Chapter Text
Two days before your nameday, when the sun swam amongst an ichor of oranges and reds along the line of the horizon, your father informed you that Prince Baelor Targaryen was to attend your nameday tourney.
You had stared at him, utterly dumbfounded, from the reflection in your mirror as you readied yourself for bed. The Hand of the King, Heir to the Iron Throne, the Baelor Breakspear was to attend your nameday tourney?
You weren’t sure whether to be thrilled to have such an esteemed guest attending your event, or petrified that a prince of the realm—the prince of the realm—was to be within your castle upon the morrow.
At daybreak, you still weren’t sure how to feel, let alone several hours later, when you stand before the lush gardens of your home as the unmistakable black and red banners approach from between a pair of willow trees. Nerves twist in your stomach as the convoy comes to a stop before you, your father standing just in front. Sweat builds out of fear along the back of your neck as the prince dismounts his horse and approaches your father like an old friend.
“Seven blessings, your grace,” your father says, bowing politely before clasping Baelor’s hands firmly.
The pair share an amiable smile before Baelor gestures to the beautiful stone castle you call your home. It is not the largest, but it is clean and warm and dry, and that’s all that matters to you.
“I appreciate both your invitation and your hospitality,” Baelor tells your father, diplomatic and courteous.
Exactly the man you have been told he is.
You watch the exchange timidly, hands balling at your sides in an attempt to prevent yourself from fidgeting. Fidgeting is unladylike, your father had told you once. You were able to distract yourself, however, by slowly appraising the prince as he engaged in conversation. You had seen him once before, many years ago, when you were much younger and your memory was blurred at the edges. It was from a distance then, but now you could see him so much closer.
There were always whispers of his Dornish features that differentiated him from the typical Targaryen, and seeing them up close, they made him even more handsome than you can begin to describe. The dark hair, wisped with grey, and the mismatched eyes. A subtle confidence in his posture, a pride in his broad chest, an undeniable strength in his arms and hands—you see the rings there, and the veins that run along the back, and find yourself feeling slightly light-headed.
You hear your name.
You jump slightly, blinking yourself from your daze to find that your name was spoken by Baelor himself. He is facing you, his entire body turned in your direction. You grow warm as you drop into a courtesy, one you have tediously practised, and set your gaze on the ground as you do so.
When you rise, Baelor is still looking at you. His gaze is as soft as the early morning sun, and you find yourself wondering if this Targaryen is as much a dragon as the rest of them are.
—•—
You are the prettiest thing he has ever seen.
And it makes his chest swell tightly with shame because you are so much younger than him—too many years younger than him.
But yet, his eyes linger from his position at the window of your father’s solar. He can see you through the pane’s lattices, ambling slowly through the gardens with a couple of your ladies. Your skirts flow like water around your heels, your face pressed into a serene smile as one of your ladies says something to you. From this angle, too, he can see the lines of your shoulders and the top of your breasts, the curve of your jaw as you tilt your head, peering at something further afield.
“Your grace?”
Your father’s voice forces Baelor to turn from the window, shaking his head slightly. What baser instincts have overtaken him that he is spying on a young woman through an upper-floor window?
“Your daughter,” Baelor begins casually, leaning himself against the stone lip beneath the window. “She is unbetrothed?”
Your father makes an annoyed face, and Baelor suddenly sits up a little straighter. There is something heavy like disappointment in your father’s eyes. Baelor clocks it immediately, the muscles in his jaw flexing as he awaits a response.
“I have attempted to find her suitors, but she is rather… recalcitrant. I blame that on her mother,” your lord father says from his desk, reclining back in his chair and folding his arms over his chest, an exasperated look on his face. “I had no problem securing betrothals for her siblings, but she is proving to be more difficult.”
Baelor responds calmly. “How so?”
Your father sighs. “She spends too much time with the commonfolk for her own good, she is much too engaged with political discourse, and she spends most of her time engaging in activities I explicitly tell her not to do. Not to mention her needlework is unrefined—”
“What do you mean by that?” Baelor continues, spinning one of the rings around on his finger. “What kind of activities, I mean.”
The prince was thankful his younger brother wasn’t here, for he was certain that Maekar would have picked up on exactly what it was he was trying to achieve.
Baelor wanted to get to know you. He wanted to know why exactly a young woman as stunning as yourself remained holed up within this castle. Why there were no suitors clamouring around the halls in pursuit of you.
He places his hands on the stone lip of the windowsill to stop himself from playing with the garnet-encrusted ring on his finger.
“I have caught her gambling, using dragons, in local inns, participating in mock sword fights with her cousins, using real blades. Gods above, she has recently taken a penchant for archery, of all things,” your father says almost embarrassed. He looks over at Baelor. “But, I will not give up. I hope that whoever the victor of this little tourney will make an appropriate match for her.”
The grip Baelor has on the stone turns white-knuckled.
—•—
That afternoon, you successfully avoid your father and return to the fields at the rear of your home.
Here, a stack of hay bales sit across the grass, fashioned into a crudely made target. You grab your bow and bundle of arrows, hidden in a nearby shrub, and align yourself with the target, the middle of the topmost bale painted with a couple of red rings. You knock your arrow with shaky arms, elbow dropping too low as you aim, fire, and proceed to watch the arrow fly high above the bales.
“Seven give me strength…” You mutter, annoyed but undeterred.
