Jasminesda

Baelor was never one to dwell on anything for too long, for fear of it becoming draining, for he had long ago schooled himself against brooding humours and idle suspicions. However, it was very curious when he started to notice that his dear wife had begun to spend, perhaps, far too much time in the company of his brother.

It started small - you leaving him cold in the mornings with a brisk kiss pressed more to duty than to want, your fingers slipping from his before he was fully risen from the bed, the space beside him cooling quicker than it ought. It grew harder to find you throughout the day, the solar empty when he sought you, the gardens walked and abandoned, the sept visited yet already left. And when at last he did find you - it was always somewhere near Maekar, your heads inclined toward one another in low discourse, your posture too intent to be idle courtesy.

He loved his little brother, perhaps more than any of the others, for Maekar’s temper was plain and his loyalties rarely strayed, and Baelor had ever understood him in ways the rest of the court did not. So he knew, in reason and in honour, that the situation before him was most definitely not the awful one his mind sought to conjure almost instantaneously. Maekar was not a serpent in his grass, nor a thief of what was not his.

Yet reason does not always silence the heart.

Many times he had peeked into doorways and spotted you two; your gown brushing the stone, Maekar’s voice pitched low enough that Baelor could not make out the words. There was nothing improper in the distance between you, nothing that could be named as sin, and still it unsettled him. You would separate when he approached, not guiltily perhaps, but with a swiftness that did not go unnoticed. You would greet him with composure, yet your gaze did not linger as it once had. There had been occasions when he watched you dismiss Valarr and Matarys from a room with gentle firmness, sending them off under some light excuse, your tone leaving no space for argument. The door would close. Maekar would follow shortly thereafter. The pattern repeated itself enough that it ceased to be chance.

He told himself it was purely coincidence. The Red Keep was not so vast that paths did not cross. Still, coincidence loses its innocence when it repeats.

At supper, you were courteous and attentive, seated beside him as you always had been, your hand resting atop his under the table, yet there was a difference in you. When he spoke, you listened; when he smiled, you returned it; but there was something telling in the curve of your lip and the squint of your eye - He would catch Maekar observing the two of you in silence, his expression unreadable until making eye-contact with him; to which he would grin, and Baelor found that he disliked that most of all.

He shook his head free of those creeping notions and stepped forward one afternoon when he found you alone at last, the light from the narrow windows catching in the strands of your hair. Without ceremony he embraced you, his hands settling firm at your waist, grounding himself in the familiar shape of you. He pressed a kiss to the crown of your head, breathing in the scent of lavender and rosewater.

You stiffened only for a breath before relaxing against him, though even in that small hesitation he found cause for unrest.

You had been married for almost half his life, had stood beside him through councils and campaigns, through the births of Valarr and Matarys, through griefs and triumphs alike. There was absolutely no reason to suspect you of betrayal, not with the years you had shared, not with the sons who bore both your features between them. And there was even less cause to imagine such treachery with Maekar, the very man who still carried the memory of Dyanna in quiet devotion, who had never once given any sign of seeking comfort elsewhere. Baelor drew back slightly to study your face, his mismatched eyes searching for something he could neither name nor justify. He told himself he was being foolish, that this was nothing more than courtly business or some domestic matter he had not yet been made privy to. Still, the doubt lingered like a shadow to a wall.

His hand tightened at your waist, not possessive but seeking reassurance, and he murmured your name softly, as though the sound alone might steady the restless thoughts gathering in his mind. “Good afternoon, my sweet prince,” you mused, lifting your eyes to his with a softness that might have undone a lesser man.

There was something in the manner you regarded him, steady and unashamed, that made him feel not as heir nor as Hand, but simply as your husband. He thought, not for the first time, that he would wed you ten times over if only to be met with that same expression at every turning. Irrevocably beautiful, you are.

“Afternoon, my dear wife,” he returned, voice gentled despite the weight that so often lay upon it.

His hand rose of its own accord, broad palm settling against your cheek. His thumb traced a slow path along your skin, an intimate gesture long familiar between you. He did not rush it. He never rushed you. There was comfort in the constancy of such touch, in the assurance that no matter the burdens of court, this remained unaltered.

The affection between you had always been present, neither performative nor scarce. Yet of late it had been accompanied by something he could not easily name. 

Baelor was not a suspicious man by nature. He trusted those he loved. He permitted you your privacy, your correspondences, your quiet dealings. A wife was not a prisoner, nor was a brother an adversary. Yet secrecy of this nature, layered and persistent, sat ill within a marriage bound not only by affection but by crown. You were consort to the Heir, and he was not merely a husband but a prince whose life was never wholly his own.

