⤷Escapism ݁˖𓂃☘︎˖.

𓆹 AN: I really loved this prompt, anon! The *plus-sized aspect is heavily implied, but weight gain is explicitly stated. Take that as you will (I'm curvy myself so I couldn't resist)!! Also, I didn't write a section for Raymun because it would be very similar to Dunk's, and I'm currently working on something solely focused on him lol. Anyways, enjoy!!

You'd changed.

Everything changed over time: people, places, animals, and things. You were no exception to it, as much as you wished you could be. It was an inescapable process that took far more than it gave. Life, the bitter mistress, was a rapacious robber that set its sights on anything that granted jubilation.

However, you had not always disdained the concept.

As a young lady freshly wed, there was a surplus of little joys for you to indulge in.

To begin with, you had a husband to tend to. You had known him before becoming his wife, obviously, but actually being his wife was entirely different. It was a foreign sea you had just set sail upon, the crashing of waves mimicking the noise of his laughter.

Eventually, your babe brought elation as well. Initially, when you'd just been told, you had been thrilled at the news you were with child.

It was one of your duties to your husband—to the realm—and you were finally fulfilling it. Besides, you were besotted by the idea of creating something that was entirely yours. To form a child, nurture life, and one day watch it come to completion. It was an idyllic fantasy.

A fantasy that was soon ruined.

Being with child was no easy feat, but it seemed to take delight in tormenting you. Morning sickness ruled your dawns. You craved sweets and fruits, disdained the smell of meat, and always threw up whatever you'd consumed when you awoke.

Your feet swelled, and your back was a rickety wire that pulled taut when you stood for too long. You fell asleep in the most inconvenient of places (once at the dinner table with your husband's entire family); fog clouded your mind and hid your memories from you. As much as you tried to appear graceful, you were perpetually achy and exhausted.

It was not at all what you had imagined for yourself. Where you had expected to glow and be seen as a pillar of loveliness, you were left with the upsetting feeling of looking like a frumpy toad instead.

No one said anything. Your handmaidens remained polite, peers civil (at least to your face), and your husband treated you just as he had beforehand. Despite the lack of insults, you were well aware of what you looked like.

Just hold out until you go through the pains, you'd tell yourself, this babe will be worth it, and you will return to what you were.

The childbirth had come, and it was a tedious, painful process that damn near blinded you in agony. Still, your child's sobs had trilled like music, and you were filled with relief. Your babe was here, and you would be yourself again.

It should be known, you adored your babe, the toll on your anatomy aside. You did not know you could feel so much for someone so small, so fragile, yet you did. You took great comfort in caring for them instead of their nursemaids, enthralled by every new development that came with the passing weeks.

But as one, two, three moons passed, your figure did not return to normal.

You had never been outrageously comely. Nonetheless, you thought you had been much prettier than you were now. The weight from all the honey cakes, berries, and sherbets did not magically shed.

Silvery and mauve lines decorated your stomach and hips, and other wrinkles and scars refused to fade. Fat clung to your thighs, your breasts were heavier, and plumpness adhered to the apples of your cheeks in a way you could only perceive as mocking.

Seamstresses crafted you fitting dresses with flattering fabrics that failed to make you feel put-together. Ribbons in your hair and jewelry only made you feel as though you were playing dress up, and no matter how much you pleaded, your handmaidens refused to tighten your bodices how you wanted. One had done so just as you requested, once, and the bruises and discomfort that resulted from it made them reluctant to obey.

Still, no one dared voice what you were so keenly aware of. The prime example of this was your lord husband.

You couldn't quite tell if he was purposefully playing ignorant to your bodily transformation, or if he was trying to do you a service by staying silent. Whatever it was, he never spoke a word. In fact, he behaved as if nothing unfortunate had occurred to your figure.

He touched you the same. Or, he tried to touch you the same.

Sometimes, you pretended to be asleep when he saddled up behind you in your bed, mouth trailing over your jaw, and hand caressing the length of your waist. He would give up eventually and turn over onto his side of the bed. It was easiest to avoid it in that way.

In truth, you were terrified of how he'd react when he saw the aftermath fully without any clothes to shield you. It was his responsibility to lie with you, but you were too afraid to allow him to. It was a childish thing to do. You were aware of that, but you still could not find the courage to be bare before him.

Further, you were not harebrained enough to think he was attempting to bed you because he wanted to. That was a ridiculous thought, admittedly, because who in all of Westeros would want to bed you willingly now? It was his duty, nothing more, and you couldn't bear to watch him power through merely out of a sense of obligation.

Hence, you escaped his affections with convenient excuses.

You refused to bathe with him, dressed alone in your own apartments, and feigned tiredness when he attempted to set the mood within your bedchambers. He never forced you, but the dejection that was beginning to blossom across his face lately when he thought you weren't looking was filling you with guilt.

It was one of those nights, again, when you found he'd been waiting for you to be done with your bath (even though you had purposefully extended it in hopes he'd be slumbering when you returned). He was only in his breeches and a loose, open blouse, and you could tell what he was hoping for without him having to open his mouth. It caused weak butterflies to unfold their wings in your stomach before being squashed by your dread once more.

"Not tonight," you murmured in a light way you hope came off as apologetically casual, "I fear I'm too tired."

Your husband held your gaze. You tried not to feel saddened by the faint shift in his expression—the smallest glimpse of something too quick for you to name.

You moved toward the bed, running your hands over your damp hair as you went to sit down on your side of the mattress. Your shift provided the coverage you now absolutely needed, akin to a fish with water, as you kept your back to him. The silence was only interrupted by the popping of the hearth's flames.

You thought to settle under the covers when your husband spoke.

"Why don't you want to join me?"

You were well aware his choice of phrasing had a far more intimate meaning. You could not speak for a moment, hesitating before looking over your shoulder at him. The space between you—an extension of your arm away—felt like a canyon.

You could not think of anything more to say except, "Why would you want to?"

Baelor Breakspear

Baelor blinked at your query.

Your husband was fairly difficult to read. He had mastered the mask of respectful indifference long ago, wielding it as one of his most influential weapons to encourage looser lips and more serious loyalties to the Targaryen dynasty. Beyond the flutter of his lashes, his face conveyed nothing.

Not even his voice strayed from its steady cadence, "What do you mean?"

"You know what I mean," you snapped back.

He wasn't a dimwitted man. If anything, Baelor was a frighteningly intelligent one, construing hidden slights and unspoken motives presented before him. He was observant and keen, as any good heir to the Iron Throne should be.

Nevertheless, for the first time in a long time, he looked completely perplexed. His brows minutely furrowed, eyes slowly trailing your face as if you were a piece of furniture he was trying to determine was crooked or not.

"I'm afraid I don't," Baelor settled on. It made a tiny bundle of frustration squirm along the width of your torso. He was so horribly good, you sometimes couldn't stand it.

"Don't play the fool, husband. Just—" you gestured down at yourself as if your hands were saying it's obvious, "Just look at me. I've changed so much."

His mismatched irises flickered faster over your face, down your clothed form, before returning to your face. A breath left him. It wasn't exactly a sigh, but it was low like one.

"You have," Baelor agreed, and something hot flashed across your nape. You didn't want him to lie to you, but for him to just outright admit you were correct without any sugarcoating threw you off balance.

He continued, voice soft as if to calm a hysterical foal, "But that's not a bad thing."

His hand reached out to take yours leisurely, as if you'd run out of the chambers entirely if he did anything wrong. There was ink still staining the crevices of his nailbeds. On the side of his right pointer finger, there was a fresh paper cut, inflamed at the edges.

Evidence remaining from his role and meetings as his father's Hand, certainly.

"You did something both taxing and rewarding," Baelor spoke, and he seemed to gain confidence when you didn't pull your hand away from his, "This body, the one you seem to believe I am now revolted by, carried our son. Protected him, nurtured him, and now… Valarr is here."

He squeezed the width of your palm once, then twice.

"I am nothing but appreciative of your efforts," Baelor stated, and leave it to him to make even vulnerable conversations sound like a treaty agreement.

"Appreciation does not equate to attraction," you remarked stubbornly.

"Perhaps not, but it can enhance it. You've borne my child. How could I view you as anything but desirable?" he countered. His hand trailed up your forearm, settling into your elbow as he leaned closer, the tip of his crooked nose dragging along the curve of your shoulder.

Your husband pressed a lingering kiss there, lips plush and stubble itching. It made a swelling heat crawl up your throat, a squash left out to rot in the summer heat. Bashfulness didn't begin to cover it. It was more like relief, fragile but persistent.

"Let me show you my admiration, dearest," Baelor persuaded into another kiss, amatory, "I'll clear your mind of these doubts thoroughly."

And he showed you his admiration extensively.

Maekar Targaryen

Maekar didn't say anything for a second.

Truthfully, he didn't have to. His stern features scrunched into an expression that came across as sour rather than concerned. The shape of his upper lip curled upwards, head tilting in that quick, barely noticeable way that told you all you needed to know.

"What?" he questioned.

"You heard me. Must you make me repeat myself?" You questioned right back.

"I will if I must."

Your husband could be crass. There was a reason his father did not call upon him when it came to delegations, greeting committees, or offering sympathy in the face of some house's tragedy. Matters of the heart were left in Prince Baelor's capable hands.

Turning back around, you wondered why you'd decided to expose your anxieties at all.

Maekar didn't take kindly to your lack of explanation. He shifted closer, looming right behind you on the mattress. You could practically feel his demanding glower slathering itself across your back, insistent and difficult.

"Tell me," he commanded when you didn't give him the explanation he was looking for, "If it's so bothersome that it leads you to avoid me like a snake from a mongoose, then tell me plainly."

"Can you not see? You are doing me no service by imitating the blind!" you hissed. Your head didn't turn all the way to meet his scowl, neck twisting just so you could see the broadness of his arm.

Your mouth pressed into a thin line as you looked back down to your lap. You adjusted your tone, attempting to ease away from the nervous outburst that threatened to leak from between your teeth.

"… I've changed so much from carrying Daeron. Even thinking of being bare before you perturbs me."

Embarrassment powdered the tips of your ears. To lay your worries out made you feel like you were under inspection—a squirming roach under examination. It didn't help that this was Maekar, a man with the emotional delicacy of a bear creeping toward hibernation, you were telling this to.

He continued to scowl as his voice hit your ears like a blunt flail, "That's ridiculous."

"Ridiculous?" You repeated. You couldn't decide if you should be offended or touched by the concept that he thought your insecurities were ridiculous to him.

"It's— you look fine," he settled on gruffly.

"Fine? What does that mean?"

"It means what it means, doesn't it?" Maekar grouched. At your slight wilt, a great huff left him.

His hands—pale, decorated with callouses, with silvery scars from his youth along the meat of his palm—came to lumberingly pet your hair. They pulled strands from your shoulder, exposing your neck and shoulder blades. His knuckles brushed over flesh, dry and hot.

"You know I'm not good with words," he confessed roughly, touch slow and cautious.

His hands left your tresses to trail over the softness of your stomach, strong arms embracing you from behind. It was a firm hold, limbs iron curved to fit your sides. His nose pushed along your jawline; you could've sworn he sniffed you and savored the scent.

"I say what I think, and you dispute it. If you disgusted me so, would I come to our bed? Would I try to fuck you at every opportunity?" he grumbled, and his blatantness made your cheeks flush like a rose, "You're vexing, do you know that? A vexing, fair woman who thinks a fussy pup changes anything."

His hand slid low between your thighs, his voice the closest you've ever heard it to begging, "Let me."

Heartened, you let him.

Dunk

Dunk's head tilted like a dog's would when perplexed.

He seemed wholly taken aback by your question, looking off to the side before his uncertain eyes slid back to you. His voice was thick in its bafflement, "Why would I not want to?"

His big, blue eyes seemed unsure. His posture hunched slightly more within himself, as if making himself smaller to appear less demanding or intimidating to you. His large hands rested between his thighs like a dove's feet.

Gods, he was so good to you. Even now, in the face of your refusal, he only looked at you with utmost care and devotion. It made despair seep into the nooks and crannies of your heavy, pumping heart.

"Can't you see?" you shrugged, hands fanning out in the recognizable gesture of what. The dim warmth of the hearth's fire dully lit up the rugged planes of your husband's face, overwhelming feeling.

In a way, you felt like a villain.

You had gone against your parents' wishes and the rules of noblewomen to marry Dunk. He was a knight with only a sword and horses to his name, and you were a well-bred lady of wealthy standing. Your romance was considered inappropriate at best, but you had loved him, and he in turn.

Thus, you'd forsaken your family and run away to be with him. You'd even gone as far as to marry him, dressed in a simple cotton gown with flowers as your accessories, where you could have worn silk and jewels if you'd married a man fitting of your station.

You were meant to be his stolen gem of a wife. Now, look at you: thick around the waist and splotchy along your cheekbones.

"I can see," Dunk said back so earnestly it nearly killed you, "I see you. I want to... y'know, be with you."

"Because I'm your wife?" you suggested wryly.

"Aye," he said. His voice was almost breathless at the force of his faithfulness. The length of his face was a near nectarine color, bright and pure. It was an invisible blow that drained all pessimism from your soul, a pulp being mashed between kind fingers.

How could someone be so noble? So tender despite his size?

A lull fell between you, but your eyes didn't move away from one another. One of his hands moved away from his thigh to come tug at the length of your shift, large fingers meek. The little touch felt like an hug.

"I love you. I love the babe you've given me. We don't have to do anything if you're uncomfortable, but I want to at least be able to lie next to you at night," your husband expressed. His words dragged, clumsily measured, but no less good-natured.

The back of his wide hand caressed your side. The flush on his face spread down to his chest. The last time that'd happened, it'd been the first time you showed him affection outside of closed doors. You'd had to stand on his toes to press your mouth to his and Dunk, sweet-hearted Dunk, always let you.

His voice was shy in that endearing way it could be when he couldn't find all the words he wanted to say, "You're the prettiest lady I'd ever seen. Still are."

His great form inched closer and closer to you like a sunflower breaking, bending, just to meet the grassy ground. His fingers curled into the material of your nightclothes as he carefully moved to press a kiss to your lips.

It made you miserably endeared, unable, and unwilling to refuse.

Lyonel Baratheon

Lyonel's response was immediate.

"Huh? What does that fucking mean?" His face was blanketed by confusion, brows furrowing together from where he peered over at you as if you'd suddenly begun speaking backwards.

You made a face, bothered, "Lyonel—"

"No. No! You're my wife," he continued on, trampling on your withdrawn nature, "Why else should I want to lie with you other than you are my comely wife?"

Comely. Comely. He spoke it so simply, so honestly, that it nearly made you burst into laughter or tears (which one would come first, you had no idea).

You did not expect Lyonel to comprehend your hardships.

To begin with, he was not a woman, and did not have to concern himself with the importance of appearances that you and every other highborn lady did. He was a lord, and a handsome one at that. His understanding was comparable to a pig's mastery of how hawks soared.

Secondly, he had enough confidence for the entirety of the Stormlands. It was a self-belief that could fill an ocean. In your entire time by his side, you could not think of a time he second-guessed himself or ran away from his fears.

It was another thing to wonder about your husband.

"I've just… I look so different because of Ormund. I love him, I do, but… I just don't look how I used to," you disclosed hesitantly.

"That's what you think?" Lyonel quickly argued. His hands fell on his knees, as if to steady him at the blow of your lunacy. His brows scrunched together as laughter coated his voice, spun like a web, humorless but present nonetheless.

"Wife, you are something else. A curiosity for all of Westeros to decipher."

"Why are you laughing?" You bit out, prickly at his half-formed chuckles in the face of your apprehension.

"Because you…" he tugged you down onto the mattress with him as he flopped backwards, sheets shifting under your forms. It was drizzling outside of Storm's End tower; you nearly thought he'd smell like rain when you were pulled to him.

So far, he just smelt like a man, touched by the faintest traces of sea salt. His teeth were stained by wine, "… are silly."

The moment he'd brought you close enough, Lyonel latched onto you like a leech. The hair of his beard dragged over your face as he hooked a leg around yours, essentially keeping you trapped.

"Silly? Husband!"

"You are. You are perfectly senseless if you believe I do not think you are beautiful," he raved dramatically. One of his weathered hands dragged down your face, thumb settling into the hollow of your throat.

"You gave me a son, an heir to the Baratheon line, and you have only grown more enticing since. Strong enough to bear me more children, don't you think?"

Your husband had always had a flair for theatrics. It came with his boisterous, lively, and vigorous temperament. You were typically content with turning a blind eye to it, letting it settle into your skull with little weight, rolling off of you like the raindrops hitting the windows of your bedchambers outside.

This, however, was packed with such ravenous sincerity that you couldn't help but trust in him.

"You're my wife, in nothing but a nightgown, and I'd very much like to present Ormund a sibling in nine moons' time," he leered cheekily, hand sliding up your plump thigh, "Do me the honor?"

What an honor it turned out to be.

Aerion Brightflame

Aerion's face contorted vaguely in the classic revolted expression he made when he thought someone or something was offensive or boring. It twisted like velvet on his pretty face, voice curdling like cream left out in the windowsill for days.

"Are you daft?"

You only shook your head at his reaction. It hardly fazed you, serving to emphasize your mortification rather than take away from it.

Aerion wasn't the most empathetic of creatures. He longed for blood and battle, reveling in a good challenge where he came out the victor. Many rumored in the darkness that he was cruel, vain, and a disgrace to good King Daeron's lineage.

Therefore, unsurprisingly, something as miserly as a woman's despair about her post-babe body didn't interest him. He'd rather recount Maegor the Cruel's life from beginning to end in intricate detail than delve into the realm of ladies' sorrows.

You muttered, "Aerion—"

Your husband didn't respond verbally. Instead, he wrangled you onto the med rather unceremoniously. It was like a man-sized dragon tumbling around with you, forcing you into the midst of its hoard without any wariness about your emotions.

His fingers—well-groomed with blunt nails and softness clinging to unworked skin—squeezed tightly at your cushioned hips. You went to protest, but the angle of his canines nipped at your chin, and you were aflame with diffidence.

Your voice was a squeak instead, "Husband, didn't you hear what I said?"

"I heard you," he acknowledged flippantly, "But I don't care."

He wasn't necessarily attempting anything carnal, not yet, but he seemed more focused on caressing you now than enacting his rights as a husband. He just kept biting at you. Small pokes of his fangs, loose holds of his teeth over your clothed form.

Admittedly, you had sometimes perceived Aerion as more animal than human. His tendencies could be primal, behavior territorial like a pestered mutt, and this was but another representation of it.

His pale aristocratic fingers dug into the fat of your thighs, and his teeth over the expanse of your stomach. Mouthing, applying pressure, yet never sinking in far enough to draw pinpricks of blood or tear the fabric of your nightgown.

"You're my wife. A princess of the realm by marriage. You carry the dragon's blood in your womb to fruition, and you let thoughts of weight fester?" he carped. The fabric of your skirt bunched up along his palms, riding up to the top of your hips.

The tip of his nose pushed into your belly, maw settling over where your son had been housed. That place of yours, where little Maegor with his terrible namesake had remained for nine turnings of the moon, was kept safe under sinew.

You were sure that if it could easily be removed at will, Aerion would consume the goriest bits. He'd swallow you whole if he could.

"Have I not spoiled you enough, wife? Do you stoop low enough for stimulation to slander yourself so?" your husband continued. His hands crept under your arse, voice lowering like the whistle of an arrow soaring through the air.

"I'll pry such insults out of you."

Pry, he did.

Daeron the Drunken

Daeron's lips curled into an undeveloped smirk, voice lightly mordant, "Of course."

A huff of something you could not place escaped from the depths of his chest. It was soft enough to possibly be exasperated, but sharp enough to also be worn. You couldn't pick which one, unaware of what was swimming around in your husband's head.

You were never aware of what Daeron was thinking.

His thoughts were haunted by his dreams. Dreams that manifested as incensed wraiths and howling spirits, haunting the walks of Summerhall, just around corners and underfoot. They were invisible to you, as they seemed to be with everyone, except for Daeron.

If he wasn't dreaming, he was slipping away through cracks unknown and returning hours (occasionally a day or two) later with wine on his tongue. His lips were stained red, and when he'd go to drunkenly steal a kiss, you'd taste the grapes and spices there.

He was not a consistently present husband. You knew this, and selfishly, you had hoped it would aid in the distance you tried to forge between you. It was a defensive wall, lacking any intent of attack.

Not unlike the weather of where the castle was situated in the Stormlands, Daeron could be full of surprises. This was one of those moments. He said nothing, but the bed dipped under his weight as he slunk his way to your side like a sluggish spider.

Sandy hair curled around his jaw, falling over his face in a limp curtain that tickled the side of your neck. He nestled his face against the crook between your throat and shoulder, nose burrowing into freshly-washed skin, still dewily warm from the bath. His hand grasped your arm loosely from where he melted into your side.

"I cannot blame you for not wanting to be bed by me, I suppose," Daeron whispered. His voice was pleasantly frayed, a low hum that resonated like an out-of-tune harp.

Your husband had the voice of a man perpetually facing trial. Even now, it lingered in the air like smoke.

"It's not that," you said in response.

His head stayed still against your shoulder, so still that you could presume him a statue if you saw fit to do so. What 'that' was, you couldn't pinpoint. It could be referring to his dreams, his drinking, or his recurring disappearances. Maybe it was referring to all three at once.

"It's me, and how... how my body is now. It's nauseating to think about being bare," you explained rigidly.

"Nauseating?" Daeron hummed.

One of his hands drifted down to your wrist, encircling it. It was a puny excuse for shackles. You could hardly deem it entrapping, a feeble chain in the form of his fingers.

"Nauseating is the riddles of unescapable dooms that occupy my mind, and my sleep. Nauseating is the word used for how I feel after drinking too much," your husband spoke, and it sounded distant, almost dreamlike, "Not a word suitable for you. Not in any way, I think."

His digits filled the crevices between your own like syrup slipping down a tree; the seam of his mouth parted to press a motion that you could only interpret as a kiss to the softness of your neck.

"I can think of much better words to describe you, if you're not too tired to listen."

It threw your intestines into a twist, wonderfully sick in a way that put the term nauseating to shame.

Valarr Targaryen

Valarr stared at you silently.

His face didn't morph into anything. It stayed frozen, stuck in that blankly serious expression when he was lost in thought or intently listening to someone speak. It was the expression you saw when a lord had managed to gain his audience and was relaying concerns not considered before.

Your husband had always managed to have a concentrated bearing. It was mournfully charming, the consistent clench of his muscles that flexed however his mood emboldened.

The air slid like frost covering a hill. It was awkward, warming your lungs over to the point you caught a chill.

