The French Oracle

The next weeks passed in a blur. You were still excelling at uni, except for a ridiculous class on social media. But you were determined not to let that stop you and worked twice as hard on it as you would any other subject. Tanselle had shared the interview you two had made on her Instagram and it had gone viral in her circle. You had debated the importance of arts, and especially on the lack of funding for them, which deepened the gap between classes as only rich kids were free to dabble in it. Which, surprisingly, had led to a nationwide conversation, with Tanselle being invited on a few local news channels. She had been her sunny self, but had not hesitated to point out flaws in the system. Little by little, more and more people talked about it and called for action.

Which was why you were currently in Baelor’s bedroom, twisting around to zip up your dress. The bloody thing was simply impossible to put on. It was a floor length silk monstrosity, and any attempt to zip yourself up ended in pain. Tanselle’s interview had created a little wave, people pointing their fingers at the rich and influential. And so, Baelor’s family being one, if not, the most famous of those people, had decided to organise a small gala at the opera to raise money. He had insisted for you to accompany him.

“Would it be wise ?” You had asked him, after he said it, the sheets tangled around you.

“Perhaps not,” he had said, fingers trailing up your spine. “But I feel the compulsion to show you off.”

You had shivered, your lower belly twisting and warming up at his words. It felt nice. Being claimed, even in secrecy. Or despite it. You had snuggled closer.

“Liar. You just don’t want to be alone with insufferable, rich people.”

“I’m afraid you’re right, darling.”

That. The little pet names he peppered here and there. They were going to undo you, if you were not careful. A “Love” here. A “darling” across the dinner table. A soft “sweet girl” when his cock was deep inside you. The way his hand would rest on the small of your back when you were cooking together. Or the way it found the back of your neck on the couch. Blissfully domestic.

A knock interrupted your thoughts. Baelor opened the door.

“How are we doing here?” He asked.

“Miserably. Whoever designed this had torture on their mind,” you grumbled, still trying to reach the zipper.

“Here, let me help you.”

He stepped behind you. You looked at your reflection. He had shaved for the occasion, his hair elegantly coiffed. He was as handsome as he usually was, though you had a clear affection for his beard. Or rather the marks it left on your thighs. He was wearing a classic, black tuxedo, looking every inch like a king of old. The dress he had gotten for you was lovely, showing off the barest hint of shoulders. The black silk hugged you tightly but you were not uncomfortable. The only bad thing about it was the damn zipper, unreachable by yourself. Placing one warm hand on your shoulderblade, Baelor dragged it up slowly, the gesture almost sensual. You shivered.

“There,” he breathed. “You’re all set.”

He gripped your hips, turning you around to admire you.

“You’re only missing one thing,” he declared after observing your reflection.

He fished around in his pocket, pulling something out of it that you couldn’t yet see. He put both arms around you, bringing them to your neck. There, you felt the cold caress of metal against the thin skin. Once he stopped moving, you couldn’t help but gasp. A river of diamonds encircled your neck, a shimmering choker glittering against your skin in the shape of a dragon.

“Baelor,” you whispered, frozen in place.

“It does look exquisite on you.”

“Baelor.”

“Yes, my love?”

“Have you lost your mind ?” You exclaimed. “I can’t wear this !”

“On the contrary. I assure you you can wear it. And well,” he smirked.

“It’s too much ! What if I lose it or damage it ?”

“I’ll get you another.”

You hid your face in your hands. You already had that discussion but the man seemed intent on spoiling you outrageously. The gesture was appreciated, you were not going to deny it. But, your anxiety was rearing its ugly head again. You were already worried about bumping into someone you knew at the gala. Now, with the necklace, it was painfully clear who had offered it to you. Who you belonged to. You didn’t know if you were ready for the weight of it.

“What’s going on in your head?” He asked you.

“There will be people at the opera.”

“That’s usually how it works.”

“They will see. Me. You. The necklace,” you whimpered, panic rising in your chest.

“Listen, there is no risk you will see someone from university. The only one will be Tanselle and she already knows about us. You do not need to worry about tonight. Just come with me and enjoy the night, alright?”

His thumb brushed across your knuckles, the gesture warm and soothing. You nodded, the hum of anxiety still buzzing in your veins. Baelor smirked.

“Or, we can stay here. I’ll admit I’d like to see you wearing that necklace. Just the necklace.”

You blushed, grunting at his teasing. The idea was tempting. Very tempting. But you had also promised Tanselle not to leave her alone with all the posh people.

“Let’s go, Professor Horny.”

The opera was magnificent. You vaguely remembered a school visit there when you were a child, but your memory had not done it justice. The marble building was lit, the lights making it shine golden against the night sky. A red carpet had been deployed at the entrance. Baelor and you arrived at the back, discreetly. He had left you with a kiss.

“I have to make an appearance on that damn thing,” he had nodded towards the red carpet and the army of photographers there. “I’ll join you inside.”

And so you had gone, happy to let him be under the flashes of the cameras. The lobby was grandiose, all pinkish marble. A sea of flowers decorated the hall, the stairs and the balconies. A massive crystal chandelier gleamed a few metres above your head. This was dizzying, your eyes not knowing where to look.

“Hello again,” a voice said behind you.

You turned around. To your surprise, Valarr stood there, looking impeccable in his suit. Your throat dried. You had met before, of course, but not officially. Even though you knew he knew about you. You forced a smile.

“Oh, hello,” you squeaked.

“Don’t look so alarmed. I should have introduced myself the other day. I just wanted…”

“To take the measure of me?” You offered.

He smiled.

“Something like that.”

“And how did I fare?”

“It’s too early to say. You’ve got to pass the trial of Seven first,” he answered, a serious frown on his face.

“What’s that?” You said, half fearing his answer.

“Oh nothing. You’ll just have to fight the hundreds of women who want to bed him,” he winked.

You both laughed, then tension in your shoulders relaxing.

“So, what are you doing when you’re not lurking in bookshops?”

“I study at KLU. Political Science,” he groaned.

“I take it you don’t like it.”

“I do. It’s just that most teachers are boring. And I have to deal with Aerion. My cousin,” he clarified after you looked at him quizzically. “You might have heard of him.”

“Wasn’t he the one who assaulted Tanselle last year ?”

“Yeah. Lucky for her, he’s not here tonight.”

“Val !”

A flurry of pink slammed into him. The girl was extraordinarily pretty, with smooth dark skin and the prettiest pink hair you had ever seen. Her dress was the same shade, full of ruffles. Gold glinted at her wrists, ears and around her neck. If you had to guess, you would say this was Valarr’s girlfriend.

“Oh hello,” she greeted you in a softly accented voice. “I’m Kiera, Val’s girlfriend. You must be his dad’s girlfriend.”

“You could say that. Did you like the books?”

“Oh yes ! The pirate one was fan-tas-tic ! I will definitely visit you guys.”

You exchanged a few more pleasantries. Kiera was lovely, her smile digging dimples in her cheeks. The look Valarr gave her was bordering on worshipping. It was rather sweet. Tanselle appeared, glad in a gold dress of her creation. You waved her over, introducing her to the young couple. Kiera and her were lost in a conversation about fashion as an art form when a warm hand splayed around your back. You were familiar enough with the touch so that it didn’t startle you. 

“Dad”, Valarr smiled warmly.

“Son”, Baelor answered, wrapping him in a hug. “How are you Kiera?”

“I’m good, Mister Baelor,” she kissed his cheek. “Val introduced me to your girlfriend. She’s lovely,” she fake whispered.

“Isn’t she?” Baelor smiled, looking you up and down.

Valarr groaned.

“Please, not here. It’s disgusting.”

Baelor laughed, his arm wrapping around your waist as you blushed.

“I’ll see you around,” he said to his son, leading you towards the bar.

Tanselle remained, smiling knowingly at the two of you. You reached the bar, Baelor ordering a gin and tonic for you and a whisky for him.

“You survived the red carpet I see,” you teased him.

“A necessary evil,” he admitted. “When my father isn’t here, I technically am the head of the family.”

“That sounds kingly.”

“Well, technically…” he gave you a pointed look.

You chuckled. It was still funny to think that his ancestors had ruled the country, allegedly on dragonback. You tried to imagine him as a medieval king. He would hate every minute of it, wishing for a calmer, simpler life, but he would do it. And he would do it well.

“King Baelor does have a nice ring to it,” you took a sip of your cocktail.

“Does it?”

“Stop pretending you never thought about it.”

“Have you?”

“Have I what?” You asked.

“Thought about yourself as a queen.”

You choked on your drink, the alcohol burning your nostrils. That was an insane question. Who had not imagined themselves as a king or a queen as children ? But that’s what it was. Childplay. Silly dreams.

“Gods, no!” You laughed. “I would make a very poor queen.”

“Why?”

“Let me see. I’m mentally unstable, I don’t like most people and I’m dirt poor. I think those three things definitely p)lay against me.”

“You’re also smart, kind and patient. That’s three things in your favour,” he pointed out.

You blushed. Stupid man with his stupid compliments. As if being good-looking wasn’t enough.

“Well, monarchy has been abolished so it will never happen,” you rolled your eyes.

A bell signaled the audience that the show would start soon. Offering you his arm, Baelor led you to his family’s box. Valarr and Kiera were already there, offering you a smile as you sat. The view from there was incredible. You could see the entire stage with nothing to distract you from it. The oval ceiling was painted with scenes from Westeros mythology, with giants battling sea creatures, storm gods and their powerful winds and goddesses lying on beds of flowers. The lights turned off. Baelor took your hand, the gesture entirely too casual, and put it to his lips. You tried to concentrate on the show, a ballet about the daughters of Garth Greenhand. You really did. But you were hyperaware of his hand in yours, of his sleeve brushing against the bare skin of your arm. You felt the urge of sliding your hand on his muscled thigh, going higher and higher. The knowledge of so many people who could just see you thrilling you. The only thing stopping your indecent thoughts was Valarr and Kiera’s presence. You doubted he would appreciate you and his father doing that sort of thing.

By the time the intermission came, you were a ball of nerves and horniness. Valarr and Kiera went down for drinks. Baelor must have sensed something. He took one long look at you, his mismatched eyes glittering.

“Second floor. There is a private room after the dragon statue. Meet me there in five minutes.”

He rose, leaving you with only your thoughts and your quickening pulse. You counted until sixty. Once. Twice. After the fifth round, you rose, feeling a tremor in your legs already. The door was easy enough to find. Some attendees glanced your way, their eyes lingering on the necklace around your throat.

Let them look, a little voice in your mind said. You have every right to be here.

The heavy door of the private room muffled the swelling crescendo of the opera, but the tension inside the room was far louder. The moment it clicked shut, his hand was on the small of your back, guiding you with a possessive firmness toward a plush, velvet lounge chair.

