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INSPIRED BY: Ptolomia's Neon Nights series on Tumblr!
Modern! Targaryens
Daeron's best friend's with benefits crashes Maekar's private staycation, and Daeron takes the opportunity to fuck with them via thermostat, driving the heat up for some daytime passion, then cranking the air conditioning at night for some bed sharing shenanigans.
TW for BOTH PARTS: SMUT (eventually), NEAR DROWNING, mutual pining, friends with benefits, tattoos on Daeron, the reader, and Maekar. Food as a metaphor for love, child neglect. Age gap, sweat, body worship, temperature play, masturbation in shower, fluff and angst, voyeurism, there was only one bed trope, reader is referred to as Baratheon but only because she's a party girl, you can decide if it's her house or not, also marijuana use.
Papa don't preach! I'm in trouble deep, Papa don't preach- I been losin’ sleep, Papa don't preach!
“Ugh!”
The lights are so goddamn bright! Too bright for him to possibly sit up, but fuck! Just like the man himself, his father's ringtone is loud and demanding-
But I made up my mind! I'm- keepin’ my baby-
Slow, Daeron heaves himself up, snatching the cell off his side table. “He-”
“Papa-!”
“Fuck!” He forgot to hit the stupid button. Smacking it, he raises the phone to his ear and sighs-
Which is the only sign of life Maekar needs to begin scolding him with a brisk, “Why is she here?”
“What?” Daeron blinks, his (bloodshot) sea foam eyes flicking around the unfamiliar room a moment before he covers his face with his hand. It's so goddamn bright-
“The fucking Baratheon whore, why is she here?!”
Squinting, he checks the bedside clock. “Fuck!”
“What?” Maekar growls.
“She must have missed her flight! Shit, put her on the phone.”
There's a beat of disbelief before his father snaps, “I will not put her on the phone! Why is she spending the night when you're not here in the first place?!”
“She had exams!”
“And?”
“And our penthouse is like ten minutes away from campus!” His son explains, as if Maekar fucking cares about your convenience.
“That sounds…like a her problem.”
“Dad, come on,” Daeron drawls. “It's fine-”
“It is not fine. I want her gone, Daeron. Right now.”
“Now?! It's like, six am there, I'm not throwing her out on the streets at six am!”
“Fine, I will.”
“Da-”
Maekar clicks the cell off and slides it into his pocket.
This was fucking ridiculous. Leave it to Daeron to forget to take the trash out before he left. Stupid whore, he thinks bitterly, not entirely sure which one of you he's mad at, as he recalls your awkward run in the night before, when he had mistaken you for an intruder.
In all fairness, the penthouse was supposed to be empty. Daeron had left to join Daella and his cousins at the ski resort two days ago, Aerion was still backpacking in the Free Cities, Aemma was spending break on a trip for school, and Aegon and little Rhae had been sent off to spend the holidays with their grandparents (under the watchful eye of Dunk, the Manny, of course). It had only been common sense that he grabbed a weapon when soft footsteps woke him in the very early morning.
Grabbing his sidearm from the lockbox he kept in his bedside table (a high tech little gadget that would only open with his fingerprint, couldn't be too careful with so many kids about) he quickly loaded it before he crept out of his bedroom and followed the light to the kitchen.
He could still remember the dull surprise on your face as you lowered the carton of orange juice from your lips. Licking them almost absently, you had eyed the gun with distaste before raising the carton. “Want some?”
The fucking audacity; to be in his house, in a hockey jersey for Aerion’s team, the Dragons, and your fucking panties, offering him juice he paid for- Too stunned to speak, he had stared at you for a long moment before he lowered his pistol. Then he turned, and went back to his bedroom without a word.
You weren't worth the effort, he told himself, unable to shake the image of your naked legs and the precious bump of your mound from his mind.
It made him sick, your constant presence in his home. You were annoying, and rude, always challenging and needling him, always teasing and playing cute; well, Maekar could see right through your bullshit. Stupid little gold digger-
By the time he had put the gun away and come back to scold you, you had done the smart thing and made yourself scarce.
It wasn't fair; this was supposed to be Maekar's vacation, too, dammit. He had earned a few days to himself, and he intends on getting it as he raps at your- fucking Daeron's door.
“Enter!”
The-! Audacity-! With a grunt, he hips the door open and his scowl deepens at the sight of you, spread out, still in your underwear, on his son's bed, surrounded by papers and textbooks-
“Well,” he drawls, “at least you're doing something useful with your time.”
With a blink that turns into a glare, you pointedly shove the cap back on your highlighter. The *click* says fuck you, but your tone is frustratingly pleasant as you greet him with a cheerful, “Morning, Maekar.”
“Gather your things, I'll send for a car.”
Your laugh catches him off guard.
“What,” he growls, hands clenching at his sides as he tries to glare at your face and not your legs (fuck, you make him feel like a dirty old man, chasing after a girl your age), “is so funny?”
The hair not shoved in your messy bun sways as you shake your head, not quite smug, but a little fucking smug. “Dude, there are, like, no cabs out. The news is calling it the blizzard of the century, it hasn't snowed this bad since you were a kid-”
“Hmph!”
Your hands go up, placating and pleading at the same time. “Look, I'm just saying, this place is huge, like stupid massive big-”
“Yes, and?” Maekar drawls curtly.
A glimmer of a smile tugs at your lips. “And maybe you could let little old me-”
“No.”
“Come on, please!” Placing your hands together in prayer position, you bounce on your knees and beg, “please, please, please-”
Fuck, you would look so good bouncing on his cock like that- “I said no!”
“Come on! You won't even see me,” you promise, crossing your heart with your finger. “I'll be good, Maekar, I swear.”
His blood boils; the fucking disrespect! Still, it wouldn't be right to send you out into the storm, he still owes you a debt, but after this, that debt will be paid. “Out of my fucking sight, understand me?”
Your toes clench at his sharp tone, at the long pale finger he points in your face, a twist of heat low in your belly reducing your reaction to an obedient nod and a raspy, “Yes, ser.”
He swallows, jaw tight, as he struggles not to snatch you up by your pretty little throat and shake some goddamn sense into you-
“Thank you, Maekar!” You chirp as he leaves, unable to tear your eyes off his broad shoulders, his back.
Fuck, you've wanted him since you were little more than a teenager, a shy college kid who had befriended Kira, then Valarr, then finally found a kindred spirit in Daeron. There had been an instant connection as the family disappointments; Daeron, not competitive enough for sports or the cutthroat business being a CEO required. You, not brave enough, charismatic or pretty enough to be a trophy wife, not smart enough to do business. Soon, you found yourself spending day and night together, at your dorm, at random parties, at hotels and motels alike, but your favorite place was his penthouse.
Not just because his hot dad was there, not just because it meant you didn't have to drive back to your crappy little dorm room, and not even because he had a king sized bed, but mostly, you liked his family.
Daella, only a year behind in school. She was smarter than she let on, with a wry subtle sense of humor that often made you snort.
Aerion, well, he intimidated you a little, but he mostly just said his snide piece and left you alone, although he had gotten less frosty when you started turning up to his games.
Aemmon had been shipped off to some prestigious boarding school, but he wrote and FaceTimed, and was part of the family group chat you had insisted Daeron make (Maekar not included, of course, as it was often a place to vent about said father).
Aegon (and by extension his Manny, Dunk) was a good kid. He had thought you a bit of an airhead, but he was nice enough about it since it was obvious his favorite brother was so fond of you.
And Rhae. Sweet little Rhae…
For a few hours, you manage to stay out of Maekar's sight. The snow rages outside the large penthouse apartment’s windows, the wind so fierce it rattles them to an almost dangerous degree; but Maekar seems unbothered as he ticks away on his work laptop.
Boring old man, you think as you stare at him from the kitchen. Stupid handsome motherfucker, you seethe, squirming slightly from your stool. He just looks so damn good, with his broad shoulders, freckled and pale, his strong back, his muscular arms-
Why the fuck was he in an undershirt anyway?! Where was his usual suit and tie?! And that fucking tattoo on his bicep?! Ruining your life. A bead of sweat trickles down the back of his neck and you wanna lick it off-
Why. The fuck. Was it so. Goddamn. Hot in here?! You think in a rage as you munch on a pretzel. Surely, the heat you were feeling wasn't actually real. Surely, the sweat the pooled under your sweatshirt was simply a reaction to being stuck with an infuriatingly good looking man in his infuriatingly large apartment-
Maekar stretches his arms, one after the other over his chest, twisting his spine subtly in his seat, fuck, it makes you all tingly-
Fine, he wanted to prance around half-dressed like a slut, you could play that game. Sliding off the stool, you bat your bag of pretzels away and move to make something of substance. Maybe a grill cheese, you decide, stripping out of the hockey jersey and letting it fall to the floor.
Oh, the air is definitely hot, and you pretend not to notice Maekar's sharp blue eyes following you from the reflection of a large landscape painting that sits in front of the kitchen table. He fumes as you make yourself at home in his kitchen, and worse, he hates how well you seem to know it. Everything has its place, and you know exactly where that place is, as you gather ingredients, utensils, and finally a frying pan.
Spinning the handle in your palm, you hum to yourself as you get to work. It doesn't take long, it's a simple meal, but the idea of presenting it to the most judgemental man alive does dampen your mood a bit.
With a nod to steel your nerves, you arrange the sandwich on the plate and call out his name. “Lunch time!”
Maekar doesn't look up from his laptop.
Which means you have to walk your happy ass on over to him. Sliding the sandwich (and apple slices!) onto the table beside his computer, you offer him an impish grin. “Lunch time,” you repeat, just in case he didn't hear you the first time.
Not looking up, Maekar grunts, “I'm not hungry.”
“Yes, you are.”
Irked, he glances at your stubbornly cheerful expression, then down at the sandwich. It looks good, with gooey cheese and perfectly toasted bread-
“Eat it.”
“Don't tell me what to do,” he huffs, but he's already reaching for a piece. He glares into your sparkling eyes as the scent of it hits him, and he struggles not to wolf it down.
Fuck, it's so goddamn good; he had been living on protein shakes for breakfast, fast food for lunch, and usually for dinner. The sandwich is simple, yes, but it's fucking good, and he tries not to let his enjoyment of it show on his face.
But you see it anyway. Proud, you try not to gloat, and instead try to bow out gracefully, turning on your heel and sauntering back to the kitchen.
Maekar eyes you with doubt, but before he can't comment, his attention is snapped away; you're in just a sports bra and panties, and for the first time, he can see your tattoo clearly-
“What the fuck is that?!” He demands, nearly choking at the sight of the sleek dragon that curves over your ribs, its head unseen, its long slender neck curling under your thick bra- “Are you fucking kidding me?!”
You ignore him, breezing back to the kitchen, but he follows, nipping at your heels like a bad habit.
“Foolish,” he grunts as he pushes the button to the coffee maker with more force than necessary.
Your brow crinkles. What the fuck was he riding you for now? You just just made him a downright lovely sandwich, with a side of apple slices mind you, and now here he was, being the sand in your vagina- “Excuse me?”
He pokes your dragon tattoo; fuck, your skin is so soft, even if a bit moist from sweat, and he yanks his touch away as if you were on fire- “What the hell is this?”
“Ooh,” You smile, coyly, turning to unzip the front of your bra, parting the zipper to reveal the valley of your breasts, and the beast’s head that had been hidden away inside.
Maekar stares at it, the supple curves of your tits making his cock ache as he pictures you on your back, his mouth nipping at the tattooed flesh-
“What? You don't like my ink?” You tease, zipping back up just as quickly. “Don't be a hypocrite, Maekar, I know you've got some.”
“Hmph.” He rubs his tattooed bicep almost absently. “I would never get someone else's family fucking crest-”
“I'm sorry, do you see three heads? No.”
“You don't hear me, he doesn't love you-”
It's like a punch to the chest. His harsh words leave you breathless a moment before you shake your head, stubborn and annoyed and so beyond hurt, as you argue, “He's my best friend-”
“But he doesn't love you,” he says pointedly, staring down at you as if you were an insect under his shoe, with such utter disgust, as he curls his lip and tells you plain, “I've seen how he fucks you, and it's lazy.”
Oh, that makes your cunt clench. “That doesn't mean he doesn't love me,” you argue, a bit helplessly.
“It means he's not in love with you,” at least he has the decency to sound a little apologetic about it. “You're a passing fancy, he'll tire of you soon enough. You shouldn't have marked yourself up for that louse,” he growls, unable to take his eyes off the ink, the permanent mark of his family's sigil on your body making his prick twinge and he's thankful his black track pants are baggy enough to hide it as his gaze whispers over your luscious curves. Fuck, he doesn't know why he's fawning over you, you were always prancing around half naked, he had seen you by the pool countless times in less then what you were wearing now-
He's seen you naked, too, you both know. You can still feel his eyes burning into you through the crack in the door as Daeron tongued your cunt, as the wet sounds of his fingers fucking you filled the room…but Maekar was so fucking far away, so untouchable, and that only made you pull Daeron closer-
His chin dips as he glances ever so briefly at your mouth. How many times had he pictured those lips wrapped around his dick? How many times had he heard you moan his son's name through the vents, and how many times had he grunted your name in reply, fisting his cock to a weak, unsatisfying climax that always made him feel like a fucking pervert, and that's what he feels like now, as he peers down at you with utter contempt…
But you smell so fucking good…and you've never been so fucking close before…
A slow, knowing smile spreads over your lips. “Oh my Gods.”