Your hands fell into your lap as you proceeded to fidget as if nothing at all was amiss. You fluffed at your hair, pulled at the sleeves of your shift, and rubbed at the blue veins mapped within your inner wrists as if making sense of a map yellowed with age. An inkling of morbid intrigue sizzled against your sternum as the bed frame creaked, Valarr's weight lifting off of it.

His feet padded on the stone floor. The realization sank in your stomach like a rock in a lake, settling amongst cold sand and dimness clouded with algae.

You thought he was leaving. That was bad enough, but what was worse was that he didn't.

Valarr moved around the length of the bed to sit down by your side. The sheets crinkled, feathery mattress concaving under his thighs. He was close, so close that a waft of whatever herbal oil he'd smoothed over his recently shaven jaw drifted into your nostrils.

You glanced at him, but his head was lowered so that the fan of his lashes and the bridge of his nose were more prominent in your vision than the direct planes of his face.

His hand moved away from his lap. It swept over your thigh, his pinky coming to tactfully prod at yours. It was a noiseless inquiry. You knew what he was requesting, and tentatively, you allowed him to take hold of your hand.

Neither of you said anything for a while. Absentmindedly, you wondered if he could feel how clammy your palm was, how perspiring you were in his presence. With practiced sereness, he broke the floury snow that had begun to fall over the two of you.

"Give me a name."

Your eyes moved back to him, "What?"

"Give me the name of the person who has confused you, however that may be: insults, lies, or smarmy comments. A name, a title, a house is all that I require," Valarr promised. The elegant slither of his declaration nearly negated your attention from the total solemnity of how he conducted this conversation.

It was a threat. Prettily wrapped, yes, but the sworn danger to his nonexistent individual (who he believed to have clouded your self-judgement) created the urge to gape.

"There's no one," you uttered. His mismatched eyes met your gawk, pupils peeking out from dark lashes. The pad of his thumb rubbed a circle into the meat of your hand.

"Then I should like to correct you about these falsehoods," Valarr proclaimed mildly.

Your husband, as it turned out, could be far more punishing than you thought possible.

✷ AN: This is my first time doing a request (that also happens to be my first request ever), so I hope it lives up to your standards, anon!! Enjoy!

Baelor Breakspear

You'd given birth to your little girl during a quiet dusk on Dragonstone, the gold-violet-pink of the sky a comely backdrop to your efforts.

You hadn't expected a girl at all. From the moment you first gave birth, every child that'd you carried and bore was a son.

It wasn't that you were disappointed per se. Each one of your boys was noble and pleasant like their sire, Baelor, whether it be in manners or in appearance. It could be the strength of the Valyrian blood that caused them to mirror your husband's looks, but every single one was blatantly a Targaryen.

They were a great source of pride for you. Not only had you provided the heir of the Iron Throne plenty of young men to take up the mantle if need be, but each one was exemplary in some form.

You were content with the grand family you had built. Still, when the midwife had handed you a swaddled child and revealed that it was a daughter, your heart skipped a beat. All exhaustion gave way to a low simmer as something akin to disbelief, then excitement, took hold.

That feeling—a spark of joy—stayed as moon after moon passed with your Vaenelle. Your sons were busy with their lessons and peers, but they seemed keen on spoiling their sister rotten, especially your eldest two, Valarr and Matarys. They came to her nursery and your apartments with little tokens of affection, gifts bought with their own coin, and trinkets that were being passed down through kin.

Your husband was similarly generous. Baelor took more time than allowed as his father's Hand to shower little Vaenelle in affection, commenting on her loveliness more and more after six turnings of the moon passed.

"She's a perfect image of you, my love," he said one morrow after a council meeting he was required to attend. He had sought you out as soon as it had finished, it seemed, ink still in his nailbeds.

The sunlight streamed through the window, highlighting your daughter's hair, which matched yours in shade and texture nearly exactly.

"A blessing from the Mother."

"A blessing?" You laughed faintly. It was high praise, and your eyes were warm puddles from where you sat across from him.

"What else is a child that carries the memory of her mother in every inch of her face?" Baelor queried back, waxing poetic like a boy encountering a maiden for the first time as Vaenelle took great interest in the Hand pin stuck on his doublet's breast. Her little palm patted at it, and her father's hand patted at her back.

You bit down a wide smile.

Perhaps it was girlish, slightly childish, but if feigning ignorance of your daughter's commonalities resulted in your handsome fawning over you from time to time, who could blame you?

Maekar Targaryen

The morning you'd finished your labors, the midwife had announced that a daughter had been born.

Your mind briefly broke out of its weary haze to allow you enough alertness to ask her to repeat herself, because surely she was wrong. Each child that you'd carried for Maekar had come out a boy. It was the expected outcome, the natural way of things, like the moon's phases waxing and waning repeatedly.

So many boys were bound to create a hectic environment without much respite. A few prime examples were your eldest becoming a drunk, your second eldest deluding himself into believing he was a dragon in human form, and one of your youngest running away at every possible opportunity.

Maekar kept grumbling that the two of you should stop at the number you were at. He started saying that years ago, but it never stopped him from finding relief in your arms, nor the babes from coming.

Though as much as he complained about his children's behavior, you knew your husband cared. It wasn't expressed through flowery words, explicit gestures, or personal gifts, but you could see it in the way he was stern with them. The way he was quick to defend them whenever someone other than the two of you complained about their characters and actions.

Therefore, while you found your sons to be stressful, you were ultimately prepared for the mayhem that another boy would bring forth. Thus, when the woman presented the wailing bundle to you with the same declaration, you could hardly believe it.

A girl was so different from what you were used to. Even as moons passed, your Aemira stayed tranquil and lovely like a blossom in the Reach, matching your eyes and smile whenever you peered down at her.

Your sons were fascinated by her existence. They either tried to get her to do something "interesting", played with her as one would play with a fragile dog, or teased her enough until she was squawking and squabbling with offense.

Maekar was, surprisingly, far gentler. He didn't seem to know what to do with himself with a daughter. He double-guessed how he held her, how he sat with her, and how he talked around her. Your husband's gruffness scraped away to reveal a soft center that you hadn't seen displayed so openly in a very long time.

"It's odd," he said one evening, breaking the silence he'd fallen into while watching you adjust a sleepy Aemira in your lap.

"What is?"

Maekar elaborated, "All our sons mirror me, but she reflects your loveliness completely."

"Loveliness?" Your brows rose as a cheeky grin crossed your face, an impishness expanding against your lungs at his rare flattery, "Goodness, husband. Are you trying to get something from me?"

He deadpanned with a stiff curl of his upper lip, but there was fondness behind the narrowness of his eyes.

Dunk

As a woman of lowborn origin, your head was filled with fantasies of grandeur from a young age.

The songs of handsome princes and the histories of noble affairs were intoxicating to your youthful soul. You pictured the boys of your village performing romantic gestures, only to be greatly disappointed when they tugged at your hair and chased you around instead. Consequently, you resorted to daydreams to fulfill your desires.

Of course, you outgrew these figments of imagination as you flowered into womanhood. The cost of eggs was more prevalent than raunchy visions, after all.

Although the moment you met Ser Duncan the Tall in a dimly lit tavern, massive figure hunched over his pint of ale and eyes as blue as the sea, all those make-believe notions came flooding back.

He'd stolen your heart quickly, your romance a fluttery thing.

However, Dunk had simply been passing through with his squire, Egg, and was hesitant to continue on his way in fear of leaving you. The solution to such a problem was, undoubtedly, to marry him and join him on his travels. Many had called it a mistake made out of lust, a whirlwind that would pass over time.

It hadn't been a mistake, nor had it passed.

When you'd come to be with your first child, Dunk had agreed to the idea of returning to your hometown and sending the older Egg back to his father at Summerhall (with the pledge for constant communication via raven).

That was how it started, but one son turned into two, and then three, and then four. In due course, you had an abundance of boys running amok, all sandy blonde and oceanic eyes.

Dunk occasionally went on trips when an urgent matter arose or his presence was specifically requested. When he was home, though, he got your force of sons to get hard work done efficiently.

All were good-hearted, lacking wits in an awkward sort of way that was more enchanting than frustrating. While they drove you crazy (especially with how much they fucking ate), you wouldn't trade any of your boys for the world.

That being said, when your youngest child came out as a daughter, you almost cried with relief.

As moons passed, Hazel only stuck to being wonderful. She was your island of refuge, sharing your exact coloring and countenance.

Her brothers enjoyed involving her in their unruly activities, as well as sharing snacks with her. Dunk, on the other hand, was dotingly skittish. She was minuscule compared to him, and he treated her like stained glass.

"I can't believe how pretty she is," Dunk proclaimed one early night, balancing the little girl on a massive thigh from where he sat on the bed as you prepared for sleep.

"She is, isn't she?" you enthused tiredly.

"Suppose it's natural," your husband continued a bit shyly, holding Hazel close, "Given you're her mother."

You smiled widely, looking over your shoulder fast enough to catch the flush that crossed your husband's face.

Classic Dunk.

Lyonel Baratheon

Lyonel was certainly a beast of a man.

His moods could be unpredictable, and every opinion was expressed loudly and theatrically. He danced wildly like a deranged bird, drank more in one night than some men would drink in a week, and preferred the pleasures of his title rather than the duties.

He was the sort of man who rejoiced each time you came to be with child, and held rowdy feasts each time the babe was revealed to be a son. Which was every time. Nonetheless, his excitement never dulled, and neither did the festivities.

You were prone to thinking in a fondly exasperated mindset that you'd given the realm more Baratheons than were certainly necessary. It didn't help that each one of your many boys took after their sire—headstrong and raucous.

Your husband would have whole days where he took all of them out to spend time together. They hawked, hunted, and sailed around Storm's End with echoing cackles and minor wounds seemingly materializing out of nowhere.

It was never a dull day in your household.

There was always some squabble, wrestling match, and broken furniture or decoration going on to keep you worried and alert. Your husband would step in sternly when you gave him a pointed look, but without your influence, you knew full well he encouraged the frenzy. While it maddened you, it never lessened your love.

Despite that, when the midwife had wrapped up your latest babe with the whisper that it was a girl, you'd almost fainted in jubilation.

Darling Eirwen, an innocent display of your presence, was the calm in the storm. Even as moons came and went, her poise remained intact. She was still very young, but in the face of her brothers' disruptiveness, you thought she contained impeccable finesse.

In the calamity of everything, she had your face and a peaceful air, which made her feel more like a balm instead of a babe.

When her brothers weren't busy trying to annoy one another to death, they took the time to get to know their little sister. Multiple of them tried to sneak her off to join them on their outings, and you had to lecture your sons on why it was a bad idea.

Shockingly, Lyonel was just as boastful as he had been with his sons as he was with Eirwen. She was practically the princess of House Baratheon, her father showing her off and bringing her up constantly in conversation.

"Our girl is rather elegant," your husband gloated one afternoon, his breath tinged with whatever fermented drink he had gotten into that morning. He patted at Eirwen's side, hoisting her into a more comfortable position against his chest.

"Must get that from her mama, huh?"

"You think me elegant?" You questioned lightly in retort, manipulating your needlework carefully.

"I can show you everything I think about you tonight," Lyonel leered, and you made a tsk-like noise in appallment. If he were closer, you'd stomp on his foot.

Aerion Brightflame

For a man like Aerion, sons seemed to suit him best.

He was revoltingly arrogant at the worst of times, and off-puttingly mean at the best of times. You'd been arranged to marry him due to your house's wealth and family name, even after expressing your concerns to your father and mother regarding the rumors you had heard about your betrothed's nature.

That's all to say that this wasn't a love match of any sort, no matter the packaging or how advantageous the deal was on your behalf.

Many young ladies and women would scheme, betray, and lie to become a princess. Here, it was being handed to you on a silver platter.

You tried to be grateful for that, but Aerion was challenging if nothing else. He bullied his way into everything, surmising such outrageous conclusions that it made you wonder if he was wholly sane.

At least he was handsome. That's what made the first few beddings tolerable.

The sons you produced for him fostered that delicate care that had begun to grow between the two of you, being nursed to something greater with every child you carried.

They were Valyrian kin. All your sons—you had a great few—possessed silver-gold locks and distinctive features from their father, making their interactions feel as though you were perpetually seeing double.

Though Aerion was blatantly foul, your children were glad boys. Many had quite a fondness for fishing. A couple of Kingsguard would escort you and your sons to the nearest river or lake, and they would each try their damndest to see who would capture the best few.

The ones who weren't as keen on nature or underwater creatures relied on education for entertainment, finding triumph amongst training with longswords, or the histories of their ancestors.

All in all, Aerion made strangely docile and friendly offspring. It served to unnerve you in a bemused way if you thought about it for too long.

Still, when your body had essentially torn itself apart in an effort to deliver yet another babe, you were thoroughly taken aback when the midwife settled the bundle into your arms with the statement that you now had a daughter. You. A daughter!

Visenya had started out as a weak and snuffly thing, as some of your sons had been, but she grew with time. By six moons, hair had covered her head in an identical fashion to yours, eyes growing more vivid by the day.

Her brothers seemed perplexed to have a sister. You supposed it made sense, given they had only existed amongst young men and boys for so long, but you could tell they were trying by the expressions that crossed their faces.

Aerion, on the other hand, complained as easily as he breathed. He seemed to make a show out of it, perking up like a starved mutt whenever someone with ears to hear was forced to listen to his grousing.

"You have tarnished my bloodline with that—" your husband gestured out a hand to your daughter, who was frankly minding her own business, "that fraud! She scarcely looks like a proper Targaryen."

You stared over at him, relatively unfazed. This was the second time today he'd sulked, and you'd managed to build an immunity over the years, "Husband, you chose to name her Visenya. Who, if I recall, was one of the key conquerors. Why gift her such a name if she is a farce?"

Aerion sniffed vaguely in response, taking a moment to no doubt stew in being caught in a contradiction once again.

"… She is not entirely ugly. I suppose I can thank you for that much."

Daeron the Drunken

With a drunk as a husband, many thought Daeron wouldn't even acknowledge your existence.

It was true that before your marriage, he had the habit of visiting brothels or paying a local Sally for a night of pleasure. He didn't just find himself in one's cups; he drowned in them. Perpetually wine-nosed, it was a miracle he even managed to dress himself most days, let alone put in the effort to be a noblewoman's honorable lord husband.

Yet somehow, to the awe of many courts, you swelled with child numerous times.

Even with Daeron's terrible faults, he never shied away from gracing your bed, and the evidence of his visits was obvious. You gained a plethora of princes, all with a likeness to their sire.

It was droll, in a sense. Daeron couldn't hold a quill, could barely keep track of his itinerary, and disappeared from Summerhall like a self-effacing ghost, but he was clearly capable of keeping the Targaryen line healthy and fruitful.

His children were the picture of purity, despite your husband's participation in their creation. Many of your boys were quiet individuals who preferred the arts and books to conversation, while the others craved attention like fools, presenting learned tricks and good-natured japes.

Even with the differences in their natures, all of your sons had dirty blonde hair and green-blue eyes that grew distant when lost in thought.

Whether Daeron was aware of the commonality or not, you couldn't quite say. He seemed to teeter between teasing endearment and muddled smothering (the latter typically due to his binges or dreams, which were a frequent occurrence).

You had grown used to that life: your many sons with pieces of their father, holding court with other ladies, and trying to keep your husband in line the best you could.

Accordingly, giving birth to a daughter as dawn broke over the land was a change of pace.

Vaella was a talkative, agreeable critter who gurgled and shrieked in delight whenever the mood struck her. She was intrinsically inconsistent with the pattern your boys had planted. Even many moons later, she favored you in face more than she favored anybody else.

Your reserved sons read to her and shared their favorite instruments, songs, and dances. Your loud sons snuck in digestible treats for her to consume, flowers with the roots attached from the garden, and overheard gossip that they really shouldn't have been repeating.

All the while, Daeron was exceptionally lively with Vaella. He seemed peculiarly relieved at the fact that she was nothing like him, cradling her in his arms and calling her terms of affection that left his lips easily.

"She's your lookalike, through and through. I have no doubt they'll confuse the two of you when she's matured," he said one night, far past a reasonable hour.

Vaella had been fussy, so you'd been reluctantly awake to try to soothe her to slumber. Eventually, your husband stumbled in, reeking of wine, sweeping your child from your lap.

"You seem pleased with that, my dear," you'd replied.

Daeron's grin was crooked with something unknown, "It's for the best."

Valarr Targaryen

You'd lost your first two sons.

They'd been stillborn, never breathing a gulp of air or seeing the world around them. Understandably, it'd taken a harsh toll on you. Valarr had comforted you in those dark hours both times, whispering promises of how you would be a mother one day with all the children you could want.

At the time, you'd taken it as empty assurances, meant to make you feel better than actually happening.

You couldn't be more wrong.

Your womb seemed to be overcome with guilt, and in an effort to earn your forgiveness, provided healthy babe after healthy babe without qualm. Every boy that left your belly made the grief lift like fog, sunshine poking through the haze to grant you some form of acceptance.

It was an even sweeter apology, given your sons took after Valarr to an abnormal degree. It was as if he'd made them himself without any external assistance, cutting himself open to dig them out without an extra pair of hands.

They were wholesome creatures. Each boy was soft-spoken, intelligent, with a knack for learning that helped them excel in their studies in such a way that made your chest feel heavy with pride. Some even carried thick, white streaks in their hair, serving as permanent reminders of your dutiful and gentle husband.

Even so, after a difficult labor that lasted for just about an entire day, you felt overwhelmed at the discovery that the newest addition to your brood was a girl. A tiny, squirmy girl whose irises were the same shade as your own.

Any child to continue Valarr's line, and Prince Baelor's—the future king's—by extension, was a favor by the Seven. In spite of that, Daelia felt extra special.

She didn't resemble her father or brothers in the least. Where they held Targaryen components, whether it be the silver-gold in their hair or the eyes of their grandsire, Daelia was all you (a fact that became progressively apparent with every turning of the moon). It made you dizzy if you thought about it for too long.

As your sons were calm in every condition, they had been tranquil and welcoming, petting at the tuft of her hair on their sister's head and settling her on their laps to offer you a small break. It made the unspoken pain of the fate your first two boys met fizzle out, drifting away like dandelion seeds.

It would never disappear. It just dissipated, becoming a shadow instead of a stormcloud hanging over you.

Valarr was passionate about the two of you. He would kiss your head, then Daelia's, hands steady and soft. He waited on you hand and foot with the dedication a hound would have for its hunter.

Presently, one of his hands was brushing your hair out of your face, fingertips caressing your shoulder and neck. His palm fell to ruffle at your daughter's, who cooed in response to the touch.

"She's the second-most charming thing I've ever seen," Valarr said, his knee nudging into yours as the gleam of sunset slipped past the curtains of your apartment.

You raised a brow, "Second-most?"

His mismatched eyes rose to yours, holding a rare spark of teasing, "You're the first-most, clearly."

Warmth coated your nape, and you forced down the beam that threatened to spill over your face as you repeated dryly, "Clearly."

Raymun Fossoway

Raymun Fossoway was a lover.

From the moment you met him officially as his betrothed, you could tell he was different from other noblemen.

He spoke in a lighthearted, sometimes blunt, way that made you feel like he took an interest in every little aspect of your life. He had a generous character; Raymun remembered things you liked and provided you with them tenfold.

His warmhearted nature only became more apparent after your wedding. Specifically, during the bedding. For a man who seemed to be lacking experience when it came to marital manners, he certainly surprised you amongst the sheets.

However, following that line of thought, you weren't as surprised when you came to be with child time and time again.

Providing multiple sons to the green-apple Fossoways was more beneficial and substantial than anything else anyone could do. It was a new branch just beginning to develop, and giving several heirs and capable lords to continue on its line was priceless. You were well aware of this fact and felt not an ounce of disappointment when the midwife declared time and time again that a son had arrived.

Raymun was grateful for all you did. He'd shower you in kisses, verbalizing his appreciation for all the dark-haired and dark-eyed boys running around with his blood coursing through them. His own love for you further solidified your affection for your sons.

Nevertheless, when you managed to push out a girl in the darkness of night, you were nothing but thrilled.

You'd named her Elinor, and she increasingly felt like a precious gem you'd crushed into formation with every moon that passed. The lay of her locks, the shape of her features, and the curve of her nose were a miniature version of your own.

Again, you loved your sons, but this felt different. She was the only one who inherited your mien, and she was the only daughter of the Fossoways of New Barrel. Both details made Elinor a favorite, no doubt.

Her brothers were fond of her. Raymun had taken the time to introduce every single one of his boys to her, instructing them attentively to be careful with their little sister, and they'd been visiting you and your babe whenever they had the freedom to since.

Your husband was equally as interested. He complimented the two of you ardently whenever he was around, referring to you both as "my girls" with that boyish smile you'd come to recognize with safety, eyes squinting with mirth.

"She's gotten bigger," Raymun proclaimed one afternoon, holding Elinor out and up as he examined her. She babbled excitedly at being lifted into the air, and your husband's eyes flitted toward you.

"And twice as pretty. Must get that from her mother."

"Am I always your reasoning?" You questioned back, tea cup resting against your bottom lip before you took a small sip. The herbs blossomed over your tongue.

WEEK ONE.

You noticed the intricacies of their dynamic almost immediately. It was not necessarily hard to miss, not even for the feeblest of minds. Anyone who had spent an hour in the presence of Cregan Stark knew he was a man of few words, with a disposition as icy as his homeland. There were very few things that brought him joy, and even fewer that brought him visible joy.

Jacaerys was one of those things. At his welcome feast, your husband had sat at the front of the room, you at his left, your guest of honor on his right. Feasts were only your strong suit in the planning stage. You ran the household in a highly organized manner and had mobilized the entire castle in preparing for Jacaerys’ welcome. Once the event came, however, you were happy to fade into the background. You were sure others would be happy too.

Tonight, all eyes would be on your visitor. To honor the occasion, you had worn one of your finer gowns for the affair—a warm, heavy silver gown with deep purple embroidery, displaying the joined colors of yours and your husband’s houses.

It was no surprise to you that the prince was happy to lap this attention up. He was heir to the Iron Throne, of course. He had been primed for all eyes pinned on him since birth. He radiated light—a light so bright it was contagious, transmittable only to your husband. 

In the two years of your marriage, you had learned one thing: smiling was rare. It was rare between the two of you, but the absence of a smile did not mean he was displeased with you–a trait you had struggled to cope with in the early days of your union. Cregan was naturally stoic and spent most of his time preoccupied with matters of state and the Wall. His brow and lip were always turned downwards. The weight of responsibility made it hard to do otherwise.

When he smiled, it was small, or it was the consequence of a gentle laugh. It happened most often when he was tired, when he had just woken up, when he was sated, or when he was full of love. They rarely lasted. He would fall asleep or get up, and you would be left trying hopelessly to render the moment immobile.

