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The hearth’s flames burned low by the time he beckoned you.
You pictured his fingers in that motion many hours ago; so when it was real, you hesitated. It was only when the Prince raised his brow that you snapped from your daze, and made haste with the silver pitcher.
Lord Ashford and two of his men were still seated in the next room over, debriefing the night’s drama. You’d been tending to them so much it was only now you realized the Targaryen was alone.
His other family members had scattered. Maekar had gone to his chambers, not to be bothered while Aeiron was undoubtedly pouting elsewhere. Daeron was mysteriously absent from his typical post: slumped at the end of the table. So there sat Baelor, the last remaining royal, bidding your approach.
He slid his chalice to the right as you arrived from the left and your heart leapt into your throat. His fingers, laden with rings, held the base firmly. You would need to lean across him to pour, which was exactly his intention.
Thunder rumbled outside the stone walls, and you could feel the Prince’s body heat - feel his mismatched eyes on you - as you carefully filled his cup with a Dornish red.
“Where are my nephews?”
Ah, smart man. He was using your frame to block Ashford and the others from hearing his query. As you pulled back to stand, Baelor threw a quick glance to the men.
“I know you see everything.” With a persuading tilt to the Prince’s head, his airy voice was secretive. He raised a brow at you behind a sip from the chalice.
You were surprised, but it made sense. Baelor’s intellect and awareness made him stand out from the rest of his family - for better or worse. You watched as he savored the bitter tannins on his lips.
“Pardon, Your Grace,” you tried to match his tone - quiet, clever, astute - “which do you mean?”
He began to trace the veins in the oak table surface, never seeming to be able to let his hands rest.
“The two who thought they snuck out unnoticed an hour ago.”
His voice was soft and controlled. You never imagined the Prince would speak to you directly, or frankly at all.
You also didn’t realize how much you’d like it.
The heir touched the side of your wine pitcher, motioning for you to set it on the table. His hand lightly brushed yours as you obliged.
“You are not in trouble,” he explained. He must have confused your mortified attraction with fear.
An eruption of laughter made you both jump and turn. Ruddy and swaying, Lord Ashford was grinning widely in the archway.
“Having a bit of fun?”
It happened so fast.
Swiftly, Baelor pulled you by the hips into his lap. Your boots skimmed across the stone floor and then you were off your feet in a rapid haste. His large hands held you firmly across his thighs, rings and all. Gods be good.
You could feel the muscle of his strong legs between your knees, all while inhaling the leather of his black tunic.
“Play along,” he commanded in a whisper against the back of your neck, which pricked with goosebumps.
“That is no problem, is it?”
You could feel the depth of his voice against your spine as the Targaryen swung his power around at Ashford. They did call him The Hammer, after all. Your ears grew hot as you tried to hide your surprise in the moment, the mix of admiration and allure leaving you a little stunned.
Immediately the lord’s eyes widened, “Of course not, Your Grace. Do as you please!”
With a quick bow, Lord Ashford scurried away. In the shadows of the hearth, you and the Prince were still visible to the three men, who were glancing and murmuring.
It would have been perfectly common for a royal to decide they liked a maid, or servant, or even a second-born daughter, and keep them as entertainment whilst visiting a tourney.
But Baelor wasn’t common. His lessers were not to know about The Lord Hand’s questioning, and you certainly were not going to tattle.
“Did they leave through the kitchen?” Baelor, wildly composed, slung an arm around your waist as he adjusted.
You stared at the bright white embers of the hearth to ground yourself.
“They did.”
A noble raised his glass at the Prince next door with a sleazy grin. In response, Baelor began to pet your hair.
“Where were they headed?”
It was hard to focus. His long, gentle strokes on your scalp sent shivers down your back. It was all terribly tender for it to be pretend.
You knew The Lord Hand was married, but there were always whispers. One of his sons - who was much closer in age to you - was right there in that castle.
“I did not see, Your Grace.”
The grip in your hair lifted, switching to cup your chin. His warm fingers gently turned your face to his, and you held your breath.
Baelor’s chiseled jaw was bearded with dark Dornish hair, flecked grey with age. His lips curled into a knowing smile.