“What?”
“You're jealous.”
“Jealous?! Of what?! Having some brainless whore to string about?!”
“That he has someone ride or die,” you say it like it's fact, “something you haven't had since Baelor died.”
His jaw tenses at his brother's name. “Watch your tone, you insolent brat. This is still my house-”
“Yeah, yeah, throw me out into the blizzard, why don't you?!”
Fuck, he realizes perhaps his comment had cut a fraction deeper than he intended as he finally notices your misty eyes, your lovely pout. His palm is callous, his fingers rough, as he catches you gently by the elbow as you go to storm off. “I- I just don't think it's wise, you committing your body to such a fickle person.”
Sniffling, your eyes roll as you mutter, “It's not for Daeron.”
His brow furrows. “What?”
“Look closer, old man.”
Maekar rolls his eyes, but obediently looks again. Its inner wings are red and its body black, Targaryen colors, the scaled belly detailed with a shimmer of p-
“Purple,” he whispers, touching the scales reverently, taking a long moment to simply take in the ink before his gaze rises to yours. “For Rhae?”
Sheepish, you nod, unable to help how you shiver at his touch. “Helping her-”
“Saving her,” he corrects gruffly, “she'd be dead without your intervention-”
“Don't say that!” The thought breaks your heart. “I just noticed it first-”
“No,” Maekar rasps insistently, “I had never even heard about it, dry drowning, I thought she was just tired, I would have just put her to bed-”
The thought of that day makes you both ache; the day of Baelor's funeral, Rhae, barely a toddler, had fallen into the pool. Someone should have been watching her, but in their grief, everyone had assumed someone else was, and by the time anyone noticed she was missing, she had already made it inside the gate.
“Thank the Gods Egg saw her when he did,” you remind him.
The little boy had screamed so loud at the sight of his sister, desperately kicking and thrashing and coughing as she clawed and fought to keep her head above water-
It had been Aerion of all people to reach her first, snatching her out of the water by her arm so hard he dislocated her little shoulder. You had never seen him cry before, and it had been a startling thing to see as he clung to her and collapsed to his knees, sobbing like a child as she coughed and coughed and coughed-
And she kept coughing all night, even after she had been checked out by the paramedics. She kept breathing shallowly, and her pale cheeks had stayed rosy as she wheezed-
Helpless, Maekar shakes his head. “If you hadn't taken those life guard courses at Storm's End…”
Your stomach clenches painfully at the thought. “That day changed my life, too. I didn't…I didn't…”
His head tilts, blue eyes sharp as he takes in your distant but pensive expression.
A glimmer of a smile tugs at your mouth, but it's sad. “I guess I didn't think much of myself before that.”
For a moment, Maekar is silent. He wants to thank you, something he never did for that night. The night when you scooped his daughter up and demanded he call an ambulance, the night you snapped your fingers in Rhae's exhausted face and kept her awake as Maekar seethed, as he shouted at you for your overdramatics, your overblown concern, as he accused you of being a whore who just wanted attention. It wasn't until Rhae stopped breathing that he finally understood the gravity of the situation, and then he panicked. Daeron and Aerion had needed to hold him back as you thumped the little girl on the back, sharp firm hits between her shoulder blades, each one getting harder, more frantic as you whispered in her ear for her to breathe. Maekar could still remember the noise Rhae made, the horrible, wonderful retching as she coughed up a splash of pool water onto the white carpet.
The doctors at the hospital had said she could have died. They said he was extremely lucky you were there, and since that day, since that horrible terrible day those years ago, he had been indebted to you.
And Maekar fucking hated that. Jaw tight, he tries to make some pleasantries. Licking his teeth, he sighs, and asks, “Daeron may have mentioned something about you going back to school?” It sounds like the attempt to be interested in your life physically pains him.
The way your face brightens makes his stomach flutter. “Yeah, yeah, I am,” You laugh, trying to push the thought of Daeron leaving you aside. “I'm gonna see what's out there, anyway.”
For a moment Maekar simply regards your sheepish face, your modest pride, and he nods his approval. “You could do a lot of good if you put your head on straight, I'm sure.”
Touched, you push the grin that blossoms across your face down as best you can, but can't quite smother it. “So…I've shown you mine…” your expression turns impish as you walk your fingers up his arm to his tattoo. “Can I see more of yours?”
“No,” he grunts, rolling his shoulder, jerking you away.
His annoyance only urges you on. You poke his inked bicep (a hammer and an anvil, a matching tattoo he had gotten with Baelor from their youth, one you had seen countless times) and try not to moan at the sweat slick skin, the firm muscle beneath the soft flesh. Eyes sparkling, you slide a little closer and press him again with a cheeky, “Lemme see.”
“No,” he huffs, turning away from your pretty eyes and flirtatious smile.
“Boo! Boring old man!”
“It's just the family crest, and…one for Dyanna.” His tone is surprisingly patient, but still firm. “They're private.”
“Ah.” Hands up, you concede at his dead wife's name. “Fair. I thought maybe you had afun tramp stamp or something equally scandalous.”
He snorts. “No, just this one…” Maekar rubs his old army tatt and chuckles.
You take his bicep in both hands again. Fuck, his skin is flush and warm- Thumbing the lines, you nod your approval. “It's not bad for a forty year old piece.”
“Hardly forty, but yes, it's held up nicely.”
“Daeron has one for Dyanna, too.”
Maekar blinks with surprise. “He hates needles!”
“Yeah but he loves his Mama,” your tone is light, but your eyes are fond as you keep stroking the lines. “You…you should ask him about it sometime…”
He smoothes a piece of hair from your cheek absently, ignoring how it makes your breath hitch. “Why can't you just tell me about it?” He asks, his thumb caressing your collarbone as his hand falls to his side.
Ignoring the sparkle of heat low in your belly, you meet his eyes sadly, voice trying to be airy and not quite making it, “It could be a bonding experience-”
And the moment is gone. “I don't need you to tell me how to bond with my son,” Maekar spits, that same old hate for you rising in his eyes as he jerks from your touch. How foolish he had been to forget! You're always meddling, always challenging, always fucking judging him; you thought he was a bad father, and maybe he was, but that was his fucking business, not yours-
“He misses her, too! They all do! Daella said you don't even talk about her! Rhae and Aegon-”
His blue eyes seem to flash at you in warning, and you swear the whipping wind outside gets louder somehow. “Do not speak to me of my children-”
Beseechingly, your head shakes. “You can't just throw therapists at a kid and hope that's good enough! Maekar, please, please, please-”
“What?!” He snarls.
You flounder under his angry stare. Fuck, now that you have his full attention, its hard to breathe, let alone speak-
“Well?! You have the floor! Speak your fucking piece!”
“They miss her, too,” you whisper with tears in your eyes, “but Rhae and Aegon, they don't remember her, and that's your fault.”
It's like a knife in his chest.
“You don't laugh with them. You don't play. You don't tell them stories about her, or even let them crawl into bed with you,” your voice breaks, remembering how they always came to Daeron with their nightmares, their boo-boos, their fears, and you loved that Daeron tried, tried his damndest to comfort them, but deep down they wanted their father, they all did. “There's no pictures of her here, and you moved them so far away from Summerhall-”
“That's enough.”
“Is it?!” You grab his wrist.
Maekar grunts with surprise as you drag him out of the kitchen, through the living room, down the hall, to the room across from his own. Rhae's purple door greets him, covered in paper insects; dragon flies, lady bugs, butterflies, the decorations obviously homemade, and he doesn't recall noticing them before, which just makes him feel even more like shit as you open the door and pull him inside.
“Look at this place!” You bellow, spinning around to face him with an expression he doesn't understand.
“What?” It’s a room any little girl would kill for, full of stuffed animals of all shapes and sizes, a large canopy bed, and purple, so much purple, violet and periwinkle and mauve, with darker accents of plum. “What's wrong with it?”
Huffing, you grab his hand again and yank him deeper into the room. When he hesitates, you only get more angry, and circle around him so you can plant your hands on his (fucking delectable) back and physically push him deeper into the bedroom. “Maekar! Look!”
“What? What?!” The older man asks, genuinely baffled.
“There is nothing of her here! You-” You lick your lips, try to calm yourself, but the floodgates have opened, and all the shit you've been bottling up for years comes tumbling out anyway- “You don't have any photos of her, or anyone up in this stupid penthouse! Not Aemmon, not Aerion, not Daella! It's bereft-! It's barren! It's fucking weird, Maekar!”
“It is not!” Maekar huffs, hating the swell of shame he feels at your sad eyes. “I will not be lectured on my grief by some fucking trollop-”
Oh, he did not just call you that! “I am not some fucking trollop!”
“Yes, you are! Who are you to say anything when you are a guest in this house?!”
You snatch a panda stuffie off the perfectly made bed and hold it up. “What's his name?!”
Surprise wipes the anger clean off his face. “What?!”
“Daeron won it for her at the Aemmon’s school carnival three years ago. She usually sleeps with it, but she decided to take her dragon instead. For protection.” You shove the panda in his face accusingly. “What's his name?”
“I don't-”
“Okay.” You arch a challenging eyebrow and toss the toy back on the bed. “What's the dragon's name? The one you got her for her name day when she turned five. The one she always takes on sleepovers. What's. It's. Name?”
He's quiet, seething.
“You don't know it do you?” Disgust twinges your tone. “You’re the one who fucking bought it for her, how do you not know it's name?”
Maekar shakes his head. Heart pounding, he tries to keep his calm, but rage has flushed his pale cheeks red. Voice tight, he dismissed you with an almost passive, “I've had enough of this, pack your things, get out.”
“Fine!” You snap as he turns from you, and you're thankful because tears have started pricking at your eyes again. “Fuck you, too!”
After a fight with Maekar, your stupid ass runs into a snow storm and he has to rescue you; meanwhile, Daeron schemes with Daella.
Every cab company you call laughs in your face. It's a little insulting, but you understand. You feel like a fool even asking for a ride in this weather, but it beats the alternative of walking the ten or so blocks through knee high snow…
Sighing, you rub your throbbing temples as yet another company hangs up on you. Your phone darkens and you sigh again, louder, letting a little frustration out.
You know the logical thing to do is to go apologize to Maekar. Just suck up your pride, and go in there and tell him you were out of line, that your mouth ran away on you, but you can't, because everything you said was true.
The man in question is starting to realize that as well, as he stares around Rhae's room. It's been a while since he's been in here. Really in here, not just the odd poke of his head inside to make sure she was up for school or to bid her goodnight. Almost a year, at least. His blue eyes tick around the room.
It's objectively a nice room; Dyanna had been so set on purple for the nursery, long before they knew the sex. “It's regal,” she had said, and Maekar knew better than to argue with her when she had her mind set on something.
A smirk twinges at his lips as he picks the panda bear up. Yes, he knew it. He had seen his youngest carting it around, usually at night, but he had never thought to ask where it came from. In truth, he simply hadn't cared.
So what if he didn't know a toy's name? He knew other things, important things. He knew her blood type, her shoe size, her name day. So what if he didn't know the stupid panda's name? There were plenty of other toys, surely he knew…one of them.
But he doesn't. Maekar rips the room apart, growing frantic as he searches for some semblance of familiarity-
He doesn't recognize her toys, can't say where they come from or what she's named them. He's not in any of her drawings, not even in the background. There really are no photographs. No trace of him or his wife anywhere to be seen. He purses his lips, jaw growing tighter and tighter along with his chest-
“What are you doing?”
“Tormenting Father,” Daeron replies easily, frowning as he watches you slip into a pair of sneakers on the screen in his hands.
Daella squints, fixing her earring absently as she crosses the room to take a peek at the tablet in his lap. “Is that the penthouse?!”
“Yup,” her brother huffs. “The weather is bad there, there's no way she'd be dumb, or spiteful enough to-”
“Yes she is.”
Daeron purses his lips at her casual judgement of you, flashing her an annoyed look over his shoulder.
“What? What?! I like her but she is so impulsive, she can't help it, it's her Baratheon blood.”
For a moment, Daeron's jaw is tight before he relents with a click of his tongue. A quick glance down confirms you're no longer in his room. He swipes to another camera. You're not in the hall either, or the living room, or kitchen. His heart begins to pound.
“Remember when she tongued the Widow Lannister?” Daella asks with a chuckle.
“Hey, she was free game, okay?”
“It was her husband's funeral, Daeron.”
