To The Stars Who Listen

You had expected to pursue the Prince Valarr, when you’d first come to court. By all accounts, he was kind, measured, too dutiful for his own good. Handsome, if you were any judge of men’s looks. Easy, your mother told you. Prince Valarr would not deny you anything, should you become his wife, and you knew it from just a few minutes of conversation with him. If you nudged, he would flop over, belly up. 

And yet, against everything you had been raised to want, you found yourself pulled to his father instead. Every conversation you had with Prince Baelor was more engaging than the last when you realized he did not expect you to only be knowledgeable in matters of fashion and embroidery. His willingness to converse with you deeply, truly, beyond courtly pleasantries, brought you closer till you spent more time with him than his son — more time than was appropriate. 

Now, a moon’s turn after your departure from King’s Landing, you were returning as the Crown Prince’s betrothed instead. 

He had taken some convincing, when you first confronted him with your desire, one you knew he returned despite his insistence that it was a passing fancy, that you did not truly want a widower who is twice your own age, that you knew not what you spoke of. But you were nothing if not skilled at persuasion, and when he finally came to you at Highgarden, you were smiling at him knowingly before he could even bend down on one knee. 

There was another month to go, still, till the day of your wedding, much to your dismay. While you were uncompromising on your vision for the grand occasion — you’ve had the details planned since you were a child, and you would not let something as silly as time stop you from importing the Qaathi silk of your dreams for your wedding dress — you must admit, the precautions taken to preserve your honour in the time since you’ve arrived are beginning to grate your nerves. 

Baelor Targaryen is known for his impressive patience. It is his ability to lie in wait that won him countless battles against the Blackfyre pretender, and it has never once hurt his cause to exercise caution, to wait and strategise before charging in headfirst. 

And yet, he feels his patience slipping. 

He held himself back when he first met you, repressing his affections as you grew closer, reminding himself countless times that it was improper to want someone ostensibly meant for his own son. He was hesitant even when you yourself proposed a marriage, confessing that you loved him, as he loved you — he barely allowed himself to indulge when you threw your arms around his neck and pulled him into a desperate kiss. Even then, he waited over a fortnight after you left in disappointment till he rode for Highgarden, taking the time to discuss it with his son and his own father. 

Baelor Breakspear, the Hammer, known for his unbreaking composure. How humorous, he thinks, that my reputation will be soiled by someone in a silk dress instead of chainmail. 

The dresses you brought with you from Highgarden were all quite stylish, elaborate and brightly coloured, and much more low cut than anything worn by the other ladies at court. Even now, as you sit across from him in an evening gown, properly long-sleeved and dark-coloured, the sleeves sit just under the curve of your shoulders, exposing the top of your chest. Your hair, perfectly curled and braided, does nothing to hide the expanse of your neck from his roaming eyes. 

You converse pleasantly, ever the agreeable girl you’re known to be, chatting with his nieces about the wedding preparations and how you’re finding King’s Landing now that you know it is to be your home. You are the picture of propriety, and yet he is having trouble keeping his eyes off you. 

He is painfully aware that he could call you to his chambers. You’ve been kept on the opposite side of the Red Keep, far from the Tower of the Hand, in the same Maidenvault built to save the first of his name from his own temptation — the irony is not lost on him. And yet, if he sent for you late at night, no one would deny him, not now, when you were to be his wife in a month’s time. He could take you, over and over again, loudly, and no one would question his honour as a Prince of the Realm. 

The judgemental eye it might draw upon you, however, is something he could never forgive himself for. 

That is what stops him every time, when his base urges creep in, reminding him of his royal privilege to have whomever he wants; he cannot bring himself to compromise your honour. 

You, on the other hand, seem determined to do the opposite. He accompanies you back to your chambers after supper, the Kingsguard and one of your lady’s maids following behind as faithful chaperones. Quiet chatter fills the silence on the long walk back to the Maidenvault, discussion of who might run into whom during the wedding reception, which Lords are not to be seated together lest old, petty rivalries rear their ugly heads once more. 

“Mm, but who are we to deprive your subjects of free entertainment?” You say, a playful smile gracing your face. An easy chuckle leaves him; he found himself laughing more in a minute of your company than he had in the last two years

“I suppose they will have to settle for the free entertainment the Crown is already providing, considering how many musicians have been brought from the Reach for the occasion.” His tone is light-hearted, no real heat behind the admonishment of your excessive requests for the wedding.

“I know so few dances from this region, Your Grace, and I will not be deprived of dancing at my own wedding solely because I do not know the songs!”

“No, we couldn’t have that.” 

