La Boticaria

Not literally, but that is what it felt like to the man, especially now as he sat in the audience staring at Maekar. The man did not smile, not that he ever did, but Baelor had known his brother long enough to read his expressions. 

The cunt was smug. 

And of course he was…how could he not be when he finally had gotten what he had spent years yearning after. 

He deserved you. 

You deserved him. 

But it did nothing to ease the bitterness that was starting to bloom in the prince’s chest. Maekar and you had always had a better relationship than himself and you. Maekar could be a father to Ormund in ways that would be unfit. Dyanna and him went to Storm’s End. You went to Summerhall. The boys had all been raised together and both of your kids looked at the other like an extra parent. 

He built his relationship with not only his son, but Baelor’s son as well, and now it was going to pay off. He had gotten the long term goal, by simply being there. Baelor turned, letting his eyes wander to the other side. 

Stannis stood beside Daeron, the pair whispering between each other and it felt like a stab to the heart. He looked happy, he looked content, and Baelor knew that he was. Like Lyonel, Maekar would be another fatherly figure to the boy. One he needed. HIs own brother would be more of a father to his son than he had. 

The pitt in his stomach only grew when the ceremony had started and he braved a glance toward the end to look at you. He wanted to see what you looked like. If you wore a frown like he imagined you had your first wedding day. 

But you were not frowning. 

Not in the slightest. 

Your lips were turned up as you eagerly made your way down the aisle, your eyes trained on the groom at the end. Baelor turned, stealing a glance at his brother causing the vice around his chest to tighten. 

Maekar was not smiling, but the hard edges of his face had softened as she stared at you. He looked at you as if you had hung the moon and all the stars, and you may as well have in Maekar’s eyes. 

You were everything. 

You would always be everything.

And then he watched as the love of his life took his brother’s hand. A smile spread wide across your lips as you radiated beauty, and before he even knew it the cloak of House Targaryen was wrapped around your shoulders and for a minute he could pretend it was him. 

That he was the one you were marrying, but it all came crashing down as you moved forward pressing your lips to Maekar’s and kissing him as if you had been starved from him for years. 

And that was a thought he could not push down. 

That you were the love of his life. 

But you were his brother’s wife, and you were happy about that new title.

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“So do tell me why, if he is supposedly nursed back to health, he has threatened to behead half the fucking royal guard!” Maekar demanded, the broken family had since returned to the RedKeep after Ashford Tourney, and King Daeron had ordered his half dead son be seen to by the healers. Healers who had seemingly done very little in actually helping him, just making him comfortable for death. In an aide to save his Father, Prince Valarr took to the streets and ordered a search for the best healer in the city. Peasants and Small Folk contracted all sorts of deadly illnesses, illnesses that in their conditions took them more often than not. Yet as of late many had begun returning to health as their fever’s broke and rumours of a woodland witch with hands so soft they were meant for healing. If this supposed healer could bring back Small Folk from near death, a Crown Prince with royal supplies should surely be an easy feat.

It brought the Prince to your door, on the outskirts of the city as the woodland grew thicker. You answered the heavy knock, hair tied intricately at the back of your head so that it did not rest upon your shoulders, sure a few strands hung lower here and there, and your dress was not one of a common girl, it was subtle but expensive, the Prince noted. A soft lavender that contrasted your skin and hugged your body, a grey cloak of similar stature hung around your shoulders. Kindness payed not only with gratitude, but seemingly coin too, he acknowledged. “Do you know who I am?” He asked, there was no playful tone to his voice. Only uncertainty, that maybe you would perceive him as mad for doing such an odd thing. “I know of you, my Prince.” You responded, bowing your head in acknowledgment. “Then you know why I am here.” Valarr spoke, his voice cracking lightly, you frowned “Breaking a fever of a common man is a different aide to fixing the mind of a crown Prince. I fear I am of no use to you, nor your Father. You have my sympathies.” He scoffed, an expression unbefitting of his soft features overtook him. “You may offer your sympathies, if you do not succeed. The Maesters from the Citadel have said there is nothing they can do for him, that he will not wake. They are making him comfortable for the Stranger to take him. Seemingly you have no fear of saying no in the face of death, as I have spoken with many merchants on my way who all have led me here, singing your praises of how you saved their sick sons and daughters, nursed Mother’s back to health from near death on the child-bed. A wound to the helm should be an easy fix for you. So get on the horse.” You could have argued. Maybe you should have. But you saw a desperate boy, barely older than yourself, begging for the help of a random girl to save his Father. So you humoured him, got on his horse, and allowed him to escort you to the RedKeep.

