Chud Smurf

Welcome ── .✦

Hi!! my names Lucy and im still pretty new to tumblr. there is nsfw content on my blog so it’s gonna be 18+! id love to go get to know knew people and geek out so please don’t hesitate to dm me! anyway yeah- also im SUPER open to any requests you may have<3 thank u for checking out my page !!

MASTERLIST

Fandoms I will write for:

-game of thrones

-akotsk

-hotd

-marvel

-harry potter

-bridgerton

-peaky blinders

-DC comics

-supernatural

DUNK X HEALER WIFE! READER 18+ MDNI

synopsis: after your husband fetched you the wrong herb, a tea brew leaves him aching for your touc- I MEAN CARE…i meant care…

warnings: SEX POLLEN SMUT, sub!dunk for a hot second, gagging (m receiving), hand jobs, rough sex, mating press, mentions of male masturbation, dunk and reader are sickeningly in love

WC: 3.6k

Night had unfurled its wings across the earth, and the wind wandered through the trees like a restless choir of forgotten souls. Within the humble shelter of a blanket and elm tree, the fire breathed low embers into the darkness, casting long, wavering shadows that danced upon the trunk as though spirits kept silent vigil. Yet sleep would not find Dunk the way he hoped.

The knight laid upon his shared bedroll with his eyes fixed upon the branches overhead, where every groan of old wood became the echo of distant tourney fields. His sword rested within arm's reach, though no enemy stood beyond the threshold save the ghosts that marched through memory. Beside him, you stirred. You had long since learned the measure of his silence.

"You war with dreams before they are dreamt," you murmured, your voice soft as rain upon glass. "You have scarcely slept these past seven nights."

Duncan offered a weary smile that never reached your gaze.

"I’ve crossed kingdoms on less sleep."

"And paid for it each time."

You drew yourself from the bedroll, gathering Dunk’s woolen cloak around your shoulders.

"The moonwort grows beyond that brook. I gathered it the last time we visited the Reach. There should be enough beneath the oak’s roots. I'll brew you a cup before dawn."

Dunk reached gently for your wrist in protest. 

"No."

You looked down at him with that familiar stare you use when you’re certain you’re right. The art of swordsmanship may be his, but healing is your knowledge in every measure. 

"I will not have you wandering the woods at night because my mind has forgotten to rest. Too dangerous for you, love."

"You are my husband."

"And you are weary yourself from today, aye? Rest, wife, I insist."

"A healer does not count the hours."

"A husband very well might."

His thumb brushed across your knuckles. You were in that limbo of uncertainty where the outcome of the situation remained unanswered in your mind. Duncan was ever the persistent gentleman regardless of how much you protested his care. Both you and your husband have been accustomed to serving others your whole life, it’s hard to be selfish. 

"You spend your days mending broken bones, swollen wounds, and men like me too stubborn to heed your counsel. I will not ask the forest to claim what little strength remains to you. Tell me where the herbs grow. At first light, I shall fetch them."

You regarded him for a long moment, your eyes reflecting the withering fire. He was being truthful. Duncan the wandering knight, and his wife, the wandering healer. Egg was the fortunate lad to get the best of both your worlds. 

"There is little sense letting a man wander the forest as his fire slows and squire sleeps.”

"There is less sense in letting his wife do so."

The faintest smile graced your lips before fading into solemnity. 

"Then listen well, husband. I mean it. Listen as though your life hangs upon every word, for it might."

You knelt beside the fire and traced unseen leaves upon the grass with slender fingers.

"The moonwort bears silver veins that gleam. Its leaves are shaped like a falcon's talon. Gather only those."

You raised a finger, arching a brow at the man who already seems so certain of himself. 

"Beside it grows widow's lace."

Dunk frowned.

"Aye, I know of it."

"You know its looks. You do not know its hunger."

Your voice lowered until it was scarcely louder than the crackling embers, as though you were to reveal some sacred secret the forest told you, and you only. 

"The two plants favor the same earth. Their roots entwine beneath the soil. Mistake one for the other, and I shall steep something far worse than slumber."

"Silver-veined leaves," he repeated. "Folded like a falcon's wings."

”Falcon’s talon. And never the white blossoms with stems stained violet near the root."

"Aye I shall remember, dearest."

"You must."

You took both his hands into yours.

"In the forest, mercy and poison wear the same face, and only the smallest marks divide the blessing from the bier. Understand?”

”Aye. Thank you, sweet girl.”

He gave a kiss to your forehead, clutching the back of your head. Dunk’s eyes shut in a quiet tide as his lips paused upon your skin for a moment. Your husband wasn’t at all the dim man people make him out to be. He’s a caring man, a devoted one, eager to obey the goodness of his heart. You knew he’d obey yours. 

***

Dusk settled soft upon the world, and the heavens stood bare of clouds, a great vault of fading sapphire where the first pale stars dared to wake. Fireflies drifted through the long grass like wandering souls, their lanterns rising and falling upon the evening air as though the old gods themselves had strewn sparks across land.

Beside a modest fire, you knelt upon a weathered cloak, stirring a blackened iron pot that hung from a crooked branch. Steam curled heavenward with the scent of onions, wild herbs, and the last scraps of rabbit fortune had granted you. Your hands were roughened by road and season, yet they moved with the quiet grace of one who had made a hundred hearths where no hearth had ever stood. 

“My father used to tell my brothers and I stories to put us to sleep. Perhaps a story could help Ser Duncan rest.” Egg chirruped from the other end of the fire, mindlessly sharpening a stray branch. 

“That’s an idea. What sort of stories did your father tell you?”

”He liked the one of the ferryman, who rowed beneath frozen rivers. They say he does not sail upon the water, but beneath the ice itself. If a child wanders too far into the snow, he hears knocking beneath his boots. Once... twice... thrice. And should the child answer, the ice softens like warm wax, and pale hands drag them beneath without leaving so much as a footprint."

”Sevens hells Egg. How’d you manage sleep after that?”

”It wasn’t as bad as the one of the widow. She keeps no house, for she is one. Her ribs are the beams, her spine the chimney, and every child who mocks the dead is invited inside to warm themselves. The fire is bright, the bread is sweet, and the blankets are softer than the finest wool. But when dawn comes, the house has vanished... and all that remains is a little pile of white ash, still warm enough to remember their name."

”I worry deeply for you, child.”

You glanced toward the darkening treeline, where Dunk had vanished with an axe across his shoulder to gather what wood the forest would surrender. The woods whispered in the gathering dusk, and every snapping twig stirred the old fears born of lonely roads. Wolves, thieves, or hungrier things that wore a man's shape.

Still, you smiled faintly to yourself at his image. His broad shoulders, his taut back, his hulking arms, his look of focus. There wasn’t a part of you he hadn’t swooned.  

You tasted the broth with a carved wooden spoon and nodded, adding another pinch of herbs gathered from forgotten hillsides. It was a humble meal, but hunger lent richness where silver plates never could.

At last Dunk emerged between the pines, his silhouette outlined by the dying gold of the sky, an armful of firewood cradled against his chest. Weariness bent his shoulders, yet when his gaze found the little fire, and his girl waiting beside it, it seemed the long road itself grew lighter beneath his feet.

“Gods above, Dunk, how much of that forest is left?” You laugh, watching as he drops the branches a few feet from the fire. 

”Enough to get us through the night, I reckon.”

”Oh do you?” 

You laugh as he wipes the sweat from his brow, stepping in to help you with supper. 

“Don’t forget to drink the tea with dinner.” You remind him, gently waving the wooden spoon in his direction to emphasize your request. Dunk nods, unscrewing the top of the waterskin you kept the brew in. Though, you couldn’t help wondering how much chopping firewood had already exhausted him. 

Your makeshift family kept vigil by the fire, the day had nearly surrendered its last breath. Beyond the worn ribbon of a dirt road, you rested beneath the amber hush of evening. The sun lingered at the world's edge like the final ember in a dying hearth, pouring its gentle fire across the fields until every blade of grass seemed gilded with quiet grace.

You and Dunk sat close upon a weathered woolen blanket, your cloaks softened by the warmth of the fading light. Between you sat Egg, happily shoveling supper in his face.

Egg looked from your face to Dunk’s and found nothing but welcome. Dunk reached to brush a loose strand of hair from your brow. You answered with a glance so full of tenderness that it needed no speech, for some prayers are spoken only by the eyes.

***

And soon enough,  sleep came upon you, swift and without struggle. Yet when your eyes opened again, your heart was stirred by an unnamed warning. 

“Please, wake up, my love…wake up for me, sweet girl, it’s just me…” 

The bedroll was soaked through with sweat, though none of it belonged to you. Dunk laid at your side, consumed by a fierce heat. The withering light of the fire gave you a small glimpse of his face. Though your eyes were still bleary with sleep, it was still made certain something was wrong. 

“Dunk? What’s happened? Are you alright, dearest?” You had never sat up so hurried, scrambling to feel the warmth of his cheeks and mend him. His face bore a red flush, his forehead slick with sweat, his brows pained and furrowed. 

He groaned, nuzzling into your touch as you felt his skin, aimlessly bucking his hips into nothing. The reaction alarmed you, making you draw back to drink in the state of him. Your husband was wrecked. A panting, sweating, air-humping, groaning disaster. 

“Duncan, you need to tell me what’s wrong.”

He whimpers again, breathing refusing to slow. Your thoughts narrow as your eyes snag on the bulge in his breeches. It was all made so clear to you then. The feverishness, the sensitivity, and the need for stimulation. He picked the wrong fucking plant.

Tentatively, your hand reaches out, your fingertips gently touching his throbbing cock. Dunk shudders at the feeling, an open mouth whine falling from his lips. Your palm is quick to muffle the noise, eyes wide as you glance around. Egg slept in a stable a little ways a way, but still within eye-view of where you and Dunk rested. You silently thanked the Gods he was kept so far away. 

“Dunk, sweetheart, I need you to talk to me.”

”S-so sensitive…”

”I know, my love, I know. Just tell me what herb you picked last night, so I may know how to cure you, aye?”

”White blossoms…with purple at the root…like you said…”

”That was not what I said. I said to fetch moonwort, with the silver veins. But it’s too late for that, isn’t it?” You murmur that last bit to yourself, mostly. Just a quiet attempt at winning back your sanity. 

“C-can you fix it, wife? Please- fuck, I just…need you, mm, so much…”

”I’ll fix you, my love, just lie back for me. Can you manage that? Good, good, just like that, dearest.” You coo at him sweetly with that familiar tone in your voice. The one you use when you tend to him. Medically and…intimately. He whines at the sound of your voice, lowering himself onto his back. Dunk writhed as he laid, eager for your touch. 

“Shhh, shhh, just be patient for me…that’s it…”

One hand strokes his hair as the other unties his breeches, eagerly shuffling them down his thighs. His cock sprang free, rigid, flushed and nearly soaked with precum. It took a fair amount of composure to remain true to your mission of curing your husband, as opposed to teasing him and ogling at it. You spat into your palm taking Dunk’s length into your grasp, earning you a depraved groan straight from his chest. You flushed at the sound. Should it continue, you figured you needed to find a way to stifle his noises. 

A sharp ripping sound tore through the air as you ripped off a small portion of fabric from your chemise. You stuffed it into Dunk’s mouth, leaving him to choice but to whine around it. And by some divine miracle, it quieted him. 

Your hand returned to his weeping cock, pumping it along with a circular motion of your wrist. Tears welled in his eyes as the pleasure already felt far too much for him to bear. It wasn’t exactly painful. Just desire that boiled beneath his skin, coiled in the pit of his stomach. Your touch felt like the only thing keeping him alive. And he needed it like air. 

As your hand gripped tighter you felt the blood rushing to his cock. He bucked into your hand feverously, his groans growing louder behind the crumpled fabric. You bent over from where you kneeled beside him. The empty hand returned to his hair to card through his locks. Your mouth occupied itself on his neck, kissing gently, suckling the spots you know drive him mad. And with each kiss you whispered, 

“Mhmm, doing so well for me, husband. Such a good boy, my love.” 

Tender pecks turned into open mouth kisses as he continued to writhe and pant. Your touch had melted his brain. It was the most relieving thing he’s ever felt, yet it showed no sign of slowing. It only grew beneath his skin as you stroked him. 

Your pace had a newfound desperation, stroking him faster than you ever had before. His eyes squeezed shut, fists grasping the bedroll. Dunk’s pleasure felt nowhere near finished, but he felt himself tense up, dangling on the brink of his pleasure. 

“You’ll feel so much better if you cum, baby. Can you do that for me, Dunk? Cmon, let your wife take such good care of you…”

Your sultry whispers against his ear was enough to drive him to the edge. He writhed, muscles tensing as he released across your hand. Your pace slowed as he came, his shuddering breaths and quivering voice muttering listless apologies. 

“M’so sorry, m’lady…fuck, feels s-so good…”

You withdrew your hand as you watched the last weak spurt of cum lay across your hand. With a sigh of relief, you plant a gentle kiss to your husband’s lips, feeling him smile against your mouth. 

“Feeling better, I hope?” 

“Only a little…still hard,” Dunk whined, sounding only a little more himself.

”That’s normal. You may just need to give it one last…you know.” You reassure, your husband nodding frantically in reply. 

“Thank you, my sweet wife, so good to me. I’m forever in debt to you, my beautiful,” he kissed your left cheek, “clever,” then your right, “sexy”, your forehead after, “wife.” 

He whispered the last word against your lips, pulling you into a deep kiss. Dunk kissed you with a fervor you had not been yet acquainted with. It was something reminiscent of hunger. A primal impulse to have you as close as possible. 

Then, you tasted the tea you brewed on his tongue, lingering on his lips. You pulled away. wiping your lips with the back of your hand, alarm pumping through your every vein. Dunk whined at the loss of contact, shuffling slightly to be closer to you. In the midst of your panic, you brush him off. 

“Go behind that tree and handle yourself.” 

“Is there another way? To fully cure me of this?”

“Many.”

”Do any more,” he looks down for a moment, “Involve you?”

The desperation in his eyes is almost laughable. 

”Perhaps.” You bite back a giggle. 

You weren’t sure if it was the lingering taste of the blossom, but something twisted deep in your stomach. A subtle warmth that began to plague you, seizing every inch of skin. The feeling drew you closer, your chest beginning to heave. 

Limbs began to move themselves, as if possessed by the unyielding love you held for one another. You crawled atop your husband, still breathless from how you relieved him moments prior. Your hands found his wrists, pinning them beside his head with a wicked smile on your lips. 

For a split moment, you relish the wanton nature of his face. That is until he flips you onto your back, his still rigid cock pressing into your soaking pussy. You felt it ache with need for him. Clenching around nothing as his hands roamed your body. 

“Dunk…”

”Seems like I’m not the only one in need of relief, hmm?” His tone drew a sharp scoff from you, Dunk’s lips beginning to glide over the skin of your neck. His breath was warm against the tender flesh, panting as he laid kisses across it. 

The sensation sent soft moans tumbling from your lips. Dunk rutted into your clothed cunt as you whined, feeling the heat beneath his skin return with vengeance. 

“Dunk.”

”Mm,”

”Take me, right here. Need to feel you, husband.” 

He chuckles against your neck. nudging the skin with his nose. The coarse hands that map your skin pause at your hips, rucking up your night chemise to your waist. 

“I’d never deny you, sweet wife. My life’s greatest gift…” 

Your cheeks flushed at his words whilst your hands found his back, nails gently scraping against the taut, slick skin. A gasp escaped you as his tip rubbed against your weeping pussy. Dunk’s palms found the back of your thighs, drawing your legs against your chest. 

He takes an indulgent glance at your cunt, his brows drawing together with need. Dunk bent down to press a sloppy, wet kiss between your legs, tasting your slick. An unabashed whine escaped you at the feeling, your pussy made sensitive and needy. 

Dunk takes his bottom lip between his teeth as he thrusts into you, an urgency in his hips he couldn’t deny. The warmth of you drew a choked groan from his throat, eyes fluttering shut. Your nails bit into his back as he pushed into you. You felt so full, so stretched by him, despite only taking half of his length.

As Dunk bottomed out, you managed to catch your breath, adjusting to the size of your big, strong, husband. The bulge of your stomach made Dunk grin as he groaned through the feeling of his pleasure.  

Dunk’s thrusts began in shallow, slow jerks of his hips. Though, you could tell he was fighting against the tide of his own desire. You let out small, blissful sighs, spurring him on further. One hand grabbed at his hair, while the other gripped onto his back, anchoring yourself in your pleasure. 

“Fuck me harder, Dunk…I know you can, baby…” You whine into the shell of his ear, eager for that desperate drive of his hips. He heeds your request as soon as the words leave your mouth, grunting into the crook of your neck. 

You were completely spread open. Your legs were stretched up against your chest, pressed down by the weight of Dunk’s body. He was splitting you in two, filling you entirely, drawing back, and slamming back into you. The feeling of his flushed, angry cock was enough to drive you mad. The way it hits the threshold of your pleasure, again, again, and again…

”Mhm- fuck, girl, so soaked for me- mm, can hear her…” 

You nodded aimlessly at his broken, pleading words. Whorish moans left your lips, making you writhe with embarrassment as you laid, entirely at your husband’s mercy. And fortunately for you, he knew exactly what you craved. 

Dunk rose to his knees, your thighs gripped firmly in his hands. The new angle granted him more movement, allowing him to slam into you at a pace you didn’t think possible. The rhythm of his hips had rendered you a gasping, squirming wreck. The sensation was unlike anything you’d ever felt before, such intense pleasure seizing every inch of your body. It felt as though your skin was set ablaze, and you were left no choice but to moan and beg at your husband’s touch. 

“Fuck, D-dunk- I’m….I’m gonn-“

”Mmhm, that’s it, sweet girl, I got you…” 

Dunk collapsed back onto his hands and knees as he desperately drove into you, eager to bring you to the brink of your pleasure. You both moaned into each other’s necks, breathing heavily against the skin. The coil in your stomach broke as you allowed your bliss to swallow you whole, your every muscle spasming beneath your husband. Your moans began to sound like cries you clenched and squeezed around his length. Dunk soon surrendered to his second orgasm, shoving his cock deep inside you to release himself. You felt so entirely filled, so warm, as his spend and your arousal began to mix. 

Unabashed moans became exasperated pants as your bliss began to slow, revelling in your post orgasmic ecstasy. Dunk’s groans grew quiet against your neck as his hips gave a few weak bucks into your sensitive pussy. He left a trail of lazy, reverent kisses upon your shoulder, face and neck.

”I didn’t hurt you, did I? You feel alright, girl?”

”Mhmm…feel so, so good, Dunk.”

He laughed weakly against your temple before placing one last kiss in it’s wake. 

“Happy to hear that.”

”And you? Feeling cured?”

”Aye. And then some.”

Now it was your turn to bite back a laugh, pulling your breathless husband into your arms. Your nails glided down the expanse of his back as pressed gentle kisses onto his forehead. 

“Next time I’m telling you a story.”

DUNK X HEALER!WIFE

synopsis: after saving dunk a hair’s length away from death, you find yourself married to him three years later, tending to your husband just as you did all those moons ago

warnings: vague, non-graphic descriptions of wounds/ injury, LOTS of domesticity, reader and dunk are so meant for each other, witty sarcastic reader, very fairy tale- esque

WC: 2.6k

The cheers had scarcely faded from the lists. Dust still drifted upon the afternoon breeze where charging mares had thundered moments before, hanging in shafts of golden sunlight like the ghosts of shattered lances. Bright pennants bearing the colors of great houses danced above the tournament grounds, their silks untouched by hardship, while heralds called the names of victorious lords to eager crowds. Nobles laughed beneath embroidered awnings, goblets raised in celebration, scarcely sparing a glance for those who had bled to entertain them.

Beyond the grand stands, where the splendor gave way to wagons, stables, and weathered tents, for squires bore the weight of fallen knights. The last tilt had nearly won him glory. Duncan’s lance had struck true enough to splinter against his opponent's breastplate, but the return blow had hurled him from the saddle with violence. His shoulder lay twisted beneath broken armor, and a jagged fragment of lance had torn deep into his side where the plates no longer met. Blood seeped steadily through the rent in his gambeson, darkening the coarse wool beneath.

Still, one gloved hand refused to loosen its grip upon his battered helm. The healers hurried onward until the noise of the tourney softened behind them. The four healers assisting him found it hard to deny the strain in their arms as they carried Duncan across camp. Apart from the crowded pavilions of wealthy champions stood a smaller healer's tent, its ivory canvas bright against the earth. Sprigs of rosemary, lavender, and yarrow hung drying from the entrance, their fragrance carried upon the breeze, while glass bottles caught the sunlight like scattered jewels. Though modest in size, it possessed a quiet dignity that no lord's pavilion could purchase.

The curtain stirred. You stepped into the light. Your gown was the rich green of forest moss after spring rain, simple in its tailoring yet immaculately kept, belted with supple leather from which hung silver scissors, polished needles, linen bandages, and tiny glass vials filled with tinctures of every hue. Your eyes, clear and steady as a calm lake beneath a summer dawn, held the practiced composure of one long acquainted with pain.

You were beautiful in the manner that silenced conversation rather than invited it. Not adorned with jewels or embroidered silks, but with quiet confidence and unwavering kindness. Grace seemed to follow your every measured step, while your hands, though delicate in appearance, bore the faint stains of herbs and oils, the unmistakable marks of one who had devoted them to preserving life.

You took but a single glance at the injured knight before crossing the distance.

"What has happened?"

"The final joust, my lady," a bald boy answered, lowering his head. "He faced a lord whose horse alone was worth more than all he owns."

Your gaze lingered upon the battered mail, the patched surcoat, the cracked shield still clutched beneath one arm.

"So," you murmured, almost to yourself. "A knight rich in courage... and poor in everything else."

Duncan managed the ghost of a weary smile.

"I had hoped," he said through clenched teeth, "to win enough today... to afford a better first impression."

For the first time, warmth touched your expression. Drawing back the tent's curtain, you replied. 

"It is far easier to mend broken bones than broken pride." You stepped aside, your voice calm but commanding.

"Bring him inside. Before this tourney claims another.”

***

Darkness came and went like the tide. The world had become a fevered sea of distant voices and shapeless light, each sound muffled as though carried from the bottom of a forgotten lake. Somewhere, men were speaking. Somewhere, boots crossed wooden floors. Somewhere, pain gnawed patiently at his flesh and bone.

Yet all of it seemed impossibly far away. Then... there was light. Not the harsh blaze of the sun upon polished steel, nor the orange glow of a burning hearth, but something softer. Warm as candlelight in a sept at dusk. It drifted toward him through the haze, and for one bewildered heartbeat, Duncan wondered whether the Seven had finally sent one of their gentle servants to guide him beyond the veil.