You take a deep breath, rolling your shoulders as you prepare to notch another arrow. You find it difficult to keep your elbow bent the way it’s supposed to, and all the help you received from your father’s best archer was nothing, other than informing you he was a right cunt. Women aren’t natural archers, it’s a man’s weapon, he had said.
“Fucking idiot,” you say angrily to yourself and let the second arrow fly. It wobbles as it zips through the air, but manages to clip the corner of the top bale, sending a puff of straw into the air.
“Ah, what did the hay ever do to you?”
You whirl around with a yelp at the unexpected voice behind you. Baelor chuckles at the fright that passes over your face as he approaches, footsteps dulled in the soft grass. You blow out a breath, quickly gathering yourself and bowing your head as he reaches you.
“My prince,” you say quietly. “I apologise, I did not mean—”
“No, no, do not apologise,” Baelor interrupts you gently, then gestures at the bow clutched in your hand and the pile of arrows at your feet. “I did not mean to intrude on your practice.”
You grow warm, stomach fluttering as you poorly attempt to hide the bow behind your back. Bashful, you stutter, “I’m not–it’s not–”
Baelor laughs quietly and reaches a strong hand in your direction. He gently takes your forearm and slowly pulls it back around until the bow rests before you once more. His touch is warm atop the soft fabric of your sleeve, but you flinch when his thumb presses against a bruise blooming beneath your skin.
He notices this, eyes dropping. Then, he tuts. Tuts, like you were a child suddenly caught stealing cakes from the kitchens.
“M’lady, you must wear a bracer for such activities,” Baelor tells you, bringing his other hand to push away your sleeve and reveal your forearm. His fingers brush against the inside of your wrist with a tenderness that makes your legs weak.
You pray that he cannot feel your pulse quicken. “I do not need one.”
There’s a sparkle in Baelor’s mismatched eyes when he meets yours. Then, his thumb presses just a little bit harder on the tender flesh of your arm’s ventral side. You hiss out as he blindly pinpoints a steadily forming bruise from the previous days’ practice, and you withdraw your arm from his hold.
His hands drop. “Every good archer needs a bracer because every good archer has arms in need of protecting.”
You can’t help but roll your eyes, head turning to look at the untouched hay bale target several dozen yards away. “I am not a good archer, your grace.”
Baelor peers at you curiously. He notes the dejectedness in your tone, and the subtle sadness in your beautiful eyes. He has always wanted to help, to solve, to be of service, but the feeling triples as he rakes his eyes over you, a honey-thick possessiveness filling his chest. He takes another step closer.
“You are practising,” he says. His tone is so soft. Even softer than the way you hear the stableboys easing the skittish mares. Baelor continues, “The best archers in all the realm were not simply born as such. They had to practise.”
You chew your lip thoughtfully, turning back to face him. You feel slightly embarrassed, not just at the fact that the heir to the Iron Throne is being so candid with you, but also because you are finding it so hot. The butterflies in your stomach increase tenfold.
“Here,” Baelor lifts his arms. “If you’ll allow me, I’ll direct you.”
Tentatively, you allow the prince to guide you into position—slotting an arrow into place and holding the bow and arrow like you usually would before release. This time, however, Baelor places his palm to your elbow and lifts it. His fingers reach over to brush against your shoulder too, forcing a subtle change in your posture.
“Here we go,” he says, circling you. You can feel the warmth of his chest against your back as one of his hands finds the bow, altering your aim, whilst the other skims over your ribs, guiding your body to change direction just slightly. “Keep an open stance, shoulders straight—yeah, there we go, that’s a good girl.”
You’re sure he doesn’t mean it like that, but you have to bite your lip hard to stop yourself from whimpering involuntarily. It also takes the strength of an entire army to keep you from squeezing your thighs together.
“And we want to keep our core engaged,” Baelor finishes, and suddenly his hand is pressing lightly against your tummy. Big palm, wide-spread fingers, pushing enough for your breath to hitch. His voice skims past your ear. “This keeps a solid foundation. Now, try pulling back and taking a shot.”
You take a deep breath and set your eyes on your homemade target across the field, acutely aware of his hand still ghosting across your stomach and the heat of his body against your back. You wonder, just briefly, what would happen if you stepped back into him.
Focus.
You pull your arm back just a little bit more and then let go. You don’t bother wincing at the pain that snaps across your exposed forearm, instead watching as your arrow splits through the air with a light whistle before penetrating the second red ring of the target. You push away from Baelor to jump up in victory, skirts bouncing around you as you pump a fist into the air like an excited child.
“Yes!” You exclaim, breaking off into a sprint across the field. Baelor smiles as he watches you examine the arrow embedded in the hay bale. However, the cool air that hits him makes him miss the warmth of your body, the smell of your skin.
“Seven forgive me…” He mutters to himself as he watches the way you bend, the curve of your arse rounded by the heavy fabrics of your skirts.
—•—
As the sun sets, you find yourself sneaking out through a servant’s entrance—like you so often do—and heading down into the tourney’s encampment yonder. Colourful tents are pitched, crowded beside one another, with people milling about, talking and shouting and drinking. There are banners that you recognise fluttering softly in the breeze, and there are some you have never seen before. The market is bustling too, and oil lanterns light the faces of vendors selling their goods.