“He was cold in the ground, Daella, and that guy was a prick anyway.”
“I think you're missing the point of the story, Daeron.”
“I am not, Daella,” He, too, could say his sibling's name for emphasis.
“I'm just saying, Gods, maybe she would go out in a snow storm to spite our dad, she hates that guy.” Her delicate brow crinkles at his scoff. “What?”
“You think she hates him?”
“Yeah? One time he tried to tell me to put a sweater on over my bathing suit and her head spun around like an owl's.”
“That's just good feminism.”
“She hates him, she said he's a bad dad, and a workaholic, and spends too much time at the gym, and- oh my Gods.”
A smirk pulls at the corner of Daeron's full mouth. “Right?”
“So…so wait, wait, wait,” Daella slides onto the couch beside him, eyes widening as the pieces fall into place; she thinks of how you're always glaring at him, how you're always quick with a stern word or a scowl for him- “That's why… that's why?!”
“Uh-huh.” Daeron frowns, his brow furrowing as he keeps swiping through the cameras, but has no luck finding you. Stomach effectively knitted, he huffs.
Daella is still reeling. “But- wait, does- he doesn't, like, reciprocate, does he?”
“That's a big word for Elmo,” Daeron mocks, earning himself a swift punch in the arm. “Ouch!”
“Well?! Does he?!”
“Yes?! I mean, I think so?!”
“Then why are you so excited about them being alone together, you sick freak?!”
For a beat, her elder brother is quiet before he answers with a simple, “Rhae.”
Some of her disgust falls at their baby sister's name. “What?”
“I want them to get together for Rhae,” Daeron says honestly, even though the words feel like a knife in his chest as he says them aloud for the first time. “She needs a mother.”
Shocked, Daella gapes at her elder brother for a moment, and the only sound in the hotel room is Keira and Valarr’s soft voices in the other suite, their television in the background, and when she finally gathers her thoughts enough to speak, it's not enthusiastic. “You cannot be serious.”
“Father is lonely, isolated. A good woman could change that.”
“Yeah, but why does it have to be your woman?” His younger sister grumbles, her willowy arms crossing over her chest. Uncomfortable, she swallows and stumbles, “Father is…old, and stubborn-”
“Yes, I know.”
Daella shakes her head, not seeing the picture Daeron had in mind so easily. “And she's…rash, and sentimental, and petulant, at times-”
“Yes, I know,” he repeats firmly.
“And you…you've always been so…attached, to her,” his sister says, almost sheepishly. “And she's so devoted to you, Daeron.”
If only Daella knew the half of it, her elder brother thinks as he nods. He thinks of all the nights you've spent holding him through night terrors, through screaming and clawing and pissing himself, never once complaining, except when he tried to hide his pain from you.
“I always thought…some day, maybe the two of you might…?”
“Might?” He repeats, suddenly in desperate need of a drink. “Might what?”
“Get…married…” she grumbles under her breath, only daring to peek at him out of the corner of her eye.
Daeron’s face darkens, just a shade. “No,” he says curtly, and that's the end of that matter. Pointedly, he flicks to another camera and scowls at your absence in yet another room.
“I'm just saying,” a smirk rises on her lips as she stands. “She might not be so quick to trade the new model in for the old one.”
“Mhm.” Daeron reaches for his cell phone and hits his father's contact as she leaves the room. Worry has him gnawing his lip as he waits for his father to pick up, as he flicks from room to room to room, unable to find you.
In the penthouse, Maekar can hear his phone ringing, but he's in no rush to get it. No, Maekar is busy sulking. He sits on Rhae's bed, staring at the mess he's made. Not a trace of him. Not an inkling. Sniffing, his jaw gets tighter and tighter the longer the ringing goes on. Finally, he gathers the strength to pry his ass from his daughter's bed to go get it.
The sight of Daeron's name does little to quell his nerves. “What?” He snaps into the receiver.
“Hey Dad,” Daeron swallows, watching the older man pace in the living room restlessly on his tablet. “Have you seen-”
“No, I have not seen her, call her fucking cell!”
Daeron cringes as his father hangs up on him, only to immediately call him back. “Dad, please-” he tries as Maekar picks up. “I think she left.”
“Left? What do you mean she left?” Maekar demands, his blue eyes cutting to the windows, where the storm still rages outside. If anything, it looks worse, as the snow has turned to sleet. Absently, he lowers the phone and calls out your name, but no reply comes. “No fucking way,” he muttered to himself.
Hanging up on his son again, he tries your name again and again, heading deeper into the penthouse as he gets more and more frantic.
Rage makes his entire body hot. Bitch. Imbecile. Whore. He mutters and threatens, his mind muddled with worry and anger as he dresses quickly, throwing on a crimson red jacket that falls to his knees and a sturdy pair of boots that hit him almost as high. He wraps a heavy wool scarf around his neck, grabs a hat and gloves from the wooden chest by the door, and heads into the storm without second thought.
To your credit, you manage to make it about a third of the way before you have to take refuge in a store covered entrance.
Stupid, stupid, stupid, you think, squinting against the harsh wind as tears freeze and flake away on your flushed cheeks. Hugging yourself, you curse and swear and look to turn back, but the world is a mask of white and grey, and you can barely tell the buildings apart-
So you stay put, getting colder and colder, wetter and wetter, until someone crosses your vision in a dark red coat. You sniffle, wondering who else would be so stupid to come out, when the hat is blown off his head, revealing a familiar shock of white hair-
“M-Maekar?!” Your voice breaks on the wind, but the man in red stops his quick confident stride, turning to look at you with wide eyes. Sheepish, you offer him a little wave, your fingers just shy of numb. “Hi?!”
Absolutely furiously, he thinks, telling himself the relief he feels is only for Daeron- “Are you out of your fucking mind?!” He bellows back, jumping over the snow piled up on the side of the road with an incredible amount of grace for a man his age.
You tiptoe out of the shielded walkway and meet him halfway. “I-”
Maekar's expression goes from enraged to astounded to horrified as he takes in what you're wearing, or rather not wearing; thin jeans, canvas sneakers, no gloves, no hat, no common sense at all-
“Idiot, stupid, foolish girl, stupid, stupid, stupid-” he mutters, brushing the wet snow from your hair.
You wince, rubbing your arms. Your short yellow peacoat does nothing to protect you from the cold, your hands are like ice, your feet are, too-
Your teeth chatter as he pulls his gloves off and slides them onto your raw, shaking fingers. The sudden warmth almost hurts, and you whine softly, trying to pull back, but Maekar doesn't allow it.
“Don't,” he says firmly, pushing the other one on just as tight. “You're lucky I found you when I did!”
Shaking all over, you can only huff as he unwinds the scarf from around his neck and loops it around your own. It smells like him, like sandalwood, and it's warm like him, and you melt into it as he tucks it with care over your ears, then he nods.
Then, without a word, he takes your wrist and leads you back through the storm, his sense of direction so much stronger than yours, or at least more certain. There are a few close calls as your sneakers slip on the slick concrete on the sidewalk, but Maekar doesn't let you fall. You mutter a string of thank yous, but he ignores you, his flushed expression painfully blank.
Thankfully, you hadn't made it far, thankfully, you hadn't fallen, hadn't hurt yourself, thankfully, no cars had lost control and plowed into you, thankfully- His mind rages as he thinks of all the terrible things that could of happened to you, and he grips your wrist tighter as you warble apologies behind him.
Drenched to the bone, the two of you stumble back to the apartment building. Your teeth chatter loudly as he leads you through the empty lobby (the employees having been sent home hours ago because of the storm, Maekar had approved of the decision himself), your sneakers skidding and squeaking on the marble floors as you struggle to keep up, your feet numb from the cold-
“Stupid girl,” he mutters again, as he hits the button for the elevator, “could have been killed-!”
“Dr-dr-dr-”
His stark blue eyes cut over to you. “What?! Spit it out!”
“Dram-m-atic.” You flash him a small smile that only seems to infuriate him further, and when you laugh at his red cheeks under his wet white beard, he all but punches the damn button again.
When the elevator dings and the doors swing open, Maekar practically shoves you inside. He hits the button for the penthouse, and as the doors slide closed, the only sound is the chatter of your teeth, the drip on the carpet from your wet clothes, and his heavy breathing.
“I-I thought you would apologize.”
You glance at him, caught off guard by the softness in his voice.
He keeps his chin high as you peer up at him with utter shock. Voice even, he tells you, “I didn't think you would fucking leave in the middle of a blizzard, stubborn fool-”
Unable to help yourself, you snort. Maekar ‘the Anvil’ Targaryen, almost apologizing to you of all people, after you had reamed him out no less. You place a shaky hand on his arm. “Sh-shows what y-y-you know.”
He snorts as the doors part. “Come on,” he urges, guiding you out of the elevator and into the penthouse. Without a word, he takes your coat and tries not to look at you; in only a thin thermal shirt and heavy sweat pants, you're soaked, shivering, your clothes cling to you like a second skin, and Maekar tries not to stare as you bend over to slide your drenched sneakers off. He does the same with his boots, his feet still nice and warm, unlike yours, he can tell they're cold by the frantic way you clench and unclench your toes, they must be close to numb. Without a word, Maekar takes your wrist again, and he leads you all the way back into the apartment to his bedroom.
Your eyes widen as he opens his door; the one room you've never been in before. Curious, your eyes dart around, but there's not much to see. The walls are a medium shade of blue, the accents black and white. There's no personal touches at all, and the air is almost sterile, and it strikes you that Maekar must not spend a lot of time here, or it would smell like him, right?
Dragging you to the bathroom, Maekar grunts as he shoves you inside. “Here,” he huffs. “Warm yourself.”
Well, there's no reason to deny him, you suppose, immediately peeling off your wet shirt before the door even fully closes.
His stomach catches at the brief reflection of your sport's bra in the mirror, and he quickly shuts it tight. Smoothing a hand over his wet hair, he sighs and moves to call his son.
Daeron answers on the first ring. “Did-?!”
“Found her,” Maekar assures him. “Stupid bitch tried to walk home.”
Daeron huffs over the line. “Don't call her that-”
“Why-”
“Is she okay?”
“She's fine, probably going to have one hell of a cold, but she'll live.” Maekar grunts.
“Good, thanks, Dad.”
“Hm.” For a moment, things are quiet between them, and Maekar feels a twinge of annoyance as he recalls your words about bonding. “How's Winterfell? How's your sister?”
Surprise colours Daeron's voice, but he answers honestly, “Good, good, just…skiing up a storm, y'know how Daella is, always the competitor.”
He chuckles. “Good, maybe she'll rub off on you.”
That stings; time for phase two, Daeron thinks bitterly. Seafoam eyes narrow, he licks his teeth. “Well. I should go bother her. I'll talk to you soon, Dad.”
“Mhm, goodbye, son.”
“I love-” Daeron nods as his father clicks off. “Right,” he mutters, then he turns the heat in the penthouse apartment way down, and the air conditioning way up.
For a while, you just stand under the hot stream of rushing water, desperate to shake the chill from your bones. Your gaze flicks around the glass stall, and you eye Maekar's shampoo bottles, before you reach for his soap. Creamy white, it smells of sandalwood and mint, an odd combination, but not a bad one, you think as you work it up to a rich lather. The mint makes your skin tingle pleasantly, and can't help rubbing it across your peaked nipples, still tight and sensitive from the cold. The thought of Maekar using it makes your head swim, as you imagine him soaping up his broad chest, maybe reaching a strong hand down to fist his flushed red-
You quickly slam it back into the soap dish, pretending you never touched it as guilt eats you alive. Fuck! You hate this little infatuation you have with the grumpy old man! He was so-
Jaded and stern and mean, Maekar could be mean, downright cruel at times-
But Gods, did you want him. You had wanted him since the moment you met him, when he offered you a disinterested nod and a polite handshake, and you had almost swooned. His hand hadn't felt anything like Daeron's. Daeron had an artist's hands, delicate, nimble, gentle. Maekar…Maekar had a soldier's hands; rough, with a casual strength that had made you so wet you had almost felt a little guilty that night when Daeron had commented on it.
Slow, you savor rinsing off, letting your bones warm up completely before you step out, snatching a fluffy black towel from the rack. You give your hair a quick tussle with it before you wrap it tightly around yourself and take a deep breath, simply to enjoy the steam.
Uh-oh, your eyes widen as you realize you have no clothes to change into. Sheepish, you tiptoe to the door and peek it open. “Uh, Maekar?”
“What,” he demands gruffly, surprisingly close to the door.
Heat touches your face and you're thankful he can't see you, as you stammer, “I- could you grab my bag, from Daeron's room, please? It's a carry-on duffle bag, yellow and black, at the foot of his bed, please?”
Curt, he offers a quick, “fine,” like he hasn't done enough for you today, before he leaves.
For a few brief minutes, you're left alone with your thoughts. You try to work out an apology that's not really an apology, something you can say about regret, about impulsivity, but nothing really comes.
