The carriage stopped abruptly, men shouting and sneering mere meters away from you. You took a quick peek through fine curtains and sighed, staring at the blue and white striped banner adorned with red martlets.

“Aymer de Valence, 2nd Earl of Pembroke.”

“The beast?” 

A terrified whimper escaped your companion's lips, but the door opened with a thud, startling you both.

“Out, both of you!”

You met Aymer once, and although you were not introduced, you knew what he looked like, and the man playing nice and holding out his hand for you was decidedly not him. You hovered your hand in the air, your eyes settling on a huge man sitting on a horse that was seemingly too small for him. You cocked your head before setting it straight again, a small, polite, learned smile gracing your face.

In three long steps, Aymer de Valence and his irritating smirk were offering you his hand. He pulled his chainmaille hood off, showing a new, ill-healed scar across his bald head.

“Thank you, Your Grace,” your hand was small, nestled inside his, his long, strong fingers elegantly wrapping around yours as he guided you a little further away. “Has the Lord Edward’s castle fallen?”

You looked up, flashing another polite smile, looking again at those piercing blue eyes. 

“No, my Lady.”

You glanced at those sharp, crooked teeth when he spoke, strangely captivated by them. He was still holding your hand, breaking all rules of propriety. Yet Aymer de Valence was known for such acts, his ruthless, brutal nature caring little for the laws of men or God. His dressing up as just another soldier amongst many, trying to trick you for what seemed nothing but his own amusement, was the most tame of the examples.

“We are attempting… A negotiation.”

A giggle escaped you, a warm and earnest reaction at Aymer calling this kidnapping a mere negotiation. He frowned and clenched his jaw, but you couldn’t help yourself, your fingers tightening around the edges of his gloved palm. 

“Where are you taking us, Your Grace?” you finally managed to gain some composure, your pretty doe eyes still scanning his fuming face.

“Pembroke Castle,” he spat out, swallowing hard. It took him by surprise that you sniffed out his little rouse so quickly, and then effectively disarmed him with your pretty smile and politeness, treating him like you would any other nobleman.

He remembered you from that tourney, always giggling and wide-eyed, knights swarming you for your favour. 

You gave three, two of them to your cousins, and one to a handsome young knight; Aymer didn’t even think to ask, but unhorsed the knight in the first joust. He’d often remember how, while all the ladies around you were gasping and covering their mouths, you were serious, calmly looking at Aymer executing his beloved horse.

**

It’s been a whole moon since Aymer took you hostage, and the negotiations have stalled quickly after that. Your lady was ransomed, not having much use for her, and would now send you letters, hoping that you too would soon be safe away from the monster’s grasp.

You didn’t mind terribly, however. You were fed, entertained, and left alone, well, mostly. Aymer was growing bored, it seemed, and would barely leave you alone, demanding your presence at every meal, even going so far as to bring you to hunts. 

You had a free rein of the castle, as much as propriety allowed, and would spend most of your days among the books in the solar or embroidering. Aymer even generously procured some special threads for you when you asked, adding a couple more spools in different colours and even fine linen fabrics to serve as your canvas.

Your father decided to keep calling Aymer’s bluff, to your growing irritation. At first, you were fearful, not knowing what Aymer would do with you, and you were saddened by the realisation of how little you meant to your father, your family.

“No harm shall find you while you’re under my protection,” Aymer awkwardly told you, finding you distraught in the solar. He sounded… Irritated, almost offended by your tears. 

“I never thought it would,” you wiped your tears and fixed your hair, trying to come to terms with your father’s harsh words. “These tears are not for you,” you added quietly, swallowing another sob.

Aymer nodded, relieved and angered at the same time. He had no idea where this need to walk to you and wipe your tears himself was coming from, to embrace you and hold your face in his hands. So he left it at that, letting you grieve in solitude.

