Fruit Of The Vine

You who were his eldest niece. Your own father all but absent. 

Prince Baelor who could not bear to watch you grow up neglected. The Seven had never blessed him with a little girl, but if they had he would have cherished her – the way he grew to cherish you. It had seemed so innocent at the time – to spoil you, treat you as his own. He’d almost forgotten you were not his child.

Almost.

King Daeron who decreed you were to be wed. Who only took it upon himself to secure your future because neither your father nor his eldest son had done so, and he did not wish to see you declared an old maid.

Prince Baelor who blistered deep inside, who desperately needed to know which wretch would take you away from him. You were his sunshine, his darling, his princess. His to protect. 

Ser Tyrell who was to be your groom. The heir to Highgarden. A good match, a young man your age. Who was a reputable knight, and perfectly worthy.

You who accepted your grandsire’s decision with a tight, formal smile. Who crumbled the moment you were out of sight, who wept bitterly. Not simply for the prospect of marrying, but for the fact that it would not be to the one man you had always wanted as your husband.

Prince Baelor who did not know what to do with himself. With the possessiveness he felt. Who had thought he loved you like a father. But would a father be jealous? Would a father watch your betrothed with envious eyes, feel a tug at his chest that was much too close to longing?

You who were dutiful. Who had learned to be dutiful at your uncle’s knee, who would never go against the king’s order. You who wanted nothing more than for your uncle to dissolve your betrothal and take you for himself. You who thought it would never happen because to him, you would always be a little girl.

Prince Baelor who did not think of you as a little girl when he dreamt of you. Of tucking your head against his chest, cradling you in his arms as the breasts he had always tried so hard not to notice rubbed against him.

Prince Baelor who would touch himself to the thought of you. Who hated himself after, who would withdraw from you, and be unable to look you in the eye. Who told himself it was best this way – you were to marry Ser Tyrell, it would not be seemly for you to spend more time with your uncle than your intended.

You who would be heart-broken. Who would only see how your beloved uncle avoided you. Who threw herself into duty, who made an effort to be kind to Ser Tyrell, who tried to laugh at his attempts at humour, who pretended to listen as he told you of his hunting exploits. 

You who wanted nothing more than to escape into your uncle’s solar and read with him. To observe as he turned a page, to see those elegant hands that were so nimble and sure. 

Prince Baelor who grew morose, to the point where even his brothers noticed. Who could not stop desiring you, no matter how much he prayed and attempted to convince himself that he was too old, that it was not right. Who could not stop loving you. Who knew he should not burden you, but made a decision. A selfish one. Perhaps the first in his life. 

Prince Baelor who waited in your chambers the night before the betrothal was officially carried out into the realm. 

“If I asked, would you wish to be my wife?”

“just you-“ he grunted voice sharp enough to cut.

You did not bristle at it. Your skin has grown tougher over the years, Maekar was simply rough man. He did not care much for the poetics of overstated manners.

“yes, gods, just i.” You confirm with a roll of your eyes before the latch opens and you are able to push the door forward. It swing closed behind you as you step into the space. Looking around for him.

“I seem to have pulled something.” He said through gritted teeth. Behind you, his voice coming from lower which was strange…he always towers above you, aside from more intimate moments, but this was not one of those.

Your shoes turned against the stone floors as you faced the door again and looked to the side of it. Maekar was slumped half over on the floor, a hand braced against the ground and his other holding his back.

“Oh gods-“ you knelt right away and went to feel where his hand was.

“fucks sake woman!” He hissed when your fingers pressed against the tender muscle.

“I’m calling for a maester-“ you tell him seriously and stand up about to go open the door and demand one be brought here.

“no…wife, no.” His voice is softer now, less anger filling it and more anxiety. His hand has also reached to grab your ankle. To stop you from stepping. To prevent you from swinging open the door and letting all those gathered see him crumbled on the floor. Weakened by a overdramatic muscles spasm.

You sigh, nod, so he doesn’t hurt himself by attempting to stop you from bringing people in.

“fine…no maester.” You reach to rub his cheek and frown at the pain you see etched into every feature.

“Here,” you begin to remove his training leathers and eventually get him so he’s sitting in a more upright position. “Trust me.” You kiss his temple once and stand up going to the door. Cracking it open and looking out.

“leave us…” when they all lingered just blink at your command you swallowed, set your jaw in the way Maekar had shown you and bit out. “Have you all gone deaf? Leave us, now!”