Smiling from Cregan was rarest in front of everyone. He was a master of composure, born from years of projecting security and worthiness of his claim to be Lord of Winterfell. Jokes did nothing. He did not sing songs with the rest of his men. Cups loosened his shoulders, but not his lips. Not until after he was back in your bedchamber.

And yet, when he stood to make a toast, he smiled graciously. A hush fell over the room as he loomed over the guests of the hall. An unexpected sight indeed.

Some would suspect flattery—but this was Winterfell, not Highgarden. Northerners were hardly men of lip service. Others would suspect graciousness—no, Cregan Stark did not need to flatter his guest, but he did need to show the Prince of Dragonstone that he was welcome in the North.

That would leave only honest, unabashed happiness. From Cregan Stark. Warden of the North. Something few expected. And while you knew the prince was one of your husband’s favorite people, you couldn’t have expected that he would be smiling at his welcome feast during his toast.

“To all gathered here tonight,” Cregan’s voice boomed across the hall, “Let us all raise a toast to our prince, and to his mother. Treat him as you would your fellow Northerner in these coming weeks. Drink, eat, rejoice. Long live the queen!”

“Long live the queen!”

Cups were raised to the future king and his mother. Ensuing cups were filled, and refilled. Once he sat down, Cregan seemed content to sit between his wife and his prince and let them lead the conversation. Jacaerys was incredibly easy to speak to. He regaled you with tales of his correspondence with Cregan, life on Dragonstone, his childhood in the Red Keep. Every now and then, Cregan would interject, with a comment, a rebuttal, or an inside joke, which would send Jace into fits of laughter, especially as the prince sank deeper and deeper into his cups.

Cregan and you continued drinking too, albeit Cregan handled his wine far better than you and Jace. Not that he was impossible to sink. You could see his eyelids growing heavy, his shoulders dropping the tension, his body settling into his chair as the night progressed. Your laughter grew higher in pitch and frequency. The hall was warm and welcoming, something rarely felt this intensely in your home. While you had grown to love Winterfell over the past few years, you knew that its doors opened this widely for a very precious few. This was a welcome that had to be earned.

The party remained lively. The singers took up a spot in a far corner of the room, and the men took women into their arms to prance about the open space.

“Do you indulge Lady Y/N in dance at these feasts often, Cregan?” Jacaerys asked, and you stifled a laugh. 

“He would sooner take the black,” You joked, “And besides, Cregan is a fine warrior, but a terrible dancer.”

Cregan raised an eyebrow, but didn’t argue. “I’m glad you find this insufficiency of mine humorous, wife,” He conceded, before looking at Jacaerys, “I seem to recall you are fond of dancing.”

You smiled, looking at the prince gleefully. “You dance?”

He bobbed his head up and down, noncommittal in his answer. “I wouldn’t call myself a dancer, necessarily. I’ve learned the dances at court.” His expression turned smug. “I am certainly more capable than he is.”

Cregan scoffed, shaking his head. “I should have pledged for Aegon. Look at how you repay me.”

You stiffened at Cregan’s remark, only to relax when Jace burst out laughing. Cregan’s eyes were warm. Swallowing down your nervousness, your gaze flickered between them both. The Year of Tension—the final year of the late King Viserys’s life, and the two moons following his death where the realm teetered between peace and war—had been three years past now. Many still grew awkward when discussing the crisis of succession. Evidently, not Jace, who scoffed right back at your husband.

“And then what?” Jace quipped, “Vermax was right there. We would have made you the warmest Northerner in the history of the Seven Kingdoms.”

The prince moved his eyes back to you. “Come, my lady,” He said, standing and extending a hand, “If my friend will not indulge you in a dance before the night is over, then the pleasure shall be mine.”

You looked at his hand, and recognized a scar matching your husband’s. He led you to the dance floor, with no protests from Cregan. He seemed to watch you both with a deep interest. Jace faced you, and allowed you to come to him. One hand placed itself on his shoulder, and when you lifted your palm, he brought his to yours. A moment later, his hand landed on your waist, a gracious and polite distance between you both. A moment later, the music began.

“Are you happy to be back in the North?” You asked, beginning to move in tandem with him. Jace smiled.

“I am. It is an honor to be received in such a way, especially as an outsider.” 

He said outsider the way most Northerners said it. Like an insult. 

“You understand, yes?”

Shrugging as best as you could amidst the dance, you had to agree. “Many had their doubts when I wed Cregan. That the only woman suitable for Cregan Stark could be one bred by the North. Some were particularly vocal. To some, I’m a Northerner now. I’ve slowly started to think of myself as a Northerner. My children will be Northerners someday, and I will die in the North, most like.”

You paused, thinking about the friction you still came face to face with. “But some will always consider me to be an outsider. It can be admirable, I suppose. How united they are. Gods know they could use the unity down in the Riverlands.”

“Do you miss it?” He asked, breaking eye contact briefly to eye his feet. “Cregan told me you kept the Seven after your marriage. I imagine it must get lonely.”

“It can be.” You did the same, looking down at where your feet fit in between his as the dance continued. “But I am grateful. Many a husband would have demanded I take their gods instead. Not only did he welcome me to keep mine, but he has repurposed use a room in the southern wing of the castle as a room of worship. My own personal sept, if you will.”

“Do you keep a septon?”

“No,” You replied, almost sad, “There are few willing to make the long journey, only fewer wishing to preach to only one. Some visit, and stay for some moons. Not many.”

“I’m sorry to hear it.” Jace nodded affirmingly. “I can see to it personally that one be stationed here at Winterfell, if you would like.”

Immediately, you shook your head. “This is the North,” You said resolutely, “Ultimately, I must respect their customs. The servants in the castle are wary of the septons when they visit—they are wont to preach. I’m sure you know.”

He chuckled. “Oh, I do. My brother Lucerys and I were often on the receiving end of the preaching, when we were boys in the Red Keep.”

You smiled at the newfound warmth on his face, different from the happiness at being in Winterfell. A vicarious pride, happy to gush about his family. “How is your brother?”

Jace beamed, ever the proud eldest son. “Luke is well, thank you for asking. He’s soon to be seven and ten, and is likely a constant in the hearts of the young ladies at court. He spends most of his days out on the Velaryon fleet with our grandsire and has become adept at sailing.”

“A true Velaryon, indeed. You must be proud of the man he’s become.” You smiled, “I’m sure he will one day make a grand Lord of the Tides.”

“I agree, and I am proud, as any eldest brother can be. Extremely so,” Jace said wholeheartedly. 

The music swelled. He knew the steps of this dance well, it seemed, and suddenly you seemed inclined to believe he had downplayed his proficiency. He spun you with one hand and grabbed your other hand mid-spin. The two of you were now facing the same direction, Jace guiding you with his hands on yours. 

You looked up, focusing back on Cregan. He was watching you both lazily, one hand around the goblet. Gray eyes shifted ever so slightly, and you knew he was locking eyes with you. He clenched his jaw. Your breath hitched, fighting to maintain your composure and remember the steps to the dance. 

I adore you, you wanted to call from across the room, keep looking at me like that and it will kill me from want, and I will die the happiest woman in the world. 

Jace let go of your hand, finishing the spin, returning to the beginning of the sequence of steps. He had yet to stumble or hesitate. When he pulled you back in, it was closer now. He exhaled, and you felt it on your cheeks.

“You are exceedingly humble, my prince,” You sighed, looking up at him, “You are extremely graceful.”

He hummed, hand landing back on your waist. “You are too kind, Lady Y/N. Besides, someone has to dance with you, yes?”

A giggle fell from your lips. “You say that as if it is the ultimate tell of a marriage—whether a husband will dance with his wife.”

“Not necessarily.” Jace shook his head. He spun you around again, and when you saw his face next, he too was looking at Cregan. “As long as you are suited to each other’s company. As long as his character fits yours—which by the sound of his letters, they do.”

You blinked, watching him watch your husband. He seemed oddly transfixed. “We are quite happy. A-after two years…” 

You craned your neck, searching for your husband. Cregan was still watching. This time, however, his gray eyes held just above you, over you. 

He was watching Jace. And when you looked back at Jace, he was holding his gaze firm. Subtly, his hand tightened against your waist. You hardly noticed, until you began to slow as the music calmed.

“...I believe we understand each other quite well.”

The music ended moments later. The couples around you came to a stop, and when the applause began, Jace finally looked back at you. He smiled, but his eyes were unreadable. 

“It brings me much joy, that you and my friend have a happy marriage. You are very lucky.”

“Thank you, my prince.”

He led you back to the table, and the three of you retook your previous conversation. Cregan had drained another cup by then, a servant stopping by to refill it as you and Jace sat back down. When you sat, his neck craned to stare deeply at you. His gray eyes shone in the candlelight, pupils wide and dilated. You could feel your heart skip a beat, waiting for him to say something.

“Yes?” You asked. He shook his head, raking up and down your figure. 

“Nothing, pet.”

He did this often. Staring just to stare. The closest thing to adoration he would allow himself in front of others. Any man could look at his wife. None of them could look at you the way Cregan did. A profound longing, soliloquizing with a silvery stare all the things he could never bring himself to say out loud.

The conversation picked back up, at Jace’s insistence. You tried your best to continue, to remain active in the conversation, but it was the point of the night where Cregan’s intentions were beginning to bleed through, thanks to the drink.

The most telling of all was when Cregan’s hand moved past his plate, past his cup, beginning to inch towards yours, and by the gods—this tactic of his never failed to hit you like a young maiden. 

How ridiculous it seemed, that he could exert such power over you. His hands rarely ever touched yours on nights like these. He would make a game of drawing his hand near and pulling away before he could ever actually touch you. Coming close and inching away, like waves lapping at the side of a ship.

You’d never have taken Cregan for a tease, when you first married. And you supposed, in a way, he wasn’t truly. Not in the original sense of the word. You rarely had to tell him off, rarely had to shove sneaky hands away. He didn’t grab at you in front of his advisors, for which you were grateful. But small things like these, in a hallway or at supper… 

The unfairly tantalizing push and pull of something as miniscule as whether or not he would touch your hand. A side glance without actually turning his head, one with hooded eyes from either the drink or the suggestion of something more, once he had you all to himself. Anything more than touching was always relegated to the bedchamber.

No, Cregan’s teasing lied mostly in the negative, the promise of more without ever even giving anything in the first place. Not until the only eyes placed upon you were his own. He loved these things, how he could see your pupils dilate or your breath catch. And when the time finally came, when his hands found their way between your legs, he loved the evidence of just how much he affected you.

Where they found themselves inevitably, at the end of the night. Once the lords and ladies had sung their goodnights to the three of you and welcomed Jacaerys back to the North. Cregan had led you up the stairs with a hand at the small of your back and had pressed you up against the door of the bedchamber the second it closed behind you.

Nights with your husband tended to reveal his more brutish nature and true strength, hidden beneath layers of furs. He could be loving and tender every now and again. But often, Cregan seemed to need to prove himself worthy of the Stark name. A wolfish nature would emerge on nights like tonight. Bite marks on your shoulders, breasts, hips.

Even then, he was rougher than usual tonight. You never complained. Not when he drove himself into you with a force that pushed the air from your lungs, using rough hands to push your thighs up to your chest, and slot himself between them. Not when he took a thumb to your pearl and swirled it in circles until you sang so beautifully for him. Not when he bent down to press a bruising kiss to your mouth, giving you a moment to recover before he parted and asked for “just one more, my girl. Let your husband show you how much he loves you.”

When he spilled in you finally, and lay his head on your chest, you racked what was left of your mind to wonder what may have triggered an appearance from the wolf. Whenever he was challenged, he liked to take it out on you. Whether the challenge had been issued by one of his advisors during council gatherings, a lesser lord at an audience, or by you during an argument, Cregan seemed to revel in using your body as an outlet to release his frustrations.

But who had challenged him that night? Everyone had smiled at him all night long, especially with his guest of honor at his side. There were no attempts to provoke him, not in front of Jacaerys.

Which left Jacaerys himself. Jacaerys, who landed just outside of Winterfell atop a hulking bright green dragon, who had temporarily displaced your husband from his pedestal of most important man of the room. You furrowed your eyebrows as you stroked Cregan’s sweaty hair.

“I had not realized the prince triggered such envy in you,” You murmured, looking up at the canopy of your bed.

“Jealousy?” Cregan spoke against the skin of your breast. It briefly sounded as though he was a child caught doing something he should not have been doing. 

“Aye,” You said gently, “You don’t get like this often. Only when you get angry, or jealous. Or if I work you up, which I cannot imagine I did tonight.”

“No, you didn’t,” He hummed, “Very well behaved. And the feast was beautifully planned.”

“Do not coo at me like I were a pup,” You grumbled, pushing gently at his shoulder. “Besides, I was not about to provoke you in front of your friend and our future king. Or do you think so poorly of me?” 

Cregan rolled off of you gently, and you puffed out a sigh when you felt him leave you. He propped his head up on his hand, the other tracing the curve of your breast. 

“No, and I know you wouldn’t. You didn’t work me up, love.”

“Did it anger you when I danced with him?”

“Anger?” Cregan shook his head, frowning as if you had just spoken in tongues. “I was not angry at all. Nor was I jealous.”

You scoffed. “You were looking at each other like two horned deer about to spar. What a fight that would have been.”

Your husband tilted his head. It looked like he was holding back a smile. “Is that what you think it was?”

“Don’t deny it,” You huffed. Cregan smiled now, waving his hand.

“There is nothing to deny, because it is not true. You misunderstand, love. You’ll see.”

And see, you did. But it was not unsettling.

By the end of the first week, none of it seemed strange to you. You didn’t think it strange when Jace accompanied you both on a tour of the armory, and Cregan’s fingers brushed Jace’s when Cregan was showing him how to use a crossbow thought to have belonged to Torrhen Stark’s daughter. Nor when Jace passed by your husband in a small hallway, and instead of waiting for precedent, for Cregan to step to the side for a Prince of the Realm, Jace took it upon himself to brush past, gently nudging Cregan to the side by brushing his hands along Cregan’s waist. 

What befuddled you was that even through all of this, you never felt a drop of jealousy. Even when you noticed the nature of Cregan and Jace’s relationship: the long bouts of eye contact, the unspoken conversations, the laughter, the way they seemed to orbit too close to each other. If anything, it only spurred curiosity. Every movement was now artwork for you to repaint in your mind. Every conversation became a dead man to dissect, and you the maester.

You waited, admittedly, for the twist in your chest, the urge to cling to Cregan, the ugly bloom of green in your heart that would turn your impression of the Prince of Dragonstone ugly and unpleasant. It never came. Instead, you were left with the strangest desire to push them closer. Like when you played with your dolls as a girl, and made your princess kiss her knight. You almost wondered if there was something wrong with you. 

Because there was no knight or princess to be seen here. In their place stood your husband and a prince of the realm. 

You sat with the doubt, but not for very long. Mostly because you had a spectre of a thought, one that could never be put into writing or spoken into words. A hunch. An inkling.

That if you truly were to push them closer, they would not protest.

Your husband was, for all intents and purposes, an emotionless wall of a man. Until it came to you. You could read him like a sailor could the stars. You had lived and learned his tells over the course of your alliance. The twitch of his lips, the flexing of the joints in his fingers. Whenever Jace was in the room, you could feel it. Taste it.

Jace would crack a joke, smug and wry. Bring up an old memory, or something they had discussed in a letter. His head would tilt back with an air of pride expected from the heir to the Iron Throne, and in a moment anyone else would miss, a fraction of a second, Cregan’s eyes would glance down at the span of his neck. 

Every now and then, if Jace veered too close, you could make out the smallest dimpling of Cregan’s right cheek. Immediately you knew what from: gnawing on the inside of his cheek. Because he couldn’t bite down on what he really wanted to. You knew this look—you had been on the receiving end of it at feasts that dragged on for too long, or council meetings that grew too boring.

What you hadn’t anticipated was the prince turning his attention to you.

•❆·.　❆　　.•　·•　❅　·❆.

The end of the first week came to a close in Cregan’s private study. Cregan had sent you off to bed without him, and together with Jace, they had opened an old cask distilled in Karhold many years ago. The final day of the first week had been slower, and had left time for the old pair to finally have some time on their own. 

The conversation began as normal as ever. Debriefing the first few days here at Winterfell, rehashing memories, discussing politics and logistics. Until Jace decided to change the subject.

“Your wife is a wonderful woman,” He said genuinely, “Your match was well suited.”

Cregan smiled at his mentioning you. “It did not always feel that way.”

Jace swirled the liquor in his goblet. “Oh? No?”

Cregan sighed. “The arrangement was made before we ever met. We had no time to become familiar before—”

“Before you became familiar.”

“Not—Jacaerys.” Cregan flashed him a look, but it was not threatening in the slightest. Jace snickered, and Cregan felt his chest grow warm. 

How he had missed this. There were few in Winterfell with whom he could simply joke with, like this. He was always the most needed man in the room, here. Everyone wanted something from him, always. Not Jace.

Not in a way Cregan would have complained about, anyway. 

No, here in this room, he could simply be Cregan. No one to lord over or wrench power away from. He supposed all of that fell on his prince’s shoulders. He returned to the question he’d asked himself for years: who took all of that from Jacaerys?

“Lord Tully took it upon himself to arrange the match,” He continued, “I think Y/N’s father was positioning things to have her wed Lord Oscar.”

Jace raised his eyebrows. “He’s around Luke’s age, I’d wager. He was so young back then.”

“Aye,” Cregan agreed, “And not keen on taking a wife at that time, certainly not one several years older than he. No, Oscar Tully wrote to me instead, and one of my men who’d ridden to Riverrun once and held court with them all around that time told me she was beautiful, and I thought it time.”

“I take it Lord Mallister didn’t care which great lord got his eldest daughter, just that a great lord had her,” Jace quipped. Cregan shrugged, somewhat indifferent at the mention of his father in law.

“He seemed overjoyed at her match with the Warden of the North.” Cregan sat down opposite him, lost in thought. When he spoke again, his tone was downturned. Regretful. 

“We had a misunderstanding, the night of the wedding. I believe I’ve told you.”

“You thought you’d frightened her.” Jace crossed his arms, trying to recall the story. “And she thought you resented her.”

Cregan sighed, mournful of the entire affair. He pinched the bridge of his nose, recalling the distance he found in you back then. “Everything went… well enough that night. It was wonderful. Then in the morning I opened my big idiot mouth and said something I should not have. We did not lay together for another three moons after. She looked at me as if I had threatened to bite her head off.”

“You always were such a poet, Lord Stark.”

“And you have always loved to make fun,” Cregan bit back, straightening his posture. Jace finished his drink, and Cregan poured himself another one.

“She seems transfixed with you now,” Jace observed, “Always watching you. She is exceedingly… warm towards you. Though neither of you say it much.”

“Sometimes she is of fewer words than I,” Cregan conceded, “But there can be such joy in a shared silence when there is no pressure to fill it. We speak freely when we want.”

Jace was silent as he mulled over Cregan’s words. The prince looked over to where his friend was sitting, taking note of the fond expression on his face.  He opened his mouth. Hesitated. But pressed on nonetheless.

“I’ll admit, it’s not what I would have expected from you.”

Cregan tilted his head towards Jace, gaze turning firm. “This came because it was expected of me.”

Jace pursed his lips. “I would have expected someone more talkative than you. A bit more willing to push.”

They held each other’s eye, and the air turned tense. The topic was a seal that should have remained unbroken. Cregan took a deep breath. 

“Someone like you?” He asked, in that low gentle tone he took when he already knew the answer to the question he was asking. The seal gave way, peeling Cregan’s walls back until what was left was a man Jace had known much closer, once. Someone he remembered quite frequently, late at night. He lifted the goblet and drank, but did not look away. Cregan squared his shoulders.

“Have you considered that it may have been good for that moment in time,” He said, “But would not have suited me long term?”

“It was never suitable for either of us,” Jace countered, setting down the goblet, “And we did it anyway, Lord Stark.”

“Jacaerys,” Cregan mumbled, “You are being unfair.”

He had misstepped, he realized. “Do you take me for a spurned lover, Cregan?”  

Cregan stared back at him, wordless. Cold gray eyes that had been warm not five minutes ago caused Jace to reevaluate his words. At the realization, Jace shook his head. He held up his hands in truce, offering a small gentle smile to boot. “I do not mean to turn this into a grudge or an argument. Truly. I just wondered…”

He watched Cregan’s jaw clench when he trailed off, feeling something warm and familiar bloom in his chest.

“Wondered what, my prince?” His tone was gruffer, words clipped. This was dangerous territory. In another life, his teasing likely would have burst into something that would have had Jace’s toes curling, legs raised towards the sky.

His smile turned sly. “Your wife is beautiful,” He said, tracing his fingers up and down the intricate details of the goblet, “Any man can see that.”

“Jace.”

The prince licked his lips, watching Cregan’s nostrils flare. Already, he seemed to know what Jace would end up saying. How delightful, he thought. Another opportunity to tantalize him.

“Would you be willing,” He said slowly, “Would she be willing…?”

Cregan’s voice dropped a dangerous octave. “Jacaerys.”

He blinked once, twice. The subtlest fluttering of his lashes. “Yes, my lord?”

Cregan’s knuckles were white against the tip of the armchair. Jace had known those knuckles very well, once. He had committed the ridges of them to memory. He would commission sculptures of them for his own personal collection, if Cregan had allowed it.

A pity. If this was how Cregan reacted to Jace asking him to fuck his wife, he doubted he’d say yes to that.

Cregan drained his cup, standing. “I ask you to leave my lady wife out of this conversation. I would not leave her to the devices of other men in our own bedchamber. She would not allow it.”

Before he could move to leave, Jace stood, making quick work to block Cregan’s path to the door with his own body. Cregan froze, hovering dangerously close.

“Who said anything about our being alone?” Jace shook his head, grinning. “How unimaginative, Cregan. That I want simply to ravish your wife and make a cuckold of you in your own home.”

“Is that not what you’re asking of me?” Cregan said, voice dangerously close to a growl.

At this, Jace shook his head again. His smile widened, showing teeth that would strike if he had the chance, the permission. The permission could not be granted by either person in this room. They both seemed to understand this. It did not mean they wanted it any less.

“I was of the understanding that cuckolds do not participate. I would not want her without you there. I want both of you.”

If Cregan asked him to leave, he would leave. Leave the room, leave Winterfell. He would walk into the snow, climb atop Vermax, and return to Dragonstone at this very moment. If Cregan punched him, he would perhaps also welcome it. He was well aware of how out of turn it sounded, noble hierarchy be damned.

It seemed Cregan had not considered this a possibility. His mouth opened, then closed. He studied Jace’s gaze, seeming to look for any inclination that he may be joking. The entire time, Jace held firm.

When Cregan found none, his eyes travelled down to Jace’s heart-shaped lips. Jace’s heart hammered in his chest.