The door opens just a shade and a familiar bag is tossed inside. Shouting your thanks as it closes just as quick, you quickly grab the outfit meant for the airport. Nothing scandalous, just a thin baseball tee that clings to your tits and a pair of yoga pants that hug your ass just so (Daeron's favorites, bless him, that boy always did prefer you in comfy pjs than strappy useless lingerie).
Sheepish, you poke your head outside. “Hi.”
Maekar sits, unimpressed, on the bed, glowering at you as you creep out of his bathroom; his eyes drop to where your nipples tent the fabric of your thin shirt, wet from your hair, almost transparent, damn you. Fiddling with your fingers you swallow and thank him for letting you use his shower, for coming to your rescue, but he dismisses you with a stern, “Get. Out.”
It was really the least you could do. Scampering out of his barren bedroom, you run back to Daeron's room and curl up in the safety of his bed.
Maekar frowns as he steps into his bathroom; of course you didn't pick up after yourself, spoiled brat, he thinks, scooping your wet shirt up from the floor. It's drenched, and so are your jeans, and the sight of your plain cotton boy shorts give him pause. They're soaked, and he can only imagine what they would look like on you, clinging to your mound, your slit, the fabric thin and translucent, hiding nothing-
He shoves the thought aside and drops them in the hamper before he can do something ridiculous like bury his face in them-
Fuck, he bets you would smell so fucking good, a small dirty little voice whispers to him as he forces himself to slam the lid shut. With a deep breath, he swipes a shaky hand over his face and moves to get in the shower, to rid the chill from his bones
It's somehow worse in the confined space. The air still stuffy with a cloying heat from your shower, and there are bubbles on the soap; all at once, he can imagine you in there, naked, can imagine you using his soap, touching yourself, can imagine how your skin would smell, how your cunt would smell-
He cranks on the hot water and steps under the stream. Thoughtless, his fingers wrap around his shaft as he inhales deeply. Lost in the steam and the smell of sandalwood, he jerks himself off in quick strokes. He thinks of your peaked nipples, thinks about sucking the water from the fabric that tents them, thinks about fingering your cunt while he tongues your precious tits, biting and licking and sucking on your poor nipples until they were bruised, as you fist his hair and whine like a true whore, like you did for Daeron. He thinks of your mouth, the cheeky smiles, the coy laughter, and he gets lost in the haze a moment, only able to feel his fist on his dick, the stifling heat, and the knot in his stomach. He winces. It's fine, but it's not enough, and soon he's forgotten all about the cold, he's so desperate for some taste of you-
You, you, you; the only one who dared stand up to him, the one who loved his children unconditionally, the Baratheon whore his son had been fucking for literal years, Gods damn him, what in the Seven Hells was he doing?!
Stumbling out of the shower stall, he all but flips the hamper over in search of your underwear. They sit at the top, as if waiting for him, and he snatches them, pressing them to his face-
The same way he had Dyanna's, he remembers, the comparison hitting him like a fright train. Yes, yes, hadn't he done this once before when he was young, when Daeron was but more than a babe, and Dyanna had travelled back to Dorne to show him off to her family-
His resolve had broken then, just as it had now. He had just wanted a taste, a smell, an inkling of the woman he loved, something real to remind himself she was coming back, he had wanted to be close to her-
And that was nothing like this! Nothing at all, he thinks, tonguing lapping at the crotch of your boy shorts. This was sheer lust, little more, nothing more-
His cock leaks, steadily pulsing harder and harder as he grunts your name, as he sighs and fucks his fist for the first time in a week-
Fuck, he hasn't touched himself since the last time he'd been home-
Since the last time he saw you, more like, that wretched little voice reminds him, since the night he had nearly walked in on you and Daeron, since the night he had watched you ride his eldest son's face, your beautiful fingers tangled in his blonde hair, holding him between your thighs, as you held Maekar's gaze through the crack in the door-
It had almost broke him. His resolve wavered that night, as you looked at him with such heat, daring him to come take Daeron's place, and Maekar had almost done it, almost kicked the door in and ripped the boy from you, desperate to show you what a man could do in his place-
But that would have been cruel, sick even. You were too young for him, and too devoted to Daeron to ever truly want him, anyway. His attention gave you a little thrill was all, maybe you had a kink, maybe you thought it was funny-
The thought stings, but it's true. He has seen how he had wounded you, when he had accused Daeron of not loving you, when he had struck you in a sore spot he surely known existed-
Grunting your name under his breath, he comes with a thick gush that paints his knuckles white. Chest flushed and heaving, Maekar stays on bended knee a moment, with your underwear pressed to his nose and his hand on his cock. What an old fool he was.
Slow, his knee creaks in protest as he stands. Wiping his come absently on your panties, Maekar pants as he drops them back in the hamper.
Random thing for people to consider is that since Laika is the saint of one way trips should Felicette be known as the saint of safe landings since she did make it back to the ground safely
tu LANCES félicette ? tu lances son corps comme la fusée ? oh ! oh ! prison pour les scientifiques ! prison pour les scientifiques pendant Un Mille Ans !
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I just wanted to tell you that your fics made me fall into the Sam Spruell rabbit hole. Since your librarian fic i've been consuming all his media available to x yt or here. Thanks for have let me seen the light! You're amazing! Xx
I'M SO HONORED!!!
I hope you enjoy it, it's a great fandom to be in!
Absolutely love your writing i was wondering if you could write a smutty rough oneshot of roddy the ruin please😁
Hi, hello, I'm glad you enjoyed it but I'm ashamed to say I don't know who this is, I'm sorry! I googled, and while he's very handsome, I probably won't be writing for him, I'm sorry!
A Maekar Targaryen fic inspired by erwinsvow's Baelor Targaryen fanfiction, called hopelessly devoted; genuinely one of the best pieces of fanfiction I've ever read; I highly recommend it if you're a fan of romance!
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After sustaining a head injury at the Ashford tourney, Maekar forgets not only his youngest children, but his new (heavily pregnant) wife as well.
TW: head injuries/amnesia, lustful thoughts, mutual pining, pregnancy (reader is heavily pregnant), thoughts of infidelity but no actual infidelity (it makes sense in context), Aerion's an insensitive little shit, death, child birth, angst and fluff, allusions to smut (and eventual smut)
“Who the fuck are you?”
The sound of your husband's voice should startle you (you're supposed to be hidden away after all, out of sight, out of mind, until they could ever so gently break the news of your very existence to poor Maekar), but it doesn't. Of course it doesn't. This was bound to happen, you had warned everyone; keeping him locked up was only going to make him restless, cagey, even more surly than he already was. You pity the maesters who tend to him as much as you envy them.
With a heaving sigh, you look at him.
It's natural to assess him. Even if you're not publicly his wife anymore, you still love the old dog, you want him to be well, but you can't see his injuries through his baggy black sleep clothes. Still, it's good to see him, as he stands tall, proud, angry in the dim light of the nursery. The vein in his forehead throbs as he glares at you, scowling in a way that makes you beam.
At least he’s well enough to glower, you think fondly.
“What? What the fuck are you smiling at?!” Maekar demands, uncertain why your bright expression makes his heart skip a beat. “And what the fuck are you doing here?!”
Oh, right. Reality bites at your heart like the most vicious dog. Tears prick at your eyes and you quickly drop your gaze to the embroidery hoop that rests on your swollen belly. Sliding the needle into the linen, the shoulder you lift is limp. “This is the nursery, my Prince.”
“Yes, I'm aware,” Maekar snarls. “You shouldn't be here!”
Tired, exhausted really, you lift your gaze to his. “Where else should I be?” You ask plainly.
It seems everyone has an opinion on what to do with you; the council said you were best kept close, but Baelor had been ready to ship you off to Summerhall the moment the name Dyanna fell from Maekar’s lips. The death of his own lady-wife still so fresh, Baelor couldn't imagine his poor brother having to relive the loss, not while he was recovering, so he tucked you away.
Not forever, the eldest Prince had assured you as the maids hurriedly packed your belongings, stripping Maekar's chambers of every trace of you, just until he remembered-
“Not in here!” Markar snaps, blue eyes blazing in the fire light.
“Hush,” you snap right back, tossing your hoop into a basket at your side as you ready yourself to stand. “You'll wake my girl.”
“Your girl?” He sneers, eyes narrowing as he watches you struggle to your feet. Awkward, he tries not to look at you directly; it's improper, seeing an expectant mother alone, seeing a woman in your condition in her night dress, the material thin, clinging to your curvaceous form, making your heavy (breasts) belly even more striking. “What girl?”
Oh, that breaks your heart. You pray Rhae doesn't wake; she's been so very eager to see him these last weeks, to see him and not be able to keep him would break her little heart even more. Cringing, you shake your head. “Go back to bed. You need your rest.”
He straightens almost hesitantly as you stand before him, bare foot, your robe too big, much too big, almost reaching the floor. A man's robe, he realizes, black and red, Targaryen colors. He likes it, how it hangs open to reveal your low cut night dress, the thin material clinging to your full breasts, the cut designed to flow over your swollen belly and whisper around your lovely legs. His cock twitches and a rush of shame crosses him.
He had only found out this afternoon that his Dyanna had passed. In a fit of rage, Aerion had finally broke down and screamed- “She's dead! She's fucking dead! She's not at Summerhall, you stupid old man! She's been dead for fucking years-”
The maesters had the King’s guard drag the boy off, and Baelor had been called, sent to comfort him, but Maekar had been irate. Called him a liar, accused him of treating him as feeble, before the younger Prince had heaved a book at him and finally forced his brother from the room.
He had only come to the nursery for a reprieve, for a chance to mourn his loss and have a fucking moment to himself-
“Maekar?”
He blinks, surprised to find your hand on his arm, and stranger still, a concerned frown on your lips. Shaking off the flood of warmth that spreads through his chest, he steps back from you with an uncertain frown.
Hurt, but unsurprised, you force a smile and try to gently steer him away from Rhae's bed; thankfully her thick red canopy covers her well. “Do you need me to walk you back to your chambers, Maekar?”
“Don't get familiar,” the Prince snaps, jaw so tight it aches as he orders, “Now, tell me why it is you haunt me so?!”
Oh, you shouldn't be so proud of that, but the acknowledgement also hurts in a strange way. Torn between a smile and a frown, you settle for a limp, “I haunt you?”
“I saw you,” he hisses, color rising in his pale pock-marked cheeks, the red just visible under his white beard, “that first morning at my bedside, weeping like a war widow, blubbering on with that girl-”
“Don't,” you warn, eyes flashing in the dim light as your heart begins to pound. “Don't speak ill of her, Maekar, please-”
“Whose bastard is she? Hm? Daeron's? Aerion’s?” Maekar paces restlessly, just out of your reach. Hands balled into fists, he can't stand still, as visions of you flash through his mind; on your back, hair splayed out in the pillows, your slack lips kiss bruised and flushed, and it makes him sick to imagine someone else on top of you, to even think of someone else drawing the sweetest of sounds from your throat. He jerks a nod toward your swollen stomach and sneers, “who's bastard is that?”
“Neither are bastards, I assure you.” The words are almost curt, as you look up at him with-
With what, Maekar thinks, the expression itching at the back of his mind. He knows that face, those eyes, those lips, but he can't-
Something doesn't-
Something isn't right.
“I want to go back to my room,” he says lowly, uncertain of the painful throb in the back of his mind, or why it worsens as your pretty face falls.
“Of course, my Prince, whatever you need.”
Humming, he eyes you, skeptical, anticipatory, even more confused as you look away from him, back toward the fireplace. He can see the tears unshed in your eyes, and they pain him for a reason he cannot place. “You're upset.”
“I've been upset for weeks, what difference does it make now?” You ask, not so much snide as simply sad, as you spin your wedding band absently.
Maekar thumbs his own in reply, uncertain why he wore two now; his classic gold band for Dyanna, strong and certain, and then a thinner band of silver that sat atop it. “You shouldn't be worrying about anything in your condition.”
“Oh?” A smile twinges at the corner of your mouth, and he desperately wants to touch it, to thumb the tender curve, but he resists, and scolds himself for his impropriety. What an old fool he was! Lusting after a taken woman! An expectant mother, no less! Face hot, he demands, “So who do you belong to, then? Hm? Who's been keeping you locked away?”
Coy, your head tilts. “Who would suit me best?”
His eyes narrow as your hand raises to smooth his sleep tussled hair from his brow. The soft scent of jasmine and powder on your wrist almost breaks him, but the familiar touch is so much worse- “Stop it,” he whispers firmly, but he makes no move to step away as you edge a little closer. In fact, damn him, he leans into you, slow, careful, drawn to you like a moth to a flame as you offer a husky chuckle, full of warmth and familiarity.
“Who do you think I belong to, hm?” Your eyes sparkle with tears as you tease mirthlessly, “Who would I look best under?”
