busy thinking about fictional characters

​Among the crowd of polished lords and perfumed ladies, his figure stands out like a mountain in a field of hills. The knight sits uncomfortably in his seat, his massive frame barely fitting the chair provided.

Beside him, little Egg is busy stuffing his face with lemon cakes, looking far too amused by his friend's gaze directed at you, complicitly laughing at some comment Maekar has whispered into your ear.

“Don't look at her too much, father won't like it,” the young prince struggles to swallow the rest of his pastry so he can scold the knight, who eventually turns to look at him, his brow wrinkling slightly in confusion.

“Why are those two hovering over her like guarding hounds?” he ventures to ask once he clears his throat, genuinely interested in knowing.

But as Egg thinks he's just cracking a joke, he rolls his eyes, unamused by his little attempt at humor, and goes back to devouring his plate of food.

When the moment comes for the two of them to go over to the big main table where you're sitting, he can feel his heart about to burst out of his chest.

He had seen high-born ladies before, but not one quite like you, with your silver hair braided with pearls and your eyes ablaze like flames of violet, making him feel as if he is in the presence of a goddess herself.

​“Your Graces,” Dunk salutes your brothers, bowing so low his head is nearly level with the table. That brings a sweet smile to your face. “And to you, M–my Princess... a very happy Name Day. May you have seventy more, each as— as beautiful as the last.”

Baelor raises an eyebrow, a flicker of amusement crossing his face. “Name Day, Ser Duncan?”

​“Aye, Your Grace,” Dunk responds, his gaze drifting back to you, his expression one of pure, wide-eyed adoration. “It’s only right that the whole city celebrates. I’ve traveled from the Reach to the Wall, but I’ve never seen a wonder quite like the Princess. You’re... well, you’re like a sunset over the Summer Sea.”

Dunk, feeling bold just because he thinks he is merely being a kind knight to a young maiden, looks at Baelor and Maekar with a sympathetic expression.

​“It must be hard for you two,” he then says earnestly.

​Maekar’s eyes narrow, already irritated by how much the knight has spoken. “Hard? In what way, boy?”

​“Well,” Dunk continues, completely unaware of the cliff he is walking off, “having such a sister. You’ll have to beat the suitors off with clubs!” He blows air like a boy in love, “a woman this beautiful is a full-time job for any man—I can see why it takes both of you just to keep her from being stolen away by a better-looking lord.”

He turns back to you, missing the puzzled, frowing looks on the faces of the two brothers by your sides as they both stare at him.

Ser Duncan just gives you a toothy, innocent grin. “You're far too much woman for just any ordinary man to handle, anyway, Your Grace.”

The silence that comes after his words isn't instantaneous; it's a ripple that spreads from the high table and fills the Great Hall like winter itself has just walked in. The strumming of a lute dies on a sour note, and the clinking of glasses stops all at once.

Prince Aerion is mid-gulp when Dunk finishes his little speech. The sheer absurdity of the hedge knight's words—treating both of your husbands like a lowly chaperones—sends the wine straight into his windpipe. A sharp, mocking bray of laughter crawls up his throat, clashing with the liquid.

“A—a sunset...” Aerion manages to choke out between violent coughs and laughs, clearly more amused by the situation than everyone else. “A sunset over the Summer Sea! Gods be good—”

Beside him, Valarr doesn't look nearly as amused. He reaches over and delivers a heavy, bruising slap to Aerion’s back—ostensibly to help him breathe, but in reality, he’s trying to knock the wind out of him to shut him up.

Dunk, still beaming with his big, innocent smile, looks around as he senses a crowd of eyes locked on him and his smile gradually begins to fade from his face.

The murmurs break out immediately after, like a disturbed hornet's nest.

Egg, standing right behind Dunk, slaps a hand over his face, totally crushed by embarrassment. He drags his palm down his features, his fingers digging into his forehead as a flush of crimson heat crawled up his neck, turning his ears the color of a tomato.

At your side, the temperature seems to drop ten points. Maekar becomes so rigid that for a moment you fear he has morphed into a statue beside you. His knuckles, clenched over the table, are white, and his icy eyes, frozen on Dunk, promise a slow and painful execution.

Baelor, ever the diplomat, leans against the back of the chair and lays a hand on your lap, seeking your touch to soothe his own anger and offense and simply staring up at him with the purest of displeasure. 

​You, for your own part, bit your lip, trying to suppress a laugh. “Ser Duncan, you are too kind. But this is not my Name Day. It is the anniversary of my wedding.”

Duncan blinks again, looking between the three of you, starting to feel a surge of coldness begin to creep up his body from his feet. “Wedding? But... to—to which one?”

“Both, you witless, low-born clodpoll!” Maekar finally snaps, barking back at him and making you wince. “She’s our wife!”

Duncan can definitely feel the tension in the room now, and he takes a moment to look carefully at the three of you, studying the whole scene. Baelor is no longer smiling, and his hand rests over yours on the table now, intertwining his fingers with yours. On your other side, Maekar is glaring at Dunk as if he could somehow burn him out of existence with his fiery gaze, his hand possessively gripping you around the waist.

Dunk’s jaw drops.

He looks once again at Baelor, then Maekar, then back to you and his brain seemed to short–circuit.

“Oh...” He squeaks, his mind scrambling to come up with the appropriate words. “Oh!—that... that certainly is— efficient—Seven hells—”

He drops to his knees before you, bowing his head in supplication, his ears burning with a deep, terrified crimson that matches his surcoat.

“I thought... I assumed— I have no excuse for my ignorance—I am t–truly sorry, I beg your mercy,” Dunk’s voice cracks, resembling more that of a frightened squire than a knight of the realm. He doesn't dare look up.

He squeeze his eyes shut, his massive shoulders shaking as he stammers out a final plea. “Please, Your Graces, it was my mind that was blinded by the Princess’s— I mean, the Queen's... radiance. My tongue simply tripped over my heart.”

Egg, who remains loyal by his side despite all the commotion, gives him a little kick to make him shut up once and for all. He knows all too well that the knight’s ‘compliments’ are sounding more like treason with every passing breath.

You stand up, letting your lovers' hands slide off your body, which makes them even more upset.

“Rise, Ser Duncan,” you urge him, smiling genly as you reach out to him, making a gentle gesture with your hand. “Please, before you burrow a hole through the floorboards.”

​Dunk looks up very slowly, his face a mask of pure mortification. When you extend your hand to him, he stares at it as if it were a holy relic he isn't allowed to touch. “Forgive me, Your Grace—Graces”

“We forgive you, Ser. You haven't done anything wrong,” you declare, your eyes dancing with mischief. “In fact, I should thank you. It isn't every day someone tells my husbands to their faces that I am ‘too much woman’ for them to handle. It’s a refreshing change of pace.”

​While you are enjoying the comedy, the grumpy men on either side of your empty chair are significantly less amused as they share a single glance behind you at your words, their pride stung by the knight’s clumsy suggestion that any man in the Seven Kingdoms could be a ‘better’ match for you.

Then Baelor stands up as well and he doesn't look angry—he looks disappointed, which is somehow worse.

“You would do well to remember who sits at this table before you start offering advice on ‘better-looking lords’ again, Ser Duncan,” Baelor suggests, his voice calm but carrying a sharp edge of authority. “Some mistakes cannot be laughed away.”

Dunk gulps so loudly it is audible. “Y-yes, Your Grace. Of course.”

But it is Maekar who provide the true chill, naturally. He does not stand; he simply leans forward, with his two hands propped against the table. His eyes are like chips of amethyst ice.

​“My brother is a diplomat, you churlish knight,” he hisses, his voice vibrating with a low, dangerous threat. “I am not. If you ever imply again that I can't handle my own wife or that she might be stolen away by some better-looking lord, I will personally ensure you never speak another word. I’ll have that clumsy tongue of yours pulled out and fed to the hounds before the sun rises.”

​Dunk turns even paler, nodding frantically. “I understand, King Maekar. I— I'll go now. Q–quietly. Very quietly.”

​Dunk backs away, bowing at every step, nearly knocking over a wine bearer in his haste to disappear from your husbands' sights.

Egg follows behind him, looking like he wants to crawl into a hole and suffocate from embarrassment as he offers you three a fleeting apologetic smile, which you are quick to return to him in an attempt to ease his distress.