As far as Aymer was concerned, your father was a moron. Caring so little as not trying to get you back, but at the same time not marrying you off, was one of the most idiotic decisions Aymer has seen. And not that you weren’t agreeable, far from it: kind, pious, and pretty. 

Pretty enough that now, during the evening sparring session, he was losing focus, his eyes constantly trailing to you, sitting on a bench with a book in your lap. You didn’t pay any attention to it, your eyes glued to wherever Aymer would swing his sword. It became a common occurrence over the past few weeks, where you pretended that you would read just as he was in the yard, and Aymer pretended he wasn’t nervous when you’d be late to those sessions.

Swing after swing, he was trying to show off his strength and precision, even if he would never admit it, going so far to fight multiple opponents, leveraging his prowess and frame to impress you, catch that tiny moment when you would be smiling at him, your eyes wide and mouth slightly agape, before you’d quickly look into your book, trying to act as if you’ve never noticed him.

And then it happened; Aymer himself couldn’t say how, but he was struck on his sword-wielding hand, a nasty cut spreading from between his thumb and forefinger, all the way to his wrist. He cursed himself for not wearing gloves. As blood was dripping from his hand, he caught you in the corner of his eye, standing up and hastily making way towards him.

Everyone around him was frozen in fear but you, calmly demanding to see the wound. 

“Curse you, woman,” he spat out, pulling his hand away and immediately regretting it.

“Let me see, my Lord,” you repeated in an even softer tone, your fingers already reaching towards the bloody mess of his hand, ignoring the frown on his face.

Aymer thought of you as kind, a little timid, a little naive, but suddenly realised you were the only person treating him like he was nothing but a man. There was no fear in your eyes, no hesitation, your fingers gently, softly touching the back of his palm. He was taken aback, unable to say anything, unable to think. 

It’s been years since such kindness was extended to him, and despite craving it, now faced with it, Aymer didn’t know what to do, except stare at your face.

He was still thinking about it, lying awake in his chambers hours later. Your fingers, sullied in his blood, slowly sliding over his skin, patiently exploring, following the line of the cut, assessing for depth, asking him to move his fingers, massaging gently.

“I’m sure you suffered much worse, my Lord,” you said, flashing a faint smile and pressing your handkerchief to the wound, soaking it completely in crimson, watching his face relax.

Aymer already ordered his servants to clean that handkerchief to a pristine state, despite doubting that it was possible. He should at least get you more threads, more fabric, in case you wanted to make another. Perhaps a bracelet, to apologise. He quickly shook off the last thought, a weird feeling of hollowness spreading through his chest.

Then, he heard three quick, mousy knocks on the door, and in a blink of an eye, without waiting for an invitation, you simply opened the door, with two servants in tow; Aymer was too stunned to speak, watching you walk in, carrying clean rags and ointments, servants carrying hot water.

“Thank you,” you turned to the servants, watching them squirm uncomfortably.

“My Lady?” one of them asked, avoiding looking at Aymer.

Still, you dismissed them before turning to him; he was sitting on the edge of the bed, without his sleep shirt. Actually, you were not sure if he was wearing anything, a heavy quilt covering his lap. With all of his muscles on display and the idea of him being naked, you couldn’t stop the flush to your face, but you pretended it was the fire burning in the hearth. 

You thought him strong and handsome, especially now, warm flames dancing across his handsome features, somehow making his eyes even bluer. The skin of his torso and his arms was taut, scarred, and a little paler compared to his tanned face, and you tried so hard to control your breathing.

“May I see?” 

Removing the soaked rags from his hand, you slowly washed the crusted blood around his wound before gently applying a healing ointment, a faint scent of chamomile filling the chambers.

“Are you not afraid of rumours?” Aymer tried to get a read on you so badly. He wanted to desperately know the true nature of your feelings towards him, almost like he would be able to read your mind. He closely observed your face for any tell he might have missed, for any indication that his own feelings were making him delusional. 

“Rumours, my Lord?” you were still spreading the salve, your fingertips almost ghosting over his imperfect skin.