A red hot flash of heat surges through him at the very thought. Daeron the drunk, Aerion the sadist. “They don't deserve you!” He hisses, snatching you up by the arms and yanking you to his chest. “Any man who would hide his love away to wallow-”
Fuck, his body is just like his temper, it always runs so hot, it makes you twitch, makes you forget, just for a moment, just like he has-
He falters as your thumb finds his bottom lip, shutting his mouth so quickly he teeth click.
“I told you,” you murmur, leaning up to nose his jaw. He smells like summer sweat and musk, and that queer woodsmoke scent that always lingers around Targaryens, and a fire strikes in your belly as you tap his (rock hard) chest with the tip of your finger. “Don't wake up my girl.”
“My girl,” he barks, mocking you as he leans down to meet the gentle nuzzle, confusion knotting his brow. With every beat of his heart, his head pounds harder and harder. Married, you're married, to whom, who could you belong to, and why would you touch him so freely if he couldn't keep you? How cruel could you possibly be-
“I may not have birthed her, but yes, she's mine, heart and soul.”
His brow knits. His head aches, but yes, he can almost see it, a little one in your lap, only a toddler then, peering up at you with such love as you read fables to her in the gardens. The thought warms his chest, though he doesn't know why. “Circumstances of birth…” his hands slowly lower, smoothing down your arms to take your hands. "Don't always a family make.”
The smile you give is bright, warm and true. “I agree.”
His gaze skirts over to the canopy bed. “She…she lost her mother?”
“Aye,” the sigh is passive, sad, and you instinctively rub his arm, as if soothing him from the truth. “The maesters…they gave her mother a choice, and her mother chose the life of the babe over her own.”
“Very noble of her,” he murmurs, heartsick at the thought.
You nod, a tear slipping from your eye as you remember Dyanna, her exhaustion and her fight, how she held on just long enough to see her sweet Rhae, to name her, before she passed. “It's a pity, is what it is. She was…the finest of us.”
His fingers find his aching temple. Maekar sighs. “I…rushed to judgement. It has been…a tiring day, forgive me.”
Pensive, you purse your lips. “Did something happen?” The question is too gentle to be truly probing.
His gaze drops back to yours. “My wife is dead,” he tells you needlessly, surprisingly cold.
Your eyes widen, but only slightly. Your heart breaks for him, for the low acceptance in his voice, the rage in it. “Aye. She is, ser.”
“Everyone knew but me, they knew the whole time and they let me play the fool for weeks-”
You take his right hand in both your own, rub it in a way the Prince finds more soothing than placating, much to his surprise. “They didn't want to hurt you,” you tell him, smoothing your fingertips along the back of his hand. It takes everything in you not to kiss it. “You were so fragile-”
“They wanted to keep me in the dark!” Maekar snaps, cheeks going red under his white beard again. “Keep me compliant-!”
“Shh!”
Maekar blinks as your fingers clip his chin, forcing his mouth shut.
“Do not wake-” you hiss in pain as the little one in your womb wakes with a swift kick to your ribs.
“What? What's wrong?” His blue eyes widen in fear as you bend. Quick, anxious, he guides you backward toward the rocking chair you had been in earlier.
The roaring fire in its helm casts a warm orange shine over you, your silhouettes long on the carpet, and you sit a bit harder than you mean to. “Oof!”
Panic swells in him. “What?! What is it?! Is it time?!”
“Nothing so urgent,” you laugh, a bit uncomfortable, a bit breathless. “The babe is restless, thus so am I.”
His lips twitch in empathy. Humming, he takes your hand a moment and gives it a careful squeeze of comradery. “The final weeks are always the hardest.”
“Hm,” Touched by his gentle words (Gods, how you missed him, his gruff voice, his rough hands, his sharp tongue-) you smile absently, wincing at the next kick.
“I remember when Dyanna was expecting Daeron…”
You blink with surprise as he sits in the rocking chair across from yours. The orange light of the fire reflects across his face, his skin so pale it almost seems to glow in the dim light. He eyes the fire idly, nostalgia softening his sharp features as he goes on lovingly.
“The first time he kicked, she drove her knee into my back.” He chuckles, fond, wistful. “Woke me up out of a dead sleep, I thought the worst had happened.”
A snicker leaves you as you try to settle into the chair, but the padded cushion does nothing.
“She was so excited.” He stares at the flames a moment, thoughtful, before he looks back to you, expectantly. “Is this your first?”
You nod, a small proud smile on your lips.
“You're…older, than most of the new mothers, are you not?” He tries to say it casually, but it comes out a bit stilted, a bit awkward. Not judgemental, just curious.
Your smile widens. “I…yes, I am,” you admit with a laugh that warms him. Your forearms cradle your bump protectively, and you pat it fondly as you confess, “My second husband was kind enough to share his family with me for many years before this little surprise came along.”
“An unexpected miracle is still a miracle,” he assures you, his nod of approval, or perhaps understanding, making your chin dip. “Most of my children were…unexpected.”
That makes you snort. “Oh?” Your teasing turns his cheeks pink again. “You're telling me you didn't set out for six?”
“Six?” He echoes, and your smile falls. “Four. I have four children.”
“Right, right, my apologies, sir,” you bow as best you can to him without getting up, babbling as panic grips your heart. What a fool you were! “I misspoke, I was thinking of-”
His head cocks. His head throbs. Six? Six children? Ludicrous- “Why would you say six?”
You lick your lips, blood rushing so loudly in your ears you can barely hear yourself stutter, “I- I was thinking of…ouch!”
Maekar jumps to his feet as you clutch your side dramatically. “What?! What's wrong?!”
“Oooh. Oh. Oh, uh, no,” you feign a moan and he all but crumples to his knees, his blue eyes wide with horror. “I- I should go to the, um, maesters.” Fuck! Insolent little fool! Batting your eyelashes, you lay it on thick as he peers up at you with such unadulterated fear. Shit, the guilt would eat you alive, if you weren't so eager to change the subject. “Could- could you help me get to them?”
“Of course! Of course,” he doesn't hesitate, just slips a careful hand under your back and guides you to your feet. “Easy now, easy…”
You let him brace some of your weight as you limp along, out of the room and down the hall, and up the stairs, and to the left, across from the courtyard. You know the walk well, you make it every night, just before dawn usually. You'll make the walk, but never go inside the healing chambers where your husband makes his home now. You just stand outside his door and try to imagine him asleep behind it. With an ear pressed against the thick wood, you can almost convince yourself you can hear his snores, but in your heart you know you can't.
“Easy now, easy,” he repeats, over and over throughout the walk. His hand shakes slightly in your grasp, but yours is steady-
Grounding, your hands are chapped from hot water, dry from folding linens all day, familiar in a way he can't place. In fact, now that you're out of the room, you seem almost calm. The odd grunt leaves you as you toddle up the stairs, but they're few and far between. You actually seem kind of-
He freezes as you raise your hand to knock upon the healing chambers door, a quick confident knock that confirms his suspicions. His brow furrows. “You tricked me.”
“I did,” you agree, straightening up with a sad smile as the door swings open.
Baelor’s mismatched eyes widen at the sight of you together. They flicker between you two, disbelief turning into annoyance as he addresses his brother with a firm, “I'll take your apology now.”
“My- my apology?!” Maekar bellows, but neither of you so much as flinch.
The familiar sound of its father's voice makes the baby kick, no doubt still accustomed to it from all the time he had spent reading to you in the early months of your pregnancy before it was known, and the long-winded conversations (usually a long list of complaints about his day or his sons or his duties, etc. etc.) Maekar had with your bump before the unfortunate accident at Ashford's tourney. It kicks again, right under your ribs. This grunt is real, and you rub your side with a scowl. Baelor eyes you sympathetically, and ushers his brother inside.
When you don't move to follow, Maekar pauses. His scowl shifts, lightening, but only so much, as he frowns, reaching for your hand. “Come on then.”
Uncertain, you stumble, “I…” Your gaze flicks to Baelor's, a silent question of permission passing between you.
“You've come all this way,” Maekar huffs, visibly twitching with agitation as he takes your hand in his (fuck, you've missed his hands-) again, his strong fingers insistent. “You best let the maesters check the babe-”
“Something is wrong with the babe?!” His brother asks urgently; there's no resentment between you, you understand he only tries to ease his brother's suffering, but as he steps forward, as he takes your other forearm gently and starts steering you into the room, a small flash of embarrassment goes through you.
“Oh, please,” you murmur, cheeks warm as Baelor looks you up and down, as his kind gesture breaks your hand from your husband's; you immediately miss Maekar's warmth, even though Baelor runs with the same heat, it's an unfamiliar one, and it unsettles you. “I’m fine. Simply some…enthusiastic kicking.”
Baelor doesn't look convinced. He knows how stressed you've been, knows a pregnancy at your age isn't always the easiest to begin with, and he frets; somewhat from guilt, you know. “Maekar is right.”
The (slightly) younger man's chest puffs up, as he tries to dismiss the coolness of your fingers against his own; he knows those hands, that touch, how does he know them?! His fingers twitch as his brother slides a hand over your shoulders.
“You've come this far, best you see the maesters.”
You wave a hand, but allow yourself to be fussed over a bit, knowing he means well. “Nonsense.”
“Please,” Baelor smiles, charming, benevolent, a bit of well-meaning condescension in his voice. “For my sake of mind.”
A small twinge in your back decides for you. The walk from the nursery isn't long, but in the last few days it has become more tiring… “Perhaps I could use a seat, for a moment.”
“Splendid, please,” he offers his arm, and you huff as you take it. Voice low, he praises, “You're radiant, by the way. Positively glowing.”
“I'm fat.”
Baelor snorts and Maekar suddenly feels very out of place. His brother, of course, he had been told of Jena's death, but not his own lady-wife's, his brother, of course-
The revelation should bring relief, but instead, disappointment floods him.
Of course you were Baelor's, sweet Baelor, gentle Baelor, deserving Baelor, of course it was his steadfast older brother who found himself a second love, a beautiful soul to lean on in his grief.
Maekar hates him, just a little bit, the envy so overwhelming a moment he can barely stand to look at him, but he can't tear his eyes from you-
You really are radiant, he thinks with a hint of mourning, his heart sinking low in his chest as he takes in your smile, your messy braid, your tired but fond eyes-
“Here we are, sit tight.” Baelor pats your hand placatingly, and you chuckle and take a seat before he rushes off to find (you both) a maester.
Alone again, Maekar swallows as your gaze lands back on him. Eyes sparkling in the brighter torchlight, you're a vision of loveliness, and his stomach tightens, his spine straightens, as you speak.
“You'll forgive my little deception, won't you?” You ask, a teasing little lilt to your tone as you play the role of the Mother, patting the top of your round belly almost smugly.
He turns his chin away. “Hmph.” Fuck, he can still see you out of the corner of his eye, fuck, you're his fucking sister-in-law, his mind rages, his blood is so hot-
Voice soft, diplomatic, very Queen-like, he thinks, you try again, “I meant only to-”
“Change the subject, that's what you wanted to do.”
Your smile falls. Caught, you bite your lip a moment before you confess, “So what if I did? It's not my place to-”
“To tell the truth?” His angry blue eyes flick back to you, accusing.
They almost make you swoon, but you manage a weak, “To speak of a life that I had no part of.”
No real part of, anyway. You had only been a handmaid at the time, only a glimmer on the lake of his life, barely a sparkle, there and gone before you could make a splash.
The babe kicks as if punishing you for your deceit. Wincing, you let out a huff, and despite his annoyance, despite his stormy expression, Maekar finds himself crossing over to you.
“Hm.” His mouth sours. “There was no need to lie.”
“I'm sorry, m’lord.”
“Maekar,” he corrects, taking your hand absently, reassuringly. It may be improper, he thinks, but it feels right. Giving your fingers a faint squeeze, he bows his head and mutters his congratulations on your pregnancy; “May the Seven bless you and keep you both.”
Touched, your vision goes misty as you offer a low, “Thank you, Maekar.”
It kicks and kicks and kicks-
This could be your last chance to be alone with him, you realize, your last chance to share a moment together before the baby arrives. Tears well in your eyes a moment, but you fight them back with a lick of your lips. Maekar had missed so much of the pregnancy already…surely Baelor wouldn't begrudge you just one little moment of intimacy with your husband?
Heart pounding, you steel your nerve and ask, “W-would you like to feel?”
“Feel?” His brow knits.
“They have a mighty kick.”
Oh. Your smile is so proud, as you guide his hand down to your side. He swallows and bends to one knee without thought, kneeling beside your chair so he can be eye level with you, which is so much harder for some reason. His stomach tightens, as you press his fingers just under your ribs, the silk of your robe smooth and cold, but he barely feels it. His expression tense, he doesn't breathe as you gently prod his fingertips around, until he feels something shift under your flesh.
