” Ser Duskendale said.
Baelor smiled faintly. “Then I envy you both. The gardens are far kinder than council chambers. The roses near the eastern wall are in bloom, you should see them before the heat wilts their courage.”
Your eyes brightened, curiosity sparkling. “I would like that.”
His chest warmed at the sound. A small, foolish triumph stirred within him. Then hurried footsteps echoed down the corridor.
“My prince!” a herald called, breathless. “The council is assembled. They await you. The Master of Coin is already restless.”
That earned a faint tightening of his jaw. Before he could dismiss the boy, you stepped back, smoothing your skirts, and curtsied again, deeper this time, more formal. “I would not delay you, Your Grace.”
The politeness struck harder than he expected. “You truly need not bow,” he reminded gently.
Your lips curved in apology. “Old habits.”
He hesitated, then nodded once. “Enjoy the gardens. I hope they bring you peace.”
“I wish you a good council,” you replied softly.
And then you were gone, guided toward the archway where sunlight spilled into a green shadow. Baelor remained still long after you vanished beyond the trailing ivy. Only then did he exhale. “Of all cursed timings,” he muttered under his breath. The herald wisely pretended not to hear. Turning sharply, Baelor resumed his path toward the council chamber, cane tapping faintly against stone, irritation simmering beneath composed dignity. The realm, he thought darkly, possessed an uncanny talent for interrupting happiness.
Xxxxx
The royal gardens unfolded before you in a spill of green and bronze. Sunlight filtered through arching trellises heavy with climbing roses, their petals pale pink, crimson, and ivory. Lavender and lemon balm perfumed the warm air, while narrow stone paths curved lazily between beds of bright herbs and flowering shrubs. Fountains murmured softly, water slipping over pale marble into shallow pools where koi drifted like living jewels. Somewhere beyond the hedges, the city stirred faintly, distant and muffled, like a world held at bay.
You walked slowly, letting the calm sink into your bones, breathing deeply until the lingering tension in your shoulders finally began to ease.
Your ladies-in-waiting trailed close behind, skirts kissing over trimmed grass. Beneath a broad-limbed ash tree, a small table had been prepared, draped in pale linen and laid with porcelain cups, honeyed cakes, sugared berries, and a steaming teapot.
“My lady,” Mysa said brightly, sweeping forward with an eager little dip of her head, “you must sit. The sun is perfect for tea today.” Her smile was hopeful, almost pleading, as though she longed for your approval.
You allowed yourself to be guided into the cushioned chair, smoothing your skirts and folding your hands neatly in your lap as cups were poured and pastries nudged close. Steam curled from the teapot, carrying the scent of chamomile and honey. The moment felt strange ...peaceful almost...indulgent.
“This is lovely,” you said softly, gaze drifting across the gardens, your voice tinged with something wistful. “But it will be such a shame to return to my father’s keep. It will seem so small now. and dull compare to this.”
Three pairs of eyes turned toward you.
Breannei’s fingers paused mid-adjustment of her bracelet. Carlys blinked once, slowly, as though weighing whether she had heard you correctly. Mysa’s bright smile faltered, confusion flickering across her face.
A brief silence stretched.
Then Breannei recovered first, lips curving into a polite, carefully fixed smile. “Of course, my lady,” she said smoothly, though her tone lacked conviction.
Mysa nodded quickly, a little too quickly. “Yes….of course.”
Carlys simply inclined her head, eyes sliding away.
Just like that, the moment was brushed aside. Conversation flowed onward, deliberately steering clear of your remark, as though it had never been spoken.
They spoke of gowns and necklines, of court fashions drifting in from Lys, of which gemstones caught candlelight most flatteringly. Their voices grew animated as they debated embroidery stitches and lace patterns, ribbons and sleeve lengths. You nodded at the proper moments, murmured polite agreement, asked gentle questions when prompted, though none of it truly held your interest. Still, you tried. Just as your mother had taught you.
When Carlys produced a half-finished embroidered pillow from her satchel, she beamed, pride lighting her face. “Perhaps you would like to try, my lady?” she asked eagerly, holding it toward you.
You hesitated, fingers brushing the cool silk. “It’s lovely, truly,” you said carefully. “But I confess, I prefer sketching. Or music.”
Mysa’s eyes widened with sudden excitement. “Sketching?” she echoed, turning fully toward you. “I saw a folder among your things! I will get it!”
Before you could protest, she sprang to her feet and darted away, skirts swishing wildly.
“Mysa…wait…” You half rose, a note of panic slipping into your voice.
Too late. She returned moments later, slightly breathless, clutching your worn leather sketch folder as though she had uncovered a treasure.
“We must see,” Breannei declared, leaning forward, curiosity brightening her gaze.
Your stomach sank as they opened it, peering down at the pages, brows furrowing as the pages turned slowly. Lips parted. Heads tilted in puzzled unison.
Not flowers, or gowns or little birds. Instead precise mechanical lines, careful measurements, cross-sections, angled perspectives. Wheels, pulleys, tension rods. Iterations layered atop one another, corrections meticulously inked. You winced.
Finally, Carlys ventured, uncertainty threading her voice, “…what is it?”
Your fingers curled faintly in your lap. “A drawbridge mechanism.”
Three blank stares.
“For my father’s keep,” you added quickly, heat creeping into your cheeks. “The old bridge jams whenever the river swells. This design redistributes the counterweight and reduces torsion on the axle…”
Their expressions hovered somewhere between baffled and polite, like a foreign traveler trying to converse in their own tongue, incomprehension. Then Breannei smiled brightly, a practiced, courtly expression snapping neatly into place. “How dutiful of you,” she said, nodding approvingly. “Sketching plans for the builders, just as a good daughter should.” Her tone softened. “I expect your father bid you do such things. You must truly prefer other things.”
Mysa nodded earnestly, relief flickering across her face at the familiar framing. “Yes! Flowers are much prettier….perhaps you would like to draw an orchard in the south garden they are my favorites when I....”
You forced a polite smile, though embarrassment burned warm against your skin and for a moment you felt like you wanted the ground to swallow you whole.
But then a glimmer of salvation in a form of a white clock swooped in. Not Duskendale but his replacement, Crakehall
“My lady.” Ser Crakehall stood a respectful distance away, helm tucked beneath his arm. His gaze flicked briefly toward the scattered sketches, taking them in with a soldier’s sharp assessment, before returning to your face.
“Maester Yormwell is free now,” he said evenly. “Should you wish to be tended.”
Instantly, the ladies surged into motion.
“Oh, you do look pale, how could I not have noticed? Father will be so unhappy I let you get sick he is a close personal friend of Prince Baelor.” Breannei exclaimed, pressing cool fingers briefly to your wrist.
“Your eyes are dull, oh no! Shall I fetch smelling salts?” Carlys fretted.
“You must lie down at once,” Mysa insisted, hovering anxiously at your elbow. “You’ve been far too long in the sun…”
Relief washed through you so swiftly it nearly made you dizzy. “Of course,” you said at once, rising without hesitation, stepping out of the reach of the ladies.
The ladies gathered themselves, dejected but smoothing skirts, as they gave short curtsy. “We shall await you in your chambers,” Carlys said warmly, ‘’Have a bath waiting and whatever you else you need.’’
As you followed Ser Crakehall down the shaded path, the noise of their voices faded behind you. The soft air cooling your heated face, only then you risked a grateful glance in his direction. “Thank you,” you murmured.
His mouth twitched, just slightly before his expression returned to its usual stoic calm. “Any time, my lady.”
After a few quiet steps, curiosity nudged past your relief. “Where are we going?”
“To see Maester Yormwell of course.”
Xxxxx
Maester Yormwell was not often busy.
Not in the truest sense. He had assistants, junior maesters, septas, and healers, who tended most of the daily needs of the court. He merely oversaw their work, corrected mistakes, and ensured proper provisions were maintained. The royal family itself provided little true challenge. Their ailments were more often the result of indulgence than injury, headaches brought on by wine, sluggishness born of excess, minor fevers coaxed into being by sleepless nights. Prince Daeron, in particular, remained a steady source of mild frustration.
Yet the past year had changed that.
Prince Baelor’s rehabilitation had become the center of Yormwell’s days. Long, slow, painstaking work, teaching shattered muscles to remember their purpose, coaxing strength back into damaged limbs, monitoring headaches that lingered like stubborn ghosts. Baelor, to his credit, had been an attentive patient, disciplined and resolute, enduring every exercise and instruction without complaint. Soon, Yormwell believed, the prince would no longer need his cane.
If only he would allow further examination.
The headaches remained concerning, persistent, and untreated. Yet Baelor had grown evasive whenever Yormwell attempted deeper assessment, deflecting questions, postponing tests, refusing potions. It was the one true frustration in an otherwise remarkable recovery.
And so, with his patient stubbornly avoiding him, Yormwell found himself with long stretches of unclaimed time. He filled them as any scholar might. With writing. Notes, papers, half-finished pamphlets, and now, the ambitious beginnings of a book. He just needed a subject worth of his time and of a place along the great title of the realm.
The scratch of his quill was the only sound in the chamber when the door creaked open.
“Maester Yormwell,” an acolyte announced softly. “A visitor.”
Yormwell sighed faintly, already bracing himself for another complaint of indigestion or fatigue. He set aside his quill and turned and froze.
You stood in the doorway, sunlight catching in your hair, posture hesitant yet polite. Those fine eyes staring at him with more intelligence than he had seen in every trainee maesters in the last twenty years put together. Next to her the imposing figure of the kingsguard, interesting indeed.
For a heartbeat, he simply stared. Then his lined face softened, eyes brightening with unmistakable warmth. “Gods,” he breathed, rising far more swiftly than his joints preferred. “You’re here.” Relief bloomed openly across his features, mingled with genuine delight. “It is good…very good...to see you again.” Before you could reply, he crossed the chamber and clasped your hands between his own, careful but earnest. “You have no idea how often I wondered what became of you.”
He stepped back, suddenly self-conscious, straightening his robe. “Please, come in, come in. Sit. We must have tea. Proper tea, not the thin swill they brew when I’m not watching.”
He gestured eagerly toward a small table already cluttered with parchment and books, quickly sweeping them aside. A servant was summoned, and within moments, a fresh pot was brought forth.
As cups were poured, Yormwell studied you with open curiosity and quiet affection. “You look well,” he murmured, relief threading his voice. Then, as if only now remembering himself, he smiled faintly. “Though I suppose I should address you properly.” He inclined his head, tone gently teasing. “Our Lady Saviour.”
Xxxxx
Decades spent among kings, princes, and courtiers had honed Maester Yormwell’s composure to near perfection. He was not often befuddled. Yet now he sat quite still, momentarily undone by your gentle smile and the earnest, almost mischievous curiosity bright in your eyes.
You were eager and excitable as he poured the tea and arranged the honeyed biscuits upon a delicate tin plate. The one hid for his own sanity behind the thick leather-bound pages of Poisons and Their Antidotes. While barely concentrate on the questions that spilled from you in quick succession, though a soft, startled laugh escaped him all the same.
“Seven save me,” he murmured, lowering the book and shaking his head. “Straight to the heart of it, are you?”
Beyond the chamber door, the faint clatter of armor echoed steadily. The Kingsguard lingered outside, an ever-present sentinel. Not a common guard, nor one of your family’s sworn men. A Kingsguard, clad in white, standing watch.
Yormwell did not miss the significance. From the whispers drifting through the halls and the murmured reports of the septas, it seemed you had arrived in the capital without your own guards, borne instead beneath the direct protection of the dragon. The court buzzed endlessly with speculation over that choice. Perhaps it was not the most discreet of Prince Baelor’s decisions, but as Yormwell looked upon your open curiosity and gentle warmth, it struck him as entirely justified.
He had just begun to rise, intent on showing you one of his histories, when hurried footsteps echoed sharply along the corridor.
The door opened at once.
Prince Baelor strode inside, mismatched eyes wide with concern. His chest rose and fell rapidly, cane nowhere in sight.
“The lady…” he began, then stopped short.
You sat comfortably by the tea table, cheeks faintly flushed, very much alive and entirely untroubled.
Relief crossed his face with such sudden force that it nearly staggered him. His hand tightened against the doorframe as he exhaled, a rough breath escaping his chest.
“I heard… I was told you had been taken ill. I…” His voice faltered, the unspoken fear hanging heavily in the air.
You blinked up at him, startled by his appearance, then softened into a small, reassuring smile. “I am quite well, Your Grace.”
Baelor released a quiet breath of laughter, equal parts relief and faint embarrassment. His shoulders eased, tension draining visibly from his frame. “Your ladies-in-waiting seemed convinced you were at death’s door.”