“One night,” Jace suggested, “The three of us. You and her, as the gods intended it. Her and I, you and me, as we intend it.”

Cregan took a deep breath, brows furrowing. His tone seemed to waver, simmering with apprehension. “Jace…” 

“One night, and I will never ask you anything of the sort again. I know you love your wife,” He insisted, “And ours is long past. But do you not also think back on how we once were? How good we could make each other feel, and wonder whether or not we could ever do it again?” 

“My duty is to my wife.” He looked away, but from here, Jace saw no denial. He craned his neck downwards.

“I would wager gold,” Jace murmured raspily, “That if I were to grab you right now, your cock would be hard.”

Jace didn’t move, but Cregan’s hand shot out to stop him before he could, wrapping against Jace’s slender wrist. Cregan was facing him again, and Jace lifted his head. How close they had drifted in the past few minutes. He could feel Cregan’s body heat radiating off of him. 

Cregan’s hand felt like a brand, heat starting at his skin and melting through his flesh until it burned at his bones. 

“Where has this greed come from, my prince?”

“Search your memories,” Jace answered, “I have always been like this. Only the last time, you bent me over in the middle of the Wolfswood to satisfy me.”

Cregan licked his lips. Jace watched the glide of his pink tongue with the rapt attention of a rabbit suddenly aware of a wolf. 

“Your… idea,” Cregan began, “It interests me. I must admit it.”

Jace smirked, but it was premature. Cregan let go of his wrist, and straightened his posture. He jutted his chin out, probably trying to feel even taller than he already was.

“I have never known my wife to look at another man, however,” He said, sounding rather proud at this. “Her eyes have never wandered, nor have mine. Our vows are resolute.”

Jace swallowed, starting to prepare to apologize, to patch his ego. He wondered how cold it was in the skies at this hour of night. 

“But we have never been issued a challenge of this sort,” Cregan finished, and Jace’s brows began to raise. 

“Challenge?”

Finally, Cregan smiled. It was small, lopsided. Jace felt his heart stutter, wondering how many times Cregan had given you this smile. What a privilege, to be on the receiving end of it for the rest of your days.

“If you can entice my wife,” Cregan murmured, “I will broach the subject with her.” 

“I’ll charm her. Just as I charmed you.”

Cregan shook his head. “You don’t know Y/N like I do. She has a will made of steel.”

“So did you, I recall.” Jace had done this once. He could do it again. He raised a hand slowly, placing it in the center of Cregan’s leather doublet. Jace pressed down, searching eagerly for a restless ba-bump, ba-bump, ba-bump. He found it, feeling the beating of Cregan’s heart against a three-year old scar that spanned the middle of his palm. 

“All it took was some pouting and some wine. And you folded the moment I pressed my lips to yours.”

There it was, Jace realized a moment later. Looking at Cregan, however, he would not have guessed such an uneven pace.

“I will say again,” Cregan said, slowing down his cadence, “You—do—not—know—her.”

Gods, how familiar this felt. Jace loved to push. Years past, Jace would poke and prod at the sleeping wolf, hoping desperately to wake. His antagonizing would lead to a pay off in teeth-clacking kisses, a pleasing soreness in his lower abdomen, and bite marks on his nipples (and once, his left ass cheek).

“No, but I know you.” Jace leaned forward. Cregan smelled of pine and bittersweet liquor. “I know your methods. All I have to do is inspire. Create a fantasy worthy of making her thoughts stray.”

Cregan remained silent. This proximity was dangerous. Jace knew that Cregan could also feel the way the air moved differently at such a short distance. When he tried to meet his brown eyes with Cregan’s gray, he found them turned just below his nose. Jace swallowed.

The Lord of Winterfell watched as Jace’s lips pressed together to hum, then turned upward. 

“Besides,” Jace murmured, wanting so terribly to just lean forward and reunite. “I have already made your eyes wander. And it has not yet been a week since I’ve returned.”

Cregan bit his lower lip, and paused for a beat before stepping away. The sweet moment was gone, torn away, but deep down Jace knew that he had reached the end of this path. They could not pass this wall without crossing into the realm of dishonor. He wondered if Cregan’s heart was beating as hard as his own. 

And still, he grinned hungrily. Bracing. Willing. 

“What more can it be to make hers?”

WEEK TWO.

Whatever initial anxiety you’d had prior to the prince and his dragon touching down in Winterfell seemed to melt away as you became better acquainted with him. The first week had been largely focused on the North as a whole: Jace had met with representatives from the likes of the Dreadfort, White Harbor, and Bear Island. A small envoy had been sent from the Wall to discuss the needs of the Night’s Watch with the prince. One more grand banquet was held that week, the planning leaving you too preoccupied to join your husband and his guests. 

This second week, however, felt more focused on Winterfell. Thus, as the Lady of the household, Jace’s attention turned to you. You walked the grounds with him speaking of the logistics of granaries, food distribution, expectations for your servants.

Many men would scoff or roll their eyes at the womanly duties of running a household. Not Jace. He remained attentive, clearly listening, asking genuine questions. Others, when they made it this far, would take it upon themselves to saddle you with recommendations you did not need. You do not need this many servants to do the washing, they might say. 

And they would turn their lips if you answered genuinely: perhaps not, but I would rather have a few more servants than needed than to deprive these people of coin to feed their families. Winter is hard enough.

Instead, Jace would listen to you speak. He would mull it over, then ask. When you offered your rationale, he would consider it—actually consider it, not pretend that he valued your insight. 

“You are incredibly receptive, Your Grace,” You said, “Some men have very strong opinions on how I run my household.”

“What know I of running households?” He answered, tone tinged with offense on your behalf. “Much less Northern ones at the height of winter.”

“You would be surprised.” Your smile held no joy. “You’d think I was Dornish, the way they think I know nothing about a long winter.”

He tilted his head. “Have you ever challenged their notions?”

You sighed, tracing a piece of embroidery over your skirt. “The septons say grace is of utmost importance. I would rather turn the other cheek than argue.”

Jace frowned. “How heavy it must be, to carry all of it in silence.”

With resignation, you looked at him. The freckles across his cheeks, just below eyes tinged with empathy.

“It can be.”

Jace crossed his arms, rubbing them up and down slowly. Despite the furs draped across his shoulders, he still seemed cold. Or perhaps it was more for comfort. You couldn’t be sure.

“I held back like you, once,” He said after a moment of silent rumination. Brown eyes met yours. His dark, curly, rather un-Valyrian hair fluttered in the wind. 

“When the knife comes for you, holding it by the blade will only you more. There must come a time when you turn it on whoever you’re duelling with.”

You didn’t ask him what he meant by that. You didn’t think you needed to.

There was a refreshing frankness about him, one that was exceptionally rare around these parts. Many Northerners seemed to use honesty as an opportunity for jaggedness. Honest to a fault, particularly brutal at your lowest. Jace’s honesty was nestled in kindness. The intention behind it was entirely different. It was comforting and not reproachful. He did not seek to pick apart your every action and your sex was not immediately discrediting to him.

It was pleasing and surprising. He seemed to be molded by gentleness that you would not expect of a dragon prince, and seemed to genuinely like you as a friend. Not just as the wife of his friend and political ally.

They had to have spoken about you, you assumed. What man did not speak of his wife to his closest friend? What friend did not offer advice or insight in return?

Honesty was never lacking in your husband. He was not normally one to hide things from you, not unless he knew you’d delight in the surprise. That being said, there was a difference between honesty and openness. While Cregan was not lacking in the former, he certainly did the latter. Pulling truth from him was easy. Pulling the whole truth, however, and asking him to lay his emotions bare, was worse than removing an arrow from a wounded man.

So, whenever you wanted his truths laid bare, his heart on his sleeve, you waited until you both returned to the shared intimacy of the bedchamber. Right before it became too late, and Cregan blew out the candles so that you may both rest your heads together.

And so it came when he was sitting on the edge of the bed. Sitting behind him on your knees, brushing out his long, dark hair. His shoulders were slumped and his breathing was slow. 

Lax, your man. At rest from a world that demanded so much of him, with someone who demanded only his full self. Tonight, the latter was not the scarier option. 

“Does he like me?” The peace in the room was so resounding that your murmur felt like yelling into the void. “Do you know what he thinks of me?”

Cregan didn’t turn, seemingly content to let you brush through his hair. His low tone seemed weighed down with sleep. “Who? Jace?”   

“Hmm,” You confirmed, “He has been incredibly kind.”

“Has he, now?” He rumbled mirthfully. You frowned. He knew you had worried over the crown prince’s approval. Why did he seem to be teasing you all of a sudden?

“I… yes.” You worried at your lower lip, lowering the brush. The loss of sensation was what finally made him turn back to you. He had a smile to match his previous tone, but when he saw the unsteadiness in your brow, the nibbling at your mouth, his face changed. His eyes filled with warmth, and a hand came up to caress your cheek.

“Why would he not like you then, love? If he has been so kind, as you are telling me.” 

You looked downward, suddenly unsure. “I don’t know. I just… I want him to like me. I need him to like me, Cregan. He had a spot in your heart before I did. I cannot have us at odds.”

He shifted his position to fully face you now, pulling his legs onto the bed before pulling you into his lap.

“My anxious little wife,” He whispered, “So desperate for the approval she has already been given. One she never would have had to earn.”

“He likes me then?”

He shook his head, but not in denial. “He does. But I wish the opinions of others would not worry you so.”

“I care not for the opinions of others,” You huffed, “I care for the approval of our future king and your dear friend.”

Large hands caressed your sides, warming your skin through the fabric of your nightgown. You wrapped your arms around his neck, analyzing the details of his face. Ones you already knew but would be happy to stare at again and again. A small scar at the top of his cheekbone from sparring in his youth. The soft stubble on his chin. A mole near his jaw. 

“He’s quite taken with you, love,” Cregan whispered, tension in your chest releasing at his admission, “He says you are quite capable at running our home. He considers you gentle. Graceful.”

Your cheeks went warm. “Does he really?”

He nodded. “Beautiful, too.”

“Oh.”

He stifled a laugh. “Are you blushing?”

“I—no.”

“You’re blushing,” Cregan said, boyish and teasing, “I just told you Jacaerys Velaryon thinks you’re beautiful, and you’re blushing.”

You straightened your posture, trying to push yourself off of him. “Well, it is quite late. Let us sleep, husband—”

He finally laughed, and you wanted to smack him. He pulled you in closer, despite your squirming, and gave you a chaste kiss. “Worry not, Y/N. It does not offend me.”

“Enough of this foolishness, Cregan. It is time for bed.”

He laughed, reveling in your bashfulness. “You asked me—”

“Hush. Bed.”

Throughout the week, Jace’s attention remained fixated on you. Walking the grounds with you, engrossing you in conversation on a variety of topics, from history, to your taste in wines, to snickering about your husband’s habits. He seemed to slowly come closer as your bond grew. Standing at a respectful distance at the beginning of his visit. Closing the distance with every passing day.

It did not dawn on you until the end of your third banquet, halfway through the second week. The night grew rather late, again full of dancing, singing and well roasted meat. Drinking games accelerated the chaos of the night. Jace had even convinced Cregan to partake in one—a game of tongue twisters and limericks, which he had inevitably lost. 

By the end of the night, you were swaying on your feet. While Cregan was not, he was clearly not in possession of all his wits. You retired while there were still a few lords and ladies insistent on seeing the rest of the game through, Jace lingering with them.

His touch was innocent enough to the onlookers. Lingering on your hip, steering you up the stairs. A lord gently taking his lady wife to bed. How noble, how chivalrous. As you went up the stairs, yours and his steps seemed to echo a little louder than they usually did. 

And then, once the lull of the party was far away enough, you rounded a corner, and he pinned you up against an alcove in the wall. You froze, unsure what to do. You weren’t going to turn him down, but gods, you couldn’t think of the last time he tried to ravish you in an empty hallway where anyone could walk past. 

“You looked beautiful tonight,” He growled against your neck, “and I am the luckiest man in the world.”

“Cregan—what are you—” 

“What do you think, pet?” A hand slid down your side, finding your hip under your dress and hiking it around his waist. With a finesse you did not usually expect from him, he slipped past the hem of your dress. His touch trailed up your ankle, past your stockings and thigh, searching, searching, and oh, finding…

“Cregan,” You whimpered, trying to stay quiet as his fingers came to glide through your folds. Your hands clung to his back.

“Let me,” He pleaded, restrained and throaty that made you clench around nothing, “I could take you right now, if you let me.”

“They will hear—” He chose your protest to plunge a finger in, thick and teasing.

He brought his mouth up to your ear. “Let them.”

Your head tipped forward, back pressing into the cold stone of the wall. Your lips yearned for the skin of his shoulder, his collarbone, but he was still fully dressed. You chose instead to press your mouth against the fabric of his doublet, trying hard to stifle your keening as he explored your walls.

His fingers began to speed their pace, pleasure rolling up your body, starting at your core and travelling up your torso, down your legs. You let yourself imagine it, a deep shiver taking over your person

His lips took your earlobe into his mouth, suckling gently. You could feel him pressing against your thigh, and you furrowed your brow. Whatever madness had possessed your husband, it had spread to his fingers, and you gasped against the thick gray wool at his shoulder when he pushed another in. 

“Do you want me to?” He pulled you closer with his free hand, and you couldn’t hold back the cry that came with being impaled further on his digits. “To fuck you up against this wall, and let Lord Glover hear how good I make you feel?”

You couldn’t find your words, eyes screwing shut as you imagined what he was suggesting. 

And when you opened your eyes, you found you didn’t need to. Peeking from around the corner, in the dark, you saw him: dark curly hair, slightly dishevelled from a night of drinking. Dark eyes trained on your face. You could feel it, at the base of your spine, and it spiked when you realized who you were looking at.

“Fuck—”

“Tell them, Y/N,” He demanded, free hand digging into your side, as if he wanted to break past the dress and melt his skin into yours, “Tell them who’s going to make you cum like this.”

Jace stepped out from behind the corner, and when your eyes trailed downward, you could see how hard he was. He wanted you. You wanted him.

“I—”

Cregan bit down on your neck, and a cry wrenched from the back of your throat.

“Jace!”

You shot up in your bed, heart threatening to break out of your chest. Cregan stirred by your side, but did not wake. You clutched the blanket to your bare chest, remembering how the night had ended. The three of you had retired together after a third round of drinking games. You and Cregan had walked Jace back to the chamber he was staying in, and then when you returned to your own, Cregan had pinned you to the ground, hiked your skirts up and fucked you until the embers in the hearth burned low.

Your eyes drifted back to your husband, who looked so unbelievably peaceful at your side. He was naked under the covers, and you willed your breath to steady. A hand brushed your hair out of your face. Your voice was trembling as you whispered into the cold air of the bedchamber.

“Father, give me strength.”

You tried to ignore the dream. A figment of your imagination. All the time around your guest and his proximity to your husband had clearly caused a lapse in your subconscious. Yes. Yes, this is what you told yourself.

This was all happening in your mind. Jace was not really closing the distance. It could not be. 

At the end of the week, he took you to meet his dragon. Cregan had ridden to Wintertown that morning to settle a land dispute, and had left you alone in Jace’s company. The pair had joked with each other before your husband’s departure in such a manner that had you peeling your eyes to watch the twitch of gloved fingers against reins, the furling and unfurling of lips.

Gods, how they had crafted a work of art together. A mosaic of seemingly innocuous looks and turns of phrase. How you wondered what the grout that held it all together was made up of. The promises whispered into the tiles as they had dried. And whether there was still room in the center of it all, where you could carve perfectly sized shapes of your flesh and shove them in between.

“Mind your manners, my prince.” Sarcasm from Cregan was seldom heard, but Jace had unfolded corners of your husband you scarcely knew existed. His lips threatened to curl up as his men began to ride off ahead of him.

“Of course, Lord Stark,” Jace had answered, “I know how to share. Do you?” 

Cregan had said nothing. His fingers seemed to tighten their grip on the reins. A breath later, his eyes landed on you. You felt a ball of nerves grow in your chest.

“Take good care of our guest, wife. I’ll be back before dark.”

And then he left.

The guards had shown you where Vermax was resting—a large, empty barn meant to stack provisions tens of feet high into the air, emptied ahead of the prince’s visit to accommodate the large creature. Most days, the beast spent his time flying, stretching his wings, always returning to his rider and the attendants who had ridden up prior to Jace. A devotion you would never know. A blood oath Jace would rather die than live without. 

“Cold then, are you, old friend?” Jace asked Vermax, stroking his snout affectionately. The dragon leaned its head into Jace’s touch, letting loose a sound that sounded like a complaint. 

“Ever spoiled, my Vermax. I know, I know,” Jace cooed, speaking to him as if he were a pet cat and not one of the most powerful creatures in the world, “Only two more weeks, and then we can return to Dragonstone.”

He spoke to the dragon as if they drank together, or were hunting friends. Mouth tipped open in awe, you realized that that was what they were. Brothers spanning species. Metals forged together in the fire, into the ultimate weapon. Jace turned back to look at you, a smile spreading across his face as he took note of your expression.

“Come say hello, Lady Y/N,” Jace suggested, and you eyed the dragon warily. 

Women of the Riverlands knew how to hunt and how to respect the wild animals they hunted. You knew the likes of bears, deer, wolves. Quite literally, this was an entirely different beast. A being bred from blood magic and scales that glittered like emeralds. You had only seen dragons twice before this, and only ever from overhead. This was the closest you had ever come to one.

You took half a step before your body became too tense to move forth. “Y-your grace. Are you sure he’ll let me…”

“He can feel my trust in you,” Jace explained, nodding encouragingly, “We share an emotional bond. I trust anyone he trusts, and he the same.”

Vermax let loose an excited growl, and were your feet not glued to the ground, your bones would have jumped from your skin. Jace tipped his head back, laughing as if Vermax had told the greatest joke Jace had ever had the pleasure of hearing. 

“He can feel your apprehension, which he appreciates.”

Your brows furrowed, looking up at Vermax. His glowing, orange eyes peered back down of you, and you forced yourself to keep his gaze.

“He… appreciates it,” You said flatly, trying hard not to jump back “Well, I’d scarcely take joy in offending him.”

“Dragons consider gentle hesitation as a sign of respect,” Jace continued, still petting Vermax’s side, “Oftentimes those who have never so much as seen a dragon think they can tame them with their touch. It never ends well, I have seen it myself. They are not lap dogs, my lady.”

You wanted to laugh, looking back at Jace. “Are they not? I hadn’t realized.”

The Prince of Dragonstone seemed to be enjoying himself far too much for your comfort. He stepped away from the dragon, in your direction. “There is a fine line, funnily enough. Hubris aggravates them. Excessive displays of fear make them impatient.”

His smile faded, but his expression remained warm. Beckoning you closer. “Come. He won’t harm you while I’m here.”

Moving too suddenly around the dragon, in your opinion, Jace swept forward and closed the gap between you both. He stepped behind you, a hand coming up to the small of your back to guide you. The other traced your arm gently, starting from your elbow and ghosting down until his fingers wrapped themselves around your wrist. 

His touch was light. His palms were cold, calloused from years of dragonriding. He lowered his voice to a murmur, speaking from over your shoulder. 

“Here,” He offered, using his grip to raise your hand, “Let me help you.”

With Jace as your guide, Vermax lowered his head. You could feel the dragon’s hot breath warming the space, being pushed low with his exhales and moving up as the heat from within him expanded before rising up into the rafters of the barn. The smell of smoke filled your nose.

“Slowly.” Jace’s mouth was both too close and too far away from your ear. “Though he’s harmless, right now at least.”

“Is he as gentle as you, my prince?” You asked, and he exhaled–an almost laugh with such a specific sound you didn’t need to see him to know he was smiling again. He sounded closer now.

The emerald dragon was inches from you now, rumbling low. You could feel the sweat beginning to form in your hairline.

Jace’s lip pressed itself to your ear. Your eyes fluttered shut, and his voice lowered itself to a whisper. 

“Whoever said I was gentle, Lady Stark?”

Scales in your palm, pressing up into you. Fingertips at your knuckles, holding tightly. Your eyes opened, and it fell into place for you as you peered up at Vermax, now nuzzling into your palm.

“You are one,” You murmured, awestruck.

Jace nodded proudly, the movement vivid against the side of your head. “He is mine own brother in all but blood. Were one of us to die, the other would feel a hollow in our chest the rest of our days.”

“Does that scare you?”

This time, Jace doesn’t nod. You heard him swallow. He let loose a shaky breath, now too looking at his dragon. His hand prompted yours, and you began to scratch the tip of Vermax’s nose. Vermax let out a pleased huff, but it did little to assuage Jace.

“It is my worst fear,” The prince admitted, “One so strong I’ve lost count of the nightmares it has brought me.”

Your head turned to look at him then. Emotions danced in his eyes—pain, admiration, adoration, all for his dragon. He looked so young, still. Even if it was winter, and the sun was dull and dim, freckles still spanned his sharp cheekbones and angular nose. If you wanted to, you could probably count every single one. Gods, did you want to.

With a purse of your lips you realized just how close he was. Jace wasn’t looking at you, however. And Vermax, despite pressing into your palm, was looking at Jace. 

They have known each other for a thousand years, it would have seemed. There was some sort of conversation happening here you were not physically capable of being privy to. It was all too familiar, you thought, and your lips turned up before you could help it.

This drew Jace’s attention. He raised an eyebrow, smirking. Face to face now, still behind you. Pressing close. Too close. “What?”

“This is a talent of yours, Jace. Holding entire conversations with your eyes.”

He shook his head. “It is a bond between dragon and rider.”

Your eyes widened, gaze curious but not prying. “Oh? Since when is my lord husband your dragon, then?”

Jace looked surprised for a moment, before scanning your face. Dark eyes lingered on your lips a beat too long, causing your breath to hitch.

“Is that jealousy I hear, Lady Stark?”

Now you shook your head with a wry smile. “Not at all. I’m simply curious.”

Jace’s forehead tilted forward, ever playful. His breath fanned your face. “Ask away, then. I am an open book.”

“You may be an open book, Prince Jacaerys,” You murmured, blood roaring in your ears, “Yet my lord husband seals himself shut until you are at his side.”

“What can I say,” He whispered, nose ghosting across yours, “I’ve a gift for opening people up.”

If either of you moved half an inch closer, your lips would touch. This was an exquisite torture. Surely, this was crossing someone’s line. Yours, Jace’s, Cregan’s. At some point they merged. Stopped being lines and curved, woven into a circle. 

You exhaled steadily. Vermax, suddenly disinterested, stepped away. Jace didn’t let go of your hand as you lowered it. His other hand—when had it moved from the small of your back to your hip?

You were warm. The dragon was warm—surely, this was why. You should have stepped away. Jace should have stepped away. This was hardly proper.