Yes, yes, yes, of course Jena had shared her pregnancies with him too, but her touches hadn't made his blood burn, she had never looked at him like that-
“There, that's the foot,” you whisper, afraid to spook your husband, afraid he might think you too forward, too brazen, but the Gods knew, the Mother knew, this pregnancy has been so hard to do alone, and his hand is so warm, he always ran so much hotter than you-
The babe inside replies to his touches with gusto, and Maekar grins at the quick powerful thumps. “Strong,” he says approvingly.
Fresh pride swells in your chest. “You think so?”
“Oh yes,” he promises, smirking as the kicking against his fingers goes on and on, as if the little one had a point to make. “Very strong. Dragons always are.”
Hope blossoms so bright in your chest it actually hurts-
“Baelor must be so proud.”
And your world comes crashing down again. “B-Baelor, ser?”
He nods, but before he can speak, the man in question strolls back into the room. The maester follows close behind him, shuffling at a pace that quickens when he sees the position Maekar is in. “Space!” The old man grunts, waving the Prince away. “Give her some space!”
Scowling at the intrusion, Maekar glances at you one last time, holding your tender stare a moment longer than he should. Jaw tight, he huffs as he removes his hand.
The babe kicks again, as if searching for their father's heat. You rub a hand over your bump soothingly as Baelor urges Maekar to bed, but-
His words are stern as he slowly raises to his feet, “I'm not going back to that room.”
“Brother, please, you need your rest-”
“What I need is everyone to stop treating me like a fucking invalid!”
Baelor sighs, his eyes rolling over to you. You two share another smile, his exasperated, yours patient-
Fuck! Maekar's heart pounds, unsure why that stings so much, why the small moment of intimacy between husband and wife hurts him so- “Why didn't you tell me about Dyanna?”
Baelor cringes at her name.
“Everyone knew. Everyone was…everyone was aware, except me. I was made a fool of at my weakest, why?! Why didn't you tell me about her death?!”
“I…” he sucks in a sharp breath through his teeth. “I thought it best the memories return on their own.”
Maekar's eyes narrow. “Bull shit.”
That makes you smirk (and swoon a bit, God's, you have missed your ornery, unagreeable man!).
Baelor doesn't. “I beg your pardon?”
“You heard me. You didn't want to be the bearer of bad news,” Maekar accuses with agitation. “Coward.”
Baelor's mouth twitches, the same annoyance on his face as his brother's. “Fine. I suppose that's fair.”
The soft sound of the maester’s hum gives the men pause, and they turn their attention to you. The old man pokes at your belly, humming and hawing and nodding to himself-
“What?” The younger brother demands, bristling like a wet cat, which to be fair, was his usual way.
“She's in fine health, sers, just fine.” The maester takes the pulse at your wrist, holding still a moment, then nods. “Very very good, just wonderful.”
Unsurprised, you still beam with relief; good news was so rare these days, any little bit of it was welcome.
“Should be any day now.” The old man tells you, patting your hand encouragingly. “Best we get you back to bed, Princess.”
With a nod, and his help, you rise to your feet.
Maekar is the first one to make a move. He only manages to take one step forward. “I'll walk you back-”
“No,” Baelor says immediately, his hand snapping out to brace his chest. “You should rest. I'll walk her.” His glance told you there was much to discuss.
“Nonsense,” Maekar waves a brisk hand, knocking his arm away. “I'm wide awake-”
“You've had a trying day, ser,” you try, but your husband will have none of it.
He shrugs the hand Baelor tries to place on his shoulder away. Voice gruff, he tells him, “I said I'm walking her. You can come if you like.”
“Fine,” his brother agrees placatingly.
“Do I get a say in this?” You joke.
Baelor's cheeks go pink. “Of course. We…we should all go together, just in case you need a hand getting back from the nursery, brother.”
“I know the way,” Maekar spits, pure venom in his tone at the insinuation.
“Of course you do! I merely-”
“Baelor,” you tease, stepping forward to gently right the collar of the Hand’s robe, your eyes pointed and pleading at once. “Don't be over-protective. Maekar, don't be difficult.”
“I wasn't,” he grumbles.
“You were a little,” Baelor argues.
Chuckling, you pat Baelor's arm affectionately. “Maekar will walk me, I'm certain he can manage his way back to his chambers after that.”
The elder Prince frowns, but inclines his head. “Very well.” His eyes twinkle with fondness in the torch light as he inclines his head. “But only because I know better than to argue with a Dragon in your condition.”
Chuckling, you allow him to place a gentle kiss to your forehead, chin dipping with a hint of resignation. He means well, you know. He always had Maekar's best interest at heart, but he was still grappling with the death of his own lady-wife, and sometimes, that grief clouded his judgement. “Goodnight, Baelor.”
“I'll visit soon,” he assures you, passing you carefully off to his brother. “We have much to discuss on Maekar's progress.”
“I'm standing right here,” the younger Prince grumbles, but to those who know him best, he simply pouts.
Your eyes roll. “Of course, ser, my deepest apologies, ser.”
Baelor snorts, and when Maekar shoots him a dark glance, he tries and fails to cover it with a cough. Not wanting to be the center of one of their many petty bickerings (not that there was anything wrong with that, brothers were ought to do such things, even ones as close as them, but you were growing tired; the sun would be up soon and so would Rhae), you slide your arm into Maekar's and tug him along.
“Come, my Prince. Let me lead the way.”
“I-! I can lead the way!”
“Very well,” you turn, walking backward toward the door as you tug him along. “So lead.”
Baelor forgotten, he grunts, “I shall.”
“Good.”
“Good.”
“Very,” you tease, voice sparkling as you guide him out the door.
He follows helplessly, drawn to your smile like a siren's song.
It's quiet, but not uncomfortable, he notices, as you hum softly, idly, absently eyeing the pitch black courtyard across the way, your arm safe in his.
“You shouldn't be out so late,” he finally says, breaking the quiet with a soft voice.
You flash him a cheeky smirk. “You shouldn't have bothered me.”
“I didn't mean to.”
“I'm glad you did. It's…it's been so very nice to see you, Maekar dear.” You take his hands as you approach the door to the nursery. Squeezing his long beautiful fingers, you want to tuck them under your chin and sigh, but of course you can't, so you just smile-
But it looks so fucking sad, Maekar thinks morosely.
“We've been so worried about you, me and Rhae-”
“Rhae?” He interrupts with a smile, “A fine Targaryen name.”
“Yes,” you laugh. “Through and through Targaryen that one is.”
“Hm.”
You edge a little closer, and then a little closer still, until your swollen belly brushes his firm one, just barely. “We've missed you, and hearing about your progress isn't the same as seeing it, and she's been so scared for you, we all have.”
Maekar listens with a heavy heart; his chest tight, he can't tear his eyes from your face. He thumbs the tear that falls from your eye away without thinking. Thoughtful, firm, he tells you, “I will see you at breakfast tomorrow, you and your girl both.”
“Will you?” Doubt twinges your tone; Baelor won't like that.
His gaze sharpens. “Family should be together.”
Your nod is certain. “I agree.”
“Tomorrow, than.” The bow he offers is slight, respectable-
And it makes your heart race. No! You can't say good-bye, not so soon- “You-!”
He arches a brow, pausing his step back as you reach out in a flash to take his elbow.
Voice a croak, you try to be firm, as you tell him,“You'll have to be gentle with her, my girl.”
He smirks at the order, and how flustered you seem to be to give it. “Oh?”
“All these weeks alone have made her…shy, skittish maybe, I'm sure…”
He smirks. “And I'm hardly the most delicate flower.”
“Yes!” You laugh, relieved, a pleasant little sound that makes his stomach flutter. “Tell me you'll be patient with her.”
He smiles, almost boyishly, and you want to touch him, to smooth his hair back, touch the joint of his jaw under his beard, and kiss him soundly on the mouth, but you don't. “I'll be on my best behavior,” he promises.
“Good,” your fingers flex as you dismiss the urge, and instead tighten the belt of your robe. “Goodnight, Maekar.”
“Goodnight, dear sister.”
Fuck!
“I'll see you in the morn.” It's instinct, to take your shoulders under his hands, to kiss your brow as Baelor did, but he doesn't. Even the urge makes him sick, disgusted with himself, for this silly foolish infatuation he has with you, so strong already…
“Remember,” you pop the door open, but can't resist touching him one last time, poking him in the chest, in the little bit of flesh you can see under the laces of his night shirt. He's so warm, you can't help easing a bit closer to him as you tease, “Best. Behavior.”
His heart skips a beat at the teasing twinkle in your eyes. “Yes,” he breathes, “I swear it.”
“Good,” you chirp, a little forced, a little lightheaded, as you step back. “Now go get some sleep before your brother wets himself.”
Snorting, Maekar nods, his smile broad and fond as you drift inside the nursery. The latch clicks quietly.
For a long moment, each of you lingers, the door between you so thin and so very thick at the same time.
A Maekar Targaryen fic inspired by erwinsvow's Baelor Targaryen fanfiction, called hopelessly devoted; genuinely one of the best pieces of fanfiction I've ever read; I highly recommend it if you're a fan of romance! Tagged: @erwinsvow
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After sustaining a head injury at the Ashford tourney, Maekar forgets not only his youngest children, but his new (heavily pregnant) wife as well.
TW: head injuries/amnesia, lustful thoughts, mutual pining, pregnancy (reader is heavily pregnant), thoughts of infidelity but no actual infidelity (it makes sense in context), Aerion's an insensitive little shit, death, child birth, angst and fluff, allusions to smut (and eventual smut)
“Who the fuck are you?”
The sound of your husband's voice should startle you (you're supposed to be hidden away after all, out of sight, out of mind, until they could ever so gently break the news of your very existence to poor Maekar), but it doesn't. Of course it doesn't. This was bound to happen, you had warned everyone; keeping him locked up was only going to make him restless, cagey, even more surly than he already was. You pity the maesters who tend to him as much as you envy them.
With a heaving sigh, you look at him.
It's natural to assess him. Even if you're not publicly his wife anymore, you still love the old dog, you want him to be well, but you can't see his injuries through his baggy black sleep clothes. Still, it's good to see him, as he stands tall, proud, angry in the dim light of the nursery. The vein in his forehead throbs as he glares at you, scowling in a way that makes you beam.
At least he’s well enough to glower, you think fondly.
“What? What the fuck are you smiling at?!” Maekar demands, uncertain why your bright expression makes his heart skip a beat. “And what the fuck are you doing here?!”
Oh, right. Reality bites at your heart like the most vicious dog. Tears prick at your eyes and you quickly drop your gaze to the embroidery hoop that rests on your swollen belly. Sliding the needle into the linen, the shoulder you lift is limp. “This is the nursery, my Prince.”
“Yes, I'm aware,” Maekar snarls. “You shouldn't be here!”
Tired, exhausted really, you lift your gaze to his. “Where else should I be?” You ask plainly.
It seems everyone has an opinion on what to do with you; the council said you were best kept close, but Baelor had been ready to ship you off to Summerhall the moment the name Dyanna fell from Maekar’s lips. The death of his own lady-wife still so fresh, Baelor couldn't imagine his poor brother having to relive the loss, not while he was recovering, so he tucked you away.
Not forever, the eldest Prince had assured you as the maids hurriedly packed your belongings, stripping Maekar's chambers of every trace of you, just until he remembered-
“Not in here!” Markar snaps, blue eyes blazing in the fire light.
“Hush,” you snap right back, tossing your hoop into a basket at your side as you ready yourself to stand. “You'll wake my girl.”
“Your girl?” He sneers, eyes narrowing as he watches you struggle to your feet. Awkward, he tries not to look at you directly; it's improper, seeing an expectant mother alone, seeing a woman in your condition in her night dress, the material thin, clinging to your curvaceous form, making your heavy (breasts) belly even more striking. “What girl?”
Oh, that breaks your heart. You pray Rhae doesn't wake; she's been so very eager to see him these last weeks, to see him and not be able to keep him would break her little heart even more. Cringing, you shake your head. “Go back to bed. You need your rest.”
He straightens almost hesitantly as you stand before him, bare foot, your robe too big, much too big, almost reaching the floor. A man's robe, he realizes, black and red, Targaryen colors. He likes it, how it hangs open to reveal your low cut night dress, the thin material clinging to your full breasts, the cut designed to flow over your swollen belly and whisper around your lovely legs. His cock twitches and a rush of shame crosses him.
He had only found out this afternoon that his Dyanna had passed. In a fit of rage, Aerion had finally broke down and screamed- “She's dead! She's fucking dead! She's not at Summerhall, you stupid old man! She's been dead for fucking years-”
The maesters had the King’s guard drag the boy off, and Baelor had been called, sent to comfort him, but Maekar had been irate. Called him a liar, accused him of treating him as feeble, before the younger Prince had heaved a book at him and finally forced his brother from the room.
He had only come to the nursery for a reprieve, for a chance to mourn his loss and have a fucking moment to himself-
“Maekar?”
He blinks, surprised to find your hand on his arm, and stranger still, a concerned frown on your lips. Shaking off the flood of warmth that spreads through his chest, he steps back from you with an uncertain frown.
