Cecilia

Blood, manure and dead men made a foul stench. That much he knew. Nobody ever talked about how putrid war smelt whenever they boasted of great victories. The rebellion was finished and he could return north, to Kings landing. He could return to the crowded city that rest on blackwater bay. On return there would be a feast held in celebration for defeating the Blackfyre bastards, and the masses would cheer. Cheer they would.

When the rations were little and no letter from allies came in a fortnight he held out on the lines — waiting for the battle. In the midst of it, Lord Donnel Arryn had led the vanguard, but his forces were crushed by Daemon. In turn, he rallied up what was left of of the van and Baelor crushed the rebel army against his shield wall with his host of Dornish spearmen like a hammer, and him the anvil who held strong.

At any given moment, when he closed his eyes, he would see the swords and fallen. He could hear the dying screams of the men, the crys and begs. Maekar spat into the grass as he rode his horse around the field that was now a mass grave for the hundreds if not thousands that had died, blood still filled his mouth from the broken jaw he had obtained. A shove off his horse did not feel well. His shoulder had broken the fall, so a sling now adorned him. It was an old smelly leather one that had started to peel.

Silent sisters walked around, burning and burying bodies or putting them on wagons if they were if they were of high nobility. An awful thing truly, but he did not care much for small folk, sell-swords and idiotic hedge-knights who tried to gain a bit of glory in the battle for his father’s throne. He tousled his hair back, trying to ignore the aggravating ache on his mandible.

The rebellion had been short lived, nigh on a year. The effort had been a stupid one, foolish, dense; unintelligent, dim-witted, whatever you would call it. There was no true claim made, only that the bastard thought he could usurp his father King Daeron.

A loud stomp of hooves came towards him, he turned his head and locked eyes with ones that were mismatched. One blue and one a dark chestnut.

“Brother! I have been searching for you all over the field, why do you look so solemn?” Baelor.

It seemed to him as if Baelor had not a clue about his appearance, was the bruising on his face and the ugly strap around his upper body not enough to figure out why he looked desolate and dull? A sigh left him as he found his wording.

“I was making my rounds—”

“Rounds for what? The war is won, and we may return! Think of all the songs that will be sung of us, cheer up. Eh?” His brother said, moving closer to clasp a hand on his good side.

When he did not answer, he rubbed his hand over his dirt covered face. Without hesitation he added more to say, trying to get him to converse.

“Are you not excited to return home? To mother and father? To your wife?”

“Of course I am. I may appear grim because I have broken bones, but I am happy to see mother and father.”

Baelor raised a brow, trying to find out the answer for the latter. “Have you forgotten your wife?” He chuckled lightly.

An awkward look found his face, “I do not know her in truth. We bedded each-other once, we barely even made small talk before I left.”

He snorted. Turning his head away to conceal his laughter. “I suppose that be your wedding night?”

“Do not play the fool.”

“A jest, little brother. The gods made you to lack a sense of humor. It would serve you well to love someone other than yourself, trust me I would know..”

His black stallion whinnied, snorting and tugging at the black leather reins with which he fussed with.

“Even he thinks you need to bed her, and properly. Not just a few thrusts that are out of duty.”

He scowled at him. Leaving him with no reply Maekar tugged at his own horse to go down the ranks, away from this nonsense.

It had been months since he had last seen you, you were married before the claim on the iron throne. A month, or two, or three. He could not recall. He did not hate you, or dislike you. When the marriage had been made, he thought you beautiful. Yet the marriage had not summed up to anything. You didn’t not engage in conversation with him and when you slept in the same bed it was with a pillow in-between you both, backs turned to each other.

There was no fruit that came from your wedding night, it had been consummated but there was no sweetness of the summer to taste on. That was how his mother worded it; after she had a conversation with him if he knew how bedding worked. He knew how it worked, he was not feeble-minded.

The words from Baelor repeated themselves in his head, "It would serve you well to love someone other than yourself." Mayhaps it would. The fighting had shown him that much. Men died begging for their wives and sons begged for their mothers. If Maekar had died he would have begged for nobody in particular. A quick death his top contender.

On the night of your wedding he had laid on-top of you, looking away the entire time. He requested the bedding ceremony to not be watched by the entire seven kingdoms, it did not please him for them to watch him and you be bare as the day of your births. There was no love in it, not even some sort of affection, or attraction. The seed he spilled inside of you proved enough that he could get hard and do his duty, but he never looked at you. Just hoisting himself above your limp, unamused body. You yourself did not reach your pinnacle that night. With the way that he moved; obviously not.

The bells had been ringing all morning. Ravens had been sent of the victory that had happened a few days march from the capitol. By the afternoon you could spot the black and red flag of house Targaryen from where you stood on the balcony overlooking the city. They had entered through the gate of the gods and now were making their way toward Aegon’s High Hill.

People crowded the ranks. The poor folk made their way down from flea bottom, watching all the gallant and noble men riding in on their great war-horses. Young squires held shields and swords. Everybody cheered, rose petals had lined the street in celebration. Rich folk in their manses out in their balcony’s tossed them down, allowing for a pleasant sight to be seen.

You entered back into your room, leaving the door open. Allowing the laced curtains from Lys to flow in the hot air. It was almost time to go down to the throne room it seemed, all you needed was the finishing touches to your appearance. You sat back down at your vanity; allowing for two of your maids to tend to your hair. They put it up into a comfortable bun. As they did so another maid powdered your face and rosed the apples of your cheeks.

