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to be felled by you pt.ii | baelor targaryen x fem!reader (18+)
read pt.i here!, fics masterlist
summary: Months have passed since your wedding, and you've settled into a peaceful life with Baelor. It's only at the tourney in Ashford that you realize how much he truly means to you
author notes: pt.ii for the wedding night fic, which you can read here :)
content notes/warnings: explicit sexual content, baelor targaryen x reader, baelor targaryen x you, plot with smut, arranged marriage, pinv sex, oral sex, clothed sex, post-canon fix it, because it is THAT tourney, it's gonna get scary for a second but I promise it will be ok, light angst, yearning, canon universe, universe-typical violence, short descriptions of the trial, but nothing too crazy, mention of tanselle's broken fingers :(, older man x younger woman, no use of Y/N, no beta read
There were days when you thought it was all a trick of the light.
Baelor was attentive and caring; he was often kept by his duties, but when he couldn't dine with you, he always made sure to send word of it and tell the servants to leave a bouquet of flowers at your bedside.
He adorned you in beautiful silks, even if he himself avoided flashy attire. He was endlessly mindful of you and his boys, even when his attention was constantly needed at court; you felt a deep affection for him because of that. You loved how kind, considerate, and gentle he was.
The only thing you loved more was when he pinned your hips down and ate you, making you come over and over again on his tongue.
Most evenings, when he returned late from his study, he lay down in bed quietly so as not to wake you, and by the dawn he was gone again. Whenever that happened, you found fresh roses on the table with an apology scribbled in his own handwriting. As you made love to him, you always hoped that in the morning he would wake at your side, but he couldn't. Your feverish nights were quenched by the cold light of the day.
Each evening, you hoped it would be one of those when he came back to you like a famished man; when you could tell that his work had worn him down. He placed his hand on your waist gently and left it there as he watched you sleep. You could feel his restraint, the taut muscles in his hands as they radiated heat against your skin; the way his thumb rubbed slowly; he didn't want to wake you.
But you were always awake, waiting for him to come back. So when you could feel him pull away as he decided to let you rest, you turned around and pulled his lips to yours.
Something about those late hours broke down your inhibitions: his and yours. No words, just your tongues entangled, your teeth clashing, messy, heavy, passionate. His usual poised demeanor gone, fucking you like your being was the nectar to his thirst; like he never wanted to let go.
But he always had to, when morning came. A pang of sadness hit you each time the sunlight kissed your face, and you knew that his side of the bed was long cold. You could smell the fragrance of freshly cut roses before you opened your eyes.
You arrived at Ashford Meadow on a dewy morning.
Maekar had been grumbling about the trip for days, but you understood why it was so important. It was always long-talked-about whenever the Targaryens visited country lords; you yourself had heard all the rumors and stories long after the feasts and tourneys. This one already proved to be interesting. You had been preparing yourself for weeks to support your husband's house in any way you could.
When Aerion impaled Ser Humfrey Hardyngβs horse, you thought it could not get any worse. Baelor went into damage control; you didn't say it, but you despised Aerion for it. He didn't understand the implications of his actions. You felt rage as you watched your husband pace his room at night, thinking of how to right his nephew's wrongs.
'It is late. Go to bed without me, dear wife,' he told you, and you bid him good night.
So when Aerion broke the finger of that puppeteer girl and then demanded the head of the knight who ran to her rescue, you wished you could strike him. You asked the Gods for forgiveness for your thoughts.
After a long night of discussions, Baelor returned to you in a heavy mood. You sat up when you heard him walk in.
'What of the knight?' you asked.
He sat beside you and placed his hand on yours. You expected him to say something horrific. That he'd be executed. The Targaryen house would never recover from such an action; Aerion had no idea what he had done.
'There will be a trial at dawn,' he murmured, absentmindedly stroking your hand.
'With Aerion and the hedge knight?' that was not much better. The knight was much taller than the prince and seemed strong, but there was no way he could stand a chance against Aerion's training. Your heart lurched at the thought of seeing him killed.
'It will be a trial of seven,' Baelor said, eyes looking off into the fireplace.
You knew of it. It was an old Andal custom; the knight would be dead in the morning if he could not find six men to fight by his side.
Baelor was still staring at the fire as he said the next words.
'It is in the hands of the Gods now.'