He didn't waste time with gentleness. Baelor gripped your hips and forced you forward, bending you over the edge of the chair. The position left your backside arched high, your chest pressed against the fabric, exposing the vulnerable curve of your spine. He reached down, the rasp of his palms against the expensive silk of the gown creating a friction that mirrored the heat building between you. With a sharp, decisive tug, he pulled the dress down, bunching the fabric around your feet, until your bare skin was exposed to the dim light of the room.

He stripped you completely, leaving you in your towering heels, which forced your calves to tense and your ass to tilt even further back, and the shimmering diamond necklace he had fastened around your throat earlier that evening. The cold stones against your skin contrasted with the searing heat of his breath against your ear.

"Look at you," Baelor growled, his voice a low vibration that shuddered through you. "Wearing my diamonds, smelling of my scent, and shaking for me while the elite of the city are just a few feet away."

He freed his cock, thick and pulsing, and didn't use any preamble. He gripped your waist, his fingers digging into your flesh to anchor you, and drove himself deep inside you in one powerful, unrelenting thrust.

You gasped, fingers clutching the velvet of the chair as he filled you completely. Baelor didn't give you time to adjust; he began to fuck you with a rhythmic, punishing intensity. Each slam of his hips against your ass sounded like a wet slap in the quiet room. As he hammered into you, Baelor leaned forward, his chest pressing against your back, his hand reaching around to grip your throat lightly, just enough to make you feel the weight of his dominance. He wanted you to feel the ownership in every thrust. The thought that the people outside, the judges, the lords, the socialites, knew you were his, that you belonged to him body and soul, drove him to a frenzy.

"Tell me," he hissed, his pace quickening, his cock sliding in and out of you with visceral friction. "Do you like it? Do you like me claiming you like this? Right here, where anyone could walk in?"

"Yes!" you whimpered, voice breaking as a wave of pleasure crashed over you. "Yes, Baelor... please!"

The admission broke his last shred of restraint. He gripped your hips tighter, his knuckles white, and delivered several deep, bruising thrusts that hit your cervix, sending sparks of electricity through your nerves. He felt his climax building, a tidal wave of heat that demanded release.

With a guttural groan, Baelor lunged deep one last time, pinning you against the chair as he erupted inside you. He pumped load after load of hot cum deep you, his body shuddering with the intensity of the release. He stayed buried inside you for a long moment, breathing heavily, savoring the feeling of your internal muscles pulsing around him. You sagged against the velvet, breathless, your skin feeling electric.

He leaned in, whispering against your skin, his voice dark and satisfied. 

"I love knowing that when we walk back out there, you'll be dripping with me. Every step you take, every smile you give, you'll feel me leaking out of you, reminding you exactly who you belong to."

As the adrenaline began to fade, Baelor’s grip softens. He didn’t pull away immediately, instead letting his weight settle against you for a few more seconds of shared breath. Slowly, he slid out of you with a wet sound, and you feel the first few drops of his seed begin to slip down your thigh.

He didn’t just leave you there. Baelor reached for a silk handkerchief from his pocket, gently wiping the excess cum from your thighs and the crease of your ass with a tenderness that contrasts sharply with the earlier passion of the act. He helped you stand, his hands lingering on your waist to steady your shaking legs.

He reached around you, smoothing the silk of your dress back up over your hips, ensuring you looked pristine once more. He turned you around to face him, his thumb brushing over your swollen lower lip. He leaned in, pressing a soft, lingering kiss to your forehead, then another to the diamonds at your throat.

"You were perfect," he murmured, his eyes searching yours with a mixture of pride and affection. 

He wrapped his arm around your shoulders, pulling you close to his side.

“I’ll leave first,” he said after a while. “Wait a bit before following.”

You nodded, your body still humming with pleasure. With one last kiss, he disappeared. You waited, staring at the painted ceiling. Your body was pleasantly sore and you knew you would feel him tomorrow morning. Your legs shaking, you rose before the intermission ended, closing the door quietly after you. You had not walked five steps that you collided with a man.

“Oh, I’m sorry!” You exclaimed.

The man was massive and looked like he belonged more to an underground fight club than a ballet representation. He was towering over you, his shoulders broad but still lean. He had dark hair tied in a ponytail and deep purple eyes. Most uncommon. His face was all harsh lines, as if he had never smiled a day in his life. A pale scar slashed his left cheek. He looked oddly familiar, but you couldn’t remember clearly.

“You should watch where you’re going,” he grumbled, looking down at you with a grimace. “And you should be careful who you fuck.”

“I beg your fucking pardon?!” You almost screamed.

“I guess you’re Breakspear’s little pet,” he spat, eyeing the necklace. “His smell is all over you.”

“Who the fuck are you?” you demanded. “And what I do with myself is my concern only.”

“You should run while you still can. Would be a shame for a pretty girl like you to get hurt.”

With those words, he left, leaving you stunned and with your heart hammering against your ribs. You shook it off. It was probably one of those weird guys with ties to the criminal underground who got their kicks at scaring girls. You regained your seat. Baelor smiled up at you.

“Everything alright?”

You debated about telling him of your encounter but decided against it. That man was just another asshole in a sea of cunts. Nothing worth telling Baelor. You nodded, smiling. The show started again. But the knot in your stomach did not disappear.

Your shift had been stretching forever. With Love Day coming, the customers kept you busy. By the time it was almost the end of it, you were exhausted, a headache beginning to bloom under your forehead. So, when the bell rang again, five minutes before closing time, you were ready to throw whoever had entered out.

Gods, has no one ever heard of time management?

You raised your head, ready to scowl at the newcomer but you stopped when you saw his face. You had seen it before. It was a young man, probably around twenty, with brown hair, light freckles and the straight posture of someone who had been taught not to slouch early on, unlike most people his age. He was well-dressed, elegant but not so much that he looked too dated. If not for his eyes, you might have not recognized him. They were the same eyes you had looked into three nights ago, when your third orgasm of the night had overtaken you, one a clear blue, the other a deep brown. The memory made you blush. Valarr Targaryen was standing right in front of you. Baelor’s eldest son. Who was looking at you quizzically. You cleared your throat.

“Good evening,” you greeted him. “How may I help you?”

He looked you up and down, not unkindly. He looked so much like his father, as if he was trying to read your soul with his eyes. He finally smiled politely.

“Hello, I’m looking for a book for my girlfriend. For Love Day,” he clarified.

“Of course. Did you have one in mind?”

“There is this Knight and Princess romance she’s told me about. And a dragon one. And another one called “The Sealord’s Prize”. I think,” he added quickly. “But I’ll take some suggestions as well.”

The dragon one was definitely one of your most popular books. You had read it, not understanding the appeal but to each their own. Rowan had pushed one steamy novel about a student and her professor, winking at you.

“In case you’re running out of ideas,” she had smiled impishly.

You were definitely not going to show that one to Valarr. You led him tot the romance section, giving him the books he had asked for.

“So, by her choices, I’d say she’s a romantic but with a taste for adventure and she doesn’t mind some spice.”

He laughed, the sound quiet and gentle.

“That’s exactly her,” he said. “She’s the kindest person I know. Funny too,” he blushed.

“How long have you been together?”

“It will be two years in April,” he beamed.

“Congratulations,” you smiled.

You took one of your favourite books of the month. It was a romance between a prince and a female pirate.

“This one is interesting. I’d gather she’ll like the adventures and the role reversal.”

He grabbed it, reading the back of the book. He nodded, his eyebrows shooting up.

“That looks like something she’d like.”

“So, you have quite the selection. I’ll let you a few minutes to choose.”

You went back to the counter, trying to steady your hands. As kind as he was, it was troubling that you knew of this boy while he didn’t know a thing about you. He had no idea you had seen childhood pictures of him and his brother. That you had seen his old bedroom. Or that his father had fingered, eaten you out and fucked you on the couch more times than you could remember. He walked back to the register.

“Made your choice?” You asked with a smile.

“Yeah, I’ll take them all. Would it bother you if I asked you to wrap them up, please?”

“Not at all.”

Clearly, Baelor had taught him well. Buying a girl four books was definitely something you approved of. Not that he needed your approval or anything. As you wrapped them, you felt his eyes on you. When you caught them, he was staring down at you with the same expression as before. Not unfriendly, but definitely scanning you to appraise you. See if you were a threat.

He knows, a voice whispered in your head. He knows who you are.

There was no way he could know. Baelor and you were discreet, staying in most nights. Still, you couldn’t shake the feeling that he knew more than he let on. You finished wrapping the books in a bright pink paper with green apples printed on.

“There you go,” you smiled despite your nerves.

He paid, leaving you with a last appraising look. You closed up the shop quickly, eager to go back to the safety of your home. You barely had time to close the door behind you and take off your shoes before you felt your phone vibrate.

“Hello?”

“Hello, sweetling,” Baelor’s voice said. “I’m at that Dornish takeaway place just two blocks away from yours and I thought I could drop by, if you’d like.”

You thought of today, of meeting his son, of the knowing glint in his eyes, and suddenly, your tongue did not know how to work anymore. Your brain was empty and not the right kind of empty. The kind that would usually happen before a panic attack.

“Darling?” He asked when you remained silent.

“Yes,” you said after clearing your throat. “I’d like that.”

“Is something the matter?” There was concern in his voice.

“Long day,” you half lied. “I’m going to take a shower. I’ll leave the door unlocked so you can get in.”

“Ok, see you in a bit.”

You almost ran to the bathroom, turning the shower on at the maximum temperature and undressing quickly. The hot water made you hiss but it was a good distraction. You focused on your breathing, going through your routine. By the time you emerged from the steam filled room, you could hear Baelor cooing to Nyra in the living room. She had him wrapped around her paws. Or maybe it was the other way around, your cat oddly docile with him. You followed the soft sound of his voice. He was sitting on the couch, Nyra on his lap and steaming food on the coffee table. The smell of roasted meat and spices made your stomach grumble.

“Hello you,” you smiled, bending down to kiss him.

“Hello. Brought your favourite dish.”

He pointed at the plate of spicy, grilled lamb, with saffron rice and peppers. You squeezed his hand in thanks. You ate in comfortable silence, watching the news.

“Are you alright?” He asked when you finished. “You sounded a bit…out on the phone.”

“I’m fine,” you lied. “Just had a long day.

He stared at you, and Valarr’s face flashed before your eyes. You bit your lip, burning to ask him the question but afraid he would find it weird.

“I’ve met someone interesting today,” you blurted out.

His face fell, even if he tried to hide it.

“Ah,” was all he said.

“At the shop.”

“I see.”

He was tense, muscles bunched under his shirt, his teeth grinding against each other.

“I can’t blame you. It’s selfish to keep you. You deserve to be with someone…more available. Closer to your age, not someone who’s lived a life before you.”

You stared at him, mouth opened, until you realized.

“What the fuck?” You breathed.

He gave you a puzzled look. You were torn between wanting to smack him for making such an assumption or laugh.

“You think I met someone I’m interested in?”

“Isn’t that the case?”

“No, you idiot!” You exclaimed. “I met Valarr.”