The months that you had been here had been queer. You did not truly have any friend at court, nor were you close with the royal family. You were apart of them, but not of them. It was all an arrangement, a suitable political match made to heighten your houses status. What better than sending off a daughter to marry a prince of the realm?

It wasn’t how everybody described it. They said the prince was handsome, that he was kind and reserved. They said he was strong and looked as if the gods carved him out of the finest marble. Marrying a prince would be something that came out of storybooks. It did come out of a storybook, mostly because it was a farce, a joke, and in truth a mockery.

Prince Maekar was nothing how he was described to you, he was good-looking enough, if you ignored all the scars on his face. He was not kind; in fact he was rather rude. Reserved was one of the more accurate words. The man talked to nobody and locked himself in his study. When they said he was strong you could see what they meant. You would oft come across him training in the yard when you went for a walk with some of the ladies. He would be without a tunic, his muscles would flex in the light that came down on him, and he would thrust his sword at training dummies filled with straw. It seemed improper to stare, but his body did seemed carved out of marble.

The marriage had been a lot of nothing for two months until he had to heed his father's call to war. On the night on which he departed he did not tell you goodbye. He simply looked at you with no words, only a nod of his head. How arrogant, and now he was to return to you. Or rather his study, if it were possible to lay with it or wed it he would do it quicker before you could say Westeros. Then of course he would annul you or send you away to become a Septa — if he even bothered that much — maybe your husband was secretly Dothraki and liked to fuck horses.

A small boy came knocking on your chambers, no more than 12 you assumed. "My lady, they are almost here." He said in a mousy little voice. You thanked him and sent him off, rising from your cushion seat and flattening out your dress. When you left your room you started making your way down the halls of Maegor's holdfast. As you made your way over the drawbridge a lady with warm copper colored hair waited there, her dress was a black one with purple lightning bolts embroidered onto it, and you quickly recognized her. Jena Dondarrion.

She was your brother-in-laws wife, and one of the few friends you had here at court. You bonded over the obvious, being married to a prince of the realm. In her case she had it better, her husband was not thick as a castle wall and kind to her; she actually took pleasure in her husband returning to her. A smile left her and she embraced you for a mere moment, then joined her arm with yours.

"I was waiting for you."

"Were you now?" You replied, a hint of sarcasm in your tone. She shoved you to the side slightly. "I am not going to go alone into that room now am I? With everybody watching, absolutely not."

"You need to be more independent, not that I am complaining, but they will not put your head on a spike for that." A snort left you and she shoved you again.

"Anyhow, are you excited? I know the answer but I want to hear it from you."

"No."

"I told you I knew it."

"He is a stranger and unless he has a great proclamation of love for me I will not be warm to him and be his dutiful little wife. If he wants that then he can say so."

Jena raised a brow at you and smirked. "You really want to be bedded."

"I do not. I am just saying that—"

"You would like to be bedded. You cannot fool me my sweet."

"I would like for my husband to see me as a person with feelings, this is not just about bedding. Get your head out of the clouds, you will have your husband soon enough." You shot her a look, not wanting to hear more from her.

The two of you arrived in the throne room, the king sat up high on his iron throne that looked very uncomfortable. The swords waiting to nick him. His wife, the queen Myriah Martell sat in a chair next to him, their two other sons Aerys and Rhaegel sat to her right. You both approached them, bowing and taking your leave to the front of the crowd. The entire room stood still, waiting for the moment when the ranks would come in being led by the princes.

The grand hall was a beautiful thing, the stained glass windows reflected light onto the marbled pillars. Vibrant tapestries hung about the room, 9 hung for each great house. Torches were lit throughout, burning a vibrant ember. Alas the doors opened, and everyone held their breath for a moment.

It was a grand entrance, the commanders coming in first on their horses. The others came behind on their feet; keeping a stern look until otherwise said so. You looked up at the men atop the horses, Ser Donnel Arryn.. Baelor Targaryen.. Maekar.

You peered up at him through your eyebrows, giving him a grim look. His head searched the room as he rode down, eventually meeting yours. His shoulders tensed, he straightened his back snapping his head back towards the front if the room and breaking the eye contact. You kept your hands clasped together and bit the inside of your cheek.

He wore a clean enough black doublet that was trimmed with red satin, his house sigil pinned to his breast. He adorned a leather sling on his arm, and he seemed to have grown a mustache that had not been there before. Your husband’s silver hair was overgrown and pushed back, it looked sweaty and oily. The thought of when he last bathed crossed your mind suddenly. They all finally reached the throne, getting off their horses. Little squires coming to take their horses away. The men kneeled down, their eyes on the floor.

“Stand.” King Daerons voice echoed. When they followed his command, the crowd erupted into a loud cry of joy. You clapped with the rest of them, smiling slightly. It was enjoyable to see how everybody came together for this. It dawned upon you that the high septon had stood there all this time, he approached the front and gave a brief speech on the will of the seven gods. His crystal crown casting down a light of rainbow.

When it was finished the crowd dispersed, families going to meet their sons and the cries of joy from wives and children filled your ears. Jena had gone to her own husband, and it seemed only right for you to do so. Inhaling deeply you put one foot in front of the other, it was a harder task than it ought to be. Heels clicked, your dress shuffled, and now you stood in front of him.

Maekar realized you and peered down at you with his infatuating lilac eyes, his brows furrowing a bit.

“Husband.”

“Wife.”

“How was the war?” You asked him, not certain on what to say.