“M’lady!” One of the vendors calls to you as you wind your way through the crowd. You approach with a smile, and the older woman who had called to you gestures at the array of fruits stacked along a wooden table. “Apples and peaches, fresh from the Reach, or ‘ve got the more exotic choice ‘ere: pomegranates, from Dorne.”
You pluck a round, brilliantly red pomegranate from a small crate. “When I saw you in the village a moon ago, you didn’t have pomegranates. How did you get these?”
The older woman points at you, grinning. “I have my ways.”
You shake your head, passing the woman a few coins and taking a large pouch of pomegranates and peaches. You then make your way through the market, still humming with people even as the sky steadily darkens and the shadows beneath the nearby trees grow larger. Soon, you find yourself in front of a stall lined with daggers, the blades glinting in the light of an overhead lantern. You spy a few with handles carved from bone, others made of steel and wrapped in leather, even one chiselled into a serpent’s head with rubies for eyes.
“First it was bows and arrows, now it is blades? You have dangerous pastimes, m’lady.”
You flinch at the sudden noise, turning to find Baelor sidling up beside you. Only now do you notice the hush that has fallen over the nearby crowd, and how the vendor of the stall you stood before stands up straighter. You notice, too, the presence of the kingsguard lurking amongst the shadows in your peripheral vision.
“Your grace,” you greet, bowing your head. You don’t curtsy, but offer him a small smile instead. He returns it, and then peers down to where your fingers brush over the ornately carved hilt of a silver dagger. You withdraw your hand.
He chuckles, hands behind his back. “Do not fret.”
You swallow, nervous. “Is my father—?”
“Not here,” Baelor says immediately. Then, he nods back to the daggers. “Go on. Choose one.”
You grip the sack of fruit tightly in one hand, your other hand fidgeting with the softly braided belt at your waist. You can feel his eyes on you as you look between the daggers laid out neatly on the table before you. Hesitantly, you reach for one with a smooth, straight-edged blade. The hilt is simple, wrapped in ridged leather that matches the colour of your house, but the pommel flares out a little into a sphere, a small gemstone glittering in its centre. It’s a solid, comforting weight in your hand.
“Beautiful,” Baelor remarks, but his eyes haven’t left your face.
You can’t help but smile as you spin the dagger slowly against your palm. You look up at Baelor after a moment, gesturing to the daggers with the point of your own.
“And you?” You query.
He shakes his head, hand moving to rest at his side where a dagger sits comfortably in its sheath on his belt. “No, I’ve my own.”
You hum, eyes dragging back down to the table. They immediately find the dagger with the serpent-head pommel. You place your dagger down to pick up that one, examining it beneath the lantern light, the rubies in the eyes sparkling. Baelor watches you curiously as you hold it out towards him, a warmth in his eyes he hasn’t seen in a woman in a very long time. It just about renders him speechless.
“Now this,” you say quietly. “Is very Targaryen, don’t you agree, your grace?”
He eyes the dagger, mouth curving into a smile. “Certainly.”
“And do you like it?”
“I do.”
“Then consider it a gift,” you say finally, urging the prince to take the dagger from you. He does, his fingers brushing yours, and you feel butterflies returning to your stomach.
However, before you can speak any further, he is shaking his head and reaching for a small coin purse hidden on the other side of him and handing several dragons to the vendor. The vendor gapes as he greatly takes the coins, and then you gape at Baelor as he gently leads you away from the market stall, grabbing the dagger you had placed down before doing so.
“That is not how gifts work,” you comment with surprise.
In the shadows of a towering willow nearby, Baelor stops and turns to you. Carefully, he hooks a finger into the braided belt at your waist and pulls you forward slightly. Your heart skips a beat as the distance between the two of you narrows, the heat and masculine smell of him engulfing you. With great tenderness, Baelor slots your blade into the belt, hand brushing across your hip as he does so.
“That is exactly how gifts work,” he utters, voice rich and dark. “I gifted the dagger to you, and you have accepted it.”
Your eyebrows draw together. “But—”
“I am prince of the realm,” Baelor interrupts you easily. His hand is resting on your hip now, and his tone makes the words in your mouth dry up instantly. “I have gifted you this dagger, and you have accepted it, haven’t you?”
You can’t speak. Words fail you, throat closing up around a soft whimper. So, you nod. And then Baelor, Prince Baelor Breakspear, reaches up and pats one large hand against one one of your warmed cheeks, thumb brushing your cheekbone.
“That’s a good girl.”
Fuck.
—•—
In the middle of the night, you find yourself tossing and turning amongst the soft sheets of your bed. Your chambers are dark around you, cooled since your fire died out, but you were too hot. Sweat clung to the backs of your knees, the base of your spine, up along the nape of your neck. It was almost feverish the way your body thrummed with heat, and you sat up in your bed, sleep evading you.
Maybe a drink of water and a cake of some sort would quell your restlessness.
You push yourself out of bed, rubbing your eyes as you pad across your chambers. From a table near the door, you grab your chamberstick, lighting it, and head out your door. The corridors of your castle are lit with the soft orange glow of mounted torches, and it is rather quiet save for the distant clanking footsteps of guards on patrol. Your footsteps are muffled against the carpet that rolls through the middle of the hallway as you make your way down the large, winding staircase and towards the kitchens.
