𝑏𝑒𝑎𝑢𝑠 𝑤𝑖𝑓𝑒

Sweetling reader ! who is beloved by everyone, she truly is the people’s princess. She is renowned for her beauty and her kindness to the court and Smallfolk. Tales are told and song’s are sung about her all across the regions. The Red Keep etc., is constantly receiving ravens and scrolls asking for the princess’s hand in marriage. She truly has everyone wrapped around her finger; her light touches all over the regions.

Sweetling reader ! who struggles with dragon dreams. She tries to figure them out, but the harder she thinks about them, the more it takes a toll on her. When she does get a dragon dream, it’s extremely hard for her to fall back asleep. Sometimes they get so bad the maesters have to give her a sleeping tonic. She hates talking about them; it makes her feel drained and not herself, as if she wasn’t in her body.

Sweetling reader ! who’s first love was her lady in waiting, Lady Arsa Dustin, a brown-haired and brown-eyed beauty who was 2 years older than the princess. She introduced sweetling into a lot of things; she helped her learn how to command court with her softness and shyness, and how to use it to manipulate others. Arsa truly was Sweetling’s safe place; she would stay up and help her calm down from her dragon dreams. But she sadly had to be sent back to her household in the north to be wed, breaking both of their hearts.

Sweetling reader ! who is spoiled with the prettiest dresses, the finest jewelry, and the most lavish silks and accessories. She is always brought gifts by people. She’s always so grateful and kind about it, not bratty or entitled. She always looks her best and moves with grace and composure. The perfect princess. She loves helping the smallfolk when she can, advocating for them and trying to find ways for their livelihood to improve. When she goes to the markets, she always pays extra for the things she buys and spends extra time at the orphanages.

Sweetling reader ! who tries to hide it, but she’s a very emotional and sensitive person, which can lead her to be dramatic at times. As she got older, the better she handled it, but sometimes it still gets her. When she is too stressed or upset, she likes to train with her sword and bow to let off some steam. She is skilled at both but prefers her bow. If she is too emotional, she will play her harp.

𓏲𝄢 𝒾f she was in house of the dragon...

Sweetling reader ! who is the eldest daughter of Rhaenyra Targaryen. Born a year after her older twin brothers Jacaerys and Aerion. (Or just a year after Jace if we are following the actual hotd plot) She is such a mama’s girl, was always at her side and following her around, hiding behind her skirts and holding her hand. She would have her Maids do her hair like her mom’s. She was also very close with laenor, she loved to listen to his tales, he loved to read stories to her before bed.

Sweetling reader ! who is the rider of silverwing, she didn’t seek out to claim her, silverwing was the one to come to her when the princess was age 10. she was with daemon when silverwing came to her, and ever since then the two of them have had an inseparable bond. They spend so much time together, they try to go on flights every day. She loves to sit next to Silverwing and read a book, the dragon curling around her protectively. Silverwing feels her emotions strongly, it’s written that their connection is the strongest a Targaryen and dragon has ever been. They are one.

Sweetling reader ! who was the closest to helaena growing up. She had a fear of bugs and crawlers but she would go along with helaena, helping her collect them, helaena smiling at her dramatics when she touched them. They also had many sleepovers, finding comfort in each other when they had their dragon dreams. They also just understood each other better than anyone else can. They loved to match dresses and hair styles, having tea parties and walking the palace with their arms looped or spending hours under the trees reading. They would send each other letters as much as they could when she left to dragonstone. sweetling loves to send her pressed flowers.

Sweetling reader ! who has been the object of Aemond’s obsession since they were little. she was always so kind to him, and they bonded over not having a dragon of their own. Aemond’s obsession with her only grew stronger when he overheard a betrothal offer between the two of them, but the obsession turned unhealthy after the incident with him losing his eye. He wants her all to himself.

𓏲𝄢 𝒾f she was in a knight of the seven kingdoms...

Sweetling reader ! who is the eldest daughter of Maekar Targaryen. Born a year after her older brother Aerion. As the eldest daughter, she’s really taken the responsibility of taking care of her siblings, sometimes to a point where she’s not getting enough care herself. She’s a big daddy’s girl; as a child, she would follow him around and hide behind his legs, holding onto his pinkie. She is very close with her father; they are each other’s safe place.

Sweetling reader ! who was sent to stay with her uncle Baelor for several years, and she grew up very close with him and her cousins Valarr and Matarys. Maekar was worried for his daughter, so he sent her to his brother, he knew Baelor would keep her safe and help her grow without being under the influence of her elder brothers.

