― 𝐀 𝐊𝐍𝐈𝐆𝐇𝐓 𝐎𝐅 𝐓𝐇𝐄 𝐒𝐄𝐕𝐄𝐍 𝐊𝐈𝐍𝐆𝐃𝐎𝐌𝐒.

··········• 𝐬𝐞𝐫𝐢𝐞𝐬

she's my wife series masterlist loyalty series masterlist

··········• 𝐛𝐚𝐞𝐥𝐨𝐫 𝐭𝐚𝐫𝐠𝐚𝐫𝐲𝐞𝐧

❝ touch ❞ ❝ she's my wife ❞ ❝ wildfire flower ❞ ── includes smut ❝ our wife ❞ ── throuple + maekar ❝ happy trails ❞ ── includes smut

··········• 𝐬𝐞𝐫 𝐝𝐮𝐧𝐜𝐚𝐧 𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐭𝐚𝐥𝐥

❝ golden brown ❞ ↳ ❝ sweet ❞ ↳ ❝ jealous knight ❞ ── includes smut ❝ ride! ❞ ── includes smut ❝ loyalty series ❞ ── love triangle + aerion targaryen ❝ dunk the filthy ❞ ── includes smut

··········• 𝐚𝐞𝐫𝐢𝐨𝐧 𝐭𝐚𝐫𝐠𝐚𝐫𝐲𝐞𝐧

❝ loyalty series ❞ ── love triangle + ser duncan the tall ❝ she's my wife ❞

··········• 𝐦𝐚𝐞𝐤𝐚𝐫 𝐭𝐚𝐫𝐠𝐚𝐫𝐲𝐞𝐧

❝ convicing him into having another baby... ❞ ── includes smut ❝ our wife ❞ ── throuple + baelor

··········• 𝐨𝐭𝐡𝐞𝐫 𝐜𝐡𝐚𝐫𝐚𝐜𝐭𝐞𝐫𝐬!

❝ take my pain away ❞ ── daeron targaryen ─ includes smut ❝ not the realm's, but mine ❞ ── valarr targaryen ❝ she's my wife ❞ ── lyonel baratheon

― 𝐀𝐃𝐑𝐈𝐀𝐍 𝐂𝐇𝐀𝐒𝐄.

❝ freak ❞ - - - includes smut ❝ i'm not in love ❞ ❝ both sides of the moon ❞ - - - includes smut ❝ acts of service ❞

― 𝐁𝐎𝐁 𝐑𝐄𝐘𝐍𝐎𝐋𝐃𝐒.

❝ the good side ❞ ❝ heavenly ❞ - - - includes smut

― 𝐒𝐓𝐄𝐕𝐄 𝐇𝐀𝐑𝐑𝐈𝐍𝐆𝐓𝐎𝐍.

❝ time after time ❞ ↳ ❝ sweetener ❞ - - - includes smut ❝ jealous type ❞ - - - includes smut ❝ need to know ❞ - - - includes smut ❝ head over heels ❞ - - - includes smut ❝ little piece of heaven ❞

― 𝐌𝐈𝐋𝐄𝐒 𝐐𝐔𝐀𝐑𝐈𝐓𝐂𝐇.

❝ dangerous woman ❞ - - - includes smut

―𝐒𝐐𝐔𝐈𝐃 𝐆𝐀𝐌𝐄.

❝ old money ❞ ── hwang in-ho/young-il/player 001 - - includes smut ↳ ❝ money, power, glory ❞ - - - includes smut ❝ the look of love ❞ ── kang dae-ho/player 388 - - includes smut

cosmictheo © 2023 ─ 2026. any reproduction, translation, adaptation, distribution, or use without prior written consent from the author is strictly prohibited.

He also believes that you don't really do it on purpose, and that you are as pure and innocent as he is. But now that the old man is gone, you seem to have only gotten much worse.

Duncan can't help but glance at you when you're bathing in some lake, pretending to be mending a tear in some old piece of clothing or sharpening the blade of his sword. His eyes flick towards you every time he overhears a little splash, just like clockwork, followed by a sharp gulp.

The sound of water lapping against the rocks is the only thing that breaks the stillness of the forest. You’ve wandered just a few yards from camp, far enough to enjoy some privacy, but close enough to feel Dunk's protective presence.

You slide into the natural pool, gasping as the cold water embraces your bare body.

On the other side of the bushes, you hear the rhythmic “shhh-shhh” of the whetstone rubbing against the steel. Dunk is there, sitting on a fallen log, pretending to be deeply focused on his sword.

But you know that’s not really what’s going on.

From the surface of the water, you can see him through the branches. His jaw is clenched and his ears are tinged with a betraying shade of red.

Every time you emerge from the water and the sound of splashing reaches his ears, his shoulders tense. His pretty blue eyes, once brimming with a childlike sweetness, now scan for you on pure gut instinct, at odds with the decency that Ser Arlan so fiercely drummed into him.

“Dunk,” you call out gently, your voice drifting above the mist.

He flinches so violently that he almost lets the sword fall out of his hand. He clears his throat noisily, staring at some ants at his feet.

“Y–yes? Is something wrong? Is it—is it too cold?” he asks breathlessly, without turning his head even a fraction of an inch.

“It’s perfect,” you reply, emerging from the water with exaggerated leisure. You know he can hear the water dripping steadily down your body. “But I could use that old cloak you were mending. I left mine by the fire.”

You hear him getting up. His steps are heavy, purposeful, but when he reaches the edge of the thicket, he stops dead in his tracks.

“Here... here it is,” he tells you, blindly stretching out his arm through the leaves, offering you the fabric.

You step closer to the edge and, instead of taking the cloak right away, you brush his fingers with yours. You feel the heat radiating from his skin, the rush of blood in his big hand. Dunk lets out a quiet gasp, and for a second, his self-control weakens. His eyes drift away, meeting yours.

“I–I’m sorry,” he quickly apologizes, covering his eyes with his hands to force himself to respect your boundaries. “So sorry”

That makes you smirk playfully, pulling the cloak up around your damp body. “It's nothing you haven't seen before, Duncan.”

You tell him that often. And every time, he is reduced to a blushing, stammering mess.

Sometimes, when he comes back from shopping at a nearby grocery market or roadside merchant, he is almost knocked off his feet when he finds you down on the grass, on all fours to look through the thick bushes for those berries you like so much.

But could they really be found so low to the ground?

His wide eyes are moving on their own before he can even think to try to control them, gliding over your hair, the stretch of your back, and then slowing down as they trace the curve of your bum, that looks absurdly more defined in that skirt.

With a little push you make forward, the fabric slides up a bit more, revealing more of the skin on your legs for his eyes only.

Your hips have widened, the shape of your waist is exquisitely defined, and your exposed skin seems to glow in the light of the spring sunshine.

Dunk feels his mouth go dry instantly and he just stands there, holding the handbag in one hand, his grip gradually loosening as the moment ticks by.

His dilated eyes roam the contour of your hips with an intensity that overwhelms him, a surge of arousal that makes him feel lightheaded with longing.

“Dunk?” you call out as you stretch a little further to reach a particularly red berry, without actually turning around. “Is that you?”

Of course you know it’s him and that he’s there; you’ve heard him approaching ever since he stepped into the woods. But you do like to have a bit of fun, to tease him.

Duncan is frozen in place, the sack of groceries hanging from his fingers as if it weighed a ton. The sound of his own breathing seems loud in the silence of the clearing.

He tries to articulate a response, but his throat feels as if he has been swallowing desert sand.

“Y–yes... it’s me,” he finally manages to squeak out.

He watches with a face bright red as you stretch again, how the fabric of your skirt is pulled tight against your curves and how the sunlight reflects off the softness of your skin.

It is an exquisite form of torture.

“Did you bring what I asked for?” you inquire innocently, arching your back just slightly enough that the motion is impossible to overlook.

“A–aye. I brought... apples. And some—cheese,” he swallows hard, muffling his wheezing voice and blinking sharply to try to snap himself out of the daze. “M’lady... you should—I mean, you could prick yourself on the thorns. It’s not safe to be like that... anyone could...”

You laugh softly, a vibrating sound that sends a chill down Dunk's spine.

“Anyone could...?” you repeat, feigning concern as you finally lean back up, slower than necessary. You turn just enough so that he can see your smile over your shoulder. “There’s no one here but you, Dunk.”

Duncan, just as you are turning your head toward him, forces himself to look everywhere but at you: at the trees, the sky, birds dancing and chirping in the branches above.

“You shouldn't tease like that,” he mumbles, his voice tense. “It's not… appropriate.”

“Appropriate?” you echo, rising to your feet at last, a berry crunching between your teeth.

You take a step toward him, then another.

Dunk recoils instinctively, stepping back from you as if you were a flame that could burn him if he got too close.

“You know what I mean,” he chokes. “You shouldn’t… move like that.”

You look down at your own body, pretending to examine yourself with utter confusion.

“Move how?” you ask, tilting your head innocently, biting your lower lip that’s still stained with the berries’ red juice. “I was just looking for berries.”

“You... you know how,” he manages to croak out at an unusually husky tone, his blue eyes blinking rapidly back down at you. “Like a... like a cat. Or like something from the songs that lures knights into the swamps to drown them.”

“I'm not a fairy tale witch, Duncan. I'm just a woman,” you reply quietly, drawing closer to him to be within arm's reach. Then you hold out your hand, offering him a single perfectly ripe berry. “And you're not a knight yet, are you? You're just a man.”

Dunk leisurely lowers his gaze to your outstretched hand, following the extent of your arm down to the berry, only to return to your eyes, entranced by the hypnotic magnetism of them.

His imposing physique recoils under the overwhelming weight of your attentive gaze and the sweet, alluring glint in your eyes—a gaze that entices him closer. Despite his massive body, Dunk is nothing more than a timid little mouse in your presence.

“Ser Arlan isn't here anymore, Dunk. What are you so afraid of?” You continue speaking so sweetly, attempting to coax him, using a voice as velvety as silk. You press the berry against his lower lip. “Eat now. You've been walking in the sun all morning. You must be hungry.”

Hungry, he certainly is. Just not exactly starved for some woodland berries.

Dunk doesn't take the berry with his hand, instead his lips fall open instinctively as he tilts his head closer to your hand. As his mouth closes over the little fruit in your palm, his tongue brushes against your skin—a flutter of accidental touch that sets off a ripple of heat through your body.

But you realize it was no accident when you catch sight of the way he's looking down at you now, licking the berry juice from his lips and humming in appreciation, reveling in the lingering taste of your skin on the tip of his tongue.

“Mhm, really good,” he drawls, lifting his eyebrows and nodding in approval.

That's the first time Duncan has ever gone along with one of your little flirtations, but that's all it is, nothing more. He doesn't tease you back, he doesn't ask you to give him another berry, he doesn't even bother to glance at you as he shuffles past you, practically stumbling back to camp.

It is a modest victory, but the fact that he has dared to touch your hand with his tongue is a sign that Ser Arlan's lessons are losing the battle against his own natural instincts.

The days go by and that little spark seems to have been extinguished. Dunk has put his walls back up, higher and stronger than ever.

Every time you try to brush his arm as you walk side by side, he finds an excuse to adjust Thunder's load. If you smile sweetly at him during breakfast, he suddenly focuses on a non-existent stain on his coat. It's like trying to melt a mountain with a firefly; completely hopeless.

You reach an inn on your way south, somewhere along the way. The place is crowded, filled with smoke and the acrid smell of cheap ale. Dunk sits in a corner, his gaze low as he drinks, carrying out his role as silent and boring guardian.

Tired of bumping into his armor of politeness, you decide you've had enough.

You get up and head to the bar and it takes less than a moment to catch the eye of a burly-looking mercenary with a scar on his cheek and an easy laugh. You lean against the counter, letting your shoulder brush against his, and let out a laugh that echoes above the din of the tavern.

“And you say you're traveling alone with that giant?” asks the mercenary, eyeing you up and down.

“He's been my friend for as long as I can remember,” you answer lightheartedly, making sure Dunk hears you, because of course he's listening and observing everything you do. “But he's a very... reserved man. I've almost forgotten what an interesting conversation is.”

The man bursts out laughing and tilts his head toward you, his face just inches from yours. Offering you a sip from his own mug, you lean in and accept, drinking slowly and staring at him with an intensity you've reserved exclusively for Dunk, until now.

The creaking of wood makes you flinch.

Out of the corner of your eye, you see Dunk spring to his feet, knocking his chair backward with a heavy thud.

He is standing behind you, his huge frame casting a shadow over your own. The mercenary glances up, turning pale at the sight of the tall figure menacingly looming in front of him.

“No more drinks,” Dunk growls. His voice is a low rumble, carrying a possessiveness you have never heard in it before.

“Hey, easy there, big guy, we were just…” the mercenary begins.

Dunk doesn’t let him finish.

He puts a hand on your waist and forces you to spin around to his side.

“We're leaving. Now,” he orders, looking you straight in the eye.

His jaw is clenched so tightly that his teeth look like they're about to burst. His pupils are dilated, and for the first time, there is no trace of Ser Arlan in his gaze. There is only a jealous man who has reached his limit.

He doesn't even give you a moment to say goodbye to your new friend; Duncan is already dragging you out of the tavern with him.

The cold night air hits your face as soon as Dunk pushes open the tavern doors, but the heat emanating from his hand around your waist is all it takes to keep you burning.