You could hear the tall knight muttering to your son as they both retreat: “Why didn't you fucking tell me?!”

Finally, you turn your gaze back to your husbands. You lean in close to Maekar, brushing a lingering kiss against his sullen, stone-cold cheek to soothe the fire in his blood. On your other side, you give Baelor’s hand a firm, grounding squeeze, wordlessly urging him to reclaim his seat as you settle back into yours between them.

The tension, once thick enough to choke a whole dragon, begins to dissipate like smoke in a breeze. Seeing the Queen’s playful smile and the way she effortlessly tames the two most powerful men in the realm, the place finally exhales and the musicians scramble for their instruments.

A lively, upbeat tune—The Bear and the Maiden Fair—begins to bounce off the stone walls, the drums kicking in with a rhythmic thump that mimics a heartbeat returning to normal.

“Oh, stop it, both of you,” you tease them. “You’ve terrified the poor man. And besides... he did say I was the most beautiful woman he’d ever seen. Surely that's worth a little mercy?”

Maekar huffs humorlessly, taking a long sip of his wine to quell the rage building up in his throat. “He's lucky he's so fucking tall,” he mutters. “It makes his neck a harder target.”

Baelor blinks, his diplomatic mask slipping for a split second before a soft, disbelieving chuckle escapes his lips. “Efficiency. I don't think I've ever heard our union described as a logistical convenience before.”

“He just didn’t know,” you shrug, not really taking it as seriously as your kings do.

Maekar turns to give you an incredulous glance, but his eyes soften significantly as soon as they lock onto yours. “He didn’t know about the marriage of the rulers of the Seven Kingdoms?”

Then he huffs again and this time makes an effort to convey his feelings—as you usually insist he should. “Better-looking lords... what the fuck does that supposed to mean?”

You can't help the small, knowing smirk that tugs at your lips. You lean back into the space between them, feeling the radiating heat of their possessive energy.

“Oh,” you muse softly, your voice carrying just enough tease to make them both look at you. “I see. It’s the ‘better-looking’ part that truly haunts you both, isn't it? My poor, insecure dragons.”

Baelor rolls his eyes at your silly teasing, however, he is unable to suppress a soft smile as he observes you bring his hand to your lips to lay a reassuring kiss on his knuckles.

“Don't be absurd, wife,” Maekar grumbles and he doesn't pull his hand away when you reach out to him now. “The man is a fool. His aesthetic judgment is as poor as his lineage.”

“Ser Duncan has a point, however,” Baelor whispers, leaning toward you to press an affectionate and all too slow kiss on your cheek. “It is a full-time job, my fire, handling you.”

“Oh fuck yeah,” on your other side, Maekar agrees wish whis older brother and leans close as well, his arm stretching behind your body, his hand running down your lower back. “We'll show them how efficient we can be.”

Baelor chuckles softly, his fingers tightening around yours under the table in a grounding squeeze. He leans in from your other side, trapping you in a cocoon of warmth between them.

“Look at that, Maekar,” he teases gently, his two-toned gaze fixed on your burning face. “Our Queen is as radiant as the sunset the knight described—now she's shy.”

“I am not shy,” you manage to whisper, though your voice lacks its usual regal bite, and you can’t quite bring yourself to look them in the eye.

They have turned the whole teasing on you now. United. And that's truly wicked.

“No?” Maekar hums and his fingers, still resting at the small of your back, trace the faintest, idle line upward along your spine. It is not improper. Not quite. But it is enough to make your stomach tighten. “You're all flushed, our little wife.”

Baelor laughs under his breath beside you, the sound warmer than you have ever heard it.

“She burns,” he agrees softly.

“I do not,” you insist.

Baelor raises a brow at the subtle quiver in your voice, his mismatched eyes glinting.

And Maekar's smirk grows wider, a mischievous gleam flashing in his eyes as he leans closer to you, his lips brushing your earlobe. “Good. Because the night is young, and as the dumb knight so wisely noted... we have a very important anniversary to attend to. And I intend to be extremely efficient.”

“Then I’ll have them thrown in the dragonpit,” he mutters, entirely serious. 

You roll your eyes. You do not tell him that the thought of the dragonpit is more appealing right now than the thought of another mouthful of food. 

—

Verminthor is the first to lose his patience. 

You go to him because the stone halls feel too small and the eyes on you feel too many all at once, and in the Dragonpit, at least, the dangers are more honest. Fire, teeth, ancient temper—things you can see and understand and stand your ground against on a good day. The heat embraces you as it always does, smelling of ash and hot iron. Baelor’s hand is firm around yours as you descend the ramp, that quiet, familiar gravity in him settling your jangling nerves. 

“Rytsas, ñuha vēzos,” he calls, voice rolling out into the dimness. 

The Bronze Fury is awake before the words finish echoing. He shifts in his hollow with a long scrape of scale on stone, great head lifting, smoke blossoming from his nostrils. His eyes crack open, twin coals burning gold in the light. 

You are ready for that. You are not ready for what he does next. 

He doesn’t look at Baelor. Not at first. 

He swings that massive head towards you as soon as you step onto the blackened floor, nostrils flaring sharply. The chains above your heads shiver as he uncoils, dragging his bulk closer with ponderous care, talons carving new grooves in stone older than your great-grandfather. 

“Easy,” Baelor says automatically, hand tightening on your fingers. “He’s only—”

Verminthor inhales. You’ve seen him scent the air before, curious or dismissive, a lazy gust that ruffles your hair. But this time, something is different about the nature of his regard. This is a drag, a deep, purposeful pulling of air that seems to empty the world around you and straight into his large chest instead. Your hair moves with it, your skirts tug towards him, rippling with a rustle. You feel the pressure in your ears, the breath stolen from your lungs for half a heartbeat. 

Then he exhales, right over you. It’s hot, but not the scorching blast of true anger. It’s a… testing heat. An unanswered question. 

You gag anyway, eyes watering. “Hells—”

Verminthor ignores your swearing. He drops his head until the great scarred ridge of his muzzle is level with your torso, and nudges. Not a shove—he is too old, too experienced to risk knocking you sprawling by mistake—but a firm, insistent push below your ribs. 

Your hand flies to your stomach on reflex. Baelor’s breath stutters behind you. 

“Verminthor,” he says, warning and confusion tangled together. “What are you—”

The dragon rumbles. 

It’s a sound you’ve never heard from him before. Not the thunder-growl of annoyance, not the deep, pleased purr you’ve coaxed from him once or twice when you scratched just the right scar. This is… sharper. Shorter. Almost offended. His pupils blow wide, swallowing most of the molten gold. He inhales again, shorter this time, right against the front of your bodice, then huffs a hot breath over the same spot, as if trying to clear away some obscuring scent. 

You take a step back, instincts screaming too close, too much, but he follows you, relentless, until your back almost bumps Baelor’s chest. 

“Baelor,” you say tightly. “Call him off.”

Baelor doesn’t answer you. 

His fingers slip from your hand to your waist instead, steadying, anchoring you. You feel him lean around you, his attention gone utterly, completely still. He is staring at Verminthor with a look that makes the tiny hairs at the back of your neck stand up. 

“Daor,” he says under his breath. “It can’t be—”

Verminthor cuts him off with a snort that sends dust sifting down from the arches. The dragon’s gaze snaps to Baelor for a beat—sharp, irritated, as if to say of course it can, little two-leg—then returns to you. 

He rumbles again, deeper this time. The sound reverberates through your bones, centred oddly in the hollow where his muzzle presses, gentle and inexorable, against your midsection. When you flinch, his breath huffs out sharply, almost chastising, and he nudges again, softer. 

Your hand is still splayed there, fingers spread over the thin layer of wool and linen and whalebone. Baelor covers it. His palm is warm even in the heat of the pit; his fingers dwarf yours, closing over them with a kind of reverent care that robs you of speech. 

“Verminthor?” he prompts, and there’s something raw and choked in his voice you’ve heard only a handful of times. “Skori issa?”

The dragon answers with a long, low sound that is almost a hum. His eyes drift half-closed. He shifts his great body, slow and deliberate, to curl in closer around you both, tail dragging in a new arc, wingbones creaking. Not trapping you—just enclosing, the way a mountain range encloses a valley it protects. 