“You and my husband share the strangest bond,” You pointed out, “One I’ve seldom seen between men.”

The statement was a question you didn’t need to pose. Jace hummed, raising his eyebrows. Goading. Expecting. The hand on his hip began to rise.

“Is this an accusation, my lady?” His low tone held no malice, hand tightened against your hip. The rise and fall of his chest pressed up against your back told you everything you needed to know. He wanted this as much as you did.

“Not in the slightest, my prince,” A third time, you shook your head, slower. More deliberate. Using the movement to brush the tip of your nose against his. A small smile graced his pretty lips, lips now so close to yours anyone from afar would think the worst of Lady Stark and The Prince of Dragonstone. 

His nose pressed harder into yours. Your mouth tipped open, nearly trembling with anticipation. Every second grew infinite.

“No?” Jace murmured, eyes trained on your parted lips, “What should I take it for, then?” 

He dragged a finger across your wedding band. You felt your mouth go dry.

An invitation, you wanted to say. A door I want you to open.

He would have kissed you. Or you would have kissed him. Someone would have stumbled in the next few seconds, you knew it to be true. Your blood was running too hot and the pupils of his dark eyes were too dilated. You were two objects in unstoppable movement in the direct line of each other’s fire. The collision would have been inevitable and ruinous and you would have welcomed it with open arms.

But then Vermax’s head snapped up, grunting at something behind you. Jace, feeling his dragon’s altered state, split from you. You jumped at both of their movements, perfectly in sync with each other. And when the pair of you turned, your eyes landed on one of your guards, who looked incredibly uncomfortable at the entire ordeal. 

“Y-your grace, Lady Stark,” He said, “Lord Cregan has returned.”

You cleared your throat, hands smoothing out your dress. At your side, the prince clasped his hands behind his back. He clenched his jaw, and any hint of his playfulness was gone. 

“Yes. Yes, of course,” You sighed, heart pounding, “Thank you, Ser Justin.”

•❆·.　❆　　.•　·•　❅　·❆.

The whole ordeal left you with an ever growing sense of anticipation and dread. At dinner—tonight a smaller affair between some of the higher ranking lords and ladies who had come to visit—you sat at Cregan’s side. He sat at one head of the table, Jace at the other. 

The table was long enough to where you could easily avoid conversation with him. You hardly spoke a word to him the entire evening. You could hardly speak a word to anyone. Somewhat naively, you hoped to make it through the evening without anyone noticing.

And then Lady Umber opened her mouth.

“You are rather quiet tonight, Lady Stark,” She pointed out, the table quieting to listen to her speak, “I hope you are not fatigued by the large number of guests.”

“Not in the slightest, Lady Umber,” You answered, painting on a smile, “The conversation flows so well amongst you all tonight I am happy to simply listen.”

“How glad I am that we are such a source of entertainment.” Her tone was dripping with knives disguised as niceties. “I take it after all these years we are still novel to you.”

You set your knife down, taking a deep breath. You glanced over at Cregan, who was eyeing Lord Umber with a silent urge to wrangle his lady wife. Lord Umber looked as though he was about to break into a sweat. You felt something take hold of you, starting in your chest and spreading through your shoulders.

Lord Umber stammered, “Wife—”

“Two years is a long time, Lady Miranda,” You said, trying hard not to stumble over your words, “Though I’m sure after all of yours, it feels quite short.”

Silence. Lady Umber’s eyes widened, and for half a moment, she looked like a fish out of water, mouth opening and closing with no sound to accompany the movement. The rest of the table grew deathly still. The sound of silverware scraping against plates all but disappeared. 

Your eyes found Cregan’s again. Even he seemed surprised, but not angry. His stare held a subdued wonder, one brow raised in bewilderment. He looked across the table, and you didn’t need to follow his gaze to know who he was looking at. You swallowed, unsure of what to say or do. Everyone’s eyes were suddenly on you as the person who had taken control of the moment. And here you were, unsure of where to take it next. 

Thankfully, you weren’t the one to decide. 

Jace snorted so hard into his goblet of wine that it broke the tension entirely. He was bright red, having held back so hard from laughing. But now, he could no longer handle it, hastily setting the cup down and covering his spluttering with his other hand.

Your mouth fell open, face burning profusely. Then, at your side, the impossible happened. Cregan coughed, looking down at his plate. 

Everyone’s heads turned to look at him. 

He nodded once, clenching his jaw. When he looked back up, eyes trained in the prince’s direction, his mouth twitched. 

And then he laughed. Once, twice, and before you knew it, his shoulders were heaving. 

Awkward laughter erupted at the table. Some unsure, some genuine. Most in disbelief. The chain reaction of your challenge, Jace’s choking, and finally Cregan Stark laughing. Actually laughing. 

When you looked back at Lady Umber, she was clearly fuming. But she had lost.

And perhaps, for the first time, you had pushed back. Refused to turn the other cheek. 

You sat an inch higher for the rest of dinner. And when you finally looked in Jace’s direction, you stared at him until he was the one to break eye contact.

•❆·.　❆　　.•　·•　❅　·❆.

“I cannot believe you said that.” Cregan lifted his elbows out of the hot water, resting back on the dry stone not submerged in the hot spring. You shook your head, thinking back on your behavior. 

He didn’t sound upset at all. Rather, he still sounded surprised. In awe. His head craned, the candlelight bathing him in a soft light that stole your breath. 

“I’m proud of you, Y/N. It was about time you bit back. You’re a wolf now, after all.” 

You leaned into his side, giving him a gentle peck on his upper bicep, just below his shoulder. 

“Thank you,” You mumbled against his skin.

You kept your face there, feeling the warmth of the muscle against your cheek and forehead. When your eyes closed, all you could see were a pair of brown eyes and freckles you wanted to map out like the stars. You cleared your throat nervously.

“There is… something I must ask you. About the prince,” You said softly, not meeting his eyes. Rather, you remained buried against his arm. Cregan made a face, brow quizzical.

“Has something happened?” He asked. You didn’t know whether or not to answer his question. When you remained silent, his mouth turned upwards. He considered the possibilities, before making a curious observation.

“You could hardly look at him during dinner. He couldn’t stop looking at you.”

Sometimes you wished he’d remain incurious. A fundamental impossibility, a pipe dream never to come true, considering your husband’s disposition. Much like the wall, nothing got past Cregan. He may well be the end of you one day. 

His lips found the crown of your head. You continued looking at the steam rising up above the water. When he spoke, his voice was low, raspy.

“Ever the seducer, our crown prince.”

Your head snapped in his direction, surprised eyes meeting his knowing ones. He gave a small half-smile. No anger, no joy. If anything, he looked sympathetic. As if Jace had also once pinned Cregan between himself and Vermax and delighted in blurring lines. Chest hollow, you were slowly realizing that it was more likely than not. You swallowed. 

Pity. From Cregan Stark. A rare sight, indeed. Though tonight certainly seemed the occasion.

“Has he made you uncomfortable at all?” Cregan asked, searching your face for fear or discomfort. Half of you wanted to kiss him breathless. The other half was moments away from bursting into tears. Any other husband may well have accused you of temptation. Brazenness. Whorishness. Cregan’s first concern was your own wellbeing. 

“No, not at all,” You said immediately. “He’s very… persuasive.”

At this, his expression morphed from a somewhat-smile to a genuine one. “May I ask what happened between you both today?”

A peace banner. There was no threat of anger from him, you realized, and you relaxed. Your shoulders sagged, guardrails you hadn’t knowingly put in place. He just wanted to know.

“I… We almost kissed,” You admitted, “He was trying to get me to pet Vermax, and he grabbed my hand, and then…”

“Almost?” If you hadn’t known better, you might even think he sounded disappointed. “What stopped you?”

You bit your lip. “Ser Justin came in to announce your return.” 

Cregan reached for your hand under the water. The air was not tense. Awkward, more like. Cregan was never one to talk. You were always the one to coax it out of him. When it was your time to be silent, it rarely proved productive.

“Are you angry?” You asked, placing your free hand on top of his. When you looked up at him, his gaze was warm, and he shook his head.

“Not at all,” He answered, “Were it any other man, maybe. But our prince has always been very… what did you call it? Persuasive. So long as you did not feel coerced, I won’t fault you. He may be our prince, he may be my friend, but you are my wife.”

His reaction was as jarring as it was relieving. You needed to know. You could hold back no longer. “Did you ever…?”

Cregan licked his lips, and hesitated for a beat. Eventually, he replied. “Him and I? …Yes.”

“How many times?”

“Seven. At least.”

Your eyebrows shot up. Cregan looked like he wanted to laugh. 

“Have you ever known me to be sated easily?”

You couldn’t argue with that, even if you wanted to slap that smug look off of his face.

“I suppose I’m just… curious.” You swiped a damp strand of hair off of your neck. “Clearly, you care a great deal for each other. I didn’t realize just how much.”

“He is our future king,” Cregan remarked, “I am Warden of the North.”

He said it as if this was meant to explain all of it. You didn’t want to tell him that you doubted Jace behaved this way with Jason Lannister, Warden of the West. When your face didn’t change, he sighed. 

“When we first met,” Cregan began, “We were on the brink of civil war. You remember.”

You nodded. “I remember when my father received the raven notifying him of Vermax being spotted flying over the Twins.”

“I had become so preoccupied with matters of running everything. All that… all the loss, all the anger, all the fighting. It made me numb. I truly hadn’t realized how it had… hardened me. When he came to Winterfell, I accepted him as my guest, and I renewed my vow to his mother. My men and I invited him to hunt for three nights—it was summer still. How could we not? He was the prince. Impending war be damned.”

You said nothing, waiting for him to continue. “None of us expected any fun. The mood was bleak. We hardly knew him. But he put on his best spirits, and he charmed us all. He was smart, gracious. Humble, which none of us expected from a southern prince.”

Cregan’s mind was seemingly far away, tongue darting out to lick his lips. “And one night, we’d all had too much to drink. Everyone else had gone to bed. The fire was burning low, and he was sat right next to me. He looked so… pretty.”

At this, your eyes softened. “It just happened.”

“It was so easy to speak to him. That never happens—you know my character, love. It didn’t even occur to me that I wanted him until he kissed me. Like I hadn’t even considered it to be an option.”

You thought of Cregan when you’d first met him. He was gruff, closed off, easily the coldest man you’d ever met. You’d been convinced he didn’t even like you until a few months into your marriage, when he stumbled into your bedchamber drunk mumbling, “I missed you today. And I wish I could tell you that without the drink.”

You thought of your husband as a little boy, small and unsure and stifled by an uncle who would rather be rid of him entirely, all for the sake of control of the North. What that did to him, what retaking his birthright would have entailed for a young boy forced to become a man far too early. What all of that and the death of a little brother could do. You pressed a kiss to his hand, and he hummed at the gesture. 

“Do you love him?” The question left you before you could think twice. When it was out in the open, you decided to press. There was no taking it back now. “If he had been the princess of Dragonstone, would you have asked for his hand?”

Cregan looked down at the water, where your hands were joined. He squeezed, gentle but insistent. Affirming. “I suppose… I suppose there may have been a time where I thought myself to be in love with him. I care for him still. Deeply, in ways that I cannot say I’ve ever cared for any other man. But I would not have married him, even if it had been an option.”

You tilted your head, and Cregan acquiesced without you even needing to ask. “I married you out of duty, yes? We’d never met until you arrived at Winterfell.”

“Yes,” You said, “And I thought you hated me.”

He sighed regretfully. “And I’ll spend the rest of my days making it up to you. But Jacaerys and I had different duties at the end of it all. I am Warden of the North. He is our future king. Those two titles cannot merge, not without one of us giving something up—which neither of us would do. Regardless of the circumstances, it would not have worked.”

You swallowed, a lump beginning to grow in your throat. Under the water, his hand with the scarred palm began to burn. “So you married me out of duty. But you love Jacaerys.”

“What? No.” The rebuff was immediate, bitten out. He frowned, and you bit down on your tongue. This had taken a turn you hadn’t wanted it to.

Here it was, you realized. That awful shade of green in your chest you’d wondered so much about, turning your heart from deep red to brown to a bright, flaming green. Suddenly, the image of Cregan and Jace seemed much less enticing. You wished you hadn’t thought about the green so, wished so badly to yank it from the root and toss it into the fire. 

“Gods, I wish I were better at this,” Cregan muttered to himself, before opening his eyes to look at you again. “No, love. You are not a placeholder. You’re my wife, and I love you so differently than how I loved him.”

He moved to be in front of you now, grabbing you by the shoulders. Forcing you to look at him, though the determination in his eyes did little to assuage your confusion.

“I would never have asked Jacaerys to marry me, not if he weren’t heir to the throne, not if he were a woman,” He told you, “Fundamentally, it would not have worked. The only way it would have worked would have been if Jacaerys were a Northern woman born to a noble house, bound to no one but his father. And then he would not have been Jacaerys, would he?”

You blinked. “What?”

“What?”

You opened your mouth to speak, but nothing came out. Officially declaring surrender, completely lost. You wondered if Cregan was more lost than you were—he seemed on the verge of distress. 

“So…” You shook your head, chest clenching. You took a shaky breath, hating the way your voice sounded on the verge of cracking. You started to pull away. “So then would you or would you not have—I… C-Cregan, do you not–?”

His grip tightened on your shoulders, head shaking furiously. “No,” He said with gritted teeth, “No. I love you, Y/N. My soul is yours.”

“But–”

He groaned, the top of his head leaning into your chest. “This isn’t… I don’t mean—fuck, I’m sorry.”

He pulled you into his lap, large hands cradling you gently. A position the two of you had taken a hundred times in this exact same spot. Instinctively, your arms wrapped around his shoulders, ignoring the low heat in your stomach that always pooled there. Your muscles knew what usually came next: joined bodies moving in such a way that caused water to spill onto the floor. Not now. It could wait.

When Cregan met your eyes, he looked pained. Like he wished he’d never spoken. Your husband, who never spoke much to begin with, who guarded his emotions the way a starved wolf guarded a kill. 

He grabbed your arm, then interlaced your fingers. His wedding band glittered in the light. The scar brushed against your palm. You didn’t want to think about how the ring could be taken off.

“I loved Jacaerys differently then, before I loved you. It’s different from the way I love him now,” He explained slowly, clearly searching and painstakingly choosing each word. “A-and both of those forms of love are vastly different from the way I love you, the way I’ve loved you since we married. I can’t quite put it into words. I don’t know that there are enough words in the Common Tongue for me to fully describe it, and I don’t know I’d be able to if there actually were.”

His face scrunched up, trying to articulate his thoughts clearest. Your heart was in your throat the entire time, but you dared not interrupt him.

Finally, his eyes opened, clarity interlaced with fear. He took a deep breath before he placed his final verdict. 

“My vow to him is my sword. My vow to you is my heart. And my heart will always come before my sword.”

Your lips parted, eyes brimming with tears. No longer from jealousy, or the fear that you were nothing to Cregan but a second choice. You brought a hand to his cheek and he pressed into it desperately, longingly. 

“Cregan,” You whispered, smiling, “I love you.”

His eyes closed at your touch, sighing when your forehead touched his. “I love you, and I’m sorry if candor escapes me. I do not mean to dishonor you, wife. It has never been my intention.”

“No,” You cooed, “No, thank you for telling me.”

“Is there anything else you’d like to know?”

Sighing, you gave him a gentle, chaste kiss. When you pulled away, you studied him. His gray eyes were darting frantically across your expression, searching for any leftover doubt or anger. A hand slid down his shoulder and landed just above his sternum, pressing into the skin, caressed by the hair on his chest. Underneath, where his heart lay, you could feel it hammering quickly. You almost wanted to laugh.

“Honesty is the only thing that scares you so,” You mumbled, “A wildling horde south of the wall would not cause your heart to falter this way.”

“I can slay a wildling horde,” He whispered, “Matters of my heart, decidedly not.”

Your hand lingered on his chest, the other beginning to scratch at the baby hairs at his nape. He hummed contentedly—this was one of his favorite forms of contact. Deeply soothing, comforting, one he had never known until you taught it to him.

“You needn’t answer if you wish not to tell me,” You began, “But can I ask how it’s different? Not the emotion. Rather…”

You cleared your throat, feeling an awkward heat crawl up your neck, reaching your cheeks and temples rather rapidly. You reached for his hand out of comfort, but grew even warmer when you saw the scar. “I know… how it works, between two men. Did he… did you…?”

It was his turn to watch you struggle for words now, and for all of his struggling earlier, he seemed quite amused to let you writhe like a fish. 

He bit back a grin. “Did I what?”

You scrunched your lips together, unsure of what to say. With every word, his smile grew and grew until he was holding back laughter. “Who… well. Cregan, I’ve no better way of putting it. Who was the scabbard, and who was the swo—?“

At last, he could no longer resist, and a laugh escaped him. He laughed and all the previously tense air evaporated from the room, and then he laughed some more.

“You’re wondering who stuck their cock in who,” He said once he’d settled, “Is that it?”

You gasped, swatting at his chest. He seized your hand, pressing it back into his chest, rubbing over your knuckles. “Vulgar man,” You chided affectionately, but then quickly added, “…Yes.”

“I had no preference. I think I would have enjoyed it.” He answered candidly, “But he seemed rather keen on being bent over. Not quite something you’d expect from a prince.”

“Oh,” You sighed, cheeks burning brightly, “Oh, I see.”

“He tried to kiss you.” Bringing the conversation full circle, his hands slid down to your hips. “And you liked it.”

Wordlessly, you nodded. Cregan huffed, looking as if suddenly everything made sense.

“What if I told you…” He eyed your lips, tongue darting out to wet his own, “The prince… propositioned me, shortly after his arrival?”

Your eyebrows shot up. “He attempted to seduce you?”

“Not exactly. I wouldn’t have allowed that to happen. No, he suggested the three of us share. That for one night, the three of us indulge in each other. You and I. Him and me. You and him.”

Oh. “A-and what did you say?”

“I wasn’t sure what to say. Ultimately, I told him I would make no attempt to force the idea on my wife unless you seemed interested. It would seem his grace has taken upon itself to lay his plan into motion, with or without me.”

“What a scheme,” You murmured. The heat in your lower stomach had returned now, spurred by the mental images Cregan had built you. Him sprawling Jace across the forest floor. The three of you, together, tangled in bedsheets. And Jacaerys Velaryon, beautiful Jacaerys Velaryon, lips swollen from kissing and covered in sweat.

“How unfairly he plays, and how he underestimates us, love. Do wolves not wander in a pack?”

You furrowed your eyebrows, thinking back to everything that had transpired over the past few weeks, now with the knowledge you’d just acquired. Jace’s history with your husband. His propositioning you and Cregan. 

If his attempt with Cregan had been anything like what he had done with you, you had to agree with Cregan’s choice of words. Unfair. But not necessarily cruel, or manipulative. No, this was a game to Jace, and he was eager for the two of you to play along.

“What say you now, husband?” You searched his face. “Now that his intentions are laid bare.”

He took a deep breath, clenched his jaw, and looked at you for a good long while. Then, his hands, still on your hips, pressed down, water moving around you. 

Your breath hitched, feeling the hardness of his cock catch against your core.

“I believe it speaks for itself,” He replied. “But only if you wish for it, too. You are my wife, and you come first.”

“You like the idea of the three of us together,” You remarked, almost astonished.

“I cannot lie.” His hips shifted upwards, and you gasped at the pressure, of the sensation of him catching against your entrance. “How pretty the two of you would look on your knees, with both of your lips around my cock.”

Your hips responded in kind, hands scrambling to find purchase on his shoulders. “Cregan.”

“Don’t lie to me, Y/N. Don’t tell me you haven’t been thinking about it, whether I made him beg while pinning him to the bed, same as I have with you. Which I did. Grabbed him by his hair and made him plead to let him cum.” 

Your breath weighed heavily in your lungs. Out of nowhere, the air seemed to weigh a thousand stones. The heat radiating off of the water was certainly not helping.

“Answer me,” He said softly, firmly. Looking for your voice, you nodded.

“Can you blame me?” Gritted teeth, fluttering eyes—two more things you could pin on Cregan. “You look at each other so lecherously.”

He huffed, eyes locked on your breasts as your hips began grinding down onto him in earnest. “We do not.”

“Oh, you do. I’ve been watching.”

“That’s all you ever do,” He grunted, “Maybe you should do more than just watch.”

“Something—ah—something would need to happen in order for me to do that.”

He grinned, yanking you closer. Before his tongue forced itself into your mouth, he said against your lips, “That can be arranged.”

•❆·.　❆　　.•　·•　❅　·❆.

WEEK THREE.

This week was a tour of Wintertown and some other villages nearby, and decidedly more laid back. There were no tourneys to be had, hunts to embark on, or great festivals to curate. Winter was here, and threatened to come for you all if you decided to spend more time outside than remotely necessary. 

Jace and Cregan heard petitions coming from the smallfolk that had travelled in advance to see them both. To speak with the Warden of the North was one thing, to do it while the Prince of Dragonstone was sitting at his side was another thing. They heard petitions for hours, and even insisted on staying an additional two after seeing the amount of people who had yet to be heard.

The week was strangely absent of them, then. You were preoccupied with your daily work and overseeing the planning of Jace’s farewell banquet, the grandest of them all. You saw them in small glimpses. Cregan in the morning or Jace at meals. Glimpses of both of them in the courtyard.

You weren’t sure if Cregan had spoken to Jace. How unfairly he plays, he had said, how he underestimates us. Jace had expected to be playing two different one-on-one games. He didn’t know that he was actually only playing one, and was outnumbered on the turf. 

So when Jace passed you by, you allowed yourself to look. Really look at him, and to let him see that you were looking. And when he noticed you one morning in the middle of an empty hallway, he stopped, stepped forward and took your hand in his. 

“Lady Stark,” he said. He raised your hand to his lips, staring intensely as he pressed a kiss to your glove. “You look lovely today.”

“Thank you, my prince,” You answered, “You look well.”

“I’m beginning to grow accustomed to the cold.” He rolled his shoulders back, seemingly at ease.

“It can be jarring at first.” You thought back to your first few weeks at Winterfell after the wedding. You weren’t sure if you’d ever be warm again, and that was at the end of summer. “We’ll make a Northerner of you yet.”

He laughed, and looked like he wanted to reply. His opportunity was stolen by a maid of yours, who rounded the corner and smiled when she saw you. 

“Milady! Giselle has found the linen napkins you were asking for,” She called, “Shall we have them pressed?”

You gave Jace a regretful nod of your head, before replying, “Thank you, Greta! I’ll be right over to have a look at them.”

It was then that she seemed to realize who she was in the presence of. She noticed Jace, and immediately turned bright red before stumbling into a curtsy.

“My deepest apologies, your grace,” She stammered, “I-I didn’t see—”

“Worry not, my lady,” He said genuinely, “The work of a maid is a never-ending list. Carry on.”