“Let go of me, Duncan!” you exclaim, but there’s a hint of triumph in your voice that you can’t quite hide. You break free from his grip with a sudden movement and turn to face him, crossing your arms over your chest. “What’s wrong with you? I was having a pleasant conversation for the first time in weeks.”

Dunk comes to a sharp halt and turns toward you, his blue eyes glowing with anger in the darkness of the night.

“That conversation was not pleasant,” he snarls. “That man was looking at you as if you were a piece of meat at a banquet!”

“You don’t look at me, Dunk!” you fire back, waving your hands in exasperation. “You don't talk to me unless it's to tell me the road is long or the porridge is ready. If you don't want to appreciate what's right in front of you, don't complain when someone else decides to.”

“Seven fuck—you did it on purpose,” he gasps accusingly, his voice descending to a dangerously low murmur. “You knew I was watching. You knew I was going out of my mind sitting there while that fool was touching you—you're—fucking infuriating”

“Infuriating?” you repeat, breaking into a short, bitter laugh, feeling offended, and taking a step toward him until your shoes touch his leather boots. “What’s infuriating is having to seduce half the realm just to get you to stop looking at your own bloody hands and look at me instead!”

He keeps staring at you, catching his breath.

“I don't even know why you're whining so much. After all...” you make a dramatic pause, looking him up and down with a slow, disillusioned gaze, “it's not like you’re actually going to do anything about it.”

You turn around with an graceful sway of your hips and make your way back to your camp, concealed in the woods, and don't look back.

Dunk arrives long after you, shifting like a clumsy shadow through the trees. You hear him collapse onto his bedroll across the dying fire, letting out heavy sighs that betray how far sleep is from his grasp.

You smile to yourself, tucked away in your little tent, relishing the chaos you’ve sown in his mind.

The next morning, the sun is just beginning to filter through the leaves when you decide you’re ready to step outside. You expect to find him getting ready for the road, maybe still grumpy or avoiding your gaze as usual.

But what you see takes your breath away.

Dunk is standing with his back to your tent, shirtless.

The fresh dawn breeze brushes against his sun-tanned skin, and his shoulders, broad and powerful, flex and relax rhythmically. He is chopping wood with a small axe, each blow sharp and forceful, causing the muscles in his back to ripple in the golden light. Sweat makes his skin glow, accentuating every scar and line of his muscular, massive build.

You are frozen in the opening of the tent, just standing there watching him.

All of a sudden, he ceases his work, sticks the axe into the log, and slowly turns around. He doesn't seem surprised to see you; on the contrary, there is a fresh spark in his blue eyes, a look you haven't seen in him before—confidence.

“Good morrow,” he tells you. His voice is so deep, filling the clearing. He’s not in a hurry to get clothes on. Instead, he runs a hand through his messy hair and gives you one of those lazy, longing glances you usually give him. “You slept a lot. I thought maybe we should stay another day here, y’know?”

You linger there, your hand still gripping the fabric of the tent, suddenly feeling very small in front of his towering nude figure.

“Did the cat get your tongue?” he teases with a raised eyebrow, wiping sweat from his forehead with the back of his hand, a motion that causes his biceps and pecs to flex in a very appealing way—one that makes your mouth water and your stomach flutter.

The tables have turned so fast you can practically feel the whiplash. Seeing Dunk like this—exposed, sweat-slicked, and radiating a sudden, quiet authority—is almost too much to handle.

You try to summon that playful, teasing voice that usually leaves him stammering, but your throat feels so tight.

“I... I was just going to the river to bathe,” you manage to say, your voice a little higher than you intended. You wrap your arms around yourself, trying to look unimpressed despite the way your eyes keep betraying you, darting down to the hard lines of his stomach. “Since you’re so busy playing lumberjack, I figured I'd give you some space.”

Dunk huffs out a quiet laugh, low in his chest.

“Space?” he repeats, almost amused. “You’ve never cared much about giving me that before.”

You shift your weight from one foot to the other under that look of his.

It’s irritating.

And unsettling.

And strangely... thrilling.

“Well,” you say, lifting your chin a little, trying to recover your composure, “maybe I’ve grown considerate overnight.”

“Mm,” Dunk nods slowly, though his expression says he doesn’t believe a word of it.

A breeze moves through the clearing, stirring the leaves and lifting a strand of your hair across your face. Dunk’s eyes follow the motion absentmindedly before drifting lower again—down your neck, the loose collar of your chemise, the bare curve of your shoulder and then, your breasts.

You feel it.

Seven hells, you feel it.

You cross your arms tighter, pretending it’s because of the morning chill and that you're not as lustful as a cat in heat, and that your nipples have stood erect ever since you saw the broad expanse of his back.

“Don’t stop working on my account,” you mutter. “I wouldn’t want to distract you.”

That earns a crooked smile from him.

“River’s that way, my lady,” he says, nodding past the trees. “If you’re bathing.”

You hesitate, because now that sounds like a challenge.

“Oh, I know where it is,” you reply lightly.

Silence stretches between you, birds chatter somewhere in the canopy above, and the fire crackles faintly behind him.

Then Dunk says, casually:

“You’re not going?”

You narrow your eyes. “I said I was.”

“...but?”

Your cheeks warm, and you hate that he’s noticed.

“I was waiting for you to turn around,” you shoot back. “Some of us like our privacy.”

“You?” Dunk huffs, incredulous. “Privacy?”

You glare at him. “Yes, Duncan. Privacy.”

He lifts both hands in mock surrender, though the grin on his face lingers. “Alright, m’lady. I’ll be a perfect gentleman for you, then.”

Then he makes a small, exaggerated show of turning around, presenting you with the broad expanse of his back again.

You slide the chemise down one shoulder.

Then the other.

The morning air kisses your bare skin, cool and bright beneath the rising sun. You step out of the garment and let it fall into the grass behind you.

Dunk exhales sharply and you smile to yourself.

“Thought you weren’t looking,” you say sweetly.

“I’m not,” he answers quickly.

The lie sits awkwardly in his voice.

You let out a soft, amused hum and continue down the narrow path toward the river, the morning grass cool beneath your bare feet. The trees thin as you approach the water, sunlight breaking through the leaves in bright golden patches.

You glance over your shoulder just in time to see him stepping through the trees after you, large and unhurried, his expression no longer shy or flustered but stubbornly resolved.

The river glimmers ahead, cool and clear as it winds between mossy stones. You step down into the shallows, the cold water climbing slowly up your ankles, your calves, your knees.

It makes you gasp softly.

Behind you, Duncan reaches down to pull off his boots, dropping them onto the grass with a dull thud. Then his belt follows, the leather sliding free with a soft creak.

Your mouth opens slightly.

“Dunk—”

“You said it yourself,” he interrupts calmly, stepping closer to the water. “No one’s here but me.”

The water reaches his ankles, then his knees.

You can hear him exhale sharply at the coldness as he wades deeper.

His mouth tilts faintly, you can hear it in his voice.

“What’s the matter?” he asks, voice rumbling with quiet amusement. “You’ve been walking around me like a flame for weeks. Now you look nervous.”

You swallow, still with your back turned to him. “I’m not nervous.”

The words come out a little too fast.

Behind you, the river shifts softly around Dunk as he moves closer, the current curling around his legs. You can feel him there even without turning—his presence big and warm and just impossible to ignore.

For the first time in weeks, it isn’t him struggling to breathe.

It’s you.

“Mm,” he hums quietly, unconvinced.

You bend slightly, scooping a handful of cold water and letting it run over your arms, pretending to focus on the chill biting at your skin. The river only reaches your shoulders here, the surface rippling lazily in the morning light.

“Then why won’t you turn around?” he asks casually.

You swallow. “Because I’m bathing.”

“And I’m not?” he asks back.

You hear the faint splash as he dips his hands into the river, the sound of water sliding over skin. Your imagination, traitorous thing that it is, supplies the rest.

You force your tone to stay light. “You’ve bathed before without staring at me.”

“That was before,” Dunk says.

You finally glance back over your shoulder.

Big mistake.

He’s closer than you expected—standing waist-deep in the river, water streaming slowly down his chest and shoulders. His hair is damp where he’s splashed it, darker now, and his blue eyes are fixed on you with an intensity that makes your stomach flip.

Your heart stumbles.

“Well?” you say, forcing a teasing smile. “Enjoying the view?”

Dunk exhales through his nose, something between a laugh and a sigh.

“You’ve been asking that question for weeks,” he murmurs.

“And?” you challenge softly.

For a moment he doesn’t answer.

His gaze drifts—over your shoulder, your collarbone, the curve of your neck where droplets of water slide slowly down your skin.

Then his eyes come back to yours.

“Yes,” he says simply. “I am”

“Well,” you manage, trying to recover your playful tone, “that wasn’t very difficult to admit, was it?”

“You have no idea how difficult it was.” Dunk huffs quietly.

You tilt your head. “Oh, I think I do—”

Suddenly cold water splashes against your side.

You gasp, jumping slightly.

“Dunk!”

He’s grinning now, wide and unguarded in a way you’ve rarely seen.

“You were getting too comfortable again,” he chuckles.

“Oh, is that so?” Your eyes narrow.

You scoop up water and fling it back at him and the splash hits his shoulder and chest, droplets flying everywhere.

Water pushes against his broad hips as he moves, sending small waves rolling toward you. His grin hasn’t faded; if anything, it’s grown softer, warmer, like he’s finally letting himself enjoy the moment instead of fighting it.

“You’re smiling,” you note suspiciously.

“Aye,” he says.

“That usually means trouble.”

“Only for you.”

You splash him again in retaliation, but this time he’s close enough that it barely slows him.

Now the river barely moves between you. His chest rises and falls slowly, droplets of water sliding down the planes of his shoulders.

You suddenly become very aware of how tall he is, how close. How warm the air feels between your bodies despite the cold river.

“You really thought I wasn’t going to do anything?” he asks.

Your heart beats faster.

“Well…” you murmur, trying to hold your ground, “you usually don’t.”

“You’re impossible,” he breathes out.

“And you're annoyingly boring,” you retort playfully.

“Gods help me,” he murmurs.

Then his hand lifts.

Big, rough fingers brushing lightly against your jaw, almost hesitant for half a heartbeat and he studies your face like he’s giving you one last chance to pull away.

You don’t.

Your lips part slightly.

That seems to be all the answer he needs.

Dunk exhales a trembling sigh, and finally, he leans down.

When he kisses you, it isn’t hesitant the way everything else about him has been. It’s warm and certain.

The kind of kiss that feels like something long overdue finally happening.

Your fingers curl instinctively against his chest, water shifting around you both as you lean into him, relishing in his taste, in his lips.

Dunk groans against your lips and his big hands explore your body with a wild desperation, one tangling in your wet hair, gently pulling to tilt your head, while the other slides down your wet back until it cups your bum with a firmness that makes you breathe out a muffled gasp.

“Tell me t–to stop,” he pants in between hot kisses, his warm breath clashing with the icy water that laps at your lower body. “Tell me to stop, my love, and I—I will.”

“Don't—don't stop. Take me, Dunk, oh please, just fuck me,” you cry out, clinging to his neck with your arms and pressing your bare breasts against his firm chest.

Dunk doesn't need to be told twice. He lifts you with astonishing ease, forcing you to wrap your legs around his waist. He holds you with one arm under your thighs, as if you weigh nothing, as his other hand roams your body, exploring every curve he had previously only dared to sneak a peek at. His rough fingers brush your waist, bringing a sigh from you that he devours with another kiss, one that is wilder and hungrier.

You feel his hard, demanding manhood pressing up against you through the water. Dunk buries his face in the crook of your neck, kissing and nibbling you so hard you arch your back.

“Not here,” he hisses, his voice cracking with excitement. “The water’s too fucking cold.”

Still holding you, he emerges from the river with heavy, steady steps. Water drips from your bodies as he carries you toward the shore, and he stop at the grass and carefully sets you down on it.

As he takes his place above you, he covers your body with sweet kisses, lingering for a few precious moments to worship your breasts.

“Seven hells,” he groans, his body trembling with arousal as he watches your eyes roll back and your back arch for him. “You’re so beautiful, I’ve spent so many nights dreaming of this, you have no idea—fuck.”

He just won't stop talking sweet praises to your body as he covers it with kisses, sucks, and nibbles.

“So beautiful, so delicious, all for me, hm? You’re a dream. My dream.”

When his fingers reach your sex, already drenched by more than just the river water—and wetter than it at this point—you squeal out a little yelp that is lost in the forest and has him breathing heavily.

Dunk takes his time, savoring all of your reactions, tracing slow, purposeful circles that have you begging for more, arching your back off the grass.

“Did you just say something about me being boring?” he teases, his blue eyes burning with a new and dangerous self-confidence as he reaches down to kiss one of your knees, making himself a place in between them.

“Shut up and just get in already,” you whine out, one of your feet impatiently tapping against his backside to make him hurry up. “I’ve been ready for you for months, Duncan.”

You settle yourself more comfortably on the grass, drawing him closer to you with your legs wrapped around his hips. As he finally aligns himself with your pulsating, eager cunt, you feel him hesitate for a moment, awkwardly searching for the right angle in a way that is incredibly endearing, before he manages to find his entry into you.