Sweetling reader ! who has been having the same recurring dream since she can remember. It always starts with her walking through a dark cave, her dress dirty and ripped, and her hands trembling as she searched through the cave passages, falling to her knees with a gasp when a loud, deafening roar shakes the cave. But she didn’t stop searching; she kept going, getting more panicked. The dream always ended with a large silver blue dragon appearing in front of her, stopping her from leaving through the cave entrance. The dragon pressed its snout to her chest with a hot breath that would have her waking up with a loud gasp.

𓏲𝄢 𝒾f she was in game of thrones...

Sweetling reader ! who is the younger sister of Daenarys Targaryen. She was separated from her siblings when she was little. A trusted guard had taken her to the north; all she had was her blanket and a silver dragon egg. She grew up under the protection of the Starks and the North, becoming one of them. The north loves her, calling her their own princess and delicate winter flower. The beauty of the north. Ned thinks of her as his own daughter, raising her as his own but being truthful about who she is and where she came from. The Starks and people of the North are all very protective of her.

Sweetling reader ! who ‘ran away’ from Winterfell at the age of 14 after an argument with Theon and Robb at breakfast. Robb noticed something was wrong with her, and she mentioned her dragon dream and how she felt something was wrong, and Theon made fun of her, calling her crazy. She then yelled at them that she’s not crazy and stormed off. She went to her chambers and packed a satchel, her brush, some jewelry, and her dragon egg. She then snuck off on a horse and headed to the woods. She rode for a while, crying and singing to herself. She came across an injured deer and got off the horse to help it, but the horse ran off when it got spooked. Leaving her in the cold woods with an injured deer and only her satchel she had on. The deer ended up dying, making her cry and try to find her way back, but ending up getting even more lost. She found a hot spring and ended up falling asleep next to it. She woke up to the feeling of her satchel moving and opened it to see her dragon egg cracking open. It was only late into the night when Ned and Jory found her, the smallest little campfire lit next to her curled-up body, holding a silver hatchling close to her chest.

Sweetling reader ! who only got to meet her sister several years later when Daenerys came to the north to find her and strengthen her alliance with the north before she rightfully and successfully claimed the Iron Throne. The two of them became instantly close, making up for the years they unfairly lost. She stayed safely in the north until Daenerys sent for her, letting her know that it’s finally safe to be with her. When she did arrive at the Red Keep, her sister named her as her heir… She can also be requested with the original Game of Thrones plot.

𐔌 ⠀ 𓂃 ࣪ ִ⠀ SWEETLING WORKS !

✷ commonly paired with twins Jace & Aerion for my au here !

✷ can be paired with anyone from asoiaf

┊࿐ ❛❛ continue on to my…main masterlist ❜❜

roro's note. she is genuinely my favorite reader of mine , like I am so in love with her and I hope you guys are as well 🥹 pls pls fill my inbox with thoughts for her , this is a interactive reader so your guy’s thoughts, ideas, and opinions are very important and wanted !! comments, reblogs and feedback is very welcomed !! 🤍

۶ৎ taglist is open

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"Lord Tyrell's second son has eyes for you, sweetie," your mother would hiss over breakfast, her voice sharp as a Valyrian steel dagger. "He's got lands in the Reach that stretch farther than you can ride in a day. And don't slouch—gods, you're twenty now, not some green girl. Smile more; men like a woman who looks eager to please."

You would nod, your eyes downcast, biting back the retort that burned on your tongue. Eager to please? You'd sooner shove a tourney lance up your arse than wed some perfumed peacock who saw you as a broodmare with a dowry. Your family didn't know the truth; that your heart, and more, belonged to someone else entirely. Ser Duncan the Tall, the hedge knight with his lanky frame and unpolished charm, had stolen into your life like a light in the night. They'd met in secret during the tournament's chaos, stolen kisses behind tapestries and whispered promises under the stars. He was no lord, no heir to vast estates, but he saw you, not just the highborn lady with dark hair cascading like midnight silk and eyes that held the depth of storm-tossed seas.

The pressure had built like a kettle over flames. One evening, after your mother had paraded you before a leering Lord Bracken who'd eyed you like a prize heifer, you had snapped. You'd slipped away in the dead of night, a cloak over your fine gown, a small bundle with some clothes under your arms, your heart pounding with a mix of terror and exhilaration. Duncan had been waiting at the edges of the camp, his blue eyes wide with worry but alight with that quiet courage that made your knees weak. "Are you sure, my lady?" he'd murmured, his voice rough as gravel, his large hand engulfing yours.

"I'm no lady tonight," you'd whispered back, pressing against him, feeling the solid warmth of his chest through his worn tunic. "Just Y/N. And yes, Dunk…. Let's get the fuck out of here before my mother realizes I'm gone."