“Ah. But you heard.”
Muffled thunder rattled the castle walls; the storm was picking up. Could he feel your heart leaping into your throat?
“Foss - “ your voice was a ghost, lost in your own mouth, “ - Fossoway.”
One word was all you could muster, but it was enough for the Prince. His brow lowered, the guise slipping momentarily. The careful hand on your jaw fell away. You wished you could ask what it all meant, almost as much as you desired more of Lord Baelor’s touch. He slid his arm back, releasing you.
“Thank you,” the Targaryen motioned for you to rise. You did so, with an immediate and wobbly bow.
“Girl! Bring that pitcher here.” One of the nobles called to you, seeing that you were finished. With reddened cheeks, you returned to your duties. The men laughed and gossiped, holding out their chalices with the precision of an ocean tide.
When you were finally able to steal a glance, Baelor was gone.
“Hey. Hey you!” An aggressive whisper came from the servant stairwell.
Give it no thought, you told yourself, still clearing the plates from Lord Ashford’s soirée. One of the stable hands had started an affair with Lady Gwin’s maid a while back. Whispers had become commonplace in the dark corners and stairwells of this tower.
“Oi, wine mistresses!”
That one gave you pause. With a huff, you brushed your hands on your skirts and peered down the steps. A young man was halfway up the winding staircase - a squire. You did not know his name, but knew he had traveled to the tourney with the royal party.
“What?” You hissed. At this rate, there’d be no sleep for you.
He took another step up, and the object in his rough hands caught a glint of candlelight: A Targaryen helm.
“Tell His Grace the armor will be ready.”
“I know not of this,” you were half annoyed and half alarmed. “Which Grace?”
“Prince Baelor,” the squire clarified. Your lips pressed together in worry.
“Can…can you not do so yourself?”
What great scheme had your information played a role in earlier? Something secret was happening, and the thought of knocking on Baelor Breakspear’s door was paralyzing you. It was not the intrigue that you feared, no. That was wildly interesting. You really did hear everything, didn’t you?
Your fear came from the idea of more eye contact with the Prince. Did his fingers smell of your hair now?
“I must complete my orders,” the squire shifted the helm in his grip. His nails were blackened with armor grease and polish.
You grimaced in the candlelight, accepting your fate. “Very well.”
The thunder and lightning had left the meadows, but the rain still lingered in the thick night air. It blew a chill into the bedhalls from the aging stone window frames.
It was among your duties to know where everyone visiting stayed. Should the royal guests need anything, it was crucial for the staff to be prompt. Poor Lady Gwin, whose father had commandeered her nameday to make a good impression on his higher-ups. The girl would have much rather had a bakery feast - lovely pastries presented to her and nearby young noble ladies, while they giggled about boys. Perhaps it would be so, for her next nameday.
Prince Baelor was given the spacious solarium of Lord Ashford’s study. It wasn’t the largest of bedchambers available, but the heir had requested a desk and books, if possible.
Instinctively, you picked up the heavy iron knocker. It was what Lord Ashford had the staff do - loud, brash, unmissable. However, after brief consideration, you set it down. He is not Ashford. You turned your knuckles against the heavy wood surface, and rapped against it lightly.
On the other side, some sounds followed: the snap of a book spine, a metal chalice clinking, and the scrape of a chair on the hard floor. When the door hinges rattled, you took a step back. It opened a shoulder’s length, and you had to look up. Baelor was a looming figure compared to yourself, with a worried expression that quickly melted into soft surprise.
“Your Grace, I bring word.” Your voice was just above a whisper as you bowed your head, “The armor will be ready.”
The Prince drew a deep breath through his nose, and then opened the door further.
“Please,” he motioned for you to enter his chambers, “a moment?”
With your hands folded tightly against your skirts, you crossed the threshold. Someone had lit the fire for the Prince a while ago, but it still burned warm with fresh wood. He’s tending it himself. After closing the door behind you, the man walked past the desk to face the flames.
“I am afraid I owe you an apology,” Baelor’s hands were clasped behind his back, and you watched as he fiddled with a ring. “To avoid suspicion from my hosts, I behaved most inappropriately toward you.”