Her eyes flickered nervously between you and Jace. You nodded in agreement. “All is well, Greta. I’ll be with you in a moment.”

She left, clearly still feeling awkward. When she was gone, the air felt lighter. “Thank you for not frightening my staff, Jace.”

“I could never. I’d rather they blush than tear up, and I’ve done the former twice already.” He studied your figure.

“Twice…” You took a steady breath. “Do you plan on teasing my staff any further?”

“Not necessarily. But if we drop the pretense, I might do more than tease you.”

“What pretense?” You gave him a coy smile, tracing the threadwork on your gloves. “Is there a game afoot?”

He stepped forward. You stepped back, eyes never breaking away from his. At this, Jace tilted his head.

“You are so brave, suddenly.”

“And you are so bold, Prince Jacaerys. You are a fountain of temptation.”

He licked his lips. “How pretty it sounds, my name falling from your lips.”

“I’d argue my husband’s name sounds even prettier.” Jace raised his eyebrows, taken aback at your sudden bite. You laced your fingers together, before gracing Jace with a curtsy of your own.

“I must go now, your grace.” You stepped past him, aiming to follow Greta’s direction. You landed a foot away from him, and stopped to lean in close. 

“But perhaps one night you might listen for it before you leave us.”

You did not look back when you walked away. But you could feel him watching.

•❆·.　❆　　.•　·•　❅　·❆.

He took you up on it that night. You shouldn’t have been surprised. You had issued a challenge, and Jace had simply taken you up on it.

You were in Cregan’s study, going over some documents regarding the household budget. The fire burning behind you, he had brought you onto his lap to look them over. 

A knock at the door, following the heavy wood swinging open. You scrambled to stand, but widened your eyes when one of Cregan’s hands tightened on your hip, holding you in place. Jace stepped into the room, and for half a moment you wondered if you had been double crossed.

Then you craned your neck to meet Cregan’s eyes, and he nodded. Then, he looked at Jace. You watched his brow twitch subtly as he raked his gaze over the prince, and the grip he had on your side did not loosen. You stiffened, anticipation tinging your senses.

“Your grace,” Cregan greeted, “The hour grows late.”

“I can see that.” Jace jutted his chin in the direction of where you were sitting, zeroing in on Cregan’s hand on your hip. “If you are preoccupied, we can reconvene on the m—”

“Not at all,” Cregan interrupted, shifting you in his lap until you were perched entirely on his right thigh. “We were just finishing our own conversation. Was there something troubling you?”

“Safety, along the Kingsroad.” Jace shook his head and shifted his posture back and forth. “Though it seems you have something different on your mind.”

“Speak freely, my prince,” You murmured, setting the ledger down on the desk in front of you. Jace moved forward, his gait cautious. Still, there appeared to be a silent excitement about him. You looked down at your fingers. Were you trembling or were you just cold?

Cregan studied Jace’s trajectory, and when the prince’s path began to trace around the desk, he shook his head. 

“Sit, Jacaerys.” Cregan took an authoritative tone. He refused to look away as he grabbed your hand and placed it upon his chest. The hand over yours squeezed gently, and you forced your shoulders to loosen. “What can be done about the Kingsroad?”

You attempted to pay attention to what Jace was saying—something about harsher sentences for those caught thieving. You tried to think of what would come next. Something was building, surely. What, you could not be sure. 

This was entirely uncharted territory for you. Cregan had mostly kept everything contained to your bedchamber, as you tended to prefer. You’d had sex in this room once, because Cregan had been very convincing. Up until two weeks ago, you had never considered any man other than your husband. Here the challenger stood in front of you, a dragon prince with a gaze that might as well set you on fire just as much as the beast that had carried him here.

You knew that if you wanted to, if you were to stand up right now, or to push Cregan away, he would understand. He would lay the game to rest and promise to never pick it back up again. There was no threat of coercion or pressure from him. And because you trusted your husband’s judgment so well, you knew that it had to have been the same for Jace. There was not a single hair on your body that doubted the notion.

You could say no. You had every freedom to do so. But did you want to?

You’re a wolf now, Cregan had told you a few nights ago. And that same night, he’d also said, do wolves not wander in a pack?

You were a wolf. You were his Lady Stark, a woman belonging to the North now. Not because you were given to the North or because it had taken you. You had welcomed the becoming of your own volition. 

Before that you had been Y/N Mallister, and while eagles were just as fierce as wolves. But they were solitary birds.

And you and Cregan were one pack. 

Your body relaxed. You leaned into Cregan, who understood immediately. The game moves forward.

Jace continued speaking, but Cregan leaned into you. His eyes closed, and he took a deep inhale against your jugular, taking in the smell of your skin and perfume oils. On instinct, you leaned your head back, letting him take it in. Jace’s voice faltered, trailing off in the middle of talking about a scourge of muggings near the Dreadfort. Cregan opened his eyes and raised an eyebrow.

“We’re listening.”

Jace interlaced his fingers, fixated on Cregan nosing along the expanse of your neck. “Are you?”

“Yes,” Cregan insisted, closing his eyes again, “There seems to be a network of bandits along the stretch of Kingsroad nearest to the Dreadfort. Go on.”

Jace licked his lips, before lifting his gaze, meeting yours. You wondered whether the look in his eyes was jealousy or impatience. Sliding your hand from Cregan’s chest to the shoulder closest to you, you held firm. Surprisingly, that sensation of jealousy you had felt the night in the hot springs had returned. But you did not shy away from it, did not let it stop you from having your fun. 

You were putting your hands on your husband, you were hoping to convey, and Jace would lay hands on him and on you because you allowed it.

He certainly didn’t seem offended by it. He shifted in the chair, legs parting slightly. Then, he cleared his throat and began speaking again.

“Yes. Lord Bolton had told me when he spoke to me last week…”

Cregan’s lips met the base of your throat, and you inhaled sharply. Another hand gripped his shoulder, and your eyes fell shut. You could hear the crackling of the fire behind you and the depth of Jace’s voice, but the only sensation at the forefront of your mind was Cregan’s gently chapped lips just above your collarbone. He pressed a few kisses around the area before deciding on which spot he preferred best and anchoring there by opening his mouth and biting down. You let out a hmph at this, loud enough to cause Jace to falter once more.

“Lord Cregan,” He glowered, breath growing heavier, “You are forgetting yourself.”

There was no threat in the statement. Bait, more like. 

“I remember myself plenty.” Cregan spoke against your skin before biting even harder. You gasped, reaching for the back of his head to push him closer. “I’m sure you remember me too, my prince.”

You heard Jace shift again in the chair, but did not open your eyes. He asked, “What good is memory when the experience is right in front of me, here in the present?”

Your eyes opened when you heard him get up in the chair. He took one step forward before Cregan sat up straight to look at him dead on.

“No.” You knew this tone. This was Cregan at his most domineering, typically reserved for nights he wished to prolong the most agonizing pleasure you’d ever felt in your life. “No, you watch tonight. You will sit there while I fuck my wife, and you will thank me for it. You will thank her for it.”

You never knew you could feel your cunt jump, but then, you also didn’t know forcing the future king of Westeros to watch you fuck your husband had been an available option to you until about five minutes prior. 

Jace’s mouth fell open. He blinked stupidly. And then he laughed, sitting down. It was just as Cregan said, the near immediacy of his submission to your husband. Not quite something you’d expect from the Prince of Dragonstone.

He let loose a heavy breath, eyes growing darker. “Yes, Cregan.”

Cregan maneuvered you, forcing you to stand, nudging you towards the desk. You placed both hands on the wood, a slight bend to your back. Less than five feet away, Jace sat in the chair, fingers laced back together. His mouth was slightly ajar, tongue darting out to swipe across his lower lips. They were so pink, you wanted to finally kiss him. 

But right now, that was not a call you were allowed to make. Cregan had made the command, and it would hold in stone until he changed his mind. If he changed his mind. 

Cregan pressed his chest to your back, draping his broad shoulders over your frame. A hand snaked up your front, landing in a place where calloused fingers spanned your neck and your chin. He placed a wet, worshipping kiss just below your ear, and his hips rocked against your backside. 

He was halfway to being hard already. His hand slid down your neck, other hand meeting at your chest to fondle your breasts over your dress. His body heat was radiating off of him so intensely you thought the fire would probably be cooler. 

“Did you know I used to bend him over like this, love?” He asked in your ear, loud enough for Jace to hear. “One of the last times I had him, I took him just like this in the Wolfswood.”

Gods, that mental image should not have ignited what it did in you, but it did, and you keened at the thought. Jace chuckled.

“That’s exactly how I felt,” He said, lingering his gaze on Cregan’s hands.

“What a memory,” You panted, pushing your chest into your husband’s hand, “Describe it to me.”

“Why tell you when I could just show you?” Cregan pulled up the back of your skirt, holding it in place with one hand. Your entire body felt like a furnace, dragging your eyes up and down Jace’s person, listening for Cregan’s movements. You tried to conjure up the idea. 

The end of summer. Cregan’s hair had been shorter when you met him. Had his hair been shorter then, when he took Jace up against a tree? Was he just as muscular then? What about Jace? 

You could vaguely imagine two young men exploring each other in the Wolfswood, after weeks of learning and mapping out each others’ bodies. Two young men who had grown into the lords of the realm. The crown prince submitting to the Warden of the North. And if Cregan was truly showing you what had happened between the two of them, you could hear Cregan shuffling onto his knees…

He parted your legs, and your eyes widened when you felt his tongue lick at your slit from behind. He tugged on your dress, and you understood what he wanted. You grabbed the hem of your skirts, clutching the fabric for purchase. His giant hands grabbed your ass cheeks, spreading them apart for better access. You gasped, other hand sliding papers around the desk in search of something to hold you to the earth. You would float out the window otherwise. 

“For someone so terrible with words, he certainly knows how to use his tongue, doesn’t he, Lady Stark?” Jace flashed a smug grin at you as your head fell. He spread his legs again, and you saw it then—the bulge in his pants, and the twitching of his hands on his thighs.

You just watch. You groaned, fully realizing the extent of Cregan’s dominion over Jace, his actions, his body. How quickly he had retaken it.

“Lady Stark?” Jace’s voice rose slightly. “Do you agree? Now that he’s showing you how he prepared me for his cock?”

You nodded, biting back a whimper as Cregan changed the movement of his tongue, delving into you. “S-so good,” You said.

“He licked me just like that. He had some stubble that time. A most pleasant ache.” 

“Oh gods.” The room filled with the sound of your frenzied panting and the wet, insistent sound of Cregan’s mouth against your mound. This was perhaps the most aroused you’d ever felt in your life.

Jace laid back in the chair, eyes hooded. From under your skirts and behind the desk, he probably couldn’t see what Cregan was doing. But your sounds and his own experience had to have been indication enough.

“I bet I’ll be able to hear when he puts a finger in.”

“I wonder if—” You bit back a keen, “–if it feels the same for me as it does for you.”

“Probably not,” Jace mused, “Gods, that I could get wet like you. Poor Cregan’s face was drenched in spit by the time he was done with me. He looked lovely like that. So messy.”

Cregan hummed from behind you at the same time he decided to brush his fingers against your clit. Your voice jumped in pitch, and Jace nodded. 

“I was right.” He sounded so excited about his theory being proven true. He licked his lips. “I always loved how thick his fingers were. Perfectly r–”

“Rough,” You finished for him, nodding in agreement. You pushed your hips back against Cregan’s face, teeth catching your lower lip in hopes of staying quiet. “Gods, Cregan…”

“And when he finally puts his cock in, it’s such a relief, isn’t it? Like an itch you can’t scratch on your own. I swore I could always feel him in my stomach—”

“Fuck!” Your head tossed itself back, feeling a few strands of hair beginning to stick to your forehead.

“What do you want?” Cregan asked, voice muffled from between your legs. He pressed down on your clit even more insistently. The paper under your hands crumpled as your fingers curled. You weren’t quite sure how you were still standing. 

“Tell him,” Jace jeered, almost singing, “Tell your husband what you want him to do to you.” 

You opened your eyes again to look at Jace once more, and your lower lip trembled from the pleasure. Your hips began to rock against Cregan’s face. His other hand squeezed your ass in a manner you knew would leave bruises. You would never shy away from this. 

He shook his head back and forth between your legs, trying his hardest to get in closer. Your knees buckled, crying out his name.

“Tell him.” Jace’s voice was dripping with desire. “Beg him for his cock. Just like I did.”

“Cregan… Cregan, please fuck me.”

He pulled away, giving you a moment to catch your breath. You yelped when he smacked your ass.

“Soon, pet,” He said, too gentle for someone who had just been fucking you with his tongue, “Come for me first.”

And then he stuck his face back into your pussy, beginning to flick your clit in tandem with the rhythm of his tongue. You jolted, unsure if you were moving away one movement from the sheer overwhelm or into the other from the pleasure. You could feel your lower stomach growing taut, a building pressure underneath the tight, tight heat. 

Now, you were fully fucking back onto Cregan’s tongue, whines spilling from your lips. You could feel his hot breath on you. 

Your eyes cracked open and you landed back on Jace. You couldn’t count how many times you had done it already, but every time felt like the first. You would revel in him looking you up and down every single time. How ready he looked to strike had he not been shackled by Cregan’s words alone. 

You swallowed a lump in your throat, eyes fluttering from the pleasure of Cregan lapping at you like a parched hound. Trying your damnedest to hold eye contact and keep them from rolling up into your skull. Your jaw hung slack, searching helplessly for words to string together.

Jace didn’t need to hear them. He seemed to recognize what you wanted to ask for. Perhaps he had struggled to ask for it himself, then, and was taking it upon himself now to be merciful.

“Cum.”

The ecstasy started at the crest of your head and dripped its way down your spine in such a way that it caused your back to curl in on itself. You held back a sob, body trembling at the sensation.

Cregan stroked you through all of it, prolonging your agony. He hummed too, clearly enjoying the tightening of your thighs against his head and your moaning into the hot, heavy air of his study. He kept at it until you were actively trying to run from him, too much to handle.

He squeezed your thighs in reassurance before he stood. When he reappeared behind you, he grabbed you by the chin, smearing your face with your own release. His lips found yours in a sticky sweet kiss, tasting your own musk on his tongue. You moaned into his mouth, pushing back in a redundant effort to bring him closer.

When Cregan parted from your mouth, he smiled triumphantly. His chin was still gleaming.

He nudged your cheek with his nose. “And to think that was only the beginning.”

You almost keeled over. Cregan gripped your chin again, repositioning your head in Jace’s direction.

“You really haven’t moved,” Cregan murmured, almost surprised, “You’ve settled down since then.”

“I had my reasons for restlessness back then,” Jace offered, very much an understatement. He shrugged. “Times have changed.”

The next moment, he tilted his head. “Are you really not going to let me touch her? Or you?”

“If you keep up the act, maybe,” Cregan answered, wrapping his arms around your middle. Palming again at your chest. “If I could get her out of this dress faster, I’d let you suck on her tits. They’re divine.”

Jace hummed imaginatively, and you had to hold yourself back from ripping at your bodice. You rather liked this dress. 

“I told you, she’s beautiful,” Jace eyed your cleavage. He ogled your chest, which was still heaving from Cregan’s mouth, and now his hands.

“Yes, well,” You huffed, growing impatient, “She is right here. Ready and waiting.”

Cregan chuckled against your cheek, kissing the flushed skin before pulling away. “‘M here, pet. I’ve got you.”

His palm met the small of your back to bend you back over the table. Trousers were unlaced, your skirts pulled back up. Your breath hitched. You realized, once more, that this was actually happening. 

His weight returned to your back, slotting himself where he had so many times before. He moved against you like it was a birthright, like he knew this was where he belonged. The main difference was sitting right in front of you, painfully hard. Jace groaned quietly, his hands tightening into fists on his thighs. 

Cregan reached a hand back, and then you felt him at your entrance. Teasing you by sliding his cock up and down your slit. You clenched around nothing, desperate to feel him fill you. 

“Don’t tease,” Jace grunted, taking a deep inhale through his nose. 

And for once, Cregan was the one inclined to obey. His head squeezed through your entrance, and the two of you groaned at the pressure, at your togetherness. Cregan gripped your hips, and your head rolled back onto his shoulder. His eyes found yours, noses bumping gently against each other.

The solace he allowed for this brief moment as he slid into you was an eternity in itself. One hand remained on your hip, the other slid between your stomach and your sternum. Whether it was to hold you up or if it was a subtle show of dominion, possession, you couldn’t be sure. Both. Could it not be both? Darkened gray eyes the same color of a turbulent storm raked over your face, flushed and burning. You mewled softly when he bottomed out, jutting your chin out in search of his lips. 

Here, in this small bubble, it was just him and you. It would always be him and you.

“Cregan,” You sighed, barely above a whisper. He groaned your name softly, seemingly in agreement. 

He jerked his head at the third in the room, and you were reminded of Jace. When he reentered your sight, he did not seem offended at the sudden exclusion. His eyes were full of admiration and reverence, breathing heavily at the erotic intimacy on full display in front of him. 

“You’re beautiful,” He whispered. He was talking about you both.

“Cregan.” Your voice was reedier, insistence dripping off of it.

Cregan grunted again. He placed his mouth by your ear. The warmth of his body was rolling off of him, even despite the fact that you were both still clothed. “You wanted to know how I fucked him, Y/N?”

“Yes.” Your brows scrunched together, nodding frantically. “Please move.”

Cregan drew his hips back, sliding out until only his tip was inside of you. Jace’s tongue slotted itself on the inside of his cheek, the skin stretching as it rested there.

“I let him feel every vein on my cock when I put it in him,” He explained, sliding in at an agonizingly slow pace. “I teased him until he was begging for it. I let him squirm. Almost like you were, just now. He sounded a bit more desperate. ”

He bottomed out again, punching the air out of you. He practically spit the next word out, aimed directly at Jace, who grinned at the sound. 

“Whorish.” The hand on your sternum slid down, just above your womb. Then, he pressed down, and you gasped, feeling him at both sides. “I let him feel me so deep in him, I wanted him to feel me in his throat. I wanted to eat him from the inside out. Tried to fuck back on me, I didn’t let him.”

He held still for a beat. Two. All the air felt sucked out of your lungs, and Cregan’s tongue snaked out to ghost along your earlobe, and then he lowered his voice to the quietest, lowest whisper he’d had all night. 

“Not you, Y/N. You do everything I say. You’re so sweet, my love.” 

He slid out again. And when he fucked back into you, the slow, measured, torturous pace was gone, replaced with a forceful, quick one that filled the room with a wet, obscene plap plap plap as his fat balls slapped against your pussy.

Your body seized in his clutch. “C-Cregan!” 

“I know, pet,” He growled, low tone dripping with faux sympathy, “I’ve got you, little thing.”

You shifted onto your tiptoes, fighting for a better angle. You were fully sweating now, overheating in the warm, thick fabric of your dress. His force continued to wreak havoc on your lungs, and combined with his body lumbering over your back, it almost felt like you were suffocating, choking on your husband’s essence. 

His hand grabbed your chin, forcing you to look back at Jace in the chair, who was clenching his jaw now, nostrils flaring with every deep heave of his breath. You wanted to say something, either to him or to Cregan, it didn’t matter. The pleasure was fogging your brain so beautifully that someone, anyone needed to hear it, but your words were gone.

“Think about him,” Cregan commanded, “Look upon our prince and imagine him taking my place.”

Jace’s eyebrows shot up, arousal so clearly painting his features. He was flushed, hair dishevelled, trousers wrinkling from where he had gripped them so clearly. And he was still so hard, tenting the dark, rich fabric. You wanted it in your mouth. You wanted to tear the fabric from his body and take him into your throat, to let him wrap his fingers in your hair and take and take and take and take—

“Say his name.”

You clenched down so hard on Cregan, his exhale turned into a moan, throaty and hungered. Your hips tried to push back, movement involuntary and animal, but he held you in place.

“No,” He scolded, “No. I held him in place, so I’m holding you in place now too. Now do as you’re told.”

“J—” You choked out, breath coming out short and shallow, “Jace.”

Jace’s head tipped back, groaning quietly into the air. His hips shifted upwards, humping like a dog at something that wasn’t there. A reprieve he was not allowed to receive.

“Y/N,” He murmured, eyes fluttering shut.

“You want her,” Cregan said, “You want me.”

Jace’s words emerged, pulled from behind gritted teeth. “I do.”

“What do you want?”

“Anything—” You’d never heard him sound so desperate. How quickly he’d gone from pretending to be in control to showing that he’d never really had it in him at all. “Everything. Her cunt on my mouth and your cock in my ass and her tongue in my throat and—and—”

“My fingers against that little spot in your hole, yeah? The one that makes you cry like a girl?”

Jace’s hips jerked, and he nodded. “Yes. Gods, yes. I miss you inside me.”

“You’ll get it. Soon. Be patient.”

You moaned, the conversation in you bringing back that sweet shade of green that you’d felt in the hot springs. Except the jealousy wasn’t aimed at Jace, and it didn’t have the bitter aftertaste. The jealousy enveloped them both, a jealousy that you hadn’t been there, that you hadn’t seen them rut against each other in the woods or to watch Cregan fuck Jace with his fingers until tears spilled from his pretty brown eyes. When you spoke, you almost weren’t aware of it. 

“Y-you too, Cregan.”

He twitched inside of you. He seemed to know what you wanted, but needed the confirmation. 

“Me?”

“Say his name too, Cregan. Pretend I’m him.”

At that, they both moaned. Desire. Adoration. Surprise. The melody filled the room and travelled down your diaphragm into your stomach, compounded by the shift in Cregan’s movements. 

Animal instinct seemed to recognize your request first. His thrusting turned brutal and mean, befitting of a spoiled, antagonizing prince that needed to be ground into submission. When his brain caught up to his body, he groaned again, and fisted a hand in your hair. You yelped.

“I—Fuck,” Cregan slurred, “You feel so good, my sweet boy—”

Your cunt clenched unexpectedly. My sweet boy. You could be his sweet boy.

“Jace,” You whined. 

“Jacaerys.” Cregan drew out every syllable, savoring this flavor of his prince’s name, one he had not tasted in a very long time.

The both of you dissolved into each other quickly. Cregan continued to pound into you, and you managed to fuck back onto him, despite his best efforts to hold you back. You reached for your skirts, the movements clumsy and jerking. You searched for the hem, trying madly to reach past it. When you did, you immediately found your clit and swirled your fingers, rutting into the movement like a rabbit.

Jace’s name filled the room until it no longer held meaning, until it sounded abstract, until it rose in pitch, grew throatier, and was cried out by the both of you. All the while, the man whose name it was stood watching, jaw gaping, cock aching, as the two people he’d been yearning for peaked in their shared pleasure. And in that shared pleasure, they shared a single word, a single idea, a single thought: him. Jace, Jace, Jace, Jacaerys, Jace.

