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summary: your marriage with prince baelor has been less than a thrill. he offers you an escape, despite his desperate need for you to stay
word count: ~12.3k (my longest fic<3)
tags: angst but also good stuff, yearning, fem!reader, names like âmy wifeâ, medium paced burn?, briefly describes reader being accepting of her death (like⊠if the ocean were to take me that would be okay), i did not proof read so please tell me if something needs fixed </3
notes: i think i lost my mind writing this, i was so obsessed... please let me know if you want more
The opportunity is here. Right now. Sail the restless waters, find your way across the Narrow Sea, never turn back. Take the opportunity to forget all the troubles, all the duties. He isn't stopping you.
"The path to the ships is just along this wall," Baelor's back faces you as he talks, voice despondent. "No guard would see you leaving if you were to go in the night."
Compassion consumes his personality, it seems. Showing you an escape route, as the idea of your absence eats him from the inside out. It is a sweltering pain, too. A pain that could not be perceived from his placid disposition.
"This is a trial?" The question begs, your mind carnally craving the answer.
It confuses Baelor. A trial?
"What purpose would I have for a trial?" He faces you now, willing to feed the hunger of curiosity even as he shoos you away.
It feels pathetic, but your shoulders shrug. "I do not know. I am only trying to make sense of your intention."
"And you think it is to test you?" His eyes are tracking you, you feel it.
"Conceivably." You admit.
The prince, being greatly knowledgeable on many subjects, has yet to figure you out. He enjoyed the search for your being, though. Learning the things that make you tick, make you laugh, make you smile. You had not done much of that as of late, though.
While it may not be so sweet to learn of the bad as it is to learn of your honey coated laughter, Baelor craved to be versed in anything involving you. It occurred to him, early on, that you did not have that same craving in him. Feasibly, you may already grasp the concept that is him. But he knew the truth.
"You professed that you would flee if given the opportunity," he reminds you, walking around to give you space for your considerations of departure. "Inasmuch as, I have been pondering the possibilities of your⊠freedom."
The word is not uttered with spite, or fury, nor unknowing. But with hurt. It had maimed his heart to hear you talk of liberation, as if you were some trophy predator mounted on cold castle walls and left to collect dust. This is the conclusion he came to always in the end.
"I will not keep a wife that does not want to stay." Baelor says it more candidly. "If it is truancy that will bring your life happiness, then I had to think of your way out."
It is genuine, as it always is with him. It damages your heart too.
"How can you offer me this?" You search his lovely, haunted eyes.
Only his tongue answers. "How could I not?"
Of course. Baelor calls out your woes, refuses to let you cower beneath a rock. He may wish that you could stay, that you love him. A wish is not equal to reality, he knows.
You falter, one foot catching you in a quick step forward. Air catches your lungs, tugging them forward too. Leave, the winds whisper in your ears.
Feasibly, embarrassment stops you. The thought of being recognized across the water, 'How could you be such a coward?'. Being taken by the arm, tossed back across the sea to face everything you tried to abandon. Be forever known as the woman that ran from such a unique, rich lifestyle.
Try again.
Fine, it is his gaze. If you face him, he will surely have disappointment seeping from his very being. Judgment of your short comings. Baelor is the best of the dragons, after all. He had faith you might make it, but you would be failing that if you left.
No.
It is the Seven, then. Ocean waves thrashing against the stone, warning you against the escape. How can one deny the storm that makes way? And who would be fool enough to tread waters the Seven were manipulating?
Just fucking say it.
"Tell me to stay." You command.
Standing in his place now, eyes scanning along the route he has revealed, you cannot face him. He does not shy away.
Baelor speaks softly, "I will not. Not anymore."
A tear falls. "Why?"
He cannot answer. All you hear is the crashing of the violent sea. Thunder rumbling beyond the water's edge. Winds howling against the cold castle's walls.
It is possible he cannot find reason. What did it matter? Come, go, stay, leave. Your creativity concludes; Baelor's life will go on. You are not his wound to heal.
"You would not listen." The voice of reason finally stands out. His voice."Nor should you, if it is a betrayal to your heart."
Anger comes to you so easily, with equal amount of ease that surety came to him. Idealistic words find him so freely. He never wills them, never puts his palm out for their retrieval. They just⊠spill from him. Yet you stumble over yourself, emotions too high.
"You want me to go, then?" You face him, your eyes still water.
"No." He is still certain.
His face does not hold the gaze you had so feared. No trace of disappointment. No telling of judgment, and certainly no doubt. As if he knows how all of this goes. If only he felt that internally.
You laugh, "You puzzle me, my prince."
He does not laugh. "Perhaps I can provide clarity?"
Perhaps. Though, you suspect it will all end with a deeper uncertainty. Every conversation you have with the Prince Baelor Targaryen ends that way. A pit growing in your stomach. Large enough that it took over your heart, too.
"You will not tell me to stay, yet you do not want me to go?" You gesture helplessly. "What sense am I to make of that?"
"I never asked you to make sense of my emotion. I believe it is you that needs help doing so, yes?" His calmness irritates.
"You insult me now?" A sniffle. You discern he is right, but ration was not finding you. You would not allow it to.
"I am no willing participant of your insecurities." Baelor shakes his head, but stays right where he is.
"My insecurities?" You do allow fury through.
He just looks at you. His eyes sear into you, but his gaze holds yours with such care. It is nauseating. Everything else is background noise when he looks at you this way. You hate it always, but most of all now when you are trying so hard to be angry with him.
He speaks carefully, knowing he is treading a fine line. "You puzzled me too, for quite some time, you know?"
"Ah, yes. Me and my insecurities."
"Yes," he admits with the tilt of his head.
Your jaw clinches as the salty air grips your throat. He allows it to choke you. You do too. There is nothing Baelor Targaryen says without reason, and it might just do you well to listen. Part of you knows you are only listening to have something to bite back with.
"I have been trying to understand you." Baelor makes it sound pragmatic. "I do believe it takes exploring insecurities to truly understand a person."
This peaks your curiosity. "And what conclusion did you come to?"
"None."
What?
He said it so modestly, with his lips turned down in a dramatic frown. He has no intention of hurting you. Your shoulders relax, and Baelor rolls his head as if he is centering his thoughts. So much of your time has been spent knowing one another that it is easy to forget how much of him remains a mystery to you.
Eventually, he shrugs. "It was a fruitless effort, as I do not have access to your wits, and you are unwilling to speak with me."
"We are speaking now."
"First time through the week, which we are well past half way through."
He is right again.
Seeing it now, he is only speaking his observations. If they hurt, it was of no fault but your own.
You bade him to go on with a slight upturn in your chin. He reads you with ease.
"You wish for me to make you stay, but it is not of my nature. PerhapsâŠ" he offers a palm. "Might it be you presume that if I command it, I would be every bit as awful you had wished me to be from the moment we married? Then you would have reason to run."
Your knuckles ache as you squeeze your fingers into a fist. It is undetermined who you are angry with now. He breathes in, fingers curling back into his palm and falling to his side again.
"Or if I say 'go', I am every bit as good you had hoped before we married, and you would be permitted to leave?" He is making known, his wandering intellect. "I do not suggest you need my permission, Seven know you will do what you please. It is only the theory I have run through my mind."
Your lips feel cracked. You leave them. "You ponder this deeply over me?"
"Of course I do," his hands go behind his back. "You are my wife, my love."
The name holds your heart hostage. Using it almost feels to be a trap. It certainly would be one, if you were not so well informed of his qualities. Some parts of him are not so mysterious. You have spent years bouncing between the lives of one another, after all. It is how you are sure that, to him, these are all simply facts of life.
"Then why do you not tell me to stay?" Your tongue wets your lips.
Baelor watches your reaction. "Why do you ask me to?"
"I do not know." You sound stuffy now.
The prince hums, nodding slightly. He is never one to prey on one's moments of weakness. Seven Hells, Baelor would not even see your crying as weakness, but as a strength to show your emotion in a vulnerable time. There is no winning with him.
"If I get on my knees to beg you," he inhales slowly, "you would either maintain a great annoyance that would drive you away, or you would be overcome with a pitiful sorrow that would force you to stay. I could not bear to live being the cause of either inconvenience."
"I would not." You finally challenge him again. You swear you see him smile.
"Would not what?"
"Run, or stay for sorrow." You explain, not sure how even these few words were finding you.
"You would not run, but you would not stay?" He shakes his head at this irony. "Then what is it you would do? Vanish?"
Droplets of rain run along the weaved fabric of your dress. It is only a sprinkle, but in time it would soak you to the bone. You had not realized how heated you had become, either, until the cool water ran down your warm skin in its reminder of your placement.
"IâŠ" your eyes are searching again. "I might stay."
"To spare me my grief." His tone is too certain now. Assuming.
"To spare me my own," you speak with conviction.
He swallows. "And what grief would that be?"
The question does no harm to your being. You consistently remind him how you hardly have a home to miss, and the only relationship you have built in King's Landing was within hay scented walls of stables with the horses. What was there to grieve when you had refused to live your life?
"You, husband." The answer found you.
Baelor blinks, head slanted as if trying to catch sound. As if he did not hear you. With the wind, waves, and sprinkling water hitting the stone, it may be that he couldn't.
"I would grieve yâ
"I heard." He cuts in.
You sharply inhale. A rejection, then. He will do nothing with this confession of yours.
Honestly, what else could you expect? After icing him out for so long? For him to weep, be overly joyed? Hold a smile as he pulls you in his arms in a grand victory! No. You deserve none of that, and those theatrics were unlike either one of you in any matter.
You didn't what to expect beyond something that will weigh down your heart for eternity, yet he still shocks.
Baelor steps closer, enough that you sense the constant heat radiating from his body. The coveted heat you so wanted to soak in from your sheets, even if only one time. The heat you had felt when brushing shoulders through the halls, and when he put his cloak over you only on that one eve. An eve you were fool enough to hold on to.
You assume his movement is for practical reasons, as the dark clouds looming over your heads grow heavier and let rain fall as quickly as your tears felt to be leaving your eyes. The rain muffled everything. His beating heart desires to be heard, almost as much as he desires to hear the beating of yours.
The rain does not muffle the sound of Baelor dropping to his knees, right there in front of you. As if he is at the Septs, head hanging in his confessionsâor grief? Or⊠some thing you lack the nerve to recognize.
He is here. Right on the stone, water soaking his trousers with no patience. Sopping his clothing, splashing onto the skirt of your dress. Red. The color meant to represent you are his, but most days only stood for your resentment. And now? It is your pain.
"Do not go." Baelor speaks from below, decisively breathing the words.
Your head shakes, your feet trying to flee as they step away. "Do not be mean to me, Baelor Targaryen."
His hand stops you, gripping the fabric of your dress just above your knee. It is a delicate hold, even in his desperation. "Do not falsely accuse. I am doing what was asked."
"Do not do it only because you were asked. Your acts of kindness make you seem malleable." You stay in his touch.
"Let them." He muses. He did not mind to be shaped by you. "It may only be the truth."
Humidity swells in your chest with a deep breath. "You are a Targaryen, it is unbecoming."
"As is being on my knees," he cannot help but laugh. "And showing my own wife a way to escape me, whilst hoping she will refuse to run. I do not care to be a Targaryen right now, wife. I care to be your husband."
What is he saying? Can he hear the words that are slipping past his lips with such a blithe disregard? Thank the Gods, no one else was around to hear his carelessness.
