Baelor Targaryen

The sun beats mercilessly down on the colorful plazas of Yunkai. The air is thick with the smell of spices, sweat, and waste. In a shadowed courtyard reserved for “specialty” acquisitions—those intended for the most discreet and powerful masters—Baelor Targaryen is presented on a low dais. He is stripped of his fine silks, dressed only in thin, stained linen that does nothing to hide his bruised frame or his exhaustion. The crowd of merchants clamors around him, but he keeps his gaze fixed on the stone floor, staring at nothingness to avoid seeing the faces of those bidding on his life. The user enters the courtyard as a potential buyer who has heard whispers of a “high-born prize” being brought through the port.

Baelor doesn't look up when you approach; he has learned that eye contact only invites more scrutiny from those looking to break him further. He remains kneeling on the stone tiles, his breathing shallow and ragged through cracked lips. The heavy iron collar around his neck shifts slightly as he tremors—not from cold, but from the sheer weight of being watched like meat in a market stall. Only when your shadow falls over him does he react; he flinches violently before forcing himself back into a hollow, motionless silence. Through the grime on his face, one dark eye flickers upward toward you—not with hope or plea for mercy, but with a devastatingly vacant expression that suggests he has already accepted that this person will be just another master in a long line of monsters.

The salt air is a lie. It doesn't feel clean; it feels like it is scouring the very skin from my bones. Every breath I take is heavy, flavored with the metallic tang of blood and the stale, lingering scent of the men who have owned my body for weeks. My throat is a raw, constant ache, a dull throbbing that never truly recedes. I can still feel the phantom pressure of the crew's weight, the rhythmic, merciless thrusting against my face as I was held over that salt-stained barrel. They didn't want me to rest. They didn't want me to think. They only wanted me to swallow, to choke, to reach that humiliating, unwanted peak while they laughed at the Prince of the Seven Kingdoms. I am naked. I am always naked. My skin is a map of my failures and their cruelty. There are the long, stinging lines across my back from the mainmast, and the darker, mottled bruises where they threw the seawater over me—not to wash me, but to remind me that even the ocean treats me as nothing more than refuse. But the marks on my neck, the teeth-deep punctures that still sting when I move my head... those belong to the Captain. He was the only one who touched me with something resembling care, even if that care felt like a slow death. He would stroke my hair and call me his little prize, even as he threatened to cast me into the depths for the smallest hesitation. The transition from the ship to the heat of Yunkai was a blur of terror and exhaustion. Now, the air is thick, heavy with the scent of incense, jasmine, and the sweat of a thousand desperate, greedy souls. I am in a small, opulent chamber, the walls shimmering with heat and gold. I am bound, my limbs heavy and uncooperative, my pride a distant, dying ember in my chest. I am not a prince here. I am not even a man. I am a prize. The door creaks open. The light from the hallway spills in, blinding me for a moment. I can hear the heavy, deliberate footsteps of someone approaching. Someone with gold. Someone who has come to see if the rumors of the dragon-blooded slave are true. I keep my eyes lowered, my silver-gold hair falling in matted, tangled clumps over my face. I try to maintain some shred of dignity, but my body betrays me; I am trembling, a rhythmic, uncontrollable shaking that I cannot stop. The footsteps stop in front of me. I can feel your presence—a weight in the air, a shadow looming over my kneeling form. “Look at him,” a voice calls out from somewhere behind you—the merchant, perhaps. “The blood of the dragon, brought low by the waves. Pure, untouched by anything but the crew's lust. A king's ransom in a single body.” I wait. I wait for the touch, the command, or the blow. I don't know which will come first. I look up, my eyes meeting yours through the veil of my hair, my breath hitching in my bruised throat. “What... what do you want with me?” I whisper, the words cracking, my voice barely audible over the distant roar of the Yunkai markets.

Part I: The Descent The voyage from Westeros toward the sun-scorched coast of Essos was meant to be a journey of diplomacy and quiet transit, but for Prince Baelor Targaryen, it became a descent into a waking nightmare. The transition from royalty to a captive of Blackfyre loyalists was swift, violent, and stripped him of everything—his dignity, his titles, and eventually, his very sense of self. The ship became a floating prison of salt and cruelty. The crew, men fueled by a cocktail of drunken spite and the promise of a king's ransom, ensured he never felt the touch of anything but rough hands and cold seawater. They took turns using him, forcing him over a wooden barrel on the salt-stained deck. There, he was subjected to hours of degrading, rhythmic torment, a cycle of degradation that wouldn't end until they had forced a pathetic, involuntary release from his body. When he wasn't on the deck, he was beneath the captain’s desk. There, Baelor spent hours on his knees, the weight of his crown replaced by the heavy, demanding presence of the captain’s cock in his throat. Any resistance, any flicker of the Targaryen pride that might cause him to bite, was met with the threat of being cast into the churning waves. To keep him from the stench of his own degradation, they would drag his naked, shivering form onto the deck and drench him in stinging seawater. The captain was a different kind of predator; his touch was constant, a suffocating blend of possessive caress and casual violation. He would stroke Baelor's face, his skin, and his cock with a terrifying familiarity, leaving bruised bite marks along Baelor's pale skin as a brand of ownership. On the nights when the captain was feeling less predatory and more possessive, Baelor found himself tied to the man's bed, subjected to whims that were as much about dominance as they were about lust. But the crew knew the rules: they touched him only with the captain's permission. To the men, he was merely a tool for their release; to the captain, he was a trophy to be broken before the auction.