“Baelor,” you say again, throat tight. “What does he—”

He doesn’t make you finish the question. 

“Dragons smell… things,” he says roughly, still staring at Verminthor as if he’s seeing him for the first time. “Change in the blood. In… in bodies.” His hand tightens over yours on your stomach. You can feel the tremor in it, the way Baelor’s fingers flex and curl as if desperate to hold onto something there; some dream perhaps. “There are tales. Old tales, really. Of a she-dragon who would not let her rider mount while her belly was full with a child, of another who suddenly refused to range over open sea when his rider’s wife quickened. I thought they were just that. Stories.”

Verminthor huffs at him, seemingly offended by the implication. 

Baelor swallows, and you feel the movement against your back. “He’s not curious,” he says after a moment, almost absently, to himself. “He’s certain.”

Everything in your world suddenly constricts to here and now, sensations so dizzying they overlap with almost frightening intensity inside your mind: the moist, soothing heat of Verminthor’s breath against your cheeks, Baelor’s hand over yours, trembling, and a small, wild hope you’re almost too terrified to examine for more than a breath. 

“That’s impossible,” you breathe out. “I would know.”

“Would you?” Baelor’s voice turns gentle, thoughtful. “You’ve been tired. Sick at certain smells. You were dizzy on the wall-walk last week.”

“It was hot,” you protest weakly. 

“It was winter by southern measures,” he counters. “And you, who sneers at Dornish summers, suddenly growing weak at the edges of my sight—”

His words fade off, suddenly cut off. Under your joined hands, Verminthor’s muzzle presses again, very, very lightly, as if he knows exactly how much pressure your flesh and the fragile things inside can bear. 

You feel, abruptly, ridiculous tears burn at the backs of your eyes. 

“Baelor,” you choke out, helpless.

He moves then. 

He steps around you, between you and the dragon’s face, though Verminthor snorts and shifts to keep his nose tucked against your side. Baelor drops to one knee on the scorched stone without ceremony, heedless of ash and old soot staining his riding leathers. His hands come up towards you, all but drifting—not to your waist, not in some practised courtly gesture, but to cradle your hips like he’s discovered a new religion in the shape of your body. 

He rests his forehead against the spot where Verminthor has been fussing. The breath that escapes your lungs is an unsteady rush. 

“Are you certain?” he asks the dragon, voice muffled in your skirts, raw and ragged in a way you have never heard before. Baelor is not the prince right now, future ruler of a realm; he’s not even the fearsome warrior they tell gallant tales about. Right now, he’s just a man kneeling in the shadow of an ancient god given flesh and asking, pleading, please. 

Verminthor’s answer is unambiguous. 

He gives a short, rumbling roar that makes the Dragonpit’s bones shiver. It’s not loud by his standards, but the message is clear all the same. Chains rattle abovehead, dust dancing in muted rays of light. 

Yes, it says, as surely as words: You little half-blooded fool, of course I am.

Baelor laughs. 

It’s a broken sound, caught somewhere between a half-sob, half-joy, and it shakes his whole body. Baelor’s hands glide from your hips to your stomach, fingers splaying possessively right there over the fabric, covering as much as they can. 

“You hear that?” he whispers, voice wrecked, breathless, not sure whether he’s speaking to you or to whatever might be listening to him under your ribs. “Even the oldest of us knows.”

“Baelor,” you manage, just barely. Your fingers find his short hair, fingernails smoothing over his scalp. His eyes shine brightly when they find yours, wet at the corners. “We don’t know—”

“We will,” he shoots back immediately, lifting his head higher. “We’ll have the maesters and every old crone who’s ever delivered a babe in Flea Bottom check if needed. If they tell me I’m a fool, I’ll bear it gladly.”

His mouth curves, soft and tender all at once. 

“But if they don’t,” he goes on, voice dropping to a muted whisper between you, a dragon’s promise wrapped in a man’s words in each syllable, “if they tell me Verminthor is right, if they tell me you’re carrying my child—”

Baelor breaks off, voice catching once more. The words hang between you anyway, heavy and shining and too full of possibility that steals your breath. Your heart thuds, too fast in your ears. 

If it’s true—if this old beast, this Bronze Fury who’se seen kings rise and fall during his long life, is right—then there’s a life folded small and secret under your hand. Flesh and blood that is half Stark, half dragon, tied to you and Baelor and the realm in ways you cannot yet see. 

“I’ll build a pit in Winterfell,” Baelor says suddenly, the words spilling out, wild and half-serious. “We’ll fly north. I’ll freeze my royal arse off. Verminthor will bully Blackwind. The old gods can stare at us from their trees and decide what to make of it all.” His hands flex, gentling again. “Just… let this be true.”

Verminthor, whose patience for speeches is limited at the best of times, decides he’s had enough. 

He shifts once more, hauling his bulk closer still, until the curve of his chest is a warm bronze wall at your back. One great wing unfurls—not fully, but just enough to sweep around you in an arc of tattered, heat-scorched membrane and scarred bone. 

The world narrows to a pocket of dim, dragon-shadowed warmth and the man on his knees before you. 

Baelor stills. You feel his fingers tighten on your stomach in some unconscious echo of the way Verminthor’s wingtip tucks closer, as if wrapping the three of you tight against anything that might try to reach in. 

“Soft old brute,” Baelor whispers, fondness wrapping around each syllable. His free hand finds the wing’s leading edge, stroking a callused thumb over an old, puckered tear. Verminthor hums, low and satisfied. 

“He’s… pleased,” you observe with a strangled laugh, bewildered and lightheaded in equal measure, because there are no other words for the mood settling over the pit, in truth. Verminthor’s breath has slowed, deep and even in your ears, a steady rumble through the ancient stone surrounding you. His eyes glow faintly in the dimness of the keep, watching you with a heavy, proprietary calm of a creature who has lived a long life and has seen many things beyond your comprehension. 

“Grumpy as always but content, yes,” Baelor says with a huffing laugh that fans over your inner wrist, because Verminthor is still scowling at you both like he’s irked it took you this long to realise something he figured out the moment you walked in. “He’s already angry at the world on your behalf. Look at him.”

You do. 

For the first time, you notice the way he’s angled his body. Not just around you like you first thought, but between you and the pit mouth, the ramp, the door. Any threat that comes in will have to go through bronze and fire and ancient rage before it can touch you. 

“He’ll be worse than Blackwind,” you say faintly.

Baelor’s smile is pure, helpless adoration. For you, for the dragon, for the unseen little future nestled between your bodies. “Good,” he says, voice still frayed. “Old gods know I need the help.”

You snort, the sound dissolving into something suspiciously like a choked-back sob. You bend, awkward with his hands and Verminthor’s wing and the tangle of your own feelings, and press your forehead to Baelor’s. 

He tilts his head, nose bumping yours, the barest brush of his mouth at the corner of your lips. His breath smells of smoke and the apple he didn’t finish at breakfast. 

“We’ll make certain,” he murmurs. “We’ll be careful. You won’t so much as set a foot on a saddle without three dragons and a wolf snarling about it.” His thumb moves in small, soothing circles over the spot Verminthor keeps nudging. “Until then…”

“Until then?” you echo.

“Until then, humour an old dragon and a foolish prince,” he says softly. “Let us pretend, just for today, that he’s right.”

Your eyes flutter shut. Under your palm, under his, under the careful pressure of Verminthor’s muzzle, your body feels… the same. No quickening, no sudden flutter, just your own heartbeat, loud and scared and too hopeful. But there is a sense, sudden and fierce, that you are not as alone inside your skin as you once were. 

“All right,” you exhale, voice rough. “Just for today.”

Verminthor huffs, as if deeply insulted by the “just”. He pulls his head back enough to fix you with a molten stare that says very plainly: this is not pretending, little wolf. 

“See?” Baelor says, a touch smugly, brushing a kiss against your temple. “Already taking your side over mine. Traitorous beast.”

The dragon snorts in his face. Baelor laughs again, more ragged now, and drops one more kiss—lighter than a breath—just above where your hands rest. 