Maekar laughed at the hurries responses and the feet he could hear retreating. The laugh earning him a groan as well because the air pushing through his throat had hurt his back.

“Now they won’t hear your crying.” You hum. Sitting behind him on your knees and you began to work at his back. Pushing your thumbs in hard against the tightened muscle and breaking it up as much as you can.

“seven fucks-“ he bit out, hand tense on his own knee as your normally tender fingers tore apart every knot that attempted to cause him discomfort. You destroyed them like they cause you great offense. They did.

“There you are,” you smile and stand back up as your husband rolls his neck and shoulders. Lose and pain free. You smirk as he stood without issue. “You really must stop falling apart on me, I was hoping you’d last till I’m decently old.” You tease and he gladly kisses the grin right off your lips.

Maekar Masterlist, Prompt list/Prompt Masterlist

It rang only twice before his calm voice answered.

"Good morning. This is Baelor."

"Hi," you said, immediately regretting how hesitant you sounded. "It's... um, from the gallery. The waitress. I'm not sure if you remember—"

There was a soft chuckle on the other end of the line. “I wasn’t aware I’d met so many waitresses that I’d need the distinction.”

Heat rushed to your cheeks. “The art student,” you corrected quickly, laughing under your breath. “We spoke about my portfolio.”

“Of course I remember. I’ve been hoping you’d call.”

Your fingers tightened slightly around the phone. “I was wondering... if you were still serious about wanting to see my work. Only if it wouldn't be an inconvenience, of course.”

“Not at all. I’d be delighted. Would this afternoon be convenient for you? I could arrange for a car to pick you up, and you could bring a few pieces to my office.”

The offer was so generous it nearly took your breath away. "I—yes, that would be fine. But you really don't need to send a car. I can take the metro—"

"Nonsense. I wouldn't hear of it. Send me your address, and I'll have someone there... let's say... one o'clock?"

You hesitated, then nodded even though he couldn't see you. "One o'clock. Thank you. I really appreciate this."

"It's my pleasure," he said, and there was something so genuine in his voice that you couldn't help but smile. "I'll see you soon."

After hanging up, you stared at your phone for a long time, a long time, half-expecting to wake up and realize you'd imagined the entire conversation. But the screen still showed his name, the time still ticked forward. And in a few hours, you would be showing your art to one of the most influential men in the city.

With a deep breath, you stood and walked over to the stack of canvases leaning against the wall. Choosing three of your best pieces, you carefully wrapped them in protective cloth and set them by the door. Whether anything came of this or not, at least someone would see them.

The car that arrived outside your apartment building was sleek, and so spotlessly clean it almost seemed wrong to step inside. The driver greeted you politely, opening the door and helping you secure your canvases in the back before you slid onto the leather seat. It was the sort of luxury you'd only seen in films, and it made your hands feel suddenly clumsy as you smoothed your skirt over your thighs.

The drive to Targaryen Tower was quiet, the city passing by in a blur of gray buildings and green parks. By the time you arrived, your stomach was a nervous knot. The tower was a breathtaking structure of glass and steel, standing proudly against the sky. The lobby was just as impressive, all polished marble, fresh flowers, and a receptionist who greeted you by name before directing you to the elevator.

When the doors opened on the top floor, you were greeted not by an assistant but by Baelor himself. He stood in the doorway of his office with a smile on his face, dressed in a perfectly tailored navy suit.

"Welcome," he said, stepping aside to let you in. "I'm glad you could make it."

"Thank you for having me," you replied, your voice softer than you intended.

His office was spacious; you could fit your entire apartment in there at least twice. The walls were lined with bookshelves filled with leather-bound volumes, and the large windows offered a stunning view of the city skyline. A few carefully chosen pieces of art hung on the walls, each one clearly selected with intention. Fresh white lilies sat in a vase on his desk. You didn't take him for a lily kind of man, but there they were.

"Please, make yourself comfortable," he said, gesturing to a seating area by the window. "Would you care for something to drink? Tea, perhaps?"

"Tea would be lovely, yes," you smiled at him, setting your canvases carefully against the wall before claiming one of the armchairs.

He moved to a small table where a silver tea set was arranged, pouring two cups before handing one off and sitting down across from you. For a moment, he simply looked at you. It wasn't uncomfortable per se, but it was... thorough, as if he were studying you the way you might study a painting.

"You're nervous," he observed quietly.

"A little..." you admitted, smoothing your skirt again. "I've never shown my work to someone like you before."