“And who the fuck are you?” He spat, sitting himself up against the plush pillows. Baelor had ordered all servants and whoever else in the room to ‘get the fuck out’ after awaking, anger radiated from him like a sickness, warding off all those who had once sought to help him. You frowned, “Do not sit up so quickly.” He rolled his eyes and grumbled “I asked you who the fuck you are, do not order me. Perhaps you are an apology from my brother, a common whore for me to bed. I suppose you are easy on the eyes.” A lie. You appeared far too untouched to be a whore, you had a pretty face there was no doubt in that, but whores had a confidence that your posture lacked, not to mention you wore far too much clothing to be considered one in the first place. But he had hoped it would hurt, and he also in part hoped it to be true. “I am not a whore, my Prince. I am a healer.” He scoffed, “You are no Maester from the Citadel.” True, you were not. Yet his dismissal felt unnecessarily harsh. “Good observation my Prince, it is nice to know your eyes are not as damaged as your temper.”

“What the fuck did you just say to me? First you will not address who you are and now you mock me?” It was your turn to roll your eyes, you should not be speaking to him as you were. Yet you knew in this moment if you gave him the satisfaction of seeing the fear you felt he would walk all over you. That was, if he could still walk. “I am a healer, my Prince. Your son sought me out after your accident. He said the Maesters were preparing you for the Stranger to take you. He believed I could fix what they could not.” He studied you, the slight shake in your hands, the way you picked at your nails before truly allowing your eyes to watch him for his reaction. “And they were right. How pathetic.” You titled your head softly, “Pathetic?” “Yes pathetic. Why dedicate their lives to something so profound if they cannot even heal a Prince of the Realm. It is pathetic, as are you. Standing there, picking your fingers until they bleed. I want you gone.” A frown graced your lips, you hid your hands behind your back subtly, another thing he took note of. You did not speak compliance yet your body reacted with it. That satisfied him. “I am afraid it is not permitted.” You flinched, he had reached for a cup on the nightstand and threw it in your direction, you dodged it which only seemed to infuriate him more. An array of things were thrown at you, his coordination was faulty, and he soon realised he was out of objects to pelt at your head. It was then he willed himself to move, yet his legs would not comply.

He heaved a stony breath, eyes welled with tears of frustration. “Have you poisoned me? Is that why my legs will not listen to my head? Are you a witch?” Closing your eyes briefly and near choking on a breath you spoke, “A witch? No, if I am, I clearly am not a very successful one, am I? The injury you sustained from your brother’s mace left you in a state near death. Your body is likely still coming to grips with the fact you are not dead.” “Bring me a maester. A man. Someone capable.” There it was, the subtle jab. You were currently everything he was not, and he could not stand the sight of being coddled by a common woman who had not only nursed him back to health, but was stood on two working legs. Turning quickly you headed for the door, asking a guard for a Maester. And you did not return.

৻ꪆ

It would seem, you were not the only direct recipient of the heirs newfound anger. Whatever fool had placed anything on the nightstand seemed unaware they had practically laced an arrow on a taught bowstring. Seemingly he had waited for an unsuspecting servant, he had made her feel special. A gentle tone no one else had been graced with since he had awoken, and persuaded her to give him one of his daggers that remained on the chest of drawers opposite his bed. “I only wish to admire it, I can hardly do harm in this state, can I beautiful?” He had said. And so she had complied, before leaving.

“Guard! Bring me the whore that was here when I awoke! My head aches.” Startled, yet forced to obey, Ser Donnel arrived to your temporary chambers in the night, pulling a cloak over your nightdress you asked softly “Is something the matter, Ser?” He cleared his throat, apprehension clear on his face “The Prince requests your presence immediately My Lady, he says his head aches.” You nodded softly before allowing him to escort you to the Prince. You entered the room, it was sparsely lit with dim candles, he led unmoving on the bed, shoulders rested against the mahogany headboard. “Your head will hurt, my Prince, if you rest it against wood instead of your feathered pillows.” Your voice was not humoured, it was truthful. Surely he still had common sense? “Close the door.” You obliged, he noted you listened to direct instructions, meaning you were not an entirely lost cause.