He stays still for a moment, just as the head of his cock is stretching out into your wet folds, merely feeling your warmth, how you hold him tight and wrap around him from inside. It's a moment of pure lack of experience, where he doesn't know whether to move, how hard to push, or how to even breathe.

You help him, gently rolling your hips, urging him to thrust deeper, and Dunk stutters out a whimper, beginning to move on your lead.

His thrusts are gentle, tentative at first, and he watches your face closely, afraid you will show any sign of displeasure or disapproval. Every time you make a sound, he pauses for a moment, kisses you with an overwhelming tenderness, and then continues, growing more confident as he goes.

“Like this?” he shudders, as he leans down over you, his hips delivering a particularly deep thrust that knocks the life out of you. “Do y–you like it like t–this, m’lady?”

“Y–yes, Dunk, just like that, deeper... don’t stop,” you tell him, digging your nails into his broad shoulders, feeling his muscles tense under your grip. “You’re doing so well, so big...”

Encouraged by your sweet praises, he picks up the pace, and even though his movements are a bit uncoordinated, there's an earnestness in his passion that trumps any expert lover.

His big hands reach down to support your hips firmly, holding you, as he learns along the way how to give you the maximum amount of pleasure. He's clumsy, he's intense, and he's absolutely perfect.

“Dunk, don't—don't stop, keep going, p–please,” you whimper, and he obediently thrusts again with the determination to bring you over the edge.

The finish comes really fast, an overload of sensations where he, unable to hold it in any longer, loses himself in the rhythm, crying out your name like it's a prayer. Your body is still shaking, and every time you shut your eyes tight, you keep seeing him, sparkling like stars in a night sky.

His cock goes all the way into your womb, painting your gummy, fluttering walls with his color and filling you up to the brim, seed gushing out of your clenched cunt and oozing down your inner thighs.

Duncan collapses on top of you, seeking solace in your embrace, burying his face in your neck as his breathing gradually steadies, still whimpering incoherent words and crying out your name with a broken voice.

He is still deep inside you, throbbing and still spurting drops of seed, but he hurries to prop his elbows on either side of your head so as not to crush you with his nearly seven-foot height.

His fingers, still intertwined with yours on the grass, tremble slightly.

“Are you... are you okay?” he eventually asks in a croaky whisper, with such genuine concern that it almost makes you laugh. “Did I hurt you? It’s just... seven hells, I’ve never... I just didn't know how to make it last longer. I was too... I couldn't think about anything else but you”

“It was perfect, Duncan,” you soothe him, raising a hand to caress his damp cheek. “You're perfect”

He releases a sigh of relief that seems to come from deep within his lungs and leans his forehead against yours, closing his eyes.

“I was afraid of being... I don't know, too rough. Or too clumsy,” he admits with a sheepish smile.

He squirms a little, still feeling the intimate connection between your bodies, and a new rush of heat begins to climb up his neck. He looks so adorably clueless in the afterglow, not quite sure whether to stay like this or find something to cover you with.

“Do you think the gods will be angry?” he abruptly asks, rising enough to look down at you as if the closest thing to a god around there, is you. “For being a knight and... well, this.”

You giggle softly and pull him by the neck to give him a quick, sweet kiss on the lips.

“I think the gods have more important things to do than spy on a woman and her man in the middle of the woods, Dunk.”

When you speak in such possessive terms, he blushes once again, his smile quivering bashfully before he leans his head in closer to you and kisses your lips lovingly.

You stand where the eye does not reach.

Traitor, disloyal, unworthy. Usurper.

You had grown up hearing such words spoken about your family, in particular your father.

Blackfyre.

The name still hangs heavier than any crown ever could.

Since the downfall of the rebellion, you were forced to renounce your family name and pledge your allegiance to House Targaryen in front of King Daeron II, your uncle by blood. He had spared you, after all. Spared you and bound you to his heir so your father’s blood might never rise against the throne again.

Your father's demise, you believed, would somehow liberate you. It seemed like the perfect reason to seek forgiveness for his misdeeds and to distance yourself from the stain of your lineage, the burden of your name, and most significantly, the sins of your father.

But, on the contrary, for some reason, your life had deteriorated even further since the death of Daemon Blackfyre. The end of the rebellion had been sealed by arranging your marriage union with Prince Baelor.

To keep your remnant family from banishment to distant lands, your own hand had been the price.

The chariot comes to a halt in the courtyard, and for a long moment you do not move, hearing the herald announce your arrival, pronouncing your name.

From House Targaryen, he says. And the words rings so foreign to you that you scarcely realize he is referring to you.

Every time you hear that family name attached to your person, you are reminded that you are a traitor to the ghosts of your fallen brothers. Your father's shadow hangs heavy over you, black wings swarming around, crushing you under the weight of his own doom.

“They’re waiting, my Lady,” your attendant whispers softly.

Of course they are.

The crimson dress you have been forced to wear weighs like scale armor, a taunting reminder of the blood that flows through your veins.

“The Black Dragon’s daughter,” someone sneers from your right. “How dare she wears red?”

The ceremony goes by like a fever dream. The Septon recites sacred words about the union of two bloodlines, about peace and forgiveness, but to you they are nothing but empty words.

You feel Baelor's hand seeking yours to seal the pact; his touch is firm, yet surprisingly gentle. He does not squeeze, he does not claim, he only waits.

When your hands meet, a shiver runs through you, but you keep your eyes downcast on the embroidery of your own skirt.

You kneel when instructed and rise when told and you don't speak a single word to each other. The silence between you is an ocean deep and teeming with ghosts. Neither of you tries to pry the other into conversation, nor do you seek each other's gaze intrusively in the midst of the nobles cheering for a truce born of your own sacrifice.

“In the sight of gods and men, I hereby proclaim you husband and wife.”

The king inclines his head once in approval.

The Court claps even louder, sealing the union and sealing away the sorrow of the past behind it.

An hour later, the banquet degenerates into a torture of fake laughter and hypocritical toasts.

The mood becomes unbreathable, claustrophobic. Every time someone steps forward to congratulate the “Crown Prince and his new wife,” all you want to do is hurl insults and screams.

The Crown Prince.

Baelor... you had only heard of him. The image you had created in your mind is nothing like what he actually is. He has a dignified and charming presence, dark hair, and a pair of exceptionally gentle eyes that, when they're brave enough, fall upon you by his side, occasionally glancing sideways at you to ensure that you are physically still there.

He carries himself with quiet dignity, yes—but not cruelty.

Cruelty would have been easier, cruelty you understand.

The atmosphere in the Great Hall hangs heavy, with echoes of bitter memories flooding back, the sound of whispers of your name and the sting of venomous glances.

So many eyes.

Curious. Suspicious. Appraising.

As Lords Bracken and Peake surround Baelor to discuss matters of the Realm, you begin to feel truly suffocated.

Not thinking twice, you seize the opportunity. Your fingers dig into the fine satin of your dress, you lift your skirt just enough, and your feet fly over the floor.

You pass through the limestone archway, and instantly the clamour of political intrigue and your own marriage fades away, to be replaced by the rustle of the wind in the myrtle bushes and the sweet scent of summer roses. The Royal Garden feels like it did when you were but a child—comforting.

You freeze near a young oak tree, leaning your back against the trunk and focusing on steadying your erratic breathing. Your eyes begin a panicked, unconscious sweep of your surroundings, searching for an exit, a fence to climb over, a way to slip away.

Your lungs burn and your heart thumps in your ears as you stray from the main path and venture into the undergrowth until you come up against a fence of bushes, so tall and thick that it hides any view of the outside world.

Your fingers dig into the branches, looking for a place to hold on as you look up at the height of the massive shrubs, made to be unclimbable.

You quietly curse the weight of your gown and the tightness of your corset. You're figuring out how much it'll cost you to climb over to the other side without breaking an ankle or without messing up your hair—

“If you try to climb up there, I'm afraid the thorns of the hidden roses will ruin your hands before you reach the top, my lady.”

You flinch violently, releasing the branches with a huff of frustration, but you don't turn around just yet; you're too furious, too humiliated for having been caught trying to sneak away like a thief in your own home. And even worse, on your wedding day.

“Well, I prefer thorns to the forked tongues of the Lords in there,” you spit venomously, still with your back turned to him and gazing up at the top of the bushy wall. “And if you’re so keen on giving advice, you could start by learning not to stalk people in gardens. Go lick some Targaryen’s boots and leave me alone. I don't need another guard watching my every move.”

A tense silence falls over the garden, and you're waiting for a reprimand, an insult, or to be grabbed by the arm and escorted back to the castle.

But what you hear is a soft, humorous sigh.

“That's fair advice,” he agrees, and you can sense a hint of a smile in his words. “Although, technically, I'm not a guard.”

You turn slowly, head held high and fire gleaming in your eyes, ready to blast anyone who dares interfere with your escape plan.

“Look, don’t meddle in what doesn’t concern you—”

But the words die in your throat when you recognize him.

Prince Baelor stands before you, his hands interlaced in front of him gracefully. He doesn’t display the stern, triumphant expression you had braced yourself for. Much less does he have the sharp, judgmental tone he should have addressed the usurper's daughter with.

Your eyes widen as you realize, with a sinking feeling in your stomach, that you have just told the future king of the Seven Kingdoms to go lick some boots.

“I don’t want to meddle, but I’m afraid,” he adds with a slight tilt of his head, in your shock-stricken silence, “that I won't be able to have my own wife run away on our first day of marriage.”

The air gets stuck in your lungs, and the defiance you felt seconds ago falls apart in a flash, leaving you with cold chills running down your spine.

There are no guards around him, no White Cloaks, only him and his gaze, one that holds no offense or disdain, but rather sympathy and lighthearted humor.

“I... Y–your Grace...” you stumble, finally releasing the branch of the bush you were still clutching as if it were a weapon. Your cheeks, previously flushed with rage, now burn with crushing embarrassment as you give him an apologetic bow. “Do forgive me.”

Baelor steps forward to lend you a hand in helping you out of the undergrowth and flowerbeds and back onto the main paved path. You accept it immediately, avoiding eye contact as he carefully guides you by his side.

“Anyone would be overwhelmed in your situation, my lady,” he comforts you with his words and his gaze. Then, an eyebrow arches on his forehead, “but I never thought marrying me would cause such distress that you’d wish to run away.”

The ground beneath your feet seems to become wobbly as you walk beside him, and the warmth of his hand on yours is a puzzling contrast to the coldness you would expect from the man who helped quell your father's rebellion.

“It’s not... it’s not marriage that distresses me, Your Grace,” you assure him under your breath, your gaze focused on the tips of your shoes peeking out from under the silk. You feel your throat tighten, but your pride, though wounded, urges you to speak. “It’s—it’s this place. The walls seem to have grown since I was a child; they feel taller, more suffocating... and more red.”

“The Red Keep has that habit, it does,” he concedes, and for the first time you hear a tinge of weariness in his voice, but then he offers you a shy smile, tilting his head to seek your gaze. “But I’ve been told this was your favorite spot. I spent much of the morning making sure the gardeners didn't trim this section so much. I thought you might prefer a bit of... wild disarray, rather than the rigidity of the court.”

“Why are you so kind to me, my Prince?” you blurt out unexpectedly, the question spilling from your lips before you can hold it back.

Baelor’s eyes soften even more when they finally lock onto yours. Standing so close, you notice that each of his eyes has a different color, neither the purplish hue that characterized the other Targaryens, nor matching the dragon’s wrathful gaze. The sun of Dorne lingers beautifully in his complexion, with a sharp bridge of his nose, delicate lips, and expressive eyes.

The intensity of his stare alone sends a tingling sensation through your stomach, and you have to force yourself to maintain eye contact.

“Just call me Baelor,” he says, shaking his head dismissively. His smile morphs into a sheepish little grin, suddenly bashful now that you’re so close to him, looking up at him like that. “And you are my wife. You are more deserving of my kindness than anyone else in all the Seven Kingdoms.”

You had spent weeks building up a shell of resentment and fear, preparing yourself for a tormentor, but Baelor... Baelor is gentleness itself.

“Baelor,” you repeat in a whisper, rolling the name around on your tongue, tasting it. It sounds strange, less intimidating, but much more intimate.

He nods, and you notice how the tension in his shoulders also subsides as he hears you speak his name.

Together, you begin to walk slowly along the stone path, away from the fence you were trying to climbed over.

“I know you didn’t choose this,” he clears his throat, breaking the silence as he comes to a stop in front of a rose bush that exudes an enchanting fragrance. “I know my name is a reminder for what you lost. And I’m sorry about that, I really am. I wish it hadn’t been this way.”

You stand still and glance at him out of the corner of your eye, twisting your head to observe the bees buzzing around the flowers. As you watch the insects get lost among the crimson petals, it occurs to you that they move with a freedom you do not possess.

“You don’t have to apologize for winning, Baelor,” you eventually state. You turn a little to face him, keeping a safe distance. “My father chose his own path. I’m just… what’s left behind. And now I’ll have to pay for his mistakes for the rest of my life.”

“You are not your father,” he says quietly. “Just as I am not my own.”

You let out a brittle laugh. “You say that now. But the court will never forget. They look at me and see rebellion. Treason. They’ll be waiting for me to stab you in the back and betray you.”

“They look at you and see what frightens them,” Baelor corrects gently. “You are living proof that war ends. That enemies can sit at the same table. That blood does not have to answer blood forever.”