"You are making a wretch out of me," your chest falls. "You are making me cruel. For who else could possibly walk away from a princeâOur future king-whilst he begs on his knees?" Your inhale is sharp, fast. It pains your chest. "I did not ask for this."
His hands frees your fabric, falling onto his lap. Sitting on his heels, he looks up at you with his palms turning to the skies. "There is chance that I took liberties, but that does not take from the legitimacy of my words. End this game. Stay."
Eyes focusing on the puddles gathering in his hands, you feel violence. Angry that he presented you with this opportunity to run, furious that you wished for him to command you to stay. What sort of command would it even be? You know that you cannot pretend that if you stay it will be for any other reason than it is your desire.
"Stay." He repeats in your stillness.
He does not move. He waits. Watches. He has practically rolled over, shown you his stomach in submission. All you must do is pet the dragon.
"What for?" You seethe. "For⊠for your crowning glory, and your tourneys, and andâŠ" your head is shaking senselessly. "Your lords, your ladies, your rule?"
"For me, wife." He pushes up onto his knees again, hands landing on your hips in a careful hold. "Stay for my confession. Stay for my apologies. Stay⊠because I am telling you to. Just as you wanted. Stay, because you belong right with me."
Breath hitching, your throat bobbing as you swallow. To hear it, to hear him want you so plainly⊠it is near convincing.
His fingers dip into your plush hips, thumbs skimming, catching over the dampening scarlet fabric. "Stay. For it is me you say you will regret leaving, and I am here."
Your own fingers entangle themselves through his peppery hair, and he is more than willing to lean into your touch. The heat seeps through. It is everything you had been craving, warming you straight to your bones. Lasting.
"So are my faults." You whisper, hoping the rain will cover your voice. It does not.
"Faults follow," his head tilts back in your hand, eyes closing. Whether it is the avoidance of rain or sensation of your fingers tugging at his hair, he will not confess that now. "Here I can help you."
"You have so much to care for as it is." Your fingers flatten out, running back again.
He hums, pleased by your touch. If anything, you are with him right in this moment. "I will care for you whether you are here, or clear across the Narrow Sea. Do not think your physical absence would expel you from my mind."
Denial is no longer an option for the sorrows of your situation. Baelor's hands move up along your ribs as you fall to your knees right with him. His grip only tightens enough to steady you.
You weep.
"I wish you did not care for me." Your selfish confession spews out with your cries.
His hands smooth around to your back as you collapse into him. He holds you with finality. As if he has been waiting to take you into his arms.
Had it hurt his knees as greatly when he landed? Bruises feel like a promise.
"I don't believe I know how not to care for you, my darling." Muffling of the rain is no issue as he murmurs into your hair, lips sealing a kiss just behind your ear.
"Don't say such an awful thing." You hold him too, against the pleading of your heart.
"I wish this truth did not pain you." His confession is more magnanimous.
As his hands soothe your back, your lungs allow you to catch your breath in a stuttering reset. Why are your arms wrapped around him so crushingly? Why is he allowing it?
He needs it just as much. You don't know it, facing opposite of one another, but his eyes cry too. Beautiful as they are, they cry.
Chests rising in parallel, brushing your skin over the leather of his vest. It pulls you from your spiral just a little more. A rotten mind is something so unfair to live with. Just once, couldn't you share the burden with one another?
"I cannot go." Finally you say it with earnest. "I cannot leave you, I will not leave you."
In desperation, such words fall so harshly. They fall as if a lie, or that they are a thing to be convinced of. You are convinced.
His fingers stutter their movements on your back. "Is this said with certainty?"
It's no wonder he is not convinced. What with you pleading his command one moment, then crumbling with such ease the next. Baelor does not act as if he knows you inside and out, he has only ever dreamed that. He had to be sure of you. Always.
Trouble is, you are no longer sure of yourself. You haven't been in years. Yet still, with your eyes locked straight ahead in a blurred stare, you utter a reply found in truth.
"Yes."
âââââ
The walk back didn't seem to even happen. Minutes ago you were kneeling on rain soaked stone with Baelor in your arms. Now you are⊠here.
Arms and hands have left you, and you find yourself longing for that dragon-like heat once more. The cold of the rain overwhelms, yet the humidity of the air holds your throat hostage. How can one be shivering in such heat of a Kings Landing summer?
Lips falling open, you are attempting to regain some of your sense. The breath in fills you with some sort of hope. Salty air suddenly smells like home. I am here, it says. As if to speak the fact that⊠you are breathing, if nothing else.
Your hands come together, fingers fidgeting with the ring you had worn for⊠well, it has been years now you reckon.
Baelor had given it to you. The night you met again, for the fourth time. That time you were officially betrothed. The ring meant much less to you then than it did now.
Rain finds its path in the window of the castle's hall. The ocean still fights against the shore, and all your eyes can help to do is watch. The Narrow Sea suddenly seemed closer than it ever had.
You step closer, hand on the ledge to be coated in rain once more. There are times where the waves sound like calls. You almost want to follow.
"Princess!" A mousy gasp comes from behind.
Ah, always perfectly timed, your lady-in-waiting.
You don't bother to turn a shoulder, knowing you would only be fussed over more if spotted with glassy eyes.
"Heights have always done me ill, princess. Heights and rain, and the floor is soaked. You had better step away before you slip." She fusses anyway.
So be it, you want to reply.
Instead, "Oh, you know how I adore the waters. I could not help but glimpse at them roaring in the storm."
A truth, even if wrapped in a sheer cover.
"Well, the waters will pull you in without remorse." Her steps on the way over are chaos on the wet floor. "Come away now."
Your lips force a flat smile. She is only trying to care for you, and it is in good heart, you know. Still, her hand feels much colder than his when it landed on your shoulder.
"I'll have a warm bath made for you." Her nose is scrunched as she feels the fabric of your dress.
"No." Your response is immediate.
She looks with raised brows, as if to challenge you to say it again with just as much fervor. You have always begged her to challenge you.
"That is, I justâŠ" your eyes squeeze shut as you consider yourself.
Don't want to wash him away? Hope to keep his warmth sealed beneath the corset? Don't have the energy or right mind for even a bath?
She does not pry, even in her disapproval of your attitude.
"Alright," she nods. "We will just get you changed for any early night." The softness in her voice is something you always fall victim to.
She reads you with such ease. That, and asks limited questions. It did not matter if you were upset for one reason or another, she just knows it is her job to support you and she always intends to do it to perfection.
"I will have broth brought up, and explain to your husband that you are in for the evening to rest. That you were caught in the rain on another one of your walks." She lacks judgment in her voice.
No trace of accusation, or pressure to expose yourself any more than you already had. Tears never seemed to finish leaving you. Your cold hand swipes them away, droplets of rain trickling down your wrist with the action too.
"Yes," your voice breaks. "Yes, thank you."
She offers a sure nod, hand on your back now as you walk together. There was no point in dragging it out when you would do that well enough on your own. Thank the gods someone just knows what to do here.
âââââ
He misses the cool that calms. What reminds him he, in fact, is not aflame. In all of the bursts of glory crowned upon his head by a public that craves a fair rule, Baelor often feels the burning of his skin as dragon's blood courses his veins. What he craves to soothe that fire is your touch to his palm, even if the grip was desperate.
Should he not be elated? The world would have felt so empty had you taken up his offer. His fevered blood could haveâwould have ruled him. Even with that flaming potential, he has no regrets of showing you a way to your own safety.
Your misery is so blatant. No one can blame you. You attribute your misery to the lack of challenge on your newfound royal status, but Baelor knows what it is. Not many people dreamed of sincerely being attached to a name that had such a weighted duty and charged council against it.
So, elation? No. Your decision to stay is no call for celebration, but he swears he can hear the ringing of bells in the distance. They sound as if they are chiming in a death march. He cannot help but feel he has led to your demise.
Who would you confide in? It certainly wouldn't be him. No, you had bolted your separate ways as soon as your foot landed on castle grounds, Baelor watching you flee. Letting you go.
What a victory this is. Standing at the edge of the entry, listening to the ocean roll just behind him. Alone.
Indeed, Prince Baelor has had a fair number of successes within his life thus far. Well known, well respected, well received. As he travels, hands oft reach up to him as they beg for his kindness, his generosity, of which he always gives. These qualities that he is so sweetly known for were going to kill him, he sees that now. Or worse, leave him lonely.
Amazement still comes over him at the thought of a lonely prince. How could one be so lonely when there was always someone. Someone to fetch his wine, someone to hunt his boar, someone to attend his feast, someone to beg his aid, to entertain his boredom, to mask his sorrows, distract his aching heart, remind him that there is something greater than the breaking of his own soul. How dare he be so bold to feel sadness?
To fault you for rejecting the same fate of meaningless companionship for yourself would have been overtly wrong. For Baelor to reject his birth-given right is an entirely different problem. He thinks, in truth, you are wise for wanting a way out. Get away before you find yourself neck deep, surrounded by a crushing pressure to be one of the few good people of power within the kingdom.
Your ambitions guide you elsewhere, he sees that. Inner personal ambitions of the arts, the world, the soul. Baelor cannot fathom keeping any person from their true life. Least of all you. Who is he to do such a thing?
The one to marry her, tethering her to a very public, permanent position. It is unacceptable. The truth, no matter how much it may wound, persists. This is no thing to be written on the pages of his achievements. The truth laysâ Prince Baelor as been abandoned by his own wife, even as her heart beats within the same walls of his own.
"What the fuck are you doing?" The harsh voice of his brother pulls Baelor free of his mind.
Back to it, then.
He inhales, posture correcting and fidgeting fingers forced to be still behind his back. "Just watching the storm consume the sea."
Maekar scoffs, looking out at the horrid sight. "The rain seems to have consumed you. Why in the Seven Hells are you standing around in soaked garments?"
"Oh, you know how I ponder." A friendly smile.
His brother scowls. Of course Maekar knows. Most days it wouldn't bother him to listen, but he was feeling particularly self-interested as of the last hour. Baelor is grateful for the lack of care and notice this time.
"Get changed for supper." A smile of pride spreads across Maekar's face. "We will be having venison. Finally caught that bastard that has been slipping away. Not quick enough it seems."
"Ah, congratulations." His hand falls to his little brother's shoulder, stepping side by side as they made their way. "Tell me of your hunt."
Distract me. Even if it won't work.
Maekar's pride washes in, volume increasing as he tells his tale. His hands move with the story, too, once he is comfortable enough in telling it. It is easy with his brother.
Baelor laughs heartily when expected, asks for the perfect details at the perfect time. Of course, he teases his little brother as well, nudging his shoulder and earning a coltish push back. The perfect listener.
His eyes show less perfection. Or, more specifically, his gaze shows less perfection. It trails along the stone floor leading deeper into the castle walls. Taking in the rough surface splattered with careless drops of rain. Then⊠his gaze is taking in a trail of it.
Rain, smeared on the floor with haste. Your rain. His mind is so easily persuaded to think of you again.
So his eyes follow the reminiscence of your steps, imagination filling in the portrait of your pace. Maekar was plenty pleased hearing his own tale, too taken by himself to notice he was losing Baelor. Even if he had been caught, Baelor could not mind.
He follows on, thankful you left a trace of yourself behind. Whether intention was entirely there, or completely lacking, he had to know. Curiosity is quite consuming.
Especially upon seeing a puddle ahead. There are several steps to go, still, before reaching it on their stride. This gives his imagination time to conjure.
Had you considered turning around? To him? Were you stopped in your tracks to think of the consequence if you went? No. More likely he had overwhelmed you. You must have stopped to catch your breath, regretting your choice to stay.