“Come closer.” Again, you listened. Feet stepping on the cold stone of the chamber. When you were within grasp, he grabbed the skirt of your nightdress and yanked you to him, the tight point of his glistening dagger grazing your stomach. For a man who had not used his hands since the incident, he still remained dangerously strong. “I am going to say this once, and you will listen. You can mock me, curse at me, strike me if it suits you. But when I can move freely, and I assure you that day is near, you will be the first of many to suffer the consequences of your actions.” His voice was low, the dagger was sharp. He traced it up until it sat between the valley of your breasts, the thin cloak having being discarded when he yanked you so forcefully. “Consequences of kindness?” Your voice was soft, and quiet, his was not so as he laughed bitterly “Kindness. Nobody possesses kindness these days. Anybody who says true, is a liar. You enjoy being needed, you are not kind. You desire being wanted. It’s written into your actions. You linger in the doorway, you fidget waiting to be told you’re not wanted, you fight to stay to prove that you’re right. Because you want someone to want you. But the truth? You are not wanted. Not by me. Not by my Son. Not by a soul in this keep, that is why you are hidden so far from this chamber. You are merely convenient for the time, but do not fret, you will be discarded back to Flea Bottom or whatever shit-hole it is that you reside in. But for now I’ll let you play Nurse, pretend to be a Lady in your pretty gifted silks. Because it will not last. You, will not last here.” He spat venom like a snake in his words, each one poisoning you as your lungs struggled to fill as you choked for air. It was then you realised he had pierced your skin with his dagger, having drawn an unceremonious line from between your breasts to your jugular. It looked as though a perfect thin spread of wine had been spilt, but that would be too kind, too gentle, too large for the accuracy of the wound he had gifted to you.

His hand did not let go of your skirts. “If your anger is going to aide you to walk, my Prince. Then I urge you to use it.” If your response surprised him he certainly did not show it, instead his thumb smudged your blood across to your collarbone. You would not show that he had hurt you, that his words rang true in your ears. He brought his thumb to his lips and sucked it softly, reigning a confused grimace onto your face. His eyes found yours as you asked “Am I dismissed?” He shook his head lightly before tilting it in the direction of the chaise in the corner of the room, “You are not permitted to leave unless it is at my order. You will rest there only.” You sighed softly and stood, the dagger clattering to the floor as he had seemingly forgotten it in his haste to watch your blood flood across your skin. You picked it up along with your cloak, before settling into the unconventional chair, eyes casting out of the dim window. “Would you like a remedy for your headache?”

“My head does not ache.” He admitted, so he had lied for your company. He was either incredibly lonely or sick of the coddling provided by all else around him. And he was, at least you had some bite. Something to fight with. Though he still intended to punish you for your words against him, he enjoyed the game for the moment.

৻ꪆ

Five moons later, you were now practically imprisoned into the keep. Your bedchamber adjoined the Prince Baelor’s so that you could attend to him throughout the night, as if he were a weeping child. The first moon had been spent truly healing his wounds and in paying such careful, around the clock attention to him. You had managed to awaken him, though he was not the same patient man seemingly all of Westeros spoke of. The second moon was spent understanding this changed man. Impulse control and rationality had seemingly dispensed upon impact of the near fatal blow, he was callous and angry. At what? He did not know. The third moon you had focused on his balance, as much as he cursed you, ordered your head to be removed, the King would not allow it as this was the furthest progress he had made in the weeks since Ashford tourney. He hated being perceived as weak, and now he could not even walk alone? A pathetic joke, as pathetic as he found himself, two of his closest guards flanking either arm in an attempt for him to walk. The walking was the longest process of them all, despite by the fourth moon being able to walk freely, the Prince Baelor still found himself stumbling into the wall in a long corridor, or hitting his shoulder on a doorframe as he miscalculated the turning. All things that came naturally as a child and he grew never evening having to think about day to day, became a list he had to check off.