Joining him and his young squire, Egg—a boy with a shaved head and a sharpness that belied his years—had seemed like the perfect escape. They'd ride the roads, free from the court's suffocating intrigues, sleeping under the stars and living on what the land provided. It was a romantic notion, born of stolen moments and the thrill of secrecy. But reality, as you quickly learned, was a harsh mistress.

The camp they made that first week was a far cry from the silken pavilions of Ashford Meadow. Nestled in a copse of ancient oaks along the Goldroad, it consisted of a single weathered tent pitched between two boulders, a fire pit ringed with stones, and their mounts tethered to a low branch. The air smelled of damp earth and woodsmoke, mingled with the faint metallic tang of the nearby stream. You had traded your embroidered kirtles for simpler woolen dresses, but even those felt inadequate against the chill that seeped into your bones as autumn whispered its approach.

Traveling with Duncan and Egg was an education in humility. Egg, ever the eager lad, chattered about the tourney's highlights while he tended to the horses or fetched water. He was oblivious to the undercurrents between you and his knight, or so you hoped; the boy was sharp, but Duncan had sworn him to secrecy about your presence.

Duncan himself was a pillar of quiet strength, his short, shaggy brown hair tousled by the wind, his blue eyes often flicking to you with a mix of protectiveness and that endearing shyness that made you want to pull him close.

But the road's freedoms came with chains you hadn't anticipated. The food was plain, hardtack, salted meat, and whatever berries or roots they foraged, nothing like the spiced wines and honeyed pastries of the Keep. Washing meant dipping into icy lakes or streams, the water so cold it stole your breath and left your skin prickled with gooseflesh. And then there was your moonblood, arriving like an unwelcome guest just days into their journey.

At court, your moonblood was a minor inconvenience, tended by maids who brought hot compresses, herbal teas, and fresh linens scented with lavender. They'd draw steaming baths in copper tubs, the heat seeping into your abdomen to ease the twisting cramps that felt like a fist clenching around your womb. But out here? The pain was a relentless beast, gnawing at your lower belly with sharp teeth, radiating down your thighs in waves that left you doubled over. You'd bleed through rags torn from an old shift, the sticky warmth between your legs a constant reminder of your vulnerability. No hot baths, no soothing potions….just the cold ground and the endless plod of the road.

Duncan noticed, of course. He wasn't the fool he sometimes called himself. "Thick as a castle wall," he'd mutter under his breath when he fumbled a task, but his eyes missed little. That morning, as they broke camp, you'd winced while mounting your palfrey, a sharp stab making you gasp. He'd been at your side in an instant, his large hand steadying your elbow, voice low and concerned. "You alright, luv? You look pale as milk."

You'd forced a smile, your hair falling across your face like a curtain. "Just... woman's troubles, Dunk. Nothing you can mend with that sword of yours."

His cheeks had flushed a faint pink, that shyness creeping in, but he hadn't pressed. Instead, he'd taken to hovering like a mother hen. When the chill wind bit through your cloak, he'd drape his own over your shoulders. At midday, when they stopped to rest, he'd insist you sit by the fire while he fetched water or gathered kindling, his tall frame bending awkwardly as he worked. And when the cramps twisted hardest, he'd pull you into his arms, his body a warm shield against the misery, his hand rubbing slow circles on your back.

"You're too good to me," you'd murmured once, your head tucked under his chin, feeling the steady thrum of his heartbeat against your cheek.

He'd chuckled softly, self-deprecating as always. "Nah, I'm just... trying not to muck it up. You're the one putting up with a lout like me on the road."

Egg, bless him, had been an unwitting buffer. The boy scampered about with boundless energy, regaling them with tales from his "travels" or practicing his swordplay with a stick. But as the days wore on, even he flagged, the wanderings taking their toll.

That evening, as the sun dipped below the hills in a blaze of orange and purple, they made camp in a sheltered glade. The air was crisp, carrying the scent of pine and fallen leaves, the ground soft with moss underfoot. Egg had wolfed down his dinner, (a stew of rabbit and wild onions that Duncan had cooked over the fire), and collapsed onto his bedroll by the embers, snoring softly within minutes.

You had retreated to the tent early, the canvas walls flapping gently in the breeze. It was a humble shelter, just big enough for two, with a pallet of furs and blankets that smelled faintly of horse. You'd stripped down to your shift, the thin linen clinging to your skin, and crawled under the covers, curling into a ball against the persistent ache in your belly. The cramps came in pulses now, hot and insistent, making your thighs clench and your breath hitch. You pressed a hand to your abdomen, feeling the subtle swell, the warmth of your own blood seeping onto the rag between your legs. Gods, how you missed the luxuries of home. But at least here you had Duncan. That was worth every discomfort.