Yes, he thinks as his foot lands right next to the water. Regret begged you to freeze. Called you to the window, asked you to look out to the sea and reconsider.
The window. He sees it now as he passes. You had stopped just at the window? Had you been looking out it, imagining the world that you had denied? Cursing him in your rightful vengeance? Hoping the storm would take you?
"And THUMP!" Maekar's voice crashing through, so loud that Baelor jumps. "The loudest crash you ever heard! The beast just fell!" He laughs, arms flaring out at the recollection of his victory.
Baelor's eyes break from the puddle, forward seeking once more. "You must have been quite pleased with your capture."
âââââ
"Your wife will not be in attendance, my prince." Your lady in waiting repeated.
"Yes, I heard." Baelor hummed. He hadn't heard, actually. Or⊠had not wished to. "Is she ill?" He questions, hoping for any scrap of information you had allowed the woman to share.
"Trying to avoid illness, more so." She has a pleasant presence. "You know how she enjoys her walks, but she was caught in the storm. She stayed in her dress for a bit too long, likely lost in watching the sea."
Her practice response is flows with such ease. The perfect cover. Better than the words that spilled from Baelor when his brother had asked. It was truly one of his most lacking performances.
His reaction now is no performance. "Then I should check on her, to be sure she is resting."
Gods, were you going to fall ill due to his own idiocy? He would never forgive himself. He had caused you enough trouble as it was, let alone to be the reason for your sickness.
Baelor is already moving, readying himself to be at your side. Hands smoothing over his clothing as his mind spirals over you once more. What would you need in a moment like this? For a possible illness?
"Oh," your lady murmurs to herself for a moment. Then, "That is very kind of you, my prince. However⊠should your lady be ill, you would not want to catch the same."
Baelor shakes his head, eyes darting about the room for⊠something. "Nonsense, it is my duty."
He hears a sigh from her, thinking little of it. For him to be sick would only cause disruptions to the ones around him, it is a partial reason for his tedious self care. He hates to be a problem for others, but now he had you to consider.
The room seems so boring, lacking any of the things that might interest you. It makes sense, being Baelor's study for his duties. Still, he makes a note to make it more inviting for you in the future. Everywhere he looked he considered how the hollow, haunted spaces could be cleansed just for you.
Ah, yes. A book would suit for your circumstance. A distraction from the treason your princely husband had nearly drowned you in. His steps guide him to his shelves, flickering through the options with a finger hovering across the spines. Most are stories of history. Tales of traveling men, pushing their way to places they did not belong. But there is oneâ
The sweet voice of your lady tries once more. "The princess asked for you not to trouble yourself, my prince. She truly just needs an evening in. She will be right back to herself come morning."
He fully picks up on the signals being thrown at him with an obvious delivery. Baelor is no fool. That being said, he is willing to play the part at his own convenience.
"I will have to remind my dear wife that I do not mind trouble when it is caused by her." He smiles down to the old book that lays flat in his left hand, right hand smoothing over the cover.
It is a rather old book now. Corners bent, edges worn, leather scratched. You would love the way its appearance spoke of its life. Likely, you would have a story for it upon seeing only the cover.
"And," he moves the book to hold at his side, beginning his walk to your chambers. "I will explain that caring for her in a time of need is no trouble at all. Rather, an act of which any husband should participate."
âââââ
"Is it?" You question his reasoning.
He had to have known you would not so easily accept that response. Perhaps he knew you wouldn't, and hoped you might bicker with him over the issue. You very easily could.
"I heard of Maekar's victory, your being here prevents that shared celebration. Your brother is sure to be seeking your company." You leave no room for his denial.
He came. He had the nerve. Of course he had, and likely with pure intention.
Before his intrusion, you had heard the rap on your chamber door and were thrown from your wandering mind. It was quick, ill at ease. Short after the knock, your lady in waiting rushed in, immediately closing the door behind her with a bow to the outsider before rushing over to you in her fit of muttering.
As she pulled you from your bed you both bickered at a whisper, trying to think of any way to prevent his entry. Clearly neither of you were successful at this attempt. You begrudgingly accepted your fate, allowing her to make the slightest tweaks to make you at least somewhat presentable. He is a prince, after all. It seemed that title felt of more value to you than his one of husband.
Now you are sat across him, at least having the comfort of your favorite reading spot. Your fingers work to destroy themselves as you await Baelor's response. Your nails are pushing at cuticles that were already destroyed. Your lady had tried to stop you, a gentle hand resting on your shoulder.
"I will still attend his celebration," Baelor's eyes flicker up from your restless.
That causes you to stop. Your cheeks burn at your own embarrassment. Why is it that he must observe every detail of your being? Your palms press into your lap, a less destructive distraction.
He does not press you. "While I do not possess the ability to be in more than one space at a time, I do have every right to be just a few moments late so I may check that my wife is well."
"I am fine, as you see." It pours out of you quickly. "My lady in waiting takes wonderful care of me. I am very lucky."
Lucky that she had not left you alone with him. She must have read it on you. Gods only knew how you may deteriorate if you were left again.
"I have no doubt of her attentiveness. It is something I am rather grateful for as well." He bows his head in her direction, just off to your side.
Must he be so kind? A part of your mind repeats over and over, it really is the bare minimum. Yet you have yet to see it from anyone else highborn. Not that you claim to have met them all.
Point beingâ he has fed your heart another slice of hope. Your consciousness will steal it away in no time.
"Then leave me to her care, and please do enjoy your brother's capture." You had tried to find the kindest way to say leave me be so I may suffer in private. "Send my apologies for my absence, and my congratulations for his winnings."
Have a congratulations for your own as well, you prick. Is that what this was about? Baelor coming to be sure you had stayed? To reward himself for being convincing enough to keep you?
Pride could explain his sudden demand to see you after being so quick to urge you away. The accusation is ill fitting, though. You may wish he was so selfish, but he had yet to ever be so.
His silence occurs to you. He only gave a simple nod, sitting on the edge of his seat as he continued his observations of you. It causes an awareness in yourself.
Your hair was damp now, having mostly dried from the rain that had poured over you. The weight of your soaked dress had actually brought some sort of comfort to your desperate soul, though you had peeled out of it near an hour ago. Now it was the weight of your blanket across your lap. The one from your home, from your grandmother. He would read into that too, no doubt.
You read him too. He had changed into something more fitting for a feast, likely whilst you were still captivated by the sea. He hated the feel of wet leather and cloth against skin, and always quietly fussed to himself about his concerns for the leather's care. It didn't do well to be wet, so you know his other boots are drying by a fire in his chambers.
While your own hands are empty, fingers somehow curled into a fist which you gently unfurl, Baelor's hands hold an occupant. A small, red leather book. It looked to be old. Probably from his personal collection, and likely his current read. What is he reading about?
What does it matter? You look to your own hands. "I do thank you for your kindness, husband. I simply ask that you extend it to those that must need it more."
Why is lying so easy with him?
"I believe you misunderstand me, wife." One of his hands smooths over his book, head tilting as he looks right ahead to you. "I am not requesting your permission to stay, or insisting that I will remain here for the evening. But my mind will not allow me to leave before I know that you are comforted enough toâŠ"
"Stay," You finish his sentence.
He misunderstands. "I do appreciate if you would be accommodating to my request, thank you."
"No," your head dips.
Your lady in waiting's chest tightens. Why in the Seven Hells were you so freely telling the crowned prince of the Seven Kingdoms No? She would certainly scold you for this in private, and you would certainly take her scolding to do absolutely nothing with.
"That is," you allow your fingers to pick again. "I should no like you to remain here any longer, and I should not like you attempting to correct your mistake, my prince. I should like to be left alone, if only you would simply allow it."
Mistake. As if it can be summarized down to only that. Vagueness was in your favor, though, with the company hanging behind your shoulder.
"Then we will find ourselves at a standstill." Baelor is plenty capable of his possessing his own stubborn tendencies. No one but his family may believe it, but you had learned it to be true the first time you had met him.
The sea is roaring ceaselessly. It has been the entire time, you figure. You are only now refocusing back to the world around you in all of its terror. Thunder causing quakes through all of your bodies, the continued torrent of rain splattering across absolutely everything within its reach.
Your eyes sting again. How it is at all possible that you still have tears within your system, you haven't a clue. Baelor seems to have a knack for plucking them out from you.
"Your persistence on the issue is finding me with indignity now, my prince. I will be fine, and I do not think you should be taking my word so lightly." You somehow managed to choke out your defense.
Baelor does not seem so upset. No tears springing in his eyes, only a discomforted adjustment in his sitting. Did he not enjoy the tears he brought on?
"And your avoidance has always found me with a glimpse of your superiority." He rests the book behind him.
"My superiority?" You laugh, the lifting of your cheeks causing one of your tears to fall. Good. "I do not appreciate what your accusation implies, as I could never be superior to the blood of the dragon, my prince."
"Is that why you requested my command, wife?" He questions, elbows resting on knees so he may be closer to your conversation. "Because of my blood? It would have been impossible for one to flee when commanded by a dragon, yes?"
You swallow. You hadn't known Baelor to be cruel. If that is what this even was. It certainly felt it compared to any other way you have ever known him.
He continues. "No, we both know our ranks to the world, and you lack the vile nerve to commit going against that role. It is not about my blood, it is not about any crown. You find yourself superior in that you run from every situation as if you are the only one involved. You hide away in your silence, in your chamber, in your chair," he gestures to your current position. "And you do it because you can. Who will ask a lady for her company beyond the performance of her most basic duties?"
It is perplexing. He has no hint of anger, or disapproval, or criticism. He voices these things with a total lack of hesitance, but a complete presence of distress.
"You are faulting me for my lack of socialization?" The tears fall heavier now, spite adding to their volume.
"No." He pushes his elbows off his knees, leaning back against the chair.
"Then you find yourself jealous that your role matters so much more? I assure you, my prince, that being a ghost within my own life does not cause my heart to swell with contempt." It is you leaning forward now. "Do you believe I revel in the fact that when I disappear there is not a soul to notice?"
"People take notice, do not be so ostentatious." One of his hands waves away your remarks.
"Oh, yes!" You huff a laugh. "Then worse, they do notice, and they do not care."
"You believe I do not care when my own wife vanishes?" Baelor's eyebrows knit together, leaning forward again at this offense.
You scoff at his query. "Do not play some hero knight, as I cannot recall any instance of you seeking me out from my hiding."
"I have never claimed to be a hero," he holds up an impatient finger. "And just because you did not see me, does not mean I wasn't there. I was. I was there every time, whether it be myself or my sending of your dearly trusted ladyâ" he points to the woman you had both nearly forgotten was still in the room. "I have always been sure of your well being. Always."
Another bead of water slips down along your cheek as you turn to face your lady. While it is apparent she would prefer to not be a part of your exchange, she gives you a stuttered nod. It is true, then.
Your shaking hand lifts to swipe away your tears, hopefully quick enough to go unnoticed in all this fury. You sniffle, posture straightening. Going down so easily is non-optional.
"I am well aware of my occasional envy of you." Baelor rubs his hands together, having a guilt for his knee-jerk reaction. He feels like a child. "But I do not regret the life I have inherited either. I know the pleasures my position brings, just as well as I know the opportunities I must cease with my power, andâ" he laughs quietly. "This conversation is straying heedlessly. My point is being lost."
"What is your point?" You push. "Why did you bring yourself to my chambers, knowing so well how I run from everything?"