Still, you were never cold. You did not withdraw from his side at table, nor deny him the closeness of night. You did not refuse his hand when he offered it, nor turn your face from his kiss. If anything, your attentions remained as constant as ever - if not more - which made the quiet concealments all the more perplexing.

So he mastered the disquiet stirring within him. He swallowed his pride, as any man must who would rule wisely, and turned again to the labours that consumed his hours. The duties of Hand did not lessen for his private doubts. Petitions awaited his seal, disputes required judgment, and the realm demanded steadiness where his own thoughts threatened to wander.

“No, Maekar, I have heard him plainly declare he does not like Arbor Gold–No! He said it is far too sweet,” you retorted, the edge of your voice laced with playful exasperation. Maekar rubbed at his forehead, a gesture of utter frustration. “By the gods, both old and new, at this point I require the Arbor Gold merely to endure you,” he muttered, and you could not help but grin at the way he snapped, a faint warmth stirring at the sight of his temper.

“Now, you said you have some notion for the tourney, did you not? Pray, what is it,” you demanded, steadying yourself into your chair, the parchment spread before you both. The tone was firm yet carried the lightness of teasing that had become customary between you, a way to ease the weight of planning the grand day that was yet to come.

For a month you had worked quietly, away from prying eyes, carefully arranging the particulars of your husband’s name day. Each detail considered not merely out of duty, but from love, from gratitude for the constancy of his devotion and the breadth of his care. Every event, every small flourish was meant to honor him, to reflect the years you had shared and the life you had built together.

Maekar had been cautious at first, reluctant to involve himself with his brother’s wife, not accustomed to your temperament or your ways. Yet as he glimpsed the scope of the plans, the care with which you conceived each matter, his reluctance softened. He offered what assistance he could, lending his knowledge of the keep and its courtiers, his hand in preparations, and a careful eye to ensure all might proceed without flaw.

All of it was to remain secret, a challenge not for lack of patience but for the very nature of surprise. You were ill-fitted to concealment; the impulse to speak, to share, had always been part of your being. And yet you restrained yourself, for this purpose, knowing the delight in Baelor’s eyes upon the unveiling would outweigh any discomfort of silence.

So when Baelor appeared unexpectedly in corridors, rounding corners with the impatience of one unaccustomed to being left out, you and Maekar would exchange hurried glances. He pressed questions, probing for the smallest hint, his gaze sharp enough to still your tongue. The threat of that look alone was enough to compel your quiet. Part of you resisted it; part of you ached at hiding from him, yet you endured it, for you knew the truth of his nature: he adored celebrations, and the greatest joy he held was in the unexpected, in wonder revealed.

You had separated yourself with care, so as not to draw suspicion, and now you sat to dine with your husband and children in the quiet warmth of the solar, sunlight spilling across the polished wood and glinting upon the goblets before you. “You have been spending an ungodly amount of time with uncle lately, mother,” Matarys declared with unabashed bluntness, flicking a small, rebellious pea at Valarr’s forehead. Your eldest son frowned, lips pressed into a line, though the faint twitch at the corner betrayed the amusement he tried to conceal.

Matarys was entirely your own blood, untamed and spirited, inheriting none of Baelor’s measured composure or calm restraint. Your youngest moved through the world with wild delight, every gesture unbound, every word a spark of life, and it was a wonder you managed to keep even half the household in order with such energy around you.

“Have I?” you asked lightly, tilting your head as though considering the accusation, the corner of your lips curving with restrained amusement. “I had not thought so,” you added, glancing subtly toward Baelor from the corner of your eye. He watched you with an intensity that was patient yet searching, his mismatched eyes tracing the way you shifted, the smallest flex of muscle betraying thought or hesitation.

Beneath the table, your hand found his, brushing against the warmth of his palm with quiet reassurance, a touch meant for only the two of you. “And how fare those dreadful papers, my love?” you asked softly, pressing the edge of your embroidered cloth to your lips, tilting your gaze toward him with a look both tender and questioning. His hand tightened slightly around yours, and you felt the unspoken weight of his day, the burdens of crown and duty pressing invisibly upon him, even as the children chattered on.

A few hours later you met him again, this time within the quiet confines of your study, a chamber seldom used and shadowed by high shelves and the scent of old vellum, which was precisely why you had summoned Maekar to join you. The parchment lay spread across the table between you, ink still damp, the lines of carefully written names and notes catching the weak afternoon light that filtered through the narrow windows.