You were more than nervous. For many reasons. Your hands were shaking, your heart was beating like a drum, and you felt like you were about to throw up. You weren't nervous because you didn't want him to see your work; otherwise, you wouldn't have come. You wanted him to see it. It was important to you that he liked it. He was simply a very handsome man. Who was probably old enough to be your father, but a handsome man nonetheless. And now you were looking at him. He was... exquisite. The silver in his hair was striking, and his eyes were... you couldn't help but notice how blue one was. It seemed to pierce right through you, and for a second you had the insane urge to reach forward and touch his face, just to feel the scruff of his beard beneath your fingers, or against your—

Your eyes kept flicking to his hands, the way his fingers wrapped around the teacup, and how large they were.

"There's no need to be," he assured you. "I'm genuinely interested in what you've been creating. May I?" He gestured toward the canvases.

"Yes, of course," you said quickly, setting your cup aside and standing to unwrap them.

You unveiled each piece carefully, stepping back as he rose to examine them. The silence that followed was agonizing. You watched his face for any sign of reaction, but his expression remained thoughtful, even as you tried to tell yourself he hated them all. Finally, he turned to you with a new softness in his eyes.

"These are exceptional," he said, and you felt a rush of relief so strong it almost brought tears to your eyes. "You have a remarkable ability to convey emotion. It's raw... really, it's beautiful."

"Thank you," you whispered, your fingers twisting together. "That means a lot."

He stepped closer, studying the painting of a rainy street at dusk, the lights reflecting off the wet cobblestones; the street outside your building. "I'd like to feature these in the Foundation's upcoming exhibition for emerging artists." He quickly glanced at you. "With your permission, of course."

"You're fucking joking," you blurted out, then immediately covered your mouth in horror. Of course, you'd mess this up. "I'm so sorry—I didn't... are you serious?"

His laugh was warm and disarming. "I am, yes."

"I just... I can't believe it," you said, shaking your head in disbelief.

"You deserve it. I'd also like to commission a piece for my personal collection, if you'd be interested."

"Mr. Targaryen... sorry, Baelor, I don't know what to say."

"You could say yes," he suggested with a smile.

"Yes," you laughed. You felt lighter than you had in months. "Yes, of course!"

"Excellent." He moved to his desk and opened a drawer, retrieving a checkbook. As he began writing, he glanced back at you. "Now, regarding payment for the exhibition and the commission..."

"Oh, you don't need to pay me," you said quickly, already nervous enough being there. "Just the opportunity to be part of the show is enough."

He looked at you as though you'd just said something entirely absurd. "Nonsense. Your work has value, and I intend to compensate you appropriately for it."

You opened your mouth to argue but stopped when he handed you the check. £20,000.

You stared at the number, sure you'd misread it. "This is... far too much," you protested, holding it out to him. "I can't accept this."

"You can, and you will," he said firmly. "Consider it an advance for both the exhibition and the commission. If there's any leftover, I trust you'll put it to good use."

Tears pricked at your eyes as you lowered the check, overwhelmed by his generosity. "I... how do I even thank you for this?"

"You already have, more than once. I only wish I'd found you sooner."

There was something in his voice that made your head spin, but before you could dwell on it, he stepped back and offered you a reassuring smile. "Why don't we celebrate? There's a restaurant nearby I think you'll enjoy. We can discuss your work more, and I hear the university is hosting a showcase next week."

"I'd like that."

The weeks that followed felt like something out of a dream.

The exhibition at the Targaryen Foundation had been a success beyond anything you could have hoped for. Your paintings had drawn attention, and even a few offers from collectors. The university showcase had gone equally well, and you'd received a scholarship offer for the upcoming academic year.

Baelor had been there for both events, standing quietly in the background, always present. He'd introduced you to gallery owners, museum curators, and other patrons, always with a hand at the small of your back or a quiet word of encouragement when your nerves threatened to get the best of you. You'd started to look for him in a crowd, reassured by his presence and the way his eyes seemed to find yours no matter how many people filled the room.

One evening, after the final guests had left another event hosted by the Foundation, you found yourself sitting with him in the empty gallery, the soft glow of overhead lights illuminating your work.

"I still can't believe all of this happened," you admitted.

"You made it happen. I merely opened a few doors."

You glanced at him, noting the way the light caught the silver in his hair. "You've done so much more than that. I don't know how I'll ever repay you."

He turned to you fully; now he looked more serious. "You don't need to. But if you're truly determined, there is one thing you could do for me."

"Please. Anything."

He hesitated. You'd never seen him do that before. "I'd like to take you out."