Maester Yormwell regarded him keenly. “My lady is quite well,” he said calmly. “Though I confess I kept her longer than intended. Forgive an old man his indulgence. It is not often I am blessed with such fascinating company.” His gaze flicked briefly toward Baelor’s empty hand. “You seem to have misplaced your walking stick.”
Baelor straightened at once, composure snapping back into place. “I am well. I only came because I was concerned.”
“And since you are here, Your Grace,” Yormwell continued mildly, lips twitching, “my lady was inquiring how you were mended. Perhaps you would indulge her. Join us for tea, unless you would prefer the gardens or your chambers.”
Baelor stiffened. For a heartbeat, his gaze locked with Yormwell’s. No words passed between them, yet understanding moved swiftly across that silent exchange. The gardens would invite whispers. His chambers would feed them. Here, in the quiet sanctuary of the maester’s solar, there would be no prying eyes, no idle tongues.
After a moment, Baelor inclined his head. “Here is best.”
He crossed the chamber, movements still faintly guarded, lowering himself carefully into the chair opposite you. His gaze lingered upon your face, lingering there a moment longer than propriety strictly allowed, as though reassuring himself once more that you were truly safe.
You smiled shyly into your teacup.
Maester Yormwell settled back, a satisfied gleam touching his eyes.
You glanced between them, curiosity flickering openly now. “Maester Yormwell was just explaining how he healed you. I did not mean to offend. I was only…”
Baelor moved to the chair opposite yours, lowering himself carefully, mindful of the lingering stiffness in his limbs. At once, you rose from your seat, concern flashing across your face.
“Curious,” he supplied gently, a small smile curving his lips.
From the corner of his eye, he caught sight of Yormwell slipping quietly into his adjoining storeroom, shelves of herbs and glass vials swallowing his figure whole. For the first time since your arrival in King’s Landing, there were no witnesses. No hovering guards. No watchful servants. It was only the two of you, the soft glow of candlelight, and the hush of the chamber.
“Thank you,” Baelor said softly. “I do not think I have ever truly demonstrated my gratitude to you for what you did in Ashford.”
“Honestly, Your Grace…”
“Baelor,” he corrected gently.
A faint blush bloomed across your cheeks. “Honestly, Baelor, I did nothing.”
His mismatched eyes studied you closely. “You stopped them from removing my helm. You suggested the cast. You stayed at my bedside for three days, tending my swelling and fever. You refused to sleep. Were you not?”
“I… how did you know?”
A slow warmth unfurled in his chest as he ignored your shock. “Then let me thank you.” He lifted your hand, fingers warm and steady, and brushed a reverent kiss across your knuckles.
For a moment, you forgot how to breathe. Your pulse fluttered wildly beneath his lips, heat rising into your cheeks and down your throat. When he lifted his head, his gaze lingered, gentle and intent, as if memorizing your reaction.
“Does it still hurt?” you asked quietly.
Baelor laughed softly, the sound low and intimate. Your blush deepened, spreading visibly down your throat, and he followed it with his eyes, something darker stirring behind their calm.
Your eyes searched his face, soft and earnest, studying him as though confirming each word. The closeness between you felt fragile and charged, like a held breath.
He hesitated only a moment before nodding.“Would you like to feel?”
Baelor did not release your hand. Instead, he turned it gently in his own and guided your fingers upward, pressing them softly to his temple and across to the back of his head.
“Here,” he murmured.
Your breath caught as you felt it. The scar lay just beneath his hair, a ridged, uneven line of hardened skin, still faintly warm. Your thumb traced its edge, slow and careful, following the jagged path where a morning star had once split flesh and bone. Baelor flinched faintly, instinctively, then forced himself to still. You traced carefully along the line of his jaw, down to the base of his skull, testing the tight muscles of his neck.
“It still aches,” he admitted softly, “when I read and sometimes… when I think too much or move to fast.”
Your touch softened, instinctively tender. He drew a slow breath, shoulders easing as if the simple act of being understood lightened the ache. For a moment, he let your hand rest there, grounding himself in the warmth of your skin before gently lowering it again, though he did not let go. Your touch was tentative at first, fingers warm, cautious as they brushed his temple and across and back again.
Slowly, something remarkable occurred. The tension bled from him, his shoulders slackened. His breathing softened. The rigid composure he carried so constantly eased, melting beneath your touch. A quiet, involuntary sound slipped from his lips, not pain, but relief.
You froze. “Did I hurt you?”
He caught your retreating hand, guiding it gently back. His voice dropped low. “No. Quite the opposite.”
Encouraged, you continued, more confident now, your fingers learning the hidden map of strain and release beneath his skin. You followed the ridges of muscle, easing the knots, coaxing away the lingering pain.
Baelor closed his eyes. For a moment, he forgot the court. Forgot duty. Forgot bloodlines and prophecy and thrones. There was only your warmth, your careful attention, and the quiet peace he had not known in months.
He leaned subtly into your touch before realizing himself and straightening at once.
You withdrew just as quickly, flustered, breath shallow.
Behind the half-open door of his storeroom, Maester Yormwell paused, peering out through a narrow crack. His brows lifted faintly.
“Well,” he murmured to himself, “that is remarkable.”
He retreated back among his shelves, reaching absently into a jar labeled leeches to retrieve a biscuit, listening to the soft, murmured conversation drifting from the chamber beyond. The candle burned lower, wax pooling at its base, as time slipped quietly away around them.
Xxxxxxxxxxxxxxxx
With his chambers returned at last to silence, Maester Yormwell moved with deliberate care to his writing desk. From a locked coffer, he withdrew a sheet of pristine parchment brought from the North, pale and smooth, precious as gold. He laid it flat, smoothing the edges with reverent fingers, then dipped his quill into fresh ink.
At the top, in a neat, practiced hand, he wrote: Baelor the Great and His Saviour
For a long moment, he simply stared at the words, a small, thoughtful smile tugging at his lips. History was rarely so kind as to present such moments even then they bloomed into something quite significant. He had only just begun the first careful stroke of the opening line when a sharp knock echoed through the chamber.
“Maester Yormwell,” called a voice beyond the door, crisp and urgent. “The King requests your presence in his personal chambers at once, on a matter of great importance....”
Yormwell paused, quill hovering in midair. Slowly, he set it aside, the ink bead trembling at its tip before falling back into the pot. His expression sobered at once. With one last glance at the waiting parchment, he turned and strode for the door.
I really hope you like this chapter. I had such a juicy chapter ready (with such a good Maeker scene and a little Valorr action) but it felt too rushed so you have the wait till next time to read it. :P
What is your fav bit? Mine is Maester Yormwell hiding out in his cupboard with this cookies, absolute wingman material. Hopefully more of that to come
featuring lady stark and the maekarlings (daeron, aerion and aegon since we haven’t seen the others yet in the show)
⊹ ࣪ ˖ pairing/characters: baelor "breakspear" targaryen x f!stark!reader && maekar, daeron, aegon "egg", aerion targaryen x f!stark!reader (platonic)
⊹ ࣪ ˖ wc: 8.3k (i got carried away i'm so sorry)
⊹ ࣪ ˖ notes/content: stark!reader, soft!husband!baelor, grumpy!maekar (water wet), daeron and egg being sweethearts, aerion is his own warning (obsessive and jealous), slightly suggestive (what can I say baelor can't keep his hands away from his lady wife (¬‿¬)), generally lots of soft domestic fluff, they're all happy :((( My personal thank you because it feels like we all deserve this after HW4 lol.
read on ao3. ⊹ series masterlist.
Summerhall smells different from Dragonstone.
Dragonstone is salt and sulphur and wet black rock, wind that tastes of storms even when the sea is glass-smooth. It’s the sea slamming itself against basalt over and over until the sound lives behind your teeth. Summerhall is green. The stone here is a pale, honey-coloured thing that seems to drink the light instead of throwing it back; roses climb the walls in unruly tangles, bees throwing themselves headlong into the blooms until the air hums. Somewhere nearby, someone has been baking—there’s a faint sweetness under the roses, bread and honey and the ghost of last night’s smoke.
The air is softer, too—still warm, still southern, but threaded with the cool of distant hills and the sharp, resinous bite of pine from the little copse beyond the walls. It smells, disorientingly, a little like the Wolfswood might if the snows ever stopped.
It feels, you think as you ride through the gate at Baelor’s side, like a keep exhaling.
“Home,” Baelor says quietly, looking up at the familiar towers. There’s a note in his voice you don’t often hear in the Red Keep, something unguarded. “Of a sort.”
You glance at him from the corner of your eye—the way his shoulders loosen by a hair, the small easing at the corner of his mouth. Dragonstone had been your honeymoon: wind-scoured and echoing, just the two of you and minimal staff. A place for first nights and first silences. Here, there are voices already ricocheting off the courtyard stone, running feet, the distant clang of steel where someone has stolen a practice sword they’re not supposed to have. A door slams, a dog barks, someone shouts for “Prince Aegon!” in a voice frayed by exasperation.
“Of a sort,” you echo. “It smells less like something is about to crawl out of the sea and eat us, at least.”
Baelor huffs—half a laugh, half a sigh. “High praise from a northerner.”
The doors of the main hall open as if pushed by the sound alone. Maekar stalks out first, in mail with his sleeves rolled up, forearms bare and scarred, looking as if he’s just come from drilling someone into the ground. Sweat darkens the linen at his throat; there’s a smear of dirt along his throat, a healing scrape at his knuckles. Behind him—
“UNCLE BAELOR!”
Egg reaches you first.
He’s all elbows and knees and wild pale hair, sticking up in sleep-flattened tufts where he’s clearly dragged a hand through it one too many times. His tunic is two inches too short and ink-stained, his boots mismatched and one laceless. He barrels past a guard who makes a strangled sound and nearly drops the spear he’s supposed to be holding, then skids on the flagstones and collides with Baelor’s leg hard enough to make the prince grunt.
Baelor barely rocks. His hand comes down in a habitual, automatic arc, closing around the boy’s shoulder in a way that looks thoughtless and is anything but.
“Careful,” he says. “You’ll break your nose, not the mailed Dornish line.”
Egg tips his face up, violet eyes bright, freckles scattered across the bridge of his nose and into his hairline.
“You’re back,” he declares, like an accusation he’s been saving for weeks. Then, as if remembering you exist, he twists around and beams at you instead, sudden and blinding. “And you brought her.”
You barely have time to swing down from the saddle before he’s wrapped himself around your leg, clinging like a limpet. His arms barely make it halfway around your thigh, but the intent is clear. You can feel his pulse, fast and delighted, through the fabric.
“Aegon,” Maekar growls, striding closer. “Forgive him, my lady. My sons forget themselves at times.”
His tone says constantly. His eyes say something else when they meet yours—tired, appraising, and, just for a heartbeat, relieved.
“Nothing to forgive,” you reply, fingers automatically finding their way into Egg’s tunic collar to steady him as he tries to climb you and wave at Baelor at the same time. The cloth is warm and a little crumpled from hard play. “In Winterfell, if they don’t knock you off your feet when they greet you, you start worrying they’ve taken a chill.”
Egg makes a pleased noise at that and tightens his hold, kicking his heels in triumph. “Hear that?” he crows at Baelor. “She says I’m a proper northerner.”
“Gods preserve us,” Maekar mutters, but the corner of his mouth twitches like it wants to lift and doesn’t quite dare.
Behind him, another boy has appeared in the hall’s mouth. Daeron, older, near-grown shoulders in a tunic that hangs a little too loose, as if he’s lost weight recently and no one’s quite had time to notice. His hair falls into his eyes, silver-gold and half-tamed, like he ran a comb through it once and then forgot the rest. He’s not carrying a cup, not yet—but you can see the ghost of one in the way his fingers twitch at his side, as if they’re used to circling glass.
Aerion is a splash of sharper colour beside him, all restlessness and edges. He’s at that awkward age where his body hasn’t yet decided what to do with itself: elbows a little too pointy, legs a little too long, wrists too thin for the strength gathering in his hands. His hair comes down past his shoulders still, loose and bright, catching the light in a dozen pale strands. His eyes are already too old, taking everything in and cutting it apart for weaknesses.
Right now, they are fixed on you. On the way Egg clings. On the way Baelor’s shoulder almost brushes yours, his nearness a constant.
“Your Grace,” Daeron says, stepping forward when Maekar thumps a hand against his back. His voice is a little hoarse, like he’s been talking to himself more than to people, or shouting at something in his sleep. “Welcome back.”
He looks at you when he says it, as if the welcome is meant mostly for you, and Baelor is a package deal.
Aerion does not bother with being pushed.
He strides ahead of his brother, ignoring the way Maekar’s jaw tightens, and drops into a bow that is two degrees deeper than necessary and therefore a little insolent. His hair swings forward with the movement; when he straightens, he flicks it back in a gesture that is almost theatrical.