You find the large kitchens empty save for one maid, Marla, who is sweeping the floor beside the oven’s hearth. She looks up as you enter, then curtsies with the broom still in her hand. She has worked here since before you were born.
“You need not greet me as such at this hour,” you tell her as you approach the large table into the centre of the room. You gesture to yourself as you walk, dressed in your thin sleeping chemise. “Especially when I look like this.”
Marla laughs softly, then nods towards a foot-long wooden box on the table. “You are still the lady of the house, even at this hour.”
“Ha,” you laugh, slightly spiteful. You place your chamberstick nearby, the flame adding to the low glow from the torches on the upper walls. “Do not remind me.”
You open the lid of the box and find neatly lined rows of honeycakes, dusted with sugar. Excitedly, you take one, still slightly warm to the touch, and take a large, rather unladylike, bite, groaning blissfully as you chew. Marla shakes her head in amusement, smiling softly at you as she stores the broom away.
“Leftover from supper,” she tells you as you finish your honeycake. It’s perfectly sweet and soft and reminds you of your childhood.
As you help yourself to another cake, Marla disappears momentarily and returns with a goblet of water. She places it in front of you.
“Thank you,” you say through a mouthful of cake. Then, you point at the box with sugar-coated fingers. “Will you have one?”
Marla hesitates, peering over her shoulder through the shadowed doorway that you know leads to the servants quarters. “I shouldn’t…”
You swallow your mouthful then push the box towards her with your free hand. You drum your fingers against the side as she looks between you and the door.
“As you said, I am the lady of the house,” you tell her pointedly. “Have a cake… please.”
Marla smiles timidly, but approaches the table anyway. She brushes her hands across her flour-dusted apron and plucks a golden honeycake from the box. You offer her your half-eaten one, and she laughs as she taps her against it before taking a bite. The moment is quiet before she speaks again.
“It is your nameday.”
“Not until the morrow.”
“It is the morrow, my lady.”
You stop chewing. “Gods, what hour is it?”
“We have long since passed the hour of ghosts.”
“Oh.” You swallow, then suck on one of your fingers in thought, cleaning it of sugar. “Then I shan’t keep you any longer—”
“Oh, my apologies, m’lady.”
You whirl around, finger still in your mouth, to find Baelor in the doorway of the kitchens. You faintly hear Marla squeak behind you as she drops into a deep curtsy, her mouth stuffed full of honeycake. The sound makes you snort as you take your finger from your mouth, shooting her a look as she hurries to swallow.
“Don’t choke,” you joke, and she gives you a stern look. You turn back to Baelor, who watches you thoughtfully, eyes shadowed where he stands beneath the warm light of a nearby torch.
“Archery, sneaking out, and now pestering servants for cakes? You really are troublesome, aren’t you?” Baelor chuckles softly, crossing into the kitchen.
You scoff, folding your arms over your chest. The movement causes your chemise to rise slightly, the fabric fluttering near your knees. “I am not stealing. I was spending time with Marla.”
Baelor’s eyes find Marla for a split second. Marla hangs her head, slowly edging towards the servant’s door.
“At this hour?” Baelor cocks a brow at you.
You scoff again, then turn to Marla. Now, she’s in the doorway and giving you a pointed look. No longer bashful with Baelor’s attention away from her. She’s looking at you with a quirk in her brow and a subtle smile on her lips.
Then, she quickly says, “I’ll take my leave, your grace, my lady.”
She vanishes, and you turn back to find Baelor staring right at you and a lot closer than you had originally thought he was. So much so that you can see the colours of his eyes through the shadowed darkness. They shift downwards, and you realise you’re standing in your sleepwear, the material of the chemise thin against the dips and curves of your body.
“The last time I checked, I was the lady of this house, meaning I can do whatever I want within its walls,” you tell him, returning to the earlier conversation. “You, on the other hand…”
Baelor takes a step forward, and you take a step back. The small of your back hits the large table, your chamberstick trembling beside you, the small pan rocking against the wood. He looks around the kitchen. “Sleep evades me.”
“So you decide to wander a foreign castle on your lonesome?” You note the absence of the kingsguard following after the wake of his shadow.
He nods, looking back to you now. There’s a tenderness in his expression that makes you feel slightly dizzy. Perhaps it’s the lack of sleep, but you find yourself gripping onto the edge of the table in fear your legs will give way, knees weak.
“I do not usually have such freedoms at home,” Baelor tells you honestly, taking another step forward.
A small bit of fear passes through you like a phantom—not fear of him, but the fear that he, a prince of the realm, is suddenly too close to you, a lady, dressed only in her chemise and thin smallclothes beneath. Out of instinct, you raise one of your hands and he walks into it, your fingers and palm pressing to his chest.
His tunic is warm with the heat of him, as if he’s only just rolled out of bed.
“Your grace…” You warn him as he stops, head cocking to the side as if trying to get a better read of your facial expression. You look angelic in the soft orange glow of the torches, the flickering flame of your chamberstick distorting shadows across the exposed skin of your neck and throat.
“Your father intends to wed you to the victor of this tourney,” Baelor says to you suddenly. The words make your mouth go dry with shock. He continues, “He says you are recalcitrant. Says you are difficult to manage.”
As he speaks, one of his hands encircles your wrist where your hand is still pressed to his chest. He holds you there, feeling the rhythmic thrum of your pulse beneath his fingers.
“I am,” you reply defiantly.
“I don’t think that’s true.”