Mismatched eyes are looking at you again. Not observing, just⊠looking. His eyes had darkened, the way they do when he is surrounded with chattering woes of the kingdom that he is expected to fix. One as dark as the ocean that threatened your shores, then other like the mud that had stained your dress.
Baelor's need to solve is incessant. You allow him the grace to think it over. Truthfully, you were thankful to have a moment to gather yourself just as well.
He sighs, eyes falling to the floor and fingers splaying on his cheek. There is no escaping your need for answers. He does not wish to.
"Because I wanted to thank you for staying." His palm offers up. "In your grief, you stay. Even when you run from me, I know where to find you. You must know it, too. I know that I do not do well in hiding my interest when it comes to you."
You hadn't known. You used to. Years ago, when everything between the two of you was new. When the ocean was calm, and the skies matched that brilliantly blue eye of his. When the sun felt like your friend, and the moon brought quiet nights you had shared.
"My previous offer was hazardous, I was senseless for putting you in such a positionâŠ" he shakes his head. "But I would have aided you, if it was what you coveted. I suppose I came to say that I am glad it was not your want."
There was only the winds now, and a modest pattering of the rain against the stone walls. You are angry with the Gods for their timing. The drop in noise made the severity of the situation⊠different. It suddenly didn't feel so violent. It feels mournful.
"Leave us, please." You whisper to your lady in waiting.
Always astute, she gives a curt nod and proper dismissal before closing the door on her way out. She not only trusts you have your situation handled, but also is aware Baelor will do nothing to harm. And, she was relieved to be free of whatever was about to happen.
Your eyes have not left his form, and his have not dared to meet you anew. "Speak plainly, Baelor. Talking through suggestions and extended speech has done nothing for us."
A sigh falls from his chest, conscious that you are correct. He feels the book pressing between the cushioned seat and his lower back. His feet push himself further back, as if trying to hide his offering.
"I dare say I have spoken plainly." He huffs. This is unlike him.
You sigh too. "Then I ask you to do me the kindness of speaking even simpler."
Glance shooting your direction through the corner of your eyes, he runs his tongue over his teeth. This is no trap. You have no intention to cage him, or for him to dig himself a pit he would have zero hope of climbing from. Each of you simply wants one thing: the truth.
"It would have broken me if you left." His confession feels too condensed, but he is trying.
"I did not leave," you point out.
"But had you," he stresses. "Had you left, I would not have known what to do with myself."
He eyes the rings on his fingers, twisting them about in the manner conducted only when he could not bare his entire mind to the world. You watch him too. He is growing impatient.
"Life would have gone on." You inhale, lifting the blanket from your lap and tossing it over the arm of the chair. It was creating an overwhelming warmth.
"You cannot say that," he disagrees.
"But I have." You shrug. "Surely you are not so self-centered to believe the world would have stopped for you. You would have mourned because it is the humane thing to do, of that I have no doubt. But you would also move on because it would be the just thing to do for those that you serve."
He just shakes his head, irritated that you are not hearing him. "It was the wrong choice of words, it seems. We could sit and discuss possibilities all day."
"Then what would be the right words?" This puts knots in your stomach again. Perhaps this would not be so easily debated.
"You told me that you could not leave me." He begins again, fact checking. "That you will not leave me."
Oh, right. "Yes."
"It gave me hope." He lifts his shoulders, ring lifted halfway up his finger in its next twist. "I have known for the last few years that you will never love me, and while it was a hard truth to accept, I did it."
"I have never claimed I do not love you. You are my husband." You are only talking to talk, whether it is true or not.
"Love is not always found in marriage." He still shoots back, though with a casualty that does not drag that issue out. "It is not a requirement that you do love me. I just regret that your life became uncomfortable since our marriage."
The arrangement was not of truly either of your wills. Categorically, you could have married into a much worse life. Baelor loves you, has shown you nothing but kindness and compassion, has given you every ounce of patience he has to offer. Most of all, he has been here, through your temper and sorrow.
You know there is no denying his statement. Your life had become uncomfortable, and you had no issue with making that incredibly known. Being highborn, you had always had eyes on you. But this? This is incredibly different.
"My discomfort is not due to you." You try your best to comfort, as hard as you find it to do.
"A farmer's drought is not caused by hand, yet I still do what I must to aid." It is in Baelor's nature. "I know you have not requested my help, but I plead you to accept it."
This is no simple ask. There is some snarling resentment in you each time his hand is offered. To accept his aid felt as if you were accepting your fate. That you knelt to the life you were handed off to, and you gave up your own will.
"I find pleasantries in my life, I do not need you to make myself happy." You cannot help yourself.
"No, you do not." He agrees. "And, if life is as you say it will go on and you will learn to accept your life as it is. Or perhaps you already have; I am not pretending to know. I just mean to say, it may not be a need of yours, but I do think it is a one of my own."
Baelor sees the shift in your posture, readying yourself to dispute. But he doesn't allow it.
"You owe me absolutely nothing." Clarity tries to find his words. "It would only be a kindness to me if you would allow me in, even if it is just a crack in the door. We must tolerate one another now, whether we like it or not."
Hot air huffs from you. This is beginning to feel like a business deal. For the last several years you had it in mind that ithe relationship might come easier if it was pure negotiation. But there are strings tethered between the two of you that have been knotted since you met. It felt clandestine at times, though you could not stomach that possibility.
"I quite like the way things are." You cannot look at him when you lie.
The rejection hits him harder than he had thought. He hadn't expected it.
"Why are you presenting me with this falsity?" Before he knows it, he is standing. He didn't know what to do with himself.
"It is not a falsity. I do enjoy my own company, the gardens here are quite lovely. There are aspects to this life that I have come to enjoy." You watch his quick steps.
"But there is a general unhappiness, you had said it yourself. Discomfort." His hands hold the back of the chair as he stands behind it. "You said we are to speak plainly. I did, so it is your turn. Why is it that you loathe me now?"
"I do not loathe you, Baelor. Iâ
"Please, do not shield me with another lie. Everything has changed between us, everything." His hand swoops in front of him. "Six years ago you would have married me with a smile on your face. Even if to stave off the suitors that would never be worth your time, you would have been happy in the marriage. We occupied one another's time selfishly, we wrote letters perpetually when we were apart. We laughed together!" A fit of it bursts from him, though he sounds absolutely mad.
"I extend my apologies for my making your experience so difficult, husband. Is that what you want to hear?" Your hands wring in your lap.
"I want the truth. I want you to say whatever it is I did to drive us apart so viciously." His knuckles turn white with his grip.
"You accepted the arrangement." Your reply comes much quicker than you knew it would. So be it.
"Because it made sense, I knew we could be happy." He doesn't his knowing about your lack of involvement, just moves on.
"So you believe that justified the absence of my choice?"
He stares ahead, right at you. His head is angled, though, so he can easily glance away if he gets too uncomfortable. Red creeps up his neck, heat burning him in such an unfamiliar way. He feels so cruel.
The silence he was facing you with feels insulting , aggravating, unfair. He was denying nothing, but he was not accepting any ounce of responsibility either. He just stands there, thinking.
"No, you have known it doesn't." You speak with absolute surety. "It is the reason you have not looked at me the same since that night in the field."
"That was so many years ago, we were so young." His voice is the smallest you have ever heard.
You laugh bitterly, "You do not get to blame youth, nor time. Not when you stand demanding reasoning from me for the same span."
He pushes off from the chair, turning away from you in his sudden⊠embarrassment? You haven't found the right label yet. It does not matter, you decide to double down on him as he had you.
"You, my prince, knew well that I hadn't so much of a whisper in the matter of our marriage. You made that decision for meâfor what you call us- and you did it because you could. Because you presumed it would be no insult for me to marry a prince, a man whom had presented himself as caring and trustworthy and kind. How could I have been anything but relieved to marry the one man who had made it safe to offer for me to offer my life?"
Baelor has a tendency to hide behind his own tail when being faced by you. As if he could handle the push to get you to the edge, but the moment you bite he whimpers. You could act as if you did not understand, waste time blaming it on petty things while skirting around the truth. You have always known you hold his heart, though.
What a fragile thing it is. Rage entices you to close your fist around it, beating and bloody. The heart within your chest refuses to allow it, pulling back at your muscles with a habitual sadness.
Pain finds you with just as much ease as it had found him. It hurts to hear this perspective. After years of his begging, knees sore from kneeling at your alter, awaiting your mercy, he is finally receiving it. It is not as freeing as he had hoped.
And you, on your pedestal with bloodied edges from your attempts to crawl off the top. You are hanging off the edge, voice hoarse as it finally speaks of your woes. Your fingers are tensed, pain shooting from your knuckles with your grip.
You are seething. "No more of your well thought defenses?"
He is sheepish. "You avoided marriage for so long, I thought that marrying me would relieve you of that pressure. You knew marriage was inevitable, you spent years saying that yourself."
"You blame me?"
"No, I'mâ" his eyes squeeze shut. "I just thought I was doing the right thing. Saying yes because I meant it, and because it meant preventing the possibility of some loathsome marriage of misery."
"You felt as if you were saving me, then?"
Yes.
"No." His head shakes like it will be a safeguard for his downfall. "No, no. I was only trying to help. Your circumstance was not one with time to mull things over. It was marry the woman I had spent years yearning for, or lose her to some desperate man."
"So it was to save yourself." You are relentless, it seems.
"You would have been the one married to some man you could hardly tolerate." He points out.
"It would have been impossible for me to find a match that was not miserable if it was not you?" Vitriol drips from your words.
"You had rightfully sworn off marrying some wretched man that would only view you as livestock to breed. That does remove over half of Westeros." Baelor does not like how desperation sounds from his lips, nor the way it makes him feel so ashamed. "Your family would have done as they pleased regardless. It could have been any old man, it would not have mattered so long as they had you tamed and free of their name."
The accuracy does sting. It no longer pains you to remember that your family only ever wanted to be rid of you. It was never a surprise, given the way you so publicly detested and defied expectations of a lady.
"It does not put me in the right." Baelor turns around to see you again. "I am sorry for it."
Tears had finally freed you, making their way to haunt him. His eyes are glassy, holding his grief just there for the both of you to see. If you looked hard enough you could likely see every thought held in his eyes, behind the watery sorrow that refused to fall.
"For assuming. I never should have assumed a single thing about you." His head dips into a nod. "I never should have taken your freedom, and I regret that I cannot give you back the time that I stole."
It was the reason you denied his escape, he realizes. There was no justice for what he had done. There was no undoing, or getting back. There was only getting on with life.
"You resent me." Baelor's fingers trail the wood of his chair again. "I will spend the rest of my life making it up to you, though I know I never can."
"I do not want you to make up for anything." You whisper, chin trembling.
The blanket hanging from your chair pools to the floor as you stand. It is you turning away from him now. Understanding is always your downfall with him.
"Is that why you treat me so coldly now? Because you do not seek righteousness?" He uses sarcasm.
Trying to find balance, one hand holds the back of your chair. The other runs over your stomach, feeling a very familiar sickness returning from your soul. Your eyes refuse to see him.
"You cannot make up for something so personal." Your body chills, like a fever trying to free the sick. "And I cannot stand the look of your regretting gaze."
Seeing Baelor damaged never feels natural. Be it viewing a frown brought by his brother stealing the last pie, or watching tears swirl in his eyes for the years long problems he had been the root of all along. He is not meant to be hurt.
The pressure on your chest is just a dagger now, stinging through your bones and trying its way to your heart. "I do not want your pity, I do not want your acts of forgiveness. Please, do not be sorry for me. Do me the decency of neglecting my trouble."