A figure emerged from the brilliance. At first, you possessed no face at all, only a silhouette crowned by a halo of hair that caught the light like spun copper. As his swimming vision struggled to obey him, the blur slowly surrendered its secrets. Gentle features took shape as though painted by an unseen hand, each clearer than the last. The graceful curve of your brow, lips touched by quiet concern rather than fear, and eyes... gods, those eyes...

They were neither emerald nor sapphire, nor any jewel men boasted of in song. They were simply alive. Clear, luminous, and impossibly kind, holding the sort of warmth a dying man imagines the world has forgotten.

Duncan tried to speak. Only a ragged breath escaped him. You leaned nearer. A few loose strands of your hair slipped free, brushing against his brow as lightly as summer grass stirred by morning wind. They carried the scent of rosemary, lavender, and fresh rain, washing away the iron sting of blood that had filled his senses for what felt like an age. Surely no mortal woman could smell of spring while standing amidst so much death.

Dunk’s thoughts wandered without command. She cannot be real. Perhaps she was a memory long buried, he thought. The daughter of a farmer whose smile he had admired as a boy. Perhaps you were one of the Mother's own daughters, sent to weigh the worth of battered souls. Or perhaps death itself had grown merciful enough to wear a beautiful face.

Your lips moved. He heard nothing. The blood in his ears drowned every syllable, leaving only the gentle cadence of your voice, that seemed less spoken than sung. It wrapped itself around him like a lullaby remembered from childhood, familiar despite belonging to no memory he could name.

He fought to keep his eyes open. The effort felt greater than lifting a shield against a cavalry charge. You reached toward him. Your fingers settled against his cheek with astonishing tenderness. Cool enough to soothe the fire raging beneath his skin, yet warm enough to remind him he still belonged to the living. Such a simple touch, yet it anchored him more firmly than chains ever could. You withdrew your hand, the touch curdling into something clinical in Duncan’s mind. 

“No fever. His wounds are still treatable.” Your voice found Dunk’s ears in a distant echo, something close yet far. 

An angel, he thought dimly. No...the angels of the septs were carved from marble, forever distant and serene.  You breathed. You frowned with worry. A tiny crease formed between your brows as you studied him, as though the fate of one broken stranger mattered more than all the triumphs of kings.

If this was heaven, it was gentler than every bard had promised. If it was the world...then perhaps it was worth surviving a little longer.

”M’lady?” Dunk croaked with every fiber of life he continued to hoard. He watches through bleery eyes, your head snapping to where he laid, a quiet astonishment on your face. 

“He’s awake.” You murmur to the other healers in the tent. Then, your attention returns to his bedside, tentatively inspecting his state. 

“Faring well, Ser? You slept a remarkable amount of hours.” Dunk groans in response, shuffling slightly on the bedroll, the one defaced with dried blood but shown love with every new breath. 

“Hurts.” Dunk manages with clenched teeth, your hands precise as you unwrap his bandages. He watches you hum to yourself as you switch them with fresh ones, bewildered by the rhythm of your touch. So deliberate, so practiced. 

“Your shoulder had been knocked from its socket, but we were able to return it home safely. Your upper right rib bore the end of a lance, lodged in your skin, a few lacerations on your chest and thighs…oh, and a small scrape but above your navel. Casualties aside, there’s a fair chance you’ll survive, should you heal properly.”

Dunk’s senses began to feel more familiar to him, noises regaining their old clarity, the fuzz in his vision lessening with every blink. 

“And what of my squire? Egg?” The question leaves his lips in a broken plea, still plagued by relentless pain. 

“Your squire left to tend to your horses. The boy refused to leave your side as I worked. Kept reminding me to be gentle, that one.” You laugh to yourself recalling the worry in the lad’s voice. 

“Aye, he’s a smart boy.” Dunk grunts, wincing as you clean a deep slash on his rib. He watches you through clearer eyes now, studying your every movement. He was told he was far from death. That he had grown closer to Earth than the afterlife. Yet, the divine glow surrounding you refused to leave. If you’d asked him, he’d deem you a goddess beneath the disguise of a cotton dress and apron. 

Sense came too slowly. You moved before it could, swift and silent, until your face eclipsed his own. Confusion clouded your features, plain for him to see. He cowered instinctively, shoulders curling inward as if bracing for steel, his mind still adrift in the fog between waking and memory.

“Look upon me, Ser.” You didn’t have to tell him twice. 

“Now to the left... and to the right, if you are able…hmm. Follow my finger? Good. Your brain seems to be intact, though it does not explain the mindless staring…” 

Dunk could feel the surge of blood flooding his cheeks, rendering himself a blushing fool beneath your gaze. 

“And it seems your circulation is quite efficient as well.”

Dunk felt himself grow a deeper shade of red at your jest, your smile deepening into a bashful grin as you drank him in. Beneath the blood as bruise, he was quite beautiful. Something so quiet yet sure of itself. A striking face, softened by the pure heart lodged in his chest.  He was a portrait half-spoiled by war. Linen wound about his head like pale ivy upon an ancient oak, concealing rents in flesh where iron had kissed him too cruelly. Yet beneath that mantle of suffering remained a beauty impossible to smother. It lived in the sculpted planes of his face, in the patient strength of his jaw, in the graceful bow of his lips. Love had robbed him of every practiced defense. It shone in his gaze with all the helpless brilliance of candlelight in a sept, warm enough to banish kingdoms of darkness, fixed upon you with such quiet adoration that it seemed the whole of creation had narrowed to the space between your eyes and his.

***

THREE YEARS LATER

***

The inn had settled into the quiet song of evening. Rain whispered against the shuttered windows, soft as a septon's prayer, while the hearth crackled low beneath a kettle left to simmer. Beeswax candles gilded the little chamber in honeyed light, chasing the chill from rough oak walls, hardened by a hundred winters. Your cloaks hung dripping beside the fire, Dunk’s chainmail strewn carelessly across a chair where only moments before it had fallen with a weary clatter. The room smelled of woodsmoke, rosemary, damp wool, and the faint iron tang of fresh blood.

He sat upon the edge of the bed in nothing but his breeches, broad shoulders bare now that steel and surcoat had been stripped away. A white bandage circled his ribs where a lance had glanced instead of pierced, leaving behind a livid bloom of purple and gold beneath his skin. Another scrape marred the line of his cheek. He was still an unfairly handsome creature.

The day's violence had done little to lessen it. If anything, the bruises lent him the weathered nobility of an old marble statue kissed by time. Dark hair, still damp from the rain, curled untidily against his brow, while blue eyes, steady enough to meet a charging mare without flinching, followed only one soul now.

His wife. You. 

You stood before him with a bowl of warm water cradled in one hand, sleeves rolled past slender forearms. Your gown had loosened at the collar after the long day's travel, revealing the graceful line of your throat. Candlelight adored you. It gathered upon your skin like dawn upon fresh snow, lingered in your lashes, and turned your eyes to polished jewels.

You dipped a clean cloth into the steaming water.

"You smiled just now.”

"I did no such thing."

"You did."

"I grimaced."

"It looked suspiciously like smiling."

"Aye, it was pain, my love."

You raised one brow, trying your hardest to suppress the ache in your cheeks. The ache that commanded your smile to grow.

"Ser Duncan."

He sighed with theatrical defeat.

"...Perhaps pain smiled."

A laugh escaped you before you could swallow it. He had a talent for seizing you with laughter. Even when he did not intend so. 

"There," you murmured. "That was not so difficult." You wrung the pinkended cloth into the bowl, fetching your bandages from the bedside table. Dunk hummed in reply as you tended to him, a reverent act you’d undertaken since the moment you had met. As you swore vows of marriage before the Seven, you saw no end of bandages or wet cloth in your future. 

You cleaned away the dried blood with hands so gentle they scarcely seemed to touch him at all. Fingers that might have embroidered silk or gathered spring flowers instead tended split skin and aching muscle without hesitation. There was no revulsion in your face, no fear. Only the calm concentration of a woman who had mended him enough times to know every scar by heart.

"You frightened me," you admitted at last. The jest fled from Dunk’s dopey smile.

"I know."

"When Thunder stumbled..."

"She did not."

"She most certainly did."

"She reconsidered her footing."

You gave him a look so long and unimpressed that he found himself laughing despite the ache in his ribs.

"You are impossible, husband."

“Ye remind me often, dear wife.”

His hand found yours before you could reach for another strip of linen. Your fingers intertwined with the easy certainty of years. The room grew wonderfully still. Outside, rain continued its endless pilgrimage across the roof. Somewhere below, drunken merchants sang badly of forgotten kings and prettier women. A serving girl laughed. Tankards met with cheerful thuds. The world carried on as it always had. Yet here, within four weathered walls and the warm breath of the hearth, kingdoms seemed very far away. He studied you as though he had never quite learned the shape of your face.

"You are staring."

"I am."

"Why?" You laugh.

"Because I nearly lose the chance, every list I enter.”

Your hands ceased their work. Silence settled between you, not empty, but full. You rested your forehead against his, careful of the bandage wrapped about his temple. Breaths came in steady tides as your bodies reveled in each other’s familiar warmth. 

"You do not."

"No."

"You always come back to me, dearest.”

"Aye, I always will."

You smiled sadly.

"No knight should promise what only the gods command."

"I made no promise to the gods."

His thumb brushed across your knuckles, feeling the bones beneath his finger tips. You watch as he fights a pained look, as though his mind is envisioning your loneliness. You and Egg’s life if he was taken from you both. 

"I made one to my wife."

For a heartbeat you simply looked at him, eyes shining with something brighter than tears. No God could’ve smiled upon you harder when they brought Dunk to your tent. When you were tasked with mending a large man with a pure soul. 

"You impossible man."

"Aye, I've heard that before."

daeron x wife!reader NSFW 18+

synopsis: for your husband’s nameday, you surprise him dressed as a royal whore eager to please him, and even more eager for him to indulge your fantasies

warnings: whore x client roleplay fic, mentions of cheating (jokingly), degradation/praise, daeron commits to the bit, body worship (f receiving), oral (f receiving), licking, roleplay fantasy, reader and daeron are very in love and down bad for each other :)) fluffy moments also

WC: 1715

You had draped yourself languidly across the silken bed, one arm cast above your brow as you fought the persistent urge to rub away the dark kohl that traced your eyes. The soot-black pigment, so carefully lined upon your lashes, teased at your skin with an infuriating itch, yet you bore it with quiet resolve. It would not do to spoil the care that had gone into your appearance. Not on this night.

The hour had slipped well beyond dusk. Night had claimed the keep entirely, cloaking its halls in velvet shadow, while the world beyond your chamber lay hushed beneath a moon veiled by drifting clouds. Only the faint chorus of crickets beyond the open casement and the distant murmur of the sea upon the cliffs disturbed the stillness.

Within your chamber, dozens of candles burned low in polished brass and silver holders, their golden flames trembling with every passing draft. They painted the stone walls in warm amber light, filling every corner with soft, wavering shadows that danced like silent spirits. Their glow spilled across embroidered tapestries, carved oak furnishings, and the rich velvet curtains gathered around the great bed, lending the room an intimate warmth against the chill of the night.

The air itself had grown heavy with sweet fragrance. Jasmine blossoms, scattered with careful hands, perfumed the room with their delicate bloom, while the rich scent of wild honey lingered from beeswax candles melting into gilded pools. Upon a nearby table rested a flagon of deep crimson wine beside two waiting goblets, untouched, their surfaces gleaming beneath the candlelight. Rose petals had been strewn across the bed linens, their crimson hue vivid against sheets of ivory linen and furs softer than fresh snow.

Every detail had been prepared for one soul alone.

It was your husband's nameday, and all had been arranged in quiet devotion, from the fragrant chamber to the flickering candlelight that bathed the room in gentle gold. With each passing moment your anticipation deepened, your gaze wandering often toward the chamber door. Every distant footfall set your heart fluttering, every whisper beyond the corridor stirring hope that it might finally be him returning to you. And so you waited, wrapped in warmth, candlelight, and longing, eager to greet the man for whom this night had been fashioned. 

The light that shone from the small gap between the floor and door went dark. Just before your heart could escape your chest, it opened slowly, squeaking with every inch. Your posture straightened. Your sheer garment shifted. Your bracelets clicked against one another. You clear your throat. 

“My Prince.” You greet, your voice a sultry husk meant to contrast your usual softness. Daeron drank in the sight of you and your chambers in one big swallow, the amusement clear on his face. Surely the goblets of wine he’d sipped at the feast didn’t make the surprise any easier to digest. 

“To what do I owe all this, my dear wife?” His eyes roamed your nearly bare form leisurely, savoring every inch of skin you bore to him. 

“I know not of this wife you speak of my Prince, I was sent to your chambers as a gift. To please you, your grace. For your name day.” There was a playfulness in your tone that allowed Daeron’s head to catch up with what you implied. He wasn’t aware of your sudden knack for pretending, but Gods, it shamed every gift he’s received that day. 

“Swear to me my wife will never hear of this.”

”My tongue is yours, my Lord. It shall remain still.” You purred, crawling toward the edge of the bed, your jewelry gently clinking with your movement. Daeron began to strip his doublet as you crossed the room, his bottom lip snagged between his teeth. You drew his hands to his sides, insisting you undress him. With each brush of your fingers you felt the warmth beneath his skin, the need for you searing deep within his veins. He fights the relentless urge to caress every inch of you, letting you have your fun. As you pulled his tunic over his head, you feasted upon the sight of his bare chest, the flickering candlelight gilding every curve. Daeron’s skin hungerily drank the hearth’s glow as his chest rose and fell. 

“You bear the sort of beauty that makes silence feel like praise, my Prince.”

”I imagine that’s well rehearsed. Do you offer every man with a heavy purse that promise?”

”Pity you think so low of me. Do you speak to every whore this way?”

”Only the ones that make wedding vows seem negotiable.”

You stifled a laugh as your lips drove into his, greedily claiming your touch as his own. The taste of wine plagued his tongue, drawing a soft moan from you. Daeron’s hands lost their temperance as your kiss deepened into something primal. A lustful conquest of closeness, man and wife, playing the role of client and whore. You doubted many noble wives did the same with their lord husbands, but you were happy to accept being the first.

”What does his Grace request of me?” You gasped against his lips, eager to regain your breath. Daeron smiled against your mouth, his hands traveling from your waist to your tits, offering them a gentle squeeze. 

“He requests you to undress, filthy whore.” His commitment made your brows raise, the pool between your legs growing slicker with every demanding glare. You reach for the single pin keeping your garment intact, allowing the fabric to glide from the expanse of your body. It laid in a pool at your feet, completely bare aside from the jewels adorning your figure. 

Daeron drops to his knees, his wanton eyes refusing to leave yours. Instinctively, your hand begins to card through his hair as he kneels before you. He reaches for your waist, drawing you closer to him, peering deeply into your eyes. Then, he licks from your navel to the apex of your ribs. The feeling of his tongue makes you shudder. Daeron nuzzles and presses lazy kisses to your stomach and upper thighs, humming against your skin. It was a worship so reverent, as though he was surrendering to divinity, a devout servant at your altar. 

 “A face like yours could empty a lord's treasury. Such a pretty thing you are.” The flush in your cheeks betrayed the character you played as you blushed at his words. 

“A prince of the realm deserves the best, does he not?”

”The very best.” Daeron grinned as he reached for your thigh, gently placing over his shoulder as he kneeled. Your balance came and went, confused as to what he intended.

”My Lord, it is my duty to please you.”

”Nothing would please me greater,” He dipped his head, placing a reverent peck to your clit, “Than tasting this pretty pussy. It’s mine, is it not? This sweet cunt,” he places another, “Belongs to your Prince.” 

The words leave your mouth agape as you watch him through half lidded eyes. Your grip tightens in his hair, welcoming the feeling of his face buried deep between your legs. With a flutter of your eyelids, his tongue dives between your folds, flicking where you feel best. A moan escapes your lips, a wanton sigh straight from filthy tavern songs. 

He hums against your folds feeling you grow slicker with every jerk of his tongue. Daerons hold on your thighs and ass tighten, beckoning you closer. There was no other kingdom in Westeros that could compare to being smothered by your heat, in Daeron’s eyes. When he’s left with no choice but to devour you, worship you, feel your sweetness flood his tongue. 

“Mhmm- your ladywife is a very lucky woman, your Grace.” 

Daeron hummed against you in reply, his tongue quickening in its pace.  As your moans grew in neediness, he began to suckle on your pearl drawing a pleasured gasp from you. The sensation made your heart flutter like a frantic crow. The blood in your veins burned with the sort of pleasure that made you tremble. Your fist tightened around his sandy hair as you bucked against his face. 

Your husband gave a sharp slap to the plush of your ass as he sucked on your clit, his finger plunging deep into your pussy. You felt so warm, so pleasured, so full. 

“F-fuck!! Daeron- too much, feels so good- Gods…”

You felt Daeron hum a muffled, “mhm”, face buried deep in your sopping pussy. It began to flutter and clench with every kitten lick of his tongue and curl of his finger. It was enough to make your thighs shake around his head as you surrendered to release. He pulls away for just a moment, his fingers maintaining their pace. 

“Gonna cum on your Prince’s tongue? Hm, pretty thing? I want my wife to hear you when I make this pussy cum…mhmm…that’s it…”

Daeron buried his face between your thighs once more, not bothering with any form of precision. His ravenously tongued your pussy as he fucked you on his fingers, sending you over the brink of pleasure. With a gasp, you trembled in his hold, feeling the warmth of a thousand hearths burn through your core. Your pussy fluttered, gushing cum as you grinding against your husband’s soaked face. Labored breathing and moans of ecstasy filled your chamber walls as you welcomed every ounce of the sensation, reverently stroking your Daeron’s hair. 

As the pleasure begins to weaken your breaths come in long, blissful sighs. Daeron rises from his knees. His lips find yours again and claim you with your own arousal fresh on his tongue. You rest your forehead against his, languidly draping your arms around his neck. 

“No nameday gift will ever compare to yours, dear wife.”

”You flatter me, dear husband.” 

You laugh against his lips as you claim them in a playful kiss, still high off the pleasure he gave you. The two of you rest there for a moment, relishing the feeling of each other’s skin. Candle warmth, oils, your husband’s touch all flooded your senses. You were the most beloved wife in Westeros. Your husband left no room for doubt in the matter.   

“Do you think my wife will hear of this?”

”Oh shut up.”

husband!dunk x inexperienced wife!reader 18+ NSFW MDNI

synopsis: after you and your husband swear vows before the Seven, you fear for your wedding night. despite your initial nerves due to inexperience, dunk reverently shows you how a wife is to be pleased

warnings: smut with a teaspoon of plot, au where Dunk actually has some game, slightly ooc dunk, oral (f receiving), praise, soft/service dom!dunk, loss of virginity, prone bone headlock fucking, very fluffy and intimate, reader and dunk are very much in love

W.C: 4k

note: I DIDNT LIE DID I?? the poll said yall wanted wedding night dunk x reader so I hope u enjoy :))

The bells were not of gilded septs, nor did great lords gather beneath banners stitched with lions, stags, or dragons. It was but a humble union, held where the fields kissed the edge of the village, beneath an old elm whose roots had witnessed more seasons than any living soul could name. The bride, you, wore no crown of jewels, only a circlet of wildflowers gathered at first light, while your gown, mended by careful hands a dozen times over, shone fairer than silk in the eyes of the man who awaited you.

Dunk came clad in homespun wool, his boots still marked by honest soil. He possessed no castle to bestow, no titles to speak of, only calloused hands, a loyal heart, and a promise that neither winter's hunger nor summer's toil would ever find you standing alone.

A few witnesses who were no more than strangers, gathered close, shoulder to shoulder, their laughter mingling with the song of fiddles and the crackling of the cookfire. Fresh bread was broken as though it were a king's feast, rough ale poured as though it were Lys’s finest vintage, and every humble dish was received with grateful smiles. Children darted between drunken dancers, old folk clapped weathered hands to forgotten tunes, and for one blessed evening, no soul counted what they lacked.

When the vows were spoken between you, they were not carved from ancient books nor adorned with the honeyed words of learned septons. They were simple, yet truer than oaths sworn before thrones.

"My cloak is threadbare," Duncan murmured, taking your hands in his. "Yet what warmth it keeps shall be yours."

"And my hearth is small," you replied, your voice soft as the evening wind. "Yet no stranger shall ever find it, for it is your home."

"Gold builds keeps," he said, "but it is bread shared in lean winters that builds a marriage. Crowns are inherited. Love is earned, day by day, until the Stranger himself comes calling."

The silence broke beneath warm applause and quiet tears. Then the fiddles found their tune once more, and you both stepped into the dance as dusk yielded to moonlight. Above you, the heavens burned with a thousand distant fires, indifferent to kings and kingdoms alike, yet somehow kinder that night, as though even the old gods and the new had paused to bless a marriage that possessed nothing, save everything that truly mattered.

As ale found warmth in your stomach you felt your trepidation begin to ease, only slightly. The thunder in your ribs quickened every time your mind wandered to what will happen once the ceremony is over. Not that you didn’t trust your husband, or have any reason to be nervous. Your mother equipped you poorly for your wedding night, only having vaguely spoken about it once. The last thing you wished to do was make a fool of yourself. 

As the night carries on with its merriment, you find yourself besieged by memories as you gazed at the man beside you. His boyish smile and reddened cheeks when he courted you. His trembling hands and fumbling words. Nothing could’ve endeared you more.  

He came to your father’s inn with little more than a weary horse, a weather-beaten cloak, and a sword whose glory had long outlived the silver upon its hilt. You, the innkeeper's daughter, bright as the first dawn after a bitter winter, with laughter that warmed the hall more surely than the crackling hearth. Noble ladies wore jewels to capture the eye. You needed none. A loose strand of hair upon your cheek seemed treasure enough to humble kings. Throughout Duncan’s stay, he found reasons to linger. 

One evening it was because his saddle strap required mending. The next because the rains had rendered the roads impassable. Then because he claimed his horse had gone lame, though the beast trotted soundly enough whenever you were not looking. Every excuse was a prayer for one more hour beneath the same roof that sheltered you. You soon learned the truth.

"You lie poorly for a knight."

"I was taught to wield a sword, not falsehoods."

"And yet here you are."

"Aye," he said with a crooked smile. "Because truth would have me say I have nowhere else I would rather be." 

You laughed then, not to mock him, but because his own honesty seemed to surpass what he deemed himself capable of. Dunk wasn’t a man with silvery words, but he did have truth above all else. 