You watch as he slowly lifts your hand away from his chest. His mismatched eyes examine your fingers, and your mouth drops open slightly when you realise you’ve pressed a few fingerprints of dusted sugar on his tunic.
Mortification flushes through you. “My prince—”
“I think,” Baelor begins, raising your hand to his face. “You’re a young woman in need of some guidance. Need a firm hand to set you on the straight and narrow, hm?”
The prince presses his lips to the tip of your middle finger, kissing the sugar from the grooves of the print. Your lips part further, a breathless huff leaving you as he repeats the action on your ring finger, practically sucking the dusted sugar off of your fingers. Heat blooms beneath the linen of your smallclothes, and you whine quietly, clenching your thighs together.
His lips brush across the base of your fingers, then over the lines of your palm, before he finally presses a kiss to your wrist. Your pulse jumps to meet him, the heat there burning against the softness of his lips.
“Is that what you need?” He asks you softly as he turns your hand in his hold. He presses a kiss to the back of your hand now, then your knuckles, then back up to the joint of your wrist.
“Yeah…” You reply. It’s winded, quiet, desperate.
The heir to the Iron Throne is kissing your hand right now.
“And who’s going to do that for you?” Baelor lowers your hand but follows the movement, stepping closer and shrinking the space between you.
You look like a doe staring up at him.
“You,” you manage to whisper. “You, my prince.”
Baelor leans forward and your breath hitches heavily in your chest.
Still gripping the table, you remain still as he crowds your space, head dipping. His lips, as warm as they were on your hand and wrist, skim across the curve of your cheek, and then press to the very corner of your mouth. You subtly angle your head, presenting more of yourself to him, but he pulls back, and you catch sight of a small bit of white sugar across his lips. He licks it away.
“Such a sweet girl.” He leans back in again, this time his mouth finds the curve of your jaw, accepting the way you shift your head for him. He nips at the skin as his hands find your hips, lips travelling to your ear, where he whispers, “Will you let me guide you?”
Your hands fly away from the edge of the table and circle around his shoulders, pressing him to you.
“Yes,” you say quickly. “Please, my prince, I need—”
His head moves, and suddenly his mouth is on yours. You whine the second his lips slot against yours, the sound making him grunt as the hold he has on your hips tighten. You part your lips for him, his tongue pressing in the moment you do so. A warm, wet slide over your bottom teeth, licking across your bottom lip. You taste the tiniest sweetness of sugar on his tongue, as he tastes the honey-sweetness cloying across your own.
—•—
The thoughts he has of you are unbecoming of a future king, but he can’t help himself.
Not with you.
Not when you look at him with glossy eyes and a little pout in your lips. Not when your pulse flutters with each brush of his hand against you. The Seven may judge him but he knows, deep within his psyche, something chiseling into his bones, that you are meant to be his. Why else would your bodies be reacting this way?
Why else would you be hoisting yourself onto the table to wrap your legs around his waist, the linen of your chemise riding up your thighs? Why else would the heat of your core press against his hardening length, separated by barriers of material, grinding and pushing? Why would you be whining and whimpering into his mouth as his hands caress your hips, and why would your hands be gripping the muscles of his shoulders like a feral cat?
“My prince,” you call for him softly as his mouth drops to suck kisses down the supple skin of your throat—the same skin he had been admiring just moments before.
You taste of roses, of clean water and the musk of sweat. The softness of your voice and the sweetness of your skin seems to pull at his invisible strings, his hips rocking forward to nudge the tent of his trousers between your legs.
He pulls back, hands shifting from your hips to rub down your thighs. You shiver at the touch, clutching his shoulders still, as the heat of his hands passes through your chemise. His fingers find the hem, toying with the stitching there, as his eyes rise to meet yours in an act of consent.
You nod, and the prince continues, pushing the fabric up towards your hips.
You groan, tone dulcet, as the soft skin of your thighs is revealed to the kitchen. Baelor hums low in his throat, and then he’s dropping to your knees before you. The action makes you gasp and teeter slightly at the edge of the table. Your hands find the edge once more as the prince presses a kiss to the inside of your knee, one of his hands massaging over the fat of your thigh and dipping to the edge of your smallclothes.
“Please,” you whisper, and Baelor knows there are men out there who would go to war if a pretty lady like you begged them like this. He knows he would. “Please, my prince—”
“Baelor,” he corrects you gently, hooking his fingers into your smallclothes and pulling them.
You lift your hips slightly with a moan, allowing him to pull the material down past your knees, then your ankles, and then away.
He tucks them into the pocket of his trousers as his eyes find your core, slick with arousal and already drooling. Another low hum leaves the back of his throat. Pressing forward with his large hands holding your thighs apart, Baelor places a kiss to your clit. You keen against the table, hips bucking, hand shooting down to thread your fingers into his hair.
“Oh, fuck, Baelor.”
His cock throbs heavily in his breeches at his name on your lips. He continues placing kisses down the wet slit of your cunt, spreading your folds open as he descends lower until he can push the tip of his tongue inside you. His eyes flick upwards to watch your reaction as he does this, and pride fills him as your head rolls back on your shoulders, a breathy whine escaping you, echoing around the empty room.
The prettiest thing he’s ever seen.