“You are alone in an Earl’s chambers.”

And there it was again, that wholehearted giggle that you couldn’t suppress, your fingers resting lightly against Aymer’s forearm. His whole body stiffened, his brows furrowing, jaw protruding. He loved your laugh, but never when it was so agonisingly pointed at him. It wasn’t anger spreading through him, it was pain - not that he was adept at handling either of those, a red flush rapidly creeping up his neck as he clicked his teeth together, almost literally biting his tongue to not snap at you. 

“I’ve been your hostage for weeks, my Lord. Do you truly believe rumours are not already abundant? Probably why my father doesn’t want me back, his daughter’s honour ruined by the beast,” you continued, trying to catch your breath, your laugh turning into a wide, warm smile that had Aymer’s heart beating a smidge faster.

“Why didn’t your father marry you off?” mellowed under your smile, and focusing on the way your fingers were rubbing into his palm, he cautiously probed, now fearing you might have been betrothed after all.

“When he sent me away, I asked him the same. I was actually convinced he would do so, for an alliance; it was only sensible. But instead, he remained stubborn, and I am now here. Alone in an Earl’s chambers,” you teased him, flashing another warm smile his way, but quickly looking away. You truly didn’t want him to know the depth of your growing feelings, as you still didn’t trust him completely. Somewhere deep there was fear after all, fear that he would hurt you, ridicule you.

“Who did you have in mind?” Aymer’s voice was uncharacteristically hoarse, his other hand gripping around the quilt so hard his knuckles turned white.

“Who did I think I should marry, or who did I want?” you were careful to make a distinction, because you truly had two different men in mind, not that your father wanted to hear about either.

“Who did you want?” his voice falling all the way to a throaty whisper, Aymer was trying to hide a tremble in himself. He was bracing for disappointment and more pain - there were so many young and charming Lords, much more suited for a beautiful, young Lady such as yourself. You wouldn’t look twice his way, he told himself, if he hadn’t stolen you from the world.

“I’ve heard that the Earl of Pembroke is rather handsome.”

Aymer’s whole body went rigid so fast he forgot to breathe. You stilled as well, observing his reaction, wondering if you were too direct, too unladylike. 

You were toying with him, he was certain of it. Ridiculing and mocking him, the same as you saw through his rouse when he stopped your carriage, you already saw through him and his hopeless weakness for you.

“Do not tease me, harlot!”

He jerked his hand away, jumping out of the bed with such force that you fell to the floor. His short, tight braies showed off his muscular legs that made your mouth water.

“Why would I do such a thing?” you tried to reason with him in the softest, silkiest voice your throat would produce. “And he’s strong, I watched him unhorse man after man at a tourney. Although not sure what to make of his predilection for kidnapping young Ladies.”

Aymer wouldn’t budge, wouldn’t even turn from the table to look at you, chugging goblet after goblet, small drops of wine trickling down his chin. You waited, your heart beating hard, before you finally had to admit defeat, to your utter embarrassment.

“Good night, my Lord.”

“Aymer,” he growled through his teeth.

“What? I couldn’t possibly…” it took you a moment to understand what he meant at first.

“You are in my bedchambers! You’ll address me in any way I like!” he threw the goblet across the room, just above the hearth, where it echoed against the stone wall.

“Yes, my Lord. Aymer. Good night.”

**

You couldn’t wait for your wedding day to end. There were so many people present at the ceremony and even more at the feast, including the king. Joyous celebration for everyone except your family, who looked like they were attending a funeral. You were nervous, so much so that even Aymer noticed, pushing for the pro forma bedding ceremony earlier in the evening, trying to be alone with you.

“You look sour,” he commented, getting up from the bed.

“I couldn’t wait for the day to be over.”

“Married to me for less than a day, and already sick of my presence?”