Hurt, but unsurprised, you force a smile and try to gently steer him away from Rhae's bed; thankfully her thick red canopy covers her well. “Do you need me to walk you back to your chambers, Maekar?”
“Don't get familiar,” the Prince snaps, jaw so tight it aches as he orders, “Now, tell me why it is you haunt me so?!”
Oh, you shouldn't be so proud of that, but the acknowledgement also hurts in a strange way. Torn between a smile and a frown, you settle for a limp, “I haunt you?”
“I saw you,” he hisses, color rising in his pale pock-marked cheeks, the red just visible under his white beard, “that first morning at my bedside, weeping like a war widow, blubbering on with that girl-”
“Don't,” you warn, eyes flashing in the dim light as your heart begins to pound. “Don't speak ill of her, Maekar, please-”
“Whose bastard is she? Hm? Daeron's? Aerion’s?” Maekar paces restlessly, just out of your reach. Hands balled into fists, he can't stand still, as visions of you flash through his mind; on your back, hair splayed out in the pillows, your slack lips kiss bruised and flushed, and it makes him sick to imagine someone else on top of you, to even think of someone else drawing the sweetest of sounds from your throat. He jerks a nod toward your swollen stomach and sneers, “who's bastard is that?”
“Neither are bastards, I assure you.” The words are almost curt, as you look up at him with-
With what, Maekar thinks, the expression itching at the back of his mind. He knows that face, those eyes, those lips, but he can't-
Something doesn't-
Something isn't right.
“I want to go back to my room,” he says lowly, uncertain of the painful throb in the back of his mind, or why it worsens as your pretty face falls.
“Of course, my Prince, whatever you need.”
Humming, he eyes you, skeptical, anticipatory, even more confused as you look away from him, back toward the fireplace. He can see the tears unshed in your eyes, and they pain him for a reason he cannot place. “You're upset.”
“I've been upset for weeks, what difference does it make now?” You ask, not so much snide as simply sad, as you spin your wedding band absently.
Maekar thumbs his own in reply, uncertain why he wore two now; his classic gold band for Dyanna, strong and certain, and then a thinner band of silver that sat atop it. “You shouldn't be worrying about anything in your condition.”
“Oh?” A smile twinges at the corner of your mouth, and he desperately wants to touch it, to thumb the tender curve, but he resists, and scolds himself for his impropriety. What an old fool he was! Lusting after a taken woman! An expectant mother, no less! Face hot, he demands, “So who do you belong to, then? Hm? Who's been keeping you locked away?”
Coy, your head tilts. “Who would suit me best?”
His eyes narrow as your hand raises to smooth his sleep tussled hair from his brow. The soft scent of jasmine and powder on your wrist almost breaks him, but the familiar touch is so much worse- “Stop it,” he whispers firmly, but he makes no move to step away as you edge a little closer. In fact, damn him, he leans into you, slow, careful, drawn to you like a moth to a flame as you offer a husky chuckle, full of warmth and familiarity.
“Who do you think I belong to, hm?” Your eyes sparkle with tears as you tease mirthlessly, “Who would I look best under?”
A red hot flash of heat surges through him at the very thought. Daeron the drunk, Aerion the sadist. “They don't deserve you!” He hisses, snatching you up by the arms and yanking you to his chest. “Any man who would hide his love away to wallow-”
Fuck, his body is just like his temper, it always runs so hot, it makes you twitch, makes you forget, just for a moment, just like he has-
He falters as your thumb finds his bottom lip, shutting his mouth so quickly he teeth click.
“I told you,” you murmur, leaning up to nose his jaw. He smells like summer sweat and musk, and that queer woodsmoke scent that always lingers around Targaryens, and a fire strikes in your belly as you tap his (rock hard) chest with the tip of your finger. “Don't wake up my girl.”
“My girl,” he barks, mocking you as he leans down to meet the gentle nuzzle, confusion knotting his brow. With every beat of his heart, his head pounds harder and harder. Married, you're married, to whom, who could you belong to, and why would you touch him so freely if he couldn't keep you? How cruel could you possibly be-
“I may not have birthed her, but yes, she's mine, heart and soul.”
His brow knits. His head aches, but yes, he can almost see it, a little one in your lap, only a toddler then, peering up at you with such love as you read fables to her in the gardens. The thought warms his chest, though he doesn't know why. “Circumstances of birth…” his hands slowly lower, smoothing down your arms to take your hands. "Don't always a family make.”
The smile you give is bright, warm and true. “I agree.”
His gaze skirts over to the canopy bed. “She…she lost her mother?”
“Aye,” the sigh is passive, sad, and you instinctively rub his arm, as if soothing him from the truth. “The maesters…they gave her mother a choice, and her mother chose the life of the babe over her own.”
“Very noble of her,” he murmurs, heartsick at the thought.
You nod, a tear slipping from your eye as you remember Dyanna, her exhaustion and her fight, how she held on just long enough to see her sweet Rhae, to name her, before she passed. “It's a pity, is what it is. She was…the finest of us.”
His fingers find his aching temple. Maekar sighs. “I…rushed to judgement. It has been…a tiring day, forgive me.”
Pensive, you purse your lips. “Did something happen?” The question is too gentle to be truly probing.
His gaze drops back to yours. “My wife is dead,” he tells you needlessly, surprisingly cold.
Your eyes widen, but only slightly. Your heart breaks for him, for the low acceptance in his voice, the rage in it. “Aye. She is, ser.”
“Everyone knew but me, they knew the whole time and they let me play the fool for weeks-”
You take his right hand in both your own, rub it in a way the Prince finds more soothing than placating, much to his surprise. “They didn't want to hurt you,” you tell him, smoothing your fingertips along the back of his hand. It takes everything in you not to kiss it. “You were so fragile-”
“They wanted to keep me in the dark!” Maekar snaps, cheeks going red under his white beard again. “Keep me compliant-!”
“Shh!”
Maekar blinks as your fingers clip his chin, forcing his mouth shut.
“Do not wake-” you hiss in pain as the little one in your womb wakes with a swift kick to your ribs.
“What? What's wrong?” His blue eyes widen in fear as you bend. Quick, anxious, he guides you backward toward the rocking chair you had been in earlier.
The roaring fire in its helm casts a warm orange shine over you, your silhouettes long on the carpet, and you sit a bit harder than you mean to. “Oof!”
Panic swells in him. “What?! What is it?! Is it time?!”
“Nothing so urgent,” you laugh, a bit uncomfortable, a bit breathless. “The babe is restless, thus so am I.”
His lips twitch in empathy. Humming, he takes your hand a moment and gives it a careful squeeze of comradery. “The final weeks are always the hardest.”
“Hm,” Touched by his gentle words (Gods, how you missed him, his gruff voice, his rough hands, his sharp tongue-) you smile absently, wincing at the next kick.
“I remember when Dyanna was expecting Daeron…”
You blink with surprise as he sits in the rocking chair across from yours. The orange light of the fire reflects across his face, his skin so pale it almost seems to glow in the dim light. He eyes the fire idly, nostalgia softening his sharp features as he goes on lovingly.
“The first time he kicked, she drove her knee into my back.” He chuckles, fond, wistful. “Woke me up out of a dead sleep, I thought the worst had happened.”
A snicker leaves you as you try to settle into the chair, but the padded cushion does nothing.
“She was so excited.” He stares at the flames a moment, thoughtful, before he looks back to you, expectantly. “Is this your first?”
You nod, a small proud smile on your lips.
“You're…older, than most of the new mothers, are you not?” He tries to say it casually, but it comes out a bit stilted, a bit awkward. Not judgemental, just curious.
Your smile widens. “I…yes, I am,” you admit with a laugh that warms him. Your forearms cradle your bump protectively, and you pat it fondly as you confess, “My second husband was kind enough to share his family with me for many years before this little surprise came along.”
“An unexpected miracle is still a miracle,” he assures you, his nod of approval, or perhaps understanding, making your chin dip. “Most of my children were…unexpected.”
That makes you snort. “Oh?” Your teasing turns his cheeks pink again. “You're telling me you didn't set out for six?”
“Six?” He echoes, and your smile falls. “Four. I have four children.”
“Right, right, my apologies, sir,” you bow as best you can to him without getting up, babbling as panic grips your heart. What a fool you were! “I misspoke, I was thinking of-”
His head cocks. His head throbs. Six? Six children? Ludicrous- “Why would you say six?”
You lick your lips, blood rushing so loudly in your ears you can barely hear yourself stutter, “I- I was thinking of…ouch!”
Maekar jumps to his feet as you clutch your side dramatically. “What?! What's wrong?!”
“Oooh. Oh. Oh, uh, no,” you feign a moan and he all but crumples to his knees, his blue eyes wide with horror. “I- I should go to the, um, maesters.” Fuck! Insolent little fool! Batting your eyelashes, you lay it on thick as he peers up at you with such unadulterated fear. Shit, the guilt would eat you alive, if you weren't so eager to change the subject. “Could- could you help me get to them?”
“Of course! Of course,” he doesn't hesitate, just slips a careful hand under your back and guides you to your feet. “Easy now, easy…”
You let him brace some of your weight as you limp along, out of the room and down the hall, and up the stairs, and to the left, across from the courtyard. You know the walk well, you make it every night, just before dawn usually. You'll make the walk, but never go inside the healing chambers where your husband makes his home now. You just stand outside his door and try to imagine him asleep behind it. With an ear pressed against the thick wood, you can almost convince yourself you can hear his snores, but in your heart you know you can't.
“Easy now, easy,” he repeats, over and over throughout the walk. His hand shakes slightly in your grasp, but yours is steady-
Grounding, your hands are chapped from hot water, dry from folding linens all day, familiar in a way he can't place. In fact, now that you're out of the room, you seem almost calm. The odd grunt leaves you as you toddle up the stairs, but they're few and far between. You actually seem kind of-
He freezes as you raise your hand to knock upon the healing chambers door, a quick confident knock that confirms his suspicions. His brow furrows. “You tricked me.”
“I did,” you agree, straightening up with a sad smile as the door swings open.
Baelor’s mismatched eyes widen at the sight of you together. They flicker between you two, disbelief turning into annoyance as he addresses his brother with a firm, “I'll take your apology now.”
“My- my apology?!” Maekar bellows, but neither of you so much as flinch.
The familiar sound of its father's voice makes the baby kick, no doubt still accustomed to it from all the time he had spent reading to you in the early months of your pregnancy before it was known, and the long-winded conversations (usually a long list of complaints about his day or his sons or his duties, etc. etc.) Maekar had with your bump before the unfortunate accident at Ashford's tourney. It kicks again, right under your ribs. This grunt is real, and you rub your side with a scowl. Baelor eyes you sympathetically, and ushers his brother inside.
When you don't move to follow, Maekar pauses. His scowl shifts, lightening, but only so much, as he frowns, reaching for your hand. “Come on then.”
Uncertain, you stumble, “I…” Your gaze flicks to Baelor's, a silent question of permission passing between you.
“You've come all this way,” Maekar huffs, visibly twitching with agitation as he takes your hand in his (fuck, you've missed his hands-) again, his strong fingers insistent. “You best let the maesters check the babe-”
“Something is wrong with the babe?!” His brother asks urgently; there's no resentment between you, you understand he only tries to ease his brother's suffering, but as he steps forward, as he takes your other forearm gently and starts steering you into the room, a small flash of embarrassment goes through you.
“Oh, please,” you murmur, cheeks warm as Baelor looks you up and down, as his kind gesture breaks your hand from your husband's; you immediately miss Maekar's warmth, even though Baelor runs with the same heat, it's an unfamiliar one, and it unsettles you. “I’m fine. Simply some…enthusiastic kicking.”
Baelor doesn't look convinced. He knows how stressed you've been, knows a pregnancy at your age isn't always the easiest to begin with, and he frets; somewhat from guilt, you know. “Maekar is right.”
The (slightly) younger man's chest puffs up, as he tries to dismiss the coolness of your fingers against his own; he knows those hands, that touch, how does he know them?! His fingers twitch as his brother slides a hand over your shoulders.
“You've come this far, best you see the maesters.”
You wave a hand, but allow yourself to be fussed over a bit, knowing he means well. “Nonsense.”
“Please,” Baelor smiles, charming, benevolent, a bit of well-meaning condescension in his voice. “For my sake of mind.”
A small twinge in your back decides for you. The walk from the nursery isn't long, but in the last few days it has become more tiring… “Perhaps I could use a seat, for a moment.”
“Splendid, please,” he offers his arm, and you huff as you take it. Voice low, he praises, “You're radiant, by the way. Positively glowing.”
“I'm fat.”
Baelor snorts and Maekar suddenly feels very out of place. His brother, of course, he had been told of Jena's death, but not his own lady-wife's, his brother, of course-
The revelation should bring relief, but instead, disappointment floods him.
Of course you were Baelor's, sweet Baelor, gentle Baelor, deserving Baelor, of course it was his steadfast older brother who found himself a second love, a beautiful soul to lean on in his grief.