He froze in his spot, ignoring Nyra’s demands for a scratch. He had a deer in headlights sort of look that would have been funny in any other situation. Finally, he gathered himself.

“Alright. How did it go?”

“Well. He was looking for books for his girlfriend.”

“Ah yes, Kiera. You’d like her, I think,” he mused.

“Baelor.”

“Yes?” He asked cautiously.

“Have you told Valarr about me? About us?”

He played with his ring, twisting it around his finger, while he thought of an answer.

“I might have told him I was seeing someone. Well, he guessed and asked and I answered.”

“How?” You frowned.

He blushed to the root of his hair, scratching his beard.

“He might have seen used condoms in the bin. And some of your underwear hanging to dry.”

You flushed. That sweet, kind boy had seen the evidence of your…activities with his father and had managed to look at you steadily. You chuckled, despite the embarrassment you felt.

“Gods,” you breathed. “He must think I’m some sort of slut.”

“I assure you his mother and I have raised him not to think of women in such ways. And he doesn’t. Think you’re a whore, I mean. I’ve told him a bit about you.”

You asked the dangerous question.

“Does he know I’m your student?”

He held your gaze, his eyes achingly tender. He shook his head.

“He doesn’t need to know everything. Not because I’m ashamed of you, or of our relationship. But because I have a right to privacy.”

You nodded, understanding his point perfectly. It wasn’t as if you were shouting from the rooftops that you were seeing your professor either. Still, there was a stubborn part of your heart that wished you could do just that.

“Who else knows?” You asked.

“Valarr told Matarys. I’ve told Maekar so he probably told Rhaegel and Aerys. My mother suspects it. Jena knows as well,” he confessed, softer than before.

That made your heart skip a few beats. You know their story was in the past, but the fact that his ex-wife knew of your existence was unnerving. You did not realise you had started to pick at the skin around your fingernails until he stopped you.

“Hey,” he whispered, searching your eyes. “You don’t have anything to fear from Jena. In fact, she’s happy for me.”

“Yeah?”

“Yes. She said “took you long enough to get your dick wet again”, to quote her.”

You burst out laughing. You had a hard time imagining the polished, beautiful woman from the photographs saying something so crude. Baelor smiled.

“Did she really say that?” You chuckled.

“She’s a Stormlander. She’s worse than Maekar some days.”

You shook your head, sitting on his lap and burying your face against his chest.

“So, I don’t have to fear a vengeful ex-wife or something?” You mumbled against the fabric of his shirt.

“No. Do I have to watch my back for an ex trying to win you back?”

“Nope. They couldn’t if they tried.”

He held your gaze, a tender spark dancing in his mismatched irises. You let out a breath, the tension finally leaving your shoulders. His face shifted from confused to relieved, then to something softer, embarrassment, maybe, or regret for jumping to conclusions.

“Valarr,” he repeated, shaking his head. “My son.”

“Yes, your son. Not some mystery man who tried flirting with me at the shop.”

He laughed, a low, breathy sound, and ran a hand through his hair.

“I’m sorry. I don’t know why I-I just assumed the worst.”

“Because you’re an idiot,” you said, but your voice was warm, teasing.

You moved closer, straddling his thighs. His hands found your waist automatically, fingers curling into the fabric of your shirt.

“But I like you anyway.”

He looked up at you, his eyes dark and earnest.

“Good.” His hands tightened on your hips, pulling you closer. “I was scared, you know. That you’d want someone else. Someone younger, without all the baggage.”

“I want you,” you said, leaning down to kiss him. Soft at first, just a brush of lips. “Only you. Always.”

He groaned against your mouth, his fingers sliding under your shirt, spreading warm across the bare skin of your lower back. You deepened the kiss, parting your lips, letting his tongue slip inside. He tasted like coffee and the lamb you’d just eaten, familiar and comforting. You rocked your hips against his, feeling him harden beneath you. His breath hitched.

“We don’t have to,” he murmured, breaking the kiss. “If you’re tired, or…”

“Shut up,” you whispered, and kissed him again.

You pulled back just enough to tug your shirt over your head, tossing it aside. His eyes roamed over your chest, your stomach, his gaze hungry but soft. He reached up, cupping your breasts, thumbs brushing over your nipples until they tightened into peaks.

“Beautiful,” he breathed.

You arched into his touch, a small moan escaping you. “More.”

He leaned forward, taking one nipple into his mouth, sucking gently, then harder. You gasped, fingers tangling in his hair, holding him there. His tongue circled, flicked, teeth grazing just enough to send a jolt of electricity through you. You worked at the buttons of his shirt, clumsy with desire, until you could push it off his shoulders. Your hands roamed his chest, the firm muscle, the scars, old reminders of a life before you. You kissed each one, tracing them with your lips, and he shuddered.

“Lie down,” you said, voice husky.

He complied, shifting back on the couch until he was stretched out, watching you with heavy-lidded eyes. You pulled down your pajamas, shimmying out of them, then slid off his trousers, taking his boxers with them. His cock sprang free, already hard, the tip glistening. You wrapped your hand around him, stroking slowly, watching his face contort with pleasure. His hips bucked into your grip.

“I want to taste you,” you said.

He nodded, breathless.

You lowered yourself, kissing down his chest, his stomach, then taking him into your mouth. He groaned, a deep, guttural sound, his hand finding your hair. You bobbed your head, taking him deeper, hollowing your cheeks. Saliva pooled, slicking the way. You looked up at him through your lashes, and the sight of his head thrown back, his mouth open, was intoxicating.

“Stop,” he gasped, tugging gently at your hair. “I’ll come too fast. I want to be inside you.”

You crawled up his body, straddling him again, positioning yourself over his cock. You reached down, guiding him to your entrance, and sank down slowly, inch by inch, until he was fully sheathed inside you. You both groaned.

“Fuck,” he whispered. “You feel so good.”

You began to move, a slow, rolling rhythm. His hands gripped your hips, helping you, guiding you. You leaned forward, your breasts brushing his chest, your mouth finding his. You kissed, sloppy and desperate, as you rode him.

“You’re so good. So good for me,” he breathed, thrusting up to meet you.

The pace quickened. Your thighs burned, but you didn’t care. The heat built, coiling low in your belly, spreading through your limbs. He reached between you, fingers finding your clit, pressing in slow circles.

“Come for me,” he urged. “Let go.”

You shattered, crying out his name, your inner walls clenching around him. He followed a moment later, a hoarse shout, his hips jerking as he spilled inside you. You collapsed against his chest, both of you breathing hard, hearts hammering.

After a moment, he wrapped his arms around you, holding you close. You felt him soften, felt his seed trickling down your thigh, but neither of you moved.

“I’m sorry for being an idiot,” he murmured into your hair.

You laughed, the sound muffled against his skin.

“You’re forgiven. It’s actually cute seeing you getting jealous.”

He kissed the top of your head. You lay there, tangled together, the world outside fading. This was where you belonged. With him. Always.

You woke slowly. First the awareness of warmth, then the softness beneath you, then the dull, delicious ache threading through your body. You stretched instinctively. And immediately regretted it. A soft groan slipped from your lips as every muscle reminded you of the night before.

“Good morning,” Baelor’s voice came, low and calm.

You turned your head, cracking one eye open. He was sitting beside you, glasses perched on his nose, a book in hand like this was any other morning, like nothing extraordinary had happened between you hours ago. It almost made you laugh.

“Good morning,” you murmured, your voice rough.

He closed the book, setting it aside without looking away from you.

“How do you feel?” he asked.

There was something careful in the question. You stretched again, slower this time, testing the soreness.

“Like I’ve been thoroughly…” you paused, searching for a word, then smirked faintly, “taken care of.”

His lips twitched, but his gaze remained attentive. He shifted closer, his hand brushing lightly along your arm, then your waist, then lower, gentle, assessing rather than possessive.

“I wasn’t too rough?” he asked quietly.

That gave you pause. Not because you needed to think. But because of the way he asked it. You reached for his wrist, stilling his hand.

“No,” you said softly. “You weren’t.”

You held his gaze a moment longer.

“It was exactly what I needed.”

Something eased in his expression then, something that told you he had been thinking about it too. Always thinking. Always paying attention. That thought lingered longer than it should have.

Breakfast arrived soon after. You watched him move around the room, composed, efficient, like he belonged here so completely it was second nature. As if this, room service, luxury, quiet mornings in expensive hotels, was just part of his life.

You pulled the sheet tighter around yourself, suddenly aware again of the contrast.  Of where you came from. Of where he came from. You pushed the thought away. For now. You sat up against the pillows, watching him arrange everything on the tray.

“This is ridiculous,” you said.

He glanced at you, amused.

“You’ve said that about everything since you got here.”

“Because everything here is ridiculous,” you insisted, reaching for a pastry. “This breakfast alone probably costs more than my weekly groceries.”

He didn’t argue. He never did, not really. Instead, he sat beside you, handing you your tea like it was the most natural thing in the world. You ate together, knees brushing under the covers, sharing food without thinking about it. He stole a piece from your plate, and you protested half-heartedly. He made some quiet remark about you hoarding the best parts.

You laughed. And for a while, it felt… normal. Dangerously normal. You caught yourself watching him again, the way he held his cup, the way he listened when you spoke, the way his presence filled the space without overwhelming it.

It felt like something real.

Something easy.

And that was what unsettled you.  Because it shouldn’t be easy. He was your professor. This wasn’t supposed to feel like mornings in bed, like shared breakfasts, like quiet domesticity. But for a moment, just a moment, you forgot all of that.

And that terrified you a little.

The cold outside snapped you back into reality. Standing at the base of the slopes, bundled in layers that felt both protective and unfamiliar, you stared up at the incline like it was a personal threat.

“No,” you said flatly.

Baelor chuckled beside you.

“You haven’t even tried it yet.”

“I don’t need to. I can already tell this is a terrible idea.”

He had taken you to get everything: boots, skis, gloves, things that felt far too expensive for something you were convinced you would hate.

“I’m never going to ski again after today anyway,” you added, glancing at the slope like it had personally offended you.

He adjusted your scarf, his fingers warm, brushing your jaw briefly as he tucked it in properly.

“Then I’ll have to make sure to bring you back every winter,” he said simply.

You blinked at him. There it was again. That way he spoke about the future like it wasn’t a question. Like you were… part of it. Your stomach tightened. You didn’t know what to do with that.

“Let’s start small,” he added, guiding you gently toward flatter ground.

To your own surprise, you didn’t immediately fall. You wobbled, yes. Nearly lost your balance more than once. But with his instructions, steady, patient, you managed to move. With the grace of a newborn learning to walk, but on your own.

“Oh, my Gods,” you breathed, half laughing. “I’m actually doing it.”

He smiled, watching you carefully.

“See? Not so terrible.”

You even managed a tiny slope, a barely-there incline that still made your heart race. And then, emboldened by that small success, you made a mistake.

“This one,” you said, pointing at a slightly steeper slope.

He hesitated.