You were scanning the room, eyes taking in the details of the Prince’s personal space. A number of the history books had been stacked upon the desk, along with a few fresh parchments. An ink vial was nearby. Writing letters? A black robe hung on the hook over by alcove where the canopied bed was hidden. Along the far wall the window was cracked open, allowing the storm winds to breeze through the heavy floor-length curtains.
When you gave no response, lost in thought as you were, Prince Breakspear turned around. “It is no secret that my marriage was born of duty, not desire. I would rather the Lords assume I was pursuing indulgence than the truth.”
He glanced at you, but his gaze fell quickly. “And yet it does not free me.”
He spoke in meandering riddles.
“Your Grace, I am not sure I follow.”
He placed a hand on the desk with a sigh, deciding carefully what to say next.
“I shall join The Trial of Seven on the morrow. But in opposition to my family.”
You tried to hide your alarm, but your eyes still grew wide.
“And in truth, I only knew passion of that sort as a youth. Once.” The way his eyes drifted to the corner of the room, you could tell he was deep in a memory.
“Her father traded silks in the castle,” the Lord Hand continued. “We were never meant to know of each other’s existence.”
It was a moment of confession. Perhaps he worries about what dawn may bring. But the man before you seemed to have more on his mind. When you dared to step closer, he came back from his past.
“There is no apology needed, Your Grace. You humble me with the truth.” The fire at the heir’s back snapped loudly as it began to engulf the top log of wood.
He nodded, fingers drumming on the table. His eyes drank you in, studying you from heel to head in a way that made you feel utterly naked.
“I offer a final truth, then.” The Prince stood to his full height, an arms length from you. “A selfish one.”
Your heart sped again, that powerful gaze searing into your very soul. The Prince opened his mouth in anticipation of his words, but hesitated, almost coy. After filling his lungs, his words tumbled softly between you.
“Your appearance is so strikingly similar to my memory. I have been distracted by - been choking on - lust at your proximity, and I - “ the Targaryen raised his hand, as if to caress your cheek, but folded it into a fist. “I wonder if The Gods mean to curse or bless me.”
It took you a harrowing moment to realize what he was confessing. Everything registered slower while the imperfectly beautiful man lingered close enough for your breath to mingle.
A vision from his memory. Was it a good thing you looked like the love of his youth?
You had a choice to make, but your answer had been decided hours ago. Why fool yourself? Your answer had come with you across the threshold of his door.
You tilted your chin up, lips parted.
“Then let it be a blessing for us both, Your Grace.”
Those long fingers gently pressed to your cheekbones, sliding back to caress your face. You closed your eyes at the warm touch.
“Baelor,” he whispered, the tip of his nose pressing to yours, “my name is Baelor.”
Heated and gentle, his kiss was all-consuming. As your head dipped back you felt the tickle of his facial hair, which was softer than you anticipated. Your mouths moved in curiosity of each other. You could tell he was experienced, but in a way that had been defined long ago. This was as new to the Prince as it was to you.
Unsure of where to grip, you placed flat palms to his torso. You could feel how solid he was, despite the layers of dark fabric. Baelor was made of stoic muscle underneath; even in the thick tunic you felt the dip of his ribs and the sturdiness of his broad chest.
He was the one to end the kiss, and slowly your eyes fluttered open.
“There is no obligation here,” the royal assured you softly, the lines in his face deepening in concern. “I do not wish for my status to coerce you.”
You shook your head as his thumb ran circles on the nape of your neck.
“I feel no such thing,” you replied, sounding breathless.
“Yet I frightened you earlier,” the two-toned eyes were still locked on you, “at the table.”
“No,” your fingers tightened on his chest, “no, I was not frightened, I was…”
Baelor tilted his head in that clever way again - waiting. Listening.
Well. Be honest.
“I was imagining what your touch was like.”
A smile ghosted across his lips. “And?”
His fingers never stopped their petting on the back of your neck, every stroke a path of heat on your skin.
“And,” you repeated, daring to hold his eye contact again, “I wish to know it more. I wish to know it everywhere.”