But when dawn came, it seemed that Ser Duncan had, after all, mustered supporters. It sent a message of a loud truth: the people were not blind. They saw unfairness when it was in front of them. The crowd around the knight was essentially the embodiment of the Targaryens' weakness. Something you knew that people like Aerion would never understand.
So when Baelor donned Valarr's armor, you knew he had no choice but to. There was still a way to right Aerion's wrongs. It was the correct thing to do.
So why was there a pit in your stomach as you watched your husband with his sword at his side?
'I know I am causing you worry by doing this. Forgive me for it,' he said to you.
'If you think it is right, Your Grace,' you whispered. Your throat was so tight you could barely get the words out.
He looked at you then, eyes with a glint of sadness that you hadn't seen before. He asked, tenderly:
'We've been married a while now. Must you still call me that?'
From the moment he saw you, Baelor swore to give you a happy life.
His heart sank when he saw the young, sad girl whose father paraded her out like a horse at the fair.
He wouldn't ask you to love him: he didn't feel he had the right to. You, young, beautifulβhow could he, a widowed man, way past his prime, ever be a worthy match for that? You deserved to be loved by someone full of life; someone who could give you their days and nights, like you deserved.
Instead, you were stuck in a dark castle, with barely any familiar faces by your side. He noticed the way your sworn knight looked at you even back at your ancestral home: it filled him with envy, and that made him ashamed. What right did he have to feel like that? The betrothal was political. He could not ask you to give your heart to him if it belonged to another.
So when you said that you did not love your knight, a selfish relief filled him, and its emergence gave way to something else too. Did you even want him? How could he live up to the affections of a young man? He felt filthy for wanting to touch you, but he burned for it. At all times, he tried to keep the feeling locked inside, but when his mind quieted at night and his exhaustion from the day unwrapped every want in his heart, he could not stop himself from thinking of you.
He remembered the way you fell apart in his hands on your wedding night. He remembered the way you felt around him; your mouth on his, whispering his name: Baelor.
You only ever called him that when you lay together. He felt guilty, like he earned it only by playing a dirty game. But he couldn't help it. Each time you pulled him inβjust as he forced himself to push awayβhe tried to draw those words from your mouth, over and over again.
His name.
Because he knew that in the morning, it would be back to Your Grace.
Please, just let it be over...
You thought, as you watched Aerion walk away from the poor knight. Ser Duncan lay in the mud, motionless. The prince turned to Lord Ashford and yelled:
'He's dead!'
Lord Ashford was ready to sound the hornβat least it would put an end to the horrific scene. Several participants lay injured; many were still fighting. You watched as Baelor, alongside Lyonel Baratheon, took on Maekar. Beesbury, Hardyng, and Daeron all lay unmoving.
End it already...
But just then, a high scream and shocked gasps from the crowd; everything happened fast, as Ser Duncan crawled to Aerion and began to strike the prince.
You began to feel faint as you watched the scene unfold; hit after hit, it seemed Aerion was barely moving now... but as Ser Duncan dragged him in front of the stands and Lord Ashford walked closer, you saw the prince's mouth move. In the next moment, the horn sounded, and you felt like a stone fell from your heart.
Just as you looked over to see Maekar's mace fling, and knock Baelor to the ground.
The next few days passed under unbearable strain.
For the first few nights, the maesters were discouraging of Baelor's condition: they didn't tell you, of course. Just that the prince was in the best hands possible; that they were doing everything they could and that soon they would know more. But you saw the way they whispered when they didn't notice you were around the corner. You saw how they pulled Valarr aside. You saw how Maekar avoided you.
After a couple of days, they let you stay with him, and from then on, you did not leave his side. The first time you carefully placed your hand on his, the coolness of his skin frightened you. It was unlike the warmth that usually beamed from his touchβyou were terrified that it was a sign of him slipping away.
Those hands that held you as you trembled in front of him, confessing the secret that weighed on your heart on your wedding day. Those hands that comforted you as you realized you were not going to be sent home. Those hands that you felt on yourself when he returned to your bed after a long night, melting into your frame like you were one and the same.
They now lay by his side, motionless; if not for the soft rise of his chest, he looked...
No, no, no.
It couldn't be. Not like this.
All you could think of was the last thing he said to you:
Must you still call me that?
You wished you didn't. You wished you had told him you wanted him to return. You wished you had called him what your heart truly yearned for.