“You are far too generous,” he scowled - though you were certain that was just his reading face, his voice low as he scanned the list of provisions and guests. “He will suspect something if half the kitchens are set to this task.”

“He suspects something, I am certain,” you admitted, brows drawn together as your eyes fell to your rings, twisting them absently between your fingers. “I long to tell him, yet I cannot, not just yet, not until the moment is right.”

Maekar’s expression shifted at your words, a flicker of unease crossing his features before he smoothed it into the usual mask of composure. He rested his hand upon the edge of the table, leaning closer, and began to point out a name he thought ill-suited to the list. You pressed your own palm over the parchment to steady it, your attention wholly fixed on the discussion of who might or might not attend, entirely unaware of the quiet corridors that stretched beyond the study door.

Then the door opened.

You knew that sound as surely as you knew your own pulse. Before you could even think to speak, you folded the parchment with deliberate haste and drew it beneath your sleeve, your fingers trembling slightly as the damp ink pressed against your palm. The motion was too quick, too sharp, betraying the nervousness you had not meant to show. Maekar straightened instantly, jaw set in that familiar, stubborn line he wears when he looks as though he wishes for the world to be ablaze, his eyes flicking toward you with a silent question.

Baelor stood in the doorway, still and composed, unreadable as ever. His mismatched eyes moved from your face to Maekar’s hand upon the table, lingering for a heartbeat longer than comfort allowed, before returning to you. Not a word passed his lips, yet the silence carried weight heavier than any spoken anger could. You felt your stomach tighten, a cold ache spreading beneath your ribs, and for a fleeting moment you longed to rise, to step forward, to explain everything, to assure him that the secrecy was for his joy alone.

The quiet struck harder than anger ever might have, and you could not meet his gaze—not from guilt, not entirely, but from the sudden and terrifying realization that he could misread every gesture, every small action you had taken in careful secrecy. The plans that had once felt innocent now pressed against your chest like a weight, and the very thought of his misunderstanding made your hands clammy.

He inclined his head briefly, composed as ever, and withdrew from the room without accusation, the door closing behind him with a soft click that seemed impossibly loud in the stillness.

You let out a slow breath only when the echo of his steps had faded, your hands trembling as you pressed the folded parchment against your bodice, as though it could shield more than the inked words from his gaze. “This will end poorly,” Maekar murmured, his voice low, almost conspiratorial.

You nodded, biting your lip. “I agree,” you admitted softly, the weight of the evening pressing on you. Yet despite the fear and the tension, you could not linger any longer in that horrible silence. You rose, smoothing your skirts and collecting the remaining papers, deciding it best to retreat to your chambers.

Turning to Maekar, you offered a careful smile, though it did little to ease the tension that lingered in your shoulders. “Goodnight, good-brother,” you said, your voice steady, though your heart raced. He inclined his head in return, a faint quirk of his lips acknowledging your words, and you departed, the door closing behind you.

You brushed the hair out of Matarys’ eyes, kissing his forehead. “Goodnight, my sweetling.” He grinned up at you - his front tooth missing. Baelor stood at the doorway; watching and waiting – thought he could not lie the sight warmed his heart- set it afire. “Goodnight, son.” He smiled, “Night mama, papa.” He lisped, turning over and almost instantly falling asleep. You left, closing the door before reaching for your husbands hand - to which he pulled away. You felt as though he had reached into the hearth and put a hot poker against your beating heart - “What is the matter, my love?” You grabbed his shoulder softly, stopping him from walking further. He grabbed you by the wrist and pulled you into your shared chambers - the candles flickering and the hearth ablaze - the room felt impossibly hot.

“Tell me,” he said, and there was no gentleness in it, only exhaustion held tight. “Have I misjudged my own wife, or my own brother?” He let go of your wrist - so as to not hurt you, and he flexed his hand.

You looked up, startled, then offended. You stepped closer. “What are you speaking of?” 

He did not raise his voice when he spoke, perhaps that was worse. “Do not insult me with ignorance. I have seen you whispering - I have seen you hide things from me. If there is something between you and Maekar, I would sooner hear it from your mouth than from another’s.” He looked into your eyes; and in his there was a line of water. Your hand met your mouth.

The words hung there, heavy and bitter. For a moment you only stared at him. Then your expression shifted, not of guilt or one of being caught - one of disbelief.