Baelor’s lips parted, his smile widening. He pressed his mouth to your ear with a whisper.
“Allow me to accommodate.”
Knuckles grazed down the center of your chest, between your breasts, down your stomach, until switching to grab your waist.
“That’s it,” the Prince guided you closer to the table, until the back of your legs made contact with the wood.
“Up,” he softly commanded, as you sat carefully upon the ledge.
When you kissed this time, there was no pretense. Baelor spread his hands on either side of you and fit himself between your thighs. As you wrapped your arms around his broad shoulders, you were careful to avoid the beautiful but sharp Hand of The King broach that spiraled there.
Your tongue breaching his lips was rewarded with a hum of pleasure. Cold storm winds still swirled in the curtain across the way, but for you the room grew warmer.
“Sweet softness,” the heir was running his hands above your knees, bunching your skirts up along the way. His eyes narrowed with an uncertain smirk, “You are nearer my son’s age than my own.”
We both knew that already.
Not so subtly, you’d begun to undo the thick belt across his middle. You shifted so his jewelry adorned fingers reached your thighs. When the belt clattered to the floor, you raised a brow.
“And how old is the Hand of The King?”
Baelor laughed in a way that made your ears prick, because it was uncharacteristicly naughty.
“Old enough to know when I am being teased,” he mused, with the same ease he would explain a jousting rank, “yet young enough to return it.”
“I am not sure about that,” you baited. It was not a lie, despite your flirting - Baelor Breakspear did not tease, not intentionally. He was serious, thoughtful, and well-mannered. You’d noted this yourself in the previous days. Was it possible there was a side of this stoic man The Realm did not know?
The Prince nodded, thinking instead of responding right away. Soft. Thoughtful, even now. He then traced his pointer and middle finger across your lips. When you parted them, he did not hesitate.
“Take them,” he gently bid you.
As you allowed two digits and one ring to slide against your tongue, cheeks hollowing, Baelor’s expression changed. You tasted the salt of his skin, the bitter tinge of the metal on his ring, and you were ignited.
“Yes, like that - good.” His face flushed with color, mouth agape as he relished the sensation. Watching the unfiltered lust crease Baelor’s forehead made you tighten your thighs.
He slowly pulled the fingers from your lips, skin glistening with saliva.
Pleased with the results, Baelor lowered his hand before you. There it met the other, which was - Seven Hells - slyly lifting the band of your smallclothes. He slid the wet pointer and middle below with steady precision, like sinking a knife.
“I make it a point to remember what I have learned,” the man noted, with great restraint, gliding his touch down your mound.
“With age c-comes -“ Baelor’s soft voice wavered as he felt more of you, “ - experience.”
He made that same motion he had beckoned your wine with, grazing and petting your seam while his fingers curled.
You threw your head back, shocked; you were at the mercy of your body, enthralled. Light from the fire danced on the ceiling, flickering as much as your composure. His eyes were on your face, drawing satisfaction in your reaction. It was as if he was mapping you out with his hands, visualizing the details in his mind. Every stroke was methodical, every nudge a test.
You had barely gotten his belt off before the Prince was making you squirm. He was still so clothed.
You tried to lean in closer for a kiss but he lifted his stern jaw higher, unwilling to break his process. When the rest of his thick hand slipped below the thin fray of your smallclothes, you grabbed his wrist. The Targaryen looked down, then to you, with pause.
“Please, I,” I cannot simply be spent at the tips of your fingers when there is so much more of me - so much more of you. “We’ve only just begun.”
“Hmm,” Baelor removed his hand. Your cheeks flushed when you saw the wetness on his knuckles. “Impatience begets you.”
“Impatience, Your Grace?”
He gasped beautifully when you rubbed your knee to his crotch.
“You undressed me with your eyes hours ago.”
The man nodded, biting his lip as if he’d been caught in a lie. After a surprising shrug he very deliberately ran the coated fingers along his tongue. Your eyes widened in transfixed awe, the image burning into your mind as he savored them extensively. Perhaps I am less prepared than I realized.
Baelor’s heavy gaze did not break as he shifted out of the dense Targaryen tunic. While he was setting it aside, you reached for the hem of his rough spun shirt. He pulled it over his head before you could touch it, now shirtless before you.