He watched your back tilt upwards, pushing against Cregan until you bared your neck and your head fell onto Cregan’s shoulder. Your breasts strained against the neckline of your dress and your skin seemed to glow when the firelight hit the sheen of your sweat just right. He watched Cregan’s lip curl, looking more beast than man, before burrowing into your neck and calling Jace’s name against your carotid artery. 

His eyes sank down, to where you had lifted your skirts to rub at your clit, and where Cregan fucked into you once, twice, before burying himself as deep as he could in you, likely hoping that he would spill right up against your fertile little womb. He remained fixated on the sight, like if he stared hard enough he would be able to see through your skin and watch it happen.

When you came down, you were trembling in Cregan’s arms, his broad chest searing into your back. Your breathing was labored, loud, groans marking your every exhale. You could feel just how much Cregan had filled you, and braced yourself for the walk back to your quarters with his spend dripping down your thighs and stockings. He stayed in you, enjoying your warmth for a little longer.

You cracked your bleary eyes open. Jace shifted in the chair and considered his next action. A few seconds later, he stood, and walked slowly towards the desk. Cregan hadn’t told him he could move. But Cregan seemed almost as ruined as you, hair mussed and fingers curled into the fat of your hips. He lifted his head from your neck ever so slightly to watch the prince approach, and said nothing. Jace seemed willing to take his chances.

He leaned over the desk, finally seeing how Cregan had ruined you up close. The corners of his lips, which were pink and swollen from biting them, turned upwards. One hand came up to trace your face, thumb swiping across the apple of your cheek. His touch felt akin to someone stoking a dying fire. He flashed a glance at Cregan before looking back at your own mouth. 

And then he leaned in, and pressed his lips to yours. The kiss was gentle but deep, like he was trying to drink up any remaining pleasure that might have been left in your body. Your neck craned, chasing after the taste of Jace’s mouth as he swiped his tongue against your lower lip. You folded immediately, mouth falling open and a hand coming up to his chest. Finally, you wanted to say. You’re here. I’ve been waiting for you. 

You heard a sound leave Cregan’s throat, needy and absolutely involuntary. You had never heard him make a sound like this. How new everything felt suddenly. A spot you had never seen before, on a map you had studied a thousand times.

So quickly Jace came and so quickly he was gone, parting from your lips with a fond phantom of a smile. You blinked slowly, finally able to trace his features without fear or apprehension. You watched as his eyes, nearly blown black from how wide his pupils had become, shifted from your face to another just below yours. 

Wordlessly, his neck shifted downwards, brown eyes meeting gray at a closeness now unmarred with risk or potential betrayal. Jace raked his gaze over Cregan’s face, spent, sweaty and flushed with release. A sight he had seen in person years ago, and seen most recently in his dreams when he was at his loneliest. 

Cregan leaned in first. Jace simply met him halfway. 

Your breath caught at the back of your throat as you watched your husband kiss his best friend, chiseled jawlines moving in tandem, tongues lapping at each other. You felt your core pulse, and Cregan groaned into the kiss, brows creasing. Jace’s second hand rose to Cregan’s face, mirroring the position it had taken along your own skin.

They savored each other for longer than Jace had kissed you, and you let it happen. Your chest was full of all of the moments over the past few weeks, every question, every what if. Moments where you had watched them brush against each other or meet each other’s gaze, in such a manner that had you trying to string together a narrative, evidence, a theory, anything, that indicated something like this. 

The proof was right in front of you. And you were happy to catalog every second. 

When Jace pulled away, he flickered his eyes between both of your faces, both so close to his. You watched his brown eyes simmer with something you could not name. Then his gaze turned calculating, and then it turned sly. He applied a gentle pressure to your cheek, at the same time he did to Cregan. Pushing the three of you even closer, which seemed almost impossible.

Cregan made a face. “What—”

“Shh,” Jace whispered, “Let me.”

He pushed again. You would run out of room. Your mind pulsed as it tried to identify what he was trying to do. When the side of your face not held by Jace met Cregan’s, you seemed to understand.

This won’t work, you thought, desperately hoping you were wrong, surely, he can’t mean to—

The corner of your lip met Cregan’s, and then Jace’s mouth descended on you both. 

The sensation was strange. A rhythm you hadn’t quite danced to before. You tried to mimic Jace’s movements, but Cregan was motionless at your side, and you wondered how this was meant to work. 

Jace’s skin was softer. You could feel some stubble off of your husband, the slight dryness from prolonged exposure to the cold.

You would have pulled away. You almost did, worried the moment would turn awkward. 

Until Cregan reached over to grab at the back of Jace’s head, and his other hand reached over to the one the prince had on your face. He pressed the three of you even closer—a difficult feat—and opened his mouth. His tongue darted from your lips to Jace’s. You jolted, realizing that you could feel Cregan’s tongue against Jace’s mouth, because you were there too. 

Something clicked into place. Something frantic, primal, ancient. Jace opened his mouth. You opened yours. And when their tongues touched yours, you understood then why many said good things came in threes.

Three noses bumping into each other. Three pairs of lips navigating a familiar sequence, this time with an entirely new component to it. Best of all, three tongues flicking against each other, two of them licking into the third, then switching places. You and Cregan pushed into Jace, you and Jace pushed into Cregan, they pushed into you. The three of you tangled together in a delicious, frenzied cycle, needing still to be impossibly closer.

You whined against their mouths when you felt Cregan’s cock twitch inside you. You knew what would happen if you kept at it. He would get hard again, and this time, no matter what he said, you would not be able to hold back and demand Jace join, despite how spent you were. They would press you between them, bodies so hot that you would inevitably melt into the two of them, drip down their chins and their throats, and cease to exist as a person. 

This had to end. You did not want it to. While your spirit was willing, you felt your body utterly ruined. You relished it for a few moments longer, before pulling away, lips wet and panting. Your eyes fluttered open, watching them pull away too. 

Cregan was breathing heavily, face bewildered, but not unsettled.

“I–” He licked his lips, trying to commit your combined tastes to memory. “Where the fuck did you learn that?” 

Jace had the audacity to look sheepish in his reply. “Some Lyseni courtesans were guests at court last year. They can be very, well, creative in their pursuits of pleasure.”

You laughed once, breathless and still trying to process what had just transpired.

“You’ll kill me,” You muttered, “Both of you are going to kill me.”

•❆·.　❆　　.•　·•　❅　·❆.

The next few days were a blurred build up to the night of Jace’s farewell feast. You were filled with a seemingly perpetual arousal, kept on the precipice of the best kind of waiting. You returned to your host of administrative tasks, but found the occasional sweet reprieve at being cornered by either of them in an empty hallway or disoccupied study. 

“My lady, the napkins have been pressed as you asked.”

At night, the kissing, gods, the kissing. The three of you, late at night after the work was done, would return to Cregan’s study with an excess of Dornish wine. When the three of you were drunk enough, you would sit in one of their laps and do nothing but alternate kissing each other. You would sit in Jace’s lap, brace your hands on his firm chest, and grind yourself down onto him, feeling his hard cock through your smallclothes and his trousers.  Or, you would sit in Cregan’s lap and let him drag his teeth against your neck while Jace claimed your mouth with his own. Regardless, you would be reduced into a whiny stupor from the visual and physical stimuli descending on you.

“Lady Stark, will you still be wearing the violet gown tonight?”

If the hour stretched late enough, one of you would eventually crack, and ask Jace to show you that Lyseni kissing again. You came twice during this, mind hazy from the hours of grinding against them and the drawn out state of arousal they had placed you in. This strange new union was always a forceful push enough that would have you falling apart in someone’s lap. 

“Lady Stark?"

And other times, you would watch, transfixed, as he and Cregan swapped spit lazily for minutes at a time. You had gripped your goblet with such a force that you were positive you would bend the fine metal, unable to look away as your husband and the prince moved mouths and bodies languidly against each other. As if you were analyzing, studying, preparing yourself to reach out and slot yourself between them both—

“Milady?”

You snapped back to where you were standing, in the middle of the banquet hall where preparations were well underway for the farewell feast. You blinked, meeting eyes with the woman who had just been trying to get your attention.

“Hm?” You raised your eyebrows. “Oh. Yes. Yes, thank you, Rose.”

She nodded sheepishly, and walked away. You pursed your lips, trying to forget about it. A fruitless endeavor. You were on the verge of becoming rabid. You had begged and pleaded for more. It never came.

“Please,” You murmured achingly, “Touch me. Both of you.”

Cregan shook his head. 

“He asked for one night. That’s all I’m willing to share you for. You’ll get it when the time is right, pet.”

If not tonight, when? It had to be tonight. Jace was set to leave on the morrow, good weather permitting. They had taken such a hold on your brain that you found yourself retracing parts of your body that they had traced. A hand on your ribcage where Jace had placed his in the barn with Vermax. Tracing your collarbone with your fingers, where Cregan had placed a bruising kiss while you had been sitting in Jace’s lap a few nights ago. Running your tongue across your teeth, where you had felt both of their own tongues tracing the night it had all started. 

Gods bless Lyseni courtesans, you thought distractedly. 

The rest of the evening was spent in a similar daze. You made your rounds in the kitchen, taste testing sauces, soups, and the sweet creams that would be drizzled on the desserts. You headed up to bathe, attended by your maids as you stared into the distance. 

You were dressed in the deep violet gown you had asked them to press for you, with a neckline low enough to garner attention but not too low as to be immodest. They placed silver pins in your hair, and dressed you in your favorite set of jewelry: a silver pendant with amethyst stones inlaid delicately against the metal, with earrings to match. A gift from Cregan for your wedding. 

You met Cregan at the bottom of the stairs. He walked you down the hallway, a hand on the small on your back.

“Thank you for planning everything,” He said, “Everything has been delightful.”

“It’s been busy, but I was happy to do so.”

“Tonight will be exciting.”

You raised an eyebrow. “Will it?”

A voice from behind you replied, “I certainly hope so.”

The pair of you turned to see Jace. He was a vision in crimson velvet, a dark sash draped over his shoulder, pinned in place with a silver dragon pin. His hair was perfectly curled, sword at his hip. The only word that came to mind was regal. When he smiled, his chin turned upward, carrying himself with all the grace and pride befitting the heir to the Iron Throne. 

“Your grace,” Cregan greeted, “Are you ready?”

“I am.” Jace’s eyes landed on you. He raised an eyebrow. “Are you?”

He didn’t need to specify what for. For a second, you glanced at Cregan, who was just as smug. Something you didn’t really see from him.

You took a deep breath. “I… Yes.” 

To say the next few hours were excruciating would have been an understatement. And yet, it made total sense.

The entire night was wrought with an evolution of that initial dynamic you had been so keen to observe when Jace had first arrived. If Jace brushed past you, without fail, he would gently readjust you with delicate fingers on your waist. “Pardon me, Lady Stark,” he whispered every time, loud enough for only you to hear. Your little secret. 

There was no shortage of drinks, of this you had made sure. You had also brought out a gift Jace had sent ahead of time before his visit—several cases of wine from The Reach and The Arbor as a thanks to the lords and ladies of the North for receiving him. At dinner, he raised his cup to the North, its people, and his gracious hosts, Lord and Lady Stark. When Jace mentioned you, Cregan squeezed your thigh under the table, and you grew rigid as a brittle wooden board, ready to snap at any moment. 

As the drinks flowed, they were the final ingredient to a potent and dangerous concoction. The first ingredient had been the heat of the room, the hustle and bustle of the conversation and the music blending together as you took it all in. Next, the pace you had taken all day long, running here and there to make sure everything was perfect and ready to go. Worst of all—strongest, too—had been the mounting expectation of whatever was going to happen once this was over. 

You searched the ballroom for a tall frame draped in dark furs. Dark hair partially tied up. There, speaking with two of Lord Bolton’s sons, he stood tall, poised and elegant like a wolf before a hunt. You held back a sigh. Your husband, your Cregan, your man. He looked beautiful, though he would reject the word outright. Men were not beautiful, he might say.

Or maybe he wouldn’t. Not anymore, you hoped. There was no need to shy away from it now that the truth was out in the open. He was Cregan and he was human and he had been in love with Jace once and he still loved him, but he also loved you. He was capable of holding both of those loves and they were not at odds with each other. Quite the opposite. 

Cregan Stark. Your husband. Lord of Winterfell. Lover of princes and ladies alike. Your heart felt full.

“I told you. You are very lucky.”

Around you, your guests started to pair up. The singers were preparing for another number. Jace looked at you knowingly, and held out a hand.

He raised an eyebrow. “Will you indulge me one last time, Lady Y/N?”

You placed your hand in his. “How could I refuse?”

When he positioned himself, he pulled you closer than he had the first time. Your chests were nearly touching. The music began, and he immediately took the lead. You grinned.

“You know this one.” 

Jace nodded. “It is one of my favorites.”

He moved with you around the hall, not even needing to watch where he was going. Instead, he remained trained on your face. You felt your face grow warm from the attention. 

“Have you enjoyed your time in The North, Jace?” You asked, blinking up at him.

“I have,” he conceded. “I have learned so much more than I did my first time here. And I leave with a new friend. You have been so welcoming to me, my lady.”

He paused, considering his next words. The next time he spoke, he leaned in, lowering his voice. “Especially considering the… behavior I exhibited initially. I imagine that were I a woman, you would have assumed the worst.”

“Your being a man did not matter,” You confessed, “I assumed it within the first few days of your being here.”

This surprised him. “I… You did?”

You laughed. For once, you seemed to have the upper hand with him. “I know my husband. I saw the way he looked at you, and how you looked back. I’m not quiet because I don’t like speaking. But because when you’re silent, you hear every whisper, my prince. Even those that might not be spoken aloud.”

Jace blinked. He seemed stunned, unable to find something to say. The Prince of Dragonstone, words stolen away by Cregan Stark’s meek southern wife. You beamed, triumphant. A moment later, you tilted your head, success giving way to something more genuine.

“Will you miss him?”

Jace lifted his gaze, fixing on one point in the room. You watched his eyes and neck move, coordinating with his feet to keep his eyes on him. You didn’t even need to look to know. Jace watched Cregan with the serenity of someone who had held something once, and come to terms with not being able to hold onto it forever. That was what you saw when they stared at each other, you realized. 

Finally, there was a name for it. Peace. A bond forged from mutual respect and absolution. Whatever had once taken root was no longer there. They would never resent each other for it. If anything, they would care for each other even more. When he looked back at you, you saw yourself reflected in that peace.

“Yes and no,” He answered clearly. “I will miss my friend. But I feel as though a weight has been lifted from my shoulders having been here after so long. It was a confirmation I hadn’t realized I’d been searching for. I have you to thank for that, also.”

He spun you around, but you didn’t look away from him as you made a face. “Me?”

Jace nodded, smiling. “I knew coming here how much Cregan loved you. He’s never been good with emotions, but his tone when writing about you was so warm, and… meeting you, spending time with you and him, I see why. I see how he cares for you, and you him. I leave here knowing his heart is safe with you. Just like I know how yours is safe with him.”

You smiled back at this, heart swelling even more. “Thank you, my prince. It has been an honor and a pleasure to be your host, and an even greater pleasure to gain your friendship.” 

The dance slowed to an end. The room burst into applause, and when you looked up, Cregan was watching you both, seemingly ignoring one of the Bolton boys as he attempted to keep Cregan’s attention. The emotion on his face could only be labeled as affection. 

The two of you watched Cregan apologize to the Boltons, brush past them, and cross the room. He seemed to part the onslaught of guests as he walked through them. People would see him, bow their heads, and step to the side. When he landed in front of you both, he held out his arm. You let go of Jace’s hand.

“The night grows long,” Cregan mused, “And the prince has a long journey ahead of him on the morrow. Shall we say our goodbyes and escort him back to his quarters, wife?”

You felt your mouth tip open. It was here. You paused for a beat, then nodded. Jace clenched his jaw, then smirked.

The three of you made a quick round to bid your guests a restful evening. Everyone seemed quite understanding that Jace was feeling tired. The entire time, when you were not speaking, you bit down on your tongue. Lest your teeth rattle with anticipation.

Cregan led you and Jace up the stairs. The ascent was slow, quiet. The symphony of your steps bounced off the stones, echoing throughout the stairwell. 

“The music was lovely,” You murmured innocently. 

“The food was marvelous.” Jace echoed your tone.

Your trio rounded a corner and you found everyone’s slow walk speeding up. Compliments were paid to your organizational choices. Another flight of stairs. Your thighs tensed with exertion and excitement. By the time you hit the top of the staircase, Jace grinned.

He grabbed your hand, then he grabbed Cregan’s. Cregan chuckled quietly, and you found yourself breaking into giggles as well.

“I’ve been waiting for this for weeks,” Jace admitted. Then, he broke into a light jog, taking you and your husband along with him. The drinks, the arousal, the warmth in your chest. All three of these had your head tipping back in joyful, girlish laughter. This was everything you had been wanting, and all of your clothes were still on.

Jace’s door appeared at the end of the hall. He let go of your hands only to open it, and once you were all inside, they pounced on you. How they seemed to move so in sync, you could not say. You had been wound up so tightly you could no longer tell which way was right and which way was left. 

Cregan’s mouth landed on yours, and you immediately opened yourself for him. Pure instinct, letting him lick into your mouth with hot breaths against your mouth. Rough and demanding. He grabbed at your sides, squeezing your hips. Jace stepped behind you, tracing open mouthed kisses along the side of your throat, moving up under your ear. His hands slotted themselves over Cregan’s hands, calloused hands brushing even larger calloused hands. 

You reached behind you to fist Jace’s curls between your fingers, and rubbed Cregan’s chest in front of you. Already, your heart was pounding. Cregan pulled away to nip at your collarbone, and as if reading Jace’s mind, you craned your neck in pursuit of his heart-shaped lips. 

Jace’s kisses were not as aggressive as Cregan’s but they were just as deep. He did not immediately demand you open his mouth to slide his tongue against yours, but rather he spent time courting your lips, then teasing with a quick slide of his tongue against your lower lip. When you bit down on his lower lip, he took that as permission. Only then did his kisses grow faster, humming against your lips when you sucked on his tongue, desperate to get it deeper in your throat. 

His front pressed up against your back, and there, nestled between your buttocks, you could feel something poking you, growing more and more insistent with each passing moment. His hands moved away from Cregan’s at your side and slid up your back, trying to find the laces of your bodice. He parted from your lips to fully concentrate on undoing the problematic knots, and you wrapped both of your arms around your husband’s neck. 

Cregan immediately straightened, moving his hands down to squeeze at your ass. You gasped, scratching lightly at the nape of his neck. 

“Who goes first?” You asked breathlessly. 

“Me,” Cregan responded immediately, “I fuck you first, then Jace fucks you.”

You sighed, bodice becoming looser as Jace successfully undid the laces. “When do you fuck Jace?”

They froze. Cregan gaped at you, then looked at Jace.

Jace cleared his throat. “I–”

Cregan raised an eyebrow. “You–”

“What,” You asked, taken aback at their surprise, “I ask to watch you stick your tongues down each other’s throats, can I not watch my husband stick his c—”

“I didn’t think you’d want to see the… well. The whole of it,” Jace answered. 

Cregan snickered, a hand gripping your chin. “Oh, she wants to see the hole of it, Jace, I promise you.”

“She continues to surprise me.”

“I’m not surprised at all,” Cregan sighed after a moment, rubbing his forehead against yours, “Gods, you greedy little thing.” 

You leaned forward, needing someone desperately. He kissed you again, groaning as you began to unbutton his black jerkin. The vest fell to the floor quickly, leaving him in his thick, gray, cotton doublet. Cregan helped you with the buttons on this one when you pulled away to watch your fingers, which had started to tremble with excitement.

“Easy, pet,” He murmured fondly as his chest was revealed, “We’ve not even touched you yet.

That could not remain true for much longer, you thought, as your bodice and skirts finally gave way thanks to Jace’s ministrations. They pooled at your feet, leaving you in your slip, stockings, and boots. Jace took you by the hand and pushed you back to sit gently on the bed. 

Your boots were unlaced. Two pairs of foreign hands pulled down each stocking, and then they parted your legs. You were left to lift your cotton slip and pull it over your head. It left you the first to be naked, you realized as you laid flat on the bed. Cregan was right behind you, and Jace’s clothes remained in place. 

The pair of them hovered above where you needed. You propped yourself up on your elbows and found yourself with Jace’s eyes dragging slowly up your body, twinkling in the firelight all the meanwhile. 

“You’re unreal,” Jace mumbled, “Sculpted in the image of Mother and Maiden alike.”

“O-oh,” You sighed, a shudder traveling down your spine. You had never been told that before. 

Cregan nipped at your bare thigh, before touching Jace’s cheek. “So this is how you southerners seduce women.”

“Only the exceptionally beautiful ones,” Jace argued, flicking his eyes between you and Cregan, “You use it too much and it becomes blasphemy.”

You licked your lips seeing them both slotted between your legs. “This is already blasphemy enough.” 

“Quite true,” Cregan said, moving his hand to the back of Jace’s head, “And it’s about to be even more so.”

Cregan’s lips wrapped around your pearl. Jace’s mouth landed at your hole, immediately beginning to lap at your wetness as if he hadn’t seen water in days. 

The simultaneous pleasure, courtesy of two of the most powerful men in Westeros kneeling at your feet to worship at your altar. Such a devotional was unlike any other. 

The difference in their kisses translated almost perfectly to this. Cregan enjoyed a bit of force when pinning you down like this. “I know she can take it, she’s taken worse,” was his rationale. Jace, for all of his teasing and mastery of making you want, was as gentle as he was needy. He seemed to understand that this was new to you too, but that this would be his only chance to lap at you. 

They switched places, tongues touching as they moved around your pussy. Jace moaned when it happened, and between watching it happen and feeling the vibration against your core, you cried out, head falling back. Now, it was Jace’s turn to suck softly on your clit, while Cregan decided to stick his tongue inside of you and fuck you with it. You couldn’t make up your mind on where to focus—at this rate your mind was gone, turned to mush, leaking out of your cunt and being soaked up by their mouths.

Cregan’s hands squeezed at your thighs and Jace had one hand on your hip. You were so focused on your own pleasure you didn’t see Jace’s free hand land at the front of Cregan’s trousers, cupping your husband’s hardness with a restrained vigor. Cregan’s hips pushed into Jace’s touch, and he grunted into your pussy as Jace began to squeeze his bulge.

Jace slid his tongue down to where Cregan’s was. He stuck his tongue into your walls as well, holding back a humbling moan when he felt the tightness of your cunt forcing Cregan’s tongue up against his own. He could take it no longer, delving his hands under the dark wool of Cregan’s trousers. 