'Baelor...'
Almost inaudibly, you whispered. As the sweet word left your mouth, you felt everything in you give in.
'Baelor, don't leave me, please...'
You laid your face on his cold hand, unable to keep yourself sitting up straight. Your tears covered his skin; your shoulders shook as you heard Valarr whisper to the maesters at the door:
'Leave her be.'
You wished it made a difference. You wished you had some sort of proof that if you said something to him now, he'd hear it. Most of all, you wished you knew it was the last time you spoke with him on the morning of the trial: you wouldn't have said something so stupid and meaningless. You would have said his name. You would have thanked him for the home he made for you. You would have said you loved him for it.
'Baelor...'
Gods know how long you were like that: the hot tears cooled on your face, and a blunt lull came over you. Exhaustion began to pull you under when you thought you felt a soft motion against your face.
At first, you thought you were dreaming.
But then you felt it again. The faintest quiver of fingers, and then the weakest sound broke the silence. But you could make out the words:
'Dear wife...'
The relief that everybody in the castle felt was unimaginable.
You were still reeling from the fact that you thought you'd have to bury your husband. Now he was back with you, albeit weak and still bound to bed, but with every coming day, the maesters let him walk around in his room for longer.
You held his hand as he took his first feeble steps; you wanted him to know you were there. That you wouldn't leave.
It had been weeks now, and you expressed your apologies over and over to Lord Ashford, who insisted that the prince would be welcome as long as he needed. You felt sympathy for the poor man and his daughter; to have a name day celebration clouded by so many misfortunes...
'What's on your mind, my love?'
Baelor sounded much more like himself these days. With each day, he regained his strength; he was now lying on propped-up pillows, hands resting on his abdomen as he watched you with your book on your lap.
You closed your book and reached over to hold his hand.
'I pity Lord Ashford. And the girl. I keep thinking of how they must feel... two funerals...'
And then you too, almost... The thought still sliced through your mind from time to time.
'We must thank them for their kindness once I am well enough to leave,' he murmured, as he ran circles on your hand.
'We will. But for now, you must rest, Baelor,'
He smiled at that, and you did too. His name was not a stranger on your lips: you were done treating it as such.
'Come kiss me,' he beckoned, and you leaned closer to his face.
You planted a chaste kiss on his lips, but as you pulled away, you felt his hands on your face as he drew you back. His eagerness surprised you; his tongue pried your mouth open, and you sighed at the sensation...
'Baelor...' you chuckled, but kept kissing him. Oh, how you missed him like this...
Then you felt his hands slip into the front of your dress, grasping your breast. You let out a laugh and whispered:
'The maesters will kill us,'
'Then I will be glad to die in your embrace,' he was kissing you with fervor, 'please, I need you...'
You felt warmth pool between your legs at his words. You looked over your shoulder to make sure the door was closed. He helped you onto him; there was no time to get undressed.
You both laughed as you fumbled with your hands under your skirt, finding a way to push your smallclothes aside, but then you did, and your breath hitched at the feeling of him against you.
He was harder than you've ever felt him be.
You sank down on him, and he let out a groan.
'Shhh...' you giggled, but you could hardly hide your panting as you began to ride him.
You were nervous you'd hurt him, so you rocked slowly. He still didn't seem to be at his full health, but his hands gripped your waist like he was never going to let go.
'Baelor,' you panted softly.
'Yes, my love,' his breath was heavy, his eyes burning with desire as he looked up at you.
'Don't ever leave me again,' you whispered, and cradled his face with your hands as you leaned over him.
Anya is live and ready to show you everything. Watch her strip, dance, and perform exclusive shows just for you. Interact in real-time and make your fantasies come true.
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pairing: baelor "breakspear" targaryen x f!stark!reader
and so the story goes: a dragon falls in love with a wolf, ice invites fire.
content warnings/contains: stark!reader (no physical description other than the fact you're barthogan stark's daughter); set pre-akotsk so no show spoilers, but post first blackfyre rebellion; strangers to lovers; implied age gap; protective!smitten!baelor; angst/fluff; mutual pining; falling in love; sexual tension; court drama.
βΉ ΰ£ͺ Λ pinterest board |Β inspo tag & asks | ao3βbaelor/lady stark playlist | aerion/lady stark playlist
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