“Are you sure…”

Too late. You pushed forward.  For about three seconds, it worked.

Then, you lost control. Your balance tipped forward, your skis crossed slightly, and before you could even process it, you went down. Face first. The snow was cold and unforgiving.

“Gods,” you groaned into it.

You heard him approach quickly, concern immediate.

“Are you alright?”

You rolled onto your back, staring up at the pale sky, your dignity somewhere far behind you.

“My pride is deeply wounded,” you declared.

That earned a soft laugh from him, though his hand reached out to help you up.

“Anything else?”

You took his hand, letting him pull you upright.

“No. Just my ego.”

You brushed the snow off yourself, already over it.

“I think I’ve done enough for today.”

He studied you for a second, then nodded.

“Fair enough.”

The café terrace was warm, quiet, safe. You wrapped your hands around a mug of hot chocolate, letting it anchor you. From there, you could see the slopes. And him.

He moved just as confidently on the snow as he did in university corridors, effortless and controlled. You watched him longer than you meant to. And slowly, your thoughts began to drift again. Back to him. To this.

Where did you fit in his life? Here, it felt easy, hidden away, removed from everything else. But back home? Back where people knew him? Where people knew you? Your grip tightened slightly around the mug. Could this exist there? Or was it just… something temporary?

The thought crept in before you could stop it.

What if you were just something exciting, different from his usual world? What if this was just some post-divorce, midlife crisis for him? You swallowed.

He was older. Established. Successful. Desired.

You were…You looked down at your hands again. You knew what you were. A student.  From nowhere special.  Used to scraping by. With no family or wealth to speak of.

Not the kind of woman men like him built a future with.

The idea of falling for him, really falling, suddenly felt dangerous. Because what if you already were?

And what if, for him, this wasn’t quite that?

“Lost in thought?”

His voice pulled you back again. You looked up. And for a moment, everything else faded.

He stood there, cheeks flushed from the cold, hair slightly messy from his beanie, his whole presence softened by the exertion and the winter air.

Gods.

He was beautiful.

“Something like that,” you said.

He sat across from you, ordering a black coffee. You watched him again, quieter this time. He noticed. Of course he did. His gaze lingered just a second longer than usual, searching. But he didn’t ask, didn’t push. And part of you was grateful. Another part… wished he would.

“We still have some time this afternoon,” he said instead, voice easy. “We could do a bit of shopping, if you’d like. There are some nice places in the village.”

You nodded.

“That sounds nice.”

And it did. Because being with him, doing anything with him, still felt good.  Even if your mind hadn’t quite stopped questioning where it was all leading. Or how long it could possibly last.

The village was quaint, little houses made of sculpted wood lining up the snowy streets. You walked side by side with Baelor, your arm neatly tucked under his, his warmth seeping through your thick clothes. The only thing that looked out of place were the luxury shops and their bright, sleek fronts. Baelor nodded towards one.

“What do you need?” He asked.

You.

“Nothing really,” you shrugged.

“A new coat, perhaps,” he offered.

You looked at him in mocked offence, placing your hand on your heart.

“Baelor Targaryen! Is that your way of saying my coat is ugly?”

“I could get you a proper one,” he smiled kindly.

“This is a proper one. It’s an antique, I’ll have you know.”

“I can see that,” he said dryly. “Come on, indulge me.”

He dragged you to an outerwear store. Most were sports jackets, made for hiking or winter sports. But at the back, there was a small section with woolen coats. The fabrics were soft and thick under your hands.

“Anything catching your eye, love?” Baelor asked, peering over your shoulder.

“I’m just looking.”

“This one is nice. Try it”

He pointed at a navy coat. The sales assistant that had been hovering near you since your arrival held it out for you. You slid one arm, then the other, marveling at the luxurious feel. The coat was warm, surprisingly sturdy despite its elegant design. You went to a floor length mirror, running your hands on the sleeves and twirling, the fabric flying around your ankles. Then you saw the price tag. You started taking it off.

“Nope. Not taking this,” you muttered.

“Why not?” Baelor slid next to you. “That colour looks lovely on you.”

“Baelor.”

“Hm?”

“It’s double the price of my rent. I can’t let you buy it.”

“Of course you can.”

You stared at each other, holding his mismatched gaze in the mirror with your own. He sighed.

“Could you give us a moment?” He asked the sales assistant.

When she disappeared, he grabbed your shoulders, turning you to face him. You kept your eyes level to his chest. He took your chin in his hand.

“Look at me darling.”

You did, swallowing the knot in your throat. For the first time since you knew him, he looked upset. That look only made you want to crawl under the snow outside even more.

“Did you not hear what I said yesterday? About you deserving the best?”

“I did,” you whispered.

“Then what’s the matter?”

You swallowed again. By all means, you should have been elated, bask in the luxury and enjoy the perks of dating someone insanely wealthy. But something held you back. The old fear of being controlled. Of owing someone something.

“It’s just…I…It’ stupid!”

“Tell me,” he pressed.

You took a deep breath.

“I enjoy your gifts, truly. But I’m afraid that one day, you…”

“You’re afraid I will hold it over you or use it as a bargaining chip in our relationship,” he finished.

You nodded, eyes watering.

“And I know it’s stupid because you’re not that kind of man. It’s just…I’m used to being screwed over or pushed to the side when I become inconvenient. And I don’t know what…this, us, is for you, but I’m scared that one day I’ll wake up and it will just be gone because nice things like that don’t happen to people like me.”

You could not stop the verbal diarrhea, despite the tremble in your voice and hands. He took it in, your doubts, your pathetic self-pity. He slid his hand in your hair.

“Come here,” he breathed, bringing you against him.

You let him hug you, burying your head in his chest, listening to his breathing. A few tears escaped you, swallowed by his cashmere turtleneck.

“Our relationship is strange,” he admitted, “and I cannot really define it. This, the gifts, it’s to make up for what I can’t offer you back in King’s Landing. When I treat you, I don’t expect anything in return, sweet girl. I cannot guarantee we will last forever. Just know that right now, you have me. In more ways than you think.”

A traitorous tear escaped you. He wiped it away, pressing a kiss to your cheek.

“So, when I want to buy you a coat, you let me buy you the damn coat,” he smiled.

You laughed, your worries melting away at his words.

“Does that make you my sugar daddy now?” You teased him.

“If that’s what you want me to be,” he shrugged. “I do admit I get some strange gratification in spoiling you.”

“Don’t tell me that. I’m going to make you buy all the stupid things I want,” you smirked.

“Gladly.”

Later, you decided to finally indulge in the magnificent bathtub. You filled it with steaming water, pouring salts and bubble bath in it. This was something out of your childhood ‘s dream. You giggled to yourself, a girlish giddiness taking over you. You undressed. Before entering the bath, you took a picture of it and sent it to Baelor. The poor man had locked himself in the office, finishing up on his grading. You hoped that the suggestion of you naked in a hot bath would be enough to drag him out of it.

You were proven right when, a few seconds after you settled in the hot water, you heard his footsteps getting closer and closer. His head appeared through the open door. You let yourself relax, sinking lower into the bubbles.

“Hey, handsome,” you drawled. “I’m feeling lonely in here. Wanna join me?”

“You know I can’t say no to you,” he shook his head, taking off his cream-coloured turtleneck.

Inches of his bare skin revealed themselves to your hungry eyes, your belly warming in a way that had nothing to do with the hot bath. He slid in the water facing you. You watched as his whole body relaxed, a groan of pleasure escaping him as he rested his head against the marble rim. You stayed there in silence, the atmosphere quiet.

“Is it bad that I don’t want to go back to King’s Landing?” You whispered.

“No. If I could, I’d keep you here forever,” he rumbled.

“Promises, promises,” you sang, drawing a chuckle from him. “Thank you again. This was lovely, even if it was a bit grand.”

“Noted. I’ll take you somewhere quiet next time.”

The certainty in his voice made your heart flutter. He grabbed your foot, digging his thumbs into the arch of it.

“Oh, my gods,” you moaned, sinking into the water. “Please don’t stop!”

He pressed a small kiss to your ankle.

“Would you like me to book a massage for you tomorrow?” He asked. “Our train is only at 4 pm.”

“Yes, please,” you purred.

He could have said anything and you would have agreed anyway. You spent the night in a warm cocoon, his arms pulling you tight against him.

When the train arrived to King’s Landing, you felt a certain heaviness in your chest. You were thrust back into your normal life, where he couldn’t hold your hand or kiss you silly in the street. Donnel was waiting with the car, taking a detour to drop you off. Baelor’s hand never left yours. Before, you left, he pulled you against him for one last kiss. You heard Donnel clear his throat.

“I’ll see you tomorrow,” Baelor breathed against your skin.

When you opened the door to your flat, Rhaenyra meowed to get your attention, before pushing a glass off the counter, shattering it on the kitchen tiles.  All the while looking you straight in the eyes.

“We’re gonna have to work on your attitude, Missy,” you warned her.

That was all he needed. He grabbed your shoulders, turning you around to face away from him.

“Allow me,” he said, sliding the zipper of your dress down agonizingly slow. 

The shimmery fabric pooled at your feet. You stepped out of it, your stomach in knots. You bent to take off your shoes but he stopped you.

“Keep them on for now.”

His words sent a shiver through you, the heels suddenly feeling like an extension of the anticipation building inside, their slight pressure against your feet grounding you even as your mind began to drift toward that hazy edge of surrender. You straightened, standing there in just your lace panties and bra, the air in the suite cool and whispering against your heated skin, raising faint goosebumps along your arms and the swell of your breasts. Baelor's hands moved to the clasp of your bra with a tenderness that belied the intensity in his eyes, unhooking it with deliberate care, his fingers grazing the sensitive skin of your shoulders as he let the straps slide down your arms like a lover's caress. The lace fell away, exposing your breasts to the room's soft, golden light, your nipples tightening instantly in the cooler air, aching for his touch.

“Over my lap,” he said, his voice low and steady, a soothing rumble that wrapped around you like warm silk, guiding you toward the bed without demand, only invitation. 

You obeyed, your body thrumming with a deep, pulsing need as you draped yourself across his thighs, the crisp fabric of his trousers rough and textured against your bare stomach, a delicious contrast to the radiating warmth of his body beneath. He adjusted you with gentle hands, one palm pressing lightly on your lower back to steady you, the other tracing the curve of your hip, positioning your body just so, your ass lifted slightly, vulnerable, the thin lace of your panties the only fragile barrier between you.

“You know why this is happening, don't you?” he asked, his palm smoothing over the soft curve of your backside in slow, reassuring circles, his touch light as a feather yet igniting sparks that traveled straight to your core. 

The scent of his cologne, woody and warm, mingled with the faint salt of his skin, filled your senses, making your head swim. You nodded against the plush bedspread, the fibers soft and cool against your cheek, your breath quickening into shallow pants. 

“Because I sent you that picture... during dinner.”