He looks like he’s absurdly trying to make this work.

“You are very good at saying the right thing,” you observe.

He smiles faintly. “I rehearse them in my head. Often badly.”

That earns the smallest curve of your lips.

Silence falls again, but it is softer this time, sess suffocating, more comforting. Somewhere beyond the hedges, a fountain trickles steadily as the bees continue their lazy orbit around the roses.

“If you truly rehearse your words,” you break the silence quietly, looking up at him sheepishly, “what did you plan to tell me tonight? Once the doors to our chambers were closed and the Lords were no longer watching us?”

The afternoon sunlight accentuates the Dornish tones of his skin as well as the sincere radiance in his two-toned eyes when they look back at you.

“I had rehearsed a speech about duty and loyalty,” he admits sincerely, breathing a sigh. “About how our families need this union to heal.” Then his fine lips twist into a frown of distaste. “Now I just want to let you know that you don’t have to be my wife in the way they expect.”

You look at him in utter disbelief, your eyebrows raised. In Westeros, an unconsummated marriage is a sign of weakness, a loophole that one’s enemies absolutely relish in exploiting.

“You're a future King,” you breathe, the shock finally overriding your caution. “The succession, the optics... the court would tear you apart if they thought you couldn't—or wouldn't—claim your prize.”

The word 'prize' tastes like ash in your tongue. It’s what you’ve been called in every hushed corridor of the Red Keep since you arrived.

“I am a Prince of the Blood,” he states, “And you are a woman who has lost her home, her name, and her family. I will not add your dignity to that list of thefts.” He pauses, his gaze drifting to the scuffed toes of your shoes—the evidence of your attempted climb. “If the door is locked from the inside, the court will assume what they wish to assume. Let them whisper. They have been whispering since the Redgrass Field; a few more rumors won't break the throne.”

You offer him a warm, genuine smile. “Thank you, Baelor”

“Don’t thank me yet,” Baelor replies, his voice light. “We still have to survive the rest of the evening. And the sun is setting. If we stay out here much longer, my father will send the Kingsguard to find us, and I’d rather not explain to Ser Gwayne why my lady wife has oak bark in her hair.”

You instinctively reach up, your fingers brushing against your temple. Sure enough, a small shard of bark is tangled in a stray lock. But before you can pluck it out, Baelor’s hand is there. His touch is lightning—brief, electric, and devastatingly careful.

He removes the debris and holds it up like a trophy before letting the wind take it.

He offered you his arm and this time, you don’t hesitate. You slipped your hand into the crook of his elbow, the fine fabric of his doublet smooth beneath your fingertips.

You stand by the foot of the massive bed, your fingers nervously twisting the silk of your skirts.

“You look like you’re waiting for an executioner, wife,” Baelor points out, unbuttoning the top buttons of his doublet to breathe more easily, exhausted in the aftermath of the overwhelming experience of the ceremony.

“I expected the executioner to have a less friendly face,” you reply quietly, forcing a small smile as your fingers finally release the silk of your skirt.

Baelor places his doublet on an oak chair and runs a hand through his dark hair, undoing the perfect composure he had maintained through the entire feast. Without the layers of heavy silk and state jewels, he looks less like a legendary prince and more like just a man.

“I’m afraid the only punishment awaiting you tonight is absolute silence and a bed that's too big for one person,” he responds, gesturing gracefully toward the bed as he walks over to one of the tables and pours water into two glasses.

You bite your lip, observing how he moves around the room with peaceful confidence in your direction, offering you one of the glasses.

“Baelor... the court is not naive. Tomorrow they will search for marks, they will search for that... ‘proof’ we spoke of. If the sheets are clean, your father will know.” You shake your head gently, taking a long sip of water. “Your enemies will know. They will say that you are not man enough to claim what is yours by right.”

“Let them say what they want,” he shrugs, unconcerned. “I’d rather they question my manhood than have me question my own honor. I won’t take by force what should be a voluntary act of devotion. You are not spoils of war, even if my father sees you that way.”

After taking a long sip of water himself, he draws a small dagger from his belt, its blade glinting in the candlelight.

Without taking his eyes off yours, he presses the tip against the palm of his hand. A small trickle of red blood, as vibrant as the dress you are wearing, flows from the wound. And with an uncanny sense of calm, he walks over to the bed and presses his hand against the white linen sheets, staining them irrevocably.

“There’s your proof,” he declares, letting out a sigh. “On the morrow, the maids will see what they want to see.”

You approach him quickly, your bare feet scarcely making a sound on the rugs as you dig through a small chest nearby, where you know the maids keep basic supplies. You find a roll of clean linen bandages and a bowl of water that had been left out for nighttime washing.

“My prince, let me,” you plead, carefully taking hold of his wrist.

He seems a little surprised by your initiative, but he doesn't pull his hand away. You sit down on the edge of the bed, right next to the stain he made, and invite him to sit down beside you. With a gentleness you weren't aware you could muster, you clean the wound with fresh water.

“You didn’t have to do this,” you murmur without looking up, focused on the crimson line across his palm. “It's quite a deep wound for a simple deception.”

“A prince must be willing to bleed for his people,” Baelor reassures you calmly, observing how carefully you wrap the bandage around his hand. “And you are my people now. My family.”

Your fingers brush against his warm skin as you adjust the knot of the bandage.

“Thank you, husband,” you whisper in gratitude, your hands cradling his in a tender embrace.

Baelor does not withdraw his hand; instead, he loosely closes his fingers around yours, holding them in a gesture that seeks to offer comfort. Only for a fleeting moment, because right after that, he's already pulling away from you, putting himself on his feet.

“You don’t have to thank me,” he soothes you, smiling sheepishly. “I’ve spent my whole life learning to be a good heir, a good warrior, and a good son. But I think I’d rather learn to be a good man for you.”

Then he explains that he will be sleeping on the settee by the fireplace, assuring you that you can have the bed to yourself, but you barely hear what he is saying, for you can only sit there gazing at him in silence, observing the subtle gestures of his body, the shifting expressions on his face, and the way his eyes linger on your face.

You can only sit there, watching him as though he were a riddle you had not yet decided how to solve.

He moves about the chamber with deliberate calm, removing the last of his rings and placing them carefully upon the table.

“You needn’t look at me as if I’ve grown a second head,” he points out abruptly, and you can notice a faint flush creeping up his neck beneath your scrutiny.

“I’m trying to decide,” you hesitate, “whether you are very foolish... or very brave.”

He pauses, considering that. “I’ve been accused of both before.”

“You would truly sleep there?” you ask, glancing at the narrow settee by the hearth.

“If it grants you peace, yes.”

Peace. That’s what this is all about.

Because peace is safe, peace is distant, it means space.

And you are not entirely certain you want him so far away.

The first time you see Baelor naked, the air catches in your throat and you can sense every inch of your body tingling with thrill.

The atmosphere is electric, heavy with his scent, with longing. He has been lusting after you all through the wedding ceremony, and even worse, throughout the entire time that he has been courting you, so patiently and earnestly.

And finally, the night had come.

Baelor has helped you pull down his pants and smallclothes, and your lips fall open when his manhood springs out, so hard and dripping already, so ready for you.

Sure, the size is remarkable and appetizing to say the least, but the most arousing feature is the trail of little curls that leads to his crotch.

More specifically, the path of white curls that marks the way through his dark hair below his stomach.

Your tongue follows it religiously.

Baelor trembles and moans and grunts in response to your sweet attention, glancing down at you with hazy eyes and a face transfixed with desire and love.

“So this is where Valarr inherited his own little white streak,” you tease, a sly smile peeking out of the darkness as you snuggle closer between his opened legs.

Baelor blushes deeply, suddenly feeling like a shy young boy in love, and is relieved that his embarrassment is obscured by the shadows of the bedchamber.

Even so, his sudden self-consciousness is plain to hear in his low, trembling voice. “You—you don't like it?”

You huff warm air against the sensitive skin of his pelvis, kissing the silvery hairs once again before looking up at him through your lashes, “My Prince, I think it's one of the most beautiful and attractive things you have.”

He flutter his closed eyes, one of his hands sliding down to your hair as your tongue teased the plump tip of his cock, gasping your name under his breath.

“Which one is the most for you?”

You smile lightly at his hesitant question, understanding that the passing of the years and the absence of his former wife has left their mark on him. On his body, on his sense of self-worth. And definitely on his desire to please you, to be worthy of you.

You kiss his tip, greedily scooping up the drops of seed that trickle from his slit, and his thighs twitch beneath your hand.

“Your eyes, your voice, your hair,” you begin to recite, grabbing his cock in your hand so you could drag your tongue all over it, giving yourself extra time to kiss the spot in between his heavy, full balls before heading back up. “And definitely this now.”

Your husband chokes out a small laugh that crawls up from deep in his throat, cutting short the moment when you guide his cock into your mouth, sucking on the tip.

His hand sinks into your hair, tugging gently. “Slowly— slow. That's it. Go easy, yeah?” he pleads in his rough voice, interrupted by pants and grunts. “It's been a while...”

To his pleasant surprise, you do as he asks, taking your time to appreciate him and make him enjoy his own pleasure. Every single time your warm tongue glides over his silver-haired path, you feel a spasm course through his body.

You indulge in the salty-sweet taste of his desire on his skin, feeling his cock throbbing hard in your hand, demanding for more.

And you move up again, tracking the length of his shaft with the tip of your tongue, outlining the veins that bulge beneath the taut skin, all the way back to the white trail that adorns his lower abdomen so beautifully.

You kiss him right there, where the dark hair turns snowy white, a sign of lineage that now belongs solely to you.

“So you do like it...” Baelor teases you from up above, unable to hide the way his back arches and his fingers pull unconsciously at your hair. “Gods—”

“So beautiful,” you keep whispering sweet praises, kissing and petting him. “So pretty, Bae”

When you're finished and you're both trying to catch your breath, tangled up in the mess of bedding sprawled out on the bed, you lean towards him, gazing at him with a dazed smirk, your eyes gleaming with love in the afterglow.

“Do you think my child will have any white streaks in their hair?” you wonder, full of enthusiasm.

Baelor chuckles softly as he looks into your big, bright eyes, and then turns to face you, his hands sliding around your waist to pull you closer to him.

“If they do not,” he coaxes, thumb tracing lazy circles at your hip. “Then, we shall simply have to try again. And again. And again—”

You laugh, breathless, pressing your forehead to his chest affectionately. “Is that your only solution to everything, my love?”

“When the problem is this delightful?” he asks back, delicate lips brushing your hair. “Yes.”

Baelor rolls with you gently until you are beneath him, careful, mindful, his weight supported on his forearms so he does not crush you. And he looks down at you with those beautiful tow-toned eyes, beaming with love and deep affection.

“If the gods grant us a child,” he murmurs drowsily, arms embracing your body as he lets himself fall on top of you, his face snuggling into your chest, “they will be born of love. That much I swear.”

“Then let them have your stubbornness,” you whisper sleepily. “And your white streak.”

Dragonstone has always smelled of sea salt, smoke, and something eerily ancient. Ser Duncan hardly ever enjoys the company of a few members of the royal family, and there, at their ancestral home, he finds himself stranger than ever.

That's why Egg had spent most of the day guiding him around the surroundings rather than the interior of the castle itself, showing him the cave nest where the dragons had once lived, the cliffs from which they used to launch into flight, and the soggy coastline. Dunk would ask him again and again to go over the names and traits of everyone present, since he didn't want to confuse or offend anyone.

Inside the castle, the flames of the torches glow brightly that evening, flashing off the glossy black walls of the Great Hall as the heavy Targaryen banners dangle over the tables of the feast.

It is Prince Valarr's name day, successor to the heir, and although he would never have demanded it, the celebration has been arranged with the formality that his name would require.

You had arranged everything, naturally, from the decorations to the color scheme to food choices. You had spent an entire week organizing this, as it was the least you could do for your beloved husband.

You are seated at his right at the head of the high table. Dressed in midnight black, embroidered with silver thread reminiscent of dragon scales. Hair pulled back modestly, back held straight. Expression... stern.

Most people are chatting animatedly at the table, but not you.

You just observe, as if that were your absolute favorite way to spend your time, and just let others talk. You move your sharp eyes back and forth across the faces of those present, studying their features and gestures, listening attentively to their stories or funny anecdotes, occasionally nodding your head to confirm that you are indeed listening to the conversation.

Duncan has picked up on that. You rarely say more than is strictly necessary, and he has only seen you smile a couple of times since he first got to see you.

You are undeniably one of the most breathtakingly beautiful women he has ever seen, as well. Your face is gorgeous, your eyes—though they can be intimidating—are bewitching, you are a charmer in your own quiet, nonchalant way, and that mysterious aura that you carry around like a shadow is something he finds strangely appealing, to say the least.

Valarr, on the other hand, seems to cope with the attention with polite patience. He smiles when appropriate, appreciates every toast, and laughs sheepishly at every memory shared about his childhood. But every few minutes, his hand would reach for yours under the table for reassurance.

And you always respond when he gives you a little appreciative squeeze, aware that you must be having a particularly difficult time dealing with all the extra attention and loud noises.

“You're squeezing too hard, Val,” you warn him without looking at him.

“It is my name day, my heart,” he replies softly, intertwining his fingers with yours. “I'm allowed a little indulgence, aren't I?”