"I cannot neglect you." His voice whispers gently.
"I need you to, husband." Your palm tries to soothe your pain. "You must not torment me with your penitence. I cannot stand to think I have hurt you."
"I would deserve any strike you deal." He comes around his chair.
Your palm can't make the stinging fade. "I wish I could feel the same."
"This is nothing for debate. The Gods will be punishing me for my theft for the rest of my life."
Your eyebrows knit together, looking at him questioningly. "Must you be so dramatic now?"
Cheeks rising in a grin, a tear flows from the ocean blue of his eye. "The dramatics will always find me when I am talking with you. How I love to get your attention with a bit of theater."
Vibrations pacify the dagger in your chest, laughter falling out despite the desolation between the two of you. Baelor allows himself to smile at your acceptance, regardless of the way he will reprimand himself for it later. You are happy, even if only for this second.
Missing this hurt more than you knew. Having this reminder was sharp, glaring. Things really had changed. You hate it.
Air finds your lungs with less reluctance. "I have held a grudge against you for years."
There is no need for his response. It is a statement, one you both know to be incredibly true. He just invites you to say what you will.
"I think that in doing so, I have wounded my being." Your shaking hand glides over the waist of your dress. "I know I have wounded our relationship, and I am truly sorry for that because I do love you, Baelor."
A tear flows from his opposite eye now. Your fingers twitch with a desire to wipe his cheek clean. Thankfully, and regretfully, you are too far to do so. It wasn't likely he would want your touch anymore either.
You sniffle. You don't feel any less nauseous, but you feel a great deal more relieved.
"I would have married you with a smile if you'd have just asked." Your lungs rattle beneath your ribs.
He is nodding profusely, hand swiping his own cheek off. He understands. He doesn't push.
"You knew how much my liberty meant to me, and you treated it with the cruelty of assumption." Your eyes are flickering, surveying for reason. "Why did you not just ask?"
Tears cascade down both your faces, like the retreating waves of the ocean down the rocks of the shore. It is helpless.
"I don't know." Baelor is choked by his shame.
You refuse this. "Did you not love me?"
"You know I did, before you ever even paid me real mind."
"Then why?"
"Because I thought I knew, I did. It truly is that straightforward." His palms are dishing outwards.
The answer should have felt impossible when it felt as if he knew you entirely. Since the day you met him, he knew you. You offered him your whole self, bared your truths and your shames for him to take with his open hands. He accepted them.
It did not seem so impossible now. Your heart has been closed behind a door too heavy to open, and your willingness to be held in his hands had all but evaporated. Yet you love him.
"If you could have loved me then," Baelor begins, looking at you with intimacy that melts your guard, "do you think you could love me now? If we were to talk through it all, if I was to own up to all of my faults. Could you?"
It comes as no wonder that he doesn't see your love for him. You had done too good of a job holding your grudge. It felt right at the time, but now it only burns.
"I do love you, just as I said." Your head falls, looking at the ring upon your finger.
He steps closer. "But could you love me beyond some stilted act? Could you love me how you might have?"
The flickering light of the candle shines on the metal of your ring. It is a nice distraction. Or, would have been had Baelor not taken yet another step closer.
"BaelorâŠ" you whisper, throat feeling tight.
"Please, tell me that you could." He takes a risk, gently taking hold of your cold hand with his hot fingers. "I need to know that it is possible, that I have not ruined everything."
"Of course you have not ruined everything." Your chest sinks with a huff. "Theater does not suit someone so serious, I do wish you would end the dramatics."
"I am not being dramatic now." His head dips down, meeting your eyes with his own seeing as you were avoiding him. "Please, wife. Tell me where we may stand, if I were to mend all of your wounds. Tell me that you may open your world to me once more, but only if it is the truth. I can no longer life off of false hopes and dreams."
Damn him for his beautiful gaze. And damn him for his good intentions. Unfortunately for your heart, your brain knows he means every word that he speaks. It knows that he does not say such things lightly, nor does he say them if it is not something he would be anything but guaranteed to put in action.
"I want to love you again." The final truth comes out in a whisper, hot breath ghosting over your lips with the confession.
You see it immediately. The relief that washes over him, the excitement that feeds his heart. His shoulders relax, his hands squeeze yours gently, and his eyes soften from their deep state of worry they had held for the last few years.
"I want to share joy with you, and feel your laughter rumble from your chest." Desires you had forbidden yourself to think of spill out with a trembling hand and shaking laugh. "Please, won't you love me too?"
"Yes," he cries, laughter mirroring yours as you both melt into one another. His forehead rests on yours. "Yes, of course I will. I will do it right this time."
Four eyes closing, letting the last of their tears slip away, there is nothing but delieverence lapping over the both of you. Silly fits of laughs come out with hot breath, fanning over one anothers faces. Your hand must have been squeezing his, though your grip relaxes as he kisses the back of it over and over.
"Thank you for staying." He kisses your closed lid, tears wetting his lips. "Thank you for giving me this chance. Thank you."
A slight shake of your head, your nose bumps his. This is the closest the two of you have been in so long, and your heart is reaching out for more. Hold him. Hold me.
"I am so sorry," you sob, kissing right above his thumb, then his cheek. "I am sorry for what we became."
His lips land on yours cheek too, holding place there for nearly a minute, you swore. You wanted it to go for longer. Your head follows his when his lips part from their place, causing your noses to bump again. Neither of you minds, wanting any bit of contact you could get.
"I will love you," Baelor's lips seal his promise in the corner of your own. "I will."
"PleaseâŠ" you whisper, cupping his cheek, feeling the roughness of his beard over your palm.
His eyes are on your lips, tongue smoothing over his bottom lip as he considers. He knows what you are requesting. "It wouldn't be right. Not now."
"I do not care," you say it, hand going round to the back of his neck.
One of his hands brings your hand to his chest, the other rests on your waste. His fingers twitch here, wanting to melt into your body forever. He needs this just as desperately.
The heat of your breath on his lips lulls him closer, a careful, cautious kiss landing on your top lip. Your lips return the favor, something tender and a bit more lingering pressing into his lip too. His eyes flutter shut, nose pressing into your face as he goes in for a much hungrier kiss.
His chest rumbles against yours palm with a satisfied affection. It's encouraging, sending you back for another kiss⊠and another⊠and another. The tears of your faces wash together, slick cheeks brushing.
"Thank you," he says it again between more kisses.
Your fingers curl in their place on his neck, nails lightly scratching into his hair and earning another pleased sigh. You smile into the next kiss, proud. He has plenty to be proud of too. Your seeking touch, and prolonged replies of your kisses.
What you both feel to be the final kiss is held with tender care before the soft pop of your lips parting brings it to an end. Foreheads rest for just a moment as you both catch your breath and your right mind. Baelor gives your hand a careful squeeze, and his fingers smooth over to your back, pulling you just slightly closer.
"You will miss Maekar's celebration," you hum, eyes opening into his.
His hand raises, thumb swiping over your cheek to wipe off those lingering tears. "Yes⊠I ought to go, give you space and give him his attention."
You lean easily into his touch, and his thumb responds by pressing softly into your skin. You both know it is only a reason to give you both time. Something you had spent years wasting, but now needed desperately to sort things out the right way.
You kiss his lips softly. "I am pleased that you came."
He chases with another kiss. "I am pleased that you accepted me."
A few more pecks, and you are separated. He almost hesitates to go, his heart desperately wanting more. But he promises to return, you promise to have an open door, and those threads tying you together have no where else to be.
He does not look back at you as he exists, but he does freeze at the door. You watch him inhale, making himself taller and more sure. His foot pauses in its next step, head lowering briefly before walking out the door. A reset before reentering reality.
The waves had settled, and the rain had found its end. You tried your best to ignore that coincedence. You are not so self-centered to believe the weather depends on your emotion. Regardless, life feels calmer now.
In the silence of your bed chambers, you question what it was that could have possibly been worth missing out on him for so long. The only answers that find you are embarrassment, stubbornness, and animosity for what your life was forced to become. Perhaps the anger had been worth it. Perhaps it only made this that much sweeter to have.
summary: this is just smut đ baelor is a good husband who thinks you are the best
word count: 1.7k
tags: smut, mdni, 18+, fingering, fem!reader, heavy use of âmy darlingâ âmy wifeâ so on (this is self indulgent), soft!baelor who praises you, and fingers end up in a mouth (?)
notes: not proof read and i have written smut like twice ever, please be kind đ
"You are my wife," Baelor reminds you with such sweetness. "If it is your desire, then I shall make it a reality."
He believes this whole heartedly, you know. For the most difficult of circumstances, or most simple of tasks. He would do anything for you.
"I wish you would only do it if it is what you want as well, husband." You chuckle at his ambition and remind him he has a label in the relationship as well.
"I would not do a thing I did not please." He speaks truthfully, raising your hand so he may kiss your knuckles. "And, to be honest, I would not have been clever enough to think of that on my own."
You roll your eyes at him now, though you cannot help but smile. To which he grins ever so happily for. He is ridiculously agreeable. You are perfectly straight forward.
"Be careful, for flattery may stop suiting you if you use it so often." You tease him, hand still in his hold.
Baelor chuckles, kissing the next knuckle on your hand. "Flattery will always suit me when it is through your eyes, my love."
He is right. You don't bother to dispute it.
"It was not clever to consider putting in a lounge chair." You find some other fake disagreement to have. Just to keep him going.
"Clever to consider the placement, though." A kiss to the next knuckle.
It truly wasn't all that clever, just the spot you noticed got the most light in the evening. The light that glows golden. Baelor says it is his favorite time of day, as it is when you show your true angelic form to him once more. You say he is full of manure.
"If that pleases, then fine." You finally answer.
He smiles against the next kiss to your knuckles. "Fine?"
"Yes," you nod. "Fine."
He chuckles now, bringing his other hand up to join his hold on you. He is knelt on the ground beside of your current lounger, looking into your eyes with a twinkling eye. He looks like trouble.
"Very little is ever simply fine with you, my darling." His fingers interlace with your own. He plays with your hand so carefully.
"Are you suggesting I am disagreeable?" You raise a challenging brow, trying to hide a grin.
He kisses your wrist. "You do enjoy to challenge me, is all I mean." He kisses your pulse point. "And I quite enjoy hearing your banter."
You watch him for a moment as he trails kisses along your forearm, making his way upwards slowly. His beard tickles your skin, causing your fingers to twitch between his before squeezing gently for encouragement. How he loves to adore you.
"Hmm, a shame I see no need to banter over this matter, then." You shrug much too casually.
Baelor hums into the next kiss, landing on your collar bone and lingering for what he knows is a second too long. "Quite so."
Your eyes close, breathing in slowly and letting your head relax on the cushion. Baelor hovers over your chest, a kiss falling right in the center. Then another, evening your collar bones. Then another, just above your dress where your breasts are peeking out.
"I do enjoy these opportunities to appreciate my clever wife as well, so it seems I am in luck." His eyes shine as he maps out his path.
You chuckle at his response, spine swaying your body upwards. Seeking him out? Readjusting? Whatever it was, you are enjoying yourself equally.
He seals a final kiss into your palm before letting go, hands finding a new part of your body to take over. His fingers trail down along your dress, knuckles tingling over the fabric. His lips keep busy too, kissing your covered ribs, then below your hidden navel. His hand has made it to your ankle now, fingers brushing beneath the hem of your skirt.
"BaelorâŠ" you whisper his name, unsure why.
"Yes, my darling?" He murmurs back as his fingers trail up along your leg, your linen shift catching gathering around his arm.