“My lord uncle. My lady aunt.” His mouth curls around the last word, tasting it. You’ve been married long enough now that he’s not supposed to call you that and sound surprised, but he still does, every time. As if the world hasn’t quite gotten over the audacity of you joining it, and neither has he.
“Prince Daeron,” you greet, and then, because you have learned there is no good in pretending not to see a dragon when it is in front of you: “Prince Aerion.”
His eyes flicker, pleased that you didn’t forget him in your courtesy; a flash of satisfaction, quick and sharp, before it’s folded up and put away.
Maekar huffs, crossing his arms as Egg transfers himself from your leg to your side with alarming agility, trying to climb you now like a tree. You brace your weight and let him, your cloak tugged askew by his scrabbling boots.
“You see?” Maekar grumbles to Baelor. “A pack of pups. Not a dragon among them when she’s about. They trail after your she-wolf like she’s the last fire left in winter.”
At that, Aerion’s attention snaps to his father, then to you. Something flares in his face—not quite anger, not quite hurt. Resentment, maybe, that the words are said like a fault and he is lumped into them whether he likes it or not. Baelor’s mouth curves. His hand finds the small of your back, steadying you as Egg scrambles, fingers warm through the layers. He does not seem remotely bothered by the accusation.
“There are worse things,” Baelor says mildly. “Than pups, brother.”
Maekar snorts, but something in his shoulders eases, just a fraction. “Aye, well. I’m too old to chase them all alone.”
You look at him then, properly.
He’s still hard-edged Maekar—jaw like Winterfell stone, eyes that miss nothing, temper simmering close to his skin. But there are more lines at the corners of his eyes now. War and the loss of his lady wife have carved him thinner. For a heartbeat, you see past the roughness to the man who has watched his brothers unravel in different ways, and now watches his children for the same cracks.
You know the feeling.
“Lucky for you,” you say, “I’ve some practice with unruly litters.”
Egg beams. Daeron’s mouth twitches, the ghost of a smile that looks like it has to fight its way through fog. Aerion’s lips do something too quick to name, a brief, sharp, almost-smile that vanishes the moment he notices you looking.
You feel Baelor’s gaze on your profile, warm and intensely pleased. Aerion sees that, too. His jaw tightens, very slightly, before he looks away.
—
Summerhall’s solar is brighter than the Red Keep’s. The windows here are tall and narrow, but there are more of them, and the light that pours through is softened by climbing roses instead of stained glass—the shadows pink and green instead of bloody red and dragon-dark. The stone under the rushes holds the day’s warmth; the air smells of beeswax and old parchment and the faint, metallic tang of Maekar’s armour drying in the corner.
You sit in a long, low chair by one of the windows after supper, your shoes off and tucked under you, the stone cool under your bare feet through the thin scatter of reeds. Outside, the sky is smearing itself into evening, clouds catching fire in a way that would make old Valyrians nostalgic—a wash of molten colour over the dark line of the trees.
Egg has migrated into your lap somewhere between the second story and the third.
You didn’t see exactly when it happened. One moment, he was on the floor, cross-legged, carving something dubious into the leg of a bench with a stolen knife. The next, he was half on the arm of your chair, half on you, and then fully settled with his head against your shoulder, his knees drawn up, his small, bony weight a familiar presence now. His hair tickles your jaw when he shifts; it smells faintly of smoke and whatever soap the Summerhall maids favour.
He’s talking. Of course he is. The words spill out in an inexhaustible stream—about the new knight in Maekar’s service who tripped over his own sword and nearly skewered a chicken, about how many steps there are from the kitchens to the rookery if you take them two at a time, about a book he found in the Summerhall library that has a drawing of a direwolf that looks more like a malformed sheep.
“I could show it to you,” he says, eyelids drooping with the slow certainty of a child who knows sleep is coming for him but refuses to acknowledge it. “If they haven’t taken it away. Aerion says I’ll turn my eyes square if I read too much, but Aemon says—”
“Aemon is not here,” Daeron cuts in quietly from his post at the window-seat. “And Aerion is an ass.”
“Aerion can hear you,” Aerion reminds snippily from the hearth, where he’s lounging against the wall with the lazy bonelessness of a cat who has eaten and is now pretending to be harmless. His arms are folded, one ankle hooked over the other; the firelight picks out the fine bones of his face, the hints of the dangerous beauty he will grow into. “And Aerion agrees.”
“Mind yourselves,” Maekar grunts from his chair nearer the fire. He’s not really listening; his gaze is on his eldest, on the faint redness around Daeron’s eyes and the tightness of his mouth. There’s a cup on the table near his hand, but you’ve noticed he hasn’t touched it all night. He keeps looking at it like it’s something that might bite.
Daeron catches you noticing him watching, and looks away sharply. Out the window, into the dark that’s gathering beyond the glass. His shoulders curl in on themselves a little, as if it might shield him from whatever he sees there.
“Daeron,” you say, gently.
He doesn’t answer. But his fingers are worrying at the edge of the window-seat cushion, pick-pick-picking like they’re trying to unmake the fabric.
“You were telling me,” you continue, as if he had been, “about the dream with the river.”
His head snaps towards you. For a moment, his eyes are pure, unguarded panic—who told you, who else knows—but then he remembers. He told you himself, the last time you were here, when wine loosened his tongue, and he spilled it all in a rush at your feet like a boy emptying his pockets of stolen sweets.
“It wasn’t a river,” he mutters. “Not really.”
“What was it?”
His throat bobs. You see Maekar shift, only slightly, as if he’s not listening. You know better. The whole room has tilted subtly toward this without moving: Egg’s chatter has stilled, Aerion’s lazy sprawl has coiled a fraction tighter, Baelor’s hand around his own cup has gone still.
“It was… walls,” Daeron says. “High ones. Made of… ice. Or glass. Or something that wanted to be both.” His hands move unconsciously, shaping it in the air. “And a shadow on the other side, with eyes that were wrong. And I was—” He smiles, suddenly, bitter and far too old. “Drinking.”
“Daeron,” Maekar warns, low.
“What?” Daeron snaps, too quickly. “It’s the dreams that are wrong, not the wine. The wine just makes them… softer.”
You feel Baelor beside you go very still. He’s been quiet all evening, letting you and Maekar’s boys fill the room, content, for once, to simply watch and count breaths.
“Wine makes everything softer,” Baelor says, after a heartbeat. His voice is mild, but there’s something iron under it. “Until it doesn’t. Then it makes everything sharp. Take heed, nephew.”
Daeron’s jaw works. “I know,” he mutters under his breath. “I know, I know.” His fingers dig into the cushion hard enough to whiten the knuckles. “I just… sometimes I feel like if I don’t drown it, it’ll crawl out of my mouth and walk into the world. The dream. And then it will be my fault.”
The words hang in the air, heavy and young.
Egg has gone quiet against your shoulder. Aerion has stopped pretending not to listen; his eyes are fixed on his brother, pupils blown wide in the lamplight. His mouth is a hard, unhappy line.
You shift your weight, careful not to jostle the boy in your lap. “Come here,” you say to Daeron, stretching one hand out toward him.
He hesitates. Then, with the air of someone accepting judgment, he stands and crosses the room, his bare feet whispering on the rushes. You can feel every gaze in the solar track his progress. When he takes your hand, you tug him gently down—not into your lap. He’s too old for that, and you suspect he’d bite before he allowed it. But onto the floor, to sit at your feet, his back against your chair. Within arm’s reach. Within the circle of your small, stubborn influence.
“You are not your dreams,” you tell him. “Any more than I am the winter storms in my father’s hall.”
“You don’t see them,” he argues shakily. “You’ve never… you don’t wake with blood in your mouth.”
“No,” you agree softly. “I’ve only woken with snow on my blankets and wolves at my window.” Your free hand leaves Egg’s shoulder to rest lightly in Daeron’s hair, the same stroke you sometimes use on restless direwolves. His hair is warm and slightly damp at the roots, as if he washed and didn’t quite dry it. “Still. They are both only… weather. They can’t walk on their own. They need feet.”
Across the room, Aerion’s fingers curl against his own forearm at the sight of your hand in Daeron’s hair. He looks away for a heartbeat, jaw clenched, as if the softness of it offends him—and something inside him envies it.
Daeron breathes out. The sound seems to deflate him a little. “Whose?” he asks, so soft you might have imagined it.
“That,” you say, “is why we watch where we walk. And why your father watches you. And your uncle. And me.”
His head tilts back, just enough that he can see your face. There’s something wary in his eyes, something fragile as half-melted ice.
“Do you always look at people like that?” he asks.
“Like what?” Your mouth curls, baffled.
“Like you’re… counting us,” he says, searching for the words. “Weighing us. Like… like you’re making sure we’re all still here.” His voice drops, embarrassed. “Safe.”
You blink. You hadn’t realised how transparent it was.
“In the North,” you articulate slowly, “we keep count of our own in storms. It’s easy to lose someone in the snow if you don’t look. So you learn to do it without thinking. One, two, three, four. All the heads above the drifts.” You squeeze Egg gently; he makes a muffled noise, half-protest, half-contentment. Your hand drops to Daeron’s shoulder, a reassuring weight, fingers light. “I suppose I haven’t unlearned it.”
Daeron swallows. “It’s… unsettling.”
“Apologies,” you say.
Then he adds, in a rush, as if the words are being dragged out of him by your fingers in his hair: “But. I don’t hate it.”
Your chest does something uncomfortable. You smooth his hair back once, like you might for a younger boy, and pretend you don’t notice the way his shoulders ease a fraction under your hand.
Across the room, Aerion makes a scoffing noise that is sharper than it needs to be.
“What?” you say without looking at him.
“You’ve turned him into a pup,” Aerion complains snidely. “He’s supposed to be a dragon. Instead he’s lying at your feet like some kennel whelp.” His eyes flick down to where Daeron’s back rests against your leg, then up to your face, then away again, too fast.
“You’re the one sneaking closer,” Egg mumbles sleepily into your shoulder. “You were by the fire a moment ago.”
You glance up.
He’s right. Aerion has drifted closer to the circle around your chair, inch by careful inch. He’s close enough now that the lamplight throws gold into his hair, makes his eyes look more violet than blue. Close enough that you can see the faint white marks of old ink-stains along his knuckles, where he’s scrubbed at them until they almost vanished.
He bristles under the look. “I am observing,” he snaps back. “Like a man with sense. It isn’t my fault that all of you decided to huddle.”
Maekar snorts, half amused, half exasperated. “I told you,” he mutters to Baelor. “Pups. They howl when she goes and whine at her feet when she’s here. Even him.”
“Even me?” Aerion repeats, affronted, his ears flushing pink. “I am not—”
He stops when he realises you’re watching him with that same steady Stark attention. It makes him straighten unconsciously, as if you’ve called his name without speaking.
“You, too,” you say. “Come here.”
He hesitates. His pride wars with something else: the same restless want that brought him three steps closer without him noticing.
“I’m not a child,” he sneers.
“I noticed,” you reply calmly. “You were twice as tall, last we met.”
“You measured?” he asks, suddenly unguarded.
“Against the doorframe in my memory,” you tell him softly. “Now come here before you tip the whole room over, hovering in that corner.”
His mouth twitches, betraying him. Then, with exaggerated reluctance, he pushes himself off the wall and saunters across the rushes until he’s within arm’s reach. He doesn’t kneel. He perches on the arm of your chair, lean hip a whisper from your shoulder, one long leg stretched out, the other tucked under him. Close. Above. A dragonling trying to remember how to be a cat.
“Better?” he asks archly.
Egg mutters something about there not being much of him to begin with; Aerion toes his brother’s ankle in retaliation. The kick lacks its usual venom, more habit than intent. His hand lands on the carved wood of the chair back, fingers curling there. They brush the edge of your sleeve once, lightly, as if by accident. Neither of you mentions it.
Baelor watches the small brawl, his mouth soft, eyes flicking over the three of them as if counting them, too. Maekar watches you, his gaze sharp and oddly distant, as if committing the picture to memory. She-wolf on a Summerhall chair, one boy in her lap, one at her feet, one by her shoulder. His boys. Not clawing at each other’s throats. Not cowed. Just… there.
“So,” Aerion says after a moment, tipping his head, studying your profile like it’s some riddle he refuses to let best him. “Do you?”
“Do I what?” you ask, eyes on the fading light at the window. The clouds are going purple now, the first stars pricking through.
“Always look at people like that.”
You turn to him. “We are still on that?”
He shrugs one narrow shoulder, feigning nonchalance. “Daeron complains,” he says. “Egg preens. I wish to… understand.” His gaze flicks briefly to where your hand rests in Daeron’s hair, then to Egg curled into your side. There is a flicker of something ugly and young in his eyes—what about me?—before he shutters it.