“Taxing, rough, bloody.” He responded. His voice monotone and blunt.

“I can tell.” You nodded your head to his arm and lifted your hand to point as his face.

“I fell off my horse. The Maester said I would heal fine.” His attention was drawn elsewhere, looking around the room as if the conversation bored him. You let out a hum and shifted your weight onto one leg. It felt as if you were speaking to a stone wall.

“I see. Well I won’t bother you any more if the conversation disinterests you.” The words left you quick and without a second thought, he turned his gaze back onto you with an offended look. Though not before you could walk off, going to converse with his brother and wife.

It was a dull one, watching the couple flirt and standing off to the side. The most you did was congratulate Baelor on his victory and laugh at a joke Jena had said. You excused yourself from the conversation. Making your way back up towards your chambers, you breathed in the hot humid salt-air which made its way through the arched stony windows that had ivy wrapped around its edges.

You traced your fingers across the splintery wooden drawbridge. When inside your chambers you laid down on your bed, hair covering your face as you rest your head to the side. You closed your eyes, falling into the calmness of the dark.

It must have been an hour or so when he entered, an abrupt slam of the door woke you up from your deep slumber. Drool was on your chin and hair so you quickly wiped it away. He stopped in his tracks as he made his way across to the window. His eyes gazed your form, staring you up and down. This was the woman he was so scared of? He thought.

"The feast is soon, you should.. compose... yourself." Maekar's voice was harsh and judgmental, it was odd to see you in such disarray with no poise or polish. You were always so stiff as if someone held a dagger at your throat.

"I was sleeping." You pointed out to him. His arms crossed, and his face hardened. He had imagined this conversation a hundred times over on the road home. He assumed it would be simpler and easier, but a knot tied in his stomach and he remembered exactly why he never talk to you. The smart remarks and that tone. It would never be easier. He glanced out to the bay.

"Now you are awake. Fetch a maid to dress you and bathe you." His cloak followed him as he moved to the bedside table, removing his gloves. Tugging at a finger one at a time until the leather loosened and slid off.

You sat on your heels and tucked the drool covered hair behind your ears. You laid your eyes upon him, watching as he kept his eyes on his other glove. Struggling with the cracked leather sling. He let out a tsk. "You should bathe likewise, here let me help." Now you prop yourself on your knees, pulling his good arm towards your body and tugging as he did and pulling it off.

He did not answer you nor thank you, leading you to despise him more by the second. If he did not need the help he should have declined and done it himself, since he is so able bodied now. "You smell of manure."

Your husband did not reply to you, simply standing as still as a frightened maid. As you stood up from the warm cushioning of the bed he spoke then. "You did not write to me." His stance looked awkward, and his voice meek. Like a boy who did not receive love from his crush. Though it seemed the same.

"I did not know I was meant to."

A shaky sigh left him, you held a hand on a post of the frame. "We are married are we not? We are bound by vow. I expected.."

"Letters? You did not write me either, do not play the fool and act as if we are deeply infatuated with one another." Seven. It came out a bit harsher, you realized that after he left the room with no scoff, no bicker, no unkind look.

The crowd was lively. Lively and beautiful. The feasts were always beautiful. Night had fallen down upon Kings landing and if anything the city had become livelier. Not just outside but inside the heart of it all. It was the second course by now, roasted peppered boar encrusted with cherries and lemons. There was fresh black bread on the side, baked apples and lemon cakes for people to indulge in their sweet tooth if they wished.

Servants darted all around the room, serving wine, strong ale and water. Cups clinked and drinks sloshed in them, harpists played in the corners. Singers sang the beautiful old songs, one was of Jonquil and Florian the fool. As a girl you always loved that one best. A smile made itself present on your face, you lifted your fork to your mouth and took a bite out of the savory boar. It had been slain in the morning in honor of the gathering.

Your husband sat next to you on the dais, watching the couples dance just below. He leaned back into his wooden chair that had the sigil of his house carved into the head, his legs spread open as he let out a sigh of annoyance.

A servant came around, pouring cool wine into his cup. One from The Arbor. A vintage sweet red. He lifted it to his lips and wiped when he set it down. The tension was still there, in truth you felt a bit bad, though not as much as you wished. If he expected you to feel bad for stating the truth, then he was rather dense and stupid. Not once had he ever made an effort to be kind to you or converse much, and now he wanted you to write letters with sweet words. His entitlement was absurd. The others take him, for sakes.

It was as if the known world revolved around him, Prince Maekar did not get what he desired so now everybody within the vicinity of him should feel solemn. His plate had been untouched, rather queer for a soldier returned from war. That's how you knew he was putting up a mummer's farce. I do not treat my wife as a human, and she returns the favor, therefore she is the leader of a hell. That is what most like went through that thick skull of his at this very moment.

The chandelier was lit with candles and casted a warm light all over, as you peered down the dance had changed to one for the little lady's. All of them holding hands and stepping back, giggles and delight. They radiated innocence and naivety, and at that moment you prayed to the maiden to never let them marry a man as arrogant as Maekar.

You finally glanced over at him, watching him stare down sternly at all the people who were content at the feast. A sigh left you as you opened your mouth to speak, "Are you not going to eat?" The tone in which it left you sounded as if you were scolding a little child for not eating their greens.

His eyes met yours, the vibrant purple ones now looked stormy. "I do not have an appetite."

"I will not believe that you were out fighting, eating repulsing food for months, and you do not have an appetite?"