“Aymer,” you followed your brooding husband out of bed. “I’ve been so excited I haven’t slept for days. And then I started to think of all the ways this could go wrong, what my father had planned, if he had planned…” your thoughts trailed off as you grabbed Aymer’s hand, gently pressing kisses against the scar.

Standing on your toes, you craned your neck as much as you could, but Aymer stood unwavering. You peppered his jaw with kisses, your hands sliding over his chest and under his shirt. You could hear your breath stuttering, and feel flush spread through your cheeks, and heat through your maidenhood.

“I couldn’t wait for the day to be over, because I couldn’t wait to be your wife,” you whispered against Aymer’s skin, pressing harder into his body.

He finally relented, dipping his head to claim you in a feverish kiss, his huge hands settling over your waist. 

“I love you,” he muttered, his cheeks reddening, before gently picking you up and laying you down on the bed. “I love you,” he repeated as he settled over you, his lips gently falling into the crook of your neck.

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something something modern au where baelor and maekar run a very large company together, two ultra-rich co-ceo's of some morally deplorable corporation or another. they're not playboy millionaires that get photographed on yachts, they're the kind of rich that stays hidden from cameras, declines every interview request, has intense security and privacy protocols to keep their day to day goings-on top secret. most of the people who protest outside their businesses headquarters don't even know what they even look like.

it's why you're not surprised that they have you sign an nda- as well as a load of other legal documents- when you're hired on as their personal assistant. so far as you know, they've never had a p.a. before, so you're bound and determined to be a shining example of the profession- the epitome of professionalism and discretion.

at first you only see them at the office, meeting their car as they drive up together in the same bulletproofed car, immediately setting to work as maekar barks out a list of things for you to get done before they take their meeting with the heads of lannister inc. you bust your ass knocking everything off the list before they break for lunch.

all in all, it's not a bad gig so far as corporate p.a. work goes. it's demanding, and maekar usually has a chip on his shoulder, but his gruffness is nothing compared to what you've dealt with before- and baelor seems more than adept at soothing his business partner's temper when it flares.

it's odd, though, the more you learn about them, the less things make sense. it's hard to know if they're family or maybe potentially married due to the same last name and the fact that they share everything- cars, meals, clothes, even their mansion... and a late night google search reveals that any and all personal information about them seems to have been scrubbed from the internet entirely.

whatever, rich people are notoriously weird about privacy and it's not your fucking business what the targaryen's are to each other. neither of them has hit you, groped you, thrown anything at you, called you slurs or threatened you. they still get their money's worth out of you, giving you plenty of tasks to tend to, multiple balls in the air- but they're not outright cruel, and it's enough to buy your loyalty and incuriosity.

so when you're finally called to their mansion for the first time, you keep your head down and eyes focused on your work. you don't ask questions when baelor steps out of the back bedroom only to be followed by maekar only moments later, don't gawk at the small herd of outrageously blonde children, and don't ogle as they stand closer to each other than normal in the kitchen as they both outline upcoming events you have to prepare for.

everything is fine and normal and definitely not your fucking business.

as you drive home that night, you realize it was a test of sorts. how good you are at being a professional outside of the office. the whole time you were there, three violet eyes and one deep brown one were constantly affixed on your face, keeping watch for potential questions or a raised brow- but you'd kept it together and asked nothing personal, and over the course of the day baelor's demeanor warmed and maekar's scowl softened, if only minutely.

after that, you're brought to the house more often. the targaryen's claim it's just easier to work from home, that it's less hassle for them, but you're not blind. you won't be the frog that's caught unaware by the water boiling around her- you can see the steam rising, you know what's happening, and you're choosing to stay put and see where this goes.

every day they toe the line of inappropriate- a lingering touch here, an offhand comment about the length of your skirt there, personal questions casually lobbed at you over the lunch baelor insisted on making for you himself. you can feel yourself hurtling towards something, but it's hard to say exactly what.