—•—
Pleasure is already pulling back like a bowstring in the base of your tummy as Baelor, a prince of the fucking realm, curls his tongue into the wet heat of your pussy, the slope of his nose rubbing perfectly against your clit. Gods, no one has ever put their mouth on you like this, and as you grip his hair and rock your hips into his movements, you wonder how much practice he’s gotten over the years.
“Mmm,” you hum out, trying to suppress your sounds. They’re loud as they bounce against the stone walls of the kitchens, and you’re aware that the castle beyond these walls is suffocated by the night’s silence.
Baelor’s movements are firm and quick, the perfect rhythm. His tongue curls and flicks deep inside you, and the heat of embarrassment lies beneath your skin as you can feel yourself dripping around him. The scratch of his beard against your thighs, the curve of your arse, against the sensitive skin of your folds is an added pleasure you didn’t know you needed. The sensation punches moan after breathy moan from you as the bowstring in your belly pulls tighter.
Your pussy clenches around him as his nose digs particularly hard against your puffy clit, and the sound it elicits from his throat makes the wood of the table creak in protest by how hard your other hand grips it. The vibrations are rough against you, a pleasant buzz as white-hot pleasure continues to build up your veins.
“Baelor,” you call to him. “Baelor, fuck.”
One large hand drags away from your thigh, and just as you feel his tongue retract, two thick fingers find your entrance. They crowd into you, thicker than his tongue, pushing between the slick walls of your cunt as he wraps his lips around your clit—but not before mumbling out, “Such unladylike language.”
His fingers scissor inside you, the pressure forcing you to squirm against the table. Your chamberstick quakes as you roll your hips into his touch. His hair between your fingers is soft, clean, but the hair of his beard is coarse and continues to rub harshly against your inner thighs. The bowstring in your lower belly pulls tighter, and when he curls his fingers inside you, thick and deep, you cry out his name once more.
“Baelor, m’gonna—oh, gods, m’gonna—”
Baelor feels the tight channel of your cunt squeeze around his fingers, your thighs tightening either side of his head, and he groans with his mouth on your clit as you come around the digits. He fucks you through it, tongue dipping low to join the movements, lapping the slick the drools from you in syrupy strings. You sob his name, your orgasm shuddering through you, the bowstring snapping and splintering the pleasure through your veins.
But he continues.
The prince’s fingers continue to move, thrusts lazier, less hurried, but he continues to curl them deep inside you, his tongue still furling through your folds. You finally look back down at him and tug gently on his hair, trying to get his attention. He grunts, eyes wrenching open and peering up at you, pupils so large his eyes almost appear the same colour.
“I need you,” you whisper, finally managing to pull his face away. His mouth and beard shine with your slick.
“Manners,” he replies simply, fingers still rucking in and out of your dripping hole.
The sound is wet and obscene and you can’t help the soft sigh that escapes you, pin-pricks of overstimulation beginning to pierce the post-orgasmic veil draped over you. Slowly, Baelor gets to his feet, still fucking his fingers into you, pressing a kiss to your knee as he rises. He continues, “Good girls use their manners.”
You huff, hips twitching.
A flicker of a smile ghosts across the prince’s face. “And you’re a good girl, aren’t you, sweetheart?”
He adds a third finger, pushing it in torturously slow, and you choke on a gasp, keeling forward until your head rests against his shoulder. He kisses your temple, then the tip of your ear. His free hand moves to cup the nape of your neck, stroking his thumb as he holds you to him, three thick fingers spreading you open.
“Y-yeah,” you finally manage to stutter out, abdomen clenching, a mix of pleasure and overstimulation spreading through you. “Yeah, I’m a good girl.”
Baelor grips the back of your neck and pulls your head away, angling your face to get a good look at you. He leans down and plants his lips on your forehead, warm with sweat.
“My good girl,” he utters against your skin, his fingers picking up speed.
You gasp at the change, and he seizes the opportunity to duck his head and slot his mouth back to yours. The kiss is messy: too much saliva as your tongues meet, your slick heavy on his. Your teeth clash as he drives his head forward, hand wide across your neck. Staking his claim, taking what he wants.
Quickly, another orgasm builds, the base of your spine tingling as your legs begin to shake. You attempt to hook them around his waist again, but you’re not strong enough. Baelor feels this though, and removes the hand from your neck to grab the back of your knee, hooking your leg around his hip. He drives his fingers deeper, and deeper still, as you clutch him tightly, balling the fabric of his tunic between your fingers.
“Let go for me, sweet girl,” Baelor pants against your mouth, your lips brushing.
Your entire body is trembling, a knot of tension too tight in your belly. You whine, a pathetic little mewl that bounces around the empty kitchen. “I can’t—”
“Uh-uh, none of that. Good girls do what they’re told,” Baelor interrupts your whining as your head tilts back. He presses a kiss to your chin. “And you’re a good girl—you’re my good girl. So let go for your prince. Let go for me.”
He’s corrupting you. He’s stealing your virtue. He’s a prince, you’re a lady.
But the sight of you coming again wipes his princely thoughts from his mind. They are replaced by you. You, you, you—your head falling back as your hands grip his tunic, your kiss-bitten lips parting as a moan of his name fills the space. A pleasure-strung “Baelor!” as he ruts his fingers into the dripping heat of your cunt. His name has never sounded so good.