"Then do not believe it." He said through his teeth. Face stern and eyebrows raised. You put your hands up in surrender and leaned back into your chair. He sat on your left in order of rank, husbands and then their wives. From king, to son, to second son, to third son, to him. To you. It was an awkward thing to be here you thought. You glanced all around you, wives next to their husbands. How many of these ladies actually loved their husbands? It was hard to tell, everything was a farce in court.

"Is it about what I said earlier? I did not mean it to come out so harsh." You finally spoke, leaning over your chair and looking directly at him. You studied his face, his jaw clenching as hard an immovable mountain. He held onto the table and moved himself upright, straightening out his back and slowly turning his head like a predator.

"You said the words. Regardless of your tone you know what you meant, and it would have came out the same. If you'll excuse me I will be heading to bed." Maekar stood and shuffled out from the high table, the steps of his leather boots a mockery to you. So that's how it would be. You could entertain his fits of rage all day if need be. You whipped your head around and watching him leave from the back of the room, his manner stiff.

Once the dancing had died out you finally excused yourself from the feast and left from the front door allowing a longer walk to clear your thoughts. You held your red dress in your hands, the colors of your beloveds house. The harbor was ever lively now, fishermen selling their days catch and boats sailing in from across the Narrow sea or White Harbor up in the North.

Your hand found the gold painted handle of the great oak door that led to your shared chambers, when you opened it he stood across the room from you, the embers in the hearth dying out slowly and leaving a dim light. He lifted his eyes to the sound and moved them to focus back onto his newfound task of feeding the fire; quickly illuminating the space with a great roar of warmth. You wanted to speak to him but the words stayed in your throat and felt like you shoved a date down your throat.

Maekar glanced back at you. The embers now thriving after he had worked on it, "My brother thought I should get to know you."

"How is that working out for you?'

"Harder than I thought." He stood up from the floor. Legs aching from squatting for a prolonged period of time. "What is it that you want me to do?"

The question caught you off guard. Those words alone were not likely to leave the princes mouth especially knowing how uptight he could be. "You could stop acting like a wounded dog for starters."

"I am not acting like a wounded dog."

"You walked away from me because I did not send you letters! You act as if you are entitled to something and I do not know what it is!" You responded, the pitch was high and shaky.

"I did not walk away because of the letters — I walked away because of what you said!" His face started to redden like a tomato. A laugh left you and his brows contorted, suddenly confused.

"The reason that you walked away is because I told you to not pretend as if we are in love? We are strangers! There is no fabrication in what I said and you cannot expect me to welcome you with open arms!" It was the truth and for a moment he stayed silent. He moved across the room, circling you then turning away. His hand moving his silver-white hair back. A sigh left his lips.

"Well I wish to mend this now, isn't that enough?" You closed your eyes in frustration and dragged your hands across your face. Pondering on what to say to such nonsense.

"No it's not! You were like a ghost to me before and you never tried!"

His hand slammed onto the bedpost. The wood rattling under his calloused hands. "Then what is enough? I cannot undo the year in which I was gone, nor can I free us from this marriage, I cannot turn back time like a clock and know you before the war." He moved his hand away from the post and clenched it nervously. "I will beg on my knees if that is what pleases you."

It all seemed like a joke. Why did he wish to know you now? Did he want a warm cunt to always return to when days were rough? Was he forbidden from whores and you were his last resort? Why now? So you spoke, "Why now? And not because Baelor said so."

A sharp exhale left him and he glanced about the room. "I think it would serve us. We are bound and why not make use of it? Ive heard of how the men talked of their wives as they succumbed to their injuries on the Redgrass — I want to know what that feels like. Not the dying, the love. I cannot say for sure entirely but I know that is part of the reason." His confession suddenly tightened your bodice immensely, everything came to a stop and the look on his face was tired and raw. You wanted to question him, but you could not bring yourself to. Lips parted slightly open, a breath escaping as you held yourself steady.

"Say something." He stated softly; now moving closer to you and taking your hand in his. "Teach me. I want to understand what it is like to have a woman want me in her bed." Maekar added, his voice now a whisper in your ear. You looked up at him and the silence dragged itself on. Finally, you touched his face. Tracing the marks on his skin.

"If you won't treat me like a duty to do and like I bore you I will." You said it to lighten up the already cut through tension. He nodded quickly at the anticipatory answer. You did not kiss him. Simply offering a smile to him, a kiss was too much as of now. Even if he did profess his want to love. You figured it as much as him, he pulled his body away and watched you. He still needed to gain your trust and not be an ass about it, would this pull through? The doubts ran through your head like a familiar thing.

You sat on the bed after removing your evening gown into your night shift. You watched your husband stand by the window overlooking the bay, the one you were anxiously awaiting his arrival by earlier in the day. The contrast weighed on you. The vow you made before the rebellion now a repercussion.

𓇑 AN: Hot girl summer has kept me busy all May and the first half of June, but here you go, anon!! Rags to riches coming your way! No Dunk, as it would just be commoner x commoner, and honestly, just couldn't come up with an idea for Valarr SMH.

Baelor Breakspear

He'd glimpsed you atop his steed during a tour across Westeros, as per his sire's request.

Baelor scarcely questioned his father's decisions. If the King saw it fit to send him off to charm mistrusting lords and ladies, rid the people of any doubt in the Targaryens' rule, then he would go. It was expected of him.

It was not expected of him to lay eyes upon you and think you were the comeliest lady he had ever seen, even if you were not a noblewoman by any means. You had ducked out of a tavern at the commotion of the royal caravan passing through, hands wringing at a flour-dusted apron.