“Ñuha tresy,” he whispers so quietly you almost don’t catch it. My child. Then, after a beat, softer still, “Ñuha zaldrīgona ha ñuha direlītsos.” My little dragon-wolf.

You don’t have it in you to stop him or tell him to wait, that is seems unwise to name what isn’t certain just yet. That, on the off chance it’s not true, your heart could not bear to see the disappointment on Baelor’s face. Yet under Verminthor’s powerful wing keeping you tucked away from the world, and Baelor’s arms secure and unmovable around your middle, it feels less like tempting faith. 

When you finally leave the pit, Verminthor lets you go with obvious reluctance, wing drawing back slowly, head following you up the ramp until the last possible moment. He huffs one final warm breath against your back, an old god’s blessing in dragon form, then settles again, curling in on himself with a satisfied grunt. 

As the heavy door thuds shut behind you, Baelor’s hand finds yours once more. His fingers lace through yours, protective, possessive, entirely unashamed of his inability to be parted from you. 

“You’re not wandering anywhere alone,” he declares decisively, giving your fingers a gentle squeeze. “Not until we know for certain. And even then, we…”

“Baelor,” you interrupt him, half-exasperated, half-fond. “I’m pregnant, not made of glass.”

“We don’t know you’re pregnant yet,” he says loftily, and you almost laugh, warmed by the unadulterated happiness you see shining out of him like Dornish sun that seems to love him so. “But until my maesters swear otherwise, I will be treating you as if you are made of the finest glass in the Seven Kingdoms.”

You snort. “And if they swear for it?”

Baelor’s grip tightens again, his voice tumbling towards something that thrums in your bones like a distant roar, all intent and heat. 

“Then you’ll never again doubt that you carry a dragon’s child,” he replies huskily, his head bowing towards you. “Because every dragon in this city will know, and they will all look at you the way Verminthor did today.”

You think of molten eyes, a wing curled like a sheltering hand, the strange, gentle way a creature of fire and fury pressed his nonse against your belly. 

“And you?” you ask softly. 

He glances at you from the corner of his eye, a slow, crooked smile spreading across his handsome face, tender and fierce in equal measure. “Me?” he wonders. “You will be sick of the feel of my hands on you before the first snowfall in the North, my wolf.”

You squeeze his fingers, sliding your other hand unconsciously, protectively, over your midsection. 

“We’ll see.”

You had told him, of course, that such splendor was unnecessary, that a small supper with the family would have more than sufficed. Yet Baelor delighted in spoiling you, for you were the finest blessing he had been granted in a lot of time.

Whenever Ser Duncan the Tall found himself in your presence, he devoted most of his time to watch you from afar—seeing you laugh beside Baelor, play with Egg, or even speak comfortably with Prince Aerion. Your presence was nothing short of glorious, a magnet for eyes and devotion wherever you went. Your nature was exquisite—kind, gentle, and so unbearably sweet that at times Dunk thought you could scarce be of the same blood as the rest of them. 

And your beauty… that was another matter entirely. You were the loveliest sight the humble eyes of a hedge knight had ever beheld. Your form was wondrous, your face celestial, your long hair falling over your shoulders like a silken cascade, and your smile... it stole the very breath from his chest every time. Each time you entered his sight, a sigh would just escape out of him, soft and helpless, like a boy hopelessly in love.

“Do not even think it, Dunk,” Egg warns him, as he had more than once before, quick to notice the besotted look upon his big friend’s face as they sat together at the table. “That's out of your power to reach, Ser.”

But Dunk does not answer. He is far too intent upon you as you appear in the great hall’s doorway. 

Today you wear a gown of red, dazzling, adorned with pearls and white embroidery that spreads across your bodice, climbs your shoulders, and trails down the length of your spine, where darker crimson stitching forms the likeness of dragon scales. Your hair lies loose down your back, softly waved, gleaming in the candlelight.

All rise at your entrance.

Dunk is the last. He nearly stumbles over his chair in his haste, its legs scraping loudly against the stone floor as he shoves it back. That alone—and you—turn him red as a summer apple.

Valarr, seated at his other side, watches his brutish motion with poorly hidden amusement.

“My love,” Baelor calls first, his face gentle as drifting clouds, fondness curving his lips as he comes to greet you properly. “Happy name day.”

You accept his embrace, smiling as he presses a tender kiss to your hair.

After him, the others come in turn, forming a line to offer their wishes, their thanks, their gifts—small tokens and letters placed into your hands.

Egg flings himself into your arms, making you laugh and sway back a step beneath the force of him. Baelor, standing close at your side, smiles at the sight. Ever tender are you with the younglings, and for that, he loves you all the more. You shower his children with a devotion so maternal and steadfast that one would never guess they did not spring from your own womb.

“Thank you, my sweet Aegon,” you tell him, stroking the fine, pale silver-gold hair already sprouting upon his head. The boy had even brought you a flower—one of those you cherished most, a silent token of his affection.

Duncan feels painfully out of place when his turn comes. Standing empty-handed while his stomach twists into a tight, miserable knot.

He is already flushed when you lift your gaze to him, your eyes sparkling with amusement at the familiar effect you have upon him—his trembling hands, his stammer, his shy smiles. He's so cute!

“Ser Duncan. I hope you would be here,” you greet him warmly, you know well the bond he shares with Aegon; to have him present is a comfort to your heart. “Aegon speaks wonders of you. It does not surprise me to see you have become each other's shadow.”

“My lady,” Dunk answers you, his voice no louder than a mouse’s squeak. His gaze, much against his better judgment, betrays him, making a swift, helpless journey over the length of your body.

And Baelor notices, of course; his smile fades, slow and certain, as he watches the knight’s every movement like a hawk perched upon your shoulder. A single brow lifts slightly, and a deep, thoughtful furrow begins to cloud his brow.

Duncan clears his throat and casts your husband an apologetic glance before daring to look at you again. “I— I beg your pardon. I would not wish to be an intrusion upon your name day. Your father was kind enough to grant me to attend.”

The hall falls into sepulchral silence. The small conversations that bloom among the Targaryens die at once when Dunk’s words echo through the great chamber, their meaning plain, their offense unmistakable and unashamed. Even the youngest cease their play, and the servants stand frozen right where they are.

All turn to stare at Duncan now, and they look upon him with mortified eyes, as though none dare breathe.

Somewhere, someone fails to smother a laugh—most likely Aerion.

Egg’s mouth falls open in mortification. He looks up at his friend, his expression stricken, willing him to understand—to see—that what he has just said is wrong. Very wrong.

Duncan looks down at him when his small squire gives his shin a furtive kick, meant to draw his notice without the others seeing. He frowns, bewildered, not understanding what offense he has given now to deserve such a blow.

And when he looks back to the grown folk, he finds you watching him with an expression poised in perfect balance between horror and amusement. There is even the faintest hint of a smile at the corner of your lips, one you must press away when you turn your head toward your prince.

Baelor does not look pleased as you do.

His face is uncommonly stern, his brow drawn tight, his lips pressed into a hard, unforgiving line, he is trying to gather every shred of his restraint to keep from striking the foolish knight upon your name day.

“She is my wife, Ser Duncan,” he clarifies, his patience stretched thin, drawn so taut it borders upon offense. His hand comes to curl around your waist as you lean into him, lifting one hand to his chest in quiet reassurance.

You are still trying to hide that treacherous, amused smile.

“Oh—Seven—” Dunk breathes, realization striking him at last. He drops at once to his knees, bowing his head in reverence and shame. “I beg your forgiveness, Your Grace. I—I did not know. My manners are poor—you must understand, I never m–meant offense.”

“Of course not, Ser,” you reply kindly, looking down at him, still leaning against your husband’s chest. He lets out a soft sigh beneath your touch, your hand rising and falling with the steady motion of his breath.

Baelor makes a sharp, dismissive gesture for him to rise. “See that it does not happen again.”

“Of course!” Dunk scrambles to his feet at once, his face burning red with shame. “I only meant that she is so young and beautiful, and you—”

His frantic blue eyes fall upon Valarr, standing just behind his father. The prince shakes his head swiftly, his mismatched eyes widening in urgent warning, bidding him to hold his tongue.

Dunk obeys at once and his jaw snaps shut so hard it almost snaps apart.