“You will, then?” You turn to stand in front of him, stopping him in his tracks, finally realising they’ve arrived at your chambers. “You will dance with me? As much as I please?”

That look you’re giving him, equal parts teasing and pleading, sends a shock down his spine, the same one that overtook him when he first laid eyes on you. Those eyes have haunted his dreams ever since, taunting him with his own desire, no matter how hard he tries to ignore it. 

“Of course, my dear.” He tells you, his voice calm, measured, the smile on his face giving very little away. He wants to call you much more. My love, my heart, the object of my every desire, my wife. He curses the chaperones you are constantly accompanied by while in his presence, always within earshot, stopping him from speaking to you openly as he did when you came to him that night and bade him to admit his affections. He had never spoken so openly before, not even with Jena, and now he longed to tell you again, that he would dance with you till his feet fell from his ankles as long as you wished it, that he’d keep you up all night if he could. 

When you lean up, onto the tips of your toes, and press a whisper of a kiss to his cheek, despite the presence of your chaperone, he almost slips. His breath stops in his chest at the warmth of your lips on his skin, the exposed expanse of your chest pressed to his just so. He knows if he looked down he would see into your dress, down at your breasts, and he clenches his teeth together in an effort to stop himself.

“Thank you, my Prince.” You say, sweetly, your voice breathless. His jaw unclenches once you’re a safe distance away, but he can still smell your perfume in the air.

It’s all he can think about, even once he’s bid you a goodnight. He has half a mind to steal one of your nightgowns before it makes it to the laundry, just to keep the scent of you close. 

Try as you might, you cannot hold back the smug smile on your face.

Baelor has not been able to tear his eyes away since he laid them on you today. You’d sent for him, having asked around till you discovered he had zero meetings with the Small Council today, and bade him to accompany you on a walk through the palace gardens. A chaperoned one, of course, but the chaperones could not stop you from wearing one of your most daring dresses; your mother had smirked when she saw it. It was a pink number, the fabric light and airy, well-suited for both the Reach and King’s Landing when summer heat hung heavy in the air. The detailing on it, winding embroidery creating patterns of stems and vines all along the dress in red thread, was some of the finest you’d ever seen.

There was also, of course, the extremely unnecessary cut outs at your waist, framed by a red rose-patterned silk, baring the skin of your waist just so. At Highgarden this dress wouldn’t have so much as turned a head in your direction, but this was not Highgarden, and for that you were grateful. 

Baelor was doing his best to keep his eyes and hands to himself, purposefully setting the former forward, and the latter clasped behind his back, where he could squeeze them as tight as he needed to in order to restrain himself. 

The conversation came easy, as it always did. No Small Council meetings did not mean no work, there was always a petition to grant, a marriage to approve on the King’s behalf, a grievance to assuage.

“I appreciate that you can speak so freely of the work you do, my Prince. There are many a Lord that would never concern a Lady in such matters.” 

“You are to be Queen one day, my dear,” He replies.  “Soon you will curse me for burdening you with such matters.” 

You give him a humoured smile as you reach a grand fountain in the gardens, carved from gleaming marble and babbling with water. You wander closer, silently beckoning him to follow — you know, with the chaperones a safe distance away, that any conversation between you would be masked by the sound of flowing water. “Well, I doubt the Small Council would allow a woman to sit in on policy discussions even if she is Queen, much less one that is with child.”

That raises the Prince’s eyebrows, in shock and intrigue. “Rest assured, there will be no pressure for you to bear children so soon after we are wed, as I have two heirs already. I promise, you will be spared much of the early scrutiny. If you were to desire no children at all, my dear, I would not force it upon you.”

His reassurance is sweet. Far too sweet for your intentions. 

“I should like to begin fulfilling our marriage duties as soon as possible, my Prince.” You look up at him through your eyelashes as you speak, your expression schooled, so your chaperones might think you’re having decent conversation. You lower your voice, just above a whisper, though you know they cannot hear you. “A moon’s turn feels much too long to wait, does it not?”

Baelor’s eyes flutter shut, his chest rising with the deep breath he takes, and for the first time since you’ve met him, the Prince of Dragonstone flushes a subtle pink. You can’t help the small proud smile that upturns the corner of your lips. 

“I have waited an agonising amount of time to be with you, my love,” He finally speaks, his mismatched eyes settling back on you with a new intensity. “I will not have you dishonored because I cannot wait a moon’s turn longer.” 

It’s your turn for your cheeks to heat, a burning ache filling your chest at the sound of his voice, far lower than you’ve heard it before. You know, tonight, you’ll do your best to recall it with a hand between your thighs, desperately trying to sate the hunger he’s inspired in you. 