Out of the corner of your eye, you see a broad smile grow on his pretty lips when he senses you squeezing his hand back, and placing them together on your lap, caressing his fingers affectionately.

At the far end of the hall, the doors burst open.

“Valarr!” calls out Egg as the opened gates reveal him, striding toward the table with enthusiastic steps, overjoyed.

Behind him comes Ser Duncan the Tall, strolling along with clumsy steps, bowing his head respectfully in salutation to everyone present, as several of them have turned to look at the boisterous entrance.

Valarr sighs, looking at you with a warm smile. “My cousin never arrives unaccompanied by a spectacle.”

Egg stands before you two with a bright smile, his face and clothes dirtied from the journey through Dragonstone's grounds. At that, Prince Maekar looks at him with a frown of disapproval. “Happy name day, cousin! I brought you a gift.”

Duncan shifts awkwardly beside his squire, shaking his head as Valarr looks up at him, amused and curious. “I'm—I'm not the gift, m–my Prince. H–happy name day”

One of your eyebrows barely arches at the terrible way he presents himself.

“Iugh,” you huff, not amused by his silly joke.

Valarr glances at you for a moment, with a look that is both reproachful and playful, clearly amused to see you in pain, and then he turns back to the knight, bowing his head in appreciation. “Thank you, Ser. It's good to have you here.”

And as Egg rummages through the contents of his small shoulder bag and Valarr shares a humorous glance with you, Duncan seizes the moment to take a better look at you.

You. He doesn't even remember ever asking Egg about you. There are so many Targaryens that he could barely name three.

You must be a Targaryen, judging by the way you carry yourself.

You’re seated next to the prince, leaning back in your seat with an air of weariness, your gaze flicking over the faces of those who are starting to turn toward you with curiosity, and you’re clearly displeased by the attention.

Duncan is overcome by a familiar sense of dread when your terrifying eyes finally fall upon him. They are cold and menacing, making him feel as if he could be squashed to pieces by them if they could.

Oh, no. He thinks, swallowing hard. Maekar's spawn. Another one.

He truly should say nothing at all, especially when you're staring at him like that.

That has always proven the safer choice in rooms filled with dragonlords. Dunk should have learned that by now, he should know better.

And yet, he clears his throat.

“My apologies, Princess,” he begins, voice respectful but just a touch too loud for the quiet pocket of space around the high table. “I—I don't believe we've been formally introduced before. I'm Ser Duncan. I did not realize Prince Maekar had another daughter.”

Silence. Devastating silence.

His words echo around the walls and the musicians fall out of tune, reducing the music to an uncomfortable, eerie silence.

Daeron, somewhere, seems to be drowning in his own wine. And at his side, Prince Maekar closes his eyes briefly, as though praying for patience.

“What the fuck, hedge knight?” his angry voice cuts through the silence, one hand patting his eldest son on the back to help him breath again.

Egg stands motionless, his hand still in his bag, staring up at Dunk as if the knight had grown a second head, a particularly stupid one.

Valarr slowly turns his head toward you, seemingly intrigued to see your reaction to such offense.

You are frighteningly calm. Your eyes, which Dunk already found unnerving, narrow into two slits of seething indignation, looking much more offended than annoyed.

Your husband brings your entwined hands to his own lap, pulling you closer to him to reassure you. This causes Duncan to frown.

The prince chokes out a stifled laugh, doing his best to save the poor knight's life.

“Ser Duncan,” Valarr says, his voice buzzing with amusement, “I’m afraid you’re terribly mistaken.”

But Duncan isn't even listening to him, he's too focused on not letting a single muscle twitch as he stands there under your scrutinizing gaze.

“Maekar's...?” your voice is low, drawling, and fraught with the kind of venom that makes Dunk take a step back, nearly bumping into Egg. “Daughter?”

Duncan feels the ground slipping, finally noticing how quiet the room has gotten, and how everyone seems to be holding their breath, waiting for your reaction.

He must have done something wrong.

“I only meant—” he stammers, “I didn't mean to offend your father or your family—you carry yourself very much like—well—”

Your head tilts slightly, urging him to continue speaking.

“—like someone who belongs to Prince Maekar’s line,” Duncan finishes weakly, knowing now that he has said something wrong. Very wrong.

Your head remains tilted and your face is finally beginning to show emotion—discomfort. “W–what?”

Egg looks seconds away from either fainting or laughing.

Valarr squeezes your hands in his lap, thumb brushing across your knuckles in a slow, grounding stroke.

“She is not my uncle’s daughter,” he says then smoothly, rescuing the knight at last. His smile vacillates between amusement and pride, “she is my wife, Ser.”

Duncan's jaw drops.

Understanding dawns slowly upon him.

“Oh,” he breathes.

“Yes,” Egg whispers helpfully by his side.

Duncan clears his throat again, this time more cautiously. “Then… my congratulations, Your Grace. You are a fortunate man.”

“I am,” the prince agrees.

“I chose this family, Ser Duncan,” you say very cautiously. “It did not produce me.”

The knight bows his head in remorse and shame and apology, babbling out words of forgiveness incessantly.

“My deepest apologies, my lady—truly—I meant no insult—only that you possess a... a presence.”

“A presence,” you repeat flatly, definitely irritated by all his nonsense. Your eyes squint contempt, not even understanding what the man was really alluding to.

“Yes. A strong one. A royal one.” Duncan persists in trying to make amends, yet only seems to be getting worse. “Well—and you're so beautiful—just like a r–real princess, so I only assumed—”

He shuts his jaw shut when he notices Valarr's brow gradually furrowing at his choice of words.

“Careful now, Ser Duncan,” the prince says pleasantly, the warmth in his eyes dimming by a fraction.

Then, he lifts your entwined fingers, brushing his thumb along your knuckles in a steady, calming rhythm only you seem to notice.

“You must forgive Ser Duncan, my love,” Valarr says to you. “I don't think he's meant to offend you in the slightest. He has been on the cliffs all day. The sea wind muddles the mind.”

A few cautious chuckles ripple through the hall.

Egg nods vigorously. “It does! It really does.”

“You may rise, Ser,” you say at last, almost bored, gesturing dismissively with your hand. “And get out of my sight before I decide to have you thrown off the cliffs—if only to determine whether your head might function better upon the rocks below. You're disturbing my husband's day.”

He realizes only then that he has half-knelt without meaning to and scrambles to his feet so fast he nearly knocks over a goblet.

“Yes, my lady. Thank you, my lady. I will—ah—not test the rocks,” he mutters, retreating one careful step at a time.

Somewhere down the table, a snort of laughter escapes Prince Daeron before he smothers it in his sleeve.

“Mhm,” you hum, still staring at him, unamused.

Egg, traitor that he is, beams, finally placing the small gift he had brought for his favorite cousin down in front of him on the table.

As the noise swells once more, Valarr leans closer to you.

“My wife,” he says charmingly, voice pitched only for you, “you cannot threaten to execute my guests on my name day.”

“You are indulging,” you remind him, teasingly. Only for him. “So am I.”

That does it.

A quiet, helpless laugh escapes him—bright and warm and so very unlike the tense hush that had fallen moments before.

“You were magnificent,” he whispers, pressing a soft kiss on your cheek, which immediately softens your face into a warmer, more sheepish expression.

Your lips curl into a small pout as you turn to look at him, still visibly upset. “I was insulted.”

He bites his lower lip, unable to resist the urge to lean closer to you so he can kiss your little pout away. “You were magnificent while insulted.”

Your fingers loosen slightly in his grasp, and your lips twitch.

It is subtle, barely even there. But it is a smile.

“You find this amusing.”

“I find you terrifying,” he corrects, teasingly. “It is one of my greatest comforts.”

“You are impossible,” you mutter.

“And yet,” he smirks, his hand casually wrapping around your waist to bring you closer to him, “I'm your husband.”

You narrow your eyes at him. “That fact does not grant you immunity.”

“Oh? No?” he hums, far too pleased with himself. “I was under the impression I possessed certain privileges.”

“Delusion is not a privilege.”

He laughs softly at that—warm, bright, entirely unbothered by the hall still watching in poorly concealed fascination.

“You look overwhelmed, lover,” you remark after a moment, quieter now.

“I am,” he admits.

Your thumb brushes lightly against the inside of his wrist, the smallest gesture of comfort.

“Five more toasts,” you say. “Then I will invent an excuse and steal you away from all these people.”

He exhales a laugh, softer this time, and presses his forehead briefly against your temple in a gesture so intimate it nearly goes unnoticed by the rest of the hall.

Nearly.

From below, Duncan dares one more glance upward and feels deeply horrified.

Because the woman who just threatened to dash him against the rocks is now looking at Prince Valarr as though he hung the very moon above Dragonstone.

Your sharp edges soften in his closeness, the line of your shoulders relaxes, your thumb traces idle circles on his blushing cheek.

Egg nudges him with his elbow.

“Told you,” the boy whispers smugly.

Duncan shakes his head in disbelief. “She doesn’t glare at him.”

When Valarr says something low and teasing in your ear, you lean in—just slightly—and answer with a whisper that makes his ears turn pink.

The sunlight in King's Landing would seep through the library's immense arched windows, bringing in a warm golden glow that seemed to exist solely when he was in the room.

“Don't rush, sweet child,” Baelor had told you that day, his voice a soothing balm as his gentle, patient hand guided yours to correct the angle of your pen. “Stories are not to be written in haste, but with care. If you are to learn anything from me, let it be the art of listening before you pass judgment.”

Your melodramatic little sigh made him crack a smile. As the middle child, you always had to work extra hard for his attention, trapped between the high expectations held for the eldest and the freedom enjoyed by the youngest. Only ten years of age at the time, you already couldn't find your own place in the world, often wondering if you were even in the right skin—unsure of who you truly even were.

With him, however, you never felt left out, never a stranger. You belonged. Right there, by his side.

Baelor had leaned in, letting the comforting warmth he always radiated envelop you in a quiet, reassuring embrace. He peeked over your shoulder, studying the ink-smudged piece of parchment.

“I don't think I can, Father,” you whispered in resignation and dropped the pen in a fit of frustration. Nevertheless, you held back all your emotion and the urge to cry, you never did that around him, to appear brave, like your brothers. “Valarr is so perfect, Matarys is so charming. I'm just the space in between.”

Your small body shrank even further into the big chair, your toes barely scraping the floor as you swung them with disdain. “I don't think I can ever be what the Realm expects of me...”

His soft laughter rang out in the stillness of the library, carrying a sense of pride that you didn't need to strive for, as it was already yours. You were so young, yet more self-conscious than other children of your age, more perceptive and definitely more sensitive. Patience, it seemed, was not one of your strongest traits.

That's why his chuckle came across as offensive to you, because for a moment you thought he was mocking you and your clumsiness. In reality, it was just because you happened to be the sweetest and most adorable creature he had ever seen.

Realizing that you were genuinely sulking and pouting, Baelor gently spun you around toward him so that you could look straight into his eyes, those eyes that somehow always managed to peer beyond your physical self, reflecting his own soul.

“You can do anything, little one,” your father asserted with a certainty that made you stop sniffling back the tears that had betrayed your distress. “Not because the Realm expects it of you, but because you are my daughter. And you are not the ‘space in between,’ you are the balance that keeps us all together.”

He brushed a strand of silver hair from your teary face with such sweet tenderness, sealing his promise with a smile that calmed you deeply. It was a strange thing, that you had been born with hair the color of silver, most of it, for in the midst of that silver expanse grew strands of dark brown hair—a trait inherited from his side of the family, from his own mother.

“And what will happen once you’re gone?” you blurted out, with that innocent naivety that was too sophisticated for your age, too aware. “What will become of me, Father? The world is too big, and I... I only know how to be your daughter. I don’t know who I really am.”

Your father cupped your face in his hands, forcing you to hold his gaze with gentle severity.

“Listen to me carefully,” he began, his voice taking on a more solemn edge. “I will never leave you. Even if you do not see me, I will always be with you. In every decision you make, in every gesture of mercy and compassion, I will be there. You are my daughter, my sweet girl. You will never cease to be so.”

He sighed softly, kissing your forehead in a slow manner that felt like a farewell, which you did not comprehend at the time.

“You will never be alone, child. I will be there in the deepest love others give you, as well”

You frowned faintly, not understanding.

“When the right person comes, the one meant for you... your person,” he hummed. “They will love you as much as I love your mother, as much as I love you. They will see you as we do. The most beautiful girl, but also the most terribly capricious—”

Then, as if he feared he had grown too serious for a child’s heart, his fingers tickled down to your stomach, bringing forth an outburst of giggles, and he joined in the laughter, scooping you into his arms.

“And if they ever fail at that,” he declared playfully, pressing noisy kisses to your temple, “I shall haunt them most terribly.”

The pen fell forgotten on the desk, and your laughs faded into the quiet air once you left the library.

The golden glow dimmed away with his departure.

The world had turned dark and cold, making you feel like a foreigner walking through it. With the relentless thought that your father was no longer around, no longer waiting for you in the library, no longer supporting your whims, no longer there to witness your growth, your marriage, or the birth of your children… nor will you ever see him seated on the Iron Throne.

He was gone.

And guilt was gnawing at you from the inside.

If you believed you were doing the righteous thing, why did the gods seem so keen to punish you? Was this the price you were to pay for following your own heart? Is this what the Gods demanded of you?