His chest was dusted in the same grey-brown hair of his beard, trailing down a taut stomach. Baelor’s figure was lean, but muscled from discipline and exercise. Faint scars from battles long ago were hidden along his ribs, gleaming pale on his otherwise warm skin.
“Come,” he offered you his hand to step down. Touching the small of your back, Baelor guided you to the alcove where his bed hid. The fire was still going strong in the hearth, and some of the pages from open books fluttered in a cold window gust.
A pang of sadness beat in your chest, picturing the heir sleeping in the chambers alone. Was that his life at home, too? It would be a great conflict: constantly surrounded by others, but still lonely. My marriage was born of duty, not desire, he had said.
When you reached the ledge of the bed, Baelor’s hands found your hips.
“Did you like it?” His lips traced your ear while backing you against his frame. “When I touched your hair at the table?”
That was when you felt it: his cock, strained in his trousers, blunt against your tailbone. The bare heat of the heir’s shirtless frame encased you while his thick hands wandered your bodice.
“Yes,” you hissed.
You felt the laces in the back of your dress being loosened.
“Though I have done it in my mind,” Baelor brushed a sleeve down your shoulder, caressing your hair out of the way, “I still wish to unclothe you with my hands.”
The outer layer of your simple dress pooled at your feet, leaving you in a thin shift. As you stepped out of the gown, you quickly turned around and he was ready to embrace you.
When you kissed again, he was eager - bold. The Prince bit tenderly at your lower lip while you finally touched his chest, tracing down the softness of his stomach. Baelor’s tongue was in your mouth as you undid the laces of his britches, encouraging you. As you reached below the waistband, your fingertips were greeted by a thatch of even thicker hair. As you found his solid shaft, it was equal parts hot and soft.
“Gods,” Baelor bucked into your hand with an uncontrolled moan, “yes.”
He fumbled between you both, trying to shove down the trousers.
“Let me,” you whispered, placing a careful kiss on his collarbone. You followed it with one at the center of his chest as you bent down. When you kneeled, you placed a third below his navel. The Prince’s breath was ragged as you pulled the fabric off of his sharp hips and then carefully over the tent of his crotch. They fell effortlessly once past his thighs, and you forgot to breathe while taking in your new view.
The crop of hair you’d felt was now blocked by a very enthusiastic cock. The long underside was engorged with veins, leading to a head flushed with color, and desperate for your touch. When you placed your hands on his thighs, his member bobbed excitedly.
“Forgive me,” Baelor sounded almost sheepish as he steadied his grip to your shoulder, “the mere sight of you like this, I…” He shook his head.
In your experience - and in conversation with the gossipy women of the castle - men liked their swords to be stroked and kissed.
You started with his sac, soft with wrinkles, low from age, in your hand. And as your lips ghosted his length, the words from Florian The Fool were never more true. All men are fools, all men are knights.
A hand, which could almost palm your whole skull, clutched in your hair as you reached the tip. You wet your lips, and ever so gently skimmed them on his sensitive cockhead.
“Look at me,” Baelor urged. With the same gentleness he had taken the wine pitcher, he guided your grip around his length.
“Like this, yes,” his voice wavered ever so slightly as he stared down at you. “Perhaps I - “
It was cut short as you plunged your mouth around him, much like he’d done with those long fingers. You let your tongue caress the soft underside at the fullest you could take, until it licked every ridge and sensitivity while you pulled back. The motion grew easier with each time you repeated it, and his hand grew firmer in your hair.
“By the Gods,” he shuddered, knees slightly buckled, “you tempt me to spill right here.”
“Tempt?” You asked, voice hoarse as you pulled your mouth back. What a thing it was, to have this beautiful prince praising you; all the while, he throbbed in your stroking hand. Your eyes glinted below your lashes, “Or tease?”
His expression shifted, then. In the shadows you watched his mismatched eyes narrow, while a smirk tugged at the corner of his mouth. His hands dropped from holding you.
“Rise.”