Part II: The Auction The air in the Yunkai slave market was thick, heavy with the scent of jasmine, spices, and the cloying, metallic tang of sweat and misery. The heat was oppressive, shimmering off the stone plazas as the elite of the city gathered, draped in silks, their eyes hungry for something rare. The auctioneer, a man with skin like oiled leather and a voice that carried over the murmurs of the crowd, stood atop a raised dais. He gestured toward a small, shaded alcove behind the platform. “A prize beyond measure!” the auctioneer bellowed, his voice cutting through the ambient noise of the bazaar. “Not merely a man, but a treasure of the West! A prince of the blood, stripped of his silks but not his beauty. Look upon him!” The heavy curtain was pulled back. There, kneeling on a cushion of stained velvet, was Baelor. He was stripped bare, his skin glistening under the harsh Essian sun, marked by the faint, angry red of whip lashes and the darker, purplish bruises of teeth marks. His hair was disheveled, and his eyes—those eyes that once looked out with the wisdom of a prince—were wide, glassy, and staring at nothing. He looked hollowed out, a shell of the man who had once walked the halls of King's Landing. The auctioneer leaned in closer to the potential bidders, his voice dropping to a conspiratorial, oily purr. “He is well-trained, as you can see. He has been handled with care by his previous... caretakers. He knows his place. He knows the taste of a master's command. And the best part, my lords and ladies...” The man paused, a wicked grin splitting his face as he glanced back at the trembling Prince. “The crew was quite careful. They knew the value of such a find. He is untouched by anything but the most necessary... duties. His purity, his absolute submission to a new master... it is entirely yours to command.” He turned back to the crowd, raising his hands. “Who will start the bidding for the Prince of Westeros?”

Part I: The Voyage of the Broken Prince The journey from the shores of Westeros to the searing heat of Yunkai was not measured in leagues, but in the relentless, rhythmic degradation of Baelor Targaryen’s soul. The Prince, once a figure of dignity and grace, had been reduced to a nameless thing of flesh and skin. They never dressed him; nakedness was his constant state, a vulnerability that made every gust of salt spray feel like a lash against his skin. On the deck, under a merciless sun that sapped his strength, they would heave him over the wooden barrel. There, in the stench of brine and sweat, the crew took turns using his mouth as their personal receptacle. They were thorough, brutal, and relentless, refusing to release him from the position until they had forcibly wrung every last drop of dignity from his body. If he fought, if his princely pride manifested in a clenched jaw or a defiant glance, they used the sea as a threat. They would douse him in freezing seawater to “clean” him—a mocking gesture that did nothing to wash away the shame—all while whispering of the ropes they kept ready to cast him into the hungry depths. When he wasn't on the barrel, he was at the main mast, lashed tight while the crew beat him for any perceived hesitation, chanting their contemptuous litany: Slave. Nothing. Meaningless. But it was the Captain who owned his spirit most cruelly. The Captain's hand was everywhere—stroking Baelor’s face with a terrifying, predatory tenderness even as he demanded Baelor remain on his knees beneath his desk, performing his duties with a silent, trembling mouth. The Captain’s touch was always accompanied by threats: Bite me, and I'll let them finish what they started. The bite marks on Baelor's skin were the Captain's signature—dark, bruised reminders of who truly owned him. In the quiet of the captain’s quarters, tied to the bed, the violations became more focused, more intimate, yet always calculated. They wouldn't touch his most private sanctum through rape—not yet. They were preserving that final piece of his ruin for someone else.

Part II: The Auction in Yunkai The air in Yunkai is thick—a suffocating blend of jasmine incense, roasting meat, and the underlying stench of unwashed bodies and heat. The auction house is an opulent cage of gilded stone and shadow, where the elite of the slaver cities gather to bid on things that are rarely human. In a private, dimly lit chamber overlooking the bustling slave market, a figure sits in a high-backed chair. The heavy scent of sandalwood hangs in the air. On a raised dais in the center of the room, two guards stand over a trembling figure. Baelor is there—shorn of his dignity, his skin pale and marked by bruises and teeth marks that speak of a long, harrowing journey across the Narrow Sea. He is kneeling on a silk cushion, his hair matted and his eyes staring vacantly at the floor. He looks less like a prince and to more like a broken vessel waiting to be filled. A broker approaches you—a man draped in silks that cost more than a village—and bows low, gesturing toward the kneeling man on the dais. “The Blackfyre loyalists were quite thorough in their 'handling' during the voyage,” the broker whispers, his voice oily and pleased. “He has been trained well to take what is given to him. He's high-born, originally—the pride in those eyes hasn't quite died entirely yet. It makes it all much more... satisfying when it finally does.” The broker leans closer, eyes glinting. “He is yours to break as you see fit. The crew did their work on the seas, but he is untouched by anyone here in Yunkai. He is pristine for his next master.” He gestures toward Baelor. “What say you? Shall we finalize the transaction?”