they take you along on their annual 'family vacation' to their beach house, claiming they might need you- but they never ask you to do any official work. instead, it's always small, personal favors. fetching fresh fruit so baelor can make cocktails, accompanying the children to the beach while your bosses get some 'alone time', applying copious amounts of sunscreen to maekar's back as baelor sits close by with an unreadable expression on his face.

on the last night of the vacation, baelor invites you to sit and talk with him while maekar oversees the children building a bonfire on the beach. he pours you a glass of wine and tells you a bit about himself, little anecdotes about being rich and connected his entire life. he scoots closer to you, thighs touching, as he tells you about how maekar had invited him and his boys to live with him when baelor's wife passed. how they decided to make the living arrangement permanent when maekar also became a windower. how his family means everything to him, how important it is that he share everything with maekar.

it's... a strange monologue, but you aren't stupid. it's a shovel talk, you think. maybe. the main jist you're picking up is that baelor loves his partner-slash-permanent room mate and would do anything to keep him happy and safe... that's basically a shovel talk, right? you've seen the way maekar's violet eyes always seem to track you around a room, been steered by his hands on your hips when he wants you to move, heard the comments about your blouses with more open necklines. maybe he's expressed interest in you to baelor, and baelor's just trying to protect him... but something about it feels off, and it's hard to put your finger on exactly what.

baelor leans in close, doing a decent impression of someone who's a little tipsy- but you can clearly see his glass hasn't been touched. he tells you that his family likes you- his boys and most of maekar's children adore you (aerion is a lost cause and you're fine with that), and he's grown to appreciate your diligent service over the past several months.

before you can even formulate any sort of reply, maekar is dropping onto the seat next to you with a groan, scooting in close, pressing up against you the way his partner is on the other side, fully boxing you in. they talk over you like you're not even there, the only acknowledgement of your existence being the warm, heavy palms resting on your thigh and shoulder. you don't say anything, don't react at all, just stare off towards the glowing bonefire on the darkening beach, ignoring the way maekar starts kneading his fingertips into the plush fat of your hip.

that night you manage to make it to bed without further incident, but it's impossible to sleep. you keep feeling the heat of their hands and bodies pressed to your sides, as if you'd been somehow branded by them. there was a shift tonight, you felt it. a boundary being pushed and found uncontested. something's going to happen- but you can't tell what or when, and it makes you restless.

sitting up in bed, you can see the ocean from your window, and when you squint through the dark, you can see the outlines of two grown men standing in the still-warm waves, their passionate kisses illuminated on intervals by a nearby lighthouse. you don't have to even get up for a closer look to know it's baelor and maekar- it's their builds, their hair, their height difference. it's them, without question, and it just confirms your suspicions- they're definitely married- or at least in a relationship. sure, it was a little confusing, the way the kids called the men 'uncle' on occasion- but you remember all the 'uncles' and 'good friends' your mom introduced you to after her divorce from dad, so you get it. kinda.

it's not long after you all return from vacation that maekar gruffly suggests you move into the guest bedroom at their mansion. it'll save you money in rent, gas, and utilities- and they won't have to wait for you to crawl your way through commuter traffic every morning. he says it like it's an obvious choice, like you'd be some sort of idiot to say no- but you've learned to read maekar targaryen pretty well over the past few months. you can see he's antsy, anxious to hear what you'll say- and it doesn't go unnoticed when he visibly relaxes at your 'yes'.

it's not hard falling into a routine around their place- breakfast at 8, lunch around noon, dinner at six, with routine walks around the large gardens and meetings taken in the spacious home office that's bigger than your former apartment. the kids don't bat an eye at your extended presence in the house, and neither does the rather intense security detail that's seemingly been extended to protect you as well.

however, since moving in, the touching has increased exponentially, and they don't even bother pretending it's innocent anymore. maekar routinely pretends to brush an errant hair from your face, baelor rests his hand on your lower back whenever he stands next to you, and you'd swear they rock-paper-scissors over who gets to slide their arm around your waist when you're all settled in to watch movies with the children in the evenings.