You heard him before you saw him: the crunch of boots on leaves, the soft thud of firewood being set down outside. The tent flap lifted, and there he was, silhouetted against the fading twilight, his tall frame ducking to enter. His shaggy brown hair was disheveled, bits of bark clinging to it, and his blue eyes had softened as they landed on you.

"Sorry I'm late," he murmured, his voice a low rumble that sent a shiver through you; not from cold, but from the way it wrapped around you like a caress. He set aside his cloak, revealing the simple tunic and breeches beneath, the fabric stretched taut over his broad shoulders and lean muscles honed from years of knighthood. "Fire's banked high now. Should keep us warm through the night."

You shifted under the blankets, your eyes tracing the lines of his face. "You didn't have to fetch more wood, Dunk. Egg's out cold already."

He shrugged, that humble awkwardness creeping in as he knelt to remove his boots. "Aye, but you were shivering earlier. Can't have my... well, you getting chilled." He hesitated on the word, as if "lover" felt too bold for their secret bond. His cheeks colored again, and he busied himself with folding his cloak, his big hands clumsy in the task.

You watched him, a fond ache blooming in your chest amidst the physical pain. He was so careful with you, always, like you were spun glass despite knowing you could hold your own. They'd shared intimacies before—stolen nights in hidden alcoves during the tournament, his hands tentative at first, exploring your curves with a reverence that made you feel worshipped. Once, in a moment of bold curiosity, you'd guided your hand to his cock, showing him how to stroke himself while you also whispered encouragements, his gasps hot against your neck. It had been his first time with such things, he'd confessed, red-faced and breathless. But trust bound them like iron chains; you knew he'd never push, never demand.

As he slid under the covers beside you, the pallet dipping under his weight, you turned toward him, seeking his warmth. His arm came around you automatically, pulling you close, his body heat seeping through your shift like a balm. You nestled against his chest, inhaling his scent. His hand settled on your hip, thumb tracing lazy circles that sent tingles across your skin.

"You still hurting?" he asked softly, his breath stirring your hair. There was no judgment in his tone, just that protective concern that made your heart swell.

"A bit," she admitted, voice muffled against him. "The cramps... they're like a damn vise. Wish we had a hot bath or something."

He was quiet for a moment, his fingers stilling on your hip. You could feel the tension in him, the way his mind worked. "I've heard... things, on the road," he said finally, voice dropping lower and laced with that shyness that made him stammer. "From midwives in villages, and... well, travelers talk. About how to ease a woman's moonblood pains."

You lifted your head, your eyes meeting his blue ones in the dim light. Curiosity sparked through the haze of discomfort. "Oh? And what do these wise travelers say?"

He swallowed, his Adam's apple bobbing, and you felt the heat rise in his cheeks against your forehead. "It's... intimate. Involves, uh, pleasure. The kind we share." His hand slid lower, resting on the curve of your ass, gentle but insistent. "They say the release—it helps. Loosens the muscles, floods you with good feelings. Endorphins, or some such word one maester used. I ain't no healer, but... if you trust me, m’lady, I could try. Gentle-like. Wouldn't want to hurt you."

Your breath caught and a flush creeping up your neck. The idea was strange, taboo even—fucking during your blood? You've never even thought about such a thing in your life. But gods, the pain was wearing you down, and the thought of his touch... it stirred something deep in you. You'd bled a little during one of their previous trysts, and it hadn't fazed him; he'd just cleaned them both with a tenderness that melted you. "You'd do that? For me?"

"Aye," he whispered, his blue eyes earnest. "Only if you want. I'm no expert—thick as a post, me—but I care for you. More than I know how to say."

You searched his face, seeing the anxiety there, the self-doubt he always carried like a shield. But beneath it, that tenacious courage shone through. Slowly, you nodded, your hand sliding up his chest to cup his jaw. "I trust you, Dunk. Very much."

He leaned in, his lips brushing yours in a kiss that started soft, but as you responded, parting your lips, it deepened; his tongue exploring with that unassuming hunger. His hand ventured under your shift, callused fingers tracing the soft skin of your thigh, sending sparks through your veins. You arched into him, the cramps momentarily forgotten in the building heat.

Carefully, he rolled you onto your back, his tall frame hovering over you, mindful of his weight. "Tell me if it hurts," he murmured against your neck, breath hot and ragged. His fingers found the hem of your shift, pushing it up, exposing you to the cool air. You felt vulnerable, the rag between her legs damp with blood, but his gaze held only desire, no disgust.