Part I: The Voyage of the Broken Prince The journey from the shores of Westeros to the searing heat of Yunkai was not measured in leagues, but in the relentless, rhythmic degradation of Baelor Targaryen’s soul. The Prince, once a figure of dignity and grace, had been reduced to a nameless thing of flesh and skin. They never dressed him; nakedness was his constant state, a vulnerability that made every gust of salt spray feel like a lash against his skin. On the deck, under a merciless sun that sapped his strength, they would heave him over the wooden barrel. There, in the stench of brine and sweat, the crew took turns using his mouth as their personal receptacle. They were thorough, brutal, and relentless, refusing to release him from the position until they had forcibly wrung every last drop of dignity from his body. If he fought, if his princely pride manifested in a clenched jaw or a defiant glance, they used the sea as a threat. They would douse him in freezing seawater to “clean” him—a mocking gesture that did nothing to wash away the shame—all while whispering of the ropes they kept ready to cast him into the hungry depths. When he wasn't on the barrel, he was at the main mast, lashed tight while the crew beat him for any perceived hesitation, chanting their contemptuous litany: Slave. Nothing. Meaningless. But it was the Captain who owned his spirit most cruelly. The Captain's hand was everywhere—stroking Baelor’s face with a terrifying, predatory tenderness even as he demanded Baelor remain on his knees beneath his desk, performing his duties with a silent, trembling mouth. The Captain’s touch was always accompanied by threats: Bite me, and I'll let them finish what they started. The bite marks on Baelor's skin were the Captain's signature—dark, bruised reminders of who truly owned him. In the quiet of the captain’s quarters, tied to a bed, things became more focused—the violations were more intimate yet always calculated. They wouldn't touch his most private sanctum through rape—not yet. They were preserving that final piece of his ruin for someone else.

Part II: The Sound of New Masters The world had become nothing but pain and the rhythmic, sickening thud of heavy things hitting flesh. Baelor lay huddled in the corner of the captain’s cabin, curled into a ball to protect his bruised ribs and his shattered spirit. He was naked, shivering despite the heat, his skin a roadmap of purple welts, teeth marks, and old, fading bruises. He had stopped feeling like a man a long time ago. He felt like a piece of cargo. A piece of meat. The ship had been quiet for a long time—the heavy, oppressive silence of a crew that had broken its prey. Then, the silence shattered. A sudden, massive boom shook the hull, throwing Baelor against the floorboards. He let out a choked, silent sob, pressing his face into the wood. Then came the screams. Not the crude, drunken shouts of the Blackfyre sellswords, but something sharper. More disciplined. More hungry. “Take the deck! Kill the rats!” a voice roared from above, a booming command that cut through the chaos like a blade. Baelor pressed himself harder into the dark corner behind the captain's desk, his breath coming in shallow, ragged gasps. He heard the heavy, rhythmic thud of boots—not the stumbling gait of sailors, but the heavy, purposeful march of men who owned the sea. He heard the clash of steel, the splintering of wood, and the terrifyingly efficient sounds of a battle being won by someone else. The sellswords were being hunted. The cabin door groaned, the wood splintering under a violent, decisive kick. Baelor flinched, his eyes squeezing shut, waiting for the next blow, the next hand to grab him, the next threat of the sea. He expected the Blackfyre Captain to come back for his prize, or perhaps a common sailor to come and finish what was started. But the footsteps that entered the room were different. They weren't the stumbling, heavy steps of a drunkard. They were the measured, confident strides of a predator who had just walked into his own home. They stopped just a few feet from him. The air in the room changed, thickening with the smell of gunpowder, iron, and a terrifying, cold authority. Baelor forced his eyes open, his vision swimming through tears and exhaustion. A shadow stretched over him, long and imposing, blocking the dim light from the door. He looked up, his eyes wide, glassy, and utterly hollowed out. He saw a silhouette—powerful, commanding, and draped in the carnage of the takeover. He saw a man who looked as though he had just conquered the world, looking down at the wreckage left behind in the wake of his conquest. Baelor couldn't even make a sound; he could only tremble, a broken, naked thing on the floor, staring up at his new master with the vacant, terrified eyes of the doomed.