Your hair had not glistened under the sunlight like the well-oiled tresses of his first wife, Jena; blemishes dotted your cheeks from lack of powder. Your eyes, vivid as they met his own, were underlined with weariness created by labor.

He had offered the slightest of smiles in your direction as he passed, and your cheeks had pinkened. It shouldn't have enthralled him as much as it did.

Baelor wasn't a princeling green with power and women. He had his own private affairs as a young man, and he had eventually been arranged to wed the daughter of a Marcher lord in an effort to strengthen allyship.

Nevertheless, the boyish urge to preen and impress unfurled in the cavity of his chest.

It wasn't often that someone managed to fluster him. That is the reasoning, the excuse, he wields as his weapon the first night he goes to find you. And the next. And the next few after that.

Your surprise hadn't faded, no matter how many times the man came to your place of business, dressed in plain yet well-crafted garb in a half-hearted effort ot preserve his identity. Regardless, your warmth embraced him each time he sat at the table closest to the kitchen.

Ser Roland accompanied him without complaint, but not without plenty of narrowed, curious stares from where he stood post nearby. The only time he showed distaste was when he was forced to don shabby armor and worn boots, but even then, he managed to hold his tongue with a furrowed brow.

You would bring the prince fresh-baked bread and honey-glazed cakes as fellow patrons lost themselves in their cups. However, none of the offerings looked as supple or sweet as your lips.

He enjoyed your company, the way you smiled bashfully under his stare, and the scent of sugar that clung to your skin. It made him feel light. Unburdened. More akin to a man than an heir, a prince, or the future king.

The night before he had to return to Dragonstone, he came to the tavern with a proposition. He knew his father, the small council, and all those of noble blood would disagree with his want for you. For his want to act on his want for you.

He had done his duty to the realm. He had married, had sired an heir and a spare, and had fought for his blood to remain upon the throne. Could he not be allowed this one thing? Could he not vouch and defend you as he has done every other matter in his life?

"Come with me," Baelor had requested. His calloused hands had embraced yours, thumb rubbing gently at weathered skin, "Grant me the honor of being yours."

Red-faced, you acquiesced with a stutter in your speech, and Baelor had felt as though he were flying.

Maekar Targaryen

Maekar was not paranoid.

It was not paranoia to keep a close eye on those who were supervising his children, especially given how tiresome they all happened to be. Whatever was in his and Dyanna's blood had created incredibly chaotic offspring.

Admittedly, his two girls were more behaved than his sons, but that didn't mean they were entirely innocent. Daella could be annoyingly cunning and silver-tongued; Rhae fell victim to her impulses more often than not, and was capable of astounding tantrums when wronged.

The two of them required a strong, stern hand to keep them under control. You were one of the handmaids who were assigned to them, and you had proved to be exemplary so far, even with your commonborn blood.

You were highly intelligent for someone who lacked proper education. While you belonged to Daella more so than Rhae, both seemed receptive to your company. You shared fantastical stories when they craved entertainment, made sure they attended their lessons, and assisted them in getting dressed for the day.

You were not the only attendant they had, but you were the only one who made Maekar's head ache.

It was not paranoia, no, to examine your history more than he did the other ladies. It was an effort to eliminate a problem. He raked over your past with a keen eye, attempting to discover anything unsavory to justify how he felt about you.

Alas, he could find nothing. If anything, it was you being wholly decent that agitated him more.

Obviously, he had no reason to be as attracted to you as he was. It was a highly inappropriate situation for a man of his standing, but the longer you resided within his keep, the more you clouded his judgement. Worse yet, you gave him no actual cause to dismiss your service.

You were not a whore with perfumed oils smeared under the curve of her jaw and within her inner wrists, breasts spilling over the collar of a skimpy dress. You were not a thief with a sly stare or someone of the sort.

You were just… you. That was an issue of itself.

In an effort to rid these foolish feelings, Maekar grew increasingly crass. He was never charismatic, but he made sure, with absolute certainty, to keep his words short and his interactions blunt with you.

He tried, Gods, he truly did try. Despite his best attempts to harden his soul towards you, your ceaseless kindness to both his children and himself made it hard to believe in the insincere lie Maekar had tried telling himself.

With time, his coldness began to thaw and give way to begrudging fondness. His clipped words grew lighter, less blunt in delivery. He sought you outside of your duties to his daughters. Most damning, he began to know you.

His fate was inevitable.

"You could be mine," Maekar confessed one night in the privacy of his solar that he had begun to share with you weeks past. The words, so vulnerable, made his throat constrict.

"Me?" You choked, as if you had never considered it a possibility.

"Daella likes you. Rhae adores you. I could love you," he admits quietly, and it feels as though all the fire is being put to rest inside of him, "If you'd let me."

You let him.

Lyonel Baratheon

When Lyonel had first encountered you, he had been drowning in his cups.

Well, he had already lost himself in wine and ale thoroughly, and was merely suffering the consequences of his overindulgence. He'd somehow managed to fall into a slumber outside of his tent for the tourney he had decided to attend.

The sky was lightly drizzling. The cold, small droplets fell into his hair and soaked through his clothes. The grass smelt of dew, while he himself smelt of sweat and spices. Lyonel very likely could've stayed slumbering there if it were not for your interference.

"M'lord?" You had prompted. Your foot came out to nudge at the side of his ribs, hesitant to lay a hand upon such an important ser.