"JustâŠ" you breathe in deeply, squirming in attempt to get him closer. "Must your appreciations be so time consuming?"
Baelor smiles down at you, his free hand brushing over your cheek to soothe. It hardly works, given you needed his touch in a much more obvious place. That is the point, though.
"Oh, darling..." he coos, kissing the corner of your lips. "To properly appreciate, it will take a generous amount of time. However, it is lovely of you to be so eager."
His hand beneath your dress is at your thigh now, smoothing inwards as he massages. You bite your lip and do your best to follow his flow. He makes it hard.
"You look gorgeous." He says it so softly, as if his thumb isn't gliding along your inner thigh in a terrible tease.
"Baelor." You whine, your own hand making way to his lower wrist with hopes to get him on track.
He lets you hold him, even lets you drag his hand closer to the heat that radiates from you. He would allow you to do any thing you pleased, any moment. But you both know you enjoy his pace.
"Yes, darling?" He asks again.
"You must give me something to work with beyond your sweet words." Your eyes open, connecting with his in a plea.
His lips curl into a smile, giving you a small nod of understanding. It is all it takes. His hand moves upward, two fingers gliding and feeling the slick between your legs.
"You melt so easily beneath my fingers," he gives praise. His fingers reward you, circling your clit. Once. Twice. Three times⊠A steady but slow pace.
Your hips lift, gaining a temporarily added pressure beneath his fingers. You still hold his wrist, your fingers twitching in the grip. Another deep breath in.
The sensation leaves for just a second, his fingers sliding back down your folds to gather more of your wet. Then, back to your clit. His pace is just slightly quicker. Once, twice, three times.
"Are you enjoying this, clever girl?" Baelor's head tilts as he watches your every move.
"Yes," you utter with quickness, chest falling with a pleased sigh. "Very much so."
"Wonderful." He kisses your cheek.
The butterflies in your stomach go wild. His pace steps up again, building momentum in his own time. Your hand lets go of his wrist finally, instead holding the plush cushion of the lounger beneath your body.
The friction on your clit adjusts again, his thumb taking over the job. He applies a slightly deeper pressure, too, earning a gasp from your lips. He smiles at his own success.
"Already making such pretty noises for me." He kisses your parted lips, his thumb giving you more of that pressure you so highly desire.
"Just think⊠think of how I will sound when you are in me." You grin at him through half lidded eyes. Always a challenge. Even when your words are broken up with a whimper.
"Let's see, then." He gives a swift nod before pausing his circular rhythm.
Your body attempts to follow his hand, but his free palm is pressing you back down. His thumb beneath your shift pressure into your clit, and just stays there. Then you feel his finger, pushing into your interest with consideration. Slow. Taunting. Something to pull the best of reactions.
Your knee lifts, seeing as your waist is still held down. He is only one knuckle deep, finger curling to tease you even there. You take your bottom lip between your teeth, a soft hum rolling in your chest. And he is fucking smiling down at you.
"What more can you do?" His eyes flicker down for a split second as his fingers dive deeper, hitting his second knuckle before beginning to pump in and out.
"Hmm⊠whatever⊠whatever you wantâŠ" you try to murmur.
He tsks, shaking his head and quickening his pace. "Now, darling. This is about you. What I want is to illicit your genuine reactions."
Is that why his thumb began to circle your clit again? And his fingers curled inside of you before continuing onâ inward, outward-dragging out a moan that he hopes came from your soul.
Your hips try another time to lift, or your body tries its best to just move. Your brain isn't sure what it is, you just need to have more, more, more.
"Beautiful work, my darling." Baelor fawns over you, his own lips parting at his observations of your undoing.
He watches the way you writhe beneath his touch. Desperately seeking any bit of contact you could have. The way it caused more of yourself to be revealed, hot cunt being hit with cold air as your dress skit pooled over your stomach. He revels in seeing how wet you had become.
The butterflies in your stomach have all melted now, or abandoned you in your pleasure. As his fingers rapidly work on your core, you cannot help but let another moan escape you.
"Baelor, just⊠keepâŠ" your mouth falls with a gasp. "MhmmâŠ"
It only takes two more drags of his fingers before you are turning you into goo beneath Baelor's touch. Your body relaxing, ecstasy coarsing through you. His fingers slip from their success.
"Look at me," Baelor speaks softly. His hand leaves its hold on your hip, finger beneath your chin to turn your gaze to him. "You did wonderful."
Your breathing is deep, slow. You smile at him, knee relaxing too and your dress skirt covering the mess he had made. "You give me far too much credit."
He chuckles, holding up his glistening fingers for a curious inspection. "I have proof that says otherwise."
He jokes, but means it entirely. His eyes are with yours again as he gives a small wave of his fingers covered in⊠you. Then, eyes still connected, his fingers go to his mouth, tongue cleaning himself off.
He hums, a soft pop as his fingers come out clean. "Now I cannot help but wonder, wife⊠what sounds will you make when you take my cock?"
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summary: this is just smut đ baelor is a good husband who thinks you are the best
word count: 1.7k
tags: smut, mdni, 18+, fingering, fem!reader, heavy use of âmy darlingâ âmy wifeâ so on (this is self indulgent), soft!baelor who praises you, and fingers end up in a mouth (?)
notes: not proof read and i have written smut like twice ever, please be kind đ
"You are my wife," Baelor reminds you with such sweetness. "If it is your desire, then I shall make it a reality."
He believes this whole heartedly, you know. For the most difficult of circumstances, or most simple of tasks. He would do anything for you.
"I wish you would only do it if it is what you want as well, husband." You chuckle at his ambition and remind him he has a label in the relationship as well.
"I would not do a thing I did not please." He speaks truthfully, raising your hand so he may kiss your knuckles. "And, to be honest, I would not have been clever enough to think of that on my own."
You roll your eyes at him now, though you cannot help but smile. To which he grins ever so happily for. He is ridiculously agreeable. You are perfectly straight forward.
"Be careful, for flattery may stop suiting you if you use it so often." You tease him, hand still in his hold.
Baelor chuckles, kissing the next knuckle on your hand. "Flattery will always suit me when it is through your eyes, my love."
He is right. You don't bother to dispute it.
"It was not clever to consider putting in a lounge chair." You find some other fake disagreement to have. Just to keep him going.
"Clever to consider the placement, though." A kiss to the next knuckle.
It truly wasn't all that clever, just the spot you noticed got the most light in the evening. The light that glows golden. Baelor says it is his favorite time of day, as it is when you show your true angelic form to him once more. You say he is full of manure.
"If that pleases, then fine." You finally answer.
He smiles against the next kiss to your knuckles. "Fine?"
"Yes," you nod. "Fine."
He chuckles now, bringing his other hand up to join his hold on you. He is knelt on the ground beside of your current lounger, looking into your eyes with a twinkling eye. He looks like trouble.
"Very little is ever simply fine with you, my darling." His fingers interlace with your own. He plays with your hand so carefully.
"Are you suggesting I am disagreeable?" You raise a challenging brow, trying to hide a grin.
He kisses your wrist. "You do enjoy to challenge me, is all I mean." He kisses your pulse point. "And I quite enjoy hearing your banter."
You watch him for a moment as he trails kisses along your forearm, making his way upwards slowly. His beard tickles your skin, causing your fingers to twitch between his before squeezing gently for encouragement. How he loves to adore you.
"Hmm, a shame I see no need to banter over this matter, then." You shrug much too casually.
Baelor hums into the next kiss, landing on your collar bone and lingering for what he knows is a second too long. "Quite so."
Your eyes close, breathing in slowly and letting your head relax on the cushion. Baelor hovers over your chest, a kiss falling right in the center. Then another, evening your collar bones. Then another, just above your dress where your breasts are peeking out.
"I do enjoy these opportunities to appreciate my clever wife as well, so it seems I am in luck." His eyes shine as he maps out his path.
You chuckle at his response, spine swaying your body upwards. Seeking him out? Readjusting? Whatever it was, you are enjoying yourself equally.
He seals a final kiss into your palm before letting go, hands finding a new part of your body to take over. His fingers trail down along your dress, knuckles tingling over the fabric. His lips keep busy too, kissing your covered ribs, then below your hidden navel. His hand has made it to your ankle now, fingers brushing beneath the hem of your skirt.
"BaelorâŠ" you whisper his name, unsure why.
"Yes, my darling?" He murmurs back as his fingers trail up along your leg, your linen shift catching gathering around his arm.
"JustâŠ" you breathe in deeply, squirming in attempt to get him closer. "Must your appreciations be so time consuming?"
Baelor smiles down at you, his free hand brushing over your cheek to soothe. It hardly works, given you needed his touch in a much more obvious place. That is the point, though.
"Oh, darling..." he coos, kissing the corner of your lips. "To properly appreciate, it will take a generous amount of time. However, it is lovely of you to be so eager."
His hand beneath your dress is at your thigh now, smoothing inwards as he massages. You bite your lip and do your best to follow his flow. He makes it hard.
"You look gorgeous." He says it so softly, as if his thumb isn't gliding along your inner thigh in a terrible tease.
"Baelor." You whine, your own hand making way to his lower wrist with hopes to get him on track.
He lets you hold him, even lets you drag his hand closer to the heat that radiates from you. He would allow you to do any thing you pleased, any moment. But you both know you enjoy his pace.
"Yes, darling?" He asks again.
"You must give me something to work with beyond your sweet words." Your eyes open, connecting with his in a plea.
His lips curl into a smile, giving you a small nod of understanding. It is all it takes. His hand moves upward, two fingers gliding and feeling the slick between your legs.
"You melt so easily beneath my fingers," he gives praise. His fingers reward you, circling your clit. Once. Twice. Three times⊠A steady but slow pace.
Your hips lift, gaining a temporarily added pressure beneath his fingers. You still hold his wrist, your fingers twitching in the grip. Another deep breath in.
The sensation leaves for just a second, his fingers sliding back down your folds to gather more of your wet. Then, back to your clit. His pace is just slightly quicker. Once, twice, three times.
"Are you enjoying this, clever girl?" Baelor's head tilts as he watches your every move.
"Yes," you utter with quickness, chest falling with a pleased sigh. "Very much so."
"Wonderful." He kisses your cheek.
The butterflies in your stomach go wild. His pace steps up again, building momentum in his own time. Your hand lets go of his wrist finally, instead holding the plush cushion of the lounger beneath your body.
The friction on your clit adjusts again, his thumb taking over the job. He applies a slightly deeper pressure, too, earning a gasp from your lips. He smiles at his own success.
"Already making such pretty noises for me." He kisses your parted lips, his thumb giving you more of that pressure you so highly desire.
"Just think⊠think of how I will sound when you are in me." You grin at him through half lidded eyes. Always a challenge. Even when your words are broken up with a whimper.
"Let's see, then." He gives a swift nod before pausing his circular rhythm.
Your body attempts to follow his hand, but his free palm is pressing you back down. His thumb beneath your shift pressure into your clit, and just stays there. Then you feel his finger, pushing into your interest with consideration. Slow. Taunting. Something to pull the best of reactions.
Your knee lifts, seeing as your waist is still held down. He is only one knuckle deep, finger curling to tease you even there. You take your bottom lip between your teeth, a soft hum rolling in your chest. And he is fucking smiling down at you.
"What more can you do?" His eyes flicker down for a split second as his fingers dive deeper, hitting his second knuckle before beginning to pump in and out.
"Hmm⊠whatever⊠whatever you wantâŠ" you try to murmur.