The village whispered that you deserved a merchant's son with fat purses and warm hands, or perhaps a lesser lord with vineyards and stone keeps. What future could a penniless knight offer but cold roads, old armor, and uncertain tomorrows? He asked himself the same question each night. One moonlit evening you both stood beside the stables where the scent of hay mingled with the sweetness of summer blossoms.

"I have no home," he confessed. "No fields to leave our children. My name is worth less than the horse I ride, and poor girl grows thinner with every ride." You watched him in silence.

"I own but one thing of value."

"And what is that?"

"My word."

He swallowed, as though each sentence cost him blood.

"If ever I called you wife, I would spend every beat of my heart earning the honor of hearing yours answer it. I cannot promise silk upon your shoulders, nor feasts, nor servants waiting at your call."

He stepped closer.

"But I swear this before every god who still troubles to hear broken men. No winter would find you facing the fire alone while I draw breath. No sorrow would be yours that I would not claim as my own. And if love were coin, my lady..." He smiled sadly. "...then I would shame the richest lord in Westeros."

"You speak like a fool."

"I've been called worse, m’lady."

"You ask me to trade comfort for hardship."

"I ask if you’d trade certainty for devotion."

You reached for his scarred hand, the hand that had gripped sword hilts until the skin had become leather.

"I've watched wealthy men count their coins while looking past their wives as though they were furniture. You..." You curled your fingers around his. "...you look at me as though I were the sunrise."

"You are."

"No," you whispered. "The sunrise belongs to everyone."

"But perhaps... I could belong to you." You murmured as you peered into his eyes.

The thought leaves a wounded smile on your face as you picture that night, or your knight, rather. So loving, so willing, so ready to give you all he had for a chance to call you his wife. He had been completely helpless since the moment he laid his eyes on you. A desperate, powerless fool under your gaze. Even after swearing vows to one another, it seems nothing had changed. 

The festivity came to a slow as the bard's tempo grew drowsier and drunken feet became heavier. The moon was well hung in the night sky by the time you and Dunk were meant to convene in your chambers. Or for now, an inn room. You and Duncan agreed on settling down in a cottage with your father’s dowry, but for now, it would be him, you, and the road. The air felt stiff as you laid in your chemise, awaiting his arrival. You felt every fiber of the mattress, every pump of your blood and every flutter in your stomach. What if he found you undesirable? What if you ruin it somehow? Your worry came from a lack of understanding. You were unsure how to please a man, only sure how to please yourself. Though you knew Dunk would rather see himself dead than harm you, the supposed pain of it frightened you too. Would you bleed badly? Would it frighten him? Would you be unable to take him? Would that make you a failure as a wife? What if-   

The door opened with a slight groan. 

“There you are, my lo-“

”I'm ready.” You spoke as you laid stiffly atop the bed, your chest rising and falling with a wideness in your eyes. They were fixed to the wood beams of the ceiling, unable to glance at your husband. Dunk froze at the door, confused and slightly surprised by your behavior.

”What?”

”I’m ready- just…do it.” Your instruction drew an amused scoff from him. 

“No…no, sweet girl, we don’t have to do that. It’s just me.”

”But, it’s our duty to, yes? As man and wife?”

”It’s not our duty if no one’s here to watch us. Or if you’re shaking like a leaf, for that matter. Here,” he pulled you up from the bed gently, drinking in your state as you stood. Your hair was slightly askew, a worried furrow in your brow. The sight of you was always endearing to him, but not when you seemed afraid. Especially of something in his control. 

“I’ll tell the inn keeper to get a bath ready. You must be exhausted.”

”No, Dunk…I-I want to, I really do, I’m simply,” the words struggled on your tongue, “I worry I will not satisfy you the way I should.” Your confession seemed to stun him more. 

“Satisy me? Gods- no, you needn’t worry about me, girl. It is my duty to satisfy you, should you wish it.”

His words loosened the nervous coil in your stomach, a foreign warmth burrowing in its wake. You felt your chest rise and fall with something wanton rather than fearful. He means to please you, you thought in disbelief. Suddenly, consummation seemed like something you could enjoy. Seven blessed you with a man so eager to be of service, now, it was time to allow him to service you. To worship every inch of your skin. To savour every moan that leaves your lips. 

You take a step closer, peering into his eyes. 

”That’s highly improper, Ser.”

The formality of the title left him fighting back a groan as you began running your hands up and down his chest. 

”Aye, so it is.”

You found yourself watching the man who could scarcely speak whenever you stood before him. His words would fail, but never his eyes. There was a quiet longing in them, a boy's hope wrapped in a grown man's heart, forever trying to show you what you meant to him. And every time he stood there, fumbling for words that never came, you loved him a little more.

“If wishing to please my wife goes against propriety, you’d be better off a septa.” The jest draws a sharp laugh from you, your hands snaking up to his neck. You feel the flush beneath his skin, your fingers drawing his face closer to yours. 

”You speak like a fool.” You parrot the words you spoke when he told you he loved you. The movement of your lips gently brushes his, a hair’s length away. You are keen to the sensation, feeling the growing pit of warmth in your stomach grow. Knees weaken from below you. Breathing stalls in your lungs.   

“I’ve been called worse, wife.” He echoes them back with a different name for you on the end. A name that proves he swore vows before Gods for your hand. As the words leave his lips they find yours in a reverent conquest, a groan in the back of his throat. The feeling of your plush lips drove him to madness, his hands already wandering your form.  He kissed you as though time itself had stilled to witness it, tasting each tender breath with quiet adoration. Your lips answered his in gentle measure, weaving a wordless hymn between you. In his hands you became softened clay, yielding wholly to the grace of his affection.

”Should I still call for a bath?”

”Fuck the bath.”

You spoke between breaths, your kiss hastening in fervor. It became something you both craved, were desperate for, even. To feel his lips entangled with your own as you gasped and moaned into each other’s mouths. Your fist tightened in his hair as he grabbed at the plush of your ass. The feeling made a whine escape you as you felt him smile against your lips. Without pulling away, you felt yourself being hoisted in the air, his palms holding you firmly against him. Your legs wrapped around his waist as his lips began to travel down your neck. Open mouthed kisses adorned the column of your throat, Dunk’s warmth breath making you shudder.  

“Mmm, Dunk…” The plea came in a breathy sigh, your hand carding through his hair. He hummed in response. Before you could beg him for more, you felt yourself being lowered onto the bed. Your back sunk into the mattress as you laid, Duncan slipping his tunic over his head in unhurried grace, exposing skin kissed by sun and marked by life's quiet labors. You indulged yourself in the sight, studying his form. He possessed the quiet grandeur of rolling hills rather than jagged peaks. Muscle rose beneath his skin in gentle contours, never harsh, never vain, softened by a welcome fullness that invited touch as much as admiration.

As his shirt fell to the floor, you sat yourself up slightly, your fingertips returning to his chest. As your gentle touch cascaded, you hummed at the sight of your husband. 

“So handsome, Dunk. So strong.”

A pained groan died in his throat as a hand came to cradle the back of your head. His reaction leaves an unsatisfied scratch in your brain.

”Mmm, you like that, don’t you? My big, strong husband. You take such good care of me, Ser. Isn’t that right?”

He nods weakly, the crimson in his cheeks spreading to his ears. 

“Please, wife, let me please you. ‘Can make you feel so good, sweet girl, please. Need to make you feel so good…” He whined, slowly crawling atop you in bed. As his form eclipsed your body, he buried his face in your neck, kissing in between pleads. 

“I’m yours to serve, husband. Serve how you please.” Your words meet his ear in a breathy gasp, craven for his touch. Without another moment, Dunk obliges, shuffling down the expanse of your body. Before you can speak another word, he’s hiking your chemise to your waist, spreading your knees with an unhurried reverence. You feel the cool air of the room against your slickness. 

“She’s so soaked for me. Isn’t that right, sweet girl?”

The words made you writhe in embarrassment as you laid before him, your legs thrown over his shoulders. The width of them spreads your legs further, giving Dunk better access. The feeling of his breath on your wet cunt makes you buck your hips in need of touch. 

Tentatively, Dunk’s tongue finds your slit, licking up towards your clit. A sharp gasp escaped you as his tongue found the pleasure point. You felt him chuckle against you as his tongue explored you a second time. Then a third, and a fourth. Small licks that earned whimpers and sighs from you. Your chest heaved as your hand found his hair, gripping it to ground yourself in your pleasure. The tug drew a groan from Duncan, the sound going straight to your core. 

His lips latched your clit and began to suckle gently, sending a surge of warmth through your body. Your whines and moans grew louder as he indulged himself in the sweetness of your cunt, savoring every ounce of pleasure he gave you. 

“Mhmmph-Dunk…so good, baby. Just like that…”

He hummed against you in response as you praised him listlessly, so smothered in your own pleasure. You peered down to see his hazy eyes meeting yours, lost in the taste of your soaked pussy. To Dunk, he could die happy right where he is. Between your thighs, hearing your sighs and gasps, his hair in your grasp, pleasing his girl. It was a feeling no gold could ever buy. 

“Fuck, Dunk- want more…need you…” You pleaded under his tongue, begging for the feeling of his cock. With hesitation, Dunk pulled back, placing one, messy kiss right on your clit. His chin and lips were slick with your arousal. You’d be lying if you said the sight didn’t please you. To be completely drunk off your pussy, soaked with the proof of your own pleasure. 

He shed his breeches in an ungraceful manner, tripping over his own feet. His cock sprang free, painfully hard, pointing toward his stomach. The sight made you swallow, unsure where it was meant to go. He was well endowed in width as well as length. Dunk took note of the uncertainty in your expression, reassuring you as he crawled back onto the bed. 

“I’d never dream of hurting you, dear wife. I’ll be so, so gentle…” His words died on his tongue as he began to leave a trail of kisses from your chest to your neck. As his lips suckled on the skin below your ear, his hands found the hem of your night chemise. You gasped quietly as you felt the fabric traveling up your body, exposing more skin with every small movement. Dunk discarded the covering, letting it fall to the floor with the rest of the discarded fabric. Your hands quickly tried covering yourself to shield his gaze from your bare form. 

“None of that, love. It’s just me…” The last three words were scarcely a whisper as his hands found your wrists with a gentleness no one could ever imagine a man of his size having. He drew your hands to his mouth, kissing each of your knuckles as his eyes fluttered shut. As his lips found the tenth finger, his eyes wandered over you with quiet devotion, savoring each lovely detail as though afraid the next breath might steal it from him. Your beauty was not merely seen, it was received with gratitude. What miracle had led the gods to place so radiant a woman beside him and call her his wife? Dunk couldn’t fathom it. He knew only that no corner of you deserved silence. Every inch begged to be admired, every flaw to be called beautiful, every part of you to be reminded that you were cherished beyond measure. 

“My beautiful wife…my sweet, beautiful, wife. Gods- this better not be just a dream.” He practically moaned as his eyes roamed your flesh. 

“Mm mm,” you protested, “I’m your wife now, Duncan, fuck me like it.” 

At your words, he flipped you onto your stomach, handling you as if you weighed nothing. The quick movement drew a startled squeak from you. You felt his palm give a weak slap to the plush of your ass, earning him another muffled gasp. 

He aligned himself with your soaked cunt, his flushed tip pressing against your entrance. Your hips shuffled backwards, welcoming the feeling, eager to take him. 

“Tell me to stop and I will. Understood?”

”Yes, Ser.”

You feel him begin to thrust, breaching you. The intrusion brings a sharp pressure, your fists gripping the sheets as your mouth falls agape. As the pressure intensifies, your back arches into him. 

“Mhm…that’s it, girl…I know, I know…doing so well for me.” His gruff voice finds the shell of your ear as he nearly bottoms out. The pain was undeniable, an uncomfortable stretch that made you whine into the sheets. 

“Shhh, shh, almost there…”

Dunk laid kisses on your bare shoulder as his cock buried itself to the hilt. He bit back a groan, panting against your back as he let you adjust. As the moments passed, you felt the pain melt into a strange warmth, a newfound pleasure replacing the sting. You wiggled your ass into his hips, inviting him to move slightly. Dunk complied, gently rocking into your pussy without pulling out. The sensation was unlike anything you’ve ever felt. Something deep, intoxicating. Something born of passion and desire. Your eyelids began to flutter as you surrendered to his pace, your fists gripping the sheets harder. 

“Feel so good, m’lady, my sweet girl. I’ll do anything you say. Anything to please you.”

”Faster.” You plea, greedy for the feeling. When his cock kisses the spot that makes your breath hitch in your throat. When you feel completely, utterly, full of your husband. He heeds your command, his hips snapping with new fervor. More of him leaving and more of him reentering, with a pace that made you whimper with every thrust. His face found the crook of your neck, keenly listening to your wanton sounds. They were unlike any music he’d heard before. This was something sacred, a song only for his ears. Or perhaps everyone in the inn, should you grow louder. 

“F-f…uck, Dunk, so big…”

”I know, love, I know…doing so good f’me.”

Despite his words his pace quickened, the snap in his hips intensifying. Each thrust made a wet slapping sound against your ass, filling the inn room with the lewd sounds of a marital bed. The sound of discovering a pleasure you didn’t think possible. 

Dunk’s thrusts quickened and deepened with each drive of his hips, drawing shameless, muffled moans from you with every movement. To support himself, he slid his arm beneath your chin, keeping you locked in place with his sturdy arm. You gripped onto his arm, anchoring yourself in your pleasure. Dunk felt drool dribble from your lips onto his arm as your nails bit into the flesh. His hold tightened as his hips went faster. 

The position and pace had you at loss for words or pleas, only unabashed, open mouth moans. Dunk found himself smothered in pleasure of his own, hearing his animalistic grunts against your ear. They were raw, pussy drunk groans, deep from his chest. Sounds that only got you wetter as you laid merciless in your husband’s grasp. Beneath the totality of his weight, you began to writhe, your legs starting to tremble. 

“Mhmph…feels good, hm? Yeah? You gonna cum for me, sweet girl? Yeah? That’s it…let go for me… Mhm…”

His words were pained and strangled against your ear, disrupted by grunts and moans. You could only respond with desperate head nodding and broken, pleasure ridden words. 

“Y…Y-yeah, fuck…Dunk, I’m gonna…hmmph, yes, yes, yes…”

The coiling warmth in your stomach snapped as you reached the peak of your pleasure. Your mouth opened yet no sound escaped, eyelids shutting in a quiet tide, succumbing to your orgasm. Your pussy clamped around Dunk, bringing him to the peak of his pleasure as well. You screamed into the mattress as the pleasure seized you, something that took hold of your whole body. Dunk filled your spasming cunt with his seed, watching as he spilled from your swollen pussy. 

As your breathing slowed you felt your body surrender, a drowsy bliss finding you in your afterglow. Your eyes drifted shut as you laid beneath your husband, still coming down from a high of his own. 

“Did I hurt you? Does anything hurt?” 

“Mm mm.” You replied, sleep plaguing your voice.

”Yeah? You feel alright, love?”

”More than alright, Dunk.”

”I can call for a bath if you’d like?” He spoke against your bare shoulder, placing a kiss upon the blade to punctuate the sentence.  

“In the morrow perhaps. Now you may just hold me.”

”Aye, I’d be glad to do so, wife.”

You laid in his arms in quiet vigil, feeling the steady drum of his heart against your ear. Your husband held you all through the night as though you may disappear upon sunrise. Regardless of how many times he may wake and brush the stray hair from your face, placing a gentle kiss upon your forehead. The gods

maekar x second wife!reader

PT 1 PT 2

summary: as your writings worsen in severity, you and your husband are summoned to kings landing and finally comfort the feeling that had been bottled from the beginning

warnings: NSFW, smut, love confession, spanking, slight brattamer!maekar, degrading/praise, mating press, pussy spitting, creampie, fluffy aftercare, happy ending !! WC: 7k

note: hi yall!! again, thanks so much for all of your support and kind words for this series, it has meant a lot! i intend on making this the last part, but if you have an idea for a drabble or one shot with the same premise, id be happy to do it!

Dearest Gentle Reader,

It has long been observed that matrimony, while outwardly adorned in silk and sanctimony, may conceal within its gilded seams the most treacherous of tempests. Such a storm, it seems, has recently broken over one of our most respectable households. Though one dares not say respectable for much longer. 

Whispers ripple through solaces and along candlelit corridors of a certain noble woman, Lady Marbrand, whose devotion to her husband was once praised as exemplary if not bordering upon severe. Alas, where devotion festers into possession, and admiration curdles into suspicion, one must wonder whether love itself has been replaced by something far more…perlious. 

Her lord husband, whose eye, it said, wandered with a frequency unbecoming of his station, was known to cast glances not only at the ballroom‘s brightest jewels, but also at those whose sparkle was perhaps less…socially sanctioned. A dangerous pastime indeed, for a man wed to a lady whose pride could rival the tallest spire.

And now, dear reader, that same gentleman has met a most untimely and curious end. Some claim it was an unfortunate accident. An ill-prepard tonic, a sudden weakness of the heart. Yet others, with voices lowered and fans raised every so slightly higher, suggest a more deliberate design. For it is not curious that the devoted wife, so long overshadowed by her husband‘s indiscretions, should now stand sole mistresses of his fortune…and his silence?

One cannot help but admire, in the most cautious terms, the efficiency with which the scandal has been contained. No hysterics, no public mourning beyond what propriety demands. Only a widow draped in black, her composure as impeccable as ever, her gaze now steady and unchallenged. 

Let this serve as a gentle caution to all wandering husbands and watchful wives alike: the heart, when wronged, may not merely break. It may also sharpen. And in certain households, it would seem, betrayal is not forgiven. Only concluded.  

Yours most observantly,   

-Lady Hollowmere

“By what conviction would a wife make a widow of herself? It‘s fucking nonesense is what it is.“

The fire cast warm glow across Maekar‘s features as he sat before the hearth, scandal pamphlet in hand. To your astonishment, several passages coax scoffs from the man. His reactions were enough to bring a smug grin to your lips. You sat opposite, your needle dancing through cloth with practiced precision. 

It was that hitch of quiet after supper, before servants retired and candle wicks hissed, pitched by wet fingers. The last peaceful moment night would grant. 

“We do not know Lady Marbrand, Maekar. Surely the lady had her reasons. There are burdens that speak to none but their bearer.“ 

The words drew a sharp scoff from him. Maekar could never abide it when you cloaked your thoughts in blossoms of poetry and tangled metaphors, no matter how wise the root beneath them may be. Perhaps the fault lies with the soldier he once was—or perhaps still remained. He preferred words that marched in a straight line toward their purpose. 

“My wife defends husband slayers. Fantastic.“

Against your judgement, that drew a laugh from you. Maekar‘s humour was a sneaky force of nature, a subtlety many are not subjected to. 

“Think of it as a hunting trip. Men find pleasure in inflicting harm on the defenseless. Or rather things they wish were defenseless. Like deer and rabbits. It is your greatest joy, to kill things you deem beneath you. We kill to eat, it is survival. Killing for sport is barbaric. I could kill you, but I haven‘t yet.“

“What the fuck is that supposed to mean?“

“That I do not deem you beneath me.“ 

At your words, a sudden crimson swept across his face. Whether it was the fire before him or the peril in your promise that kindled such warmth within him, he could not say. 

In time, the waters between you grew calm, as a great sea settles in the wake of a tempest. What remained was something between tolerance and courtesy, a fragile peace neither of you seemed eager to disturb. 

Yet affection has never been a poor prisoner. 

It escaped in small betrayals. A lingering word spoken too softly, in the glance stolen as you passed one another through the corridors, in the fleeting brush of sleeves beneath the glow of candlelit suppers. Your nearness became a thing both harmless and unbearable. It drove him to distraction. For he desired nothing so fiercely as your company, your honeyed words, the warmth of your hand against his own. Yet all of it seemed to lie leagues beyond his reach, though you yearned for him no less than he yearned for you.   

“What are you stitching?“ He asked gruffly, though it came from a place of curiosity. You hummed as you admired your own work before turning it, revealing intricate flowers in ornate designs. 

“Carnations. For Daella.“ At those words, his heart yielded like wax before flame. Carnations, Dyanna’s favorite flower. The ones she’d tend to in the royal garden. You, who owed the dead woman nothing, had nonetheless chosen to keep her memory alive for the children she left behind. 

“She will be grateful for them.“ He murmured, earning him a bashful smile that played at your lips. As your union ripened in years, you became keenly aware of your husband‘s difficulty giving you praise. Compliments were something he feigned indifference for, giving you flattery with stoicism. Yet subtle signs betrayed him. A muttered compliment here, a whispered admiration there, and color would steal unbidden across his face. 

Most telling, however, were when those sweet words came from your lips. Then the iron fortress of his demeanor would flatter entirely, and no amount of practiced severity could conceal the pleased blush on his cheeks. 

***

The council‘s voices still echoed within your skull like iron bells struck in a sept. Their words had left your head reeling and your temper thoroughly tested. While villages starved and bread grew scarce throughout the realm, the great lords of Westeros spoke only of new taxes and heavier burdens. Cloaking their greed in the language of governance. Every scheme, every decree, every measured word seemed crafted for one purpose. To line nobles purses with yet more coin. 

Disgust curdled in your stomach. 

You wandered your chambers as a caged beast, pacing worn paths across stone and carpet. Again and again your gaze fell upon the idle quill resting upon your desk. How simple would it be to wield it as a dagger of ink and expose the rot festering beneath the crown‘s gilded name. 

Yet you resisted. 

Your sandal sheet was born of secrets murmured behind closed doors, for stolen kisses, whispered betrayals, and the petty vanities of the aristocracy. It was not a weapon of reform. It was not a champion of the common folk. 

But the longer you resisted, the louder the silence became. 

At once, your struggle ended. 

As though you were compelled by fate itself, you crossed the chamber in four rushed strides, took a quill in hand, and set its point to parchment. Whether it was scandal or truth, gossip or revelation, mattered little now

The ink would flow.

Dearest Gentle Reader,

One scarcely knows where to begin when discussing the present condition of His Most Lavish Majesty‘s court. While common folk barter turnips for candle stubs and pray the winter stores hold fast, House Targaryen hosts yet another fortnight of feasts, tourneys and other silk-draped revelries. One hears the Queen‘s newest gown required enough gold thread to ransom three captured lords. Though sadly none of that coin appears destined for the realm‘s crumbling roads, starving villages or plague-ridden alleys. 

And what of the King‘s esteemed council? Ah yes, those noble guardians of the realm who somehow emerge every “crisis tax“ with heavier purses and fresher castles. Curious indeed how the kingdom grows poorer whilst the royal cousins grow plumper than geese. 

Rumor whispers that Prince Aerys purchased his fourth castle mere days after securing grain contracts meant for northern provinces. Provinces which now, quite inconveniently, suffer bread shortages. Surely a tragic coincidence. As we all know, no man of court would ever line his pockets whilst children chew bark for supper. 