The words hung in the air between you, and for a moment, you weren't sure you'd heard him correctly. "Take me out?" you echoed, barely above a whisper.

"To dinner. Or the theatre. Wherever you'd like. I've enjoyed getting to know you, and I'd like to do so properly. Just... us."

Your heart raced, and you felt suddenly aware of how close he was sitting. "Okay," you said softly. "You can pick me up?"

"Absolutely. This weekend."

The first date was nothing short of magical. He took you to a small, candlelit restaurant all the way in Oldtown, where the food was as exquisite as the conversation. He listened as you talked about your dreams as an artist, your favorite books, your childhood, little things that made you happy. He shared stories about his work and his travels. By the end of the evening, you felt as though you'd known him for years.

The second date came a week later, this time to the King's Landing Opera House. You'd never been, and the beauty of the performance left you breathless. He held your hand during the intermission, brushing his thumb over your knuckles, and you wondered if he could feel how quickly your pulse was racing.

The third date was simpler—you had suggested it—a walk through the botanical gardens, followed by coffee. He seemed genuinely delighted by the idea, and as you strolled beneath the cherry blossoms, he surprised you by pulling a small sketchbook from his jacket pocket.

"I noticed you never leave home without one," he said with a smile. "I thought perhaps you could use a new one."

It was such a thoughtful, personal gift that you couldn't help but squeal and throw your arms around him, your cheeks flushed with happiness. He wrapped his arms around you in return, holding you close, and for the first time, you felt something more than gratitude or admiration. You felt... cherished.

That evening, as he walked you to your door, he paused, his hands resting lightly on your waist. "May I kiss you?" he asked, his voice soft.

"Most guys would've just done it by now," you teased, though your heart was pounding.

He smiled, his eyes searching yours. "I prefer to ask."

You nodded, your breath catching as he leaned in. The kiss was unhurried and so full of tenderness it left you dizzy. When he pulled back, his thumb brushed over your cheek, not looking away from you once.

"Goodnight, darling," he whispered.

"Goodnight, Baelor," you replied, and only after he'd gone did you realize he'd slipped another check into your jacket pocket—enough to cover your rent for the next six months.

You'd been to Baelor's estate twice by the time summer arrived, each visit more comfortable than the last. The house was a masterpiece of classic architecture, set on sprawling grounds with gardens that seemed to stretch forever. It was a world away from your small apartment, yet Baelor had a way of making you feel like you belonged there.

The first time you'd stayed overnight, he'd given you a guest room with a view of the gardens, but the second time, you'd found yourself in his bed, your body curled against his as the rain tapped softly against the windows. He was a patient, attentive lover, always putting your pleasure first, his hands and lips exploring you with reverence.

But you didn't want a patient lover. At least, not all the time. He always carried himself so well. And the more nights you spent watching him read in that armchair, twisting his rings around his fingers, or how his hands flexed when he was deep in thought, you couldn't help but imagine how he would look using those hands to bend you over the nearest surface. The thought alone made your thighs press together, a warmth pooling between your legs. God, you were hopeless. The desire to be fucked within an inch of your life had started to consume you.

And he just kept buying you things. You'd told him to stop, but he'd only smiled and kissed you, and told you you were being silly. He was an impossible man. Every week, there was a new dress in your closet, a new pair of shoes, a new coat. He'd even hired a driver for you, so you didn't have to take the metro. It was all too much, and yet, you couldn't deny how much you enjoyed it him.

Your friend, Tanselle, had been the one to bring it up.

"Did you start an OnlyFans I don't know about?" she'd asked over coffee.

"No," you'd answered, but you weren't looking her in the eye.

"Then what's going on?" she'd pressed. "Because you went from being short on rent to being driven around in a Bentley, and it's not because you suddenly sold all your paintings."

You didn't respond. Only because she hadn't let you. She'd started listing off all the things she'd noticed, and the more she'd talked, the more you realized she was right.

"Oh my God," she'd gasped. "You have a sugar daddy!"

"I do not," you'd hissed, looking around to make sure no one else heard.

"Are you sleeping with him?"

"Yes, but—"

"You're sleeping with a man who gives you money. That's a sugar daddy."

"Shut up," you'd muttered, covering your face with your hands. "He's not... he's not like that. He's just... nice."

"Mhm," she'd said, clearly not convinced. "And how much does this 'nice' man give you?"

You'd glared at her, but she'd only laughed and stolen a bite of your scone. And that was the end of it.