“My Prince-” 

“My Lady!” Your Septa calls, her stare a disapproving one, and you both realise that you are standing far too close to each other. 

“The tulips are this way, my dear, I know you wished to see them in full bloom.” Baelor announces, loud enough to be heard from meters away, and leads you away from the fountain before you can say another word to make his britches feel too tight. 

You try not to let the frustration at her interruption show on your face for the rest of the walk. 

It happens several days later. 

You have scarcely seen your betrothed since that afternoon in the royal gardens. His time became far too occupied with matters of the Realm as the Lords of Westeros arrived from far and wide for the wedding, using their time in the capital to make their petitions to the Crown in-person. Every time you happened upon the throne room, the Good King Daeron was seated on that ghastly chair, a crowd of noblemen filling the room as they await their turn to speak. And next to the King, there he was, standing at his father’s side as his trusted Hand, looking every bit the part. It caught your breath every time, to set your eyes upon him in this setting; you could see it then, the crown on his head, clear as day. It might be you there someday, standing next to Baelor as his Queen while he sits upon the throne. 

And yet, you found you cared little for the title now. All that mattered was that you were with him. 

You’ve grown restless in his absence. It’s barely been a week, but you can’t stand the sight of his empty chair at supper, the brief greetings you share when you pass each other in crowded halls, your eyes brazenly displaying the way you long to spend more than a clock-tick in his presence. 

It felt like madness. All your life you believed marriage would be simple for you, as it was for your mother, and her mother before her. A husband was an easy thing to influence, to wrap around your finger and bend to your will, and you’d grown into a woman of marriageable age assuming no man would ever cause you grief. This tugging ache, this burning for someone’s touch, was not what you anticipated, from a husband nor a lover, and you found yourself, for once, incapable of containing yourself. You felt it — in the frown that marred your face when Baelor retreated from you, the ache of longing at the sight of his back, the dizzying heat between your legs when you thought of him late at night that you simply could not soothe by yourself. 

When he finally summoned you to his solar, much too far into the night to be appropriate, you could not dress quickly enough. You cared little about the nervous stares from your lady’s maids as they helped you into your gown, a deep red colour, perfect for a Targaryen bride. The Kingsguard knights trailed far behind you, your steps far too quick for them, but you could not find it in you to delay. 

You are breathless when you finally land in front of his study. There is little time to collect yourself before the guards step in front of you to open the door, quietly announcing your presence to the Prince before departing. Leaving you standing before your future husband, alone, and several meters further from him than you’d like to be.

He stood up when you’d entered the room, like one might expect a common Lord to do in the presence of royalty. And yet he stayed behind his desk, frozen in place, his eyes meeting yours with something unknowable in them; something smouldering and torrid that you couldn’t name if you tried. 

You stay like that for what feels like forever. Stunned into stillness before each other, silence only interrupted by the thudding of your heartbeat in your ears and the low, crackling fire. 

“I have missed you.” Your words come quieter than you expected, almost a whisper. There is no one here to watch your impropriety, and yet you cannot speak your words any louder out of careful habit. 

“As have I.” His voice is hoarse, like he is straining to speak, and his eyes never move from yours. 

You take a hesitant step towards him. “Baelor-”

And then whatever stupor had overtaken him is broken. He rushes towards you, his hands coming to either side of your face, cradling you between them, and his lips are on yours quicker than you can fathom. 

His kiss is feverish, demanding, invading your every sense so you have no choice but to surrender, but you wouldn’t resist him anyways. You arch your neck backwards to accommodate his height, you let his tongue pass your lips, you let him steal the breath from your chest till your lungs burn, and still you whine quietly when he pulls away, never allowing more than a clock-tick to pass before your mouth is back on his. 

He has to tug you away, forcing you to still so he can rest his forehead against yours, his lips still tantalisingly close. 

“I am a selfish man,” He declares with a rough whisper, his eyes closed, as if looking upon you might damn him forever. It feels like cruelty when he brushes his nose against yours, teasing you with his closeness. 

“Baelor, please-”

“I have struggled, in vain.” He continues. “I have done everything to stay away from you, and I have failed, time and time again.” 

His lips brush against yours again, a ghost of a touch, barely there and then gone before you can blink. 

“Marrying you might be the most selfish thing I have ever done.” He says it like a confession. “I am a knight. I swore before the Gods to uphold honour, and yet honour means nothing to me when it keeps me from you. You have ruined me, my love.”

A laugh escapes you, quiet and light, far too light for the situation, making his eyes reopen and harden. “This is humorous to you, then?”