As for the royal heirs, their talents remain unmatched. Particularly, in the disciplines of vanity, drinking, and seduction. Prince Daeron reportedly lost an entire shipment of silver to foreign merchants during a drunken dice match, though palace scribes insist the missing funds were “miscounted“. One imagines the numbers simply wandered away in embarrassment.

Most astonishing of all, is the monarchy's divine confidence that the people remain blind. Yet taverns speak. Markets whisper. Stable boys gossip better than septons. The realm may bow its head, but it has not lost its ears. Indeed, if corruption were a godly virtue, the Targaryens would already have statues erected in every square. I‘d happily give both my hands, for a chance to strike at least two dragons. Perhaps the sting of my palm will imbue them with some form of wisdom, for they appear to succeed in everything, but the art of ruling. A lack of wit makes for a trifling king. A lack of grace makes for a cruel ruler. And a head of blonde makes for both. 

Until the next disgrace unfolds, which, given this court, shall likely be supper.

I remain, your most obedient servant,

Lady Hollowmere

***

That was the first time you had smelt the dim reek of distant flame. Ghostly plumes spilling across the hilltop, the thin coils of smoke in the far country. The bitter perfume of treason set aflame, as though false tongues themselves were burning upon the pyre. Though, the tongues of common folk carried no falsehood.

As the wind carried the ashen breath of burned pamphlets, you sat vigilantly in a seat of court, gazing upon the smoke climbing heavenward from the window. You were completely out of line. And now, every Hollowmere across the seven kingdoms had been met with flame, pardoning it from its duty, a vessel of callous truth. 

The scrolls were as good as contreband, outlawed. The last, (and what may very well be the last Hollowmere) was spurred by a court gathering, as they discussed the increase of tax for the sake of their lands. Their heedless tongues stirred the corruption lodged deep within your ribs, the festering corner of your soul that had first driven you to the quill. You knew the scroll would sell, that it would find the clammy fists of honest workers and dutiful maids. They were your audience, after all. It‘d be a cruelty to deny them word of where their hard-earned-coin had gone. 

 You and Maekar had been summoned to King‘s Landing promptly, following the publication of the scroll. Now, you sit amongst the very people you debauch with your very own ink. You began to picture each of them as coin, a transactional token. Their discontentions and dalliances had earned you fame. What would your death earn them? Respite? Peace of mind?

“This foul heretic has earned herself a sword through her neck. At long last has she trespassed beyond all suffering. We have endured her corruption long enough. If we allow her to continue, we are complicit in the rot she spreads.“

Prince Aerys spoke severely, an unwavering voice piercing the tense silence of the room. Shoulders sat stiffly, jaws clenched themselves. You were no better, your eyes transfixed into your lap.

“Her blood alone may restore the virtue of our name. She must stand condemned, for only lawful judgement may our house reclaim its honor. We are mocked, upon this very throne. Hollowmere has turned our court into nothing but a gilded theater.“

Aerion added, simply happy to be included in discussing such matters. His words were mere echoes of the ones he had heard before.

“Forgive my boldness, yet I must ask, have any of you read the scrolls in full?“ Baelor‘s silvery voice interrupted. I‘ve skimmed one or two, you wanted to say.

“What is it Lady Hollowmere advises for each lord or lady mentioned in the writings? Discretion.“ The court shares vexated glances, unsure of his case. It was difficult to mask your happiness, a warmth swelling in your chest at his words. He had read it, and understood it.  

“This may yet prove a bitter lesson wisely given. That a ruler must care for the lowly as well as the mighty, and carry our private affairs with subtler hands. It is a cruelty, what she has written and I denounce the writings entirely. But they are not fiction, regardless of how long we bicker. It would do us no good to kill the rogue.“

“If our words no longer reach her ears, she will weave falsehoods in their place. And should we persist in this silence, her audacity will swell. Passivity is not prudence, brother. It is to surrender by slower means.“

Your heart weakened at the sound of your husband's voice, so keen on the thought of slaughtering you. If only he knew he sleeps under the same sheets as Lady Hollowmere.   

“This matter is adjourned." King Daeron‘s voice cut through the thick silence, allowing everyone to shuffle their way from the hall. You heaved a sigh as you stood, feeling the burden lay heavy on your shoulders. 

***

Within the privacy of your guest chambers, you sought relief from the sweltering day. Jena, your step-sister lended you a gown certainly more suitable for the heat, yet it possessed none of the structure or modesty of your customary gowns. The thin cloth hung loosely upon your frame, tracing its silhouette in a manner that left little room for imagination. The neckline dipped lowly, revealing the sweat-slick valley of your breasts, your glistening collarbone, and your slightly burnt shoulders.

Just as you were finishing your needlework, your solitude was invaded. Maekar barged in your shared chambers, also looking slightly undone by the heat. His face held a lingering flush, unkept silver hair falling in his face as sweat beaded on his forehead. The sight was enough to leave you gawking, to spur your thoughts in a lewd direction. 

Just as your stare returns to the cloth and needle in your lap, Maekar greedily steals a glance of you. 

In his life, he‘s been nearly impaled by lances. Dodged stray arrows. Fought battles. Yet, he never felt so close to dying than that moment. The way you reclined yourself, draping your divine form across cushions. The way your styled hair exposed your slick neck. What he‘d give to bury his nose in the crook of it, to lick, kiss, bite and suck every inch of it that drew small gasps from you. Would you entangle your fingers in his hair at the feeling? Let his name fall from your lips? Would you plainly just beg for him? Or perhaps your eyelids would flutter? How would you sound beneath him clawing at his back with your legs around his waist?

“Maekar, dear? Are you well?“

Your gentle pry snapped him from his trance, only to realize he was simply staring at you without a word. Never in all his years had such mortification laid siege to his composure. You arched a brow, seeking some manner of explanation, yet found none forthcoming. Instead, before you stood a man struck dumb by his own eyes. Flushed, bewildered, and robbed of speech.

An honorable man, he was. Yet a man nonetheless. 

And so, as men often do when they‘re cornered by their own hearts, he sought refuge in evasion. A hasty murmur escaped him. Some excuse too feeble to bear remembering, before he turned and made his leave with all the swiftness dignity would permit. 

For he had been caught. And worse, understood. 

Shame gnawed at him like a hound at a wounded stag. He felt like a fool. He felt utterly defenseless. And Seven knows how bitterly he loathes losing control of himself. He lingered beyond the chamber door, his spirit at war with itself. It had grown laborious to keep a seemly distance, to conduct himself as a true gentleman ought to. To remain faithful to the vow he had once spoken—that he would never love another. And yet his restraint frayed more swiftly than he cared to confess. To behold you so unguarded in his presence, so content in the midst of his company, stirred something within him that he scarcely dared to believe was real. 

You should have been embarrassed for him. Perhaps you were. The display had been awkward enough to make him leave the room. Instead you sat and stared, struggling to untangle the meaning behind it all. All though, Maekar had always been a difficult person to untangle. He was made of contradictions. A man who could speak with absolute certainly one moment and leave you questioning everything the next. You‘d spent moons trying to understand him, moons chasing answers that slipped through your fingers like sand. 

In the end, you learned to live without them. You would never fully comprehend your husband, and that simply was the truth of it. Yet you loved him anyway. Not despite his complexities, but because of them. Every scar, every harbored secret, every impossible piece. Some people could never be fully known. They carried kingdoms inside themselves, wild and vast and unmapped. Maekar was one of them.  

***

Supper was announced earlier than expected, and before long you sat among the rest of your royal family with your children at your side and your husband, still somewhat discomposed from the prior events, occupying the seat across you. The hall rang with merriment as you enjoyed the abundant feast. But while others devoted their attention to the feast, Maekar seemed interested in only one thing.

You.

His gaze found you as surely as a compass finds north and remained there with stubborn devotion. It was not a glance, nor even a lingering look.

It was worship.

A starving man might have regarded a banquet table with less longing than he regarded you. Again and again you felt those lilac eyes upon you, warm and unrelenting. He drank in every detail as though afraid some part of you might vanish should he blink.

And perhaps most maddening of all was that he appeared wholly unashamed of it. Across a hall overflowing with food and splendor, Maekar feasted only upon you.  

The feast concluded and together you sought the privacy of your chambers. Yet peace did not follow in your wake. A strange stillness hung between you, close and heavy as velvet drapes. Slowly you made ready for sleep, though neither heart seemed inclined toward rest. The air itself was swollen with things unsaid, with kisses yet ungiven and confessions yet unvoiced. 

These were troubling days for you and your husband. Though your burden was far greater, fear walked ever at your shoulder, whispering of discovery and ruin. Yet, as your gaze settled upon him, one question lingered. By what enchantment had this perilous hour made him so ardent to his wanting?

“Did you hear what your father suggested? That Aemon be sent to the Citadel? As if we‘d ever permit such a thing. He is but a boy—well…I mean to say, he is not yet prepared to be so far from us. I do not think he would manage half so well without his family near at hand. Wouldn‘t you agree?“

Your inquiry was followed by a stiff silence, something you were certain you could cut with a knife. Frankly, you had enough. The stolen glances, the unspoken confessions, the aching want that haunted every silence that fell between you. It had become torment beyond bearing. You cared not if you must draw truth from him thread by thread, as a seamstress unravels knotted silk. 

You were exhausted by the spectacle of feelings harbored in secret displayed only through longing eyes. The weight upon your shoulders was already great. You needed at least this one uncertainty banished and made clear.  

Frustrated, you slam your hairbrush into the wood of the vanity, whipping around to face him. 

“Out with it.“ 

“Out with what?“

“Whatever you‘re not telling me.“

“I will do so, when you tell me first.“ 

The palpable silence returned as you two blankly stared at one another. Whatever did he mean? Your mouth opened and closed anticipating sound, yet none came. 

“W-whatever are you talking about?“ You manage. 

“I don‘t know. I was expecting you to explain it to me.“ 

In his words, a flutter of panic took wing within your chest. Did he glimpse the storm hidden behind your calm? Or were his utterances just listless riddles? A darker thought seized your mind then. Had he found the writings? Had he known what you had labored so fiercely to conceal? 

Rising from your seat, you strode across the room to where he sat. Your arms drew across your chest like a shield, and one brow arched in wary challenge as your gaze settled upon him. 

“Is fear your answer, then? I asked a question, and it was asked before yours. Do not mistake evasion for cleverness, husband.“

“I don‘t know what you speak of, woman.“

“Please. Do not make a fool of either of us. The starring, the avoidance, the damned silence. I have endured all of it. Something is wrong. What is it? Speak.“ 

“Good night.“ 

With all the strength you can muster, you take hold of his arm in a certain grip. The act stops him in his tracks, as he slowly turned to face you. Never had you put your hands on him in that manner, with such force. Vexated disbelief was written in his eyes as he stared at you in awe, his arm still gripped firmly in your hand. 

“You will not touch that bed before you tell me what burdens you. I cannot continue in this manner with you. I am tired of guessing at meanings hidden behind glances and silences. Tired of wondering which version of you I shall find when the sun rises. One day you are gentle. Next, you are distant beyond reach. You avoid me, yet your eyes never seem to leave me? What am I meant to make of that? I am your wife. By vow and law. Not some courtier expected to unravel riddles for sport. If there is anger in your heart, speak it. If there is sorrow, speak that as well.  But please—just say something. For I cannot bear another day of this uncertainty.“ 

Against your better judgement, tears began to escape your eyes as you spoke, despite your attempt to bridle your spirit with the reins of reason. It gathered within you as dark waters behind a dam, until at length the timbers groaned and gave way, and your eyes were rendered weeping, sorrowful streams. 

Something within him, long barricaded by pride and careful reason, gave way at your sight. He had caused you pain, unmeant and yet undeniable, and guilt settled upon him like a shroud. Shame gnawed at his bones, yet all his desire burned only for your solace. To gather you into his arms, to hold you until even the memory of what you had asked might fade into forgetfulness.

His arms raise slightly from his sides at the thought of holding you, but they quickly return as he watches you take a step back. Maekar‘s chest heaved with a sigh of utter defeat, feeling as though he was a pin cushion of lances. A helpless man, caught in his own charade. The one he could no longer cower behind. His eyes fluttered shut in a quiet tide of surrender. He‘d have to relent. He‘d have to be truthful. 

“You wish me to speak? Very well. I shall speak.“ 

A bitter laugh escaped him, devoid of humour. 

“You have enslaved me, wife.“

His gaze dropped for a moment before finding yours once more. The way they had so many times before. 

“Do you know what manner of a man I was before you? Proud. Certain. Unmoved by the opinions of others. Yet in your presence I become a simpering fool. A witless, grinning fool who measures the worth of his day by a single smile from you.“

His jaw tightened. 

“And I hate it. I hate you. I hate that you have reduced me to this. I hate that a glance from you can undo me more thoroughly than any enemy ever could. I hate that you know me so well, that there is scarcely a thought I possess that remains hidden from your sight.“

A hollow breath escaped him.

“There is no armor left when I stand before you. No walls. No title. No pride. And perhaps that terrifies me more than I care to admit. But I am weary of pretending otherwise.“

His voice softened.

“I need you.“

Not as a demand, nor command. A confession.

“I want you with every wretched part of me. I would gamble with my soul for you. I would invent gods for you. I would cast aside every oath and ambition I have ever held dear for the chance to keep you beside me.“

Maekar‘s expression twisted with something perilously close to despair.

“And the cruelest part is that every time you look at me, I think you already know.“

He shook his head. 

“Seven help me, wife…I do not know where I end and you begin anymore.“

A pause.

“I only know that the thought of a world without you in it feels like a sentence I cannot survive.“  

You permitted the silence no further reign, before another heartbeat passed your lips were on his. The confession lingered in the air like incense after prayer. The kiss was something you both sought greedily like air. A brutish dance of lips and tongue, intertwining with unadulterated want. It was as though two wandering souls, long separated by fate‘s cruel hand, had at last found their rightful harbor. 

You both pulled away briefly, gasping for breath. Maekar examined you with a tender gaze, drinking in your state. His coarse hands cupping your blotchy red cheeks, the slick tears lingering in your eyes, lips swollen from his teeth. It drew a smile from him that you‘d miss if you blinked. A fleeting grin, ever so grateful the Gods gave him you. The Seven blessed him with a resiliently spirited second wife, a pitiful favor at the expense of his character. You were of a nature wholly unlike his first. Dyanna bore herself with patient grace. You were burdened with a restless vigour. By the God‘s own design, you seemed to breathe a second life into him. You bore a smile well forged. You moved as though dawn itself took mortal shape. Laughter dwelling lightly upon your lips, your smile was no fleeting thing, but a steady glow warm as hearthfire.

And he loved you for it. 

“I love you, my wife.“

“I…“

The words dared to leave your tongue as you peered up at his dazed lovesick expression. You wished to repeat his words with every fiber of your heart. You wished to care for him and love him with a reverence he does not even show himself. You wished to remind him how he makes you feel. But the rotted guilt burrowed in your heart seemed to wither that desire. 

“I am Lady Hollowmere.“

The quiet that followed was palpable. Maekar‘s breath faltered in his throat, his deep heaving breaths slowing. Your breathing hastened as you both stood, boring into one another‘s eyes. You were uncertain of what would come of your words? Were you to be killed in the morrow? Would Maekar even believe you? Did he know all along?

 It took a crackle from the hearth for the silence to finally be broken.

“I will not let them touch you. I shall stand before them and confess the deed as mine alone. Let the burden fall on my shoulders, dear wife. For it was by my will that it was done. Is that right?“ 

“It was a means of your neglect, yes. Of that I make no denial. Yet never, not once, did I mean to wound you with my words. You must believe that. What I wrote of our marriage was not born of malice, but fear. A selfish shield I fashioned for myself, and one that brought you hurt anyway. I am deeply sorry for my lies, Maekar. Just promise me, this will remain between us. I swear upon my honor I shall not take quill to parchment again.“

Another silence followed as you watched the lines of his face deepen with emotion. 

“I am furious. You have behaved like a woman stripped of all reason. Reckless. Half-deranged. But my fury changes nothing. You are my wife. The vows I swore to you were not fair-weather promises to be cast aside when you proved difficult to love. Let them threaten you if they dare. I shall meet them steel in hand, and I shall stand there until I am broken, burned and scattered to the winds. Do you hear me?“

“Yes.“

“And I will not let them take you from me,“

His palms found your cheeks in a grounding hold, feeling your tears dry beneath his skin. 

“Until I have made you mine.“

His lips find yours like they are his salvation, more desperate and feverous. Maekar‘s touch felt like worship upon your skin, as though you may vanish within his grasp. He was savoring every inch of you, allowing himself to indulge fully in ravishing you.     

You gasped into his mouth as he squeezed your ass tightly, earning a snide grin from him. Maekar‘s hands mapped your form with a reverence fit for a God in mortal shape. To him, you were a religion he‘d rather perish than not worship. Something he had kept at arms length for so long, it felt like delirium to have you in his hold.  

Your fingers began to meddle with the laces of his breeches as his tongue cherished the column of your neck. He breathed deeply with his head buried in the crook, sucking the tender spots of your throat. The sensation drew your mouth agape and made your fingers weak as you tried to undress him. You managed to loosen it, causing him to spin you around and attack the laces of your gown. 

The buttons were slippery in his eager fingers. You could hear him cursing under his breath at the damned things. Eventually, the gown slipped from your shoulders and pooled at your feet, leaving you in a corset and small clothes. 

“Your maids have imprisoned you.” He spoke gruffly into your neck from behind you. The remark coaxed an amused scoff from you. 

“Then free me, if you are so eager.” 

At your words, a sharp ripping sound tore through the air, leaving your waist exposed to the chilled draft of the chamber. Freed you, he had. Ripped you of your confines, giving his mouth more of your skin to map. 

“You’re a brute.”

”And you’re a dirty woman. Who taught you to write anyway? They should be ashamed.”

”Shut up.”

With a firm grip on your shoulders, he whips you back around to face him, conquering your lips with his own once more. He guided you towards the bed in fumbling, clumsy steps. Too wanton and desperate to entertain balance. 

Your back was met with the fur and pelts draped across the mattress as he crawled atop you. The weight and feeling of him crowding your senses, so greedily loving you, made a warmth gather between your legs. You wished for nothing more than the feeling of being breathless beneath him, incapable of any words aside from pathetic moans. 

Without another moment to waste, Makear flips you onto your stomach with a sliver of effort. It aroused you, how well he could handle you without much work.

He grasped your waist, hoisting you up into his lap, your face buried in the furs. The position left you compromised and vulnerable. And unmistakably wet where you wanted him most. 

“Seems you need a reminder of what happens to disobedient girls.”

Your bare ass was met with a punishing SMACK, earning a surprised yelp from you, muffled by the furs. Despite your sound, your body betrayed you. Your hips wiggled in his lap, inviting more of the feeling. 

“You like this, don’t you?”

Another loud smack echoed through the chamber, a needy whimper escaping your lips. The flesh of your ass stung beneath his palm, yet it intertwined itself with your desire. His touch brought both pleasure and pain in equal measure, and he knew it. 

“Maekar, please. I’ll be such a good girl for you.”

”Relenting so soon? That’s not the girl I know.”

Two smacks followed his words, as you grow more slack in his hold. You whined at the feeling of being empty. You began to miss something you were not yet given. 

“Tell me what you want, needy girl.”

”…Y-you, Maekar, please.”

”I’m right here.”

”Please, fuck me till I know nothing but your name. I want nothing more than to feel full of you. Just please, fuck me senseless, husband. I beg of you.” 

“Who am I to deny you, hm?”

He’s on you quickly, maneuvering you on your back, pressing your legs to your chest. Maekar feasts upon the sight of your needy pussy, aching and drooling with want. His palms caress the back of your thighs as he settles between your legs. With a hitched breath, you watch him descend, placing a gentle kiss to your clit. 

“Pretty thing.” He uttered as he nearly drooled at the sight of your arousal. 

He rose then, letting a glob of spit fall from his lips onto your slit. The crude act drew a sharp gasp from you, shuddering at the feeling. He aligned himself with your cunt, bracing himself with a firm grip on your thighs. His thrust was slow and deliberate. A purposeful drive of his hips. 

The feeling was a foreign sting accompanied by raw pleasure burrowing itself deep in your tummy. Your bottom lip snagged between your teeth, stifling a whine from you. 

“Shh, shh, you’re taking me so well, sweet girl. I know, I know…”

You feel him buried fully inside you, granting you a warming fullness that envelops your senses. A sigh of bliss leaves you as you adjust to the feeling, accommodating his size. You pant through parted lips, eyes boring into his hungry gaze.  

Maekar begins to move slowly, not withdrawing himself but simply jostling you with gentle thrusts while his cock is buried to your hilt. You writhe and whimper at the sensation, feeling him so deeply within you. His entirety had eclipsed you, smothering you in his presence. It's everything you’ve wanted for months. 

“Tell me how it feels, my sweet wife.”

”Mmph…”

”With your words.”

”Harder.”

You pant breathlessly, earning an amused grin from your husband. Following your command he deepens his thrusts, watching as you show him more of the whites of your eyes. You already felt drunk on his cock despite him only just starting. Small markings appeared on his back as your nails dug into the hardened muscle of his shoulders and back, using his strength as an anchor in your pleasure. 

Maekar huffs and groans above you, growing more unraveled with every jerk of his hips. The feeling of you around him was bewitching, better than he could have ever imagined. You took him so well, so eager for him. And though he wasn't familiar with the feeling of being wanted, he wanted nothing more in that moment than to prove how much he worshiped you. 

“What did I do to deserve you, pretty thing?” He whispered against the shell of your ear, doing anything in his power to not spend too soon. He kept his head buried in the scent of your neck as he pounded you, fearful beholding you may undo him. Your fingers gripped and carded through his hair, pulling every so often to earn a strangled groan from him. 

“My beautiful, mm-fuck, insatiable, clever wife.” His voice cracks as he nudges your sweet spot repeatedly, making it harder to hear himself over the lewd sounds of your pleasure. You wrapped your legs around his hips to draw him even closer, covetous of his touch. 

“Did you mean what you said? In your writings? That you wish for me to give you a child?” His words were hardly managed as he neared the brink of his pleasure. Your fucked-out gaze meets his and you nod listlessly. 

“I meant every word, husband. Fill me as you please, leave no room for doubt.” Your words draw a groan from him as your grasp on his silver hair grows tighter. 

“Makear, mmmh, I’m close…please don’t stop…”

”Mmm, that’s it, make a mess on your husband’s cock. Be a good girl and cum for me, hm?”