Jace wrapped his hand around Cregan’s hard cock, remembering the weight of his thick, veiny member, before cupping his fat, heavy balls. Jace’s touch had Cregan groaning into your hole, causing you to gasp out, reaching for both of their heads. Your orgasm was approaching embarrassingly fast, and they got the message when your fists landed in their hair. You hung one leg on their respective outside shoulders, heels digging into their shoulder blades.

Closeness. What a funny word. How could it be that something was too much but never enough?

Cregan’s hand rose up to meet yours in his hair. His index finger tapped your wedding band. Your head rose, face screwed up in pleasure, and saw them both joined together inside of you. A different form of Jace’s Lyseni kiss. The sight was more than enough. You descended into your pleasure, hips bucking against their faces as you demanded for more, for them to stop, for them to keep going, for someone to fuck you, for this night to never end. 

Jace was painfully hard. Between Cregan’s cock in his hand, and now you reaching your peak all over him and your husband’s tongues, he could no longer bear it. As you came down, he realized that he’d be relegated to the side yet again before being allowed to participate. He would not be able to just sit idle while watching the two of you again. 

You lay limp on the bed, staring up at the ceiling as you tried to regain your bearings. They pulled their mouths away, and you let them go. Your eyes fluttered shut for barely half a second, before you heard more kissing, Cregan grunting, Jace gasping. 

You lifted your head with a speed you didn’t think you still had, only to find Jace’s hand in Cregan’s pants while Cregan gripped Jace by the scruff of his neck. Like he was a pup who had just been caught misbehaving. If the hand pumping his cock was the misbehavior, Cregan didn’t seem eager to correct it. You whined at the sight, so ready to watch the prince fall apart on Cregan’s cock. 

Your sound roused them both. Cregan’s movements slowed, and his eyes cracked open. He found you staring at the both of them, chest rising and falling with need. He jerked his hips into Jace’s hand, and for a moment, you almost understood what it was like to be Jace the very first night it had all happened. 

Jace opened his eyes to look back at you, and he bit his lip. He looked at Cregan, who was watching you as well. Jace spit into his other hand, moving to wrap it around Cregan’s member, before leaning over to suck on Cregan’s jugular. Cregan inhaled sharply, hips thrusting into the prince’s hands. 

“Go to her,” Jace murmured against his skin, “Fuck her and I’ll ready myself for you.”

They stood, shedding their remaining clothes as you moved further back on the bed to make room for them both. Soon, the pair were just as naked as you were, moving to the edge of the bed closest to where you were. Standing next to each other, you could not help but compare.

Jace’s muscles were different from your husband’s. Where Cregan was stocky and strong, the muscle was hidden beneath a small layer of plush skin, which was very common in Northern men. Foolish southerners would call it “pudgy”. You called it very, very attractive. His long, thick cock stood at attention, red and willing, hefty balls sagging beneath.

Objectively, Jace was prettier. He was leaner, lighter. Better for riding. His slimness did not necessarily mean fragility—his arms and thighs were well sculpted from years of training, and his shoulders and chest were dotted with freckles too. While his cock was slightly smaller than Cregan’s, it was, like the rest of him, a bit prettier than your husband’s. Pink at the tip, with a generous upward curve that left your mouth watering.

Cregan tilted his head. “Have you had enough of your ogling?” He asked, nodding once. “Lie back.” 

As Cregan crawled onto the bed, Jace walked to the vanity on the far side of the room. He heard you and Cregan kiss as he inspected the vials spread across the grain of the wood, before landing on a vial of perfume oil. He grabbed it before returning to the bed, setting it on a table right next to the mattress. 

When Jace’s head hit the pillow next to yours, Cregan took it as permission to hike your legs around his waist, one hand propping himself up against the headboard. He took himself into his hand, pumped his cock a few times before sliding it up and down your slit, gathering your wetness along his tip.

“Cregan,” Jace said softly, “How many times have I told you not to tease?”

They held each other’s gaze for a moment. Cregan clenched his jaw, and you could finally tell what was being said. So did Jace, who immediately lowered his eyes. 

“Prepare yourself for me,” Cregan said finally, nodding at the vial Jace had grabbed, “Give her something pretty to look at.”

A moment later, Cregan entered you, and did not give you a moment’s reprieve. His pace was immediately fast and rough, and you reached for his arms to find purchase on something. Cregan’s hand gripped your jaw, forcing you to turn your head to where Jace was lying, currently opening the vial.

“Watch him,” He ordered, “You love watching, don’t you, love?”

You nodded as best you could with your head in his grip, eyes pinned to Jace’s form as he came onto his knees, pressing his face against the pillow. His fingers glistened with oil, and a faint smell of jasmine hit your nose. Your mouth fell open as he lifted his fingers up and behind him. From where you were, you couldn’t see exactly what he was doing, but the face he made and accompanying sound that escaped him seconds after left nothing to the imagination. 

“Good boy,” Cregan praised, before looking back down at you. You felt yourself clench at his words. Cregan’s pace continued, your hands tracing whatever part of your body you could land your hands on. His broad back and shoulders, hairy chest, or strong plush biceps, you needed something to hold onto as you watched the Prince of Dragonstone finger himself open in preparation for the cock you were currently speared on.

“See normally,” Cregan mumbled into your ear, “I’d have him just like that, but I would be the one to put my fingers in his pink little hole.”

Jace nodded, lip curling up in pleasure. “His f-fingers are quite long,” Jace answered, “Not sure if you’ve noticed.”  

You keened. “Yes,” You agreed, “Quite—ah!—quite talented too.”

Jace groaned. You watched his arm begin to speed up. From atop you, Cregan watched slack-jawed as you both compared notes in front of him. He thrust even harder a few times, desperate to drive the breath from your lungs. The movement pushed you into the pillows, back arching into him.

“C-Cregan,” You cried, whining as the harsh thrusting slowed into deep grinding, “Gods, s-so good.” 

His lips crashed into yours, so bruising and demanding and so very much Cregan, you tightened your legs around his waist. His weight on top of you was almost crushing, but the way he draped himself over you as he moved languidly in and out of you had you enveloped in a blanket of pleasure and veneration radiating off of his being into yours. 

Across from you, Jace was already pressing a second finger into his ass, his other hand wrapping around his cock as he watched Cregan fold you in half. The sound of your cries was soft and needy, but you didn’t complain or try to run from Cregan’s force. You soaked it all up, thirsty and wanting.

When Cregan pulled away, he groaned against your open mouth. “Soon,” He told you, “And after I fill you up, he’ll fuck you too.”

You snaked a hand between you both, rubbing at your nub with a mounting need. You looked back at Jace, moan wrenching from your throat as you watched him, moaning into the pillow, flush covering his delicate freckles. There was a sheen across his forehead and cheekbones, lips forming a delicate little o-shape. Jace’s eyes locked with yours, and you wanted so badly to reach out and touch him. You were rendered immobile beneath your husband’s weight.

You looked down at Jace’s pink cock. He seemed to have found a good rhythm, fucking his cock into his hand and then fucking back onto his fingers. When you realized that he was matching the thrust of his cock into his hand up to the rhythm of Cregan’s hips, your eyes screwed shut, pleasure building impossibly high.

“Cregan,” You called, bucking your hips up into his, “Please.”

“It’s alright, love.” He nodded against your neck, hips beginning to stutter. “Me too. I’ve got you.”

He thrusted a few more times, movements out of rhythm but still so deep inside of you, until his grunts turned into long, drawn out calls of your name. When you felt him spill his hot seed, cock pulsing inside of you, it tipped you over the edge as well, clit pulsating as you pushed your fingers into the sensation. There was always so much, and this time was no different. You looked up at him, vision blurred, to see his hair mussed and a bead of sweat dripping down his nose. It landed on your cheek, and he wiped it away. 

Out of the corner of your eye, you watched Jace shift. He whimpered when his fingers left his hole. He moved closer, eyes trained on where you and Cregan were still connected.

When Cregan pulled out of you, the three of you twisted your necks to watch Cregan’s creamy, white seed spill out of you. You sighed, lower belly warm as he dragged a finger through his release, smearing it across your cunt. He pressed a kiss to your temple.

“Keep them open,” He murmured in your ear, rubbing your thighs. “You’ve been such a good little hostess, wife. How kind of you to gift our prince your tight little cunt.” 

His words caused you to clench down on nothing, and Jace groaned when more cum spilled out. Cregan rolled to your side, letting Jace take his place. Jace’s lips landed on yours, deep but not demanding. His eyes studied your face, the flush of your skin as it travelled down your shoulders and tits.

“My lady,” He whispered, cock poking at your entrance, “Can I? Let me—”

“Yes, fuck.” Your voice was breathy, shifting your hips to catch the head of his cock. The two of you gasped at the sensation. Cregan sighed next to you and both of you shifted to look at him. Your eyes were wide, Jace’s were hooded. Waiting. He had held the reins for most of the operation. Was it any wonder the two of you deferred to him?

Cregan looked between you both, before his lips turned upwards. “Well, go on,” He goaded, “Or does our prince need to tell me where to put his cock?”

Jace swallowed, shaking his head. He grabbed one leg, slinging it over his shoulder. Your chest lurched at the angle, and Jace slid into your pussy. An involuntary sound spilled from his lips, a similar whine coming from yours. You were so—

“So wet, Y/N,” Jace growled, licking up your jawline, “Is that you, or is that his cum?”

“Both,” You said, “It’s both of us.”

Jace’s thrusts were slow and controlled, but still had a way of wrenching soft whimpers from your lips. His lips descended on one of your nipples, and you buried your hands in his hair. You opened your chest to give him better access, nodding desperately as he grazed his teeth delicately across the hard nub. 

His hips tried different angles, each one hitting better than the last, until  he shifted his movement to the left ever so slightly and let out a breathy laugh when you clenched around him and moaned his name. 

“Jace,” You said, “Oh, right there, my prince, please, please, please.”

Jace hit the spot again, experimentally, and he pinned your wrists to the bed to stop you from curling in on yourself. He grinned, groaning softly. 

“No, you’re not going anywhere.” His pace became faster, your head beginning to writhe back and forth on the pillow. You were so sensitive, but Jace was just beginning to let his more merciless nature show. 

“You’ll sit there and take it and show your husband how obedient you are, hmm?”

Your hands balled into fists, unable to touch Jace where you wanted. You wanted your fingers in his mouth. You were sure he would accept them willingly. His pupils were blown so wide his eyes looked more black than brown, and his brows were furrowed in concentration, nose scrunched up ever so slightly as he chased after his own pleasure. He tilted his head, eyes widening.

“Yes? Answer.”

“Yes!” You nodded, unable to deny it. “Yes, yes, I’ll do whatever you want.”

“She always gets desperate when she’s sensitive,” Cregan told Jace. Your head turned, spotting him lying on his side. His cock was half hard, and beginning to swell again. A man starved, his eyes did not settle in one place for very long. Between your face and Jace’s, your tits, where Jace was fucking into you, there was simply too much to take in. “She doesn’t know whether to run from it or let it happen. Isn’t that right, Y/N?”

You chewed on your lip but nodded. The observation was true, but to be teased like this made the faintest shame brew in your chest, and even worse, the shame made your pussy clench. Jace gasped at this, gripping the headboard with one hand and your clit with the other. Your body tensed up as Jace used the headboard for leverage, swiping his fingers across your nub, doubling the sweet anguish traveling through your veins. 

Cregan began to stroke himself again, spurred on by the sudden mania overtaking Jace and being taken out on you. His two favorite people, making each other feel so good right in front of him. The two of you looked so beautiful, your eyes rolling back up into your head as Jace’s head tipped back, revealing the creamy expanse of his neck. He almost wanted to cum again, but knew to save it for what was to come. 

Jace groaning your name, you moaning Jace’s. Gods, what a sight, what a sound. He didn’t think he would ever forget tonight. 

His hand left your clit to grip the leg not propped over Jace’s shoulder, and then he hauled it up to match. The angle allowed him to reach even deeper, and the curve of his cock proved sweet in ramming up against that warm, spongy spot inside of you that had your legs beginning to tremble. This much pleasure could not be good for your body. Surely, you would combust.

“Oh, fuck,” Jace grunted, returning his fingers to between your legs. A fire licked up your mound and shot straight up your spine, fingernails digging into your palms. You bucked against Jace’s movements. He pressed a kiss to one of your ankles before his pace turned harder, rhythm slowing just enough to maintain precision—an effort in vain. 

“Jace, I’m going to—”

“Yes,” He nodded, “Can I—please, inside—”

“Yes,” Your legs slid off his shoulders, immediately wrapping around his waist, heels digging into his ass cheeks, “Yes, Jacaerys, cum in me too.”

Your words pushed him over, paired with the insistence of your legs. Jace could not have escaped even if he wanted to, he realized as his balls tensed up. His arms wrapped around you and yours wrapped around him. His ache crashed into yours, and the two of you hurtled into release, writhing against each other in the aftershocks. 

He buried his face between your breasts, hips bucking wildly as his seed mixed with Cregan’s. The thought had him thrusting weakly as his orgasm died down, trying to extend the sensation in his lower stomach for as long as possible. 

He pulled out of you, cock beginning to soften, and remained draped over you, panting against one of your breasts. He flicked his tongue against your nipple, and you almost shoved him off. You were too weak to actually see it through, twitching against Jace’s lean frame as he pressed kisses into your hairline, damp with sweat.

“Gorgeous,” He whispered into your skin, “Doing so well for us, pretty girl.”

Jace lowered his mouth to yours, lazily tangling his tongue with your tongue in the brief interlude before the final act. You felt Cregan stand from the bed, too engrossed in the taste of Jace’s lips to actually focus on what your husband was doing.

The prince pulled away, and you cracked your eyes open to see Cregan at the foot of the bed, gaze dark, shoulders squared. Jace twisted his head. They exchanged a glance, and then Jace looked back at you. He gave you one final kiss, before crawling backwards until his buttocks met the tops of Cregan’s thighs. You moved to sit up, but Cregan shook his head.

“Come here.”

You raised your eyebrows, eyes darting from side to side. “Me? What are you—”

“Look at the mess his grace made,” Cregan murmured, hand sliding up Jace’s spine. The prince shuddered, eyes falling between your thighs. Your cunt was ruined, he realized, swallowing thickly. Cum was oozing out from your hole, your clit was swollen, and Cregan’s cum, previously dislodged by Jace’s fucking you had smeared across your folds.

“Should he not be made to clean it up?”

Your thighs twitched, mouth gaping. You looked at Jace, who seemed near close to drooling like a hound. When your eyes returned to Cregan’s face, there was no room for argument. Still, you tried.

“I can’t—”

“But you will.” Cregan’s hand nestled into Jace’s hair, giving it a light tug. “And he will be good and clean you up. You can take one more, pet. I know you have it in you. You always do.”

You almost hesitated, before spotting where Cregan’s fingers were tangling themselves in Jace’s hair. Your lower lip found itself pinned down by your teeth, but not out of apprehension. 

A few moments later, you slid down the bed, at the same time as Cregan walked to the nightstand. He took the oil and smeared it over himself. When he stood behind Jace again, he rubbed the remainder all over the prince’s hole. Jace jumped, before craning his hips back. 

Cregan smiled crookedly before applying a gentle pressure against Jace’s hole with his thumb. It gave almost immediately, welcoming Cregan back in greedily. He dipped his thumb in and out too slow for comfort, and Jace’s forehead made contact with one of your parted thighs.

He toyed with Jace’s hole a little longer, gauging whether or not he was ready for Cregan’s cock, now fully hard again. He wasn’t sure how long he would last, having came once already, on top of watching Jace fuck you. When he pulled his thumb out, he also pulled the softest whimper from the back of Jace’s throat. 

“Please,” Jace said, one hand reaching back to spread himself open for Cregan, “Please, I need you.”

Cregan bent down, slotting a wet, open mouthed kiss between Jace’s shoulder blades. He gripped himself, pressing the head of his cock right up against Jace’s asshole. All of the air still in Jace’s body left him, leaving only anticipation that bled from every pore on his skin. 

“Put your mouth on her.” The command was said quietly against Jace’s skin. “Then I’ll fuck you, my sweet boy.”

Jace exhaled shakily at the name. He had not been called that in years. He licked his lips, looking back at your cunt. Your tired eyes were watching him fondly, a hand reaching for his cheek. You took a trembling breath, before falling in line with what Cregan wanted. 

“Eat,” You whispered sweetly, beaming when he pressed his face into your palm, “Be good for us.”

The silver of your wedding band was cold against his cheek. A miniscule oasis from the layer of heat that had blanketed the room. He shut his eyes and allowed himself one more moment to enjoy the cool metal on his skin. Then, he turned, and placed a dedicated kiss on your palm. When he drew away, he lowered his neck, and his tongue lolled out of his mouth to trace a long stripe from your hole to your clit.

The sensitivity was too much. You jumped at the wet warmth of his tongue, and Jace splayed a hand over your lower stomach, pinning you in place. You shivered, scar touching your skin. He licked you again, and then began to dip his tongue into your folds.

“Fuck!”

Jace hummed against your folds, half-hard member twitching at your expletive and the mixed flavor of his own cum and Cregan’s. He canted his hips back, unable to form words anymore. 

Cregan chose mercy. He pushed in, forcing Jace to gasp against your cunt. His eyes burned as he stared unblinking at how he slid into Jace’s tight hole, jaw clenching as he gave Jace a moment to adjust. The prince was still as tight as he remembered him. Jace seemed to disagree with the decision.

“Ngh, move.” This was the most princely he’d sounded since coming into the room, his demand bitten out and gruff. Jace brushed his nose against your clit, and you tangled both hands in his hair. Cregan lifted his eyes, landing on your debauched, sweaty face, and you nodded. 

Cregan bottomed out, reaching for Jace’s slender waist. He was going to need the leverage. He held Jace in place as he slid out, and then began to fuck the prince with an abandon Cregan hadn’t expected of himself.

The three of you were falling apart. This drawn out session had stripped the three of you to your most animal senses. Humping, grabbing, moaning, licking. Titles were seemingly gone, and what was left were three sweaty lovers in search of a reverie so prolonged it verged on painful, still delicious enough to keep at the pursuit. 

Cregan’s hands tightened around Jace’s waist. Jace groaned, hoping desperately he’d have bruises to further commit the night to memory. He angled his hips upward, knowing how close Cregan he was to his prostate. He knew Cregan was looking for it too. All Jace had to do was guide the way. 

When he found it, Jace’s voice cracked. The timbre of his voice gave way, leaving a whiny mess still dipping his tongue into your hole. His whimpering and the accompanying vibration had you crying out too. The praise spilled out of you, a woman possessed. 

“That’s it,” You said, “Take it, Jace. I know you can do it, darling. Take it like I did.”

Cregan, yearning for that mythical closeness, rested his knees against the mattress, stomach pressing against Jace’s lower back. He began mouthing at Jace’s shoulders, showering him with affirmations every time his lips were detached from his skin long enough. Cregan’s hips never let up.

“Just as tight as I remember, sweet boy,” He growled, “‘M going to fuck you until you’re begging me to stop.”

“Never stop,” Jace pleaded, lapping at your clit, “Don’t want you to.” 

“No?” Cregan’s hands slid to his front, tweaking at Jace’s nipples, before sliding a hand down to grip Jace’s twitching, ruddy member. “Even like this?”

Jace cried out again, wrapping his lips around your clit. Your back arched off the bed, tugging so intensely at Jace’s pretty locks that his scalp ached sweetly. Your entire body was trembling now. Jace was wrecked, pinned between you and your husband as Cregan took and you were made to give. 

The three of you, connected. You and Cregan, slowly suffocating Jace with your love. And Jace, in the middle of it all, unable to do anything but accept it all. Even as his a knot began to form in his lower stomach, ass tightening with Cregan still inside. When he clenched down on Cregan, Cregan’s hips bucked, before retaking the rhythm he was still trying to hold onto. 

“Feel too good, Jace,” He groaned, “‘M not gonna last.”

“Cum in me,” Jace demanded, lifting his mouth off of you, “Let me feel you in me when I leave.”

Cregan drove himself into Jace even harder, final orgasm now in view. He cupped Jace’s balls, squeezing, as if attempting to coax Jace’s cum out of them. Jace reattached his tongue to your clit, two fingers sliding into your painfully sensitive hole, trying to find more of the sticky, creamy cum they had both placed so lovingly in you. Your body was no longer your own, you realized with a pleased satisfaction. They had taken control of it and decided how to position it, how to fill it, when you’d had enough.

“And you,” Jace murmured breathlessly into your skin, “I want to feel your pussy squeeze around my fingers one more time.”

His words triggered an avalanche, starting with you and ending with Cregan. Your vision turned white, body stiffening for a beat. Then, your body jolted, cunt clenching helplessly around Jace’s digits. He suckled on your clit through every single wave of painful pleasure, until you were sobbing, trying weakly to push his head away. 

Jace let his head fall back on your soft thigh. He couldn’t tell if you were the one trembling or he was. His eyes squeezed shut, feeling the familiar tug in his balls. He bit down on your thigh when he came again, cum spilling over Cregan’s fist, his own walls fluttering against Cregan’s incessant pounding. 

Finally, Cregan wrapped himself on Jace, burying himself the deepest he’d been in the prince all night, shuddering on top of him as he spilled more of his warm, sticky cum into the heir to the Iron Throne.

The three of you rode out the final waves until it hurt, room smelling of sweat, sex, and funnily enough, jasmine. The only sounds were those of the crackling wood of the hearth and three different staccatos of breath. 

Carefully, Cregan pulled himself out of Jace. Jace, boneless, fell forward, nuzzling into your thigh. You carded a hand through his sweaty curls, attempting to soothe after all of your yanking. You felt the mattress dip behind you. Cregan had slid onto your side of the bed, lying behind you. He pressed a gentle kiss to your shoulder. He looked utterly spent, heart still hammering just under his sweaty chest. 

When Jace had regained his bearings, he crawled up to be level with you and Cregan. He wrapped his hands around your waist, and looked at you both. Cregan had one hand splayed across your lower back, and used the other to slide up Jace’s arm. All your touches had turned tender, now. Any tension or desire had bled into each other late into the night, leaving only fondness and a feeling of completion. A circle being closed.

“If Aegon the Conqueror had done this instead,” Jace decided, “I believe the North would have fallen much faster.”

Cregan swatted his arm. Jace caught his hand, scars brushing. You giggled, sleep beginning to settle over your body. 

“I mean it. If he’d just bent over for Torrhen Stark–”

“Jacaerys.”

As your eyes fluttered shut, you smiled between their bodies. It was cold outside, but you had your husband at your back, and a prince of dragon blood at your front.

For the rest of the night, there would be no cold to be spoken of.

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minors dni. if i didn't tag you, it was because i couldn't see an age anywhere on your blog <3