Something in his tone makes you smile despite yourself. You reach up, fingers brushing lightly over the back of his hand where it rests on the chair. He goes very still at the contact, like a hawk feeling cloth for the first time.
“Yes,” you say simply. “I do.”
“Even Father?” Egg murmurs, half-asleep.
“Especially your father,” you answer, purposely mild. “He forgets he is part of the count.”
Maekar grunts. “I don’t need—”
“To be watched?” you finish for him. “Everyone does, sometimes. Even dragons.”
Aerion’s hand tightens under your fingers, just once. “Do you count yourself?” he asks, quieter now.
You think of Blackwind in Winterfell’s yard, the way your direwolf used to circle back for you in deep snow, checking, always checking.
“Someone has to,” you say.
Silence stretches for a moment. It’s not uncomfortable, not quite. Just… unfamiliar. A room that expected fire finding itself warmed by coals instead.
Egg’s breathing evens, soft and heavy, his head a warm weight on your collarbone now. Daeron’s shoulders have relaxed under your hand; his eyes are still on the window, but whatever he sees there is further away. Aerion is the only restless thing left, his thumb moving in a tiny, unconscious back-and-forth where your fingers touch, as if testing whether you’ll withdraw. You don’t.
“They’re too attached,” Maekar says abruptly into the quiet. The gruffness in his voice doesn’t entirely hide the rough edge under it. “It’s not…” He gropes for the word. “Prudent.”
Baelor makes a low sound in his throat that might be agreement, might be protest. You speak before he can.
“Too attached to their aunt?” you shoot back, raising a brow. “They’re children, Maekar.”
“They’re dragons,” he insists. “Men will… need them to be that.” His jaw works. “But when you’re here, they go soft. They follow you like… like…”
“Like pups,” you supply when he can’t quite bring himself to say it again.
He snorts. “Aye. Like that.”
“And what’s wrong with wolves?” Baelor asks mildly. “They hunt as a pack. Dragons mostly hunted alone, and look how that went.”
“Dragons burned whole armies,” Maekar snaps. “Wolves freeze in their dens and starve.”
“Not if someone keeps count,” you say. “Not if someone makes sure they all get home.”
Maekar’s gaze cuts to you, then to his sons. Egg, dead asleep in your lap, mouth slightly open. Daeron, watching you with that faintly dazed, grateful look, as if he can’t quite believe the noise in his head has quieted for a moment. Aerion, pretending he doesn’t care, every line of his body angled toward you anyway; his eyes narrow slightly at the mention of starving wolves, as if he recognises something of himself there and resents it.
“My sons,” Maekar says slowly, “are more likely to drown themselves in wine, set their own hair on fire, or run off to Gods know where than they are to die in their dens.” His mouth twists. “If I thought you’d keep them from that as easily as you collect them round your chair, I’d chain you to Summerhall.”
Baelor raises a brow. “You’ll have to fight me for her, brother,” he says lightly.
Heat crawls up your neck. Aerion’s gaze flicks between the two of you, quick and sharp, taking in the soft look Baelor aims at you, the way your shoulders tilt towards his hand when it lands on your chair back. His jaw tightens again, like he’s grinding his teeth on something sour.
Maekar grunts, something that might be a laugh if you stand on your toes to hear it.
“You’ll regret encouraging this,” he predicts darkly. “They’ll never leave her alone now. Aerion will sulk if anyone else sits near her. Egg will refuse to sleep anywhere but under her bloody chair. Daeron will—”
“Breathe,” you interrupt gently. “He’ll breathe, Maekar.”
Maekar looks at you, long and hard. Then, finally, he nods—once, as if you’ve passed some test you didn’t know you were taking.
“Fine,” he mutters. “Keep counting, then. Just…” His gaze flicks to Baelor. “Don’t lose yourself doing it.”
Baelor’s hand finds your shoulder, squeezes gently. “She has me for that,” he says quietly.
You lean into the touch without thinking, the weight of his palm as familiar now as the weight of your own cloak. For a heartbeat, the whole world narrows to this: the warmth of the boy asleep in your lap, the solid line of the prince at your back, the tense, begrudging trust in a hard man’s eyes. Aerion’s stare catches on that lean, on that trust, and something hot and bitter pulses behind his ribs—he doesn’t have that. Not yet. Not the way they do.
A pack, you think. A strange one—dragons and wolf and whatever Daeron is becoming, whatever Aerion might yet be—but a pack all the same.
“I’ll keep count,” you say. “That’s all I know how to do.”
Aerion shifts beside you, his voice closer to your ear now than before.
“And if we wander?” he asks. “If we go where you can’t see?”
You look at him. At the boy he is and the man he might become. At the jealousy he’s trying so hard to bury under arch words and sharp smiles, at the hunger in him that has nothing to do with supper.
“Then,” you say gently, “I’ll look for you until my eyes are sore. And if I can’t find you, I’ll make sure someone else does.”
He looks away quickly, as if the words are too bright to stare at head-on. But his hand, ink-scarred and restless, hooks more deliberately into the edge of your sleeve now, not pretending at chance. As if he’s testing the truth of what you’ve said by touch alone—and staking a small, silent claim against the world that keeps asking him to share.
Egg sighs in his sleep. Daeron leans back just a little more into your knee. Maekar watches, the lines in his face carved deeper but—just for tonight—less sharp. Baelor’s thumb moves once, soothing, at your shoulder.
Outside, Summerhall breathes. Inside, for the first time in a long while, so do they.
—
Summerhall wakes softly.
You realise it slowly, in layers: first the absence of Dragonstone’s thunderous sea, replaced by birdsong and the faint trickle of one of Summerhall’s little fountains; then the quality of the light, not that cold grey slit that forced its way through the narrow windows of the ancient fortress, but a warm, honey-coloured wash pressing at your closed lids. Warm stone, warm air, that drowsy southern stillness that makes the whole castle feel as if it is lying on its back in the sun.
And under it all, the weight at your back.
Baelor is wrapped around you like he has no intention of ever letting go. One arm under your neck, the other banded around your waist, his chest a broad, steady heat along your spine. He’s not just holding you; he’s got you gathered, hoarded, his forearm snug across your middle as if he’s shielding something from sight. His breath stirs the loose hairs at the nape of your neck in a rhythm you’ve come to recognise in the last months—that deep, even pattern that means he has finally dropped all the armour of the day and given himself to sleep. His legs are tangled with yours, one calf hooked over your ankles so neatly you half-suspect he did it even in his dreams, just to be sure you couldn’t slide away.
You lie there and let yourself feel all of it.
The linen sheets, warm and faintly rumpled, smelling of sun and soap and your mingled sweat. The fur thrown carelessly over the foot of the bed, slid half off in the night so that it hangs like a dark waterfall over the carved endboard. The early light catches on the band of gold around his finger, where it rests against your waist. The way his fingers have curled into the fabric of your shift, not quite tight enough to bruise, just enough that some part of him still doesn’t quite trust the world not to steal you while he dreams.
You shift slightly, meaning only to ease a cramp in your foot. The arm around your waist tightens at once, forearm solid, hand flattening over your stomach as if he could pin you to this moment by touch alone.
“Mmm,” Baelor murmurs into your hair, voice thick with sleep, rough at the edges. “Don’t.”
“Don’t what?” you ask, amused despite yourself.
“Leave,” he says, and there is something so unguarded in the word that your chest aches. It comes out low and automatic, more reflex than request, as if the fear of your absence lives closer to the surface than he’d like to admit. He blinks at last, lashes dragging up, and you feel rather than see the moment he truly wakes. The muscles along his chest shift against your back, tightening, then easing. “Morning,” he adds, softer.
You roll over in his arms until you’re facing him. He lets you go only enough to make room for your turn, hand sliding with you so that contact never quite breaks, fingers skating over the curve of your waist, the flare of your hip.
Summerhall’s light is kinder than the Red Keep’s. It kisses the shadows under his eyes instead of deepening them, turns the silver at his temples into something deliberate, as if the gods simply meant to mark him. His hair is a sleepy, ruffled mess, sticking up in ways it never does once his attendants have had at him; you can still see where a damp lock dried in a curl against his forehead. His beard—heavier now that he’s let it grow out in these days away from court—is rough against your palm when you touch his cheek, your thumb brushing the faint line where his jaw clenches in his sleep.
“Morning,” you echo.
For a few heartbeats, you simply look at each other. You, at the man who has been prince and promise and now husband; he, at the wolf-girl from the North who should have been made of ice and instead keeps turning up with fire in her palms. His gaze roams your face openly in this soft, private light: your sleep-creased cheek, the smudge where his beard roughed your skin last night, your mouth bruised from biting back laughter and other, less pious sounds. He lingers.
There is a particular way Baelor’s expression softens when he looks at you like this, a loosening around the eyes, the faintest curve at the corner of his mouth. You’ve seen it in council, when you stride in unannounced, and he’s drowning in lords. You’ve seen it on the training yard, when he catches sight of you at the railing, and his sword-arm changes shape without him noticing. You will never quite get used to seeing it from three inches away, with nothing between you and him but breath.
“Sleep?” he asks quietly. His thumb has found its way to the small notch of your spine, rubbing there in slow, absent circles through the linen, like he’s trying to soothe away the last weeks of dragonstone storms and court whispers by touch alone.
“Better than I have in weeks,” you admit. “Your lords don’t lurk in the rafters here.”
He makes a low sound that might be laughter, chest shaking against your forearm. “Give Aerion time,” he jokes. “He’ll find a way to replace them.”
You groan and hide your face against his shoulder. His skin is warm under your cheek, the faint, clean smell of last night’s soap clinging to him, overlaid now with the salt of sleep. “Don’t summon him,” you mumble into his skin. “It’s too early.”
Baelor’s chest moves under your cheek in another silent laugh. His hand slides up, over the line of your spine, a slow, broad stroke that makes heat curl low in your stomach despite the cool air of the chamber. He drags blunt fingers up the knots of muscle along your back, presses his palm briefly between your shoulder blades, then lets it wander lower again, easy and sure, as if his hands have decided that now they know this body, they mean to map it every dawn just in case the land has changed overnight.
“We are still newly wed,” he reminds you, voice dropping, words humming through his chest into your bones. “Dragonstone or Summerhall, it’s still just you and me.”
“Until your nephews wake,” you remind him, though the protest sounds thin even to your own ears. His thumb is drawing idle patterns at the small of your back that make it very hard to remember Egg and Daeron and their unholy alliance with the sunrise.
“Egg can be bribed with honeycakes,” Baelor whispers, his lips ghosting along your hairline. You feel the faint catch of his breath as he inhales, like he’s learning the scent of your hair by heart. “Daeron will sleep until noon if no one shakes him. Aerion… we’ll bolt the door if we must.”
The picture that conjures—Aerion hammering on a barred door like an offended cat—makes you snort despite yourself. It also does something oddly feral to Baelor’s mouth; you feel it, the little curve against your temple, pleased and territorial.
He takes advantage of your helpless little huff. His hand, which had been decently at your back, slips lower, cupping the curve of your hip through the linen. He draws you closer, the length of him fitting against you with practised ease, as if this is the shape his body has been waiting its whole life to fall into. You can feel that he is very much awake now, all available attention devoted to the small radius of the bed that contains you both.
“Baelor,” you say, but there is no real reprimand in it. Not when his nose is nudging into the curve where your neck meets your shoulder, not when his thigh slots between yours like he has every intention of staying there until the sun sets again.
“Mm?” he breathes, mouth already following the path his nose has drawn. He plants a slow, open-mouthed kiss there that makes your toes curl in the sheets, heat sparking outwards in an embarrassingly fast rush. Another kiss, a fraction lower, teeth scraping lightly in a way that turns your muscles to water.
“You have duties,” you say weakly, though your fingers have curled into his hair of their own accord, tugging him closer instead of pushing him away. The strands are soft and slightly tangled under your hand, thick as fur.
He hums against your skin. “Later.” Another kiss, higher now, hungrier, right beneath your jaw. “Much later.” His teeth graze very lightly, and you feel your breath catch. “Right now, my only duty is to my wife.”
It’s ridiculous, how easily he can do this to you. You’ve faced down howling winter storms, stood before your father’s bannermen and argued for grain and justice without blinking. You’ve ridden out through whiteout snow with only a rope and your own sense of direction to get you home again. And yet all it takes is his voice, low like this, his hands steady and sure, the solid heat of his body pressing you into the mattress, and your carefully tended composure melts like frost in spring.
You tilt your head, giving him better access because you are, apparently, a coward where this particular battle is concerned. You feel him smile against your skin in quiet triumph, the curve of his lips smug and fond all at once. His hand finds the lacing at the front of your shift almost absently, fingers working with more familiarity than any septa would approve of. The sheet spills further down your arm, the cool air a shocking contrast to the heat of his mouth and the path his fingers promise.