Your grip returns to his back shoulders as you pant through the edge of bliss, teetering on your sweet release. His thrusts grow more uneven yet punishing as though he was also chasing his own release. 

“Maekar…Maekar…Maek-“

As his name fell from your lips in the midst of your pleasure, the coil of warmth in your stomach broke. Surrendering to the blissful surge thrashing through you, you tremble and jerk beneath your husband who is not slowing in his pace. His groans grow louder as you cum the hardest you ever had. You feel yourself clamping down on his cock, also eager to reach release. 

As your orgasm began to ease, Maekar came with a wounded groan in the shell of your ear. You felt his release paint your walls and fill the very hilt of your cunt. It was a second wave of pleasure you hadn’t anticipated. A warm, encompassing feeling of your husband reaching his own peak. As his orgasm came to a slow, his body went somewhat slack above you, nestling into your bare form. 

You welcome it, soothingly scratching his scalp with one hand and lovingly stroking his back with the other. His breathing slowed as he laid, as did yours. The two of you were now a panting heap of flesh and sweat, so utterly devoted to one another. Regardless of how many feelings were denied, you were always meant to tangle this way. Vulnerable, yet safe. Frustrated, yet unmistakably in love.  

“Did I hurt you?” He croaked from where he buried his head, close to your collarbone. You shook your head as you grinned at him, cooing softly at his flustered state. Tousled hair, crimson cheeks, craw marks adorning his war-hardened skin. 

“Quite the opposite. actually.” You laughed to yourself at the expense of your own joke. 

“Let me call for a maid to draw a bath.”

”No need. Let us rest here for a few moments. You’ve kept me waiting long enough.”

Now it was his turn to chuckle softly at your words. Making him laugh was only something you had managed to coax from him more than twice a week. You believe the Seven bestowed you with such a gift, after saddling you with such a severe man. 

You bask in the aftermath of your pleasure as you lay, humming blissfully whilst caressing your husband. Everything felt right with the world. Your chest, much lighter. Your eyes, much happier. 

“You promise you will tell no one my secret, Maekar?”

”I will take an oath, if it would give you comfort. Besides, I never said I advised you to stop.”

Your movements against his skin froze as you peered down at where he laid on your chest. 

“Whatever do you mean?”

”I will take your secret to my pyre. No one will know my wife exceeds me in the pursuit of writing, for it would embarrass me far too greatly. And I do not have the right to stop you from something you have exceeded in. Perhaps just do not speak of anymore politics. Or anything about our marital bed. For both our sakes.” 

“It may have been the wine from supper, but I believe you were trying to be funny just now.”

”Southern wine may have that effect, yes.”

The two of you laid in sweet accord, wrapped in the quiet comfort of one another, and the world seemed to held fast, as though time had forgotten its course. The love between you and your husband didn't come clad in gold and announcing itself alongside the vows of matrimony. Instead you felt it drift gently into your heart, like the rising tide of an unruly sea, while you sheltered within the haven of each other’s nearness. 

“Happy wedding night, dear husband.”

”And to you, my sweet wife.”

ᴍᴀᴇᴋᴀʀ x ꜱᴇᴄᴏɴᴅ ᴡɪꜰᴇ!ʀᴇᴀᴅᴇʀ

PT 1 PT 3

summary: as your secret writings grow in success, the proximity to your husband causes restraint to weaken- how will he handle a scandal entry about the failure of your marriage? how will he prove you it’s wrong? (wc: 6.2k)

warnings: detailed descriptions of sex, male masturbation, insane levels of yearning, fem reader, no first name mentioned, horny reader, secretly horny maekar

note: i highly recommend reading pt 1 first!! also im so glad a lot of you enjoyed part one, your feedback made me so happy!! hope u enjoy this part as well

Your trafficking of chatter had yet to slow, though your life improved in station and fortune. You felt no compulsion to spitefully scribble about lives who were better than yours, despite scandal.

The cruelty in your words were often rooted in envy. A heartless reminder to yourself that you were not alone in your misfortune. One hundred and twenty one days passed since whispers unmeant for your ears found yours. You kept your eyes from slumber nightly, so that you may drink them again. 

Each Valyrian whisper a token of secret gentleness. The words began to vary in sweetness, some tender, some proprietorial. The broken confessions left you astonished each nightfall. Some words were too advanced for your understanding, though some phrases undid themselves like riddles in your mind.

 Your familiarity with the language improved each passing night. As a silent favor of care, you began to siege the haven in which he hid from you. Replacing his ink, sharpening his letter opener, organizing parchment, polishing leather. He was under the impression servants had grown more meticulous, and that you did not know a word of Valyrian. And like most matters, he was wrong. 

His feigned hatred became less convincing as days passed. You had a newfound respect for one another. Not affection, nor resentment. Just a general sense of toleration. You began to seek his company more frequently, to his dismay. Though his hushed proclamations betrayed him. Duties occupied your every moment when the sun hung high. As night fell, It grew your custom to sip wine together within your shared chambers. You both grow merrily drunk, as he pours forth his condemnation of fate and the tiresome humours of court. 

“Fucking idiots.” He mumbled, shaking his head. The keep lay shrouded in stillness whilst the children took their rest. In that hush, your husband’s grievances found voice. He sat tensely in his most favored lounge chair, close enough to be given warmth from the crackling hearth.

You stood behind him, fingertips kneading the stiff, stressed muscles of his shoulders. The act was to your preference, given he would not see you rolling your eyes as he went on about his insipid troubles. To relieve him of strain was the only time he allowed such contact. 

“You will find the scandal writer soon enough. I estimate she is of Northern blood.” 

“Humour me, wife. Explain to me.” 

“Well, her false name lacks any indication of where she may reside. If she was southern or perhaps somewhere in the middle, she‘d choose an exaggerated Northern name. But, if she is from the North, it‘d be best to use a name that could not be recognized anywhere in the Seven Kingdoms. To remain neutral, rather than using a southern name, which is her total opposite. It would lead us right to her. And Gods know northern maesters are proficient in the pursuit of language. I hear literacy is common amongst northern common women. Surely she has learned elaborate words from them. If she is even a she at all. Or if it is the work of more than one person. Besides, these writings are surely a means of boredom. What is there to do up North anyhow?” 

Your writings became more treasonous than the last. The hunt for Hollowmere became an endeavor every member of the court had undertaken. Nobles do cherish a hunt. And their prized catch happens to sit amongst them, learning their every tactic.

It proved advantageous, altering the deployment of ravens depending on their strategies. The burden of your wrongs weighed heavy. 

You had become a device of truth, a vessel of verity. If you cease your writings, you will be discovered, upon seeing how the relief has improved your mood. And just because the scrolls stop, does not mean the hunt will.

Each word you dare commit to parchment binds you tighter to a pit of sin, the chastisement swelling with every scroll, until you are confined within the narrow bounds of your own wrongdoing. 

“It is possible. Merchants who sell the writings will be interrogated, bribed for word. The Wall will soon be crawling with traitors to the crown, I’m certain.” He shrugged as you continued your assault on the expanse of his shoulders. Your movements slowed, as you spiraled into a doubtful worry.

Your movements slowed, as you spiraled into a doubtful worry. You had not named yourself when exchanging ravens with common folk. Did your lack of words regarding The Anvil‘s Lady reveal itself? It would be long before you forgave yourself, for a means did manifest before you. The preservation of your identity was crucial. Your good name could afford insipid slander. As well as his. 

***

Dearest Gentle Reader,

It is with most delicate restraint and undeniable fascination, that I turn my quill toward a matter that has, as of late, set many whisper fluttering through drawing rooms and banquet halls alike. For in a season otherwise rich with blossom and expectation, there exists one union curiously untouched by nature’s most anticipated blessing. Pray, cast your thoughts upon a certain royal coupling, whose vows were once apprehended with such heed that even the oldest amongst us declared it a match cursed by fortune itself. 

Their keep is vast, titles secure. And yet…the cradle remains empty. The Anvil and his young bride seem to merely tolerate one another, which is most unsurprising, given the Prince’s coldness. This author must also take note of the Prince’s fulfillment of duty, having given the realm six children already. Nevertheless, dear reader, feigned affection for prying eyes sustains a marriage of consequence.

 Duty, expectation and most crucially, issue, form the pillars upon which such alliances stand. Without them, even the grandest union may find itself…wanting. Moon blood continues to soil their sheets as the Princess is not yet with child. Or perhaps not laid with at all. Is the Prince incapable of performing his marital duty following his first wife’s abrupt demise? Or is there something undesirably plain regarding his current bride?

 A barren womb or a troubled widow? And so the question remains, whispered behind cupped palms and carried upon the breath of scandal: is this merely a pause before joy, or the first crack in a most carefully constructed facade? As ever, I shall observe with the keenest interest. 

Yours in curiosity and candor, 

Lady Hollowmere

***

“You said what to her?” Through the oaken barrier crept Baelor’s voice, and you, with an eager ear, laid yours upon the door’s cold face. You knew the words exchanged in the other room were not for yours ears. It was erroneous.

The procurement of your decorum was a brittle conviction, given it is what had beckoned your ear to the door. The brothers words were concise, sharp berates, that never seemed to grow louder than a murmur.

You have wrought a cage of your own choosing, and now you must dwell in it. Coin would grow scarce if your words did not grow harsher. Every word promised you to the fondness of rope and the pardoning from livelihood. It was a fearsome reality you have burdened upon yourself, plagued by the lives victimized by your debauchery. The ravens have nearly made a slave of you.

”I reminded her I had a wife. And she is not her.” The familiar hoarseness rang in your ear. His tone carried little trace of remorse. The words brought you back to where you stood in that study, astonished by the cruel jest your life revealed itself to be. Moments before your eyes found quill and parchment.

You empathized with that angry girl, longing for the impossible chance to tell her the joke that is your life is rather humorous, if you would just laugh. There was a deal you had dealt with every sinister evil in this realm, obligated to fulfill its wicked whims. You are shackled by your own quill.

The starved public no longer wished to read about jovial dalliances and petty disputes. It is blood they craved, words like lashings upon the backs of those who surpassed them in life. You had spat upon the cheek of every noble. Even your own.

You had gone as far as faking trouble reading, claiming words and letters move on parchment. The protection of your identity became something you’d endure humiliation for. 

“And yet, we debate why she has not given herself to you. It is too obvious to examine, brother. You have shunned her from any chance of winning your favor. She is not Dyanna, but she is no trifle either. She is as good as any. To her, she is substandard in your eyes.”

True to his nature, Baelor rides in the defense of the weaker cause. 

“Yes, well, it’s not as though I demanded her to take my side, did I?”

”It was expected of you, brother.”

”I never asked for another fucking wife.”

If you were any fragile lady, tears would have spilled from the rims of your eyes. It was nothing you hadn’t heard before. With time, you familiarized yourself with his detest for tenderness.

Vulnerability frightened him like no joust or bloodshed could. His cruel tongue was a means for a shield, a buffer to uphold his severity. Borne of southern heat and yet he was written by winter, kissed by cold gray bloom. You did not fear him, nor did you take his rigor to heart.

”I forbade a bedding ceremony, because I trusted you would do your duty. And you jeopardized her position in this court for your own selfish impulse.”

”And you’d rather I perform the act, and treat her with the same apathy? To burden her with a child she’d father with a stranger?”

”Behold the crown’s custom, brother. I loathe the notion no less than you.”

You wished to see their faces as they exchanged words. You pictured your husband’s lasting scowl, his jaw flexing in the midst of his ire. Baelor with his hands clasped behind his back, with a tilted head.

”So, this writer, she speaks the truth? You have not yet finalized the union?” Your eyes were denied the chamber’s sight, yet you were certain Maekar was nodding in somber resolve.   

“She…the Princess does not hold me in such regard. I am partly at fault, but it shall not soon be undone. Our marriage is…abstruse.”

You withdrew your ear in surprise. It felt out of his nature to use such a flowery word to describe something so plain. You held little esteem for one another, but you were man and wife after all. Obligated to accompany one another.

But, to him, you were blithe to the reverent whispers, when you appeared to be deep in sleep. Your reciprocated passivity was necessary, so that you may continue hearing them.    

“And I find your perception false. She sends for you much more frequently. Surely it is not because she loathes your company. By persistence and courtly grace, her heart may yet be persuaded.” 

“Ha, I am not courting the woman. That is a ridiculous notion, given we are already married.”

”Are you?”

The cold plain of the chamber door offered you silence following Baelor’s words. A stiff, unyielding, forceful silence. Just as you thought to leave, that Maekar will storm out in a fit of rage, he speaks.

”If that scroll had not been so fucking untimely, I might’ve had a chance. But she will discern my efforts without fail, now that there is talk. I must be wiser with my contrivance.” 

“Or, you can be honest, and simply pay heed to her feelings. I am not suggesting coercion. I am suggesting you tread at a pace with her best interest in mind. Affection is much less fickle and taxing than you think. Feigning your devotion will be no great task. You’ve endured far worse.” Verily, to fake such warmth was far from his main worry. What frightened him most was the honest stirrings of his soul. Something he had guarded like fine gold. 

***

Your knees were once again taken by a familiar anguish, once again met with a stone floor. Fortunately, you were able to take your leave before they left the study. In your newfound rite, you kept vigil by the hearth of your bedchamber, where letters are engulfed by fire’s embrace. 

Parchment written with cold hands, burned the same way warm ones did. Ravens that came from every way of a compass, all were rendered into ash alike. The pages curl as though in whispered protest, ink darkening before it yields. Edges glow like dying suns, as the flame licks its way through the words. The song of gentle crackle sings, till it is reduced to a soft, sighing drift of ash. Oh, to be that curious blaze. 

To be lit up from within, vein by vein. To be the sun. As the flames bloomed, you felt the warmth caressing your cheeks. Perhaps it is a brief taste of the burn you will endure in all seven hells. 

Your gown blossomed in soft folds around your seated frame, whilst you gathered your knees unto your chest, as if to ward off some unseen chill. The parchment, alight and consuming, drew your eyes in a cruel fascination, as though they had bewitched your will. You pondered if your husband found it odd how servants never tended to our hearth. For it was fueled solely by the secret you hoarded feverously. The sting of ash in your eye and itch in your throat was a punishment of your own design. 

“Are you cold?” His stern voice roused you from your addled trance, rescuing you from the abyss of your thoughts. They often went blank as you stared into the flame. 

”I am well.” You replied, eyes still fixed on the hearth. It was plain to you his asking was in light of the prior discourse. The one you should not have heard. 

“Is there anything you require?” A newfound gentleness found his voice, an unconvincing display of care. 

“Only silence, my Lord. Which I’m certain will pose little interference with what you always require.” A hitch of silence breathes between you, along with the hisses and pops of the fire. With a long measured sigh, a weight sinks heavily into your every bone. You felt yourself succumb to the fatigue of stealth, so drained by the restlessness of my antics. It was a petty lament, the soreness in your fingers, the depletion of thought onto paper. 

”And what do I always require?” 

A fine dust from an early pyre, you wanted to say.

”My absence.”

Your eyes flick to your feet, beseeching your lips to remain shut. He had spent hours debating the topic with his brother just moments ago. You did not wish to test him. Without a word, he stood beside your seated form.

Before you could apologize for your austerity, he sat beside you, heavy lids gazing mindlessly into the hearth. He heaved a sigh similar to yours as you both came undone before our fire.

The distance between you was cumbersome, reminiscent of your wedding night. Yet it lacked the same rigidity. You yielded unto ease with him at your side, simply reveling in the warmth of your chambers. Not a word stirred in the air, not even a whisper. 

As long moments passed, you tore your sights from the heap of char. A glance turned to a stare as you mapped his face. Though his eyes remained transfixed upon the flames, you watched as their glow danced across his blemished skin. The silvery gold hair of his jaw, the exhaustion in his stare. It was remarkably endearing, drinking the sight of him. A troubled, imperfect man. With a strange neglected beauty. 

The glance began to border greed as your sights returned to the fire. There was a foreign haste in the drumming of your ribs. A heat in your cheeks unrelated to the fire before you. He had given you exactly what you required, silence, whilst proving what he didn’t. Your absence.

“The children have taken a liking to you.“ He spoke. It may have been the highest praise he‘s given you since…ever.

“It‘d be a pity if they didn‘t, considering I am tasked with looking after them.“

You ended your remark with a breathy laugh. It was then you and Maekar‘s eyes met, your gazes warmed by the hearth before you. 

“Well, you‘re managing the nettlesome brood you‘ve been saddled with well.“ You hum in reply, amused by his urgency to flatter you. Had Baelor truly infiltrated his mind so thoroughly? Or was this the work of your writing? 

“You know, when I play with the children in the garden, they insist on reciting to me their reenactment of the Blackfyre rebellion. It‘s silly and watered down, but…they always fight over who gets to play you. It‘s the highest honour they can think of. I know I have assumed the role of their mother rather swiftly, but they still need you. They love their father. But we must love and raise them together. I am not trying to replace what you grieve, husband. But the children need both of us, which means we must be civil. Like…“

You racked your brain for a similar dynamic that could describe yours in an understandable way. Or at least use imagery he‘d resonate with. 

“Like a fletcher and bowyer. So that way we might be well-mannered to one another, but work proficiently."

“That sounds manageable. I will try to be more present.“ 

Time, the sly and silent thief, crept upon your tiresome bodies. You found yourself beneath the hush of your shared bed. As many nights before, you feigned your slumber, yet kept your ear keenly bent for secrets soft and lowly whispered. You awaited the harbored words with a vigilance, ready for them to ease you into rest. 

“Ao jorrāelagon issa ñuha syt se qogror.” (loving you is my sweetest peril). 

“Sōvegon, nyke ziry iksos gaomagon.” (hush, I’m trying to sleep). You murmured into the plush of your pillow.  

✧˖°── .✦────☼༺☆༻☾────✦.── °˖✧

Nights passed in silent procession, and you were brought again to where you had first stood. Right back where you started. It seemed the Prince was not seeking an answer from you that night, embracing him from what he believed possible. He made himself scarce (again), refusing to see you following the events of that night. 

The bed laid barren and chilled, yet you reserved his stead beside you, as though he might yet to come. The notion was foolish, his actions fickle. All your striving came to little worth. Your labours proved to be vain and fruitless.

Diligently pursued, yet rendered void. Was it amiss that you should mark his affection? What profit lay in his disdain of you, when even you knew the truth? To what end served his scorn? Your marriage was a trifling riddle, vexing, and unwilling to unravel. Fortunately, you had other concerns to occupy yourself with. 

You sat before your desk, still in a state of nightly undress, making sense of the scattered ravens splayed across the wood. You begin gliding your letter opener through each scroll, noting the realm’s most promising scandals.

”Mad for the gambling halls, he is. Throws away gold and sense alike. It’s a ruinous path he walks, so I’ve heard.” 

“He’s lost to vice and wagers. Spends what’s his and what ought not to be spent, heedless of all. A danger to himself and his own, M’Lady.”

”The man’s bewitched by hazard and dice. Squanders his purse and shames his blood. No wit or caution left in him. Aye, tossing away coin like chaff in the wind.” 

Separate accounts of Lord Lannister’s whoring and spending came from every corner of Westeros. It seemed to be all they could muster, as Lord Lannister made himself the easiest target. 

At the hush of the maid's steps, you scramble to conceal your writings in a hurried disquiet. With feigned ease, you welcomed them into your chambers, languidly drawing your hand through your unbound hair.

You watched as they dutifully prepared your garments, a concise rhythm like second nature. Nimble fingers loomed through your hair, heels of palms pressing fragrant oils to the skin below your ears. In a quaint vigil you sat, warm tea meeting your lips as you were obediently tended to.

”Your Grace, the Prince would have you receive these as a most humble gift.” The words nearly drew a laugh from deep within your chest. A gift? From my husband? Was she new at Summerhall? With reluctance, you reached for the box she offered you, intently studying the contents.

A fine pair of earrings, wrought in fine silver. Rubies adorned the garments, their crimson gleam catching the morning light like drops of fresh wine. They were exceptional. 

“Right…how thoughtful.“ You murmur, your tone riddled with a mocking disbelief. It seemed unlikely a reclusive, ill-tempered, war hero would have such refined taste in jewels. As you gazed into the gems, your vexation only worsened. He refuses to sleep beside you, after answering him in Valyrian, refuses to meet your eyes, refuses to grasp your very existence. And you are gifted…earrings?

With an exasperated scoff, You attach them to your ears. Now it is your turn to refuse, and deny how well they compliment your complexion.    

◣──•~❉᯽❉~•──◢

The great hall where you broke your fast was host to a mischievous company indeed. Four restless, troubled boys, two rowdy young girls and a stepmother whose writings strayed close to treachery. Yet their quarrels, bright and unserious, wove themselves into air so often, what was once discord became a strange soothing refrain. 

“Where is father?“ Aemon whined beside you, a book laid in his lap as he ate. 

“He is rather occupied, unfortunately. So it is me who you are stuck with.“ You joke, ruffling his hair, earning youthful giggles from the boy. In light of your neglect, you had grown close with each of them. Even Aerion, to your bewilderment. The naive hope of having a child of your own felt as though it had slipped from your fingers. Though you were bound to their company by duty, your chance of motherhood felt somewhat redeemed.

“Why is my wine watered?“ Daeron‘s words are slurred as he inspects his goblet as though it had been laced with poison. 

“Because it is merely dawn. The only time you should be drinking is when the moon rises. Not the sun.“ With a theatrical groan, he leans back in his seat, defeated. You stared across the table, eyes boring into the vacant seat before you. You could so much as trace his scowl in thin air.

Though he stood absent in body, his spirit lingered grievously. You pined to behold him seated opposite from you. You wished to be thought upon with fondness. The same kind he showed you when he thought you asleep.

“Mother?“

“Mm.“

“When do you suppose Lady Hollowmere will write of my search for a wife?“ The laughter that escapes you is instant and boisterous. Uncontrollable, in fact. Tears pricked at your eyes, breath escaping your lungs. You felt yourself begin to turn a flush crimson shade, resembling your gown. You ceased your laughter upon realizing you were alone in your amusement.

“Oh, Aerion, dear, I am deeply sorry. That was… ill-mannered of me..“ You wipe at the stray tears, composing myself for your step son‘s sake.

“What is so humorous? I am in earnest, mother. I intend to take one soon.“

“Seven above, finish your eggs first. Then you may seek any unlucky woman you please.“ Your jest is met with an eyeroll reminiscent of his father. An eyeroll you‘ve been subjected to far too many times. 

“I‘m certain Lady Hollowmere has far more pressing concerns to write about, brother.“ Daella squeaks from her seat, playful malevolence in her tone. You had given little heed to the fact they had been reading the scrolls.

You began to weigh each word within your thoughts, seized by dread of what they might discern of those they were raised to respect. By what artifice could you deny them Lady Hollowmere?