The memory flashed, your fingers trembling as you had snapped the photo, the thrill of rebellion mixing with longing, knowing it would reach him at that formal table. His fingers hooked into the waistband of your panties with exquisite slowness, drawing them down inch by inch, the lace dragging over your skin like a teasing whisper, bunching at your thighs and leaving you fully exposed. A rush of cooler air kissed your bare folds, making you clench involuntarily, a soft whimper escaping your lips as the vulnerability washed over you. 

“That's right,” he murmured, his tone gentle but laced with that affectionate firmness that made your heart flutter. “A naughty little minx, flashing your tits to me while I was with my family. Valarr almost caught me looking at it. What kind of girl does that make you?”

His words stung just enough to heighten the ache blooming low in your belly, a sweet bite that dissolved into warmth rather than hurt, wrapped in the tenderness of his voice, like velvet over steel. There was no judgment, only a loving tease that drew you deeper into his world. You squirmed slightly, your thighs pressing together instinctively, trapping the growing slickness between them. 

“I... I couldn't help it. I wanted you to see. I missed you so much.”

He chuckled softly, the sound vibrating through his chest and into your body, a low hum that resonated in your bones, soothing and arousing all at once. 

“Oh, my naughty girl. So eager to tease me, even when you know it'll get you in trouble. But that's what I love about you.”

 His hand lifted, pausing for a heartbeat that stretched into eternity, building the anticipation until your skin tingled. Then the first spank landed, a sharp, resounding smack against your right cheek, the sting blooming like a firework, hot and immediate, sending a jolt through your nerves that pooled as liquid heat between your legs. You gasped, your body jolting forward slightly, the sound echoing softly in the quiet room.

“One,” he counted, his free hand immediately rubbing the spot in slow, firm circles, the warmth of his palm chasing away the sharpness, turning it into a throbbing warmth that spread like honey through your veins. “For being so bold at dinner, tempting me when I needed to focus.” 

His touch was reverent, as if worshiping the mark he'd left, and you felt the first tendrils of that floaty haze creeping in, your mind softening at the edges. The second came with a gentle warning, his hand hovering before connecting on the left cheek, the impact mirroring the first but softer in its delivery, the sting layering over the first like a building wave. 

“Two,” he said, his voice dropping to an intimate whisper, breath warm against your ear as he leaned closer. “For making me hard in front of everyone, you wicked, beautiful thing. You have no idea how much I ached for you right then.”

Again, his fingers kneaded the heated skin, pressing just enough to ground you, to remind you of his care amid the discipline. You bit your lip, the pain mingling seamlessly with pleasure, your clit pulsing with each impact, a steady throb that matched your heartbeat. The room seemed to narrow, focusing on the sensations: the weight of his thigh under your hips, the faint creak of the bed, the distant hum of the hotel. By the third and fourth, delivered in a measured rhythm, one on each cheek, the slaps crisp but controlled, you were panting openly, your hands fisting the silken sheets, knuckles white. 

“Three... four,” he intoned, pausing to trace the reddening skin with his fingertips, feather-light, sending shivers racing up your spine. “Look at you, already squirming. But you're my slut, aren't you? Only mine to cherish.”

The words wrapped around your heart, pulling you deeper into that drift where worries dissolved and only his voice, his touch, existed. 

“Yes,” you whispered, your voice muffled against the bed, soft and dreamy “I'm your slut only, Baelor. Just yours, always.”

His hand stilled, and you felt the shift in his body, the way he leaned down, his lips brushing your shoulder in a feather-soft kiss, his breath a warm caress. 

“That's my girl,” he praised softly, the words like balm, filling the hazy corners of your mind with light. 

The fifth spank cracked down, harder this time, the impact reverberating through your flesh, a bright flash of heat that made you yelp, tears pricking at the corners of your eyes. But even as the sting peaked, his hand was there, soothing, circling, drawing the pain into pleasure. 

“Five. For sucking on your pen during the exam, but mostly for making me want you so fiercely I could barely think.”

The rhythm built from there, each smack precise and measured, alternating sides to spread the warmth evenly across your skin, the cumulative heat building like a slow-burning fire that enveloped your entire lower body. Six and seven landed with a wetter sound now, your arousal slickening the air, the scent of your own musk mingling with his, heady and intoxicating. 

“Six... seven,” he murmured, his teasing words laced with profound affection, his free hand trailing up your spine in lazy strokes. “Such a needy girl, getting so wet from a spanking. I can feel the heat radiating from you, smell how desperately you crave this. It's beautiful how you open for me.”

You were, gods, you were drenched, your pussy dripping steadily, slickness coating your inner thighs in a way that felt endless, more than it ever had before, as if your body wept for him in pure, unfiltered need. The pleasure deepened with each strike, time blurring at the edges; the eighth and ninth followed in a haze, the stings layering into a deep, throbbing warmth that made your whole body hum with endorphins, your mind floating in a sea of soft submission, detached yet profoundly connected to every sensation. 

“Eight... nine,” he said, his voice rougher now but still tender as a lullaby, massaging the tender flesh between strikes, his thumbs pressing into the muscles to ease any true ache. You floated there, weightless, his praises echoing like distant waves. The tenth was the firmest, landing right where your thighs met your ass, the impact jolting a deep moan from your throat, the sound raw and unguarded. 

“Ten,” he finished, his hand immediately cupping the spot, rubbing with a gentleness that brought tears to your eyes, not from pain, but from the overwhelming rush of it all, the way his care anchored you in the drift. “There, all done. You took that so well for me, so bravely, so beautifully. I'm so proud of you, my love.”

His fingers continued their soothing path, tracing patterns that lulled you further into the hazy space you were in, your body limp and trusting across his lap. Tears slipped down your cheeks, warm and cathartic, as the endorphin high washed over you in full, making colours seem brighter, his touch electric yet comforting. He helped you up slowly, with infinite patience, turning you to face him, his eyes scanning your flushed face, the tear tracks, and the blooming pink marks on your skin with a gaze full of adoration. 

“Shh, come here,” he soothed, his voice a velvet murmur, pulling you into his lap fully now, your bare ass settling against his clothed thighs with a hiss of sensation, the fabric rough against your sensitized skin, but his arms encircling you like a safe harbor. 

One hand stroked your hair in long, rhythmic passes, the other traced light, healing patterns over your reddened cheeks, avoiding pressure but offering presence. 

“You're perfect, you know that? My beautiful, perfect girl. I love how you give yourself to me like this, how you trust me with every part of you. You've made me so happy tonight.”

You melted into him completely, your body still buzzing with that floaty euphoria, your pussy clenching emptily as arousal continued to drip down your legs, warm and insistent, but the urgency softened by the subspace haze. 

“I love it too,” you breathed, your voice distant and dreamy, nuzzling into the crook of his neck, inhaling the familiar scent of him, clean soap, faint sweat, all man, that grounded you even as you floated. 

He kissed your forehead, lingering there with a press of lips that lasted seconds, minutes, his hand cupping the back of your head protectively. 

“Think you can take more?”

You nodded. His eyes darkened with intent, but the tenderness never faded as he glanced toward the headboard, his expression one of loving resolve. Without another word, he shifted you onto the bed with careful hands, laying you on your back against the cool, crisp sheets that sighed under your weight. The fabric was smooth against your heated skin, a stark contrast that made you shiver, your nipples peaking further in the room's gentle draft.

He unbuckled his belt with deliberate slowness, the leather whispering through the loops of his trousers like a secret promise, the metallic click of the buckle echoing softly. He folded it in half, securing the end with care, his movements unhurried, giving you time to absorb, to consent in the haze. 

“Hands above your head, darling,” he instructed gently, his tone coaxing rather than commanding, and you complied without thought, stretching your arms up in fluid surrender, the pull in your muscles a sweet ache. 

He looped the belt around your wrists with feather-light touches, threading it through the sturdy slats of the headboard, pulling it just tight enough to restrain you, firm, but never biting, the leather warm from his body against your skin. You tugged experimentally, the restraint holding with a soft creak, a thrill shooting straight to your core, deepening the subspace into a profound, trusting float where resistance was but a forgotten dream.

“Good girl,” he murmured, his voice a soothing anchor, trailing his fingers down your arms in a path of fire and silk, over the curve of your breasts, circling your nipples with the barest graze until they pebbled hard under his touch, sending sparks skittering through your veins. The sensation amplified in your hazy state, every nerve alive and singing.

“Say ‘Red’ if it gets too much.”

He settled between your legs then, his knees nudging your thighs apart with infinite care, the mattress dipping under his weight. Your heels dug into the soft bedding, the shoes still on as he'd commanded, their height arching your back slightly, adding to the exquisite vulnerability that made your heart swell. His gaze dropped to your pussy, exposed and glistening under the lamplight, the slick folds swollen and begging, and a low, appreciative groan escaped him, vibrating through the air. 

“Gods, look at you. Wetter than I've ever seen, my love. That spanking did this to you, didn't it?”

You nodded, your hips lifting instinctively toward him in a slow, languid motion, the subspace making movements feel dreamlike, effortless. 

“Please, Baelor... touch me. I need you inside me, everywhere.”

Your voice was a soft plea, floating on the edge of the haze. He didn't make you wait long, but savored the moment, his fingers parting your folds with a reverence that made your breath hitch, sliding through the abundant slickness with ease, the wet sounds obscene and intimate in the quiet room. Two fingers dipped inside you immediately, thick and probing, curling against that spot deep within that made stars burst behind your eyelids, a gasp tearing from your throat as pleasure bloomed hot and fierce. He pumped slowly at first, his thumb circling your clit in lazy, teasing loops that built the pressure steadily, like waves lapping at the shore. The stretch was delicious, your walls fluttering around him, the scent of your arousal thick in the air, mingling with the faint lavender of the sheets.

“So tight for me,” he whispered, leaning down to press a soft kiss to your inner thigh, his stubble grazing the sensitive skin, a rough counterpoint to his lips' softness. “So ready, so open. You feel like heaven, darling.”

His mouth followed, tongue flicking out tentatively at first to taste you, lapping at your entrance with broad, flat strokes as he thrust his fingers deeper, the dual sensation pulling a moan from deep in your chest. You writhed against the restraints, the belt creaking rhythmically, the helplessness amplifying everything, the pull on your wrists a constant reminder of your surrender, pushing you further into the euphoric drift where pain and pleasure blurred into one endless bliss.

He ate you out like he was memorizing you, savoring every drop, his tongue alternating between flat presses against your clit that made your toes curl in the heels, and pointed flicks that teased the edges, building the tension layer by layer. He sucked gently at first, the wet suction drawing whimpers from you, then harder, his lips sealing around the nub as his fingers, three now, stretching you with a burn that edged toward ecstasy, thrust in counterpoint. Your orgasm built fast, coiling tight in your belly like a spring, breaths coming in ragged gasps, your body arching off the bed, the sheets tangling around your legs.