“Baelor,” you say again, a little hoarse.
“Say my name like that again,” he rasps, “and I will—”
Someone hammers on the door.
You both freeze.
The knock is not the discreet tap of a servant, nor the authoritative rap of Maekar’s knuckles. It is a rapid, impatient drumming, accompanied by a very familiar voice already pitched to carry.
“Aunt,” Aerion calls. “Uncle. Are you awake? I know you’re awake. Egg says you snore.”
Baelor closes his eyes briefly, as if summoning every ounce of patience he has ever possessed. The muscles in his jaw jump once, his hand flexing at your hip like he is considering launching the nearest object—or nephew—out of the nearest window. His forehead drops lightly to your shoulder with a muffled thud.
“I am going,” he mutters into your skin, very quietly and very sincerely, “to throttle that boy.”
“Aerion,” you call, trying to gather the sheet in one hand and what remains of your dignity in the other. You can feel Baelor’s disgruntled heat all along your side, his breath hot and frustrated against your collarbone. “It is early.”
“It is nearly midmorning,” he counters through the wood, scandalised. “Egg has eaten twice. Father has been in the yard. Daeron has already had his first cup.”
There is a muffled scuffle, as if someone has attempted to clap a hand over his mouth and been shrugged off.
Baelor lifts his head enough to look at you, incredulity and amusement warring in his eyes with the remnants of thwarted desire. His hair is thoroughly disordered now, thanks to your fingers; his mouth is reddened in a way that makes something inside you preen.
“Of course he does,” he says under his breath.
You swallow a sigh and call, “On what?”
“A matter of great importance,” Aerion says at once. “Concerning… northern customs. And… wolves.”
He is a terrible liar. His voice always goes just a little too clear when he thinks he’s being clever. Baelor huffs a quiet, murderous sound into your shoulder.
“Let him wait,” Baelor murmurs, teeth grazing your earlobe now in a last-ditch effort, his hand still scandalously confident beneath the loosened lacing of your shift. “He can torment the ravens for an hour.”
“He will start pounding again,” you say. “And Egg will join in. And then Maekar.”
“As I said,” Baelor replies at once, “we can bolt—”
“Aunt,” Aerion says, and there is something in the way he draws the word out, a plaintive, wheedling note that makes your already-wavering resolve warp. “Please.”
You grimace. Baelor sees the battle on your face and groans, actually tipping his head back against the pillow in mute appeal to whatever gods are listening.
“Starks,” he mumbles under his breath. “Softest hearts, hardest heads.”
“You married one,” you remind him, reaching up to press a quick kiss to the corner of his mouth. His lips chase yours, deepening it by sheer reflex; for a heartbeat, the world narrows again to heat and the rasp of his beard and the way his hand tightens on your hip like he’s trying to memorise the feel of you to hoard against the rest of the day.
Then Aerion knocks again, faster this time, as if he can sense happiness and must stamp it out.
“Coming,” you call, breathless, breaking away. You extricate yourself from Baelor’s arms with difficulty; he clings like a particularly stubborn piece of armour, fingers catching on your shift as if they refuse to accept that morning exists.
“Traitor,” he accuses, but there’s no venom in it, only hoarse amusement and the thin edge of frustration.
“You can have me back for supper,” you say, still breathless and amused and a little regretful all at once. “If Aerion hasn’t dragged me to the bottom of a well by then.”
He makes a low sound that promises you will, indeed, pay for that later—in entirely pleasant ways—then reluctantly lets you go, hand sliding away from your waist at the last possible moment.
You pull on your gown quickly, fingers nimble with long practice, the familiar weight of Stark-grey wool settling over your shift. You twist your hair into something that at least looks intentional, pinning it back with more speed than care, and smooth your hands down the front of your skirts to hide the slight tremble in them. Behind you, you can feel Baelor’s gaze on your back like sunlight—warm, steady, reluctant to move.
When you open the door, Aerion is practically pressed against it.
He rocks back on his heels with a small, triumphant noise, as if he fully expected you to have barred it and is delighted to be proved right. He’s still in his nightshirt, though someone has clearly bullied breeches and boots onto him. His hair is wild around his face, sleep-tangled, a curl falling over one eye. That eye is bright. Too bright, devouring. There’s a flush high along his cheekbones that is not entirely from the climb up the tower.
“Aunt,” he says, as if he hasn’t been shouted at from the other side of the door for calling in the first place. “There you are.”
“There I am,” you agree dryly. You are painfully aware of the warm presence at your back and the state of the bed behind you. “Your Uncle Baelor is—”
“Busy,” Aerion says smoothly, stepping into the doorway in a way that blocks your view back into the room and Baelor’s view out. It is a neat little move, practised, you suspect; he plants his shoulder against the doorframe, lean body an efficient barrier. “Yes, of course. Far be it from me to disturb his… princely repose.”
Baelor makes a noise behind you that is not princely at all.
Aerion’s gaze flicks past you for half a heartbeat, sharp and assessing. He takes in the disordered sheets, the fur half-slid to the floor, the glimpse of Baelor’s bare shoulders as he props himself up on one elbow in the tangled bed. His mouth twitches—almost a smirk, almost a sneer, something caught between envy and delight at having interrupted.
Then his attention slams back to you, full and hungry.
“I thought we could walk,” he offers, words tumbling over one another as if he’s afraid you’ll close the door if he pauses. “You said you wanted to see the lower gardens properly in daylight, and Father is in the yard and Egg is… somewhere… and Daeron is… not fit for company at present.”
“Daeron is hungover,” Baelor calls from the bed, resigned. “Say it plain.”
Aerion ignores him, a muscle ticking once in his jaw at the interruption.
“Besides,” he adds, nonchalant as a cat that’s already got the cream, “I wished to ask you about northern hunting packs. And about wolves. And about—”
He breaks off, searching for something that will sound scholarly rather than needy.
“Snow,” he finishes triumphantly.
“Snow,” you repeat, carefully straight-faced.
“Yes,” he confirms. “You mentioned once that it can fall so heavily you lose yourself if you walk out without a rope. I find that concept… fascinating.”
He does not find it fascinating. You have seen his fascinated face, and it usually involves fire or cruelty, or both. This is something else entirely: a boy desperate to anchor you somewhere he can have you to himself, disguising it as curiosity because he has learned that “teach me, aunt” gets him further than “stay with me” ever will.
Behind you, Baelor shifts. You can feel his attention like heat against your shoulder blades.
“Northern weather lessons,” he says, and you can hear the smile he’s not bothering to show. “At this hour.”
“A prince’s education is never done, uncle,” Aerion answers primly. He tips his chin up, a little defiant tilt that reminds you uncomfortably of Baelor when he’s about to dig his heels in at council.
“And your brothers?” you question. “Would they not benefit from knowing how not to get lost in hypothetical snow?”
“They hate the cold,” Aerion replies too quickly. “Egg complains if a breeze blows on him. Daeron—” he hesitates, then shrugs, mouth flattening. “He’s busy.”
Meaning: he wants you alone. Meaning: he’s learned that if he frames it as learning, Maekar will nod and Baelor will sigh, and you will feel your duty and whatever kernel of fondness you have for him tug where your heart already leans.
“You don’t have to go,” Baelor says softly behind you.
You look back.
He’s sitting up now, sheet around his waist, hair still a disordered halo. His eyes are clear and steady on yours, no reproach in them. Only… choice. His hand rests on his knee, fingers splayed, as if he is physically stopping himself from reaching for you again in front of his nephew. There is hunger there still, banked but very much alive, and a fondness so open it makes your ribs tight. You think of Egg, clutching your tunic last night as he told you about the book with the ridiculous direwolf drawing. Daeron, breathing easier with your hand in his hair. Aerion, hovering at the edge of the firelight until you called him closer and gave him a place.
Found family, the maesters might call it. In the North, you’d simply call it a pack.
You sigh.
“I’ll steal him back later,” you tell Baelor quietly. “You can glower at him over supper.”
“I’ll do more than glower,” Baelor mutters.
“To me, or to him?” you ask, arching a brow.
His mouth curves, heat flickering in his mismatched gaze. “Both.”
Heat curls in your stomach again at that, but you only nod and turn back to Aerion.
“Very well,” you tell him with a sigh. “A walk. But if your brothers wish to join us, they will.”
You watch his expression carefully. For a breath, something petulant flashes there—sharp, childish, ugly. Mine. Then it’s gone, smoothed over into a bright, eager smile so practised it almost hides the way Aerion’s fingers tighten briefly around the cuff of his nightshirt.
“Of course,” he says smoothly. “If they can keep up.”
He offers his arm with exaggerated courtesy. You take it, because refusing would only make a different kind of trouble, and let him lead you down the corridor, his stride a little too quick to be entirely casual. Behind you, you hear the soft thump of Baelor falling back against the pillows, followed by a heartfelt, muffled curse into the mattress. It makes you smile all the way to the stairs.
“You interrupted,” you say mildly as the door shuts behind you and Aerion’s shoulders loosen a fraction, as if now that the barrier is between Baelor and you he can breathe easier.
“Did I?” he asks, wide-eyed. The innocence would be more convincing if his ears weren’t pink and if he hadn’t looked so pleased with himself at the state of your hair.
“You know you did,” you say. “You have the worst timing in the realm.”
“On the contrary,” Aerion answers loftily, a secretive twinkle in his eyes. “My timing is impeccable. I arrived precisely when I meant to.”
“That,” you retort dryly, “is what I’m afraid of.”
He glances at you, lips quirking. There’s a sharp, sly satisfaction in his gaze now, something too knowing for his years. He saw more than you’d like in that doorway and is already filing it away, another stone in whatever little castle of obsession he is building around you in his mind.
“You’re still here,” he points out, fingers tightening on your arm just for a moment, grip a shade too firm for mere gallantry before he forces it to relax. “With me.”
“For now,” you say. “Do not abuse the privilege.”
His smile widens, all teeth and charm and something brittle at the edges. “As if I’d dare,” he says lightly.
You don’t believe him for a moment.
But as you step out into Summerhall’s bright, green court, the air smelling of roses and wet stone, the sun warming the flagstones under your boots, Aerion at your side and Baelor’s warmth still lingering on your skin like a second layer, you think—just for today—you will let yourself be pulled in two directions.
There will be other mornings. Other almosts. Other times when you can tangle yourself in your husband’s arms without a dragonling battering at the door. This morning belongs, unfortunately and completely, to the jealous boy at your elbow, who has decided that if he must share a queen with a king and a realm, he will at least have these small stolen hours all to himself.
an: cockblocker of the century award goes to... ‼ but hope you enjoyed some domestic bliss heh. I love them so much ( ˘︹˘ )
While Baelor is known for his diplomacy, you are known as the woman who makes High Lords stutter. You have zero patience for the flowery language of the court. If a courtier is being indirect, you’re the one to snap, "Get to the point before I lose interest." Baelor usually has to hide a smirk behind his hand, deep down he’s so thankful you’re there otherwise you’d be there for days listen to Lords waffle.
It’s an unspoken rule in the Small Council, if you want a favour, talk to Baelor. If you’ve messed up, pray he finds you before you find him. You are fiercely protective of his time and health, and you’ve been known to physically bar the door to his solar if he’s had a long day, regardless of who is asking for entry.
The moment Prince Valarr enters the room, your metaphorical "battle armour" vanishes. You could be in the middle of a heated argument with a Master of Coin, but if Valarr asks for a story or shows you a scraped knee, your voice immediately drops two octaves and loses its edge. The court finds the constant whiplash terrifying, and sometimes exhausting; but Baelor finds it adorable.
You are incredibly stubborn, and you rarely apologize to anyone. Except Baelor. In the privacy of your chambers, after a day of snapping at lords and glaring at political rivals, you’ll slump against him and let out a long sigh. He’s the only one allowed to see the exhaustion behind your aggression.
Your “big softie" side extends to the children of King’s Landing. You’ve been known to spend an hour handing out bread and sweets to the local orphans, looking uncharacteristically gentle. Giving them some silvers to buy their families food, reading them stories with them sat around your skirts, anything you can do to help.
When you and Baelor disagree, it’s like a storm hitting a mountain. You pace and vent; he sits and listens. You’ll swear you aren’t backing down, he lets you rant away but the moment he stands up, walks over, and simply tucks a lock of hair behind your ear, your resolve crumbles. You’ll grumble, "Don't think this means you've won," even though you both know it does.
You have a particularly low tolerance for Baelor's more difficult relatives (looking at you Aerion). While Baelor treats everyone with princely grace, you’ve told Aerion to "shut his mouth before you shut it for him" more than once. Not that Maekar takes too kindly to this, but it usually saves him having to discipline Aerion. The fact that you’re the only person Aerion is actually a little afraid of is Baelor’s favourite thing about you.