Ashes.

All that was left of your father were ashes, drifting in the wind and swirling with the clouds above Ashford.

You looked up at the trail of his smoke as it disappeared high in the sky. It comforted you to think that he was flying away, bound by no name, no sense of duty or obligation weighing him down to earth. At last, Baelor was free.

And without Baelor, what would be left of you? What would become of you in the world, in the Realm? Where would you go? So many questions tormented your thoughts, and somehow, each new one that surfaced extinguished a little more of the small flame of hope in your heart that you would be able to return to Dragonstone with Duncan.

The idea of a future without your father's guidance loomed over you like a bottomless abyss. Who would you be now?

You were no longer the Heir's protégé, but a loose piece on a chessboard that was becoming dangerously unpredictable.

You were still there, standing in front of his pyre, even after everyone else had already left, all except Valarr, needless to say. He had stuck by your side all through the day, enduring your silent tearful outbursts, your existential queries and your rambling prayers, holding you together, just like any older brother would.

He kept his distance from you to allow you some privacy in your grief, and for that of himself as well. Sitting on a boulder, he observed from afar all that your father had left behind for you. Ashes.

Your fingers fidgeted in front of you, rolling the ring you wore on one of them, a ring that had once been his. It was only a matter of fate that it fit you perfectly.

But your anxious fidgeting stopped abruptly with the touch of a big but gentle hand laid on your shoulder, which made you flinch a little, startled, forcing you to snap out of the visions of the past you were reliving in the flames that were consuming your father's body.

Ser Duncan was at your side, leaning heavily on a cane, his face was a mess of bruises, he could barely open one eye, the other was so swollen and contorted that it was painful just to look at it. The pain you were suffering was one thing, but you couldn't imagine the pain he must be going through, in both body and soul.

You hadn't seen him since dawn. You had suggested that he should come with you to the castle, that you would provide him with your own chambers so that he could be tended to by the Maester, but to your surprise, he had refused. And you had let him go, consumed by the agony of loss.

But there he was, right back to you.

Where you both knew he ought not to be, among the very people who had put him on that path to begin with, who had made him go through so much.

Where you both knew he ought not to be, among the very people who had put him on that path to begin with, who had made him go through so much. But he felt he had the right to bid Baelor one last farewell, and, most important of all, to see you.

The story that had begun had to be finished. The old man had told him.

”Ser Duncan—”

His name was taken away by the cold breeze as the towering man forced himself to kneel before you, bowing his head in a gesture of respect that displayed more of his physical frailty than any diplomatic intent.

You glanced fleetingly at your brother, who was observing the scene from afar with keen, cautious eyes. He shrugged at your gaze.

“Forgive me, Princess,” Duncan grunted, words catching in his throat from the stinging pain in his midsection. “Please do forgive me—please take all that is left of me. I am but a man at your service. I am your man, my life is yours.”

A tearful little smile curled the corners of your lips, and your hand reached out down to him, affectionately running over his features to lift his chin, compelling him to look up at you. His eye was crystallized by big tears, set in place with the weight of so many emotions—adoration and longing above all else—once his gaze collided with yours.

“Rise,” you commanded softly, leaning toward him to help him do so, slipping an arm through his. Your voice was light and slightly humorous, complicit, “Please, Dunk. I thought we’d already gotten past formalities.”

Duncan got up carefully, supporting himself with his cane, but his other hand couldn't let go of yours, clinging to it in a desperate need to feel your warmth and solace. Home. That's what you were.

He contented himself with just looking at you carefully at in your near approach, his hand tentatively sliding up your arm, your shoulder, your neck, all the way to your face, brushing away the couple of tears from your skin.

As you melted into his gentle touch, you closed your eyes for a moment to be lost in the darkness and love of his caress.

Then you drew closer to him so you could embrace him, taking great care not to cause him pain, tucking your face into his chest, breathing in his scent and succumbing to the soothing beat of his heart.

“What is left of me is yours, Your Grace. Take it,” he pleaded in a whispered voice, caressing your hair with one of his hand. Then his strong, big arms wrapped around you, holding you close. The cane fell to the grass beside you, now forgotten, since Dunk had found a much better source of support. “Take me.”

Leaning the side of your face onto his chest, you gazed at the altar where your father's body had been laid to rest, reduced to nothing but ashes, dust, and air. Nothingness.

You backed away from his body so you could look up at Dunk's face and as you did, out of the corner of your eye, you spotted Valarr standing up and start walking back down the hill to the castle, offering you both that much needed privacy.

Duncan cupped both hands on your face, his gaze so full of devotion that it was almost breathtaking to see. It was too much.

“For that, I'll have to go with you, then,” at last, you you offered him an answer to his proposal—his plea, rather—keeping your voice low and secretive.

“With—with me?” Dunk furrowed his brow in confusion, having expected you to be taking him to Dragonstone or King's Landing and have him pledge his allegiance as your sworn guard.

But to leave with him? To run away and give up your entire life? For him? It was not even considered among the many possibilities and options he had been contemplating so earnestly all morning.

You took his hands carefully in yours, squeezing them with a desperate firmness. The ring on your finger—the one that had belonged to Baelor—pressed into his skin.

He was willing to do anything for you, to vow allegiance to whomever, as long as it kept him by your side and allowed him to see you every day. He'd be your secret lover, for sure. He'd be whatever you wanted him to be. But yours.

“Listen to me, Dunk,” you whispered carefully, wetting your chapped lips with your tongue. “My father is gone. Valarr will do his best to protect me, but even he can not stop the wheel from turning. They will marry me off to some Lord in the Reach or the North to secure the peace.”

Dunk’s expression faltered for a moment, then paused to gather his thoughts to express himself with the utmost precision. He wanted to be appropriate. To do what he considered the right thing to do. “B–but, a Lord... a Lord would provide for you.”

You shook your head gently, “I don’t want to be a princess anymore if it means losing the only person who sees me. The only person I know loves me as much as my father did.”

He promised you love in his voice and his eyes, in his touch, in his closeness. His body felt like it belonged next to yours—a sense of something so familiar, so right.

His throat worked.

“You think love is enough?”

Your gaze drifted back to the pyre, where the Silent Sisters were still working, blissfully ignorant of your conversation, their concern for the dead far greater than that for the living.

“I think love is the only thing that ever was.” Your fingers slid up to the ring again, turning it slowly. “My father taught me that duty is love made visible.”

“But what if love is also duty?” you whispered, thoughtfully.

By the time you finally looked back at Dunk, he was already staring back at you, appreciating every inch of your face in silent awe.

Love.

You smiled bashfully at that, at the sight of love in the azure of his eye. “We leave. We disappear. I would rather be a wanderer with you than some broodmare with a life of silent resentment.”

Duncan just let his eye slowly close in resignation, fully aware that you were right.

“You’d give it all up?” he asked hesitantly, his voice barely audible over the wind.

“If you are to take me, Dunk, you take all of me. Not just fragments or broken pieces—not as a illegitimate affair. You deserve all of me,” you answered firmly. A trembling sigh escaped from your lungs, certain on one thing. “And I don't belong here anymore. Never truly did.”

Duncan glanced over at Baelor for a while, chewing his lower lip in contemplation, the Silent Sisters continued their gentle, quiet work.

And finally, he turned back to you, his fingers soothingly caressing yours.

“Then we leave, my lady.” he nodded, his voice was deep and reassuring.

Not Princess.

Not Your Grace.

Just his lady. His.

To be his gave you a deep sensation of safety and tranquility. To be free.

The wind swept across the hill, carrying the last thin ribbon of smoke into the pale sky. It felt like an omen or perhaps a blessing.

His thumb brushed over the ring again, tracing the sigil engraved upon it. He knew what it all this meant. He knew what you were leaving behind. For him.

Carefully, he lifted your hand and pressed his lips into your knuckles, and you observed him do it with soft eyes.

“Soon my family will be heading back to King's Landing.” you informed quietly. “Valarr will… delay questions or suspicions.”

At the mention of your brother, something flickered in your chest.

“Will he forgive you?” Dunk asked gently.

“No,” you said honestly. “But he will understand. He has to.”

That, perhaps, was worse.

“We'll meet by the old elm tree at noon, then.”

Aerion breathed weakly, and even though he was lost in a profound slumber, his brow was heavily furrowed, still grumpy even in his state of unconsciousness.

If not for the tightness in his jaw, the faint crease between his brows, one might have mistaken him for peaceful.

But you knew better.

You had been sitting there for a while, watching his fragile state, more as a punishment than a consolation. Wondering if he would be different once he opened his eyes, if he would leave all his malice and darkness in the past.

Probably not.

“I'll send him to the Free Cities,” your uncle announced after a prolonged silence, after he too had stepped in to gaze at Aerion sleeping. “Lys. Perhaps a few years there will calm him down a bit.”

You both knew that couldn't be possible. Aerion was beyond redemption, and his father, more than anyone, must have known that even sending him to the Great Citadel to serve as a Maester would not be sufficient to soothe the rage of his broken soul.

Prince Maekar seemed distraught, paler than usual, his eyes blank and teary every time you turned to look at him, sunk in a cold shadow of grief and remorse. He had perhaps more reasons to feel guilty.

He could barely even look at you, so ashamed was he.

“He will be far from here,” Maekar continued, his voice low and husky. “And far from you. He will not trouble you again… or those you have.”

He understood that you would take Ser Duncan with you wherever you went. As a knight or as a secret lover, he could tell that Ser Duncan had devoted himself to you entirely in return for everything you had done for him, and whether you accepted him or not, Maekar would not intrude. He would leave that choice for you to take.

“I fear his absence will trouble me more,” you admitted quietly, the corners of your lips quivering.

A life without Aerion for many would be a welcome relief. But for you, it didn't feel right, it felt unnaturally wrong. Not having him right by your side during your visits to Summerhall, or whenever he traveled to Dragonstone, or the times you all gathered together in King's Landing. Those would be glimpses of a different life of yours, a past left behind.

“Yes,” Maekar hummed with wry amusement, his gaze turning back to his sleeping son, his own smile tearful as well. “I know.”

The silence was deafening, and with each labored breath Aerion drew, your heart seemed to shrink further.

Maekar was aware of the way you were looking at his son; he always had been.

“He loves you,” his statement drew your alarmed gaze back to him. “He sought my approval to ask for your hand over five separate occasions before coming here.” He cleared his throat to choke back the cry that threatened to erupt. “At the last of these, I accepted. I asked Baelor for his approval and…”

A weak, mournful laugh rumbled from his throat. You watched him attentively, always eager to hear of your father.

“And he told me he would rather be put to death than hand you over to my son,” he finally concluded, his face darkening as the recollection of reality sank in upon him again.

It took all your strength to even get the words out, the lump in your throat pressing down like a stranglehold. “I don't blame you, Uncle. I understand you'll have to live with it, but not from me. He would have done the same to protect me.”

Maekar mustered the courage to look back at you, and you caught a glimpse of his chin trembling slightly as he fought back the tears.

You reached out your hand to his trembling one in his lap, and he squeezed it back, cradling it in his palm, in need of emotional reassurance. He was always the one who contained others, so strong and tough. Now he looked like crystal about to shatter.

It was strange to see him like this. So emotionally vulnerable, so human...

Maekar gazed at your intertwined hands with a look of disbelief, as if he couldn't believe that forgiveness still existed in a world he himself had helped to destroy.

“You always were too much like him,” he muttered.

You offered a faint smile. “I hope so.”

You squeezed his hand tighter, even though your own fingers were trembling now.

Prince Maekar was just a broken brother who saw in you a reflection of the best he had just lost.

“He lives in you,” he rejoiced, smiling proud and sorrowful, his voice choked with affection.

Then he leaned toward you to press a rough, unskilled kiss on your forehead, a gesture of affection so uncharacteristic of him that it took your breath away. His lips trembled against your skin before he pulled away, and for a second, you saw a single tear roll down his cheek before he turned his face toward Aerion's sleeping form.

“That knight of yours is as stubborn as a mule. He’ll live to give me more headaches, I’m sure.” He took a deep breath, “I will have him summoned so that I may speak with him. I'll offer him a position in my service.”

You grimaced, looking up at him, “I don't think he'll accept, Uncle. He has had enough of us.”

“And refuse the chance to get to see you every day? I don’t think so.” Prince Maekar snorted, unconvinced. “Aegon has also assured me he will not be squire to anyone but Ser Duncan.”

A flicker of fondness crossed your features at that.

“Aegon is loyal,” you smiled softly. “Stubbornly so.”

“As is his knight,” Maekar replied dryly.

You studied your uncle’s face — the exhaustion carved into it, the grief he did not allow himself to voice. He had lost a brother. Nearly lost a son. And perhaps, in some quiet corner of his heart, he knew he was losing you too.

“Uncle,” you began carefully, “if Ser Duncan refuses your offer...”

Maekar’s eyes flicked toward you, perceptive as ever.

“…will you let him go?”

Your uncle was not a cruel man. Hard, yes. Unyielding, proud. But not cruel.

He just sighed, a weary, bone-deep sound. “If he refuses, I will not chain him.” A faint, dry edge touched his voice. “I am not my son.”

Relief bloomed in your chest, fragile and fleeting.

“Thank you,” you whispered.

“I will not stand in your way,” he said at last. “And neither will Aerion.”