But just as you teetered on the precipice, the world narrowing to that single point of need, he pulled back, his fingers withdrawing with a slick, audible pop that left you clenching around nothing, his mouth lifting to blow a cool stream of air over your throbbing clit. The denial hit like a soft wave, frustration mingling with the floaty high. 

“Not yet, my sweet girl,” he said softly, his eyes locked on yours, full of mischief. “I want you to feel every bit of this, to sink deeper for me.”

 You whimpered, hips bucking in protest, the emptiness aching, but his hand stroked your thigh reassuringly, grounding you.

“Shh, patience,” he soothed, kissing the inside of your knee before diving back in, his tongue resuming its worship with renewed fervor. 

He repeated the torment, bringing you to the brink with relentless licks that traced every fold, thrusts of his fingers that curled and scissored inside you, filling you with wet, squelching sounds, then easing off, his movements slowing to a maddening crawl, his tongue tracing idle, soothing patterns along your thighs until the peak receded like a retreating tide. Twice more he edged you, each denial pulling you deeper, your mind a swirl of colors and sensations, tears of frustrated need streaking your cheeks, but laced with profound peace. The third time, as he sucked your clit while his fingers plunged deep, you shattered the edge of control. 

“Baelor, I can't... I need to cum. Please, fuck me.”

His eyes met yours through the haze, dark with mirrored desire, but he nodded with a tender smile, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand, his lips glistening. 

“As you wish. I'll give you everything you need.”

He stood briefly, shedding his clothes with efficient yet graceful movements. You licked your lips at the sight, straining against the belt in a haze of want, your body thrumming. He climbed back over you, the mattress dipping, his warmth enveloping as he positioned himself at your entrance, the broad head nudging your soaked folds, parting them with a slick slide. With one hand on your hip, fingers digging in just enough to anchor, he thrust in, harder, deeper than he usually started, burying himself to the hilt in a single, powerful stroke that stretched you to your limits, the burn bordering on exquisite pain. You cried out, the sound raw and echoing, your walls clenching around his length as he filled you completely, the fullness pushing you into a deeper subspace drift, where the roughness felt like the ultimate care.

“Gods, yes,” he groaned, the vibration rumbling through his chest into yours, pulling back only to slam in again, setting a brutal pace from the start that jolted your body up the bed, the headboard rattling in time with his hips. 

The sound of skin slapping skin filled the room, wet and primal, his cock dragging over every sensitive ridge inside you, the friction amplified by your earlier edging. The roughness was exactly what you'd begged for, each thrust a claiming force, his pelvis grinding against your clit with every drive, sending shocks of pleasure-pain radiating outward. You wrapped your legs around him as best you could in the haze, heels pressing into his back through the shoes, urging him deeper into your core. 

“Harder,” you gasped, the word fracturing on a moan, your voice distant in the euphoric fog. 

He obliged without hesitation, one hand pinning your thigh wider, spreading you open for his invasions, the other bracing beside your head as he pounded into you with unrestrained fervor. His free hand found your breast, pinching the nipple sharply between thumb and forefinger, the spike of sensation drawing a keening cry from you, then soothing it with gentle rolls, the mix weaving seamlessly into the bliss. Sweat slicked your skin, beading on your forehead and trickling down your temples, the salty taste on your lips as you panted. Your pussy gushed around him, the wetness easing his rough thrusts, coating his balls that slapped against your ass with each plunge. He leaned down, capturing your mouth in a messy, devouring kiss, tongues tangling in a dance of heat and salt, his breath mingling with yours as he fucked you relentlessly. 

“Take it,” he murmured against your lips, his voice strained but loving. “Take my cock. You're mine, only mine.”

“Yes, yours,” you moaned, the words slurring in the haze, fracturing with each powerful thrust that rocked your world. 

The edging had left you so sensitive that the friction was overwhelming, your clit grinding against his pelvis in sparks that built and built. Your orgasm crashed over you without warning, a tidal wave, walls spasming wildly around him, milking his cock in rhythmic pulses as you screamed his name, the sound muffled against his shoulder, your body convulsing in endless release. He didn't stop, drawing it out with measured strokes, fucking you through the waves until you trembled, oversensitive and floating, every nerve alight. Only then, with a final deep thrust, did he pull out, fisting his cock as he knelt over you, his hand moving in quick, urgent strokes. Two pumps, and he came with a guttural groan that vibrated through you, hot spurts of cum painting your chest and belly in thick, warm ropes, marking you in pearly white that cooled quickly against your skin. The sight of it, the possessive warmth spreading, sent gentle aftershocks rippling through your drifting form.

Panting, he released his grip, his eyes softening immediately as he looked down at you, thumb brushing a stray hair from your damp forehead. 

“Beautiful.”

Without pause, he reached for the belt, unbuckling it with careful fingers, freeing your wrists one at a time, massaging the faint red lines left behind with feather-soft circles, his touch chasing away any discomfort. He untied your heels, throwing them away.

“Are you alright? Come back to me.” 

His voice was a gentle pull, guiding you from the depths. You nodded weakly, limbs heavy and languid as the pleasure ebbed, leaving a profound relaxation in its wake. He gathered you into his arms with effortless strength, shifting to lie beside you on the bed, the sheets rumpling around you both. He grabbed a soft, damp cloth from the bedside, previously prepared, you realized hazily, wiping you clean with tender strokes: over your chest, tracing the paths of his release, down your belly, then lower to your thighs, removing the sweat and slick with reverent care. 

“You were incredible,” he said, pressing kisses to your temple, your cheek, the corner of your mouth, each one lingering. 

You curled into his chest, his heartbeat a steady drum under your ear, lulling you further. He pulled the covers over you both, the fabric light and cool, tucking it around your bodies. His hands roamed soothingly over your back in broad strokes, down to your spanked ass, kneading the soreness away with just the right pressure, turning lingering heat into comfort. He rose to fetch a glass of cool water from the bathroom, the liquid refreshing as he held it to your lips, tilting it gently, his free hand supporting your head. 

“Drink, darling. You've given me so much tonight.”

You sipped, the water soothing your parched throat, before he set it aside and settled back, one arm around your waist pulling you close, the other stroking your hair in endless, rhythmic passes. Whispers of praise filled the air, weaving the tenderness deeper, chasing away any echo of roughness, leaving only warmth, safety, and profound contentment. In his arms, the world narrowed to this: his scent enveloping you, his touch a constant reassurance, the quiet intimacy you'd craved all night blooming into something new. 

You stayed tucked against him, your body still loose and heavy, but the quiet between you had shifted again. Your fingers traced along his chest, more deliberately now, following the lines of muscle, the steady rise and fall of his breath. You could feel the way he reacted to even that, subtle, but there. A small smile curved your lips.

“So,” you murmured, voice still hoarse from everything you’d just been through, “how long have you been thinking about that?”

His hand paused briefly at your back.

“About what?” he asked, though there was a faint edge of knowing in his tone.

You tilted your head, your lips brushing lightly against his skin as you spoke.

“Spanking me. Tying me up,” you said softly. “Treating me like that… watching me fall apart for you.”

You felt it then, the shift in him. The way his arm tightened just slightly around you.

“A while,” he admitted.

The honesty sent a slow heat through you. You let out a quiet breath, your fingers pressing a little more firmly against him now, more intentional.

“And you never thought to mention it?” you teased gently.

“I wasn’t sure how you’d respond,” he said.

You hummed, thoughtful, your leg sliding a little higher over his, your body naturally seeking more contact.

“You didn’t seem very unsure tonight.”

A quiet exhale left him, half a laugh, half something else.

“No,” he said, voice lower now. “I had a sense you wouldn't dislike it, based on…earlier times. Also, you were quite enthusiastic. That made it easier.”

You smiled against his skin, a little pleased with yourself.

“I liked seeing you like that,” you admitted after a moment. “So in control, so careful.”

His hand moved again, slower now, tracing along your spine.

“And you?” he asked quietly. “Did you like losing control?”

The question settled low in your stomach. You shifted slightly, just enough to look up at him again, your gaze steady despite the softness still lingering in your limbs.

“With you?” you said.

A pause.

“Yes.”

The word came easier than you expected. His eyes darkened slightly at that. You let your fingers drift lower, absent but not accidental, tracing along his side before settling again.

“Which is strange because, in real life, I have to be in control. It's…hard for me to let someone decide for me. Makes me vulnerable, you know,” you chuckled.

“I've noticed that.”

“Because it's something the wrong person could exploit. But not with you. It feels safe with you.”

“I won't. Ever. I only want to make you feel good, pretty girl. You deserve the best things in the world.”

His words, sincere and soft, wormed their way into your heart. You smiled against his skin. If you were not careful, you were going to end up falling irreparably in love with him.

“I didn’t know you had that in you,” you added, softer now. “The way you touched me…”

You trailed off, but you didn’t need to finish. He understood.

“I didn’t know if you would like that either,” he admitted.

That made you smile again, slower this time.

“Well,” you murmured, shifting closer, your lips brushing near his jaw, “now you do.”

Silence stretched between you again, but it wasn’t quiet. It was full, anticipation threading through it. Your fingers idly traced circles against him again, lighter now, but deliberate enough to keep that awareness alive between you.

“Is this going to be a one-time thing?” you asked after a moment, your voice softer, but carrying something more intentional beneath it.

His hand stilled. Just for a second. Then resumed, slower.

“No,” he said. “Unless you want it to.”

A small shiver ran through you, not from cold.

“I don't,” you whispered.

You settled back against him, but this time it wasn’t just for comfort. There was something else in it now, something knowing. His arm tightened around you again, his lips brushing your hair once more, lingering this time.

“Next time,” he murmured quietly, almost more to himself than to you, “I might not go as easy on you.”

Your breath caught. But instead of pulling away, you pressed closer, your fingers curling lightly against him.

“Is that a promise?” you asked softly.

His only answer was a chuckle and the way his hand slid down your back again, slow, deliberate, and full of intent.

Your exams had been going well.

Except this one. Your essay for your Global Affairs class was wracking your brain, mainly because it was on a subject you did not like, and therefore, could not wrap your head around. Economics.

The word itself was giving you a rash. Why couldn’t the exam be on something historical or artistic? Then, you would have actually known what to write about. You glanced at the clock. You had only one hour left to wrap up this mess. You held no hope of getting a good grade, but you were determined to finish it properly. With a sigh, you grabbed your pen again. The sound drew the attention of the professor watching the exam, his familiar mismatched eyes finding you with ease. They held a twinkle of disapproval at the sound that had escaped you. It was hard to think that only a few hours ago, Baelor’s cock had been buried inside you, so deep you felt as if the shape of him had been printed in your insides. You smirked, putting the end of your pen in your mouth, biting lightly. You had discovered he had an obsession with your mouth, always keeping it busy during your intimate encounters. Even outside of those, he would often caress your lips with his fingers or hand feed you little morsels of food.  This was just an excuse to tease him in public. You pushed the pen a bit further in your mouth, hollowing your cheeks. He gave you a warning glance, shifting in his seat and returning to the pile of copies he was correcting. You had no doubt your essay on Dornish inlfuence in late medieval romances was somewhere in there. You had spent time polishing it, rewriting it again and again, eager for his approval. You had not discussed it. You tended to avoid talking about his assignments, out of your own initiative. You did not want him to give you an unfair advantage. Though you doubted he would, fair as he was. If anything, he seemed to take a certain pleasure in being harder on you than the others.