Nipping lightly at the curve of your neck, beard brushing your skin, Baelor curls his fingers and slows his thrusts until you eventually unclench around them and your thighs quit their trembling. When you whisper his name, he pulls his fingers away and holds them up between the two of you. He spreads them, your slick interconnecting in glossy webs, and you pant around a whine, your chest heaving.
Baelor examines his fingers. The curiosity in his mismatched eyes fuels your embarrassment even further. The feeling whips through you even more when he takes two of them and takes them in his mouth.
“Baelor,” you groan, frowning and reaching for his wrist.
He lets you pull his fingers from his mouth, but not before he’s holding his ring finger in your direction. “Have you ever tasted yourself?”
Your jaw hits the floor.
Baelor chuckles, taking that for his answer. His left hand shifts from your leg, travelling over your abdomen, caressing your clothed breaths, before planting firmly on your jaw. He holds your chin as he presses his ring finger to your lips. You watch him with glassy eyes.
“Open,” he instructs simply.
You do.
Baelor smiles and feeds his slick ring finger into your mouth. Instinctively, you wrap your lips around his knuckle as the digit presses down onto your tongue. You suck then, tasting yourself, and you grip his wrist firmly as you moan around his finger. Baelor watches you carefully, the smile gone from his face. Your lips press to the cool metal of his ring, and the way your eyes stare up at him—glossy, expectant, so good—has his cock pressing even harder against the seam of his trousers.
“Seven above,” he hisses too quietly for you to hear and pulls his finger from your mouth.
You’re about to complain when he’s driving hard against you, caging you atop the table edge as one of his hands shoots down to untie the knots of his trousers. Wrapping your legs around him, you’re eager to help: hands leaving his wrist to pull at the ties and help shuck the material down his hips. His breeches move with it, and his cock bobs free.
“Oh, gods,” you whisper as Baelor fists himself.
You admire the thick patch of hair at the base which narrows towards his navel, as well as the ruddy head bruised with trapped blood. He swipes his thumb over his slit, smearing away a pearl of precum.
The hand he has on your jaw moves back to the nape of your neck. The prince holds you there, forcing your head down to watch as he guides his cock to your drooling cunt. He runs the head up and down your slick folds as you bunch your chemise further up your waist to get a better look, whimpering at the feeling. Finally, the head of his cock notches at your hole, and you suck in a breath as he presses in.
A low groan leaves him.
“Baelor,” is your whispered response as you hold him.
He’s a gentleman as he feeds his cock into you, but you’re so wet that he slides in languidly, bottoming out with a pained grunt.
“Ah–ah fuck,” Baelor mutters, hips twitching, cock pumping inside you.
“Please…” You lean forward to press a kiss to his neck as he lifts his head from where he had been transfixed on where your pussy swallowed him.
“Yeah, I’ve got you, sweet girl,” he says, both of his hands moving to your hips now.
He anchors himself to you as his hips pull back, dragging his cock out slowly, before thrusting back in. The table creaks as he repeats the action again and again, and you pull away from sucking a mark onto his neck to moan at the ceiling.
Your chamberstick rocks against the table, the pan clanking across the wood as the heaviness of his thrusts lurch your arse against the table. Strong fingers hold you firmly, calloused by years of swords and reins. The thought has your mind wandering to a younger Baelor, with longer hair and less of a beard, with large hands and fierce eyes. You whimper at the vision of him wielding his longsword, or pulling at the reins of a rearing horse.
His grunts are brutish, unbefitting of the heir to the Iron Throne. But he can’t help it. You’re so beautiful and soft beneath him, your pussy so tight and warm and wet, the noises clearing from your throat so sweet and alluring. You call for him like you’re already his, and he can’t help but think as such.
“See? Such a good girl,” Baelor pants, watching as your face contorts with pleasure, eyes fighting to stay open. The sound of your wet cunt is loud over the creaking of the table, and sparing a glance down, he sees a thin, creamy-white ring building at the base of his cock. He groans as he puts his eyes on you once more. “Just need a little guidance, hm?”
You nod deliriously, not quite deciphering his words as your third orgasm begins to build in your belly. The bowstring is back, the fingers of pleasure notching the arrow and pulling back.
Tighter, tighter, tighter.
His cock is a thick stretch inside you, curving up to nudge towards the base of your cervix. The gummy walls of your cunt are tight around him, squeezing with each thrust against your g-spot, a blooming heat enveloping your lower body.
All thoughts of decorum gone, Baelor reaches a hand from your hip to the neckline of your chemise. He tugs it down, allowing your tits to spill out, nipples soft in the heat between you.
Groaning again, he dips his head to suck one into his mouth as he continues to rock his hips. An electric shock passes through you as his teeth scrape against the sensitive skin. He switches sides as you moan his name, one of your own hands finding the hemline of his tunic and pushing beneath the material. He lifts his head finally, slamming his mouth to yours and moves up. You feel the softness of his abdominal muscles, the hair that trails softly there. The muscle shifts with each thrust of his hips.
He moans your name when you bite his lip. You never thought you’d hear the Hand of the King say it like that. It makes you dizzy.
“Baelor,” you whine, as he fucks you towards your release. It’s tight and hot and he’s moving so fast that you barely have enough breath to speak. “P-please, my prince.”
“S’alright, sweetheart,” he coos, hands pulling you harder down to meet his hips. “You’re feeling good, hm? You want to finish for me?”
—Bowstring pulling taut, it has nowhere left to go.