“Are you serious?” you said quiet as to not wake Matary’ and Valarr by shouting, but your voice was stern. “You think I would shame you? With your brother?” 

His jaw tightened. “What else am I to think?”

You crossed the room to the desk where a small chest lay tucked beneath cloth. With little ceremony you drew the key - unlocked it and from it the parchment he had seen earlier, along with a list of names, menus, and sealed invitations bearing his sigil.

“For an entire month,” you said, “I have been planning your feast, your fortieth name-day. The lords from Dorne, the singers you favour, the wines you once said reminded you of Sunspear. Maekar has done nothing but argue over the guest list, whether your like arbor gold or not and ensure the tiltyard is fit for a tourney in your honour.” There was a beat of silence.  “We have hidden it because you are impossible to surprise.” There was no softness in your tone, only the sound of your wounded pride. Baelor’s gaze fell to the parchment, to the detailed and careful ink – He saw his own name written there, not as a prince nor as a lord - but as a husband - your husband.

He closed his eyes briefly. When he opened them, the suspicion had drained away, leaving only guilt. You sat at the edge of the bed; skirts pooling. “I thought…” he began, and did not finish. You folded your arms as you frowned “You thought I would betray you.”

He stepped toward you then, slower than before, as though approaching something fragile. “I thought I was losing you,” he said plainly; knelt before you. His arms looping around your waist as he hugged it. The anger in you faltered at that. “I am a damned fool,” he said, low. “Forgive me.”

“You are,” you answered, though your voice had softened. “But you are my fool.” Your fingers ran through his cropped hair, soothing him. His arms tightened around your waist, pulling you flush against him as he knelt there, his breath ragged against the thin fabric of your gown. 

The misunderstanding's sting lingered, but beneath it burned a fiercer need - a raw, aching want to reclaim what was his, to drown the doubt in the heat of your bodies entwined. You felt it in the way his fingers dug into your hips, not bruising but possessive, urging you to straddle his thigh as he nuzzled higher, lips grazing the soft mound where your desire already wept.

"Let me taste you, my dear wife," he whispered, voice a low rumble that vibrated through you, his hands deftly bunching your skirts to your waist. The ties of your dress gave way under his touch, and he then stripped you off your smallclothes, exposing your slick folds to the chamber's warmth. Your core throbbed, slickness trailing down your thighs, and when his mouth descended, tongue flat and insistent against your aching slit, you bucked against him with a whimper that bordered on a sob.

Baelor devoured you like a man starved, lips sealing around your swollen pearl, sucking hard enough to draw stars behind your eyelids. 

His tongue plunged deep, fucking into your heat with controlled fury, lapping up every drop of your arousal as if it were the sweetest wine from Dorne. You clutched at his hair, yanking hard when he flicked relentlessly, the pull eliciting a growl from him that hummed straight to your clit. The pleasure surged, hot and unrelenting, your thighs clamping around his head as the first climax ripped through you - walls spasming, a gush of wetness flooding his mouth.

But he didn't stop. Gods, he couldn't. His hands pinned your hips, forcing you to ride his face as he chased your peak higher, tongue circling your oversensitive nub while two thick fingers thrust inside, curling to stroke that hidden spot. You writhed, tears welling hot in your eyes from the exquisite torment, body betraying you with another release that left you squirting against his lips, soaking his chin and the collar of his tunic. "Baelor.. -please," you gasped, voice breaking, but he only hummed in approval, licking you clean before rising, his eyes dark with unspent hunger.

He shed his breeches in one swift motion, his cock bobbing free - thick as your wrist, veined and leaking pre-cum from the tip, flushed a deep red with need. You stared, transfixed even after all these years, as he guided you back onto the bed, furs soft against your spine. With a gentleness that belied the fire in his gaze, he lifted your legs, draping them over his broad shoulders, folding you beneath his weight until your knees pressed near your ears, your dripping cunt splayed wide for him. The position pinned you open, vulnerable, every inch of you his to claim.

The blunt head of his cock nudged your entrance, teasing through your slickness before he drove forward - slow at first, stretching you inch by agonizing inch around his girth until he bottomed out, balls slapping against your arse. You cried out, the fullness bordering on pain, but it swiftly melted into bliss as he began to move, hips rolling in deep, punishing thrusts that ground his shaft against your walls. His hand tangled in your hair, pulling your head back to expose your throat, where he bit down lightly, marking you as he fucked you harder, the wet sounds of your joining filling the room.