He tsks, shaking his head and quickening his pace. "Now, darling. This is about you. What I want is to illicit your genuine reactions."
Is that why his thumb began to circle your clit again? And his fingers curled inside of you before continuing onâ inward, outward-dragging out a moan that he hopes came from your soul.
Your hips try another time to lift, or your body tries its best to just move. Your brain isn't sure what it is, you just need to have more, more, more.
"Beautiful work, my darling." Baelor fawns over you, his own lips parting at his observations of your undoing.
He watches the way you writhe beneath his touch. Desperately seeking any bit of contact you could have. The way it caused more of yourself to be revealed, hot cunt being hit with cold air as your dress skit pooled over your stomach. He revels in seeing how wet you had become.
The butterflies in your stomach have all melted now, or abandoned you in your pleasure. As his fingers rapidly work on your core, you cannot help but let another moan escape you.
"Baelor, just⊠keepâŠ" your mouth falls with a gasp. "MhmmâŠ"
It only takes two more drags of his fingers before you are turning you into goo beneath Baelor's touch. Your body relaxing, ecstasy coarsing through you. His fingers slip from their success.
"Look at me," Baelor speaks softly. His hand leaves its hold on your hip, finger beneath your chin to turn your gaze to him. "You did wonderful."
Your breathing is deep, slow. You smile at him, knee relaxing too and your dress skirt covering the mess he had made. "You give me far too much credit."
He chuckles, holding up his glistening fingers for a curious inspection. "I have proof that says otherwise."
He jokes, but means it entirely. His eyes are with yours again as he gives a small wave of his fingers covered in⊠you. Then, eyes still connected, his fingers go to his mouth, tongue cleaning himself off.
He hums, a soft pop as his fingers come out clean. "Now I cannot help but wonder, wife⊠what sounds will you make when you take my cock?"
sooo... đźâđš what is this about a 6.9k fic?
helloooo!!
it's at 9.2k now đ for baelor targaryen, per the poll (i know people regularly write much longer but this is literally the longest fic i have ever written in my ... 17 years of writing?)
it is called The Ocean and Its Shore đ (unless i change my mind <3) and it is a snippet of an unhappy arranged marriage... baelor gets on his knees (twice!) have the moodboard (subject to change) and a piece of the writing below ...
"Ah, yes. Me and my insecurities."
"Yes," he admits with the tilt of his head.
Your jaw clinches as the salty air grips your throat. He allows it to choke you. You do too. There is nothing Baelor Targaryen says without reason, and it might just do you well to listen. Part of you knows you are only listening to have something to bite back with.
"I have been trying to understand you." Baelor makes it sound pragmatic. "I do believe it takes exploring insecurities to truly understand a person."
This peaks your curiosity. "And what conclusion did you come to?"
"None."
What?
He said it so modestly, with his lips turned down in a dramatic frown. He has no intention of hurting you. Your shoulders relax, and Baelor rolls his head as if he is centering his thoughts. So much of your time has been spent knowing one another that it is easy to forget how much of him remains a mystery to you.
Eventually, he shrugs. "It was a fruitless effort, as I do not have access to your wits, and you are unwilling to speak with me."
"We are speaking now."
"First time through the week, which we are well past half way through."
He is right again.
Seeing it now, he is only speaking his observations. If they hurt, it was of no fault but your own.
You bade him to go on with a slight upturn in your chin. He reads you with ease.
"You wish for me to make you stay, but it is not of my nature. PerhapsâŠ" he offers a palm. "Might it be you presume that if I command it, I would be every bit as awful you had wished me to be from the moment we married? Then you would have reason to run."
Your knuckles ache as you squeeze your fingers into a fist. It is undetermined who you are angry with now. He breathes in, fingers curling back into his palm and falling to his side again.
"Or if I say 'go', I am every bit as good you had hoped before we married, and you would be permitted to leave?" He is making known, his wandering intellect. "I do not suggest you need my permission, Seven know you will do what you please. It is only the theory I have run through my mind."
Your lips feel cracked. You leave them. "You ponder this deeply over me?"
"Of course I do," his hands go behind his back. "You are my wife, my love."
The name holds your heart hostage. Using it almost feels to be a trap.
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keep going fucking feral with ideas as i work on the arranged marriage thing
Baelor would be a terrible tease (edging?) fem!reader
the way he would stroke your cheek so so so so lightly, almost making you wonder if heâs touching you at all while also driving you absolutely mad, wanting more more more⊠his ring sticking out touches just a tad more, reassuring you that it is real. he does this with his eyes eagerly eating your every little reaction. the parting of your lips, the dilation your pupils, the rising of your chest as you inhale. âdo you like that, my sweet?â
and the sick fuckerrrrrrâ he would have this ghostly trail down your entire body, the corner of his lips quirking into a smile every time your body wriggles beneath him. you try to lift yourself to his hand, and heâs quick to pull away. âah, ah⊠patience, wife. you are usually such a splendid listener. be good, perhaps there will be a reward.â perhaps my ass, you know it is a guarantee.
you convince your body to calm down, relaxing beneath him again. as much as you can with him being a tease. but then he brings his mouth into the equation. kissing along your soft, plush, bare skin. his tongue flattens against your inner thigh before his lips seal to the skin. and those damn fingers, still ghosting along. they work on the thigh opposite of his lips, coming close to where you most need him, but never quite touching. not yet. heâd take his time, sucking a mark onto your thigh and then soothing it with his tongue. then heâd tried sides.
his teeth graze your skin too, mapping where his next mark should be left. he lands somewhere higher than the previous one. still plush, and much closer to your growing desire. itâs here that your body betrays you again. his mouth his working to leave another mark, fingertips hovering down your stomach as he makes his way back to your thigh. the second you feel just one of his fingers touch the closest it has to your cunt, your hips raise. for just a moment you have just what you want. his palm pressed flat against your cunt, your own body moving from friction. then you hear a popâ
he leaves your body entirely, just like that. you are whining, eyes closed and your body falling helplessly. you hear a disapproving sound, âa lack of patience just wonât do, wife. we will try again later.â
if you wanna⊠read my oneshot about him appreciating (fingering) you
Summary: Your husband spends a lazy morning indulging in the finer things, namely: you.
WC: 3.5k
Warnings: 18+/NSFW/MDNI!, smut, fr y'all this is some nasty shit, established relationship, fluff, angst in the final hour, mentions of grief/death/spouse loss, masturbation (f! only), oral sex (f!receiving), fingering (f!receiving AYYYYYYYY), overstimulation, dom/sub dynamics if you squint, finger sucking from both of these freaks, service top!valarr (oh ty lord), also lwk switch!valarr, unprotected p-in-v sex, reader being a pillow princess, the big westerosi 'rona is implied. not beta'd idgaf. lmk if i missed any and i'll update!
Author's Note: baby's first fic, probably a nothing burger but i would genuinely give everything to throw it back on 209 valarr like wow girl i'm so bored let's go get vaccinated and make out. likes, reblogs, and comments are greatly appreciated! ty for reading! also s/o to @priestboy for the divider!!!!
A steady drip of drool came out of his mouth, loud, obnoxious snores sounding into the air. Three freckles packed together on the left curve of his nose, a flare of his nostrils as he slept. His fringe was askew across his forehead, the clump of hair shifted only to one side. You could not help yourself from reaching your thumb out and tugging down the center of his bottom lip, plush and pink.Â
You could see every crease in it, and pulled it down even further to see his gums. You traced the point where his white tooth met pink, wet and pliant. He was even pretty there, too. He stirred slightly at that, but you pulled back, your hand returning to his cheek. He made a harrumping sound, tawny eyebrows pulled together, annoyance and tiredness painted on his features. Â
âWhat are you doing?â Valarr murmured through the fog of sleep, burying his face into your neck, willowy arms wrapping around you.Â
âNothing,â you spoke into his hair, fingers twirling the ends. You dug your nose into his scalp, wanting to remember the lilac notes in it.Â
He mumbled some protests, but you couldnât make any sense of it. Jumbled and out of place vowels as he squeezed you, as if to drain the ache from his bones by pressing you into him. You stretched, moving to sit up, but he only held you tighter with an indignant huff, seeming to hope that the skin would give way to his will.
Your little laugh made the white streak in his hair sprig up with flight.Â
âAre you trying to merge your skin with mine?âÂ
He scoffed, pressing a peck to your pulse.
âYes. I would be successful, were my lady wife not to fight me.â
âAnd yet I lay here limp.â
âYour will is spiritual. And forged of iron,â he sighed. Silence fell between them, and you traced the muscled line of his arm. Eyes cast up to his, a tad bit guilty.Â
âIâm sorry I woke you.â
âAh, cease that. I never get to see you like this. Your hair all muffed up. Drool dried on your chin,â he swooned, smoothing his hand up and down the column of your throat, love in his eyes.
âThat soaked pillow is your doing, not mine,â you rebuffed, giving a small bite to his earlobe. He feigned annoyance, a sour glare cast your way.
âAnd who will believe you? Your word against a princeâsâŠ.â he tsked, nudging your nose with the tip of his.Â
âDo I get a trial at the very least?â you whispered, lips grazing the corner of his mouth.Â
âNo,â Valarr affirmed, giving you a soft kiss. He moved to your cheek, then your forehead, taking his time. Your jaw, your eyelid. Right next to your ear. âTrials are not granted for acts of treason.â
You gave him an admittedly weak scowl, flopping back against the pillow, hair strewn around the crown of your head.Â
His hands slowly slipped from your back to your waist, small, tentative touches down to the back of your thighs. His hands stilled on your hips and he restrained the urge to pinch the fat where your legs met your ass. He would dream of nothing but greedy fingers soothing the sting, rubbing circles into the flesh he had rendered you into nothing but little mewls as he licked into your mouth.Â
âWhat do you desire this morning?â he whispered into the shell of your ear. A kiss on it to leave a piece of himself with you before he left the bed.Â
Your head swam with possibilities, but indignance came first at his assessment of your wanting.
âAnd when exactly did I say I desired anything?â you protested, and yet, you smiled through the whole statement.
He sat up, beautiful hair in three different directions. The golden light from the open balcony formed a ring of light around him. One eye lit up in a mosaic of cerulean and cyan, the other with brown. You couldnât decide which one you loved most. He let out a chortle at your expression and started to smile, and at that, you became entirely too preoccupied with the way the creases around his eyes looked.Â
âYou getâŠâ Valarr waved around a hand, trying to summon the right phrase. âThis look. As if you wish to eat me alive. That is how I know you want something. To use your poor husbandâs body as a tool for thoughtless pleasure,â he added with a touch of mirth.
Your cheeks burned at his comment, half a mind to bury your face in the pillows and die, but he simply tapped your cheek and brought your hand to his lips, kissing each fingertip for every time you would not meet his eyes.Â
âIt is not an awful thing, wife. I imagine our marital bed would not be as well-used as it is were I having to guess if you wanted me,â he shrugged, bowing his head to yours. âNow, tell me what it is and I will do my best to give it to you. It is not as if I suffer in doing so. Rather the opposite.â
You looked into his eyes, earnest and brimming with affection. You swiftly nodded, a shy smile on your lips.Â
âYour fingers, for now. Then perhaps more as well.âÂ
He took your order, standing tall and naked from the bed. He strode over to the washbasin, taking his time to thoroughly scrub his hands clean, and then what was left of his and your release from the night prior off of his groin.Â
You could not free your eyes from him, the chestnut curls that grew above one of your favorite parts of him, long and heavy against the inside of his thigh as he moved a wet cloth along himself. Your mouth watered, fingers slowly moving down under the bedsheets to soothe the ache between your legs at the sight of him. You could not bear to wait until he was done. His meticulous routine always took some time, and patience was not an esteemed virtue of yours.