You had just finished your conclusion on PM Hightower Income Tax when the bell rang.  You got up with a groan, your joints cracking after spending three hours sitting. Packing up your things, you slid your paper on the desk, throwing a quick wink at Baelor just to see his cheeks pinken slightly. He shook his head, staring at you from under the rim of his reading glasses. You loved those. He did not. The last time, he had been wearing them when you had slid under his blanket at night, absorbed in a book. He had looked so good then, in his old flannel pajama, the thin frames perched on the bridge of his nose and his brow furrowing in deep concentration, that you had almost ridden him here and then. But he had closed his book, taken the glasses off and pulled you in his arms before you could.

One day, you thought. One day.

You only had a small shift at the bookshop today. It was short but packed, boys starting to look for gifts for their girlfriends for Love Day coming soon. You had spent the last minute of your shift trying to explain a minotaur romance to a flustered boy who was clearly out of his depth but meant well. You were starting your dinner when the bell rang. Frowning, you walked carefully, looking through the peephole before opening. A delivery man was here, carrying a bouquet. You opened the door.

“Miss Y/L/N?” He asked.

“Yes?”

“Delivery for you.”

He held out the massive bouquet of winter roses. You stumbled back into your flat, their perfume filling the air. An envelope was inside, the paper thick with your name written on it.

This is the first part of your present.

The second part will happen this weekend. Follow the instructions on the card.

I can’t wait to see you.

Love,

Baelor

PS: your shift is covered.

In the envelope was a guide. On Friday, a driver would drop you to King Landing’s station at 4 pm. Baelor advised you to bring warm clothes, which made you chuckle. As if you were going to pack a bikini in the middle of winter. You were intrigued, to say the least, wondering what he had planned for you. A part of you was terrified, the prospect of not knowing what was going to happen not entirely pleasant. Still, it felt good to let someone take the lead, take care of you. You put the roses in the only vase you owned.  You took a picture of it, sending it to Baelor.

R: Thank you for the flowers! Can’t wait to see what you have in store for me

His reply only came minutes later.

B: I hope you’ll love it.

R: Can I get a clue? 

B: No. 

R: Pleeeeeaaaase???

B: As much as I like to see you beg, good things come to those who wait.

He had been true to his word. By Friday afternoon, you still didn’t know what was the plan. It was not for a lack of trying. You had tried to get anything, a crumb of information, out of him, but the man was stubborn. You had packed your small suitcase with warm sweaters and thick socks. You were excited, barely able to stay still. Tanselle had agreed to watch Nyra over the weekend. The prospect of the trip and the mystery of it all thrilled you. You had even tried to question Rowan but apart from saying that Baelor had dropped by the shop one morning to ask her if you could have the weekend off, she had been silent as a grave. She had not missed an occasion to tease you about it, though, in true Rowan fashion. 

You were shutting your suitcase shut when the bell rang.

“Hello, Miss. I’m Donnel. Mr Baelor has instructed me to drive you to the station,” a man said.

“I’ll be down in a minute!”

You put on your coat, wrapping your scarf tight around your neck. Pressing a quick kiss to Nyra’s head, you ran down your stairs. A sleek black car was waiting for you, drawing intrigued stares from the locals. A man in his mid-forties walked to you, grabbing your suitcase.

“Donnel, I presume?” You spoke.

“That’s right. Let me get that for you.”

He opened the door for you, going around the car to put your suitcase in the boot before sliding in the driver’s seat. His driving was safe and unhurried, the engine almost silent.

“Do you have any idea where I’m going?” You asked him.

He laughed, startling you.

“Mr. Targaryen said you were going to try that. Unfortunately, I’m bound to secrecy, Miss.”

You grumbled something about secrets. Your phone vibrated, Baelor’s caller ID flashing on the screen.

“Hello you,” you greeted him.

“Hello, darling. Are you in the car?”

“Yes, on my way to the station. Donnel is being mean and is refusing to tell me what’s going on,” you smiled at the other man.

“As he’s been instructed to.”

“Will you join me later?” You asked, softer.

“I’m already there, sweetling.”

The thought warmed you. You had known he would come with you but hearing the confirmation smoothed your anxiety.

“I’ll send you the rest of the instructions. I’ll see you later, love.”

He hung up. Seconds later, you received an email with train tickets. To the Eyrie. The advice about warm clothes was indeed warranted. This would be your first time out of King’s Landing in a decade. You had never been to the Vale, only seeing wildlife documentaries and Instagram posts about its icy peaks, glaciers and forests. You hoped Baelor wasn’t going to ask you to ski, because he was in for a treat then. Donnel arrived at the station, parking to the side.

“There we go,” he handed you your suitcase. “I hope you have a lovely time, Miss.”

“Thank you, Donnel. Have a good weekend!”

Checking your tickets, you looked at the screens in the marble hall to see which platform was your train on.

Platform 8.

You walked towards it, stopping to grab some nuts and dried fruits to snack on during the two hours ride. As you reached your platform, you realised your ticket was in First Class.

Of course it is. 

You were…Dating? Having an affair? with one of Westeros’ richest men. And if you had learned anything in those last few months, it was that Baelor was nothing but thorough. You giggled internally as you sunk into the plush seat reserved for you, letting your hands run across the velvet armrests. If somebody had told you a few months ago that you would be doing this, you would have scoffed, rolled your eyes and walked away. The train started, and you barely felt it. Plugging in your headphones, you let the music lull you away, the fatigue of the week crashing down on you as Florence sang:

The feeling comes so fast and I cannot control itI'm on fire, but I'm trying not to show it

You awoke about two hours later, the slightly metallic voice of the engine driver announcing the final stop. Groggy, you packed up your headphones, putting on your coat again. Checking your phone, you saw that you had another message from Baelor.

B: Once you get to the station, a man named Roland will be waiting for you in the hall. He will drive you to the Moon Gate Hotel. There, ask for a room under the name Breakspear. Your present awaits there.

True to his words, a tall man held a sign with your name on it.

“Roland?” You asked.

“Yep. That’s me.”

You wondered if all the Targaryen drivers were normally built like bodyguards. During the drive, you took the time to observe the streets, already dark at 5:30 pm under the winter sky. Some Light Day decorations remained, illuminating the avenues. You could only guess the mountains around you due to some lights peppered here and there. They almost looked as if they were floating in the sky, twinkling little stars. You got away from the city, driving on a dark, secluded road. For half a minute, you thought that perhaps you were being kidnapped. But soon enough, more cars appeared and Roland stopped in front of a magnificent building.  

You stepped out of the car, the fresh snow crackling under your boots. The first glimpse of the hotel rose above the frozen lake like a vision from the past, its tower piercing the dark Vale sky as though it had always belonged to the mountains. The air carried a brittle clarity, the palace's steep roofs burdened with white, its windows illuminated like a hundred quiet flames. There was a symmetry to its grandeur that felt almost ceremonial, as if every balcony and arch had been placed with a deliberate reverence for the landscape it surveyed. Yet for all its stateliness, there lingered a warmth behind the stone and glass, a suggestion of laughter, of evenings gilded with candlelight, luxury and conversation. It stood in the heart of winter, filled with the promise that one might still find splendor, and in the silence of the mountains, a palace alive with stories. You didn’t realise you were holding your breath until Roland cleared his throat.

“This way,” he nodded towards the entrance.

The hotel lobby was just as grand, all marble and sculpted wood panels. You tried your hardest not to gawk but you just couldn’t help but to admire the beauty of the place. Still, for all the grandeur, it felt peaceful, as if wrapped in a warm blanket. Guests were lounging on plush armchairs and sofas. You were suddenly hyper aware of your second-hand coat and shoes, and hurried, following Roland closely. He handed you your suitcase.

“That’s where I leave you. Enjoy the trip.”

With a curt nod, he left, leaving you stranded in that little bubble of luxury. You walked towards the front desk, squaring your shoulders and trying to look as if you belonged.

“Welcome to the Moon Gate, Miss,” a pretty receptionist greeted you. “My name is Jeyne.  How may I be of service?”

“Good evening, Jeyne,” you smiled. “I have a reservation under the name Breakspear, please.”

She typed the name. For a split second, you worried she was going to ask you for an ID but she smiled warmly after a beat.

“Indeed. You have booked the Griffin King Suite. You also have an esthetician appointment in 30 minutes and dinner at 8 pm for 2. Is that correct?”

Your mouth fell open. Baelor had definitely not mentioned an appointment. Only when the young woman’s eyebrow rose slightly did you realise you had not answered her.

“Oh, yes, yes. Sorry, it’s been a long day,” you chuckled.

“No problem. So, it’s all set. Here is the key to the room and Robyn here will show you the way. If you need anything, please let us know.”

“Thank you so much.”

You grabbed the heavy plastic card, walking towards a young man in a navy uniform.

“This way, Miss,” he instructed you.

You followed him to an art deco lift. Soft ambient music was playing softly through hidden speakers. It was surreal, something out of an old movie where everyone and everything was elegant, sophisticated in a quiet way. A bell rang, signaling your floor. Following Robyn, you crossed a long, carpeted corridor, the sound of your footsteps muffled. He stopped in front of a grand door. He held it open for you.

“If you please.”

The interior was absurdly beautiful. You stepped into an oval foyer, pink marble floor stretching under your feet. You had never been to a place like this. Even Baelor’s home, for all its comfort, didn’t feel as luxurious. Robyn left you with a final reminder that they were available for any help. You were almost afraid to step inside. It was the sort of place where you were afraid to breathe, in case it would break something invaluable. Still, your curiosity won the fight. It might never happen again so you might as well enjoy it. You discovered a small bathroom to your left. Taking a left turn, you saw an office, with the door slightly ajar. The walls were covered in pine panels, books filling the shelves. Baelor’s laptop and briefcase rested on the desk. You shook your head fondly. The man was clearly married to his work. A large living room followed, three plush sofas in the middle. A grand piano was standing in the corner. But what caught your attention was the view from the terrace. Even though it was night, you could see the glittering lake and the surrounding mountains. You couldn’t wait to see it in daylight. The bedroom was just as grand, a king size bed that looked sinfully soft resting against the wall. Three packages had been placed on top of it. You were going to open them when a knock interrupted you. Going back, you opened the door to a pretty redhead with tanned skin and freckles.

“Good evening, Miss. My name is Beony and I will be taking care of you tonight.”

You opened the door wider, letting her in. She led you to a large bathroom, with a walk-in shower, and where a beauty station had been installed. You gasped when you saw the bathtub. You had to climb a few stairs to reach it. It was waist deep, and if you sat in it, you were pretty sure the water would reach your neck. Beony laughed.