“Those scandal writings are not for your eyes. None of yours. There is an entire library just paces away. You all have no tenable reason to be reading such filth.“ The words have a firm rigidity, a tense quiet blanketing the hall.

They mumble words of apology, glancing nervously at one another. The thought of them reading the scrolls provided you little comfort. But my, what exquisite taste they had. With a repressed sigh and plastered smile, you rise from your seat. 

“Now, if you will excuse me, I will attend to your father and see how he fares.“

╭────-·-ˋˏ-༻𖤓༺-ˎˊ·-────╮

╰────-·-ˋˏ-༻𖤓༺-ˎˊ·-────╯ 

The fear that once coiled in your stomach, unraveled itself, reborn as wrath of iron and will. With a fierce, steadfast ire, you sought his study, as though summoned by fate. There was an unrelenting thunder in your steps. A purpose sharp as steel. He held no claim to deny you. You considered mercy, had he not gifted you ruby earrings.

The gesture stung with insult. He judges you so shallow, it seems, that such trifles might appease you and banish you from his life. You were the hound he so dutifully trained. Ruby and silver were as good as stale bread, in comparison to his presence. How you wished to be content with heaps of jewels. How you wished to feel equally inclined to shun him, as he shunned you. 

With a strangled anger, you allow yourself into his study, allowing the doors to shut in a muted click. His eyes refused to leave the parchment before him, as though he was preparing for war. A veiny, rigid hand carded through his silver hair, a fractious sneer on his lips.

“I did not send for you.“

“I don‘t recall you ever have.“ 

Your candid words linger in the air, the room accommodating a newfound heaviness. Between you lingered a grievous strain, eager for your bitter tongues. Like a drawn bow, quivering before fatal release.

“You know, entering this marriage, I reckoned I would often be the one to sulk like a scolded child. To my astonishment, the child is you. Alone, brooding in your solitude and held fast to every duty your father entrusts you with. Though they are never of any worth. Fourth son.“

You hadn‘t anticipated the remark to leave your lips with such spite. Ever saddled with his unamused frown, he lifts his head, sparing you a glance.

“Have I done something, woman? Are the earrings too heavy for your empty skull?“ His jaw clenches as his eyes narrow, spurring me further.

“Fuck your earrings. You may shower me with however many jewels you please, but none will keep me from this room. From you. Remember? Fletcher and bowyer?“

A vagueness plagues his eyes. Like a harbored, frustrated, remorse. A glance that shuns you. A glance like an apology.

“Will you compose yourself? How many times must I deny you? When will you understand I do not want you?“

“You did once, clearly. When I lay awake, faking sleep.“ His frustration was displaced by embarrassment, a crimson flush creeping up his collar. The silence swelled, dense and oppressive. It pressed harshly upon your lungs, depriving you of ease. Reluctantly, you approached his desk, honoring the sovereign ground he calls his own.

“Speak plainly then. We have been wed for nine months, yet I remain untouched. If you deem me repulsive, then give me peace of mind. I will not take it to heart.“

“You are repulsive. In character, that is.“ In his own troubled way, he had managed to compliment you. It was difficult to conceal your flush as your charged conversation was yet to meet an end. 

“It is not my intent to berate you. I am sorry for my brutality. It is only that I have beaten myself to a pulp, to prove I am deserving of being your wife. Caring for children that are not mine, attending to this keep, going above what my station expects of me. I do not wish to stay hidden from you, behind those doors, because you will not allow it. And I do much more than care to admit, to prove that to you.“

It is at this point his quill is resting in a vile of ink, his parchment set aside. 

“And what is it, you‘re proving to me now?“ His stare was piercing, a scrutinizing audience of your vulnerability.

“That if I must leave my home, my family, my customs, my life, it will not be for a man I do not know. I do not ask for much. Only that you return to our bed, help me off my mare after riding, speak to me every so often. And you cease embarrassing my position in this court. We shall inform the court our duties of marriage have been met, and I am not to carry forth a child.“

He replies with a solemn nod, his lips a firm line. You patiently stood before his seated form, awaiting words. 

“Have you gone mad, woman? You think it is an accident, the distance I keep you? Seven above, if you only knew. There is nothing I mourn more bitterly than the man I have failed to be. I am sorry I am not the lord of your girlish dreams. I am sorry the road of your life curved so cruelly that it led you to my side and no one else’s. Pity me if it pleases you. I have pitied myself enough for us both. I know you heard me…those nights past. Those words were spoken by a frightened man hiding from truths he lacked the courage to face. But heed this, wife, every step I take away from you is taken for your sake. I would sooner bear loneliness than see you harmed by drawing too close to me.“ 

“I am not so easily frightened. Certainly not by emotionally stunted princes who think it best to never touch their wife.“

Your steps drew closer to him, causing him to stand, stepping away from his desk. Your chest was nearly flush with his as you peered up at him. You could see his restraint weakening like a rope ready to snap. 

“Prove me wrong, husband. Touch me, if it pleases you. It would certainly please me.“ Your voice became a quivering whisper despite the lewdness of your words. He swallowed, his stare never daring to leave your eyes. 

“Take me right here, on your desk. Put your mouth on me. Let me learn every part of you. Please.“ His breathing labored in his chest as he felt his breeches begin to tent. Gods, it took everything in him not to take you in his arms and claim in ways that would make a whore blush.

He envisioned pursuing every filthy fantasy, showering you with the brutal force of his devotion to you. The ravenous hunger of his affection.

But, he deemed the situation in his pants something he’d tend to when you took your leave, and when he could let your name fall from his pleading lips. 

With his lips just a hair’s length from yours now, he turned, seating himself back into his chair. With a scoff you storm out his study, your hands aloft in utter disbelief. Maekar heaves a sigh when he hears the door shut.

His attention shifts to his rigid cock, throbbing in his breeches. He groans at the feeling, angered with himself. He wanted nothing more than to touch you, revel in the feeling of your soft skin. Or have you tend to him beneath his desk and he tried to keep focus. The thought drove his band straight down, freeing his cock to bob against his thigh.

He took it into his palm, so eager for the feeling to leave him. To be freed from the torment of keeping you out of his reach. He lets out a breathy groan as he begins to drag his hand up and down, head falling back against his chair. He pictured you riding him in his study, languidly rolling your hips, teasing him. Chasing your own high. Using him like a good husband.

He envisioned your tits swaying in his face, fighting to take a hardened peak into his mouth to suck.

“Fucking hells…”

He whines under his breath as his strokes hasten in fervor. The thought of taking you from behind pops into his mind. How your desperate mewls would sound against the pillows. How the gentle curve of your back would arch with each punishing thrust. How he would murmur in your ear to “take him like a good girl”, while giving a few slaps to the flesh of your ass.

Maekar’s mouth fell open as he breathed heavily, ugly. Loud, breathless pants pleading for you. To hold you within his arms, to kiss you where you liked, to caress you where you moaned.

“Fuck- mmm, yes-yes-yes”

Maekar listlessly begged as his fist moved faster. He was beginning to sweat in his seat, hoping no one in the corridor could hear his groans or sounds of wet skin.

Then as he felt himself teetering on the brink of his pleasure, his need for you overtook his senses.

“Uh huh-fuck-such a good girl…gods, let me fuck you, pretty thing. Could make you f-feel so fucking…”

His trailing words were replaced with wanton whimpers as he came into his palm. He shuddered, cursing under his breath as he pictured filling you up. Fulfilling his duty.

── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ─── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ─── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ──

Aemon rested heavily against you as you wandered the hushed corridors, striving in quiet earnest to not wake the slumbering child. It became all too clear your arms were unfit for motherhood, as they trembled beneath his motionless weight. You found him, face down amid his reading in the library, the hour unspeakably late.

You gathered the sleeping boy, returning him to his chambers, though rest would have had him remain. The trek doubled in length, as you navigated near darkness and Aemon‘s dead weight in your hold. You anticipated the remainder of your evening as you walked, envisioning the void bed and the haunting stillness of sound.

The nights you had spent in solitude seemed to feel unbearably silent, vacant of all livelihood. It was as though the air held its breath, weary of reminding you you are the only one to hear its drifting sighs. Despite his absence of body, you prepared his side of the bed each night, longing for the familiar dip in the mattress. 

*CLUNK* Your palm flew to the back of Aemon‘s head as it collided with the stone walls, glancing around the corridor in search of potential witnesses. You mutter a hushed apology to the boy, grateful there were no servants to observe your clumsiness. After what felt like moons, you opened his chamber door, onehandedly lighting a candle so that the child would not be subjected to further head injuries.

You bestowed the boy upon his bed, seeing him well with rest. Yet with a gentle stirring he awoke, and knew himself restored unto his own chamber.

“Mother? Did you mark the place in my book?“ A yawn slips past his lips, tugging his covertures to his chin.

“I did, not to worry.“ You falsely assured him, taking the candle from his bedside. He seemed appeased by the falsehood, eager to return to his rest. You offer him a final smile, rising from the edge of his bed.

“Those earrings are most lovely.“ His tiresome words are slurred as his eyes flutter shut. You pinched the candle‘s wick, the room yielding unto darkness.

“Rest well, sweet boy. I will see you in the morrow.“ You withdraw yourself, the chamber door shutting quietly from behind you. 

With weary, leaden steps, you made a slow return to your chambers. You hungered greatly for the gentle embrace of sleep. The tender grace of slumber's quiet hand. It is the only respite you are granted, so absorbed by pursuits and obligations. It was a quiet moment unfit for your solitude.

A blissful stillness not to be hoarded. No sooner had you entered your chamber than a strange vision did present itself, which you deemed a shadow of your own fatigue. Yet, it was true. There he lay beneath the gentle coverings of your bed. He laid in stillness, as if in tender vigil for your return.

“The hour is rather late.“ He remarked from his place in bed, knees bent slightly to support a book resting in his lap. The image was nearly verbatim of what you had seen in the library.

“I did not expect you. And I certainly didn’t expect you to await my return.“ You did not stray from your nightly pursuits despite his disrupting presence. As you withdrew pins and braids from your hair, the room fell into a familiar quiet. You remained in a thin chemise, hair spilling from your shoulders.

“If you must know, I was returning your son to his chambers. Seems he does not know when is appropriate to retire, just like his father.“ You taunted, lifting the covertures to slide into bed. Composed in comfort, you turned yourself to him. Amidst the dull candlelight, you study his face with a quiet reverence, regarding his visage as he reads. You committed every scar and line to memory, marking each feature with a careful eye.

“It is unseemly to gape.“ His gruff voice mumbles, eyes transfixed to the page of his book. Armed with a newfound resolve, you shut the volume upon his lap as though to draw him from its spell. Reluctantly, his exhausted stare finds yours. 

“And it‘s unprincely to dottle.“ You grin at your own petty taunt, settling further beneath the covers. Regardless of how many juvenile mocks you may torment him with, he always seemed to observe your gratitude for his presence.

Your tired sight is met with a veil of black as he extinguishes the last candle, isolating you both to the resolution of nightfall. You hear him stir beneath the sheets, settling with a sharp exhale. You count the seconds in your thoughts, just as you had the prior nights he laid beside you.

“Sōvegon ēdruta, ñuha ābrazȳrys.” (sleep well, my wife)

“Se doe, ñuha ābrar.“ (and you, my husband).

maekar x fem second wife reader 18+

PT 2 PT 3

summary: your strange, distant marriage leads you to pursue writing westeros’s most revered scandal sheet. while you and your new husband harbor true feelings, you must navigate a new life as a step mother and lady of summerhall

warnings: arranged marriage, smut, wedding night consummation (sorta?), vaginal fingering, loss of innocence, maekar spits on your *****, no aftercare, alcoholism (daeron), maekar is bad with feelings, mentions of death

WC: 6k

note: definitely will be a part two! also, some scandal entries are directly inspired from real lady whistedown entries so if they sound familiar, that’s why! enjoy and let me know if you’d want to be added to the tag list for this series :))

The chamber door shut with a gentle thud. And with the door’s heavy sigh, all sound was swallowed by stillness. The straggling wedding merriment, the mortal ruckus had vanished. No whisper dared stir, as though the air itself held its breath. It was a tension so dense you prayed the stone floors would engulf you. To shield you from the unbearably stiff quiet.

You stood a modest distance from one another, merely five paces. Though it was just far enough to feel ill at ease. It was a night that you had been adequately prepared for. The entirety of the day felt as though your every muscle had rehearsed it. Every deliberate movement, with the intent of procuring  your perfect day. 

To your youthful dismay, it was far from perfect. Upon the announcement of your betrothal, you were offered no sincere congratulations. No one you knew from home met your eyes and said, you are vastly fortunate, my Lady! 

You were graciously given solemn stares and consoling words. Your position in court had the same number of takers as aspiring leech collectors. Dear friends had mourned your departure like you would soon slay yourself in the matter of moons. 

You knew of your husband’s image. Gruff, stern and unspeakably blunt. He had certainly hardened with age, that was undebateable.  Despite the gossip, (and nickname), you oversaw the image bestowed on the man, and approached the remainder of your days with cheerfulness. Your home regarded you as positively charming. Why would the Prince see you any different? 

“My Prin-“

”You are quite young.”

Oh, he’s a genius! you thought. Young, you were. Though you were under the impression he had taken note of that by now. Despite your age, you were now his political equal. Though, your composure surpasses his immensely, you‘d never boast about such matters, should your humility allow it. But you knew it was just as clear to the rest of the court.

 His comment left a sneer on his face as his eyes assessed your form, from a cumbersome distance. You were merely four years older than his eldest son. If circumstances were different, you may have felt his cloak upon your back.

”But no less sensible I can…assure…you…that…” You trail off as he turns his back to you, striding toward the farthest side of the bed. Your spine corrected itself, anticipating instruction. Consummate and be done with it, you tell yourself as he settles onto the bed.  

A sharp exhale leaves you as you undo your garment, the silk beginning to slide from the curve of your shoulder. You kept your eyes fixed upon him as you began to undress. While you could not slow your labored breaths, you remained attentive to your task. Your duty.

The silk fell into a puddle at your feet, the flickering candlelight cast over your bare skin. The lingering chill within the chamber scattered goosebumps on your skin, causing you to tense up. Sheepishly you approached the bed, watching him sit up as you crawled onto the mattress.

Maekar remained completely dressed, a bitter contrast to your vulnerable state. 

“Lie back.“ He spoke with a gruffness that made your thighs press together. It wasn‘t cruel, or spoken with any intention of making you uncomfortable. It was simply his most gentle way of directing you. 

You obliged, feeling your bare body sink into the mattress. You crossed your arms over your chest in an attempt to shield yourself from him, which to your surprise, he made no effort to move your hands. With coarse hands, he parted the soft flesh of your thighs that were clenched together. You spread your legs for him in response to the gesture, feeling yourself grow more nervous beneath his piercing gaze. His hands found your thighs once more, soothing the skin of the inside. The closer he got to your pussy, the more you felt your breath stall in your throat. 

“This will be over soon, girl. Tell me and I will stop.“

His tone remained stern, steadfast to his duty. Though his words held no falseness to them. Yes, the way he speaks is gruff, like gravel running down a hill. Yet it became progressively harder to ignore the warmth growing in your stomach with each stern word he uttered. 

His fingers gently began to trace your folds, earning a stifled gasp from you. It was unlike something you‘ve ever felt, let alone someone else‘s fingers. His touch was exploratory, tentative, heeding your small reactions. As his finger ran up and down your pussy, it began to collect the wetness he drew from you. But, that wasn‘t enough. 

You felt it, a warm wet glob spat straight onto your eager cunt. Maekar continued rubbing the wetness up and down your slit, till he was seemingly pleased with the feeling. 

His finger began to explore higher, gently rubbing your clit into little circles. The foreign sensation drew breathless whines from you, as you bucked your hips into his touch. As Maekar‘s finger returned to your core, you whimpered at the lost contact of your clit. 

Though, he soon replaced the sensation with a long, thick finger, sliding itself inside your tight pussy. It stung, especially when he breached that small film of skin that confirmed your maidenhood. Yet as he withdrew the digit and drove it back deep inside you, the pain began to melt into mindless pleasure. 

The sensation surprised you as the warmth deep in your tummy pooled. Your bottom lip caught between your teeth and you felt yourself being jostled by the new pace he set. He wasn‘t withdrawing his finger anymore, only thrusting them deep to hit the spot inside you that made tears well in your eyes. 

You gripped the curvatures beneath you as you writhed beneath his touch. Wanton pants and moans escaped your parted lips, careless of how they may be embarrassing you before your husband (or a stranger, rather). Your hips bucked and humped into his hand as his fingers thrust harder, with a newfound haste in his touch. 

“Mmmphh, my Prince- you- it feels so good, husband.“

Your whine was accompanied by the wet sounds of your pussy echoing through the chamber. Maekar grunted as he felt you clenching around him. 

“Hush, needy girl. Hold still for me.“ His voice had sounded as though it had deepened. Maekar‘s tone remained stern and demanding yet it met your ears like silk slipping through someone‘s fingers. Through the haze of your aching pleasure you could see him restraining himself with every bone in his body. His cheeks bore a red flush beneath his beard, his chest heaving at a pace one could only mistake for ravenous hunger. 

You only began to squirm harder despite his command, feeling the building pleasure in your core threatening to snap. You felt it grow with every brutish thrust of his finger. Until the feeling was so overwhelming, you had no choice but to succumb to the feeling. 

“Fuck- my Prince I-ah, it‘s too much.“ His response to your pleads was a stifled groan as you felt your walls flutter around his fingers. The sensation climbed and climbed till it broke, drawing your bows into a tight pinch, allowing desperate moans to tear through your throat. You shuddered as your orgasm thrashed through you, Maekar fingers fucking you through your high. 

As you felt it weaken and your core clench around its own emptiness, you let out a content sigh as your breathing slowed. While you enjoyed your after glow, Maekar inspected the sheets beneath you, lifting your hips slightly to grant himself a full view. 

Whatever was he searching for? you thought. When you raised your head, your eyes snagged on what he had seen, a faint reddish blotch beneath you. It was proof you had been breached. Though, not necessarily bedded. 

You opened your mouth, ready to ask if he was ready to actually consummate the union. The question never seemed to escape you as the room was soon blanketed in the shroud of nightfall. Maekar pinched the flame on his bedside, settling into the bed for rest to take him. 

It had confused you entirely. Pleasant, yes. Anything your maids or mother spoke of? No. And it certainly wasn‘t anything that would result in children. Was proof you had been prodded at enough? Were you not to fall pregnant with his babe? As every noble wife should?

You sat in the darkness, still naked, utterly vexed as to what you were to do. For now, you decided it was nothing that would be solved in that moment, so it was best you sought rest instead. 

You shuffled into bed, a cold distance from where your husband laid, faced away from you. Visions of your home, your family and everything you held dear seemed to plague your thoughts every moment you tried closing your eyes. Though to be granted sleep, you yielded to the sorrowful memories, praying every night of your life was not to be so dreary.

***

As the days wanned and waxed into weeks, you made yourself scarce. Attending every possible duty and indulging in every frivolous hobby. Your new gowns weren’t exceptional either. What was once elegant and pastel was now dark and heavy. Though your marital bed remained drier than sand it had grown colder than the North. You felt no dip in the mattress as you slept, no steady breathing beside you. Your “husband” had made it abundantly clear he felt no obligation to become better acquainted. Or speak to you at all. Or look in your direction, for that matter. Moons had passed and yet your marriage was still not legitimately consummated. Rather than succumbing to woe, you undertook being the lady of Summerhall and a mother to six troublesome royals. 

The endeavor proved grievous, affording you scarcely a moment for your own pursuits. Leisure had become a rarity. Choosing fabrics for the royal seamstress, learning the ancient family dialect, reading ravens, sending ravens, attending to the children. And now, the botanicals, it seems.

”Are you certain, your Grace?” The caretaker of the royal gardens seemed startled by your request. You both stood before the withered, overgrown flowerbed of carnations. You had grown fond of the royal garden, though it could hardly compete with the one you had grown up with. The carnations were appallingly unkept, a heap of rotting petals. They may have bloomed years ago, by the looks of it. His hesitation was mildly insulting. You were a nature enthusiast, when day was done. If wisdom be yours in any measure, it lies in the study of flowers.

”Quite. This garden is in desperate need of something…invigorating. Something to enhance its charm. Not keep hidden behind wilted flowers. In my estimation, tulips, orchids and peonies shall do the task most handsomely. Wouldn’t you agree?” You offer the man a smile as you envision your proposal. He nods sheepishly offering you a worried grimace in return. Strange.  

***

  “Wha- you are letting me win!” Aegon pointed at the chess board, the disputatious boy pleased with his observation. You both remained in the silent library as night unfurled its sovereign bloom. Three candles illuminated the board, burning low as your match refused to seek a winner. Your chin rested upon your folded hands, raising a brow in feigned surprise.

”Daring of you to accuse me of such a thing.” You hum, taking your turn, deliberately giving him the perfect opportunity to take the king. The night grew dark and you were proving to be as old as your husband. In dire need of sleep after a day of listless, insipid tasks. 

“There!! You did it again!!” His shrilly boyish voice rang through the library drawing a laugh from you. He was too smart for his own good. Yet, not smart enough to conclude you wanted to retire. You put an exaggerated look of shock on your face and a hand to your chest, earning a giggle from your opponent.

”That is utter nonsense! I would never!” Now it is the both of you laughing with little grace, filling the empty silence of the room. The likelihood of raising a child of your own grew slimmer every passing day. Though you were perfectly content in moments like these. 

“Father!” The boy chirps, as your heart plummets into your gut. Your eyes go wide as you hear his footsteps draw closer, a frustrated haste in his stride. His impending presence was palpable, even with your back turned. 

“Aemon, you are up quite late. With company I see.” You turn to face the boy’s father, offering something foreign to him. A smile.

”Oh, I am at fault, my Prince. Aegon could not sleep so I insisted a game of chess may ease his mind. Though he did play rather skillfully. You would be impressed.” He heaves a sigh at the explanation, deeming it verbose in his mind surely. What part of you bonding with his son did he find pernicious? You had put much effort into the matter. Wine tasting with his eldest, frolicking with his youngest. As for Aerion, you had little luck winning his regard. The girls seemed to adore you, insisting their maids replicate your hairstyle on them every waking morrow.

“Retire to your chambers, Aegon. You may finish the game tomorrow.” The boy nodded, flashing you a smile as he withdrew himself. Your reciprocated grin was cut brief, upon realizing Maekar meant to speak with you. What could he possibly want after avoiding you like the plague?