one night when the kids are out at a sleepover, baelor invites you to sit between him and maekar as they put on a documentary of some sort. in no time maekar has his arm snaked around your waist, fingers strumming your pantyline, while baelor's arm rests over your shoulders. the documentary runs in the background, entirely unheeded as baelor tells you what a good, obedient girl you are for him and maekar, how they want to reward you for your hard work-

which is how you end up with maekar plastered against your back, grinding his hard cock against your ass as he fingerfucks your pussy, watching breathlessly over your shoulder as baelor kisses you stupid and gropes your tits. maekar takes the opportunity to say absolutely filthy things into your ear, not even bothering to lower his voice to a whisper- and when he tells you that tits like yours were made to be sucked, baelor hums his agreement into your mouth before he slowly starts to trail down your neck towards your chest...

...right when the front door slams open, a cacophany of sound as aerion bitches about something or other as you yelp and dart off into your bedroom before you get caught. whatever caused aerion to come home early has maekar shouting, although you imagine a good chunk of his frustration is due to your rapid disappearance and his subsequent blue balls.

you spend the rest of the night locked away in your room, overthinking and panicking about what this means for not just tomorrow morning, but every morning after that. are you fired? are you going to have to move? or worse- will they pretend nothing happened at all?

after a few hours the voices down the hall quiet, and sleep finally takes you. in the middle of the night, maekar wakes you, pulling at your arms, scowling and urging you to get up. he leads you through a door that you hadn't even realized was there, a panel in the wall that leads straight to the shared master bedroom.

baelor is there, shirtless and waiting on the bed for you, apparently unwilling to leave things where they had left off. the entire rest of the night is spent sandwiched between the two of them, listening to them praise you to each other as if you aren't there, complimenting your softness, your mouth, your cunt, the way you jiggle, and how good you are at taking them both at once.

clearly, they're experts on how to get each other off, each one of them an eager instructor in what the other likes. baelor's more than happy to demonstrate how maekar like his cock to be stroked, and maekar's not shy about showing you the exact right way baelor likes to have his balls licked.

you cum for the first time that night when baelor strikes a bet with maekar- first one to get you pregnant gets exclusive rights to your asshole for a year. your fifth (and last) orgasm of the night hits when maekar pins down your hips and eats you out, cleaning you out as he laps up the commingled spend from your pussy, muttering about how just needs to make you cum one more time to break the tie.

for a while, life is fucking fantastic. you're having insanely hot threesomes with your super rich bosses on a regular basis, their kids (minus aerion) like you, your willingness to suck toes got you another raise, and you're saving a shitload of money by living out of their guest room (despite the fact you're in their bed every night).

things couldn't be more perfect, which is why, of course, the universe decides to humble you in the form of a photograph. in baelor's desk, sitting underneath a pile of documents he'd asked you to fetch, there's a photo of a heterochromatic three year old holding a very blonde baby.

the handwritten caption makes you vomit in the trash can.

except neither he nor baelor (who is by his side, having herded him into an elevator at the first sign of trouble) expected his secretary to be working late, bent over a filing cabinet as she tries to get some last minute work done.

maekar is on her faster than baelor can blink, broad palm smashed against her mouth as he scrambles to shove that cute little pencil skirt off of her. she screams and looks to baelor for help, but the elder targaryen just leisurely locks the door and crosses the room in slow strides, assuring her that she'll be fine, that he'll pay for her compliance and silence, to relax and let maekar take what he needs, and to decide quickly if she wants to be on her back or on her knees for the remainder of the night.

cut to baelor holding a dragon-handled letter opener to her throat as maekar ruts into her like an animal, cursing colorfully against her skin as baelor shushes him gently, ignoring the crying girl under his brother as he assures maekar that the sin belongs to whoever spiked his drink, that maekar can't help it, that if they can't bribe the terrified woman that maekar is fucking so violently that he'll take responsibility for it all.