Tears streamed hot down your cheeks, mixing with sweat, the intensity of his possession unraveling you. "You're mine," he grunted softly, voice steady but laced with desperation, each word punctuated by a snap of his hips. "Fill you with my seed - give me a daughter, fair and fierce like you." The thought of it, his cum taking root deep inside, sent you spiraling, your cunt clenching around him like a vice. You moaned then, loud and wanton, the sound echoing off the stone walls, unchecked in your abandon.

His palm clamped over your mouth instantly, fingers firm but tender, muffling your cries. His eyes bored into yours, fierce and loving. "Hush, dearest," he breathed, the words a silken command amid the storm, "remember the children are asleep." He withdrew completely, leaving you achingly empty, a whine escaping your covered lips - then slammed back in, burying himself to the hilt in one brutal thrust that shattered you. Your body convulsed, squirting around his cock as orgasm tore through, milking him desperately.

His free hand gripped your thigh, fingers bruising the soft flesh as he angled deeper, forcing your walls to stretch impossibly around him. “Gods.. – you take me so well,” he rasped, voice a gravelly whisper laced with raw hunger, his breath hot against your ear as he leaned in, his dark hair sticking to his forehead. But words gave way to action; he fucked you deeper - and faster - the bedframe creaking under the onslaught, furs bunching and shifting with the violence of his need. Your clit throbbed untouched, but the friction of his pubic bone grinding against it with each downward slam sent sparks racing up your spine, building the pressure until you were keening, moans turning to desperate sobs of ecstasy.

Sweat slicked your bodies, he had ripped his tunic off at some point - revealing his well-built chest. He shifted slightly, one arm bracing beside your head while the other tangled tighter in your hair, yanking your head back further to bare more of your neck for his lips. He sucked there, teeth grazing, as his cock plundered your depths - long, dragging strokes that pulled whimpers from you, then short, frantic jabs that had you gasping, body quaking. “More- p-please, more,” you begged, voice breaking on the words, your hands clawing at his shoulders, then travelling to his back; scratching him like a cat might scratch a post. There would most definitely be marks in the morning.

Baelor obliged with a guttural groan, his usual princely manners dropping as he pounded into you without mercy,, your knees nearly touching your shoulders, cunt splayed and vulnerable to his every invasion. Each thrust drove the air from your lungs in explosive moans- “Oh - yes! …fuck” -the profanity slipping past your lips in the haze of bliss. Your juices flowed freely, coating his shaft, dripping down to soak the furs and his sack, the slickness allowing him to glide deeper, hitting places that made your vision blur. You came again - emitting a moan that bordered on a scream; but he silenced you with a kiss.

Baelor followed with a guttural groan, hips stuttering as he flooded you, thick ropes of cum painting your womb, spilling out around his shaft with each grind. He pumped deeper, ensuring it stayed buried, his seed hot and abundant. Only when the last pulse faded did he ease free, his cock slick and still half-hard, glistening with your juices and his release.

You moved before thought could catch you, sliding down his body, perhaps a rather early nameday gift - Your lips parted wide, taking his fat length straight to the back of your throat in one greedy swallow, gagging softly but pushing on, nose brushing his abdomen as you deepthroated him fully. He hissed, hand cradling your head, fingers threading gently now as you bobbed, sucking with fervent pulls, tongue swirling the underside to coax every drop. The salt of his cum mingled with your essence on your tongue, and you hummed around him, the vibration drawing a shudder from his frame.

His release built swift under your worship, spilling down your throat in heavy, endless spurts that you swallowed hungrily, not spilling a drop. When he softened, you pulled back with a gasp, lips swollen and shining, and he drew you up into his arms, holding you close as the hearth's glow bathed your spent forms. The doubt was gone, replaced by this – raw, unbreakable want.

You rounded the corner of the corridor, clutching the parchments for the feast, and froze as Maekar stepped into view, a faint, knowing half-smile tugging at his lips.

“So,” he said, tilting his head, “I knew it would be only a matter of time before you could not hold it in anymore, Baelor knows now, yes?” He spoke gruffly.

“Yes,” you admitted, you admittedly had a pep in your step.. “We can now stop planning in secret, and ask him for what he likes!.”

Maekar rolled his eyes, “I am just going to say it so no one else does - it is a wonder the people of Dorne themselves did not hear you two..”

Your face flamed, and you pressed a hand to your mouth, heart thudding. Behind you, Baelor’s hands slid around your waist, firm and familiar, drawing you close. The warmth of him grounded you as Maekar smirked at Baelor - who was likely making a face - and you could not help the heat creeping up your neck.