He tugged the rag away gently, his eyes darkening as he took in the sight of you. "Beautiful," he breathed, and you believed him. His hand cupped your mound, thumb circling your clit with slow pressure, drawing a gasp from your lips. The sensation was strange at first, the slickness of your blood mixing with your growing arousal, warm and viscous.

You arched slightly into his hand, craving more of that warmth. "Dunk," you whispered, your eyes searching his, seeing the flicker of anxiety there; the worry that he'd bungle this, that his "thick-headed" ways would fail you. But gods, it was that very humility that drew you to him, made you feel safe in a world full of grasping lords and scheming courtiers. "You're not going to break me. Just... touch me, ok? Like you mean it.”

He swallowed hard, his throat working visibly in the dim light, and nodded, a small, determined smile tugging at his lips. "Aye, like I mean it."

His fingers inched higher, parting your thighs with infinite care, the muscles in his arm tensing under your hand as you gripped his bicep. The texture of his skin was rough, scarred from old fights and the rigors of the road, but his touch was velvet-soft, circling the apex of your legs without diving in. He teased the edges, thumb brushing the soft folds again, slick with blood and the first stirrings of arousal. The sensation was odd at first but his patience turned it into something intimate, almost reverent. "Does this help?" he asked, his voice husky, his eyes lifting to meet yours again, searching for any sign of discomfort. "Or should I... slower?”

Your head fell back against the furs, a soft moan escaping your lips as his thumb found your clit, circling it with deliberate pressure. The nub was swollen, sensitive from the moonsblood, and each pass sent sparks shooting through your veins, loosening the knots in your abdomen bit by bit. "Gods, yes," you breathed, hair fanning out like a halo on the blanket. "Just like that. It... it eases the ache." The cramps were still there, a background thrum, but his touch layered pleasure over pain, the endorphins he'd mentioned earlier beginning to flood your system like a gentle tide.

He shifted lower, his tall frame folding awkwardly in the confined space, but he managed it with that tenacious grace he showed in combat. His lips trailed down your body, pressing open-mouthed kisses along your sternum, the valley between your breasts. The shift rode up further, exposing you to the chill air, nipples pebbling into hard peaks that begged for his attention. Duncan obliged, his mouth closing over one, tongue swirling in lazy circles that mirrored his fingers below. The dual sensations crashed over you; the wet heat of his suckling, the faint scrape of his teeth, combined with the insistent rub at your core. You could taste the salt of your own sweat on your lips, hear the soft, wet sounds of his ministrations echoing in the tent, amplified by the night's quiet.

"You're so warm here," he murmured against your breast, his voice muffled, vibrating through your skin. "Like holding fire in my hands. Tell me if it's too much—I ain't clever with words, but I listen." His fingers delved deeper now, one slipping inside you with exquisite slowness, the blood providing a slick sheath that made the intrusion effortless. No sting, just a fullness that built gradually, his digit curling to stroke that spot within you that made stars burst behind your eyelids. The texture was intimate, the warmth of your flow coating his hand, but he didn't pull away; instead, he added a second finger, stretching you gently, his thumb never ceasing its rhythm on your clit.

Emotion swelled in your chest, a tangled knot of love and lust and gratitude. This man, this hedge knight who'd doubted his worth from the moment they met, was worshipping you in the most vulnerable state, his shyness melting away in the face of your need. Tears pricked at your eyes—not from pain, but from the overwhelming tenderness of it all. "Dunk," you gasped, hand fisting in his hair, pulling him up for a kiss. Their mouths met hungrily, tongues tangling in a slow dance.

He groaned into the kiss, his body pressing closer, the hard length of his cock nudging against your thigh through his breeches. The cramps dulled further, replaced by a liquid heat that pooled in your belly, spreading outward like molten honey. Your hips rocked instinctively, seeking more friction, the furs bunching beneath your ass as you moved.

After a moment of coaxing you with his fingers, he moved to the side a bit, the loss of touch made you groan softly in disapproval, which he quickly silenced with a sweet kiss.

As he positioned himself at your wet entrance, his now free cock was half-hard and throbbing faintly against your thigh, he paused, blue eyes locking on yours. "Slow, alright? Like this." He guided himself in, inch by inch, the stretch both odd and exquisite—the blood easing the way, a natural slick that made him groan low in his throat.

Your breath stuttered the moment Duncan settled fully inside you.