If he was leaving his bedchambers to the council chamber, he had to exit his doorway and take the first left, walk twenty seven paces to the top of the staircase, then he must navigate the fifty four steps to the bottom of the winding way- curse his past self for wanting such intricate privacy- remember what you had told him about the third to last step appearing as a trick (he still had two more to go, not one), walk along another long corridor and stop before the vanity window, not get distracted by the foolery taking place in the yard, walk up and down six flights of eight steps- rather pointless in his opinion, they were more for decoration that practicality it would seem, and finally open the council chamber door which he had to remember opened the opposite way to the rest of the doors in the keep, to supposedly ‘confuse intruders’, something his Grandfather had done to ease his own mind. Because of course, instead of upping the defences, putting the council chambers door on backwards was surely the best protection a King could get.

But today he was not navigating his way to the council chambers, he was navigating his way to you. And you, were currently being yelled at by the King’s fourth son.

“So tell me was it your herbs?” Maekar pressed, he was seemingly under the impression the blow to the helm he gave his brother had not been what reshaped his mind. “Do you want the honest truth, my Prince, or the lie that will help you sleep at night?” You grit your teeth, it was not befitting of a Lady to speak to a Prince that way, let alone a woman of your low-born status. Yet because of this you had nothing to lose, and Prince Maekar certainly had not been told the harsh truth by any Maester’s of the Citadel. It was not your herbs that had cursed Prince Baelor’s mind, it was the mace that crushed his skull, and crushed his rationality and kindness with it. Maekar stilled, clenched fists turning red at his sides as his eyes bore into yours “Are you implying that my hand reshaped his mind?”

“I am telling you that your mace, did. There is no implication my Prince. Herbs can temporarily change one’s mental state, perhaps prolonged use also, but this. What has happened to your brother, his wounds have healed but the mind cannot be reshaped, it is a miracle he is not long gone. Instead of feeling guilt about it having being your mace, and seeking to blame another. Perhaps thank the God’s he is still breathing, and you did not accidentally take his life on that tourney field.” As soon as the final words had left your mouth, you had sealed your fate. Prince Baelor had already ordered you beheaded thrice, and now if Prince Maekar said he did not wish for you to remain the King might actually listen. “Accidentally.” He muttered, his grip on himself loosening lightly. You pursed your lips, lowering your head slightly yet your eyes could not leave his face. He looked like a wounded child. “Everybody knows that you had no intent to kill your brother, even if he had died. Nobody would have ever believed you swung with intent to kill. This was an unfortunate outcome, from an unforeseen trial. A test against your family from the God’s, a cruel joke perhaps. But I will not lie to you like everybody else. Your mace has created this man. There is nothing that you can do to change it so now you must endure it. Good day to you, my Prince.” You left the chamber, violet skirts kissing the stone floor as you left. Unaware that the man of the moment had been sneakily listening the other side of the door, and hidden himself as it opened. Rather successfully, he knew you would have been proud of his stealth given he had been unable to move without thumping just a few moons ago. So he followed you silently, into your bedchambers when you believed the door had swung shut. It had not, for he stood in front of it after it had closed.

You jumped, physically, at the sight of him. “Am I truly such a terrifying sight to see?” He asked, amusement evident in his tone. “No, my Prince. I just did not expect you here, nor did I hear your arrival.” He hummed, he enjoyed how anxious you appeared. How uncomfortable you were in his presence because it was so truly unnatural. “Hm. You had a lot to say to my brother, yet you remain strangely silent now. So tell me, it wasn’t your herbs that killed the kind man I was?” You cast your eyes downwards, watching as your feet struggled to stay planted on the floor, “No, my Prince. And you know it was not.” He laughed, “Look at me.” You obliged. “I promised you torment when I could not walk. For the words you rallied against me.” His fingers played with one of the loose strands of your hair that hung around your face, “You did.” You looked away from him, he tilted your chin so your eyes could meet once again. “Part of me wants to punish you. Wants you writhing on the floor in agony. Yet another part of me, the selfish part that now consumes me, wants you writhing with pleasure instead. Screaming my name.” The confession made your skin crawl, you had never been spoken to in such a manner, and the hunger in his eyes made goosebumps rise along your flesh.