"Hm?" Lyonel's heavy eyes struggled to open. The toe of your shoe poked into his torso again, and he managed to squint up at the dreary sky, "The fuck do you want?"

You had leant over him, further into his hazy vision, and what a shock you had been. Your plain hair fell over your shoulders as your face contorted into such sweet concern over his well-being, unfazed by his brutish speech.

Lyonel very well thought you were the Maiden come to mortal life.

Your lips pulled down, "Are you alright?"

"Aye. Aye, I am now," Lyonel breathed, and his heart lurched at the sight of relief softening your face.

As he came to find out—following much harassment of all that crossed the Laughing Storm's path—you were the sole child of a local blacksmith. Your father had come to the tourney in hopes of making good coin for the knights aiming to join the lists, and he had brought you along for assistance.

After finding this out, Lyonel was like a bee drawn to honey with you. No matter where you went, the Stormlander was following, showering you in endless inquiries about yourself.

He wanted to know what you liked, what you disliked, what you loved, and what you loathed. Lyonel's affections were blatant. His attention was insistent, to the point that your own father grew suspicious when the knight came around, grumbling under his breath as he polished the metal of his craft.

Therefore, you weren't terribly taken aback when Lyonel (bruises scattered from tilts) came to you as the tourney was slowing to an end.

"Won't you be my lady wife, dearest? You'll never have to hold another sword," Lyonel smiled in a way that made his eyes sparkle, "Unless you wish to duel with me. I'd love for you to try and pin me down."

A blush blossomed in the apples of your cheeks at his flirations, but you fought to stay rational, "What will the people say?"

"My dear mother and father will only be happy that I finally took a wife, I assure you. As for anyone who opposes our match, they will meet my blade swiftly," He swore.

The earnestness in his voice was enough to make you swoon, and his cheeky expression told you he knew.

Aerion Brightflame

Aerion had encountered you whilst training—more accurately, beating—a squire who belonged to a knight sworn to Prince Maekar.

He'd knocked the blunt sword out of the sniveling mutt's hands, who responded to the action with an unseemly yelp. He'd scowled, glaring across the yard to call upon a more worthy sparring partner, when he'd seen you.

You were a serving girl, dressed modestly in the colors of his house. Your hair was braided away from your cheeks. The sun above highlighted the planes of your visage, glowing as though the Mother herself was caressing your bones. The skirts of your dress had whipped around your ankles as you hurried away, ducking back into a servant's entrance with a basket atop your hip.

Aerion had been obsessed since.

He thinks, most times, he hates you. You're nothing in comparison to his own worth. You're equal to the mud under his boots when it rains, the scraps on his plate that are discarded, and gnats that swarm his chambers' windows when humidity is at its height.

Still, his blood sings when you grow shy and uncomfortable under his sneer.

He takes great delight in tormenting you. Aerion grows the custom of cornering you in quiet halls, purposefully asking you impossible questions to watch you squirm under his cruelty. There's a terrible beauty in the way your breath falters because of his proximity, the flutter of your lashes.

When you move past him, he can catch a waft of your smell. It makes him want to eat you. The taste of your blood would be quite the prize, Aerion believes. It makes his teeth itch.

Your polite detachment irks him further. It makes the offense coil low and taut in his belly, and how easily you brush his advances and presence aside as though he were nothing more than a stranger sharing empty pleasantries.

You were a measly smallfolk, a commonborn vixen wrapped in the facade of a maid. You wore no silks, possessed no skills of quality, and had a crooked smile that had not been conditioned like any highborn lady's. Yet, you denied a prince's attentions as though he were beneath you.

That did not deter Aerion. If anything, it incentivized him to claim you further.

After moons of fantasizing with a deplorable sort of feeling comparable to longing, he had decided to summon you to his apartments late at night. Clearly, you would not willingly choose him, so he had to choose for you.

"Be mine," Aerion commanded.

You made quite a funny expression. Your skin grew to resemble a lobster, eyes widened from where you gazed down upon his lounging figure, "Pardon, m'lord?" He almost scoffed at your stupidity, but he enjoyed the fracture in your respectful performance, "Do I need to repeat myself twice? Be my lady, and serve only me. Or are you somehow too good to grace a dragon's bed?"

You ducked your head, decisively speechless. Aerion only smiled, poisonous. Submission, in its entirety, was the only outcome he would allow.

Daeron the Drunken

Daeron had met you after sneaking away from Summerhall and its harrowing, oppressive nature.

Walls were not walls there, and shadows were not just shadows. Figments of cursed imagination festered, akin to a plague. Tragedy lurked around every corner. The terror, the threat of guilt, was something he could not rid himself of.

The only exception to this torture was a drink and lecherous company, cutting through the fog of his misery. So, he'd tugged on his most inconspicuous cloak and slipped by the drowsing guard, admirably slumped against the wall outside his chambers' doors.

You'd been the barmaid to replenish his wine time, and time, and time again.

He had not seen you before. If he had, it had been when he was so lost in his cups that he could barely remember how to breathe, or he'd caught at the oddest of angles. Still, Daeron is steadfast in his sotted belief that his eyes had never lain upon you.

You were beautiful. Beautiful in the way rain-kissing earthy stones were, the crawl of clouds along the cyan flesh of the sky during the day. Mundane, simple, and so pretty it made his intestines knot.

He kept crawling back to your family's tavern to see the plain, gentle smile you always offered him. Daeron made a lovesick fool of himself by brushing a careful hand along your skirts each time you grew near, showering you in slurred compliments with yellowed teeth and crimson-tinted lips.