“Yes, my Prince,” You admit easily. “I have you right where I wanted you.” 

His lip curls, half-sneer, half-smile, and you are given no time to react when he reaches down, his hands moving away from your face, to your waist, to the back of your skirt before lifting you and carrying you to his desk. 

“You said a moon’s turn was not too long to wait,” You tease, still smiling.

“I lied.” Then he smears his mouth against yours again.

Your legs part instinctually around him, far too focused on his lips being back on yours to resist when he lifts your skirts. You cannot part from him, even as his hands trail from your stocking-clad calves to the bare skin of your upper thighs, drawing a gasp from you. Your arms come up to wrap around his neck, pulling him closer, your hand settling at his nape, fingers trailing through the cropped hair there. 

You would have kept him right there forever, if you could — it’s he that breaks the kiss again, ignoring the disappointed noise you make as he lowers himself to his knees, and brings yours to rest on his shoulders. He keeps his eyes on you, that same heated look in them, as he pushes your skirts up further, giving you plenty of time to protest before the fabric is ruched up to your waist. His gaze falls then, to the space between your legs, and it does not stray as he leans in to press a feather-light kiss to the inside of your thigh. You cannot hide the gasp that escapes you at his touch, and you cannot bring yourself to look away from him. One of your hands leaves his head, coming to rest on the desk behind you, balancing you as you lean back to watch him. 

His pace is slow as he explores your soft skin, pressing his lips to every inch of it, savouring the feel of it and leaving a burning trail simmering wherever he wanders. The mere heat of his steady eyes on the core of you is enough to make you squirm in place. 

“I have never seen anything so divine,” His voice is low, just for you to hear. He leans closer to you, close enough that you can feel his breath right where you need him most, and takes a deep inhale of your scent, a low groan brewing in his throat upon exhale. “As you, bare and soaked for me.”

“Baelor.. Wh- what are you-” And then his mouth is on you, cutting you off with your own gasp. 

Your eyes screw shut, suddenly unable to bear the thought of opening them, of seeing what he’s doing to you. The tales that you heard of this, whispered between women in scandalous confession, could never have prepared you for what you felt. The heat of his mouth on you, his tongue kissing and lapping at where you’re wettest for him, steals your ability to breathe. It is too much, too quickly, white-hot pleasure flowing through you and fogging your head until he has to squeeze your thigh to break you out of it. 

“Breathe,” He reminds you, but you shake your head.

“I can’t!”

“You must,” He pulls away, till you can no longer feel his warmth on your skin. “Or I will be forced to stop.”

“Dont!” The plea comes without hesitation. “Please, please, don’t stop, I want-” 

“Breathe for me, then.” He takes a deep breath in, and you follow him, stuttering air filling your lungs once more. Satisfied, he leans back into you. “That’s it. In… and out… in-”

His tongue dips through your folds again, turning your exhales into pleasured sighs. The sound is too obscene to bear. The slick, wet sound of his lips wrapping around the crest of your sex and sucking, pulsing rhythmically around the sensitive bundle there. The hand that had settled behind you on the desk now provides you an anchor, keeping you grounded as you match his rhythm with cants of your hips, chasing the pressure that builds low in your belly. 

“Yes, my love, just like that.” He says, reverent, watching as you give in to him fully, only able to answer with soft moans and muttered nonsense. 

His finger is much thicker than yours, stretching you more than you ever could as it presses into the tight ring of your entrance, just as you’d hoped. The metal of his ring, brushing against you every time he pumps the digit in, only adds to your pleasure, the cold-hard shock of it on your soft folds making you gasp with every movement. 

Baelor works you like he knows your body already, guided by every pleasured noise you make, every mindless moan of his name. When they turn high and uncontrollable, your head tilted back, rocking yourself against his mouth more insistently, desperately, he knows you’re close. A second finger joins the first, the pace just a touch faster, pulling you towards the edge at his will. 

The subtle press of his fingers upwards turns your moan into a soft cry, and it hits you all at once, the pleasure cresting and then washing over you. His mouth doesn’t leave you once, doesn’t stop his open-mouthed kisses at the top of your sex, sending pulses through your body till you’re pushing at his forehead, even as you continue to press your hips into him. 

He comes away with an awed, dumb smile on his face, drunk on the taste of you, his beard damp with it. He rises from his knees and leans over you, wrapping an arm around your middle to pull you up, and you’re too loose-limbed to do anything but go with him as he kisses you again.

You can feel his hand between you, shifting against your stomach, and you part from the kiss to find him grasping himself through his trousers, pulsing squeezes around his stiff cock. Quiet grunts fall from his lips with every press of his hand, and for a moment you simply watch, mesmerised. 