“I believe I have served my purpose here, my Prince. I wished to see you walk again. And now-” His hands begun unlacing the back of your gown roughly, fingers pulling at strings that did not will to be undone. “And now this is becoming improper.” It came out at a whisper. Your defiance long gone, you were melting within his fiery clutches, these months he had trained you and it had led you right where he willed. And the worst part was you had been none the wiser. “Do you not feel it? The hunger? I burn for you. I feel it in my skin. In my heart. Yes. For weeks whilst you slept in that chair I imagined what I’d let you do to me. A common girl, of no notable birth, met by chance. Yet I would let you do just about anything to me. The heir, Prince of the Realm, dreaming of a common girl to reach out first. Yet you never did. You still do not.” Your maroon dress hit the floor with a thump, a dress he had gifted you in what you believed to be an act of mercy. Instead it turned to be another selfish deed, so that you were branded in his house colours. “Do you think I suffered your lip for amusement? You have bite. I wanted it. I wanted you to bite me. Mark me as yours. Yet the only way to get some life out of you was to let you behave like such a spoiled brat. Any other common girl would have lost her tongue, yet I could not bring myself to do it to you. Even though I think of it, I will not rule it out of the question. We will have to see how much it proves its use.”

His lips found yours in a crushing defeat, as he backed you to the bed, knee’s buckling as they came into contact with the mattress. “Let me see that pretty hair down.” He growled, you complied. You did not know why you did. Maybe he was right, you hated that. His observation from the first day you truly spoke. You wanted to be needed, you craved it, and now a Crown Prince of the Realm was giving you his undivided attention. Albeit he was brutal, yet you wanted him to touch you. To kiss your neck. To praise you.

You.

Because no one had ever observed you as such a woman, nor had they gifted you with such royal attention.

So you took down your hair. It flowed freely, falling onto the mattress, shorter pieces framing your face. He let out a strangled grunt at the sight, seemingly all restraint felt lost as his hands gripped your bare thighs. “When you said my hatred was my motivation, for me to walk. It was lies. My motivation, was fucking you. And I am going to, I intend to. And I intend to be the only man you will ever lie with.” A threat from his strained tongue, you did not know what to make of it, either he intended to bed you more than once or he intended to kill you after he filled you. Yet you had no need to care, desire or lust did not matter to you because he was what was on you now.

And you were his sole attention.

A/N: guys what do we think?? this was kind of different but i didn’t want to overdo it. i hope everyone who was interested in the snippet wasn’t disappointed, but yeah. let me know your thoughts. As always, requests are open, likes, comments, reblogs and any interactions are always appreciated!! Take care everyone!!

general akotsk taglist: @noone1233nobody @antobooh @mikariell95 @kravitzwhore @vanillafan6 @ae-gax @galactict3a @aleemendoza2425-blog

baelor taglist: @justmasblack @mimistimesblog @munsonintheupside

girl dad!daeron would make her happiness paramount, over his own exhaustion, his own schedule, his own personal wants and needs. as long as his daughter was okay, he would rest easy.

girl dad!daeron felt as if he had four sons at times, his sons being the one to run to him crying saying his daughter ripped their hair out. and she would stand with her chin tucked into her shoulder, toothy grin on her face.

girl dad!daeron would have to be fair, taking her aside to scold her. though, it was more a gentle warning. he could never be firm with her, it was not possible. "sweetheart, you're a teenager. not a child, no need to be fighting with your brothers any longer." "they started it! they keep trying to steal my phone, they think i'm talking to boys." "are you?" "NO."

girl dad!daeron would notice his daughters sheepishness around the subject, pulling at the sleeves of her sweater or keeping her gaze low when her brothers would poke fun at her having a boyfriend.

girl dad!daeron had learned to drown out their arguments, their raised voices and throwing of vegetable across the dinner table. he would only look at you, take your hand, engage in quiet conversation about your day.

girl dad!daeron knew you'd have all of them on the floor cleaning their mess moments later, and that was retribution enough for him.

girl dad!daeron knew his daughter well enough to know she was retracting into herself. she became withdrawn, no longer fighting her brothers when they would make kissing sounds at her when a boy had walked her home.

girl dad!daeron wasn't like aerion, who drove to his house in a panic when his own daughter had announced her boyfriend. his brother sat at the kitchen island for hours, comforted by his wife as she explained what every teenage girl must go through when growing up.