He did not concern himself with the necessary duties of his position. He cared little for the divide between your classes, the gap of your shared existence. He had been a failure all his life. He couldn't fight, he couldn't negotiate, and he could hardly get through the day without guzzling wine down to smother the visions' whispers.

Daeron had never been diligent toward the crown, so why start now?

He grasped your hand one lazy night. Then, he brought your perfectly dull knuckles to his lips, the other holding tight to the roughspun fabric of your skirts, "Marry me, won't you?"

"Marry you?" You'd asked back. Your voice was tight—whether it was with elation, horror, or amusement to entertain a drunkard, he couldn't quite tell.

"Let's go to a sept tonight. I want you to serve me wine every evenfall and pet my hair," Daeron's voice slurred clunkily. He knew that as far as proposals went, this could hardly be considered romantic.

Nonetheless, he pleaded, "You'll never have to serve anyone but me, and even then, it won't be for money. You'll do it in silks, with ribbons in your hair and fragrance on your wrists. You'll chase the dreams away, see? You'll chase them away. Away, away, away…"

Eventually, you agree. It could be out of pity or being weary of his begging. He doesn't ask why. He doesn't need to, let alone want to. He can only think about having you as his, and his alone.

Thus, Daeron stumbles his way to the nearest sept with you in hand, his jubilation outweighing the headiness of the wine.

Maekar Targaryen + Meeting your soulmate after the worst event in your life

Maekar didn’t believe in this soulmate nonsense. It's just tales told to children so they have them hope for nothing. Maekar didn’t even believe in it. What were the chances that among thousands of people there was only one meant for you? Especially when he had already loved. His marriage to Dyana was happy, the many years spent together. She had bore him children he loves dearly. For what reason did a man like him need for a soulmate? Then tragedy struck. Where once Maekar was a devoted husband, he has become a widower. He did not weep. He did not beg or pray for the gods. He just stood there, unmoving and silent. 

People offered sympathetic glances, kind words, a hand placed on his shoulder. It did nothing. For his wife was dead. She is gone where he shall never see her again, left with children who have no one else to seek but him. “My prince,” the voice called to him when he thought he was finally alone in the hall. It was you. He didn’t remember you for a second before it clicked. You were one of Dyanna’s ladies in waiting. Dressed in black with a seldom expression on your face as you offer your condolences. Maekar barely hears your words, wanting nothing more than to be left alone. 

Then you touched his arm. A small gesture. Nothing more. An offer of comfort. It would have earned you a scolding had anyone else seen it. But Maekar merely froze. Staring at you with wide eyes feeling a pull within his chest. Something that is deeper than his grief. For a moment, you looked radiant, almost alluring. An urge almost overtaking him to just pull you in his arms. It couldn’t be. It fucking can’t be. The prince harshly tore his arm away from your touch, storming away. Leaving you staring at his back in confusion and dread as his footsteps echo through the hall. 

Lyonel Baratheon + Soulmate marks are only visible after touching

The laughing storm never thought much of soulmates as many men in his time. He laughed at the idea often enough. Jesting his soulmate might be somewhere in the Essos cities dreaming of his touch. Until he came upon you. You weren't even meant to be in his tent. Your house was a minor one not like the Beesbury or the Fossoway; small enough to remain humble. Yet you defied your father and slipped into the tent. Music played, people laughed and drank, and there was Lyonel Baratheon dancing among them, his laugh filling the tent. 

Eventually you joined the dancing, enjoying yourself. Till you were paired for a moment with Lyonel, your hands touching. And there it was, both of you hissing in pain. A line forming across your skin; itching and burning on the surface. Lyonel too gripped his wrist, staring in disbelief where the same mark appeared on his skin. Around you the party continues, blind to what’s happening right in front of them. Swallowing nervously, fearing what he might say or do and also fearing your father’s fury - you try to slip away. But Lyonel caught your wrist, pulling you to him. “Stay, you’ve only just arrived haven’t you?” 

You had no choice as he led you to his table, his grip still around your wrist. He nudges you to take the chair next to him. His men stared in confusion while Lyonel pays them no mind, filling your cup with wine and taking a sip before passing it to you. You sip too, trying to ignore your lips are where his lips once were, all while his eyes are on you, an amused smile on his face. “So soulmate, can I at least have your name?” Gasps are heard from the men around you. And you can only think of how to explain this mess of a situation to your father.

Valarr Targaryen + Soulmates having their names on each other's wrists

Your parents held their breath the day you showed them your wrist and they saw the name. Valarr Targaryen. Of all the possible soulmates, yours had to be the prince. The heir to the iron throne right after his father. Your family was from a minor house. Approaching the royal family, offering them your hand with nothing but the only reasoning of being the prince’s soulmate would be laughable at best, insulting at worst. So you were instructed to keep it hidden. Always. 

People will talk and if Valarr perhaps weds someone else, his wife may take offense to the words being said and your family simply couldn’t afford such a scandal. It was why with the tourney coming up, your father refused to take you at first. But you pleaded for days on end until he finally relented, making you promise that you would draw no attention to yourself. You fully intended to keep to your word. Till you accidently collided with the prince at the gathering before the tourney. Valarr instinctively grabbed you before you fell. 