You aren't big on Public Displays of Affection. You find them performative and they are often frowned on. But under the covers at night, you’re a total clinger. You need to be touching Baelor, a hand on his chest or your head on his shoulder, your legs tangled together, to finally shut your brain off and sleep.
Valarr grows up seeing a mother who is a warrior in spirit and a father who is a sage. Because of you, he learns that kindness isn't weakness, but he also learns exactly how to stand his ground. You’ve taught him that the world is a pit of vipers, all of them only interested in advancing themselves, and he needs to be the biggest dragon in the room to protect those he loves.
You are a constant fixture at the edge of the tilting ground. While other high-born ladies might bring needlework, you bring a whetstone or just a terrifyingly sharp gaze. If an instructor is too soft on Valarr or Matarys because he’s a prince, you’re the first to shout, "He’s a Targaryen, not a glass figurine! Make him do it again!" But the moment the session ends, you’re the one cleaning their scrapes with the gentlest touch they’ve ever known.
As the heir to the heir, Valarr faces immense pressure from King Daeron and the rest of the court, and sometimes his own father. You can sense when the weight of the crown is starting to crush him. Without a word, you’ll clear his schedule, sometimes walking literally walking into meetings and announcing that the Prince is needed elsewhere, just so you can take him for a quiet ride in the Kingswood or a private dinner with just you two, where there’s no pressure.
The court sees you as a woman as had and sharp as iron, but Valarr and Matarys know you as the realm’s best bedtime storyteller. Even as they grew older, they would seek out your chambers. You have a specific way of running your fingers through their hair that can soothe any nightmare or anxiety. In those moments, there is not a single bit of the aggressive princess left, there is only a mother who loves her sons more than her own life. Baelor often walks in to see you and the boys cuddled up, asleep in bed, he has to just slide under the furs and try not to disturb the pile of limbs, otherwise he would suffer your wroth at waking up your babies.
A/N: I am absolutely in love with @idksmtms's fics of Maekar having a young wife whom Dunk confuses with his daughter, and I just kept thinking about how Baelor would react if it happened to him 😭 so I wrote this. Special thanks to @vhagars-dementia for constantly blessing this fandom with her ideas!!! I dedicate this to you <3 And to all my Baelor enthusiasts.
— summary: ser duncan the tall thinks you're just a beautiful girl close to his own age, but his innocence is his undoing when he mistakes you for just another targaryen cousin. the only problem? you are actually the lady of dragonstone and baelor’s wife.
— pairing: baelor targaryen x wife!reader
— word count: 2k
— content: controversial young wife!reader, age gap, humor, mentions of reader's hair length, jealous!baelor, implicit sexual references, pda.
The hedge knight spends more time than ever with the family, forever trailing after Aegon like a loyal hound, laughing, jesting, and, above all, eating.
It was only to be expected that the prince would invite his dear friend to the feast held at Dragonstone for the celebration of your name day. Your husband, Baelor, had prepared a banquet worthy of you, with an enormous cake and hundreds of servants rushing frantically through the castle, adorning the halls with flowers and colors chosen to your liking. He knew you exceptionally well, so it had been easy for him to decorate precisely how you'd like.
You had told him, of course, that such splendor was unnecessary, that a small supper with the family would have more than sufficed. Yet Baelor delighted in spoiling you, for you were the finest blessing he had been granted in a lot of time.
Whenever Ser Duncan the Tall found himself in your presence, he devoted most of his time to watch you from afar—seeing you laugh beside Baelor, play with Egg, or even speak comfortably with Prince Aerion. Your presence was nothing short of glorious, a magnet for eyes and devotion wherever you went. Your nature was exquisite—kind, gentle, and so unbearably sweet that at times Dunk thought you could scarce be of the same blood as the rest of them.
And your beauty… that was another matter entirely. You were the loveliest sight the humble eyes of a hedge knight had ever beheld. Your form was wondrous, your face celestial, your long hair falling over your shoulders like a silken cascade, and your smile... it stole the very breath from his chest every time. Each time you entered his sight, a sigh would just escape out of him, soft and helpless, like a boy hopelessly in love.
“Do not even think it, Dunk,” Egg warns him, as he had more than once before, quick to notice the besotted look upon his big friend’s face as they sat together at the table. “That's out of your power to reach, Ser.”
But Dunk does not answer. He is far too intent upon you as you appear in the great hall’s doorway.
Today you wear a gown of red, dazzling, adorned with pearls and white embroidery that spreads across your bodice, climbs your shoulders, and trails down the length of your spine, where darker crimson stitching forms the likeness of dragon scales. Your hair lies loose down your back, softly waved, gleaming in the candlelight.
All rise at your entrance.
Dunk is the last. He nearly stumbles over his chair in his haste, its legs scraping loudly against the stone floor as he shoves it back. That alone—and you—turn him red as a summer apple.
Valarr, seated at his other side, watches his brutish motion with poorly hidden amusement.
“My love,” Baelor calls first, his face gentle as drifting clouds, fondness curving his lips as he comes to greet you properly. “Happy name day.”
You accept his embrace, smiling as he presses a tender kiss to your hair.
After him, the others come in turn, forming a line to offer their wishes, their thanks, their gifts—small tokens and letters placed into your hands.
Egg flings himself into your arms, making you laugh and sway back a step beneath the force of him. Baelor, standing close at your side, smiles at the sight. Ever tender are you with the younglings, and for that, he loves you all the more. You shower his children with a devotion so maternal and steadfast that one would never guess they did not spring from your own womb.
“Thank you, my sweet Aegon,” you tell him, stroking the fine, pale silver-gold hair already sprouting upon his head. The boy had even brought you a flower—one of those you cherished most, a silent token of his affection.
Duncan feels painfully out of place when his turn comes. Standing empty-handed while his stomach twists into a tight, miserable knot.
He is already flushed when you lift your gaze to him, your eyes sparkling with amusement at the familiar effect you have upon him—his trembling hands, his stammer, his shy smiles. He's so cute!
“Ser Duncan. I hope you would be here,” you greet him warmly, you know well the bond he shares with Aegon; to have him present is a comfort to your heart. “Aegon speaks wonders of you. It does not surprise me to see you have become each other's shadow.”
“My lady,” Dunk answers you, his voice no louder than a mouse’s squeak. His gaze, much against his better judgment, betrays him, making a swift, helpless journey over the length of your body.
And Baelor notices, of course; his smile fades, slow and certain, as he watches the knight’s every movement like a hawk perched upon your shoulder. A single brow lifts slightly, and a deep, thoughtful furrow begins to cloud his brow.
Duncan clears his throat and casts your husband an apologetic glance before daring to look at you again. “I— I beg your pardon. I would not wish to be an intrusion upon your name day. Your father was kind enough to grant me to attend.”
The hall falls into sepulchral silence. The small conversations that bloom among the Targaryens die at once when Dunk’s words echo through the great chamber, their meaning plain, their offense unmistakable and unashamed. Even the youngest cease their play, and the servants stand frozen right where they are.
All turn to stare at Duncan now, and they look upon him with mortified eyes, as though none dare breathe.
Somewhere, someone fails to smother a laugh—most likely Aerion.
Egg’s mouth falls open in mortification. He looks up at his friend, his expression stricken, willing him to understand—to see—that what he has just said is wrong. Very wrong.
Duncan looks down at him when his small squire gives his shin a furtive kick, meant to draw his notice without the others seeing. He frowns, bewildered, not understanding what offense he has given now to deserve such a blow.
And when he looks back to the grown folk, he finds you watching him with an expression poised in perfect balance between horror and amusement. There is even the faintest hint of a smile at the corner of your lips, one you must press away when you turn your head toward your prince.
Baelor does not look pleased as you do.
His face is uncommonly stern, his brow drawn tight, his lips pressed into a hard, unforgiving line, he is trying to gather every shred of his restraint to keep from striking the foolish knight upon your name day.
“She is my wife, Ser Duncan,” he clarifies, his patience stretched thin, drawn so taut it borders upon offense. His hand comes to curl around your waist as you lean into him, lifting one hand to his chest in quiet reassurance.
You are still trying to hide that treacherous, amused smile.
“Oh—Seven—” Dunk breathes, realization striking him at last. He drops at once to his knees, bowing his head in reverence and shame. “I beg your forgiveness, Your Grace. I—I did not know. My manners are poor—you must understand, I never m–meant offense.”
“Of course not, Ser,” you reply kindly, looking down at him, still leaning against your husband’s chest. He lets out a soft sigh beneath your touch, your hand rising and falling with the steady motion of his breath.
Baelor makes a sharp, dismissive gesture for him to rise. “See that it does not happen again.”
“Of course!” Dunk scrambles to his feet at once, his face burning red with shame. “I only meant that she is so young and beautiful, and you—”
His frantic blue eyes fall upon Valarr, standing just behind his father. The prince shakes his head swiftly, his mismatched eyes widening in urgent warning, bidding him to hold his tongue.
Dunk obeys at once and his jaw snaps shut so hard it almost snaps apart.
“You witless boy,” Maekar rebukes him, his face twisted with disgust and disdain when the hedge knight dares glance his way, standing at your side like some old, ill-tempered hound. “That should cost you your fucking tongue.”
Your soft laughter breaks through the tension of the moment, and all turn to look at you, the heavy air easing when they all realize this offends you not half so deeply as it does them.
“I am certain Ser Duncan meant no malice, Maekar,” you say, seeking to soothe them—most of all your husband. “And I should not like to see any tongues torn out upon my name day, please.”
Baelor’s gaze remains fixed upon the mortified knight, his hand coming to rest upon the pommel of his sword—a blade he carries in quiet defiance of your pleas to remain unarmed this day. He thinks, perhaps, that he shall have a use for it against Ser Duncan.
“... shall we eat at last, then?” Comes Daeron’s unmistakable voice from somewhere within the hall. “I am hungry. And thirsty.”
“Of that, none have any doubt,” Maekar mutters, rolling his eyes as he returns to the table.
The others follow in his wake, granting you and your husband a moment alone.
Ser Duncan gives you another quick, apologetic bow before hastening out from beneath your husband’s gaze.
You cannot hold it any longer.
A breath of laughter escapes you, soft and bright, and you turn in Baelor’s arms to face him fully.
He is still watching the place where Duncan stood, his jaw tight, his shoulders rigid beneath your touch, as if the insult lingers in the air like a foul smell.
Your fingers curl more firmly into the front of his doublet to call for his attention.
“My prince,” you whisper with a smile when his two-toned eyes finally meet yours. “My heart...”
You rise onto your toes and press a gentle kiss to his cheek, his beard tickling against your skin. His body noticeably softens beneath your warm affection.
Another kiss follows, softer still, at the corner of his mouth.
And one more, sweet and lingering, upon his lips.
“Peace,” you plead humorously against his mouth, your fingers toying idly with the Hand of the King’s badge on his chest. “You look as though you mean to challenge the poor knight to single combat over a slip of the tongue, my love.”
“I am not amused,” he manifests, his tone remarkably sullen, yet you press another loving kiss to his lips to chase away his pettish little pout.
“No?” You lean closer, your voice drops into something more playful and teasing, “is it because he thinks you're old, husband?”
His lips tremble at your words, holding back an ironic smile, and his hands tighten at your waist, pulling you closer against him.
Baelor clicks his tongue, and your gaze falls to his lips as he does. “I am not old.”
“Well, considering my own age... truthfully, you are a bit older,” you continue to tease him, biting back a small laugh at his startled reaction. “Should I begin calling you father now, hm?”
His beautiful eyes narrow.
You grin—and steal another quick kiss before he can protest.
“Do not push your luck, wife,” he warns all the same, a playful little smile curving his lips. His hand slides down to the small of your back before he delivers a sharp, scolding swat to your backside, making you jolt lightly against him.
His brow arches slightly. “You are the only one left breathless and trembling like some frail, ancient little thing. Or must I remind you how you clung to me the other night and begged me to—?”
Your hand flies to his mouth, covering it before he can utter another word.
“My prince,” you hiss under your breath, though laughter trembles in your voice, your eyes wide with scandalized amusement. “You grow bold. We are in a hall full of eyes, and your sons sit but a stone's throw away.”
His lips move against your palm, pressing a lingering, heated kiss there that sends a shiver down your spine. Baelor gently pulls your hand away, though he does not let go of your fingers, his thumb stroking your knuckles with a slow, possessive rhythm, grazing your betrothal ring.
“Let them look,” he dismisses, leaning into you to kiss your lips properly, claiming them. And claiming you.