”Does something trouble you, my Lord?” You kept your voice gentle as you straightened your skirts. Your patience knew no bounds, much like his brother. If he wished to be angry, unable to find the right words, then you  would welcome the unbearable quiet.  

“They were hers. The carnations.” Without further explanation, you knew the woman in which he referred to. The woman whose shoes have dwarfed you entirely. 

“I am…terribly sorry, your Grace. It was never my intent to over step. The fault is mine.”

”Do not coddle me, woman.” His tone grew firm, the tone he used in political discourse. The tone he uses to evoke fear. It was purely calculated tactic. You were unafraid of your husband. And you certainly do not cower behind babbling apologies. 

“I am not coddling you, your Grace. I am merely conveying my regret. Apologizing for my carelessness. I know there is no replacing what you’ve lost. Man and wife should be able to have such conversations, without fear or judgement.”

”I had a wife. And you are not her.” In a fleeting second, he turns, withdrawing himself. Like he had done since the day you wed, he marooned you in solitude. Cast you into a dark quiet where no solace dwells. A companion to none.

His gruff words impaled your now rotten sense of hope. He does not even wish to try to start anew. You are forced to care for the children she cannot, and rejected by your husband, wistful for his late bride. But I am right on time, you thought. You were meant to marry at this age, to be enamoured, to have children of your own. Yet you were confined to a marriage your husband was still mourning.

The feeling made you writhe in your own skin. You weren't a woman of hubris or pride. Yet it pained you to blend so seamlessly into the walls. So overlooked, unforgivably undermined. Another radiant noblewoman forced into red and black. You were proven to be too cheerful for this family. Too quick to smile. As though your own warmth had outcasted you. 

You exhausted yourself, competing with a ghost. Rivalling ash. To hold you to her standard was unjust. It was dishonorable, to make you contend with the dead. If they meant to disregard your value, you shall disregard theirs, you decided. Beat their image to a pulp. Slay their false prestige. Why stop at the royal family? Why not uncover every misdeed and flaw noble families harbor like sin? Relay every detestful thought you shooed from your mind. Every snarky jest you had to stifle by biting your tongue. 

There was truth to the bitter assessments. And Seven knows greed is unladylike. The amiable thing to do is share. Before you could defy the immoral tempt, your gaze flicks to the parchment and quill on a desk. How it begged it to be used. To be a device of callous truth. Who were you to deny it such glory?     

Dearest Gentle Reader,

As the bells of septs toll and the candles burn in noble halls, there arrives amongst you a humble scribbler. One who keeps no banner, bears no crest, and yet observes more than many a lord. It is my kindest intention to set quill to parchment and faithfully recount the triumphs, follies, dalliances and indiscretions that flourish so abundantly in our realm. 

One may wonder by what authority I undertake such task. The answer is relatively simple: none at all. Yet, while knights ride to tourneys and ladies exchange honeyed words behind their jeweled fans, someone must preserve truth of what truly passes between them. 

And what a fortnight it has been. 

Lord Arryn was observed departing a maid‘s chamber well after the moon had been hung at its highest. Though the Lord claims he had merely been discussing the matters of estate management, one suspects broomsticks were not the only items receiving close examination that evening. 

Nor may this author neglect the unfortunate incident at Lord Tully‘s feast, wherein two noblemen nearly came to blows over an emerald necklace, a disrupted inheritance, and if—whispers speak true—the affections of the same maiden. The necklace survived the encounter. The gentleman‘s dignity did not. 

Yet these matters are but the smallest drops in a very deep goblet. 

For beneath every velvet cloak lurks a secret, behind every courtly smile a hidden ambition, and within every grand castle chamber a tale begging to be told. 

Rest assured, dear reader, this author shall keenly discover them all. 

Until then, guard your reputations carefully.

One never knows who may be listening.

Yours most observantly, 

Lady Hollowmere

***

Lady Jena snickered to herself as she brought a Dornish red to her lips. It has been one month since you made a slave of all ravens. As the slander scrolls made their debut, noble houses became fussy, displeased and utterly captivated.

They were amusing each other with their own transgressions and wrongs. A scene of rare hilarity, as they laughed heartily at one another. All stirred by the governance of your own quill.

 The fear you dangled above their noses simply because you wield the pen and them, the foolishness. The transaction of gossip for coin turned out to be a remarkable sum indeed. You used the proceeds to employ more ears across the realm, harvesting filthy dalliances and common yammer. Every scroll sold more than the last. It became the name on everyone’s tongue. 

“Do the scrolls amuse you, my Lady?” You ask, your tone more smug than you would’ve liked. Jena and you were now sisters, (mostly). She was fascinating company to keep. Her words were thought provoking, or plainly provocative, depending on her cups.

“How could they not? She is the first gossip writer to address the subjects by name. I should like to meet her, before she is hanged.” Her remark earned a scoff from you. You glanced around the royal terrace in which you lounged.

Beneath the kindly gaze of the sun, your spirits were made warm as the hours passed. Humorous stories and womanly horrors spilled freely from your lips in the company of greenery. You minded your tongue, omitting any details about the security of your coupling and the ink stains on your fingers.

Perhaps with time she will come to know of these things. After exiling the image of being hung, you set your eyes proudly upon your royal garden. A flowerbed of assorted beauties beside a now blooming bed of carnations. 

“You know how court can be. So exacting, so much…propriety. It is exhausting to pretend we don’t fraternize with stable boys ever so often, or speak ill of our own kin. I think it is a remarkable thing indeed, even if we must endure the laments of the offended nobles. They should be learning discretion, rather than blaming the scribbler.”

Jena nodded slowly at your words. You could not be so obvious with your flattery, nor could you openly detest the writings. You had to remain impartial yet amused. A line finer than a rib in famine. 

“And how often is it you fraternize with stable boys, my Lady?” She asked through a light chuckle.

“Till it starts to border on overindulgence, I’d say.” You both begin to laugh. Perhaps the heat had begun to melt your manners.

“The noble houses have only two choices. Put an end to their shameful deeds, or find clever ways to hide them.” To that, the rims of your goblets meet with a gentle clink. You sat before the chess board, callow nobles playing the opponent. You could give them every chance to win and prove their self proclaimed graciousness. You could eliminate every pawn and examine every fault. They could dare to outsmart you or succumb to your rules. But the wisest will let Lady Hollowmere decide for them.

***

    Dearest Gentle Reader,

I must send felicitations to Lord and Lady Mormont. Congratulations and stamina as they embark on the most exhilarating time in a young couple's life. I am, of course, talking of the honeymoon. Is there a more romantic notion? To retreat from society together finally leaving watchful eyes behind. 

You crumple the parchment in your palm, smearing your skin with black ink. Seven above, pull yourself together, you think. Lady Hollowmere‘s misfortune shall find no root in your envy. You’d be incapable of forgiving yourself if your own troubles jeopardized your writings.

You’d be incapable of forgiving yourself if your own troubles jeopardized your writings. Morning, tender and unrisen, found you seated at your desk in stillness. It was the only hour you were afforded the time to write, even if it meant wrangling your mind awake. Swaddled in a linen chemise, quill shaking in your grasp, unkept hair falling from your shoulders. Your eyes are hazy from rest, though your ears worked exceptionally. In the midst of your frustration, you were forced to abide the dreadful symphony of his sleep. Behind you, your “husband’s” steady hushed snores found your ears like ocean tide. A galling, nettlesome, abrasive, exasperating ocean tide. With a huff, your quill is reunited with ink. 

Dearest Gentle Reader,

The frenzy of competition. The thrilling delight of hazarding your all. I am referring not to the lure of King Landing‘s gambling halls, but to a gamble with far higher stakes. Matrimony. For once that particular wager is placed, it cannot easily be undone. A fact which, I am sure, is met with both regret and sheer relief.     

*Zzzzzzzz*

You whip around in your seat, spitefully glaring at the bane of your success. There he laid, sleeping as though he did not carry the burden of a secret so critical. As the sounds persisted, you resisted the urge to not write word of him committing loathsome debauchery, despite it being treasonous. The stifled snorts burrowed themselves deep within your good graces, bones and joints beginning to itch. 

“WILL YOU STOP THAT?? I AM TRYING TO WRITE OF LORD AND LADY MORMONT‘S SEXUAL DEVIANCE, YOU SORRY EXCUSE FOR A HUSBAND!! I WOULDN’T BE IN SUCH STATE IF YOU WOULD JUST ACKNOWLEDGE I EXIST!!”

 Your voice was hardly above a whisper, just loud enough for him to stir. Another sigh escaped you as you tried returning to your work a third time. You rubbled slow circles into your temples, undoubtedly spreading the ink onto your face.

If you allude to your own unhappy coupling, the small council will discover you like hungry hounds. If you write fondly of the Targaryen’s, the people will lose trust in you. If you write ill of the Targaryen’s, your ruby necklace will soon be replaced with rope. Similar to how you must speak of the scrolls, you must remain impartial. You are not regarded for hate speech. You are regarded for honesty. So falsehoods, they shall have!  

Dearest Gentle Reader,

The chase, the hunt, the thrill. It is a fact that all the world is searching for something. And our dear court is no exception. Some are searching for meaning, others for their better halves, while others are searching for tranquility, much like the honorable Prince Baelor and the lovely Princess Jena; who have decided to seek respite in Summerhall this month. And for one of the court’s most notorious bachelor, Prince Daeron Targaryen, who was last seen arriving fashionably late to the Lady Anvil‘s banquet. Even the most determined rakes must bow to that most powerful of forces, mothers. This author cannot help but wonder what he is searching for. More wine? Sensibility? But be cautious of searching too hard, dear reader, for you might not always like what you find. Ladies of court may have a new prize to seek, the heart of a certain eldest son. It seems this free-spirited reveling drunkard has been seen chasing the regards of Ladies, intent on leaving bachelor life behind. This author can only speculate. Could it be this rake has reformed? 

***

With steadfast heart and urgent step, you made your way in haste through the castle’s depths. The latest Hollowmere was now put in the covetous hands of the public, having sent the scrolls six nights passed. Surely, there are at least twenty vessels and ships making their way to the keep at this very moment. Not a breath could be wasted, time was dearer than gold in a pauper’s purse.

You greeted passing servants, maids and guards with an unyielding grin as your plan unfurled. Without breaking haste, you open the chamber door, humming to yourself as you open the drawn curtains, 

“Good morrow, Daeron!” You hum, drinking in the state of his chamber. It was a sty, to put it kindly. Broken, assorted, empty, full bottles littered as far as the eye can see. Everything was so askew, it almost looked purposeful. It was no condition a wife should have to reside in. 

“Come now, up, up!” You give several light slaps to the plane of his cheek as he begins to resurrect himself. With strangled whines, his eyes flutter open, adjusting to the light of day.

”W-wha…is something the matter, mother? Why must you wake me?” His voice gravelly from sleep. You snatch the bottle from the crook of his elbow, setting it on his bedside.

”Well, the sun has been up for quite some time. But, no matter. Your father and I are overjoyed by your news! This is momentous, Daeron! We are somewhat displeased with hearing the word from the newest Hollowmere, but-“ 

“Wait- wait…wha-Hollowmere? Whatever do you mean?” He rubs the fatigue from his eyes as you watch panic envelop his sullen features. To conceal the amused smile on your lips, you turn your back to him, beginning to tidy his chambers the best you could manage. 

“Oh, have you not read? She has written on your search for a wife! There are twenty ships, thirty caravans and fifteen carriages making their way to Summerhall as we speak, full of eligible young ladies. So many prospects you will get to choose from. The choice will be taxing, I’m sure. They are all so eager for your favour.”

His brows furrow, looking as though this was a nightmare he could not wake from. He put his palm so his perspiring forehead, trying desperately to come to his senses. You watch vexation, anger and worry cycle through his mind as he finds his bearings. 

“I-I said no such thing. It is a lie, what she has written.” You grimace at his plea for mercy, seating yourself at the foot of his bed. 

“Lady Hollowmere doesn’t write rumour, she writes truth. Her words are practically gospel. Perhaps your drunken stupor left you no memory of such a declaration. But this will be advantageous, Daeron. You are of age and need to take a wife. Find a lady to your liking before your father marries you to a stranger. You should have that privilege, to marry for love. And if none of them are to your liking, I will send them back as soon as you wish. But you must promise me you’ll try.”

His eyes soften, seeing through you like a veil. Daeron was your son now, despite the small number of years between you. You accepted that responsibility as you accepted his father’s cloak on your back.

 If you could shun him from being promised to a woman he did not know, you‘d do everything in your power. Marriage is just as political as war and dispute. A profitable transaction of virtue and binding promise. An economic, fiscal, monetary exchange of vows. But if you could give Daeron a chance of finding a love match, you would be content knowing someone will live the future you could not.         

“Thank you, mother. I will try, for you.” You nod, beaming at the drunkard who is willing to endure hundreds of blood thirsty ladies, for the sake of making his miserable step mother happy. 

“I know your indulgence is an escape. I know you are frightened by what you see. But, there is a charming man beneath all these cups. Ladies will prefer him, rather than Daeron the Drunken.” You tutted, reaching for the port you set on his bedside.

As you confiscated the bottle, you made your way to the door, allowing him to prepare for the remainder of the day awaiting him. Considering it is almost lunch. 

“I will send for a barber. And a bath. And someone to clean this… bachelor lodging.” You offer him a final fleeting smile before you withdraw yourself.

Outside his door, you silently celebrated with yourself. You had done the unthinkable. You had gotten Daeron the Drunken to entertain the prospect of marriage. With the intent of finding love. Perhaps you really were the prophet Lady Hollowmere was rumored to be.

***

With no small measure of dread, you beheld the hour where you must commence the third scheme, one you had long feared above the rest. You held your next course of action in deepest apprehension. You sat in your husband’s study, in solitude, a heavy stillness blanketing the room. It was beyond my comprehension how he managed to achieve anything in this study. 

Agonizingly quiet, and tidied to a suffocating degree. The impeccable precision of the desk, shelves, trestle tables were all too neat to even touch. You knew your marriage would be annulled the moment you laid womanly fingers on any of his belongings. So you sat, hands fixed in your lap, glimpsing around the one room in Summerhall you had not yet seen.

Though you suppose he won't be back for some time. There is little harm in just observing, right? Perhaps you could even learn something about the man you call a husband. His most favored book? Favored hobby? His handwriting? The quill he uses? There was so much discovery so few paces away. 

You abandon my restraint, rising from my seat. You gawk at every small trinket, every tome and every undusted surface. It was a captivating exhibition that had immersed you entirely. A glimpse into where he spends his hours, away from you. 

“Ahem.” The feigned throat clearing from the door alerted you of his return. He did not seem pleased with your snooping, but he did not order you to leave. You suppose that is a good start. 

“Your Grace, I-I was just…looking. It’s n-“

”I did not send for you.”

”I’m aware. I came by my own accord.” 

He hums in reply, though his face conveys an emotion too complex to decipher. His existence was a sick riddle. One you would spend the rest of your days endeavoring to solve. 

“Why?” His question came across as a demand, vexed as to why you meant to speak with your own husband. 

“We have a certain eldest son’s future to discuss. I’m sure you’ve received word of Daeron’s search for a wife. I was meaning to inform you I’m hosting a ball, so that he may acquaint himself with eligible ladies.” 

”My son does not swoon. He whores. He drinks. You will find no such luck in the matter.” You shrug at his candid words. He knew him better than you, sure. But that did not mean he could predict forthcoming events. Moody old bastard.

“As true as that may be, we do not know until we try. Someone may catch his eye. And I’m hopeful of it, so that we are not forced to marry him to a stranger. I mean…just look how content we are.” You chuckle to yourself, making light of my misery. 

“We are plenty fucking content. Now go.” With a sigh of defeat, you begin your stride towards the door where he stands. You approach him with slow steps, the space between you growing smaller with each pace. With an arched brow he looked down upon you, assessing the mischief you wore on your face.

“I will host the gathering. You will be glad of it, my Lord. I swear it.” You extend your pinky finger to him, which only makes his brows pinch together in vexation. With sheepish hesitation, and apparent detest for such frivolous promise, he ensnares his pinky with your own. The action brought a pleased grin to your lips. It was the first time he had touched you since the wedding. Though your kiss was scarcely a kiss at all. Just a brief meeting of skin.

“Excellent. And do buy new ink, you are dipping your quill in mud.” He rolls his eyes as he opens the door to his study, ushering you out of it. With a brief and courtly smile,  you withdrew yourself, waving daintily with your fingers.

***

The great hall gleamed like a reliquary of silver and red. Hundreds of beeswax candles burned in wrought-iron chandeliers overhead, their flames trembling against banners embroidered with red dragons. Long tables stretched the length of the chamber beneath black linen cloth, laden with roasted boar glazed in spiced honey. Silver goblets caught the firelight and scattered it like captive stars across the gathering.

Noble ladies shimmered in velvet and silk, jeweled sleeves brushing polished oak, while Lords laughed over brimming cups of wine dark garnets. 

And beside you, your husband.

The title still felt strange upon your tongue. Husband. A man chosen by signatures and seals by alliances drawn upon parchment long before either of you had been consulted. Life between you remained stiff, despite your most charming nature. His defiance frustrated you, but it was nothing you allowed yourself to weep over. 

Yet, that evening, something shifted. You felt it. 

At first, you tentatively watched him out of pure curiosity. Voices swelled. Goblets clinked. The hall grew warm with merriment. And yet, amid all the splendor, you became strangely aware of the simple nearness of him. It was duty, yes. Though it felt more contained than that. Every brush of your sleeves, every time you clung to his arm tighter, startled him more than the fanfare of instruments. 

You would often stand on your tip-toes to comment upon some amusing observation, often rooted in harmless cruelty. His acknowledgment of these remarks were low hums, only intended for your ears. Despite his efforts, you could sense his amusement in your jests. 

Love, you once imagined, would arrive with thunderous certainty. A knight‘s triumph, a poet‘s declaration, a bolt from the clouds. 

Instead, it came like snowfall upon an open field. Silent. Seeping. Gentle. Undetectable. Unnoticed by you until your world would transform. 

The evening deepened and the candles began to burn lower. You found yourself hoping the feast would never end. Not for the revelry, nor the music nor the wine. 

But because every time you glanced up at Maekar, you discovered another reason to remain.  

The feast had been an overall success. Dazzling floral arrangements, a plethora of guests and a night entirely spent on the arm of your husband. You could sense the stiffness of his chest as you clung to him, greeting all who arrived. You were beaming, despite the circumstances. It felt real.

Being anchored to the man who vowed to love you, to protect you. Though he did not put much effort in either, it felt correct in a sense. Like jigsaw pieces finding one another. There were brief hitches of time where you‘d peer up at him, and watch his scowl relax into something more neutral. Not joy, or adoration, but tranquility. Your soothing presence ironed the wrinkles from his scowling face.  

As for Daeron, he did not manage to meet a Lady worthy of his attention—to his standards, at least—and found himself swarmed with eager ladies all evening.  

“Well, real attachment rarely forms over one feast. He‘ll find a lady to his liking as soon as he outgrows whores. And we will be patient, husband. We mustn't rush him into such matters. It‘s overwhelming for a boy his age.”

He gruffly hummed in acknowledgement. Not agreement, nor protest. Simply just, I can’t seem to disregard the noise coming from your mouth. You sat beneath the coverture of your bed, a silk white sleep shift affording you little warmth.

You reached over to extinguish the candles on your bedside, the wick hissing as your fingers pinched the flame. Your chambers were illuminated solely by the flickering light of the hearth. You restrained yourself from yammering, apprehensive you may drive him forth in dread.

It was most challenging to keep silent. For such a guarded, sullen man, you wished for nothing more than to berate him with your every whim. Your day, your progress on the harp, your sentiments on lemon tarts, your affinity for honeybees…

”What ever are you gawking at, woman?” His bitter tone impales the quiet, waking you from your daze. Unbeknownst to you, your eyes had not left his undressing form. His progress in the matter was small, still fully dressed, to a capacity. It was mildly surprising, given how long you had stared. 

“Sorry, sorry. I shall give you privacy.” You rolled, turning your back to him. You suppose it is improper to see a man undress when you are not wholly wedded. Because you were not bedded, (not in the way that counts, anyway). With a sigh, you sink further into the mattress. The new position overwhelmed you with newfound ease, your weary frame a hair‘s length from sleep. You remained silent, your breaths deepening. It was enough to give the impression you were asleep. Especially to a man who could not see your face.

You feel the mattress dip beneath his weight as he climbs into bed. Your shared bed. The bed he had not slept in since your wedding night. You swallow your nerves, maintaining the farce of your own slumber. He groans, shuffling beneath the covertures. 

You believe he had stilled, finally taken rest like you had. The following moments prove your estimation wrong, hearing him stir once more. The weight beside you grows closer, as he props himself on one elbow. In quiet vigil he drank you in. You gentle slope of your fluttering lids, the soft parting of your perfect lips. 

To you, he was cold and hardened. It was his defense, a device of not letting you grow too fond or close. What in him was worth loving, he thought to himself. In his eyes, you were fair as the first blush of dawn upon the eastern hills. You moved with a grace that seemed borrowed from goddesses. Your countenance was as delicate yet striking as a rose newly awakened in a garden. Cheeks touched with the soft grace of youth. He was denying himself something he was addicted to, without even indulging in first. 

He knew his feelings would surpass what he‘d allow, and felt it safer to let you live out your days away from him. But with wine on his breath and restraint growing thin, he couldn‘t help just gazing. When his stare grew in greed, he raised a finger, gently swiping a stray lock of hair from your face. His lips curled into a wounded smile, admiring you as you “slept“.

He was well aware your beauty was not your greatest adornment. If he was going to be forced to marry it would not be to a fool. You bore yourself with a noble kindness, a steadfast loyalty and a warmth that made hearth and hall alike feel blessed. You were his comfort and delight, but most of all his greatest peril. His most fearsome torment. 

“Sōvegon ēdruta, ñuha ābrazȳrys.” (sleep well, my wife) You hear him croak as he settles into rest. It was a strangled sound, only meant for his ears. A hushed confession he harbored like secret. It wasn’t meant for you to hear, or understand. The words had stunned you as you laid, partially convinced you had dreamt it. Had he not seen the Valyrian text on your bedside? 

daeron x wife!reader 18+ MDNI

Summary: you and your husband are having trouble producing an heir. luckily, daeron is given a remedy in the midst of his drunken stupor.

Warnings: mentions of infertility, brief mention of somnophilia, sex pollen, needy daeron, kinda sub!daeron, body worship, established relationship, drinking, heavy breeding kink undertones, no first name mentioned/ no use of y/n, daeron and reader are VERY in love

WC: 2.7k

Nearly a year had passed since your vows were spoken beside Daeron. Your union was one of rare harmony, for affection dwelled between you faithfully. You both found joy in one another‘s company, and understanding flowed as naturally as a gentle stream. No harsh words dared linger, and your hearts remained inclined toward one another.