Strong, tanned thighs from the fortnights they had stationed away at Summerhall, more freckles dotting his skin by the day. You traced your eyes up his body, the lean muscles in his back stretching as he applied perfumed soaps and picked at a spot on his leg. Sinew against skin, stronger and bigger than he had ever been.Â
He had been training in the courtyards of Summerhall before they had returned to Dragonstone, sword clashing and countering every attack the master-at-arms threw his way. You would have every door into the castle locked if it kept him outside, tanned and panting, gleams of sweat on his brow, arms straining, growing. Thighs that strained against his trousers, bracketing yours at night when he held you. Your head grew heavy, slumping against the pillow, open-mouthed as you drank him in.Â
A few moans threatened to slip past your throat, but you quickly bit down on your bottom lip, trying with all your might to not reveal yourself. He would tease you endlessly, drag you from the covers and down to the end of the bed, drawing out every sound you prayed the guards posted outside their door would not hear. You stopped the pace of your fingers when he wiped his hands on the hand linens the servants had not yet changed from yesterday night. You willed your hands at your side, shifting the bed covers up to your chin.Â
He turned around, unhurried paces across the large room. He peeked out to the large balcony that supplemented the bed chambers, gilded beams of sunlight coming dancing off his rich skin. He strode over the railing looking over the sea, the smell of salt crisp in the air. A deep sigh broke from his lips, squinting as he gazed out at the horizon.
You cleared your throat.Â
âYouâve a wife to attend to, Your Grace.â
His chest shook with a small laugh, lips taut to one side of his mouth as he cast a look at you.Â
âMy cruelty is unparalleled,â he remarked, smiling and throwing your covers aside. The morning was warm, but the air chilled you and he quickly soothed your body with the warmth of his. You thought it better to pretend you did not feel him stirring against your leg.Â
You hummed in assent, peace on your face as he kissed along your jaw, hands quickly smoothing through his hair.Â
âTruly, youâre awful. AbsolutelyâŠâ you trailed off as he moved his fingers in a downwards arc, first tracing the line of your stomach and slowly beginning to tend to where you wanted him. You breathed deeply, focusing on the beams of the ceiling as you willed yourself not to make a fool of yourself screaming like a whore.
âIt is a beautiful morning,â he breathed against your pulse before adorning it with his mouth. âPerhaps we can go for a walk in the gardens. I know how you love the yellow roses. I should order the gardeners to plant more.â
You couldnât control the stupid smile that took over your face, and as a consequence, many of the noises built up in your throat came slipping out, your eyebrows pinched. That seemed to spur him on, lowering his head to circle his tongue around one of your nipples before popping it into his mouth. His unoccupied hand came up to abuse the other one, switching sides every time you grew too quiet.Â
They were swollen and reddened before too long, overstimulation and pleasure blurring into one another as it became too much.Â
âValarr,â you panted, gripping his hair to pull him off your chest. A flash of panic took over his face, eyes searching your face for any pain or discomfort. His worries were soon discarded when you redirected his head between your legs, a smile on his lips as he opened his mouth heartily.
He soon began to make a new mess, spit and slick forming a small pool beneath you on the bed. The spot cooling with air was the only thing that grounded you as he ate at your cunt, tongue slopping over your sex again and again. He felt relentless, pinning your hips down with one arm banded over you as you desperately tried to escape the overwhelming knot building in your stomach. You couldnât bear it but couldnât stop adorning his tongue, pulling his hair as tight as you could and rolling your hips into his mouth. Your legs closed tighter around his ears when you looked down to see him grinding himself against the mattress.Â
Prior, you wouldâve balked at how loud your moans grew, echoing in the chambers, but you now wailed with reckless abandon, every feeling and moment centered at Valarrâs nose bumping against you as he dipped down to taste the nectar that had been seeping out of your slit. He groaned into you, resuming with a fervor until your mouth dropped in a silent scream. Legs locked up, you shoved his face into your hips desperately chasing the last of the shock that lit up your bones. He worked you through it, only ceasing when you tugged his chin up to your lips, tasting yourself on his tongue.Â
You laid there panting for many moments, sweat beading at your hairline. He kissed his way back down, reinforcing his focus on your breasts, watching you twitch and whine as he pressed his lips to your oversensitive nipples. You reached down for him, using what liquid had already beaded at the tip to stroke him in full. You took turns stopping and continuing, watching a beautiful pink flush take over his chest. His soft moans, some caught in his chest, meek and quiet.Â
âPlease,â he groaned into your stomach, humping himself back and forth into our hand after you had paused. You withdrew your hands and he chuckled humorously against your skin, brows pinched together in near pain. He looked up at you, the side of his face heated by your flesh. He was just a man at his temple of choice.
You simply smiled, blissful in the glow of the pleasure he had given you, and mirthful all the same. He conceded, sighing as he accepted his fate.Â
âYou still have not used your fingers,â you chirped, nose tilted up. âThat was my sole request, lord husband.âÂ
You could feel his teeth etched against your belly in a grin.
âRight you are, my love,â he said, rising into his knees.Â
He slipped his fingers into your mouth gently, rounding them around your gums before forcing your tongue down with the pad of his ring finger. He was playing dirty; your brain always seemed to fill with fog whenever he suddenly took control back from you, if only for a moment. Your mouth started to pool with saliva, the edge of his gold wedding band caught on the bottom of your front teeth. You whined and keened, hips moving against his to find friction, but he pinned them again with his other hand.Â
âShhâŠ.,â he spoke into his knuckles, a hairâs breadth from you. Your lashes brushed up against each other, twin silk threading into each other. Your eyes bored into his, pleading and needy, weakly clenching half of his wrist with your hand. He did his best to hold his smile at bay, but he always loved you like this, drunk off your own desire. Drool started to spill from the sides of your mouth, and he simply wiped it away, replacing the streak with his kisses.Â
When he had decided youâd sufficiently drenched his fingers, he pulled his fingers out of your mouth, suppressing the smirk at the hoarse gasp you let out. Licked lips, swollen and red, biting still as he brought his hand down between your thighs. Your chin was tucked up to the sky, body practically buzzing with anticipation. His fingers brushed through you, clicking his tongue as he watched you clench around nothing.Â
 He ran them up and down the length of you, wet and sloppy, his spit making your cunt shine in the light of day. He would make seven or so passees, deliberately ignoring your clit and pinning your hips as you tried to wiggle your hips so he would go where you wished. On the eighth pass, he would finally use the full weight of his fingers to press down on your clit, beaming in the way you gripped his hair, pulling him up for a kiss. He snaked his other hand up your body, rolling his thumb around your nipple. You keened, chest rising in quick breaths, distracted enough for him to slip two fingers inside of you.Â
His pace was brutal from the beginning, short, hard thrusts of his wrist, smiling into your kisses as he felt you drip down the palm of his hand. Any other time, he would take his time with you, gentle touches and a slow temperament. The morning, however, found you rather brave, and was reserved for you being pressed into the cold, smooth mattress and asking, demanding for more. You could not think, hair sticking wildly to your forehead with sweat. Your cheeks burned at his lips against yours, and you were like to scream when he aimed his fingers upward, the loud sound of your desire reverberating in your ears. Your limbs tensed, jaw hung open, and it faded from one moment into another, Valarr suddenly over you, spreading your legs to kneel between them. He smoothed the hair from your head, kissing his way from your chin down to your stomach. Your mouth was dry, your tongue a rough weight bearing it down.Â
âWas that satisfactory? The fingers only?â he muttered into your stomach, hair ruffled as he looked up at you, head rising with the slope of your torso. You fanned the back of your hand over his cheek, laughing breathlessly as you nodded.Â
âDo you want more, or shall we make to start our day?â he inquired, sincerity etched into his brow as he chased your fingers with his mouth. He did not expect words from you in these moments, blissed out as you were. You silently pulled his arms up to plant beside your head, your answer plain to him.Â
He chuckled to himself, and lined himself up with you, the mess you had made together helping him slide into the root. He swallowed your whines, the practiced sawing of his hips digging at the spot he had already abused. He hitched your legs up, holding them to the opposite sides, his pelvis slapping onto yours now. He was everywhere, hot blood thrumming under your skin as saccharine dripped into your legs and made its way up to your stomach.Â
Your mouth was etched in an O, brows drawn together as he quickened his pace, bearing his body down on you.Â
âValarr,â you spat out after several attempts, eyes honed in on him.
He could not respond, his stomach pulling taut. He would not allow himself to, to indulge himself before he had wrung you dry. He bore you into the bed itself, your nails raking down his arms. With a weak, throaty cry, you shook in his arms, and clutched him down to you, hips still chasing his to ride you through it.Â
His thrusts turned sloppy and uneven, less care now that he had pleased you within all of your whims. His arms bracketed your head, burrowing his own into your neck. What once were reserved groans and careful slips were now uncontrolled whimpers and fervent pants against your flesh. He coated your neck in involuntary drool, cradling the top of your head as he took and took and took. Hips slapping against your, his hair catching against your clit and working your jaw open despite how much he had already given you. Words were not viable for either of you, only grunts that came from your chests and shrill moans.Â
He tensed, and he shifted to look at you, noses touching as his face clenched up. It was always his tell. Even if he was taking you from behind, one of the mirrors across the room would have to be used or he would need to flip you onto your back. Smoothing his fingers over the face he loved most, static surging through every point in his body, a knot in his stomach that refused to unfurl until he heard you say it.
âPlease,â he forced out, so close to you that it seemed there was no more room to breathe. His face was etched in perfect misery, a power only you could grant him, a fire you held the tools to extinguish with three simple words.Â
You managed to smile through his growingly rough thrusts, open mouth twisting. You gripped his hair and steered him to nearly close the gap between your lips.Â
âI love you,â you whispered to him, delighting at how such a strong man seemed to shake and tremble at a small testament.Â
He bit onto the pillow beneath you, ivory of canines and feathers embedded and intertwined. In a more sober moment, he would blush viciously at the noises he was making, but a force was driving through him that could not be contained. His throat felt raw from the whines he filled the chamber with as he finally emptied himself into you. He panted for how many minutes he could not say, red in the face and sweat adorning his hairline. You simply stroked his back, giggling at his exasperation.
He took all of the strength he had left in him to roll himself onto his back and bring you with him, not caring whether or not he stayed inside you. You were the princess; if twenty batches of moon tea was what you desired, you would have it. Your hot skin pressed into his, your weight pushing his back into the soft mattress. He settled his nose into your hair, his breath as real as the warmth from his skin on yours.Â
âIs this your favorite to remember?â he said, a soft kiss to your scalp, moving the hairs stuck to the sweat on your forehead.
Your stomach emptied at the words.Â
âThis is just a dream, is it not?â
He smiled sadly. The sight of it was so beautiful that it was no wonder it could not be reality.Â
âDoes it matter?â he said, voice so quiet it was barely above a whisper. He tucked pieces of your hair behind your ear, gazing into your eyes with an unreachable somberness. âIt happened in this bed.âÂ
âWhat a blessing,â he whispered against your lips, your eyelashes touching. âYou were the last thing I ever got to see.âÂ
You woke alone later that morning, the grey clouds cast over the capital city. The side of the bed that had laid cold and dormant for two years. You rose only to order more sleeping draughts from the maester.Â
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