“That’s refreshing,” she said.

“What is?”

“Your reaction. Most people who come here are used to this sort of luxury. I’ll let you take a shower while I get everything ready.”

She handed you a plush robe, letting you enter the shower cubicle. There was enough space here to hang your robe, with a built-in bench you could sit on. You took a quick shower to freshen up, recognising your soap on the shelves. You knew such a place did not have your cheap shower gel. You guessed, that Baelor had bought it and placed it here. The thought made you blush. There was little he missed.

When you were done, you exited, wrapped in the most comfortable robe ever. Beony blow dried your hair, pinning it up in an elegant hairdo, a few strands framing your face. She then took care of your makeup, lathering your face with a cream that was probably worth your rent. She kept it simple, a more elevated version of your regular makeup. The reflection showed you a radiant young woman, skin glowing. You could scarcely believe you were a low-income student living near Flea Bottom. You thanked her profusely, walking her back to the door. You almost ran to open the packages. You took the square one first. Inside was a pair of beige, strappy heels. They were perfect, the heel not too high, just enough to elongate your legs the right way.  Your breath caught when you saw the next package. You recognized the label.

Seastar.

You had seen some of it from runways and fashion magazines. Never in your wildest dreams, had you thought about touching one of their pieces. You opened it.

“Gods!” You whispered.

The gown was spun from a hush of beige, neither gold nor ivory, but something in between, like dusk caught in fabric. Light did not strike it so much as it lingered on it, gathering in the thousands of tiny sparkles that dusted its surface, like miniature stars. The neckline was simple, almost modest, a soft curve resting at the collarbone, while delicate cap sleeves hovered at your shoulders like petals. From there, the bodice drew in gently, holding the form with quiet certainty before surrendering to movement. The skirt flared at the knee, spilling downward in a long, fluid line that would brush against your ankles, once you’d put it on. 

This is insane, you thought, caressing the soft fabric. This could pay for my groceries for three months. 

And you were not done yet. The last package was a flat rectangle, from the same label. You first noticed the colour, deep, wine-red lace that felt both bold and delicate at once. It looked almost too intricate to belong to you, the fine floral patterns traced with softer blush tones that caught the light when you moved. When you slipped into the bra, the structured cups lifted and framed you in a way that felt unfamiliar at first, more poised, more intentional. The thin straps rested lightly on your shoulders, and the tiny bows added a detail you hadn’t expected to matter, but somehow did.

The suspender belt came next, hugging your waist with a gentle firmness. You adjusted it slowly, fingertips brushing along the lace as if you needed to convince yourself it was real. It defined your shape, drawing your attention to the curve of your hips, the line of your waist.

Pulling on the matching bottoms, you felt the softness settle against your skin, light and precise. The garter straps clipped into place one by one, a quiet ritual that made the whole set feel deliberate, almost ceremonial. When you finally straightened up, smoothing everything into place, there was a pause.

You looked at yourself differently then, not just seeing the lingerie, but how it changed the way you carried yourself. Your posture shifted without thinking, your shoulders easing back, your chin lifting just slightly. It wasn’t just how it looked. It was how it made you feel, composed, a little daring, and quietly powerful in a way you hadn’t expected.

You slipped into the dress, the fabric almost buttery soft against your skin. You wobbled a bit on the heels before straightening up. It was time to go to dinner.

You felt his gaze the moment you stepped into the restaurant. It found you instantly, like it had been waiting for you.  Your breath caught as your eyes met his across the room. He was already standing, already watching you in that way that made your skin warm under the soft shimmer of the dress. For a second, you hesitated. Then you walked toward him. Each step felt unreal, like you were slipping into someone else’s life, someone who belonged in places like this, who wore dresses like these and had men like him looking at them like that. You stopped in front of him.

“Hi,” you said softly.

He didn’t answer right away. His eyes moved over you slowly, deliberately, taking you in in a way that made your stomach tighten.

“You’re…” he started, then shook his head faintly, as if words were failing him. “You’re absolutely stunning. Shiera has outdone herself.”

Heat rushed to your face.

“Thank you,” you murmured, glancing down at the dress, suddenly aware of every inch of it. “It’s… a lot. I’m not really used to this.”

You let out a small, embarrassed laugh, fingers brushing the fabric as if that might make it feel more familiar.

“All of this,” you added quietly. “It’s… not really my world.”

When you looked back up, his expression had softened.

“I know,” he said gently. “That’s part of why I love it.”

You frowned slightly, confused.

“I like spoiling you,” he continued, stepping just a little closer. “And you deserve it. You deserve the best of everything.”

Your throat tightened at that. You didn’t quite know how to respond, so you didn’t. You just nodded, a little shy, a little overwhelmed. His hand came up to your cheek then, warm, steady, and before you could overthink it, he leaned in and kissed you, soft and lazy. And completely, openly public. For a split second, you froze.  You weren’t used to this, not here, not where anyone could see. Your relationship had always existed in quieter spaces, behind closed doors, in stolen moments. But then you melted.

You leaned into him without thinking, your hand brushing his shirt as the kiss deepened just slightly, enough to make your heart race but not enough to draw attention.

When he pulled back, you were breathless. And smiling.

Dinner was… perfect.

The kind of meal you’d only ever seen in pictures, beautiful plates, delicate flavours, everything carefully crafted. You tried everything, laughing softly at yourself when you couldn’t quite describe what you were tasting.

“So, you know Shiera Seastar?” You asked him.

“Well, she's one of many of my grandfather's…illegitimate children,” he shrugged.

You had always thought so, the pictures you had seen of her showing a woman with clear Valyrian colouring. Looking around at the vast room with a vaulted ceiling, you shook your head.

“What is it?” He said softly. 

“This is insane. I'm in one of the most exclusive places in Westeros, dressed in priceless designer clothes and with a lan whose ancestors rode dragons and ruled the country. This is nuts.”

“Why is it?”

You looked at him, incredulous.

“Baelor, I've always lived near Flea Bottom. I was raised by a single mother who worked as a secretary. Luxury was going to the cinema and holidays were taking the bus to one of the Blackwater's beaches. I don't belong here.”

Your chest ached with your words, and you felt the tremors of anxiety in your stomach. He put his hand on your cheek, the touch warm. He turned your head to look into your eyes.

His thumb brushed lightly along your cheek, steadying you before you could look away.

“Don’t,” he said softly.

There was no sharpness in his voice, but something firm, something that stopped the spiral of your thoughts before it could take hold.

“You’re measuring yourself against the wrong things.”

You frowned slightly, your breath uneven.

“How?” you asked.

He leaned closer, not enough to crowd you, but enough that you could feel him.

“This place,” he said quietly, glancing around the room before his eyes returned to you, “these walls, the history, the money… none of that determines who belongs here.”

His hand slipped from your cheek to your jaw, holding you there gently but insistently, making sure you kept looking at him.

“You do.”

Your brows knit, disbelief flickering across your face.

“Baelor…”

“No,” he cut in softly, not harshly, but with quiet certainty. “Listen to me.”

His thumb brushed once more along your skin, slower now.

“You walked into this room and made it glow for me,” he continued.

You stilled at that.

“You don’t belong here because of what you wear, or where you came from,” he said. “You belong here because of who you are. Because you are hardworking, talented and smart.”

Your throat tightened, emotion catching you off guard.

“That doesn’t just disappear because the setting changes,” he added, voice lower now. “You’re still the same woman I wanted before any of this. The same one I… admire.”

The word lingered. Carefully chosen. His gaze softened, but his hold on you didn’t loosen.

“And if anything,” he murmured, “you make this place feel more real. Less… hollow.”

You let out a small, shaky breath, your eyes searching his, trying to find any hint of exaggeration. You found none. Only sincerity.

“Because belonging isn’t something you inherit. It’s something you decide to accept.”

His hand slid from your jaw to your neck, warm, steady.

“And I’ve decided,” he added, softer now, “that you belong wherever I choose to take you.”

The words could have sounded possessive. But the way he said them in a calm, certain, almost reverent way, made them feel like something else entirely. An invitation. A promise. His thumb brushed lightly along your skin again.

“So stop trying to convince yourself you don’t deserve this,” he murmured. “Because you do.”

A pause.

“And I’m going to keep proving it to you.”

During dinner, he watched you more than he ate. At some point, his hand found yours across the table. And stayed there.  His thumb brushed absent patterns against your skin as you talked about your day, the journey, small, easy things that made you forget where you were for a while. But not entirely.  Because every now and then, your eyes would meet, and the air would shift. That quiet, steady tension never left. It sat between you, patient, waiting.

The lift back upstairs felt shorter than it should have. His hand returned to your back as you moved through the hotel, grounding, guiding. You leaned into it more than you realized, your body already attuned to him. By the time you reached the suite, your pulse had picked up again. He opened the door and let you in first. When you reached the living room, your turned, grasping his shirt to pull him in for a kiss. He stopped you, stepping just out of reach.

“Wait here,” he said.

There was something in his voice, something calm, controlled, but edged with something else entirely. Your curiosity sparked immediately.  But you nodded.

“Okay.”

You stayed where you were, listening to his footsteps disappear down to the bedroom, your mind already racing ahead, trying to guess. You didn’t have long to wait. When he returned, there was a quiet shift in him, subtle, but unmistakable.

“Come here,” he ordered.

You followed him. And then you saw.

On the bed.

Your breath caught. The objects were laid out neatly, deliberately. 

A flogger. A belt. A paddle.

For a moment, you just stared. You hadn’t expected this. Not here. Not tonight. Your thoughts tangled together: surprise, curiosity, something sharper threading through it all.

Desire.

“You sent me something rather distracting on Light Day,” he said calmly behind you.

You turned to look at him. His expression was as composed as ever, but his eyes were dark.

“I believe we never properly addressed that,” he added.

Your pulse jumped.

“A few spanks should set you straight.”

Silence stretched. You didn’t answer. Not because you were afraid, but because the heat that bloomed low in your stomach caught you completely off guard. He misread it.

“You don’t have to,” he said quickly, his tone softening. “If this isn’t something you want…”

You crossed the distance between you before he could finish. Your lips found his, cutting him off. The kiss was hungry, certain, your hands rising to his hair, pulling him closer without hesitation. You felt the way he stilled in surprise. Then responded. When you pulled back, your breath was uneven, but your thoughts were clear.

“I want it,” you said quietly.

Something shifted in his gaze again. Slower this time. Deeper. He studied you for a moment, as if making sure.

“Then choose,” he said softly.

Your eyes flicked back to the bed, to the objects laid out there. Your heart raced. But when you looked back at him, your choice felt obvious.

“You,” you said.

A faint frown crossed his features.

“I want your hand.”

That did something to him. You saw it, the way his control tightened, the way something darker, more intent settled in his expression. He stepped closer, his fingers brushing lightly along your jaw.

“Are you sure?” he murmured.

You nodded, your clit pulsing already.

“Yes.”