One afternoon, you brought it up to Baelor; only you didn't bring up Tanselle. You were sitting on the sofa in his study, sketching while he worked at his desk. The room was quiet, the only sounds the scratch of your pencil and the occasional rustle of paper. He'd given you a knowing smile earlier when you'd walked in wearing a new dress, the one he'd bought you last week. You'd stuck your tongue out at him, but the truth was, you loved it. It was soft and flowy, and made you feel beautiful.

"Baelor?" you asked, breaking the silence.

"Hmm?" he answered, looking up from his work.

"I saw this post online yesterday... about sugar daddies and their babies." You didn't look at him as you spoke, focusing instead on the lines you were drawing.

"Did you?" he asked, his tone curious.

"Yeah, and I think... I think we might be one."

You felt his eyes on you, but you still didn't look up. "Is that right?"

"Well, you're older, and you give me money and buy me things. And we sleep together. So, yes." Your face was heating up as you spoke.

He was quiet for a moment, and then you heard him stand and walk over to you. He crouched in front of you, taking your sketchbook from your hands and setting it aside. Then he took your face in his hands, his thumb brushing over your cheek.

"Do you have a problem with that?" he asked, his eyes searching yours.

You shook your head, feeling your cheeks heat up again. "No."

"Good," he said, smiling. "Because I quite enjoy spoiling you."

Then he kissed you, and you forgot all about sugar babies and everything else, except how much you wanted him. He pulled you onto his lap where he sat on the ground, his hands sliding under the skirt of your dress and over your thighs. You moaned into his mouth, your arms wrapping around his neck, your fingers coming up to rest in his hair. His beard was rough against your skin, and the scent of him was intoxicating. You felt his cock hardening beneath you, and you shifted, pressing down on it, wanting more.

"Fuck, Baelor," you whispered, grinding against him.

He groaned, his grip on your hips tightening. "Patience, darling."

"I don't want to be patient," you pouted. "I want you to fuck me."

"Such language," he chided, but his pupils were blown by his desire. "We can't have that."

"Yes, we can," you argued, reaching between you to stroke him through his trousers. "Please?"

He hissed, his head falling back, and for a moment, you thought you'd won. But then he lifted you off him and stood, his breathing heavy as he looked down at you. "Up," he commanded, holding out his hand.

You took it, letting him pull you to my feet. Then he led you to the desk, bending you over it. Your hands came up to grip the edges, and your heart raced in anticipation. You'd been waiting.

"Stay," he said, and you heard him move away. You turned your head to watch him, seeing him open a drawer and pull out a length of rope. Your eyes widened, and you felt a thrill run through you.

"What's that for?" you asked, your voice breathless.

He came back to you, his lips brushing your ear as he spoke. "To keep you still."

You trembled as you nodded, and he began to bind your wrists, the rope scraping against your skin. When he was done, he stepped back, his eyes roaming over your body while he admired his work. Then he lifted your skirt, baring your ass to him. You felt his hand caress your skin, and then he spanked you, the sound echoing in the room.

"That... was for being impatient," he said, his voice low. "And this..." He spanked you again, harder this time, and you moaned. "Is for using such filthy words."

You were panting now, your body on fire, and you wanted more. "Please," you begged, trying to look back at him. "More."

"Naughty girl," he said, but he gave you what you wanted, his hand coming down on your ass again and again until you were dripping wet and crying out his name. Only then did he finally give you what you needed, his fingers sliding between your thighs, finding your clit, and rubbing in just the right way.

His fingers worked you to the bone; all of the gentle touches from your previous encounters tossed aside because he finally admitted to himself that he wanted to watch you break.

"Come for me, darling," he commanded, and you did, your body shuddering as the orgasm swept through you. He didn't stop, though, his fingers still working you, pushing you into another, and then another, until you were a sobbing, begging mess.

"Please," you cried, not sure if you were begging him to stop or to keep going.

"Shhh," he soothed, his free hand stroking your hair. "I've got you. Just one more, love, can you do that for me? Isn't this what you wanted? Be a good girl and give me one more."

Your body was beyond words, tears streaming down your face as you nodded, and then he pushed you over the edge again, your orgasm so intense it left you shaking and gasping for air.

"That's it," he whispered, untying your wrists and gathering you in his arms. "You did so well, my darling. So well."

He held you, stroking your hair and kissing your forehead, murmuring praises until you calmed down. When you finally caught your breath, you looked up at him, a lazy smile on your face. "God, Baelor, I didn't know you had it in you."