Those words felt unreal.

You rose slowly from your seat beside Aerion’s bed. For a brief, foolish moment, you considered brushing a strand of hair from his face—a final gesture of familiarity—but you stopped yourself.

Some endings required distance.

You turned back to Maekar instead.

“Thank you,” you croaked.

He shook his head faintly. “Do not thank me, niece. If Baelor is watching, he is likely cursing us both.”

A small smile ghosted across your lips. “He always did prefer righteousness over happiness.”

“You deserve it,” he said, low and firm. “Happiness. Do not let any of us make you believe otherwise.”

As you moved toward the door, you paused one last time, glancing back at Aerion’s sleeping form and Maekar's trembling back.

“Goodbye, Uncle Maekar,” you whispered, unsure whether you meant it as farewell or an apology, maybe both.

The scent of herbs and strong dyes lingered in the air of your chambers, as a couple of your maids finished packing the most essential items into a small bag.

“Darker, please,” you requested, examining your reflection in the polished bronze mirror.

Your ladies-in-waiting, with anguished faces and in absolute silence, worked quickly. The strand of hair that had once been the distinctive silver-white of your lineage was now dyed a deep black.

You wanted to just disappear. You wanted the Princess Targaryen to die with your father, leaving only a name, a shadow.

When they finished, you felt definitely different.

You watched the door swing open through the mirror's reflection, revealing Valarr, already striding in. He looked utterly devastated, his eyes tear-swollen and his posture hunched under the weight of grief. He stopped in his tracks, studying you, and for a moment he didn't seem to recognize you with your now dark hair.

“So now you're planning to flee?” your brother reproached you, gazing at you with hurt as you rose to face him. His eyes scanned your quarters, your maids hanging down their heads in shame, caught red-handed. “You're leaving?”

“Without our father, I am no one here, Valarr,” you explained, stepping closer to him and reaching out to find his hands, but he pulled them out of reach. That stung you to the core, causing you to drop your own in a gesture of defeat. “You have your wife, you have a family of your own. You have your place in this world. You will be the Heir, if the King reaffirms it. I—I have nothing,” your voice trembled in distress, “and I'm not going to stay here to be sent off to marry some lord I'll never love. I'm not like t–that.”

Silence fell again.

Your brother just looked at your dark hair, then at the travel-worn boots peeking from beneath your skirts, and let out a laugh that sounded more like a choke. His eyes, usually so full of warmth, were now burning with resentment and sorrow.

One of your maids sniffled quietly and Valarr flicked his gaze toward them, then back to you. With a sharp motion of his hand, he dismissed them.

“Leave us.”

They obeyed at once, slipping out like shadows retreating from torchlight. The door shut with a soft, final sound.

“Nothing?” he repeated once you were both alone. “You have me. You have Matarys. You have the legacy he spent his entire life building, and you’re casting it into the dirt as if it were meaningless.”

You closed your eyes, dropping your head in despair, not daring to even look at him, making him scoff sourly.

“So this is it,” Valarr whispered, the so much bitterness in his. “That hedge knight has taken you away from me as well. He has taken you both.”

Your frown deepened, your view of him blurring through tears, “Valarr, that’s not fair—”

“Fair?” he spat. He took a trembling breath, raking his fingers back through his hair, visibly at odds with himself. “Do you think any of this is fair? Or does any of this even make sense at a–all?”

His voice broke on the last word.

You wanted to tell him that you weren't choosing Dunk over him—you were choosing to survive, to do the right thing, just as your father had taught you.

But you didn't have to say anything at all, because Valarr understood perfectly. He knew you were right—most of the time you were. If he truly wanted to see you happy, genuinely happy, he knew he had to let you go.

Slowly, you reached out, resting a hand on his trembling shoulder and he didn't pull away this time.

“I have to find out who I am, brother,” you croaked out, your voice thick with the tears you had been trying to suppress. “Away from the throne, away from the pressure of our name. If I stay, I’ll only be a ghost haunting these halls, a piece of property to be traded. I can't—I can't do that.”

He finally turned to face you, and the sight was heart–breaking. His eyes were swimming, the two–toned depths clouded with a pain so profound it made him look so fragile and childish–like.

His hand rose, hesitant, as though unsure whether he still had the right and he touched a darkened strand of your hair.

“You look so different,” he said thickly. “It does not suit you,”

A broken laugh escaped you. “That is rather the point, brother.”

“He will not keep you safe,” he swallowed with difficulty. “The world is crueler beyond these walls.”

“And it is not cruel within them?” you asked gently.

His mouth parted and then closed.

He knew. The marriages whispered about in corridors, the alliances already weighed against your womb, the letters waiting to be sent once mourning ended.

“Without you... I don’t know how I’m supposed to keep us all together.” he confessed, a single tear finally breaking free and tracing a path through his flushed cheek.

His composure finally shattered. Valarr reached out and pulled you into a fierce, desperate embrace and he held you as if he could physically keep you from fading away, his sobs muffled against your cloak.

He hugged you tight, as he used to when you were children and you hid from storms.

“You will always be my brother,” you promised, hugging him back tearfully.

After a long time, he pulled back just enough to frame your face with his hands. His thumbs brushed over your cheekbones, lingering with a tenderness that felt like a final benediction.

“If you ever find that the world is too big, or too cold, or if that big knight of yours is too much of a brute, you come home.” He looked at you with a mournful, watery smile—the kind of look someone gives a beautiful dream right before waking up. “Do you hear me? You will always have a place by my side.”

He leaned down and pressed a lingering, trembling kiss to your forehead, sealing his acceptance.

“Valarr...”

He did not look at you as he spoke this time.

“Do not thank me,” he warned. “If I look upon you once more before you leave, I may bar the doors myself.”

You nodded, unable to find the words to thank him for the mercy of his surrender. Picking up your small bag, rushing across the quarters as Valarr sat down at one of the seats at your table, pouring himself a glass of wine. At the threshold, you paused.

“Valarr,” you called out to him softly.

He did not turn. He couldn't.

“Yes?”

“You will not shame him.”

His shoulders trembled beneath your tearful gaze.

“I know,” he replied. “You won't either.”

Your feet came to a halt by some kind of gravity when you reached past the partially open door of Aerion's bedchamber. And your hand moved of its own accord, pushing the dark wood open just enough to slip inside.

The chamber was dim, heavy with the scent of herbs and pain, and death. A single candle burned low beside the bed.

And there he was.

Aerion lay exactly as you had left him earlier—on his back, silver hair spilled across the pillow, brow still furrowed, arguing with the world of unconsciousness.

For a moment, you only stood there, you had already said goodbye.

You had said it to your uncle. To your brother.

But not to him.

His breathing was steadier now, though still weak. The sharp angles of his face were softened by shadows.

Without the sneer. Without the cutting words.

Just a boy. A broken boy.

“This is foolish,” you whispered to yourself.

And yet you moved closer still.

You stood beside his bed, looking down at him.

You tried to summon anger. To remember every cruel remark, every selfish act, every moment he had forced you to be something you never were. To be his.

But all you felt was grief.

Your hand trembled as you reached out.

You hesitated only once before brushing your fingers lightly over his temple, careful not to wake him. His skin was warm beneath your touch.

His brow twitched under your gentle caress.

A sad, fragile smile touched your lips at that.

“You would hate this,” you cooed,your fingers tracing a delicate caress down the curve of his cheekbone. “You would say black makes me look like a crow.”

The words felt strange spoken aloud.

For years, distance had seemed impossible between you two. You had orbited the same rooms, the same feasts, the same summers at Summerhall. His presence had been as constant as the sun rising in the east. Something both inevitable and beyond control.

And now, silence.

You leaned down slowly and your lips brushed his forehead, just at the crease that never seemed to leave him.

The kiss was gentle, lingering and heavy. A farewell pressed into skin that might never feel your touch again.

His breathing hitched faintly beneath you.

“I forgive you,” you whispered against him, so quietly it barely existed. “You tried, in your own way. As I did.”

A tear finally escaped you, falling into his hairline before you could stop it.

You brushed your thumb once more over his brow, smoothing out the wrinkled skin between his eyebrows. “I hope Lys is kinder to you than we were, cousin.”

His breathing slowed down and softened.

At first, you thought it was only the shifting of sleep.

Then—

Your name.

You straightened before your resolve could fracture completely and forced your feet to move.

At the door, you hesitated only once, but still, you stepped into the corridor.

The door began to close.

And just before it sealed shut, violet eyes opened slowly.

He had heard it, all of it. He had felt your gentle touch, your lips softly whispering his name as if it was yours to claim. So it was, it was yours to pronounce, to love, and to hold.

Even if you were halfway across the world, even if you were in another man's arms. He knew that his name was as much yours as his whole heart had been.

It was always yours, after all. And as long as you were both looking up at the same moon, he would forever be yours.

To long for you, it had always cost him heartache. He understood that all of his bones would be broken from bearing the weight of your love.

The door clicked softly into place.

Silence swallowed the room once more.

Aerion continued to stare at the wood long after it closed, as though willing it to open again.

But it did not.

And for the first time in his life, the fire in Aerion's chest did not burn with anger.

It burned with loss.

You had spent the afternoon gathering what you would need, the most important item being Sweetfoot, the beautiful mare that Raymun had mentioned to you that Dunk had sold to get some money so he could get into the lists. It was the mare that had once belonged to Ser Arlan.

You had stopped by to pay Ser Reymun a quick visit at his tent, offering him a small bag of coins as a token of gratitude for taking Duncan's side in the Trial of Seven, he had been very brave. But he simply hugged you and handed you a couple of green apples instead, his new personal badge for his emblem.

“By the Seven… Princess? I almost didn't recognize you there.” He had told you as soon as he saw you appear with your new dark hair, hidden under your hood. “You look like a lady from the Free Cities, perhaps, or a raven-haired beauty from the North. He is a lucky man, my friend.”

You had also found out that he had married and fathered a child with a woman in a single night, allegedly. You just winced when you noticed the redhead's prominent belly as she held onto his arm, forcing yourself to offer them a smile.

Sweetfoot was a docile horse, and immediately accepted you, nuzzling your hand when you held out a piece of one of the apples that Raymun had gifted you.

Near the old elm tree, as he promised, Ser Duncan was waiting for you.

He was checking Thunder’s saddle with careful hands, movements slower than usual, his bruised ribs no doubt protesting every bend, and as you approached holding Sweetfoot's reins, you overheard him talking to the horses.

His horse huffed impatiently, pawing once at the grass. And Chestnut bobbed her head when she recognized you from behind her owner's back.

“Aye, Chestnut, I know,” Duncan sighed, straightening a strap. “You like her as well, don’t you? Yeah, she’s good, she’s so good.”

He sighed then, resting his forehead briefly against Thunder’s neck.

“Oh yeah, s–she’ll come,” he murmured under his breath, more to himself than the horses. “She said she would.”

You barely had time to tighten your fingers around the reins before Sweetfoot decided for herself.

The mare’s ears shot forward, her whole body stilled, then trembled.

And before you could murmur a warning, she tugged once, very sharply and slipped free of your hold, trotting towards Duncan.

“…Sweetfoot?” Dunk asked once he sensed the mare trotting toward him, turning around so he could happily caress her. “What’re you doin’ here, eh?”

Duncan stilled once he saw out of the corner of his eye that your figure had appeared in his line of sight, walking in his direction.

His head snapped up.

For a second—just a second—confusion clouded his battered face again at the sight of the dark-haired woman approaching him.

Then recognition struck.

“My lady,” he breathed out, his jaw hanging open. “What...?”

You pushed the hood back slowly.

The dying sunlight caught in your hair, not bright and otherworldly as before, but deep as ink, soft as shadow.

“It’s me,” you said gently.

“You…” His voice trailed off.

You tried to smile, suddenly self-conscious under his gaze.

“I asked for it darker,” you admitted sheepishly. “I thought it would be easier. If I bore less resemblance to—”

“To some Targaryen?” he finished for you, his naturally deep voice toning down to a humorous approach.

But you frowned at that, feigning offense. “That sounded like an insult.”

Duncan’s eyes widened immediately.

“It weren’t,” he said at once, almost tripping over the words as he hobbled closer to you. “Gods, no. I didn’t mean—”

Sweetfoot huffed at his side, as if impatient with his fumbling.

Dunk dragged a hand down his face, clearly flustered.

“I only meant...” he searched for the right shape of it as heached out hesitantly for you, rough fingers lifting a single strand of your hair between them.

Then he caressed your cheek reassuringly.

“It suits you,” he said at last.

Relief fluttered weakly in your chest.

You raised your eyebrows, hopeful. “It does?”

“A–aye.” His thumb brushed near your temple, careful and loving. “You look...”

He struggled for the word, brow furrowing.

“Different?” you offered, softly.

But he shook his head.

“You look like yourself,” he corrected. “Perfect.”

He swallowed, suddenly earnest and uncertain.

“I mean—not that you weren’t before. You were—you are. I just—” Dunk shifted his weight, wincing faintly at his ribs. “I don’t much care what color your hair is. You could shave it all off and I’d still—” He stopped, is ears burning red as you stared at him, a hint of a smile appearing on your lips, letting him ramble on. “Fucking hell—I ain’t clever with these things, but I know you. And you’re—you’re—”

“Duncan”

He exhaled sharply at that, hands opening helplessly at his sides.