No need for spit or oil; nature had provided more than enough. And you felt every ridge, every vein. The blunt head of his cock nudged against places inside you that sent tiny shocks up your spine even through the dull throb of your cramps. When he bottomed out—hips flush to yours, coarse curls at the base of his cock tickling the swollen lips of your cunt—you let out a long, trembling exhale that sounded almost like a broken sob.

Duncan froze.

His forearms bracketed your head, corded muscle standing out beneath freckled skin. Sweat had begun to bead along his hairline despite the cool night air leaking through the tent flaps. His blue eyes were dark now, pupils blown wide, the color swallowed until only a thin ring of iris remained.

“Still good?” he rasped. His voice cracked on the last word. “Tell me true, m’lady. I’ll stop this second if—”

“Don’t you fucking dare,” you whispered fiercely, eyes were closed as you tried to regulate your breathing. The cramps were still there, unfortunately, and you hoped they would end as soon as you orgasmed. Or Dunk would have problems.

A startled huff of laughter left him, warm against your mouth. He stroked your cheeks, gently brushing the hair away from your sweaty skin. “Gods. Alright. Alright. As m’lady wish.”

He didn’t thrust right away. Instead he stayed buried to the hilt and simply rolled his hips in the smallest, tightest circle imaginable. The motion dragged the thick base of his cock across your clit, (already puffy and oversensitive from his earlier thumb), and sent a white-hot flare of pleasure-pain straight through your abdomen. The cramp that had been gnawing at your left side loosened, like a fist slowly opening. Thank gods. You gasped, hips jerking upward on instinct, trying to search for more of this little relief.

Duncan groaned low in his throat, the sound vibrating where their chests pressed together. “There,” he murmured, almost to himself. “That’s the spot where the gold is hidden, huh?! Anoted.”

He did it again; another slow, grinding roll. Then another. Each one dragged the ridged crown of him along the front wall of your cunt, pressing relentlessly against that spot that made your toes curl into the furs beneath them. The blood made everything slicker, louder; you could hear the filthy sound of their bodies meeting every time he shifted, could feel the warm trickle of it escaping around his shaft and smearing along the insides of your thighs. It would be disgusting if you weren't so damn aroused right now.

Your hands clawed at his back. Nails digging crescent moons into the muscle above his shoulder blades. You dragged your palms downward until you could grip the firm swell of his arse, urging him closer even though there was nowhere closer to go.

“Dunk,” you breathed. It came out more plea than word. You'd die of embarrassment later, but now? No judgment until you reach your fucking orgasm.

He dropped his forehead to yours. Their noses brushed. “I’ve got you, m’lady,” he whispered. “Just… let it happen. Let me take it away for a bit. Relax for me, ok? No worries here, just feel how I make you feel good.”

He said that as he drew back until only the head remained inside you, the sudden emptiness making you whine. Then he sank back in, one long, inexorable slide that filled you so completely your eyes rolled back. The drag of him against your sensitive walls was exquisite torture. When he bottomed out again he circled his hips once more before repeating the motion.

Out.

In.

Grind.

Out.

In.

Grind.

Each withdrawal pulled a fresh gush of warmth from you; each re-entry pushed a little more of the pain outward, replacing it with liquid heat that pooled low in your belly. Your clit throbbed in time with your heartbeat, trapped between their bodies, rubbing against the coarse hair at his groin every time he seated himself fully.

You could feel the tremor in his arms, the way his biceps shook with the effort of holding himself back. His breathing had gone ragged, each exhale punched out of him like he’d been struck.

“Look at me, m’lady,” he murmured suddenly. Thumb gently squeezing your jaw, trying to recapture your attention and bring it back to him and to the moment.

Your lashes fluttered open. His face was inches from yours; cheeks flushed dark, mouth parted, eyes glassy with something close to awe. For a heartbeat you saw the boy beneath the knight: uncertain, anxious, terrified of doing the wrong thing. And yet here he was, buried inside you, determined to try to alleviate your pain and lessen your suffering.

“You feel…” He swallowed hard, Adam’s apple bobbing. His hands gently held your head, forcing your eyes to meet his. “You feel like heaven, m’lady. And I'm glad that I can help you with that. Ease your pain a little.”

The words hit you harder than any thrust could have.

You surged up to kiss him—messy, open-mouthed, teeth clacking once before they found the right angle. He groaned into your mouth, hips stuttering for the first time. The kiss turned sloppy, desperate; tongues sliding together.

He hooked one of your knees over the crook of his elbow, opening you wider. The new angle let him sink impossibly deeper; you felt the blunt head nudge your cervix and whimpered at the bright burst of sensation. Your other leg wrapped around his waist, heel digging into the small of his back.