Then your hand lands over his, hesitant. Unsure. “I want… I want to watch.” 

A pained groan fills your ear as his forehead drops against yours. He makes quick work of the laces on his trousers, and you pull down his breeches with equal fervor, freeing his cock from the fabric. 

His member is thicker than it is long — you can feel the burn of him stretching you already, distantly, making you clench around nothing at the mere thought. The tip of him is a flushed, ruddy hue, dripping with a clear liquid that you dare to feel at, gathering the slick on your thumb just to see. Baelor’s breathing is laboured as he watches you bring your thumb to your lips and lick, a pleased hum escaping you at the flavour. 

“Fuck,” He growls, his hand finding his shaft again immediately, enveloping it like he can barely stop himself as he licks into your mouth, desperate to taste himself on you. 

His mouth slows against yours when you reach down again, resting your hand over his fist. He pants against your lips as he lets your hand replace his, guiding your fist over him in measured, hard strokes. 

He’s hard under your touch, hot and firm and slick with pre-cum already. Your cheeks burn as you realize just how much you like it, the heaviness of him against your palm, the moans you pull from him just with your touch. His lips move against your own, and he begins to rut into the tight circle of your intertwined hands, fucking your fist like- like-

The realisation, that this will be what he does to you, is breathtaking. He’ll move against you just like this, but he’ll be inside you, working his way into you till you fit perfectly around his cock, and you feel that ache of desire between your legs once again. You moan his name softly, absentmindedly, as you move to guide him towards your entrance, spreading your thighs and shuffling closer to him. 

The hand covering your own stills, forcing you to stop.

“Not yet, my love.” You whine in disappointment, but he hushes you gently. “We must be patient.” 

“Please, Baelor.” You are begging, you realise. Something you’ve never done before in your life. 

“We cannot,” He insists, still denying you, even as he moves closer to the edge of the desk, and slots his hips against yours. It feels like he’s branded you from the mere brush of his cock against your inner thigh, teasing you with how near you are to what you’ve begged him for. He’s infuriatingly gentle as he removes your hand from his shaft, shifting his hips and then thrusting himself between your folds.

Your mouth falls open on a cry as the tip of him slides against the crest of your sex, the most sensitive part of him nudging against the most sensitive part of you. He draws his hips back, then forward again, gliding against you instead of inside you, careful not to enter you as he does. 

At first, you cannot protest, not when the pace of his hips rutting against you leaves you senseless, unable to do anything but clutch at his shoulders and let him give you a rough feign of a fuck. Anyone who walked by his study now would never know that he isn’t deflowering you, from the sound of your skin slapping against his, your moans mixing with his. So close to what you want- need-

“Please, please, just the tip, my love, it won’t-” You find yourself pleading with him again, through desperate whimpers and pants every time his cock brings you another shock of pleasure, shooting up your spine and settling in your belly, building you towards sweet release. But he ignores you, the hand that’s not splayed across your back coming to bunch in your wrinkled skirts, fisting the fabric and pulling you against him, nearly lifting you off the desk to meet his thrusts. 

His eyebrows are drawn together as he stares down at you, unbreaking even as he chokes on his own air, looking mad with hunger for you. He’s unbelievable like this, restraining himself from taking you as he should, as he has every right to, divulging his urges while still leaving both of you wanting, aching for each other. 

He makes a sound like he’s wounded, then, his head dipping to rest on your shoulder before his teeth set hard on your neck, drawing a shocked cry from you as his punishing pace stutters, grows uneven and desperate. His hips bunch against yours once more and then you feel it, his release spurting onto your heated skin, spilling onto your sex and your thighs. 

You both remain still, panting together, for a moment. You cannot find it in you to loosen the grip you have on him, even as he lifts his head, pulling his hips away from yours just an inch so he can see the mess he’s made of you. The moan that leaves him is awed, his grip on you tightening at the sight of his spend all over you, dripping obscenely. 

“There will be no bedding ceremony,” He states, suddenly, drawing your unfocused stare back to him. “No one else is allowed to see you like this. I won’t have it. But the Lords will need their proof of our consummation.”

His hand comes to feel at your sex, causing you to jolt in his arms, a pained whine spilling from you. “That’s why I cannot fuck you the way I want to, not yet. When I take you on our wedding night, they will see it plainly on the sheets. They will finally know you’re mine, Princess.”

“‘M not a princess yet.” You find it in you to say, quietly, unable to raise your voice quite yet.

Baelor simply shakes his head, still looking down at where he’s marked you with his seed. “You are mine, now. In every way that matters.”