The heated kiss, at last, forces Duncan’s eyes away from you, and Baelor smiles against your mouth as he watches him behind you, finally closing his own eyes to savor the honeyed sweetness of your kiss.
— Summary: frustrated by aerion's dishonorable actions during the ashford tourney, and annoyed by a futile argument with maekar, baelor surrounds himself in his work for hours before eventually he finds his way back to his waiting wife.
— Pairing: baelor targaryen x wife!reader
— Content: baelor is broody but has a sense of humor, tired/frustrated husband, massage, mild sexual content, partial nudity, mostly fluff, some flirting, reader is a bit of a smart ass, baelor adores his wife, drinking, reader and baelor share wine, sweet romance, comfort, domestic romance/intimacy, established relationship, unspecified age gap, humor,
— Word Count: 2.5k
A/N: this is my fix it fic (well kinda ig, since the scenario is before ep5) and for all of us widows. this is also my first post on tumblr and my first ever fic so any and all feedback is greatly appreciated! <3
The moon was high in the dark sky, casting a pale glow on the interior of you and Baelor's shared quarters. Night was calm in Ashford. A delicate breeze drifted in from the balcony, sending a small shiver down your spine in spite of the warmth the dark-stoned hearth and your nightgown provided.
Your tired eyes grazed over the faded ink along the book you had initially found solace in. It was an older novel, one Baelor had insisted you read to familiarize yourself with house genealogies. One you had pretended to enjoy for him, though, as the hours passed, your opinion of it only soured further. That was what the wine was for, remedying your boredom and dulling the wait until his return.
You knew him well enough to know that he had spent the last few hours poring himself over his ledgers, reports, and books in a vain attempt to put the abysmal display Aerion had made in today's joust out of his mind. Even the dinner you had shared earlier was met with a rigidity that was unnatural—he had kept his replies short, often glaring his brother and nephew across the table with a noticeable irritation.
You could see it every time you had looked at him during the meal, that slight frown upon his lips and the bunched muscles of his jaw, that look of disdain that only his family could instill in him when he had to clean up yet another one of their dishonorable spectacles.
Afterwards, he excused himself to deal with matters relating to the situation. You didn't ask for the specifics, as you knew he wouldn't tell you. But you knew he would argue with Maekar about the ordeal, and you confirmed your suspicions when you heard their familiar voices bickering from the hall some hours ago on your way back to your shared chambers. Their arguments always left them both in intolerable moods, with Maekar hating being ridiculed and Baelor hating being dismissed. Both often withdrawing in their own way after, and that was what you figured had been the case for the last couple hours.
But as the hours had ticked by, your restlessness only grew. And just when you considered going to check on him, he entered the chamber without a word, his jaw set in a stubborn jut you had only seen a few times prior in your years together. The door shut behind him with a soft but resounding thud, though he carried himself with less frustration than earlier. His fingers were already working on the buckle of his belt, which soon landed on a nearby chair with a metallic clink as he made his way to you. His mismatched eyes shifted to where you sat, hand coasting over your upper back as he leaned down to press a small kiss to your forehead.
"Enjoying it?" He said with a knowing tone, nodding to the worn book in your hands. A brief smirk twitched at the corners of his mouth in preparation for one of your inevitable smart replies he always enjoyed.
"Oh yes, it's absolutely riveting," you said dryly as you swirled your glass before taking a long drink.
He chuckled at that, a quiet, tired sound that signaled it was likely his first of the day. You smiled at his laugh, but as your gaze lingered, you could see the slight hunch to his frame and the small vein that always peeked out along his forehead when he worked himself up so much it resulted in a headache.
He, in return, smiled at you softly, his calloused thumb caressing your cheek briefly in a lingering adoration before he pulled away to stand before the hearth.
A soft sigh found its way free from your chest as your gaze landed on his brooding form. You had grown accustomed to his silences over the years. He had never been one for rash actions when confronted by anger, even if it would serve to benefit him more in releasing the tension he so often carried. Slowly, you stood, setting your glass aside with a soft clink.
"I take it your talk with Maekar went as well as could be expected?" You asked softly as you came to stand beside him, hand resting on his arm. The warm glow of the fire cascaded across his face, softening the stern lines of his nose and brow.
"Maekar is headstrong; he would sooner drink poison than heed my advice on discipline and honorable pursuits," he stated, his eyes trained forward on the hearth. You let out a huff that was halfway between a laugh and a sigh.
"Yes, well, I believe most of what anyone says to him falls upon deaf ears anyway. I wouldn't take it to heart," you said gently as you watched his hand run through the silver threads along the edge of his beard. He didn't quite laugh, but his lips twitched in a wry smile.
After a long moment, filled only by the soft crackle of the fire, he turned to you, his mismatched gaze softening marginally. And for the first time in a long while, you saw the tiredness that had etched its way into thin cracks along the corners of his eyes.
Your hand slowly came to his chest, gradually unbuttoning the collar of his tunic. A gesture not of passion but of care.
His hands drifted to your waist of their own accord, pulling you slightly closer to him. The tight frame of his shoulders already beginning to waver under your touch.
"You are one of the few of your family who does not harbor a penchant for bloodshed. It is part of what makes you such a good man," you mused, fingers tracing a slow path down his tunic, your gaze lifted briefly to meet his, just long enough to glimpse the hearth-fire flickering in the warm amber of his eye. He exhaled through his nose, rolling his head back slightly before meeting your gaze once more.
"You shouldn't speak to me as if I am some shining example," he said, his voice holding that soft but authoritative timbre you had always adored. "I am just a man, like any other."
A heavy exhale escaped you at his deflection. "Always so humble," you quipped softly, hands now gently pushing his opened tunic slightly off his shoulders. "Even in the face of your anger."
Any retort that he'd gathered quickly began to crumble like ash on his tongue as he relished in the almost reverent feel of your hands moving over his taut shoulders. The dark fabric of his tunic slid to the floor in a soft heap, leaving his bare skin exposed to the cold night air that swept in.
His gaze shifted to your nimble fingers, and when they met the hardened planes of his chest, a breath escaped him, one he didn't know he had been holding. His eyes briefly fluttered shut when your fingers caressed the thin dust of graying hair there. Your hands then continued their careful exploration, finding purchase on his neck and shoulders as you began slowly kneading the stiff muscles.
"You shouldn't be the one to soothe me, you know," he said quietly, breaking the fragile silence, wincing slightly as your fingers found a particularly stubborn knot. His grip along your waist tightened, the cold silver of his rings bleeding through the thin silk of your nightgown as he tugged you even closer.
"I am your wife," you stated, tilting your head slightly. "It is part of my duty, is it not?" You hummed, thumb pressing harder into the tight coil of muscle along the side of his neck.
He let out a huff and reached for your abandoned glass of wine on the table, feigning an answer, as you both knew you were right. He took a slow sip, and you took the opportunity to press your fingers a little deeper, drawing the tension out of him. He barely stifled a sound of protest when you paused to guide him toward the nearby chair.
The chair creaked slightly under his weight as he took the seat with a sigh. His eyes drifted to the balcony while he slowly sipped the wine, waiting for you to begin again. The soft pads of your fingers trailed from his arm up to the back of his shoulders, sending gooseflesh across his skin. As you resumed your ministrations, you found yourself held captive by the way the faint glow of the moon spilled across his lean form, the subtle slants of light accentuating the faded scars of old battles that marked his pale skin.
The tender warmth of your hands against his chilled skin and the gentle rustle of wind against the trees enveloped you both in a soft tranquility. The half-empty wineglass on the table was soon forgotten once more as his head reclined back to rest against your stomach. Each pass of your hands gradually melted away the last vestiges of his frustration in a way no wine or book could do. An occasional soft groan or labored breath left him when your skilled fingers alternated between firm presses and soothing circles that kept him teetering on the edge of pain and relief.
Your fingers soon took their careful attention to another knot, his breath hitching slightly. "If you keep this up," he murmured, "I may never let you leave."
You chuckled, leaning down to press a tender kiss to the crown of his head, the neatly trimmed hair brushing against your lips as a small breeze billowed your hair back across your shoulders.
"Your neck and shoulders are like a rock, my dear," you said, your voice slightly strained with exertion. He winced slightly as you found the tautest part of the coiled muscle, a sharp pain shooting down the blades of his shoulders and curling around his spine, causing his grip to tighten involuntarily on the arms of the chair.
"You should see how tense my back is," he said, only partially in jest. The tension in his frame loosened with each pass of your reassuring fingers, and his eyes drifted shut on a sigh of relief. "I'm a lost cause, truly."
"If I weren't the wiser, I'd say you just want me to rub your back," you said knowingly, one hand resting on the side of his neck, thumb moving in slow, soothing swipes.
The barest hint of a smile tugged at the corner of his mouth at your reply, his grip gradually loosening on the arms of the chair as he turned his head to you—eyes now half-lidded. "Do you think me so scheming, my dear wife?" he chuckled softly, shifting in his seat, straightening a little to provide you better access to a tense muscle in his shoulder. "I am wounded."
"Wounded?" you echoed, rolling your eyes. "I shall have to tell the maester; we cannot have our crown prince so troubled. Perhaps he'll send you for a massage." With one more harsh press against the knot, it popped under his skin, the adjacent muscle rippling in response. A pained groan escaped him but soon melted into a sigh of relief.
"Gods, that feels better," he exhaled with a slow roll of his neck and shoulders, his own calloused hand coming up to rub at the tender spot. The sight of him finally at ease made something warm settle in your chest. You leaned down to press a quick kiss against his temple as you reached over him for the wine. The bitter red liquid washed over your tongue as you began finishing the glass. His free hand ghosted down your side to squeeze your hip affectionately before snatching the almost-empty glass from you.
"That was helping my headache," he said dryly before downing the rest, a small smile pulling at his lips.
"That was curing my boredom before it was solving your headache," you shot back with a small huff. "It's a good thing there's more. You just have to pour it," you said, nodding to the crystal decanter that sat on the table in front of him.
He chuckled at your witty reply, holding your gaze for a long moment until you turned around. He let out a huff of his own as his eyes met your back, reaching for the decanter. You approached the small basin across the room, taking the small rag in hand you began to dip it into the water. A soft trickle echoed through the room as you wrung out the cloth.
His gaze darted up briefly as he heard the sound, his hand stilling on the decanter as his eyes landed on your figure. You spotted his stare out the corner of your eye as you worked.
"You're staring," you stated with a small smirk, casting a glance at him over your shoulder, your hands wringing the cloth tighter, the cold water washing over your fingers and dribbling down your wrists.
"Admiring," he corrected, setting the decanter aside, his eyes never leaving you even as he tasted his newly filled glass of wine. "I don't believe it is a crime for a man to admire his wife."
"No, no it isn't," you affirmed as you approached him once more with the damp cloth in hand. He took the opportunity to pull you onto his lap. A noise of surprise escaped you as your legs hugged his hips, your hand landing on his chest, catching in the soft hair there. He laughed at that, a full sound, one that made your heart flutter.
Without hesitation, you guided the wet cloth over his chest and shoulders, leaving a glistening trail along his skin. He jumped slightly at the sudden coldness but after a moment he closed his eyes at the sensation, lifting his chin to give you better access to his neck. His ringed fingers toying with the fabric clinging to your hips as you worked.
The soft sizzle of the fire dying down filled the room, you let the cloth trace down to his stomach, following the darker trail of hair that started at his navel until it disappeared under his waistband. He hummed softly at the gesture, the muscles of his abdomen briefly clenching against the cloth before relaxing in its wake.
"Do you want me to rub your back?" you asked quietly, as you brought the cloth over his biceps. His eyes opened leisurely, finding yours with a softness you had come to recognize as his quietest adoration—the kind that words would only hinder.
"Tomorrow," he said softly, his fingers coming up to tuck a loose strand of hair behind your ear. That familiar tiredness crept back into his eyes. You nodded, looping your arms around his neck.
"Tomorrow," you affirmed, your lips finding his in a delicate kiss that had you both melting into each other and the night ahead.
-What Would I Do Without You | Baelor Targaryen x reader
Summary: You miss your husband while he's away, and a good excuse to see him might also save him his life.
Content: 2778 words, Fluff (sort of), established relationship, afab!reader, black!reader, suggestive content, some angst
Note: I did not mean for this to be long. This is my first fic I've ever written on tumblr, so formatting might be weird. Also, I did not know how far Kingslanding was from The Reach until I was well into writing this, so lets just pretend they're just a skip and a hop from each other! Let me know what you guys think! Thankxx!
It was the afternoon. You sat at the head of the council table, where Baelor would be. Sunlight peered through the window and trailed across the wooden floor boards, illuminating the council chamber. Every now and then your attention gave way from the conversation and you watched as dust danced in its rays.