He slips a hand away to rub a firm couple of circles across your swollen clit.
—It can only snap.
You cry out his name, hands scrambling for purchase as your third orgasm overwhelms you. It burns hot inside you—a feverish heat that spreads through your stomach and chest, delves down into your pelvis and courses through your legs.
Your cunt draws in tightly, pulsing with your racing heart, squeezing around the thick of his cock as you sob his name. A couple of tears roll from your eyes as your entire body is overcome with tremors, and you faintly feel him lean forward and kiss them from your skin.
“That’s it, that’s a good girl,” Baelor whispers as his thrusts falter. He rolls his hips, movements sloppy and desperate.
Clinging to control, the tight clutch of your pussy draws him in and his mind goes blank. His mouth drops open to release a strangled “ah—oh, fuck, sweet girl—” followed by your name, before he’s doing exactly what the heir should not do and spilling inside you.
He pulls you to him as he fills you, seed pumping hot against the plug of your cervix. His strong arms wrap around you, chemise sticking to your sweat-licked spine, burying his face into your neck as he comes. Hips twitch, balls pulling up tightly as he empties himself (the first time he’s done so in what feels like eons).
Then, silence.
The kitchen is deathly quiet if you ignore the ragged panting leaving the both of you as you clutch each other. It remains like that for a moment until Baelor’s head clears, and he gingerly pulls back, cock softening and flopping out of you. You both look down and groan simultaneously as your cunt drools milky-white.
“Gods, what have I done…” Baelor mutters, but he doesn’t sound regretful. Moreso shocked as he takes two fingers and collects the seed that drips from you, preventing it from splattering onto the stone floor below.
“Exactly what I wanted you to do,” you sigh, seizing him by the jaw and bringing him forward. You kiss him, and it’s gentle. It reminds you of the kind of prince he is.
(You’ll need moon tea, he should say. You’ll need to forgive me, and forget this ever happened, a good prince would say).
“I’ll speak with your father at daybreak,” he says instead, helping you off of the table after a kiss to the corner of your mouth.
He helps you fix the collar of your chemise and draws the fabric back down your thighs—which you squeeze together to prevent anything from leaking out onto the floor—as you reply, “About what? The fact you sullied his daughter’s virtue in his kitchens?”
He pats your cheek fondly as you help tuck his softening cock back into his breeches.
“No, I fear that may cause a political incident,” Baelor says, only half-joking. “I will tell him you are to be betrothed to me.”
Your fingers freeze where you tie a knot against the waistline of his trousers. Slowly, you lift your head to look at him, throat suddenly dry. “What?”
“Your father wants to promise you to the winner of the tourney, but I’m sure he would hardly reject the offer of betrothal from a prince of the realm.”
“The prince of the realm…” You find yourself muttering.
Baelor takes your face in his hands and forces you to stay put. With this angle, you can see a small bruise forming at the curve of his neck. A mark you had sucked there. Pride fills you and you can’t help offering him a small smile.
“Will you have me?” He asks you tenderly, thumbs stroking your cheeks, still damp from tears and his kisses.
Of course you’re nodding before any other thought crosses your mind.
Baelor’s eyes sparkle as he pulls your mouth to his again, your hands threading around his shoulders as the kiss develops. His tongue sweeps in, gentle and guiding, and you’re about to let out a whine when clanking footsteps pull you from the pleasure.
You rip yourself away from him, eyes flicking to the door. Guards, approaching from somewhere down the dimly lit hall. Panicked, you snatch your chamberstick with one hand. You take Baelor’s hand in yours and pull him towards the servant’s entrance.
“Quickly, your grace,” you say, tugging him through the narrow passageway. Your legs are unsteady beneath you as you lead him. “I know these tunnels well.”
Behind you, Baelor lets out a soft laugh. “That doesn’t surprise me in the slightest.”
He lets you lead him through the dark, damp passage, and wonders whether you’ll remember to ask him for your smallclothes back.
—•—
“I beg your pardon, your grace?” Your father stares at Baelor, dumbfounded.
Baelor stands in the middle of the solar, his hands clasped in front of him. His presence commands the entire room, your father and a few of his closest advisors sit and watch, captivated.
“Betroth your daughter to me,” Baelor repeats calmly.
“You?” Your father takes a deep breath. “But, your grace, you are Hand of the King, much older than—”
“She is beloved, is she not? Your people love her, and I am confident mine will as well. Furthermore, there will be no pressure for her to bear my child if she does not wish, as I have my two sons,” Baelor assures your father with careful composure.
Your father gapes. “But—”
“You were considerably enthusiastic, m’lord, to vow your daughter to the winner of the day’s tourney, yet you seem hesitant to allow her hand to your future king.” Baelor was not one to brandish his titles as such, but annoyance was quickly building within him, veiled partly by jealousy.
Your father hurries to exonerate himself. “Not at all, your grace! I just didn’t think—I mean, my daughter is scarcely well-behaved, and does not conduct herself as a princess should.”
“You regard her with such poor consideration,” Baelor utters, tone hard. “Now, m’lord, I will ask only once more. May you grant me, the prince of the realm, your daughter’s hand?”
Your father nods quickly. “Yes, of course, my prince. She—yes, she is all yours.”
Baelor hums, pleased. The bundle of your smallclothes are heavy in his pocket.
He knows you are.