This time when he thrust it was firmer. You could feel the tremor that ran through him every time he bottomed out, could feel the way his cock twitched and swelled inside you, thickening even more as his own pleasure built.

The cramps were distant now; dull echoes rather than sharp knives. In their place was a molten coil tightening low in your pelvis, winding tighter with every measured stroke. Your clit ached, oversensitive and throbbing; each grind of his pubic bone against it sent aftershocks racing up your spine.

You were close…

…and so was he.

His rhythm became shallower. His forehead dropped to your shoulder. “M’lady…ah! I’m so close. But I want you to come first. Need you to.”

You slid a hand between them, fingers finding your clit. The touch was almost too much; two quick circles and your back arched off the furs, a choked cry tearing from your throat.

The orgasm hit like a wave breaking over stone: slow at first, then all at once. Your cunt clamped down around him in rhythmic pulses, milking him, pulling him deeper. Heat exploded through your body; pleasure so sharp it bordered on pain raced through every nerve. You felt the fresh gush of warmth between your legs—more blood, more slick, more of fucking everything—and heard Duncan’s strangled moan as it coated him.

He tried to hold on. Really did. Because now was your moment, all of this was for your pleasure and only yours.

But the rhythmic squeeze of your walls, the way you trembled and keened beneath him, shattered what little restraint he had left.

With a low whimpered sound he buried himself to the hilt and came—hard, pulsing, flooding you with heat that mingled with your own wetness. Each spurt dragged another aftershock from you, prolonging your climax until you were shaking, gasping, clinging to him like he was the only solid thing in the world.

They stayed locked together for long moments afterward, breathing in harsh tandem. His weight pressed you into the furs. You could feel the slow softening of him inside you, the warm trickle of their combined release seeping out around his softening cock and pooling beneath you.

Eventually he lifted his head. His eyes were soft again. No longer the bolder version from moments ago, but the gentle Duncan.

“Did it… help?” he asked quietly. Almost shy. As though he hadn’t just fucked you through the worst of your pain with a tenderness that stole your breath.

You reached up, cupped his jaw, thumb brushing the faint scar on his cheek. “More than help,” you whispered. “You made it disappear. I'm very grateful, my love. Thank you.”

He exhaled and pressed his forehead to yours once more. “Good,” he murmured. “That’s… that’s all I wanted.”

The tent felt smaller now, the air inside heavy with the mingled smells of their bodies. Your skin was damp everywhere they touched—your breasts pressed to his chest, the soft inner curve of your thigh slick against his hip, the small of your back where his palm still rested, wide and steady.

Neither of them moved to separate.

Duncan’s cock had softened inside you, but he hadn’t pulled out yet. The lazy, half-hard fullness felt strangely comforting, like an anchor keeping the world from spinning away. Every few heartbeats you felt the slow, residual twitch of him, a gentle aftershock that made your inner walls flutter in answer. Each flutter sent a tiny ripple of warmth through your lower belly, loosening what little tension the cramps had left behind. It was as though your body was still drinking him in, greedy even after the peak had passed.

You shifted—just the smallest rock of your hips—and felt the wet slide of their combined release leak out around him, warm and slippery, trickling down the cleft of your arse to soak into the already-stained furs beneath you.

Duncan made a content rumbling sound in his chest and finally eased himself free with careful slowness. The sudden emptiness made your cunt clench reflexively around nothing; you whimpered at the loss, thighs trembling. A fresh gush followed his withdrawal; thicker now, a warm rush of blood-tinged spend that pooled beneath you, sticky against your skin.

He hissed softly through his teeth at the sight.

“Gods be good,” he muttered, voice wrecked. His gaze was fixed between your legs. “Look at you… all of you.”

You felt heat crawl up your throat, not quite embarrassment—more like raw exposure. You started to close your thighs on instinct, but his big hand caught the inside of one knee, gentle but firm, keeping you open.

“Don’t,” he said quietly. “Please. Let me see ya.”

There was something almost pleading in it. Not command but naked want. Like looking at the mess they’d made together was a privilege he didn’t want to be denied.

You swallowed and nodded once, cheeks burning with a sudden shyness.

He reached down with careful fingers, gathering some of the slick mixture on his fingertips. The sight of his long, scarred digits coated in red and white made your belly tighten again, fresh heat curling low despite how thoroughly you’d just come. He brought his hand up slowly, watching your face the whole time.

He painted a deliberate stripe of their combined wetness across the flat plane of your lower belly, just below your navel. The touch was cool against your flushed skin.

“Mine,” he whispered, so soft you almost missed it. “You’re mine like this. All slick and open and… fucked full of me.”