“My—my lady,” he stammered back, all red in the face and struggling to hold your gaze. “I’m sorry, I’m not very g–good at this, I’ve never—”

You rose onto your toes and kissed him, his words died against your mouth.

Then his hands came up instinctively to your body, one settling at your waist, the other cupping the back of your head, pulling you closer to him. And when you pulled away, he leaned in again, tilting his head to give you a much slower kiss.

When Duncan finally pulled away, he pressed his forehead gently to yours.

“Are you certain?”

You gazed up at him through your fluttering eyelashes, half-opening your lips, your tone of voice unquestionable. “Yes.”

His fingers ran through your hair a few more times before turning toward Sweetfoot, adjusting the reins with gentle familiarity.

“I don’t think I should ride her,” you said, shaking your head softly. “She was Ser Arlan’s. She’s yours, Dunk.”

Duncan looked back at you, offering you a little reassuring smile.

“She was Ser Arlan’s,” he agreed. “And he gave her to me.”

He stepped closer, placing the reins back into your hands.

“And I give her to you.”

Your fingers tightened around the leather, looking up at him with quiet emotion.

“Duncan—”

“Up you go, my love,” he interrupted you, moving to help you mount the mare. His hands were steady on your waist despite his pain, lifting you with surprising care onto the waiting horse.

He set you gently into the saddle atop Sweetfoot.

You looked down at him, wide-eyed.

“I can't possibly deserve this,” you insisted. “Dunk, I only bought her back so you would not have to regret selling her.”

He smiled up at you, warm.

“Aye,” he said, matter-of-factly. “You bought her back. That means she’s yours now.”

He helped you place your feet in the stirrups, using the excuse to affectionately run his hands up and down your calves.

Then he leaned close to Sweetfoot’s ear, lowering his voice in that conspiratorial tone he always used with the horses.

“Now listen here, girl,” he muttered, stroking her neck. “That’s my lady you’re carryin’. You mind your steps. Nice and steady. You treat her well, d’you hear me?”

Your hand drifted down to Sweetfoot’s pale forelock, fingers threading gently through the silvery strands that shimmered faintly in the last glow of evening. The hair was soft beneath your touch, almost luminous against your dark sleeves.

“Yeah, she's a lot trickier to please than the old man, I tell you that,” Duncan added teasingly.

“I heard that.”

Sweetfoot huffed softly as Duncan chuckled.

His smile deepened at your smiling face, and he turned toward Thunder, gathering the reins to mount as well.

He had one boot braced against the stirrup—

“Ser Duncan!”

Duncan froze and very slowly, he lowered his foot back to the ground. You twisted around on the saddle, occupied as you were with securing your bag along the side.

From the over the stone fence, stepped Aegon trying very hard to look composed despite the fact that he had clearly been running. He gasped out your name too, in desperation.

“My lord father says I am to serve you,” he declared with solemnity, raising his chin in confidence, his eyes flicking up to your face and then to Duncan’s and then back again.

“Egg...” you named him affectionately, your face softening.

“Serve you, Ser,” Dunk corrected him, giving a single nod with his head, permitting him to join you.

“Ser,” Egg repeated, a joyful smile curving his lips.

Duncan rode slightly ahead, broad back straight despite the ache in his ribs. One hand rested loosely on Thunder’s reins; the other hovered near his side out of habit more than need.

Every so often, he would glance over his shoulder, not to check the road.

To check you.

You caught him at it once.

“I won’t fall,” you assured him, snorting with amusement at his excessive concern for your well-being.

His mouth twitched. “Didn’t think you would.”

Egg guided Chestnut up alongside Sweetfoot after a short stretch of silence.

“You look different.” your little cousin pointed out bluntly.

“So I’ve been told,” you murmured, with a playful arch of your eyebrows.

After observing you for a couple of long seconds, Aegon nodded once, brisk and decisive.

“It suits you,” he declared. “You look less… conspicuous.”

Duncan made a noise under his breath. “You’ve been eavesdroppin’.”

“I have not,” Egg snapped back at him. “I still think the hair was a good decision,” he said thoughtfully after. “Less likely to be recognized. Better than shaving it all off, I suppose.”

“Thank you, Egg,” you replied warmly.

Duncan cleared his throat loudly from ahead. “We are not discussin’ her hair like it’s a cloak she’s put on.”

Egg rolled his eyes. “You were staring at it.”

“I was not.”

“You were!” Egg leaned closer to you, lowering his voice as though confiding state secrets, “he has looked back at least seven times—”

“I have not,” Duncan called over his shoulder.

“Eight,” Egg corrected.

You could not help it then—you laughed, the sound carrying lightly across the open field. Sweetfoot’s ears flicked back at the noise, and you reached forward to stroke her pale mane again, smoothing the white strands between your fingers.

Duncan slowed Thunder slightly so that he rode closer to your side as well.

His voice was quieter when he spoke this time, but his expression was just as concerned and loving. “You cold?”

“I am quite fine, Ser Duncan,” you teased. “You may look at the road now.”

A faint flush crept up his neck.

“I am lookin’ at the road,” he muttered, turning forward again far too quickly.

Egg snorted. “He’s hopeless.”

“Hush,” you chided fondly, though your gaze lingered on Duncan’s broad back. The set of his shoulders. The steadiness of him.

You let the silence settle comfortably before speaking.

“Where are we going?”

Duncan considered that.

“Well,” he admitted, “I hadn’t rightly planned that part.”

Egg piped up from behind, “We could head toward the river road. Fewer patrols.”

Duncan glanced back at him. “You’ve been thinkin’ on this.”

“I always think, Ser,” Egg replied primly.

The trees began to thin as the path sloped gently downward and the world felt wider already.

Your gaze drifted upward.

High above the open stretch of sky, a lone bird circled on wide, unhurried wings—dark against the fading gold, riding the last warm currents of air. It did not struggle. It did not falter. It simply rose.

You could almost hear him still, your father, his gentle voice, speaking of hawks and omens and how the Seven must surely favor creatures brave enough to trust the wind.

The bird soared once more, then turned toward the horizon, becoming smaller and smaller until it was no more than a shadow against the darkening blue.

You watched until it vanished.

“The river road,” you said at last, hopeful. “It sounds nice.”

As the three of you turned your horses toward the faint silver glow ahead, the sky deepened into indigo.

And though something precious had taken flight beyond your reach.

The atmosphere in the Baratheon tent is thunderous, to say the least. Wine flows like a river from one side to the other, and Lyonel’s laughter carries through the room, naturally. He is in a good mood tonight, perhaps a little too good.

You, meanwhile, are seated beside him, dressed in a golden silk gown that shows off your youthful beauty and innate grace, attracting the attention of veteran lords and young knights alike, including some women, who don’t hesitate to send you a flirtatious wink or an all-too-friendly smirk when they’re near enough at your high table.

Lyonel is fascinated. He glances at you out of the corner of his eye, a crooked smile on his face, enchanted by your ability to hold a quick-witted conversation with some lord whose name he can’t even be bothered to remember, and then laugh heartily at some vulgar joke from his personal guard in a matter of seconds. You are a breath of fresh air on a far too drunken night.

“You look particularly ravishing tonight, my lady,” Lyonel flirts, leaning close to your ear, his words thick and husky with wine and arousal. “If you keep smiling like that, I’ll have to duel half the people in the room just to have a minute alone with you.”

You laughed softly, lightly poking him in the arm to remind him to behave. “Lord Baratheon, if you can’t defend your place beside me, then perhaps you don’t deserve to be here at all.”

Lyonel roars with mirth at your provocative words, and just as his hand is threatening to slide down your thigh, a towering presence eclipses the lamplight in front of you.

You both turn to look at the intruder, and Ser Duncan the Tall stands towering before you, seeking the host—or rather, you. He has not been able to tear his eyes away from you ever since he stepped into the tent, enthralled by your beauty and charm. A crown rests beautifully on your head, with pretty detailing of intertwined golden little antlers that gleam in the light, but your eyes—they shine like blazing stars as they rise up through his entire body until they find his.

Surely you know who he is, your husband had been talking nonstop about the tall knight he had met but a couple of days ago, the tallest he had ever seen—and one of the prettiest too.

You've never doubted Lyonel's taste. Ser Duncan has a gorgeous face, big blue eyes that radiate an unsullied innocence you'd love to corrupt, perfectly plump lips, and a well-defined jawline. His shoulders are broad, his arms big and strong—everything about him seems... oversized.

You can see why Lyonel is so interested in him.

Duncan gulps audibly.

“Lord Lyonel,” he greets with an awkward bow of his head, his voice is so deep that you can’t help but tilt your head, caught up in his gaze.

“Ser Duncan!” Lyonel cheerfully greets him back, beaming with delight at the sight of him. “I knew you’d come back here. No one hosts better feasts than us Baratheons, huh?”

The auburn-haired man nods his head, a sheepish, sweet smile flitting across his lips, his gaze flickering from Lyonel’s smiling face to yours as you watch the interaction in silence, aware of your husband’s obvious enthusiasm.

“Aye, I just wanted to say that the feast is a fine success, and—” Duncan trails off, glancing at you again, his light blue eyes sweeping down to where your lips wrap around the rim of your wine glass. “And how fortunate you are to have your daughter accompanying you tonight. She is such a graceful and beautiful girl, my lord. Truly, the gem of the Stormlands.”

You almost choked on the sip of wine you'd been trying to gulp down as Lyonel falls into a sudden and uncharacteristic silence at your side. Fortunately, no one else has heard what the hedge knight just said, as the party bustles on around you.

“My... daughter?” your husband scowls, the hint of offense evident in his voice, and then turns to look at you, catching sight of the small, amused smile you try to cover up as you wipe your lips with a napkin, dabbing away traces of wine. “Ser Duncan, I appreciate the praise of her beauty, but you are terribly mistaken.”

Lyonel’s dark gaze is overshadowed by a flicker of possessiveness, his hand slides around your waist, pulling you closer just as one of your hands comes to lie on his chest to offer reassurance.

Duncan observes the scene, feeling an icy shiver creep down his spine, bringing a heavy weight that makes his stomach churn.

Lyonel grimaces as he looks back at Ser Duncan, shaking his head in disapproval. “She is not my daughter, Ser. She is my wife.”

At the revelation, Ser Duncan’s face goes from wine-flushed to a vivid scarlet in a matter of seconds, overcome with mortification. His eyes widen so much that you can get a better peek at their beautiful color, as they dart back and forth frantically between you and Lyonel, and then to Lyonel's hand firmly planted on the curve of your waist.

“Oh? Oh—By the Seven! Forgive me, my lord! My lady! Please,” Duncan blurts out, his deep voice trembling ever so slightly with shame as he awkwardly bends down, nearly hitting the table with his forehead from bowing so low. “I... I’m a fool. I didn’t mean to insult you, t–truly. It’s just that—she’s so...”

Seeing the knight’s agony, Lyonel breaks out in a hearty laugh that reduces him to silence.

He leans forward, waving it off with a casual hand gesture, meanwhile guiding the other one in a tantalizing route across your back, sliding down to cup your arse in a playful display of possessiveness.

“Bah! It’s no big deal, Duncan,” Lyonel reassures him with amusement, leaning his chin on his palm, his elbow propped up on the table, the corners of his lips curling into a mischievous smirk. “Just a silly mistake, as you say. I admit, though, I took slight offense at your suggestion that I'm old enough to be the father to such...exquisite young lady.”

“Lyonel...” you scold him softly for his comment, leaning your head on his shoulder and enjoying the drama as well as the divided attention of both men.

“Because she is beautiful, don’t you think, Dunk?” your husband asks the poor, embarrassed knight, who keeps looking at both of you with utter mortification, his jaw pressed shut to refrain from saying anything else inappropriate. “A sweet, lovely little thing.”

He is looking at you as he speaks to Duncan, leaning close so he can kiss your lips, his eyes darkened by desire and naughtiness.

“Mmm... delicious too,” he teases, smiling slyly.

You know perfectly well where he’s heading with all this. You see through his little games and flirtations, and you delight in them.

You love your game as well, smiling coquettishly at Ser Duncan and waiting for him to express his agreement with your husband.

“M–me?” he chokes out, then gulps again. “A–aye, my lord, she is beautiful, very, her eyes are gorgeous—but—but I wouldn’t want to presume—”

Lyonel lets him continue babbling on, knowing how much you enjoy receiving flattery, his hand absentmindedly palming the curve of your bum, hidden from the eyes of the rambling Duncan in front of you.

“So, if you like my wife so much...” Lyonel eventually cuts him off, offering him a cheeky smirk brimming with anticipation, his tongue tentatively wetting his lips, “then you should spend the night with us. I think we could find more than enough fun.”

Ser Duncan is left speechless, his jaw dropping comically as his blue eyes shift frantically from your husband's amused face to your expression of feigned innocence.

“W–what? Me? Three...?” Duncan is able to sputter out, his deep voice rising to a high pitch in disbelief. His hands fly up in front of him and gesture in nervous agitation, huffing out air. “I—my lord... this—are you... are you joking?”

A bright laugh escapes your lips, and you delicately cover your mouth with one hand, your eyes flashing with amusement.

You feel Lyonel laughing too at the knight’s shocked expression.

“You’re... you’re not joking?” Duncan asks then, hysterical—and visually hopeful. “Right?”