“You witless boy,” Maekar rebukes him, his face twisted with disgust and disdain when the hedge knight dares glance his way, standing at your side like some old, ill-tempered hound. “That should cost you your fucking tongue.”

Your soft laughter breaks through the tension of the moment, and all turn to look at you, the heavy air easing when they all realize this offends you not half so deeply as it does them.

“I am certain Ser Duncan meant no malice, Maekar,” you say, seeking to soothe them—most of all your husband. “And I should not like to see any tongues torn out upon my name day, please.”

Baelor’s gaze remains fixed upon the mortified knight, his hand coming to rest upon the pommel of his sword—a blade he carries in quiet defiance of your pleas to remain unarmed this day. He thinks, perhaps, that he shall have a use for it against Ser Duncan.

“... shall we eat at last, then?” Comes Daeron’s unmistakable voice from somewhere within the hall. “I am hungry. And thirsty.”

“Of that, none have any doubt,” Maekar mutters, rolling his eyes as he returns to the table.

The others follow in his wake, granting you and your husband a moment alone.

Ser Duncan gives you another quick, apologetic bow before hastening out from beneath your husband’s gaze.

You cannot hold it any longer.

A breath of laughter escapes you, soft and bright, and you turn in Baelor’s arms to face him fully. 

He is still watching the place where Duncan stood, his jaw tight, his shoulders rigid beneath your touch, as if the insult lingers in the air like a foul smell.

Your fingers curl more firmly into the front of his doublet to call for his attention.

“My prince,” you whisper with a smile when his two-toned eyes finally meet yours. “My heart...”

You rise onto your toes and press a gentle kiss to his cheek, his beard tickling against your skin. His body noticeably softens beneath your warm affection.

Another kiss follows, softer still, at the corner of his mouth.

And one more, sweet and lingering, upon his lips.

“Peace,” you plead humorously against his mouth, your fingers toying idly with the Hand of the King’s badge on his chest. “You look as though you mean to challenge the poor knight to single combat over a slip of the tongue, my love.”

“I am not amused,” he manifests, his tone remarkably sullen, yet you press another loving kiss to his lips to chase away his pettish little pout.

“No?” You lean closer, your voice drops into something more playful and teasing, “is it because he thinks you're old, husband?”

His lips tremble at your words, holding back an ironic smile, and his hands tighten at your waist, pulling you closer against him.

Baelor clicks his tongue, and your gaze falls to his lips as he does. “I am not old.”

“Well, considering my own age... truthfully, you are a bit older,” you continue to tease him, biting back a small laugh at his startled reaction. “Should I begin calling you father now, hm?”

His beautiful eyes narrow.

You grin—and steal another quick kiss before he can protest.

“Do not push your luck, wife,” he warns all the same, a playful little smile curving his lips. His hand slides down to the small of your back before he delivers a sharp, scolding swat to your backside, making you jolt lightly against him.

His brow arches slightly. “You are the only one left breathless and trembling like some frail, ancient little thing. Or must I remind you how you clung to me the other night and begged me to—?”

Your hand flies to his mouth, covering it before he can utter another word.

“My prince,” you hiss under your breath, though laughter trembles in your voice, your eyes wide with scandalized amusement. “You grow bold. We are in a hall full of eyes, and your sons sit but a stone's throw away.”

His lips move against your palm, pressing a lingering, heated kiss there that sends a shiver down your spine. Baelor gently pulls your hand away, though he does not let go of your fingers, his thumb stroking your knuckles with a slow, possessive rhythm, grazing your betrothal ring.

“Let them look,” he dismisses, leaning into you to kiss your lips properly, claiming them. And claiming you.

drabbles/headcanons/blurbs

Seven Deadly Sins (blurb) @sintaera

꧁⎝ 𓆩༺✧༻𓆪 ⎠꧂꧁⎝ 𓆩༺✧༻𓆪 ⎠꧂꧁⎝ 𓆩༺✧༻𓆪 ⎠꧂

one shots

Summerhall Nights (one shot) @lostrealityr

The Nameday Maiden (one shot) @idksmtms

All Your Fault (one shot) @songofmist

You Need a Big God (one shot) @juneinthemeadows

A Very Bad Day to Be Aerion Targaryen (one shot) @novatreil

Dragon (one shot) @targlocket

The Heart of Summerhall (one shot) @harryssattelitestomper

Lord Ashford Fucks His Sheep (one shot) @thirstingseason

Incarnadine (one shot, modern au) @winterstellars

The Girl They Warned You About (one shot) @velvetsainthills

Comforts of Flesh (one shot) @noxiiousstrawberriies

Wanted a Pic (one shot, modern au) @ildico-the-golden

The Walls of Summerhall (one shot) @bekkarific

Good Intentions (one shot) @catbayunthestoryteller

No Eyes But Yours (one shot) @jakecockley

Betrothed (one shot) @velvetsainthills

Soft (one shot) @imnotcryingyouare1

Burn for You (one shot) @myladysapphire

Two Sides of the Same Door (one shot) @booknightt

Widower (one shot) @velvetsainthills

In My Feelings (one shot, modern au) @catbayunthestoryteller

Granite (one shot) @musingsofheaven

You're Playing Cyvasse, I'm Fucking Your Dad (one shot) @venmondiese

Under My Skin (one shot, modern au) @julez-5

꧁⎝ 𓆩༺✧༻𓆪 ⎠꧂꧁⎝ 𓆩༺✧༻𓆪 ⎠꧂꧁⎝ 𓆩༺✧༻𓆪 ⎠꧂

multiple parts/series

Of Winter and Fire (series) @sintaera

The Weight of Love and War (series) @songofmist

Gilded Flames (series) @harryssattelitestomper

Pick (Me) Up (potential series?) @ladyinthebloodychamber

Boss and Secretary (series, modern au) @velvetsainthills

Needle, Thread, Letters, and Words (series) @booknightt

A Feast Fit for the Gods (two parter) @myladysapphire

The Thing Always Come Back to You (series, modern au) @velvetsainthills

“Are you always so dour?” A frown pulled at Maekar’s brow as he turned to his left to look at the young woman who was peering up at him with a curious glint in her eye. 

“Pardon?” He asked, voice low and gruff, but you simply continued looking at him in the same way. 

“I have watched you since you rode into the courtyard and all you have done is scowl or frown. Surely that is not all you do, though?” You asked, leaning a little closer over the arm of your chair. Maekar leaned back a little, eyes widening in shock before his frown deepened. 

“Why the fuck have you been watching me so closely?” He asked, grimacing a little when he remembered how stern his father had once been about being ‘indelicate’ around women. 

“Curiosity, I suppose,” you shrugged, blinking up at him. “Well, that and the fact that it is my name day celebration and I would hope that everyone enjoys themselves,” you smiled a little at that, adjusting the cuff of one sleeve. 

Maekar grimaced again when he finally realised who you were, shifting in his seat a little and glancing out at the tourney ground where the knights prepared. 

“Congratulations,” he grumbled, and your smile became a little more like a smirk as you nodded in thanks. You didn’t let up on your gaze though, continuing to watch him as if waiting for his answer to your initial question. It unsettled him, made him feel as if he was sitting too close to a hearth and the flames licked at his skin. 

Why the fuck were you still watching him? Why were you so interested in him? Did not young women have other more frivolous interests to attend to? Surely your father had gifted you with some new dresses or fabrics or something of the sort to capture your attention? Why were you sitting here and posing such questions to a prince of the realm? Was it insolence, disrespect, or idiotic naivete? When you continued watching him, your eyebrows a little raised, he let out a long sigh, rubbed at his face, and spoke in a tired voice with his eyes still closed. 

“My sons have gone astray on their way to Ashford and I worry for them. The youngest is only just nine.” 

“Oh,” your face dipped into a little frown as well, your lower lip pouting just a smidge. That expression worked wonders to endear you to him. He looked at the dip of your lashes as you looked down, the curve of your lips, and how you seemed to wear all your emotions and expressions on your sleeve. A little sprig of warmth bloomed in his heart. “I am sure your sons are alright,” you told him softly, looking up again and offering him a comforting smile. “Perhaps they were forced to stop in one of the surrounding villages. Have you sent people to look?” 