With the King ill, and Baelor away at Ashford, it was on you to lead the small council. It wasn’t often that you sat in on meetings, but Baelor trusted your judgement regardless.
It always amazed you at how trivial the issues at hand were, how easy they were to solve, and how petty some of Westeros’s most powerful lords could be. The only person whose judgement you trusted more than your husband’s was Lady Eleana Targaryen, and currently she and Lord Mantarys Velaryon argued about raising taxes in order to secure funds for the royal fleet.
“The Blackfyre are still out there. What if we were to encounter another rebellion?” Lord Velaryon argued.
“20 percent of our funds already are towards the royal fleet. If there should be another uprising, the royal fleet shall fare just as it did the first.” Eleana fired back.
The meeting was nearing an end. You had barely gotten any sleep last night with Baelor’s absence, and the heaviness of slumber began to weigh on you. But something else weighed on you as well.
When word had reached that Prince Daeron and Prince Aegon had not made it to Ashford, it obviously worried you. Daeron was sensitive. He means well, but his vices always kept him impaired and illfitted to be in charge of anything or anyone. And Aegon, Aegon was a child.
Baelor was away at Ashford Castle for Lord Ashford’s daughter's name day. At first the thought of attending a tourney sounded less than ideal — a field of sweaty brute lords and their entitled seedlings playing war — so you stayed behind.
Your company would’ve made the journey a pleasure rather than a duty, yet Baelor would not force you to attend. It was just a simple tourney, and he himself almost didn’t go if his house’s image didn’t depend on it. You were starting to regret not attending with him. All you could think about were your husband’s whereabouts, and something told you that’s where you needed to be.
“I think that might be enough for today.” You sighed – covering your chalice, before the cup barrier could fill it anymore. “Lord Mantarys, I appreciate your concern, but Eleana is right. We can not raise taxes in preparation for a hypothetical second uprising. The people will not forgive us for it, and we can not risk losing their favor especially in peace times.” You pressed your palms to the table and stood from your seat. “This meeting is adjourned.” You concluded, passing Eleana with a comforting smile.
“Ready my horse, please. I am joining the prince in Ashford Meadow. We shall pack light, and tell someone to bring my husband's armor.” You ordered as you made your way through the corridor, entering the castle’s foyer, making your way up the stairs. Your servants followed behind you.
“Your grace, that is almost a day's ride, and I am inclined to remind you that the prince is not entering the lists.” Your counselor insisted.
You made an abrupt stop and turned. “Do you think me a fool? That I have not already accounted for this”
“Of course not your grace.”
“Very well. Now make haste, please.” You said turning and making your way to your chambers.
The Journey to Ashford did in fact take a day. Well most of the day. You rode horseback, followed by a wagon that brought your belongings and Baelor’s armor. Accompanying you, were your counselor, your lady in waiting, a coachman to transport the wagon, and two Kingsguard.
It was dark when you laid eyes upon the Castle and its fields. Ashford Meadow was quiet and somber – unusual for a tourney, even at dusk. The air was thick and humid. You knew rainfall was imminent, as you could smell its sourness.
It rained before you could cross the bridge. When you arrived, a guard hurried you out of the storm and inside the castle. Servants rushed to bring in your belongings and find your party suitable accommodations. They were not expecting your arrival.
You were told that your husband was in an important meeting at this time. The matter, an “attack” on house Targaryen, and that your nephew Aerion and a hedge knight were involved.
While you wanted to join your husband immediately, the thought of sitting in any room with Aerion, especially after such a long journey, deterred you.
“Show me to the Prince’s quarters, please.” You requested instead.
Baelor had just bid his farewells for the evenings to Lord Ashford, who right now was in a hushed conversation with one of his advisors. He was exhausted from the day, and wasn’t going to inquire what was wrong as he began his journey down the dimly lit corridor, but the two men kept glancing back at him. So he stopped.
“Is something wrong?” The prince asked.
Lord Ashford faced him with a startled look. “Of course not your grace. It’s just that, it seems your lady wife has arrived. We were not expecting her. Of course we’re more than pleas-”
Baelor immediately turned and made haste for his quarters. He didn’t know where you were exactly, but why would you be anywhere else?
The guard at his door stood at attention in the prince’s presence. “Your Grace.” he greeted. Baelor just gave a simple nod of his head to acknowledge the man before bursting through his chamber doors. Standing at the opposite end of his room, with maids surrounding her, was his wife changing into her night gown.
You playfully gasped “Husband, I am indecent.” and then murmured “Not that that’s ever mattered.”
“Ladies, would you give us the room, please.” Baelor requested standing by the door – holding it open.
You thanked your ladies and bid them goodnight, and they left your and your husband’s chambers one-by-one. Standing in front of a large, floor length, gold rimmed mirror, you finished the slipping on your night gown – adjusting the lace at your breast to your comfort. You were standing at the opposite side of the room from where your husband stood. At the center of the room, placed in front of the fireplace, were two chairs and a small table with a half finished game of chess. You figured Baelor had started a game by himself. Wall lanterns had been expertly placed at each corner of the room, and aided the fireplace in illuminating the room into a lustrous golden brown.
Baelor, ever so chivalrous, thanked each maid as she left. You watched through the mirror as their eyes dazzled and lingered in awe when they looked up at him. How could you blame them? He was magnificent. Cloaked in black and red, he was so tall and strong, but in a gentle domineering way. Especially in recent times as his hair and beard turned grey. The war hadn’t hardened him, like it did most, it only refined him. Even after all these years he still took your breath away.
“What are you doing here? When did you get in?” He questioned once they had all left and the door was closed behind them. He crossed the room. The floor boards whence beneath his heavy footsteps. You are still standing in front of the mirror as you tuck your thick hair into two braids, when he stands behind you. The heat from his body is comforting yet exhilarating. The coyish games you play only add to the excitement.
“Hello, my darling. What a pleasure it is to see you after three days apart. Oh how I’ve missed you.” You mocked as you finished your last braid.
Baelor hung his head low and sighed. Both his hands came up to grab your shoulders before sliding down to lightly grip the meat of your arms. “Darling, please do not tell me you traveled here at night.”
You turned to face him – taking in his concerned expression. Staring into his eyes, as he peered down at you, you cupped his face, and smoothed out the pricklyness of his beard. “It wasn’t dark when we left.” You answered hesitantly with a slight shrug.
Baelor’s weariness only worsened. He sighed again, and a single hand of his came up to pinch the center of his nose, and he shook his head. “Darling, you should not be traveling at this hour.”
“I know but I missed you.” You kissed him. That’s when his hands came down to grip your waist, and pull you in closer. “Is it not enough to miss you?” You kissed him again and stood on your tippy toes for better leverage as your arms wrapped around his neck. “I would cross oceans for you.” You whispered against his lips. Baelor's thumbs smoothed over the soft fabric of your night gown, before he wrapped you in his arms completely.
His furrowed brows had finally softened and his eyes peered longingly into yours. “You would never have to, my love. For I could never be parted from you that long.” He said in that soothing yet assured tone that made your heart flutter. A crooked smile played across his face. Your noses playfully caressed the other, as you teased each other into a kiss. The kiss was gentle, yet consuming. You melted into him. One arm slid from around his neck and hugged his shoulders, as the other kept you ankered. You breathed him in, and his hands slid across your back embracing you fully. The both of you pulled away. Then what felt like gravity, you pulled each other in for one last peck.
“I’ve missed you too. The Gods know I have.” Baelor whispered. He kissed you down from your cheek, to your jaw, until he nuzzled his face into the crook of your neck. You felt the way his back expended as he breathed you in, and how it collapsed when he released a deep sigh. You felt the tension in his shoulders.
“Something troubles you, my love.” You pulled out of his grasp and took his hands in yours. Pulling him to the seating in front of the fireplace. “Tell me about this matter between Aerion and this… hedge knight.”
Baelor let you lead him to the large chair. A small yelp escaped you when he pulled you down with him, and into his lap. His strong hands snaked around your waist and slid up your thigh as he pulled you further into his lap. The coolness from his rings seeped through the thin fabric of your gown against your warm skin. The both of you chuckled, and it felt good to hear him laugh. Though it had only been a few days since he’d been away, it was a few days too long. He had missed this. The closeness, the warmth of you against him, the ease you always brought when the weight of the realm became too much.
Baelor slumped down in the cushioned chair and leaned his head back. “I fear we should’ve stayed home my love.” He started and proceeded to tell you the entire ordeal with Aerion, Aegon, Daeron and the hedge knight. You were just glad Valarr wasn’t involved.
But you thought of Aegon, sweet Aegon. He was just a boy, and hadn’t known any better. You thought of how happy he was before he left, and how excited he was to potentially squire for Daeron. Never would you have thought that them going missing would have turned into all of this. But alas, it did.
“So what now?” You asked, caressing the back of Baelor’s head with your thumb, as your nails scratched the back of his neck. He absentmindedly stared into the fire. It crackled and spat, as if sending messages to the dragon prince.
“Maekar is gathering the kingsguard to fight at Aerion’s side. Ser Dunk will have to find 6 champions to fight along with him.” He said sorrowfully.
You shook your head. “That is unfair Baelor.”
“That is the law, my dear.” Baelor gently protested.
“Yes, but you know what Aerion is. He cannot keep getting away with this behavior.”
You stood from his lap, and stood next to the mantle above the fire. Baelor immediately missed your warmth.
The prince sighed as he hunched over in his chair. His elbows rested on his knees and his hands came up to rub his head. “And I fear it has only gotten worse since Dyanna passed.” He pressed himself up and stood to face you.
Your eyes bore into his. “You must call off this trial. Good men are going to die tomorrow, and for what? So Aerion can feel justified?”
He grabbed you by your forearms gently. “I cannot do that. I will protect the name of this house, but what I can do is give Ser Duncan a fair trial.” There was silence between you both – neither of you satisfied with the outcome of today’s events.
You shook your head slightly. You were weary of marrying into house Targaryen. Yes it was the highest honor to be selected to marry a prince, but their reputation of insanity more than worried you. But Baelor was different. Baelor was honorable, and you believed in him. So it pained you to think of someone taking advantage of his fairness.
Baelor’s hand tenderly came to your cheek and guided your gaze back toward him. “I will fight at Ser Duncan’s side tomorrow.” He said tucking a loose curl behind your ear.
Of course he would. He was more than honorable – more than chivalrous. He was good. Everything about him was, even when he didn’t believe it to be true. It was why you loved him, and why the realm did not deserve him.
Your arms came around his neck again, and his arms returned at your waist. A clever smile came across your face. “You will?” you asked.
“Yes. I doubt Ser Duncan can find enough knights to stand with him, nor do I think he has the skills to defend himself against my brother and Aerion.” You could see that familiar look of pondering that he’d get right before deciding on something. You hummed in agreement as you watched.
“So you will fight tomorrow, hm? With what armour?” You asked, looking up at him with an inquisitive frown.
“I will borrow Valarr’s armour.” He quipped.
“You cannot fit Vaylarr’s armour.” You retorted.
Baelor paused and pulled back a little. “What is that supposed to mean? What are you trying to say, love?” He teased you. His hands were sliding up and down your sides where he eventually began to tickle you.
You swatted him and playfully protested to him to stop through laughter. Crow’s feet appeared at the edge of his eyes as he huskily chuckled.
You were finally able to speak again once you caught your breath. “I meant it isn’t wise to wear ill-fitted armour.”
“So what do you suppose I do?”
“Wear yours.” You shrugged.
“I wasn’t intending on entering the lists, so I did not think to bring mine.”
You patted his chest “I know. That’s why I brought your armour with me.”
Baelor could do nothing but laugh to himself. He rested his forehead against yours again. “Of course you brought my armour.”
“How could I have come empty handed?” You leaned in to kiss him. Baelor eagerly pressed his mouth against yours and deepened the kiss. He held you in arms as his hands spread across your back. One hand gripping your shoulder, and the other gripping your side. You moaned softly and his tongue found its way to yours. The heat steadily began to rise between you and you felt Baelor’s eagerness pressing against you. His hands slid down to the globes of your backside and lifted you effortlessly. Your legs wrapped around his waist. The parting of your legs exposed your warm core to the cool air. Baelor carried you over to the bed.
Once you were laid against the velvet blankets atop, Baelor hovered over you. His arms casing you in. You caressed his face with both hands, and he gave you a sheepish grin.
“What would I do with you?” He asked staring longingly into your eyes.
You shushed him quietly and lifted your upper body slightly, still holding onto him. His face was inches from yours. Then you whispered. “Let’s never find out.”
And you both live happily ever after and no one ever died ! Ever!
This man has been consuming thoughts since day one! I have not known a single moment of peace!
If you made it this far, thank you so much for reading. I really think I want to do a Daeron fic next, where the reader wants to fix him. Let me know what you guys think.
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