You did so slowly, never breaking contact from the intensity of his gaze. He carefully stepped out of his remaining attire, and reached for a nearby chair. The Prince sat down, leaning with elegant ease despite his nudity. The confidence he exuded was unlike anything you’d been in the presence of before: sexual, brave, and completely warranted.
Baelor rested his chin on a hand, smiling as he watched you steal another glance at his cock.
“You see what you have done to me?” It pressed hard against his stomach, still heavily aroused from your mouth. You nodded very slowly, unable to look away.
“Remove the rest of your clothes.”
It was a command, but it was spoken gently.
You undid the bow that held your shift in place, and it slipped quickly off your shoulders.
He watched as it fell, scanning all of the new skin you exposed. You nearly lost your breath when the man wrapped ringed fingers around his own shaft, giving it a squeeze while examining your breasts.
“And that,” he gestured to your smallclothes. He circled his thumb at the tip of his erection, where wet beads of excitement had sprung. His voice became a whisper, “Especially that.”
You hooked the band with your thumbs on either hip, very slowly peeling the last of your decency from between your thighs. Nothing had ever been more thrilling than watching Prince Baelor Targaryen stroke his cock, as you allowed him to look upon your gleaming, swollen cunt.
“Sit,” he swallowed hard, “on the bed.”
The feather-filled mattress was nicer than any you had ever slept in. It sank in the right places, hugging your frame gently.
“And your heels, place them on the ledge,” he instructed. Leaning on your elbows, you felt a blush heat your face because - oh - this position left you very exposed.
With the confidence of a future king, the Lord Hand stalked toward you. He leaned down, body heat radiating all around you.
“I want you to know,” he whispered huskily, lips to your ear, “when I left the hall this evening? I was picturing you just…like…”
You gasped. The Prince pressed his length right between your folds, nudging at your clit.
“…this.”
It was so much. It was not enough. Your hands clawed into the expensive sheets as he grinded, the friction as hot as the embers in the hearth.
“Please,” you murmured, twisting like a woman filled with Essence of Nightshade, “please.”
His eyes - one daylight, one nighttime - calmly denied you again.
“Shh,” Baelor hushed, a thumb toying with your nipple, “not yet.”
With ease, he slid you back, your legs falling straight as he was over you. On the bed, you felt drunk in your blind lust. That soft beard tickled the crook of your neck, the slope of your breast, and then the warmth of a kiss lingered on your thigh.
“The taste of you upon my hand did not satisfy my craving.” You shivered as his fingertips skimmed across your bare skin, finding a grip on your inner thighs. When you looked down, Baelor was staring back at you. “I must satiate myself from the source.”
With that, his eyes lowered. You quivered under the warmth of his breath, aching at every centimeter of space that still existed between him and your tender flesh.
Could the Prince tell how desperate you were, quaking as his lips brushed across your mound? Did he know that his long nose, nudging in the crease of your thigh was making your toes curl? You could feel the smile on his mouth when he finally kissed you there: open mouthed, and heavy with tongue. Baelor was thorough in his process, taking time to switch between the suction of his lips, and the firm wet swipes of his tongue.
You clutched one his shoulders when his fingers gently parted you, allowing him access to your throbbing clit. His deep moan vibrated between your legs, only enhancing the sensitive pleasure.
“That’s it,” he encouraged you in a breathy whisper, “let go.”
It was difficult to steady your breath, and even more so to relax into the rising build of your body. But the Prince was consistent, adding a finger to stroke where his mouth was absent.
It crashed through you, like a storm on the Narrow Sea. Wave after wave, and he was your anchor. The blue and brown eyes watched your every gasp, the way your brow creased in the chaos, the open ghost of a cry on your parted lips, and he loved it.
A flame ignited in the Targaryen - fire and blood - and he lifted from his post to hang over you, pushing your legs up along the way.
His mouth pleaded with yours, as the ripples of pleasure still ran through your body.
“Do you taste that?” The man’s length rested against your lower stomach as you nodded. “Your happiness is divine.”
Your brow dewed with sweat, cheeks flushed in the thrill. You placed your lips to his ear to whisper.
“And from within, I shall know yours.”