He scoffed a little at first, getting ready to express his frustration with Daeron and how this was surely his plan from the moment he was sent off, but the earnest look on your face stopped him. He was about to express that the only reason he was attending this tourney was to come look for them himself, why else would he be in such a backwoods place as Ashford, but he refrained once more. For some unfathomable reason, he did not want to inadvertently hurt your feelings. He found no pleasure in breaking the hearts of joyful young women, especially not on special occasions. 

“I will go looking myself,” he chose to answer instead, pursing his lips as he silently hoped you would turn your attention elsewhere and allow him to brood (or spout complaints into Baelor’s ear to his right, he could feel the bastard smirking at his predicament, he just knew it). 

“In the meantime then,” you chirped, smile returning to your face as you clasped your hands together on top of the arm of the chair, “you must enjoy yourself. If for no other reason than to distract yourself from your worries.” 

 “I am enjoying myself just fine,” he responded gruffly, turning to face the grounds again in the hopes that you would take it as a cue to cease bothering him. 

“It does not seem like it,” you quipped, and his scowl deepened. “There, see, you are not enjoying yourself one bit.” 

“I am enjoying myself just fine!” He exclaimed, turning to glare at you as others began to look in his direction. Silence fell over the box for a moment, eyes wandering to the commotion. He huffed, falling back in his chair as Baelor turned to raise his eyebrows at him. 

“Are you alright, brother?” He asked in that perpetually-soft voice of his. 

“I am fine,” Maekar gritted out, glancing at you from the corner of his eye to see your own sparkling and your lips pursed to hide a smirk. His hands clenched on the arms of the chair. There was no denying it now, you were under his skin. 

Maekar stood abruptly, mumbling something about returning soon, then stormed off, his head full of fuming thoughts, and all surrounding you. 

You did not wait long to follow after your latest project. 

When the Targaryens had arrived just before the beginning of the tourney organised for your nameday, your father had dragged you out to stand in the courtyard to welcome them. You understood that it was custom, and you did not mind it too much, but a welcome was always the most boring part of the festivities. You had put on your beautiful new gown, a mix of daffodil yellow and shimmery fabrics and pale oranges to deepen out the skirt, and stood beside your mother and father to welcome them. 

You watched their horses with curiosity, black stallions and white mares dressed in regalia as elegant as those the men wore. But the thing that intrigued you the most, was how dour they all seemed. You had been of the opinion that royalty should be kind and of a sunny disposition, but it appeared that was not the case. 

The crown prince was kind in his greeting, watching you bow with a little smile and patting the top of your head once as he congratulated you on your nameday. And his son was polite, if a little subdued, nodding his head in your direction as he greeted your father then followed after his own. But your curiosity was truly piqued when Prince Maekar and his son appeared. 

Aerion did not even bother with the formalities of a greeting, breezing past your father and into the keep. Prince Maekar was not much better, grumbling his hellos, barely glancing over you, and falling into step with the rest of his family. 

You had felt indignant at first, a little annoyed that though this was supposed to be in celebration of you, no one was giving you a second thought. But that had dissipated and only bloomed into curiosity as the day passed into evening. At dinner, you were sitting near Aerion but he paid you no attention, turning completely away to focus on his father and uncle’s conversations with your family. You did not mind as you did the same, but your eyes never strayed far from Prince Maekar.

If someone asked, you would not be able to tell them why he intrigued you so. He was older, widowed, a fourth son with children of his own, and as far removed from you as could be. You were the third child of a minor house, a daughter whose only value was the chance of a good marriage, not a great one. But you had been curious since the day you were born, and the most intriguing things were always the most inaccessible. 

Prince Maekar was scowling more often than not, he expressed his opinions in gruff and aggressive words with no regard for the opinions or feelings of others. Even the way he cut the meat on his plate was almost violent. And yet all you wanted was to see what he looked like when he smiled… 

After dinner, the first jousts were to begin, and all of you gathered on the balcony overlooking the tourney grounds. With the arrival of the royals you were relegated to the second row, watching the backs of their heads and the jousts over their shoulders. Your brothers were competing for you, but you could not have cared less when you were plotting how you would insert yourself into Prince Maekar’s life and get what you wanted: a smile. 

The next day would be long, jousts and duels only broken up by feasts for luncheon and supper, and you were sure that you could find an opportunity to speak to him, to force his attention onto you. And now here you were, skirts bunched into your hands as you raced through the halls in your silk slippers to keep up with him, your hair billowing behind you. 

He had not gotten very far, and you made a little prayer to the gods as you sped up a little to fall into step beside him. You were forced to almost run to keep up with him, your hold on your skirts slipping a little as you spoke. 

“Where are you going?” You asked, voice airy and out of breath. He stopped abruptly, turning to glare down at you. 

“Why are you following me?” He asked roughly, and you could almost hear his teeth grind against each other as he clenched his jaw. 

“Because I want to know where you are going,” you answered simply, letting go of your skirts as you stood in front of one another. He paused for a moment, then continued on his way again, his long strides carrying him so quickly. You were left to follow once more, but when he noticed you were still there, he stopped again and huffed out an angry breath. 

“You understand this is insolence, do you not?” His words were biting, gruff as they always were, and the glare in his eyes was fierce. All it did was attach you to him more. 

“You have not ordered me away,” you told him, not taunting or teasing, simply making him aware. He paused for a moment, simply staring you down, then said, 

“I order you to stop pestering me, and to leave me alone.” You smiled a little then, but pressed your lips together to try and hide it. 

“I am neither pestering you, nor making any attempt to keep you company, my Prince. I am simply walking in the same direction as you.” And that only enraged him more, his face turning red with anger, his fists clenching, and a growl rumbled from him that would have made any man tremble and back down within an instant. But you simply stood there and smiled gently up at him until he closed his eyes and began taking deep breaths in. He rubbed his hand across his face and stood there for a moment with it pressed over his eyes. 

You felt sorry for a second. You did not mean to cause him grief or distress, he had enough of that already. You cleared your throat a little and flitted your eyes all over him. 

“My Prince?” You asked quietly, stepping closer. He dropped his hand from his face and looked at you, one eyebrow raising. “May I?” And you gestured at where his cloak had gained an unnecessary fold by his shoulder, caused by the clip going wonky. You didn’t wait for a response, simply reached up and adjusted the clip on his chest, unfolding the bit of cloak and righting it on his shoulder.

Maekar felt frozen as he watched you fuss over him, your brow furrowing a little and your lower lip pushing out as you used both your hands to smooth the cloak. His breaths became shallow and something in his chest shifted, warmed, became a pit all at once. It had been a long time since someone had fussed over him like this, since someone had cared enough to notice… He gulped a little, and his fists clenched tighter before loosening. 

“I was going to go for a long walk in the woods,” he put emphasis on the word ‘long’ and it made a little spike of sorrow flash through you. Why did he have to be alone? 

“May I accompany you?” You asked softly, the frown on your face smoothing out into a look of gentle hopefulness. 

“These are your nameday celebrations, you should not be disappearing,” he tried, putting on his best fatherly voice. You hummed, nodding a little. 

“I suppose you are right, but… as they are my nameday celebrations, should I not have a say in what I want to do? I would like to accompany you.” You smiled at that triumphantly, proud to have come up with a valid response, but he just huffed a little and shook his head, looking around the hall again. 

“It is not proper,” he finally broke out, clenching his fists again. “You are a young lady, you cannot be gallivanting off alone with men.” 

“You will not harm me, will you?” You asked, tilting your head a little as you met his gaze. His brow furrowed and he leaned back a little in disgusted shock. 

“Of course not, why the fuck would you even ask that?” He exclaimed, staring at you incredulously. You reached over and grasped his arm, lifting his forearm and then slotting your own into the bend of his elbow before turning back to the hallway and slowly beginning to walk, forcing him to follow if he did not want to drag you back and risk sending you tumbling. 

“As you will not harm me, I see no reason not to accompany you,” you told him, smiling up at him kindly before looking ahead again. You almost had a skip in your step. “And,” you added, “Ashford is my home. If you wish to go for a long walk in the woods and find your way back, you will need a guide. I have traipsed about this land all my life. I know exactly the places to take you.” You said it all with such firm decisiveness, and such a sweet smile on your face, that Maekar could find no words to deny you. Even breath seemed hard to come by at that moment. 