girl dad!daeron was not like aerion. he cared more for his daughter's feelings than anything else. he reserved no right to lock her away like some maiden, he only wished she was happy.

girl dad!daeron paid such close attention to his daughter. when she would shove her brothers with no witty response, stop wearing her brother's hoodies, asking sweetly to hang out with a guy she liked.

girl dad!daeron saw right through her. perhaps not perfectly, he didn't know what she was hiding. but he knew she was hiding something.

girl dad!daeron would rant to you whilst he brushed your hair, as he did every night. you were sat in front of him in bed, listening to him pour his heart out over his sweet daughter. "she's not herself, it's turning me inside out." "then talk to her! i'm sure she would appreciate you being there." "you know what teenagers are like, barely tells me what ice cream she wants, let alone her feelings." "she's a daddy's girl. always has been. you just need to show her how unconditional your love is."

girl dad!daeron had suggested going for lunch, away from the boys for an afternoon, "your mother can wrangle them for an afternoon."

girl dad!daeron let her choose the restaurant, let her order whatever she wanted, laughed with her about some stupid prank she wanted to pull on you later tonight.

girl dad!daeron couldn't find the words to say, but watching his baby pull at her sleeves in discomfort thrusted the words from his mouth. unformed thoughts spilt between them. "what's going on with you, honey?" "what do you mean, dad?" "i mean you aren't yourself recently. like something is eating at you. you know you can talk to me." "there's nothing to say."

girl dad!daeron thought he failed. thought he pushed her away for good. thought had had lost his sweet yet ruthless daughter to teenage angst. even on the drive home, the radio had been the only thing to ease the tension in the car.

girl dad!daeron sat defeated in the kitchen later that evening, with you to run your hands through his hair to comfort him. to tell him this wasn't his fault, nor was it hers.

girl dad!daeron near collapsed when his daughter had appeared, and finally spoke. and it had not been at all what he expected, for his little girl had fallen into his arms in floods of tears.

girl dad!daeron clung to her like his life depended on it, the sound of her sadness near setting him off. "dad, is something wrong with me?" "what? nothing is wrong with you, sweetheart. what's going on?" "i just don't like boys like my friends do. i've tried, i tried kissing my guy friend last week and it felt wrong." "is that what this is?"

girl dad!daeron felt her detach from him, wiping her own eyes, pulling her own confused expression. "is that what what is?" "you're a lesbian." "what— no. no i-i don't know." "it's okay sweetheart, it's normal. as normal as me loving your mother, or your brothers loving girls."

girl dad!daeron cradled his daughter as she had broken through the cloud of teenage angst herself, and he could not be prouder for it.

girl dad!daeron felt like he was holding his newborn daughter again, how she would cry in his arms until he brushed her nose, or cooed at her. and it hadn't changed, even as she had grown into a teenager. "i suppose you don't need the use protection talk." "actually, dad. lesbians should still use protection. they prevent sexually transmitted infections as well as pregnancy." "uh, i knew that.."

girl dad!daeron felt closer than ever to his daughter, he knew her. truly. his little girl would always remain as such, no matter who she loved or what she chose to do.

girl dad!daeron welcomed her girlfriend. would let her sleep over, would let her join the family during game nights, and would watch how animated his daughter became around her. he felt sick with happiness, tears brimming his eyes, which you would quickly catch with your thumbs before he embarrassed her.

girl dad!daeron would laugh with her, when she would bully her brothers for getting a girlfriend before them. giving her a crisp high-five when they would shove her arm and sulk away.

girl dad!daeron laid beside his daughter on the couch, sharing an abnormally large bowl of popcorn as they consumed some dating reality show she was obsessed with. "why didn't you tell me sooner?" "hm?" "that you were gay. did you think i would disown you or something?" "kinda, ii thought you would judge me for it. i'm like the first gay person in the family." "the worst thing you could ever do won't touch what i did as a teenager. you can ask your grandfather maekar, i was a nightmare." "grandpa seems like an unfair person to ask. i am going to ask uncle aerion."

girl dad!daeron always saw his daughter as a friend. but she was the coolest teenager ever, he wouldn't feel any shame in admitting it. he would do everything she wanted, go for coffee, to the movies, to sneak one beer from the fridge without you finding out.