With a tight nod and the spark of lust in his eyes, the heir no longer denied you. His one hand was on the back of your knees, bending you, the other shifting himself to your entrance.
His composure remained at the slow, careful sinking into you. You committed the expression to memory: The way the lines around his eyes creased, how his lip twitched, the tensing of his jaw.
The Gratuitous Prince, they should call him. Baelor the Beautiful, perhaps.
His hand was on your face, thumb stroking at your cheek, “Move with me.”
You lifted your hips while Baelor pressed his down, and the wet heat between you quickly guided a rhythm.
“Very good,” he praised, bending your knees over his broad shoulders. The position deepened his reach, and you had never been so filled.
Was it a sin if the gods had called you here?
No, you decided. There was nothing sinful about the way you and the Prince fit together, or the softness in which he kissed you. The tenderness of his roaming hands were the doings of fate, his little moans the noise of divinity itself.
You could feel him begin to tense. The man’s fingers gripped tighter into your flesh, every vein and ridge of his cock pulsing as he plunged into you. Watching the slow unravel of his control reminded you that this was a Targaryen - a descent of the dragon riders themselves.
“You’re close.” You were watching his face redden, and the pulse in his neck beating faster.
All Baelor could give you was a nod, as he allowed you to shift positions. You pinned your knees to his hips, raking your nails across his broad back.
“Say my name,” his breath hitched as he frantically scanned your eyes, “please.”
You wet your lips, staring up at him.
“Baelor.”
“Mmm,” he crooned, pressing his face into your neck.
“I am your blessing, Baelor,” you ran fingers over his cropped, dark hair, “I am yours.”
“Yes,” he lifted himself, angling a hand between you. “Yes, you are.”
His hand wrapped around his length, swollen and shiny with your wetness. He pumped fast, rings gleaming in the candlelight, and you both watched as he came. A gentle moan accompanied each pulse of his seed, pooling warmly onto your stomach. The Prince’s face twisted in his unrestrained climax, and he was more beautiful than ever.
“Should you not sleep?” You were combing your fingers through your tangled hair, wearing the silken robe the Prince had insisted on.
“I fear my mind would not allow it, even if I tried.” He was spinning a ring on his thumb, unclothed and spread out in the sheets.
The rain had ended, and a mist had settled across the meadows. From the window, you could finally see the moon peering from behind the clouds.
“Will you not join me?” When you turned, he patted the spot next to him.
Once you were back on the bed, the Lord Hand turned to face you, leaning on an elbow.
“We greatly lack ladies in the Red Keep Court,” he explained, reaching to drape his lean around you.
“I am not a lady.” You were a working girl, a maid, a commoner before a future king -
“You could be,” Baelor offered. “You can be. If you would so like.”
“I would do a terrible job of it,” you admitted, “staring at the most handsome man, sat by the King.”
He smiled graciously at your compliment, and then took your palm in his.
“My hand is taken,” he guided your fingers to his chest, holding them above his pulse, “but this is not.”
His wife had her own arrangements, the Prince had explained. Her paramour was her art teacher - a beautiful noblewoman from Volantis. Once he had discovered his wife’s preference for women, the marriage had become a respectful friendship.
“Consider it,” Baelor placed a kiss across your knuckles. “You can give me an answer after the trial.”
With heavy eyes, you nodded. “I should return to my chamber.” You did not want to, but it was the right thing to say.
“Won’t you stay, my blessing?” My blessing. The term of endearment came so naturally. He let go of your hand, brow creasing with worry. “Your presence is very welcome.”
You watched the sheets slip at his waist, revealing the dip of his pelvis, and the raw muscles of a thigh. No carving or painting would ever do justice to the living beauty of this man, you realized.
“Does His Grace command it?” It was a genuine question, but a reminder of the boundaries at play.
“Never,” Baelor was quick to answer, dipping his head to meet your eyes. “A bewitched man humbly asks.”
How could you deny his calm gaze, or the power it held over you? When you cupped his cheek, he leaned into your touch. Your heart swelled.
“I shall.”
You drifted to sleep in his lap as the Prince stroked your arm. The last thing you remembered was a kiss placed softly in your hair.
Tomorrow, your answer would be yes.