Maekar hates him, just a little bit, the envy so overwhelming a moment he can barely stand to look at him, but he can't tear his eyes from you-
You really are radiant, he thinks with a hint of mourning, his heart sinking low in his chest as he takes in your smile, your messy braid, your tired but fond eyes-
“Here we are, sit tight.” Baelor pats your hand placatingly, and you chuckle and take a seat before he rushes off to find (you both) a maester.
Alone again, Maekar swallows as your gaze lands back on him. Eyes sparkling in the brighter torchlight, you're a vision of loveliness, and his stomach tightens, his spine straightens, as you speak.
“You'll forgive my little deception, won't you?” You ask, a teasing little lilt to your tone as you play the role of the Mother, patting the top of your round belly almost smugly.
He turns his chin away. “Hmph.” Fuck, he can still see you out of the corner of his eye, fuck, you're his fucking sister-in-law, his mind rages, his blood is so hot-
Voice soft, diplomatic, very Queen-like, he thinks, you try again, “I meant only to-”
“Change the subject, that's what you wanted to do.”
Your smile falls. Caught, you bite your lip a moment before you confess, “So what if I did? It's not my place to-”
“To tell the truth?” His angry blue eyes flick back to you, accusing.
They almost make you swoon, but you manage a weak, “To speak of a life that I had no part of.”
No real part of, anyway. You had only been a handmaid at the time, only a glimmer on the lake of his life, barely a sparkle, there and gone before you could make a splash.
The babe kicks as if punishing you for your deceit. Wincing, you let out a huff, and despite his annoyance, despite his stormy expression, Maekar finds himself crossing over to you.
“Hm.” His mouth sours. “There was no need to lie.”
“I'm sorry, m’lord.”
“Maekar,” he corrects, taking your hand absently, reassuringly. It may be improper, he thinks, but it feels right. Giving your fingers a faint squeeze, he bows his head and mutters his congratulations on your pregnancy; “May the Seven bless you and keep you both.”
Touched, your vision goes misty as you offer a low, “Thank you, Maekar.”
It kicks and kicks and kicks-
This could be your last chance to be alone with him, you realize, your last chance to share a moment together before the baby arrives. Tears well in your eyes a moment, but you fight them back with a lick of your lips. Maekar had missed so much of the pregnancy already…surely Baelor wouldn't begrudge you just one little moment of intimacy with your husband?
Heart pounding, you steel your nerve and ask, “W-would you like to feel?”
“Feel?” His brow knits.
“They have a mighty kick.”
Oh. Your smile is so proud, as you guide his hand down to your side. He swallows and bends to one knee without thought, kneeling beside your chair so he can be eye level with you, which is so much harder for some reason. His stomach tightens, as you press his fingers just under your ribs, the silk of your robe smooth and cold, but he barely feels it. His expression tense, he doesn't breathe as you gently prod his fingertips around, until he feels something shift under your flesh.
Yes, yes, yes, of course Jena had shared her pregnancies with him too, but her touches hadn't made his blood burn, she had never looked at him like that-
“There, that's the foot,” you whisper, afraid to spook your husband, afraid he might think you too forward, too brazen, but the Gods knew, the Mother knew, this pregnancy has been so hard to do alone, and his hand is so warm, he always ran so much hotter than you-
The babe inside replies to his touches with gusto, and Maekar grins at the quick powerful thumps. “Strong,” he says approvingly.
Fresh pride swells in your chest. “You think so?”
“Oh yes,” he promises, smirking as the kicking against his fingers goes on and on, as if the little one had a point to make. “Very strong. Dragons always are.”
Hope blossoms so bright in your chest it actually hurts-
“Baelor must be so proud.”
And your world comes crashing down again. “B-Baelor, ser?”
He nods, but before he can speak, the man in question strolls back into the room. The maester follows close behind him, shuffling at a pace that quickens when he sees the position Maekar is in. “Space!” The old man grunts, waving the Prince away. “Give her some space!”
Scowling at the intrusion, Maekar glances at you one last time, holding your tender stare a moment longer than he should. Jaw tight, he huffs as he removes his hand.
The babe kicks again, as if searching for their father's heat. You rub a hand over your bump soothingly as Baelor urges Maekar to bed, but-
His words are stern as he slowly raises to his feet, “I'm not going back to that room.”
“Brother, please, you need your rest-”
“What I need is everyone to stop treating me like a fucking invalid!”
Baelor sighs, his eyes rolling over to you. You two share another smile, his exasperated, yours patient-
Fuck! Maekar's heart pounds, unsure why that stings so much, why the small moment of intimacy between husband and wife hurts him so- “Why didn't you tell me about Dyanna?”
Baelor cringes at her name.
“Everyone knew. Everyone was…everyone was aware, except me. I was made a fool of at my weakest, why?! Why didn't you tell me about her death?!”
“I…” he sucks in a sharp breath through his teeth. “I thought it best the memories return on their own.”
Maekar's eyes narrow. “Bull shit.”
That makes you smirk (and swoon a bit, God's, you have missed your ornery, unagreeable man!).
Baelor doesn't. “I beg your pardon?”
“You heard me. You didn't want to be the bearer of bad news,” Maekar accuses with agitation. “Coward.”
Baelor's mouth twitches, the same annoyance on his face as his brother's. “Fine. I suppose that's fair.”
The soft sound of the maester’s hum gives the men pause, and they turn their attention to you. The old man pokes at your belly, humming and hawing and nodding to himself-
“What?” The younger brother demands, bristling like a wet cat, which to be fair, was his usual way.
“She's in fine health, sers, just fine.” The maester takes the pulse at your wrist, holding still a moment, then nods. “Very very good, just wonderful.”
Unsurprised, you still beam with relief; good news was so rare these days, any little bit of it was welcome.
“Should be any day now.” The old man tells you, patting your hand encouragingly. “Best we get you back to bed, Princess.”
With a nod, and his help, you rise to your feet.
Maekar is the first one to make a move. He only manages to take one step forward. “I'll walk you back-”
“No,” Baelor says immediately, his hand snapping out to brace his chest. “You should rest. I'll walk her.” His glance told you there was much to discuss.
“Nonsense,” Maekar waves a brisk hand, knocking his arm away. “I'm wide awake-”
“You've had a trying day, ser,” you try, but your husband will have none of it.
He shrugs the hand Baelor tries to place on his shoulder away. Voice gruff, he tells him, “I said I'm walking her. You can come if you like.”
“Fine,” his brother agrees placatingly.
“Do I get a say in this?” You joke.
Baelor's cheeks go pink. “Of course. We…we should all go together, just in case you need a hand getting back from the nursery, brother.”
“I know the way,” Maekar spits, pure venom in his tone at the insinuation.
“Of course you do! I merely-”
“Baelor,” you tease, stepping forward to gently right the collar of the Hand’s robe, your eyes pointed and pleading at once. “Don't be over-protective. Maekar, don't be difficult.”
“I wasn't,” he grumbles.
“You were a little,” Baelor argues.
Chuckling, you pat Baelor's arm affectionately. “Maekar will walk me, I'm certain he can manage his way back to his chambers after that.”
The elder Prince frowns, but inclines his head. “Very well.” His eyes twinkle with fondness in the torch light as he inclines his head. “But only because I know better than to argue with a Dragon in your condition.”
Chuckling, you allow him to place a gentle kiss to your forehead, chin dipping with a hint of resignation. He means well, you know. He always had Maekar's best interest at heart, but he was still grappling with the death of his own lady-wife, and sometimes, that grief clouded his judgement. “Goodnight, Baelor.”
“I'll visit soon,” he assures you, passing you carefully off to his brother. “We have much to discuss on Maekar's progress.”
“I'm standing right here,” the younger Prince grumbles, but to those who know him best, he simply pouts.
Your eyes roll. “Of course, ser, my deepest apologies, ser.”
Baelor snorts, and when Maekar shoots him a dark glance, he tries and fails to cover it with a cough. Not wanting to be the center of one of their many petty bickerings (not that there was anything wrong with that, brothers were ought to do such things, even ones as close as them, but you were growing tired; the sun would be up soon and so would Rhae), you slide your arm into Maekar's and tug him along.
“Come, my Prince. Let me lead the way.”
“I-! I can lead the way!”
“Very well,” you turn, walking backward toward the door as you tug him along. “So lead.”
Baelor forgotten, he grunts, “I shall.”
“Good.”
“Good.”
“Very,” you tease, voice sparkling as you guide him out the door.
He follows helplessly, drawn to your smile like a siren's song.
It's quiet, but not uncomfortable, he notices, as you hum softly, idly, absently eyeing the pitch black courtyard across the way, your arm safe in his.
“You shouldn't be out so late,” he finally says, breaking the quiet with a soft voice.
You flash him a cheeky smirk. “You shouldn't have bothered me.”
“I didn't mean to.”
“I'm glad you did. It's…it's been so very nice to see you, Maekar dear.” You take his hands as you approach the door to the nursery. Squeezing his long beautiful fingers, you want to tuck them under your chin and sigh, but of course you can't, so you just smile-
But it looks so fucking sad, Maekar thinks morosely.
“We've been so worried about you, me and Rhae-”
“Rhae?” He interrupts with a smile, “A fine Targaryen name.”
“Yes,” you laugh. “Through and through Targaryen that one is.”
“Hm.”
You edge a little closer, and then a little closer still, until your swollen belly brushes his firm one, just barely. “We've missed you, and hearing about your progress isn't the same as seeing it, and she's been so scared for you, we all have.”
Maekar listens with a heavy heart; his chest tight, he can't tear his eyes from your face. He thumbs the tear that falls from your eye away without thinking. Thoughtful, firm, he tells you, “I will see you at breakfast tomorrow, you and your girl both.”
“Will you?” Doubt twinges your tone; Baelor won't like that.
His gaze sharpens. “Family should be together.”
Your nod is certain. “I agree.”
“Tomorrow, than.” The bow he offers is slight, respectable-
And it makes your heart race. No! You can't say good-bye, not so soon- “You-!”
He arches a brow, pausing his step back as you reach out in a flash to take his elbow.
Voice a croak, you try to be firm, as you tell him,“You'll have to be gentle with her, my girl.”
He smirks at the order, and how flustered you seem to be to give it. “Oh?”
“All these weeks alone have made her…shy, skittish maybe, I'm sure…”
He smirks. “And I'm hardly the most delicate flower.”
“Yes!” You laugh, relieved, a pleasant little sound that makes his stomach flutter. “Tell me you'll be patient with her.”
He smiles, almost boyishly, and you want to touch him, to smooth his hair back, touch the joint of his jaw under his beard, and kiss him soundly on the mouth, but you don't. “I'll be on my best behavior,” he promises.
“Good,” your fingers flex as you dismiss the urge, and instead tighten the belt of your robe. “Goodnight, Maekar.”
“Goodnight, dear sister.”
Fuck!
“I'll see you in the morn.” It's instinct, to take your shoulders under his hands, to kiss your brow as Baelor did, but he doesn't. Even the urge makes him sick, disgusted with himself, for this silly foolish infatuation he has with you, so strong already…
“Remember,” you pop the door open, but can't resist touching him one last time, poking him in the chest, in the little bit of flesh you can see under the laces of his night shirt. He's so warm, you can't help easing a bit closer to him as you tease, “Best. Behavior.”
His heart skips a beat at the teasing twinkle in your eyes. “Yes,” he breathes, “I swear it.”
“Good,” you chirp, a little forced, a little lightheaded, as you step back. “Now go get some sleep before your brother wets himself.”
Snorting, Maekar nods, his smile broad and fond as you drift inside the nursery. The latch clicks quietly.
For a long moment, each of you lingers, the door between you so thin and so very thick at the same time.
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TIL “Yankee Doodle” was written by the British to mock americans. “Doodle” is thought to come from the German “dödel”, meaning “fool” or “simpleton” and “macaroni,” a flamboyantly stylish type of dress, painting the Yankees as morons who thought placing a feather in one’s cap made them a “dandy.”
my family has had some pretty interesting encounters with psychics/mediums that seem genuine in the past, but nothing will ever be funnier to me than the last guy my mom talked to who was so definitely bullshitting, because she said "I was hoping to hear from my husband" and the guy went "he said....it's okay to Move On" and like. every single person my mom has recounted this too has been like "He Would Not Fucking Say That". as if this was an ooc fanfic about my father. it's just so fucking funny. fake psychic dude take your shitty headcanons about my ghost dad and LEAVE!!!
like, my parents were legitimately insane about each other. I cannot stress how much he wouldn't say that. I have to assume his ghost was standing right next to this fake psychic yelling "WHAT THE FUCK!!!!" when he told my mom to move on lmfao
actually. funnier to imagine he was a Real Psychic who was just trying to put a move on my mom and didn't think the ghost would do anything about it and now is now dealing with a violently angry haunting for the rest of his days lmfao
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