You led him through the halls and out of a side entrance that led straight out onto the fields that bordered the keep. It was not a long walk until you were under the cover of trees, and there you slowed a little to ensure the walk would be as long as possible. 

In that time, Maekar had learned some key details about you. The first being that you seemed perfectly incapable of walking in a straight line. Even with your grip on his arm, your shoulder kept bumping into his, or his arm was stretched as you strayed but kept your grip on him. The next being that you were infinitely clumsy. You managed to catch your feet on roots often enough, and much of his job as your companion was to ensure you did not fall to the floor in your carelessness. The beginning of your walk consisted of him grunting angrily as he steadied you when your foot slipped on a dip in the ground as you were too busy staring up into the branches at the birds. 

“Watch where you step,” he grumbled, tightening his grip as he noted another dip in the ground you were sure to slip through. You simply ignored the comment, continuing to breathe in the fresh air, but you did slow a little to ensure you did not stumble so much. 

“So, what is it you do in your leisure time then?” You asked eventually when the ground evened a little and you had left the fields and Ashford town behind. Maekar turned his head a little to face you, watching you with that ever-present furrow to his brow. 

“I’m not sure if I ever get any of that,” he mumbled, and you just scoffed a little and turned to look at him. 

“That is simply not true, my prince. What do you do in the evenings when you have finished your meals but have not yet gone to sleep? Or days in which whatever business keeps princes busy does not last very long? Surely you have something to do,” you were persistent, and the way you looked when you spoke was so expressive that it felt fresh in comparison to his stoic family and home. 

“I suppose I go riding, or I read,” he answered simply, shrugging a little, and you smiled brightly at that, as if you had won something with that response. He looked ahead of you into the spaces between the tree trunks and the green leaves. He had once had things to do in those moments, people to spend time with and fun to have. But his wife was dead now, and his sons all grown and disappointing, and his brother preparing to ascend the throne. Much of his time was spent on councils or alone now… 

“I too love to ride,” you told him happily, skipping along for a few steps. “Father gifted me a lovely white mare many namedays ago, and she is the sweetest creature to ever exist!” You had a beautiful lightness to your eyes as you spoke, and Maekar almost felt a smile pull at his lips as he watched you babble on about your beloved horse. Another thing he had learnt, you were rather talkative. 

“What is your mare called?” You asked softly, looking up at him with earnest eyes. “The white one you rode in on.” 

“Duchess,” he told you, and you noticed the way his forehead had smoothed out, and he was no longer scowling. He looked almost… at peace. You felt something spark in your chest. Triumphant, yes, but also more… something warm and soft, like the way one feels when they are content and cozy in their bed. 

And somewhere along your path, as the two of you strolled deeper in the safety of the trees and quietly bathed in the dapples of sunlight, the feeling between you changed. The air softened and cocooned you, hiding the both of you from the world. Your hands gripped him gently, and he pressed you closer, not saying a word as he kept you tucked at his side. The two of you shared soft sighs and gentle caresses over your hands, a sudden intimacy that could not be explained, but was only right. 

“My prince,” you began quietly, and he looked at you, waiting for whatever question you would come up with now. “Are you happy?” You asked softly, with the concern and care of someone who was truly interested. 

Maekar’s stride slowed, and though he was staring at your face, you didn’t feel that he was looking at you. Your brows were furrowed as you watched him, his lips parting a little as if he was going to say something, but no response appeared. You clung to him a little tighter. 

“I do not mean to insult or sound frivolous,” you began again, your voice soft and caring now, “and I may be completely wrong in my deductions, but… you do not seem happy.” 

Maekar let out a long and low sigh, lifting his head up to look into the canopy of the trees for a few moments. His arm was almost limp in your grasp, but you only clung to it tighter, almost fearing letting it go. 

“I oft think,” he spoke slowly, emphasizing each word as if he was thinking as he spoke, “that I no longer know what the word means, ‘happiness’.” 

You frowned, pausing in your step and turning to fully face him. He smiled a sad smile as he looked down at you, a bloom of warmth in his chest at the expression on your face. You felt too deeply, he thought. 

“That is… rather upsetting,” you finally breathed out, looking into his eyes as your head tilted a little. “That makes me sad.” But he just continued smiling that sad smile and you could not bear it. You reached up and gently smoothed your thumb over his cheek, feeling the soft skin above his beard. You ran your fingers over his forehead and the other cheek too, smoothing what you could until he looked peaceful again, and your own face mirrored the expression. 

“Sweet, infuriating, one,” he whispered, reaching up and gently cupping your cheek. You preened under the attention, blinking slowly as you nuzzled into his rough palm. You reached up and held his hand against your face, looking up at him with big eyes. “Why are you so intrigued with me, hm? Why do you waste your time on an old man like myself? There are far better men to fawn over.” 

Because of course that was what you had been doing, fawning. It was dressed in jokes and smirks and antagonising comments, but you were fawning, and it had been obvious from the start. 

“I…” you trailed off, shuffling a little closer so you felt comfortably pressed to his chest, and engulfed in the warmth he radiated without trying. “You are not old,” you argued quickly, shaking your head a little, but not enough to dislodge his hand from against your cheek. He smiled softly at that, just the littlest pull at the corners of his lips, and a small chuckle shook his chest. You smiled too, because that was all you had wanted after all. “And I do not waste my time,” you said, your indignant tone returning a little from before. “You are not a waste of time,” you shrugged simply. 

Maekar clutched you a little closer at that, gazing down at you with his striking blue eyes, so full of emotion, like nothing you had seen before. You were mesmerised. And he was nothing less. Looking at you, at your delicate face and the way you looked at him in return, with reverence and care, a care he had not seen nor felt for years. And what was he, if not just as intrigued as you? Fawning over you?

He had made it clear to you on your wedding night that he had no intention of bedding you. It was a statement of fact, delivered not out of cruelty but out of a misguided sense of honesty. He had seen the flash of hurt in your eyes, quickly masked by a composed, brittle acceptance. So, naturally, he reasoned, after some time spent in the company of the charming Ser Elyas, you would come to love him. It was a natural, tragic story. A handsome knight and a neglected princess. He had practically gift-wrapped a discreet, passionate affair for you. It was the least he could give it to you, a substitute for the husband you had probably imagined, a way to satisfy that aching, youthful urge for romance that he, a man carved from stone, could never fulfill.

Yet, from what he observed over the following weeks, the plan had failed with spectacular precision. He would watch from a high balcony as Ser Elyas, in his gleaming plate, offered you his hand to help you over a damp patch of grass. You took it with polite, distant courtesy. You would exchange a few words, an occasional jest that made the knight chuckle, but your expression remained serene, unmoved. Maekar, a veteran of countless campaigns, knew the look of a soldier performing a duty. And your nights, as the quiet reports from your maids confirmed, were spent solely in your rooms. No secret knocks, no furtive shadows slipping from your door at dawn.

He was at his wits’ end. What did you want then? He had given you everything your station and age could desire. What would wipe off that pretty, unconscious pout off your face? Perhaps, he had finally conceded, if he talked to you. A novel concept for a marriage, he knew. He would go to you, and perhaps, in a moment of unguarded frustration, you would let your grievances slip.

The previous night, he had gone to your chamber. Your maid, a timid wisp of a girl, nearly dropped her mending box when she saw him at the threshold. "Leave us," he had commanded, and she fled. You had been seated by the fire, a book open on your lap, and you looked like a startled doe at his unexpected presence, your body going rigid, your eyes wide.

"My prince," you had said, your voice a breathless question.

He had felt like an intruder in his own wife's space. "I…I came to see how you were faring," he had managed, the words feeling foreign and clumsy on his tongue.

You recovered quickly, your innate grace taking over. You poured his wine yourself, and offered him a plate of fruit and honey cake. "I am well, my prince. Truly. The book you sent is fascinating. The accounts of the Rhoynish are almost unbelievable." You were making conversation. You were making it easy for him. And so you spoke for a while. It was surprisingly pleasant.

He found himself relaxing into a chair, debating the tactical blunders of the Valyrian conquest of the Rhoyne, and you had listened with rapt attention, asking pointed, intelligent questions that surprised him. You had a mind, he realized with a start. A sharp, curious mind hidden beneath the pout and the big eyes.