Your breath caught hard. You’d never heard him speak like that—crude, possessive, stripped of his usual shy stammering.

“Dunk…” Your voice cracked. And you just stare at him for a moment, feeling your chest swell with so much love for this man who holds your heart in his hands.

He leaned down and kissed the spot he’d marked, open-mouthed, tongue flicking out to taste what he’d smeared there. The wet heat of his mouth dragged a full-body shudder out of you. When he lifted his head his lips were shiny, stained a faint rose from your blood.

“Never thought anything could taste so good, m’lady.” He said hoarsely, thumb caressing your hip in lazy circles.

You reached for him, fingers threading into his shaggy brown hair, tugging him back up until their mouths met again. This kiss was slower, deeper, less frantic than before. You could taste yourself on his tongue.

When they parted you rested your forehead against his, breathing him in.

“The pain’s gone,” you whispered. “Not just dulled. Gone.”

Duncan exhaled like he’d been holding the breath for hours. “Good,” he said simply. “Was scared I’d make it worse. Scared I’d hurt you.”

“You didn’t.” You traced the line of his jaw with your thumb, feeling the faint prickle of stubble. “You made everything better.”

He ducked his head, cheeks flushing that familiar pink even after everything they’d just done. The shyness was creeping back in now that the urgency had faded, now that he had time to think and second-guess himself.

“Still,” he muttered. “Should clean you up proper. Can’t have you lying in a wet spot all night.”

Before you could protest he was already moving. He reached for the small pile of clean rags they kept near the bedroll, dampened one with water from the skin hanging on the center pole. The cloth was cold; you hissed when he pressed it gently between your thighs.

“Easy, m’lady,” he murmured, steadying your hip with his free hand. “Just cleaning you.”

He worked with the same focused tenderness he used when polishing his sword or brushing Thunder down after a long ride. Slow strokes along your folds, wiping away the worst of the mess, then pressing the cloth gently against your entrance to catch what still leaked out. Every pass made you twitch but the cold soothed the slight ache that lingered.

When he was satisfied he set the soiled rag aside and reached for a dry one, patting you dry with careful dabs. Then he cleaned himself too, efficient swipes along his softening cock and the thatch of dark hair at his groin, before lying back down beside you.

He pulled you close immediately, arranging you against his chest so your head tucked under his chin, one of his arms curled around your back, the other hand splayed protectively over your lower belly. The warmth of his palm seeped into your skin like a living hot compress.

They lay quiet for a while, listening to the sounds outside: the low crackle of the dying fire, the occasional rustle of leaves, Egg’s faint snores from his spot near the embers. The night felt softer now, less sharp-edged. The cramps were a distant memory; in their place was a bone-deep languor, the kind that only comes after real relief.

Duncan’s fingers started moving again—not sexual this time, just slow, absent stroking along the curve of your spine. Up and down, tracing each knob of your vertebrae like he was memorizing them.

“Was thinking,” he said after a long pause. His voice was low and a bit hesitant. “About tomorrow. And the day after. And… however long this lasts.”

Your heart gave a painful thump. You didn't like to think too much about the future because the future was always uncertain, and you didn't know how long you could stay with Duncan until your mother finds you.

He went on, words careful, like he was stepping over thin ice.

“I know you can’t stay forever. Got a family, a name, a place. They’ll come looking eventually. Probably already are.” He swallowed, the words slowly building up in his throat, hesitant to come out. “But while you’re here… while you want to be here… I want to take care of you. Proper. Not just when you’re hurting. Every day. Want to keep that look on your face—the one you get when the world feels right.”

You lifted your head so you could see his eyes. They were fixed on the canvas ceiling, but you could feel the tension in his jaw, the way his hand had stilled on your back. He felt it just as much as you did.

“Dunk,” you said softly. He finally looked at you and the vulnerability there nearly undid you.

“I don’t know how long I can keep you safe,” he admitted. “I’m no great lord. Got no castle, no lands, barely two coppers to rub together most days. But I swear on my sword—on my honor—I’ll protect you with everything I’ve got. Long as you’ll let me.”

Your throat closed and you had to blink hard against the sudden heat in your eyes. That goofball would really make you cry one of these days.

“I don’t need a castle,” you whispered, breathing slowly through the nose, keeping your emotions and thoughts in check. “I need this.” You pressed your palm over his heart, feeling it race beneath your fingers. “And I need you.”

He exhaled shakily, then leaned down to kiss your forehead, lingering there like he was sealing a vow.

“Then you’ve got me,” he said against your skin. “All of me. However long the road lasts.”