Especially considering Daeron is no easy man to love. Despite his challenges you made them your own and restlessly helped him overcome his burdens. It was no easy feat, and there was still much to be done. There was a time he feared your children would be plagued by his visions, or he would forsee something unforgivable about the child.

The unlikely, complicated beauty of your marriage was well known to the realm. However, the royal cradle remained empty. The bed prepared for young dragons remained untouched, gathering silence where laughter ought to dwell. 

Throughout town and country-side alike, tongues wagged with endless conjecture. Whether sickness had plagued you or Daeron, whether the Seven themselves had simply denied you the fruitful blessing or some other mystery pertaining to your husband‘s fondness of wine. 

Yet all who beheld the two of you deemed your devotion true and steadfast. 

Your love endured through idle speculation, yes, but that didn‘t stop Daeron from feeling like a poor excuse of a husband. You reassured him relentlessly, told him how the vision that besieges his thoughts does not make you love him any less. And he believes you, rightfully so. 

At times wine would soften his spirit and draw forth tears he would sooner have hidden. All that he despised about within himself rose from the depths of his heart and stood plainly before him. Daeron sought to drown such thoughts beneath yet more wine and ale, but on one fateful night his sorrow left him stripped of all defenses.   

“Easy, my Prince. Another glass and you‘ll drink yourself into the grave.“ 

The barkeep tutted Daeron as he draped himself over the counter, finding himself in another stupor. Demeaning thoughts taunted his mind as he sat, I‘m not the husband she deserves, and father would be happier with me in a tomb. 

“Just one more, then I‘ll leave. Swear it.“ 

Daeron mutters through slurred words and half promises. Before he‘s given the chance to reach for his fresh new glass, he‘s met with another barkeep sliding it across the counter. 

Barkeep was a bit of a strong statement. She was a frail older woman, age resting lightly upon her spirit. Though her body bore the marks of many winters. Deep lines framed her face, yet her keen eyes sparkled with knowledge gathered from herb, root and star. 

Daeron could‘ve sworn his dreams were melting in with reality, unsure of where the other man left and when she had replaced him. 

“No wine in your great castle, my Prince?“ The woman croaked, offering him a snide grin from where she stood, hunched. 

“Or does the princess not like it when you indulge?“

Her grin deepens and she watches her bold words unfurl in his mind. Daeron would never be the sort of prince to inflict harm on an old woman for such words, especially not in his state. 

“She doesn‘t mind. ‘Jus want to leave her to her own peace. I have given her little enough already. A rightful husband is to give a wife a family and future. I have given her neither.“ 

Daeron was slightly surprised at how fast the words left him, unmindfully tumbling from his wine-stained lips.

“You‘ve got it all backward, princeling. The question isn‘t whether you‘ve given her those things. The question is whether you‘ve shown her they still matter to you. Ain‘t much romance in a man sleeping on a tavern stool.“ 

He digests her words in his clouded, drunken mind. It all pieced together for him then, and he had newfound conquest to prove his devotion to you.

“Well? How do you reckon I can?“ 

The woman is already reaching for a small vile kept away from the neat rows of wine bottles. The vile clinks as it meet the rings on her fingers, 

“This should do handsomely.“ 

─ ⊹ ⊱ ⊰ ⊹ ─

There were very few comforts that surpassed reclining in a royal bed, a book nestled in your lap, whilst candles burn low and a warm mug steams beside you. It was one of those nights to yourself as Daeron scavenged a local village for their wine. You knew he took comfort being outside the confines of the keep, so these nights never had a way of bothering you.

Truthfully, you could die happily right there. Freshly cleaned hair, floral oils still fresh on your bathed skin and a clean silk chemise wrapped around your body. 

You held no disdain for the quiet, you cherished it. Such gentle moments were a rare blessing amid the endless demands of court. Few would ever dare speak it aloud, but the burden of a princess‘s station was heavier than most could fathom. Thus, the solitary hours felt nothing short of perfect, 

That was, until you heard your bed chamber door groan as it opened.

“Daeron? Are you back, my love?“ 

You don't spare him a glance from your book as he shuffles into the room, his steps sounding heavier with each one he took. Even in great splendors of drunkenness, the cadence of his steps seemed highly unusual.     

You hear him groan as he approaches the bed, kicking off his boots with a sluggish tug.

“Are you well?“ 

You behold him as you glance up from your book, searching his face. An angry red hue flushed in cheeks and ears as sweat began to bead at his forehead. His once lilac eyes were nearly black with how blown his pupils had become. His lips were parted just slightly, taking in desperate hitches of breath as he stared at you with half-lidded eyes. 

“My sweet wife.“ He murmurs with a horse voice as he begins crawling toward you on the bed. His behavior was something you hadn‘t seen before. Surely the both of you enjoy a tiresome fuck when you are nearly taken with sleep and he is drunker than a sailor. But this was different.

This had vigor. 

You had little time to set your book aside as he draped himself on top of you. As your mouth opened anticipating a question, you felt how hot his skin was. Scolding, really. He was a flushed, sweating, restless mess of a man disheveled by the need for his wife. 

You bring the back of your palm to his forehead and cheek, nervously checking for fever. Daeron whines at the contact, nuzzling into your touch. With a vexation worn plainly on your face, you swipe the sweat-slicked hair from his face. 

“Are you well, husband? You feel quite warm.“ 

Your nervous chuckle is caught in your throat as you feel his painfully hard cock nudge into your thigh. 

“Daeron, explain to me what you have done.“ 

You sit up, crossing your arms across your chest awaiting explanation. Daeron symptoms only grow as he gawks at you, mindlessly pawing the covers for your touch. 

“Please, sweet girl, my beautiful, sweet, wife, please just touch m-“

“I‘m not lifting a finger till you explain to me what‘s happened to you. Was it a brothel? Hm? Someone slip you something there?“  

“Mm-mm, no, my love, I swear to you. I did not step foot into one of those.“ 

His slurled words offer you comfort, allowing you to slowly inch back down the bed to where he laid. Your nails begin to scratch the expanse of his back in comforting motion. Daeron let out a groan as you touched him, despite the act being purely innocent. 

“Please, talk to me, Daeron. You‘re worrying me.“ 

“H-hurts…“

“What hurts, my love?“ 

He lets out a whine and begins to buck his hips into the mattress. The friction draws a broken groan from him as he continues to babble and listlessly beg. 

“A witch- she…she gave me something.“ 

“You took something from a witch. Please be joking.“

“She said it‘d give us an heir.“ 

Despite his disordered, wanton state, your heart softened at his words, picturing him drinking a mysterious liquid for the sake of blessing you with a child. Your lips softened into a smile as he peered at you through glassy, desperate eyes.

“Well, how does it work then, what she gave you? Am I to wake already with child?"

You offer your hand to lovingly stroke his cheek, though Daeron takes hold of it, lathering it with sloppy kisses. Your palm, wrist, forearm were being devoured with open-mouth pecks. 

“Mm, not until I‘m through with you. Not until you make me better.“

“And…how am I to do that, sweet boy?“

With the same grip on your wrist, he tugs you. In a blink of an eye, you‘re on top of him, straddling his engorged cock. Daeron looks up at you with eyes that worship, eyes that are peeling off your clothes before he could rip them off you. You stifle a chuckle at the sight. 

Your hand slides down his stomach at an agonizing pace, leaving goosebumps in its wake. 

Soon, your hand palms his rigid cock, earning you a strangled whine from deep in his throat. He bucks his hips into your touch, writhing with fervid pleasure.

“Please, my love, ‘nough teasing. I need you. Need you more than anything, please. I‘ll be good.“

“Mm, will you? You want to pound me into the mattress till I can‘t say anything but your name? You want this whole keep to know how good you fuck your wife? How good you make her feel? How wet you make her? And how wet she‘ll be when you cum and fill her up?“ 

Daeron moans at your lewd words, partially frustrated by you enjoying this the way you are. You roll your hips into his clothed cock, earning an open mouthed groan from him. With keen hands you fumble with the ties of his breeches, while he listlessly pleads for you to go faster.

As his cock springs free you inspect his hardness. The tip was a bruised, painful looking purple. While his reddened length twitched with each beat of his heart. His cock was already soaked with precum before you even laid a hand on it. 

“Poor baby, so needy for me.“ 

You pepper his tip with sloppy kisses as he writhes beneath you, watching you intently with his lips parted. As you finish with your torment, you shift yourself onto your stomach, arching your spine. Your tits press into the mattress, still clothed by the chemise, as you feel Daeron bunch the fabric right above your ass. 

He gives one firm smack to the flesh, watching it pinken from the act. You stifle a moan into the sheets as his hands draw you back toward his cock. Without warning, he thrusts, filling you completely in a moment‘s notice. 

You let out a whorish moan into the covertures, feeling yourself already go dumb on his cock. He sets a fast, agonizing pace as he seeks relief from the pleasurable pain the potion had plagued him with. Your fists curl into the sheets in hopes of grounding you from his brutal thrusts.

Daeron pants above you, shallow heaving breaths accompanied by strangled moans. You feel his urgency in the way he slams into you, the way he is so desperately claiming you with each jerk of his hips. It‘s something almost primal, something so intoxicating about his need to mark you. To give you a child, to solidify the profound beautiful love you share into something you can raise. 

As Daeron brutishly fucks you, he envisions your stomach round with child, breasts heavy and swollen with milk. Providing for your child, being a good mother. It‘s as though his purpose dawns on him. It only makes his need to prove his love to you stronger. 

“Seven fucks- what have I done to deserve you, sweet wife? All mine, hm?“

“I…mphh yeah- I‘m yours, Daeron. I am all yours…“ 

The words are broken by rugged movements, but they reach you and Daeron‘s ears all the same. Muttered proclamations of devotion all clouded by the fevorous love-making, so enraptured with one another. 

A sweet moan tore through your throat as his pace deepened, hitting the spot that made drool begin to pool in your mouth. You thoroughly enjoyed fucking your husband in the past, but this was entirely foreign. It was something blissfully won, a filthy coupling of two people who would do anything for each other. 

You could smell the honeyed wine on his breath as he panted into your ear like an animal, so enveloped by the addicting feeling of being inside you. That delectable suck of your cunt around him, how it drools with the sweetest nectar enticing him further. 

Your bed chamber attained a string of echoing plap-plap-plaps, as Daeron‘s bare hips drove into the plump of your ass with vigor. His lips suckled and kissed your neck and below your ear as you whined into the sheets. You were nearly as unraveled as he was. 

“Mm-mhm, that‘s it, my love, that‘s a good girl. Feels so good doesn‘t it.“ 

“Yes-yes-yes, fuck, Daeron!“

At your pleasing cries his pace gains speed, drawing breathless wanton gasps from your throat. Daeron takes a fistfull of the hair at your nape, pulling it slightly in order to raise yourself from the mattress. You rose, forgetting what it was like to breathe. 

“Y‘gonna cum for me, sweet girl? Gonna cum all over my cock while I fill you up?“

“Y-yes, fuck, please, Daeron,“ 

The loud moans escaping you and Daeron‘s lips was nothing short of pure impropriety. The smack of his hips against your ass, the ridges of his cock rubbing against your walls and the loving firm grip he had on your hair sent your orgasm thrashing through you. It came in blissful waves, leaving you a quivering, writhing, moaning mess in Daeron‘s hold. He soon follows, releasing hot thick ropes of cum deep inside your pussy. 

The fatigue soon overtakes you, collapsing onto the bed stripped of all energy. Like orgasm, Daeron is soon to follow, tumbling beneath his own weight beside you. He scoops you up into his arms before you could utter a word. The disquiet world of your lives finds silence as he holds you against his heaving chest, coveting you like your all that matters to him. You nuzzle into his embrace, purring gently at the feeling of his hands running through your hair.

“So, feel any better?“ You murmur in a hushed voice, mindful of the peaceful quiet that fell upon both of you. 

“Much, much, better, my love.“

“I‘m very glad to hear that.“

You hum, gently peppering kisses along his jaw as you drink in the sight of his normal face. His eyes flutter shut, content with the feeling of your body in his arms. 

“And how do you feel, my beautiful wife?“ 

“Mm…good. Very good. A bit different.“

“Different how?“

“Just different from the other times. This one felt significant.“

You peered into his eyes.

“Like…something may come of it.“ 

A smile spreads across his lips as he watches yours grow, basking in the solace of newfound hope. Perhaps the witch had done you a favour after all, granting you something you and your husband wanted desperately.  

“Wait.“

“Hm?“

“I have yet to kiss you.“

You laugh at his remark, recalling the events in your mind. He leaned over with a soft reverence, grasping your chin in his palm. Daeron‘s lips intertwine with your own, not in haste but in silent adoration. The touch was gentle, yet it carried the weight of vows you had spoken before Gods. Your lips lingered for a moment, neither claiming nor retreating. But meeting in a stillness that felt older than language.    

“You are a fool.“

“Any man would be with you as his wife.“ 

Ser Duncan x Targaryen!reader

Summary: After being on the road with your sworn protector and younger brother, Egg, you find yourself burdened by the events of a few nights prior, after a group of men from a tavern attempted to kidnap you

Warnings: Vague mentions of kidnapping, no mention of sexual assault, in depth depiction of trauma, nightmares, panic attacks, angst with LOTS of comfort, sfw

WC: 1.8k

Unbidden and most unwelcome, the memory of that dreaded eve lingered within your mind, circling your thoughts like a starved vulture. Whenever you sought peace, your mind recited the cruel remembrance hidden behind your eyes. Several weeks had fled into the past since the mischance befell you. Yet the recollection remains as fresh as newly spilled wine upon snow.

 You would tell yourself many women have endured such tribulations, and that your burdens were not singular beneath the moon. Though the more your gaze rested upon the wound in your thoughts, the deeper it ached. And Seven knows no flesh is healed whilst one keeps watch upon the bleeding. 

Though your mind bore heavy burdens, still one truth stood firm against the storm. Your sworn defender remained the only man worthy of your trust. Ser Duncan. A hulking, fumbling brute to outward eyes, forever tripping over his own words and apologizing for imagined offenses. He would sooner beg forgiveness for breathing loudly than raise his voice in anger at you. 

Yet many a knave and cruel bandit had fled limping from his grasp, their courage shattered alongside their limbs. It troubled your understanding of how a man so mighty in violence could be so soft in spirit.

He had saved you, just some weeks ago from a few rogues who had caught a glimpse of the silver dragon adorning your finger. You fought tirelessly for your survival. Thrashing, clawing, screaming. Though it only exhausted you, turning into a futile attempt of escape.

Before they could haul you into their wagon, your sworn knight fought them till blood sputtered from their lips. You weren‘t certain what had scarred you more. The feeling of their hands, or the pulp-like beating they received. 

In Dunk‘s words, what truly matters was that you, and your brother Egg were safe. Dunk carried the guilt of not saving you sooner like a wet cloak. He kept vigilant watch upon you with unwavering eyes, ever mindful of danger and how it lurks. Dunk would not subject you to further harm with him absent from your side. 

You were grateful for such devotion, yes, for his protective nature had only deepened since that dark affair. Yet still the memory weighed heavily upon your thoughts. And no matter how often you convince yourself of your own safety, your heart remains unpersuaded.   

Rain lashed the inn with savage fury , no different from the cursed night your suffering began. Upon the thin glass of the window the storm drummed and thundered without mercy.

At the sound, a tremor seized your form, as though your soul had been dragged unwillingly back into the memory of that harrowing moment. That terrible, dreadful moment which still haunted your waking thoughts. 

You maintained a cumbersome distance from Dunk in the creaky inn bed. Egg slept next door, most likely already taken by sleep. Dunk laid rigid at the far side of the bed. You both were aware of the impropriety in the circumstance. A sworn hedge knight, and the princess he took an oath to protect.

Though, given the change in weather, you insisted Dunk would‘ve frozen sleeping on the floor, and invited him to join you in the comfort of a termite bitten bed frame and straw mattress. 

“Goodnight to you, Ser. Sleep nicely.“ 

You offer a timid smile before rolling over, trying to nestle deeper into the scratchy covers.

“Don‘t shy to wake me, should you need me.“ 

He answers in a fond, gruff voice. One which he manages to balance exceptionally. His words bring a faint smile to your lips and you squeeze your eyes tight, eager to be met with sleep. You begged the Seven for a peaceful, deep slumber to distract you from who laid next to you. 

Dunk slept like a soldier. One palm cradling the back of his head as he laid on his back. He was always easy to wake, so vigilant even in sleep.

Even in moments like these.

 You woke to the feeling of coarse palms shaking your bare shoulders, coaxing you from sleep. You had been screaming, crying. The ache of your throat and the slick of your cheeks made that clear. Breathing came in shallow, jagged pants as Dunk searched your face. It was the middle of night, when the moon was hung highest. You grasped his hands, desperate for an anchor, something to ground you to reality.

Your mind remained outside that tavern, welcoming being kidnapped for all to see. Before you could stop it, raspy choked cries escaped deep from your chest. For the first time, through the blur of hot tears, Dunk seemed scared. Frightened, even. And that alone terrified you beyond measure.

 His hands seemed hesitant upon your skin, unsure of how to comfort the woman he calls Princess. You watched as he fought angered words of vexation, gruff shouts from a tender place of worry. He opened his mouth yet no sound escaped, not even a stutter. 

Dunk was no stranger to nightmares. Phantoms besieged his thoughts, his younger years stalking the halls of his memory. The harrowing vision of your attack lingered behind your eyes, the tremble of your bones refusing to ease.

A cold dread crept through your veins, thoughts scattered like startled crows. Each rapid thump of your heart struck you as the tolling of a funeral bell. Air grew thin and cruel. You gasped like a drowning man cast into a black fathomless sea, yet no breath brought me comfort.   

Muffled inquiries of assurement sat muffled in your ears, incapable of hearing Dunk through the throb of blood. You could feel each drop being pumped in thick spills, as though it was preparing itself to never pump again. Your breathing soon turned into shallow quivering whimpers, fighting the jerk of tears in your throat. Amidst the blackened veil of nightfall, you stretched forth and laid your trembling body upon his chest.

Beneath your vise-like embrace, you feel him stiffen, hands lingering aloft as though he was uncertain where they ought to rest. You clung to him like an anchor cast into troubled waters, binding you steadfast to the moment. With much hesitation, one arm rests across your back, the other clutching your head as he holds it against him. 

“Shhh, shhh, you‘re safe, sweet girl. I‘m here. I‘m here, princess.“ 

You can taste the worrisome quake in his words, panic stricken by your state. At his comfort you surrender to the whirlwind of emotion, letting raw, thick cries rack through you.

You cling to him tighter allowing your cries to unmindfully spill. The sound devastated Dunk. It tore something tender in his heart, the part of him that cherishes seeing you happy. The part of him that turns red pondering your laugh. It was all his fault, he told himself. 

His calloused knuckles stroked your wayward hair, whispering comforting words into the crown of your head. 

“I‘m so sorry…I- shhh, breathe, breathe.“ 

Your wails only grow louder against his chest, unable to shake the visions plaguing your mind. It was the rain. The same deluge that soaked through your gown as you were nearly taken from everything you love. Your hand cupped your ear in an attempt to shield yourself from the noise. And just like anything, Dunk noticed.  

He gently pushed your hand aside, replacing it with his own. His palm managed to muffle the noise far better than your own, allowing you to succumb to a newfound ease. 

“I know, I know. You‘re safe now,“ He brings you closer to your chest, dwarfing you as you lay against him. His whole torso had swallowed your form entirely, shielded from the world by his frame. Dunk had gathered you in his arms, bestowing gentle kisses upon the crown of your head. His hand stroked your quivering back tenderly, doing anything he could to provide you with ease.

Your desperate gasps began to slow, your tear-slicked cheeks beginning to dry. You felt your bearings return to you as you melted into Dunk‘s hold. 

“You‘re alright, sweet girl, I‘m sorry. Gods, I‘m so sorry for everything, princess. But I‘m here now, aye? I‘m here…“

 His soothing words are followed by more gentle “shhh‘s“, as he listlessly continues running his fingers through your hair. Once your cries had ceased mostly, you pulled away from his chest with a sniffle, raising your head to meet his eyes. 

You peered at him through the veil of tears coating your eyes, where you witnessed his fright tempered by aching affection. Dunk summoned all the strength he had to bring you solace. Though every sob that tore from you undid him. 

He shifted slightly, taking your flushed cheeks into his palms, in a comforting hold. Dunk raised your face closer to his with a wounded love-sick grimace on his face. As he brought your face closer, he closed the gap by placing slow, soft kisses on your tear-stained cheeks, your forehead and your nose. Your sorrowful pout remained as his warm lips brushed your skin, though your eyes fluttered shut at the feeling.

The act was profound in its tenderness, so full of devotion in each peck. Dunk’s heart was bent toward two sacred purposes. To keep you from harm’s way and cherish you beyond measure. 

With one final kiss to your forehead, he brought your hand to the broad expanse of his chest, feeling the steady rise and fall beneath your palm. Dunk gazed at you in understanding, watching as you tried matching his calm breaths. 

“There we go, much better. Such a brave girl.“

Your heart fluttered in your ribs at his praise, to a newfound calmness that eased the distress in your bones. You nodded at his murmured encouragements, features softening into a content exhaustion. 

“Thank you.“ 

You hardly manage to croak with a strained voice, offering Dunk a weak smile. He brought your forehead to rest against his, his breaths still deep and prolonged in an attempt to soothe you.

“There‘s no need, princess. It is my greatest honour protecting you. I would rather see myself dead than do nothing to ease your pain. From the very pit o‘ my chest, I mean it. Every word.“ 

You nod weakly at his words nestling yourself back into his warm chest. With a heaved sigh you surrender to the feeling of his hold. A soft, stable anchor in an ocean of vast cold waters. 

“Get some rest now, I‘m right here if you wake. Right here for you, sweet girl.“

Dunk whispered into the crown of your head. He knew you had exhausted yourself, fatigued by your own sobs. But his promise was not made in falsehood. He was always going to be there when you wake.

MASTERLIST `✦ ˑ ִֶ 𓂃⊹

hi everyone!! welcome to my masterlist, I plan on expanding it more soon :)) thanks for visiting !!

CROSSED OUT BLOGS ARE 18+

AKOTSK:

Baelor Targaryen

Parchment

Ser Duncan

Fetch me a stool…or perhaps a a ladder

Squeamish

Right here

Wedding Night

Aching Relief

A Promise to My Wife

Daeron

ill be good

A Knack for Pretend

Maekar

the quill and the anvil pt 1 pt2 pt3