He asked if you were alright. But words were stuck in your throat, heart racing at the sight of him. It couldn’t be, it shouldn’t be. Your friend behind you who witnessed it all, calls your name asking if you are alright too. Watching as realization washes over Valarr’s face. He repeats your name back to you and you shake your head. “You have the wrong person, my pri-” “Show me your wrist.” It wasn’t a request. With shaking hands you allow him the honor to lift your sleeve, inhaling his breath when he sees his name on your skin. Valarr made you return back to your family, praying the matter was finished. So why was Valarr approaching his father, whispering something to his ear? And why has the heir of the throne now approaching your father directly?

Raymun Fossoway + Red string around your pinky is attached to your soulmate's pinky

Soulmates were a comforting thought to Raymun despite everyone else belittling him for it. He often wondered what you might be like. Were you beautiful? Were you out there thinking of him too? After all, you shared a piece of each other’s soul. It was said being far from your soulmate ached and losing them is described as the same pain one would feel if they took a spear to the chest. Sometimes when he was bored or upset, Raymun tugs the string gently just to gouge a reaction, his way of saying hello. 

And every time he felt the sting being tugged back, he smiled. Sometimes he even did it at night when he couldn’t sleep, feeling a bit guilty if he woke you up. His cousin mocked him whenever he caught him staring at his pinky playing with the string invisible to the eye. It was one day in his cousin's tent, he was speaking with another squire. Then he felt a sharp tug on the string. It was stronger than usual, almost moving his hand forward. The realization struck him. Were you possibly close?

Without thinking, Raymun excused himself and stepped outside of the tent, ignoring the squire's concerns in the process. Raymun follows the invisible pull until it led him straight to you. He paused for a moment. Even from afar, you looked absolutely beautiful. Were you a servant, a traveler, a lady? Raymun truthfylly didn’t care as he approaches you, clearing his throat to catch your attention. “You’re my soulmate,” he blurted a little too loudly. People close to you both turned to stare. Raymun mumbled an apology before asking if he could speak with you alone. 

Aerion Targaryen + Timer for when you shall meet your soulmate

Like his father, Aerion dismissed the idea of soulmates as foolish nonsense. Rolling his eyes whenever his sisters would dreamingly talk of meeting theirs. Content to never find his. He was a dragon, he had no need for such bonds. He hated that timer on his wrist. Felt like it was mocking him, making him feel that lack of control; that he couldn't escape it. Aerion ignored it for years, covering the timer with sleeves long enough so his eyes wouldn’t accidently peek. 

But one day, while preparing for a feast, he noticed it. Only a few hours? Aerion frowns, squinting to make sure he is seeing it right. He dismisses it; it's just ridiculous. Until during the feast, sitting next to his father. He curiously glanced down again and saw only one minute lift. What stupidity, what mad- but his thoughts are cut short. There you were, approaching his table. Nudged by your mother to greet your hosts. Politely introducing yourself, curtsying even complimenting the prince.

And Aerion. He was staring. Couldn’t tear his eyes off you. Till his father called his name in confusion before Aerion realized he had been silent far too long. “Yes- yes, that’s kind of you,” he mutters before watching you return to your family once more. Then he notices you glancing down at your own wrist, frowning. And feeling a pair of eyes on you - you look up to see the prince already staring intensely. Was it lust? confusion? Hatred? As he watches you piece it all together.

Daeron Targaryen + Meeting your soulmate in your dreams

Ever since he was a boy Daeron had been haunted by his dreams. Only becoming harder and harder to cope with over the years. The sweet taste of wine helped at first. Before he started drinking more and more he ought to forget just for a moment. But in the middle of it all, there was you. The only thing he found calming. At first he assumed you were part of his visions. Till he realized you reacted to him, understood his words and spoke back to him. When he touched you. You felt real. 

You didn’t appear as often as he wanted. Other times his head was filled with prophecies he couldn’t decipher; dragons, fire, death. Whenever you would show, relief washed over him. Daeron cherished those few moments he had. Begging you not to leave when he felt you slipping away, back to the conscious world yet again. Waking up with your name on his lips. And when he finally saw you in the flesh. Daeron was almost trembling. Gods, you were just as beautiful as you were in his dreams. 

He wanted to take you in his arms right there and then. But too many eyes were watching, his father among them. When he finally had a moment alone, in a dark hall with no one in sight. Daeron pulled you close burying his face in your neck. “You’re here,” he whispers shakingly, “Gods, you’re here”.  Sighing in relief, breathing your scent, letting his lips touch the skin of your nape. Daeron doesn’t care if your family came to summerhall for a mere visit. He doesn’t care what his father might say. He finally had you here, in his arms. He can’t afford to go back to the days where he just had you in dreamless nights. 

Duncan The Tall + Time slows down when you meet your soulmate

Dunk had always been told soulmates were frivolous nonsense. Ser Arlan has said it more than once when the topic came up in passing. So Dunk moved through his days never giving it much thought. It wasn’t that he didn’t believe soulmates existed. He just assumed it wasn't meant for a hedge knight like him. Not until the chain of events. Trying to enlist in the tourney, meeting a little boy who goes by egg, speaking with prince Baelor himself. 

As Dunk stood in the hall, pausing for a moment to catch his breath. “Ser,” he heard you address him, not realizing he was in your way. When Dunk turns to look at you. It happened. The world was slowing down, figuratively and literally. Dunk blinked a few times. Has he gone mad? Every sound was stretched out, every breath louder than it should be. Both of you lock eyes with one another, confusion shared. A second passes and everything snaps back to normal. Still, you and Dunk remain transfixed on one another, realization dawning your faces.