But he didn’t catch any clues. No lamenting a lack of knights, no forlorn sighs about the gardens, no veiled complaints about his absence. Just you, being…pleasant. So, eventually, he rose to leave. "It is late. You should rest."

The change was instantaneous. The spark of animation in your eyes died, replaced by a stricken, hollow look, as if you were wondering what you had done wrong. Your fingers tightened imperceptibly on the spine of your book. "Of course, my prince. Thank you for your company."

He hesitated. He was a man of military precision, and the sudden, palpable drop in your mood was a tactical variable he hadn't accounted for. He was already in your bed chambers. What kind of husband left his wife's bed chamber right before going to bed himself? A churlish one. A neglectful one. The servants would talk, of that he was certain. The walls of Summerhall had ears and mouths. But he did not care what servants would see or say. Their gossip was the chaff of court life. The thought that stopped him cold, that made his feet feel nailed to the floor, was simpler. He owed you basic courtesy, did he not? He had denied you everything else. He could not deny you the simple, public dignity of a husband who shared your bed for a night.

Before he could overthink himself out of it, he gestured to the bed. "Move over, then."

Your eyes, if possible, grew even wider. "My prince?"

"I will not sleep in my boots," he said gruffly, sitting on the edge of a chaise and beginning to unlace them. "I will stay. Just to sleep." He made a promise to himself then, a sacred oath. He would lie down with you, and he would speak to you until you fell asleep, so you would not be insulted by a silent, rigid vigil. Then, he would leave. He had been insulting you for months by refusing to do his duties as a husband, and this small act of presence would at least be a temporary salve on a wound he had no intention of healing.

He lay down atop the covers, fully clothed in his tunic and breeches, a stiff, awkward pillar of a man. You slipped under the furs with a rustle of linen, lying rigidly on your back. The silence was deafening. Maekar cast about for something, anything, to say. "Tell me more about the Rhoynar," he commanded, his voice a little too loud in the quiet room.

And so you did, your voice soft and hesitant at first, then gaining strength. You spoke of the legends, the songs of the Mother Rhoyne, the giant turtles that were said to be gods. He listened, inserting a dry comment now and again that made you giggle, that beautiful, rippling sound he was growing dangerously accustomed to. He stayed, and continued speaking to you about the defensive layout of river cities, the logistical challenges of moving a legion through marshland, until your words began to slur, your breathing deepened, and your face went slack with peace. He had done it. He thought he would leave when he was sure you were deep in sleep. He would just wait one more minute. Just to be certain. The fire had burned down to embers. The room was warm. The scent of lavender was soporific. And that was the last thing he remembered.

Now, it was morning. The maid’s insistent knocking on the door was a relentless, chipper assault on his senses. He was still fully clothed, his tunic creased. And you were curled up next to him, clutching his arm as if it were the most natural, obvious thing in the world. The knocking roused you. You stirred, a small hum of contentment escaping your lips before your eyes fluttered open. Your gaze, hazy with sleep, traveled up his arm, over his chest, and settled on his face. The reaction was not one of surprise, or at least not the kind he expected. It was pleasure. A deep, luminous, bone-deep pleasure that transformed your features. You were smiling. A shy, pleased smile, as if you had just woken from a beautiful dream and found it still real.

"Good morning, my prince," you murmured, your voice thick and honeyed with sleep. There was a newfound confidence in it, a possessiveness that hadn't been there before. "Are you to have a busy day? I thought I might join you, if it were permitted. Perhaps I could assist you with your letters?"

Maekar found himself staring. The words were simple, but the meaning behind them was not. His plan, the handsome guard, the neglected lady, the grand affair, it all crashed down around his ears in a shower of broken, idiotic pottery. He realized his mistake with the force of a warhammer to the chest. You thought your husband was finally coming around. The gift, the miraculous, improbable gift you had wanted all along, was not a surrogate. It was him.

You wanted this. Him. His presence. His attention. His dry, sarcastic remarks. His tactical critiques of ancient river warfare. His grumpy, unyielding, solid self.

All this time, you had wanted him.

He felt a strange, tight sensation in his chest, a feeling he hadn't allowed himself to entertain for many, many years. It was a seed of warmth, cracking through the cold, hard stone he had meticulously built around his heart. He cleared his throat, his voice emerging as a low, rusty rumble.

"You can join me," he said, the words a surrender. "If you wish."

The pout was completely gone now. The smile that remained in its place was brilliant, a sun emerging from behind a lifetime of clouds. It was a smile just for him. And for the first time since he had been forced to take a new wife, Maekar Targaryen didn't feel saddled. He felt, with a terrifying, exhilarating certainty, that he was about to be completely, irrevocably unhorsed.

The days that followed that first, accidental night established a new rhythm in Summerhall, one Maekar found himself falling into with a disquieting ease he refused to examine too closely.

You had asked to assist him, and Maekar, a man who had never refused a direct request from a lady in his life out of sheer, blunt propriety, could find no reasonable grounds to deny you. You appeared in his solar the next morning, freshly dressed in a gown of pale yellow that made you look like a spring daffodil, and settled yourself in the chair across from his great oaken desk. He expected you to be a distraction. Instead, you proved infuriatingly useful. Your handwriting was elegant where his was a cramped, soldierly scrawl.

You sorted his correspondence into neat piles: urgent, routine, and the one you tactfully labeled "probably insincere flattery from lords who want something." He had let out a surprised bark of laughter at that, and you had beamed at him as if he'd just crowned you Queen of Love and Beauty.

This became your habit. Mornings in his solar, you with your neat piles and your quiet, intelligent questions about the running of the lands. Afternoons, you would walk with him along the battlements, your hand resting lightly on his arm as he pointed out the defensive improvements he was making to the eastern wall. You listened with genuine interest, asking about murder holes and arrow slits with a curiosity that was wholly unfeigned. Evenings, you dined together, and your sweet inquiries about his wellbeing were no longer met with grunts. He found himself actually answering you, describing the frustrations of a dispute between two minor landed knights or the irritating news from court. You would nod, your brow furrowed in thought, and offer observations that were often startlingly perceptive.

And every night, the same delicate, unspoken negotiation occurred.

The first time it happened outside of your own chambers, you had been in his rooms. It was late, the fire burning low, and you had been reading aloud to him from a treatise on dragonlore while he sharpened his dagger. Your voice had grown hoarse, and he noticed the way you rubbed at your eyes with the back of your hand. He could not, in good conscience, send you shuffling down cold corridors to your own chambers. The very idea was absurd. What kind of husband kicked his own wife out into the night like a stray cat?

"The hour is late," he had said, sheathing his dagger with a decisive click. "You will stay here."

You had looked at him with that expression again, the one that was half hope and half caution, as if you were afraid of misinterpreting his words. "Here, my prince?"

"In my bed," he clarified, the words coming out more gruffly than he intended. "I will take the chaise."

But you had looked so stricken at that suggestion, your face falling in that way he was growing to dread, that he had found himself amending the plan. "Or I will join you. The bed is large enough. It is not seemly for a prince to sleep on a chaise in his own chambers."

It was a flimsy justification, and he knew it. But the way your expression brightened, the shy, pleased smile that curved your lips, was worth the internal grumbling. He lay beside you that night, a careful distance between your bodies, and spoke to you about the properties of Valyrian steel until your breathing evened out into the soft rhythm of sleep. He awoke to find you pressed against his side, your head on his shoulder, one of your hands resting over his heart as if counting the beats.

This, too, became your habit. You clinging to him in sleep like a limpet to a rock, and Maekar waking each morning to the scent of your hair and the warm, trusting weight of your body against his. He told himself it was for your dignity. He told himself it was a small kindness, a basic courtesy. He told himself many things, and believed none of them.

Then there was the incident with the lamprey pie.

A lord from the coastal holdings had sent a gift of lampreys, and the kitchens had prepared them in a rich, heavily spiced pie. You had eaten only a small portion, politely complimenting the flavor, but within hours you were taken ill. Maekar was in the yard overseeing a drill when your maid came running, her face pale as milk.

"My prince, it is the princess. She is unwell. The maester says it is the lamprey, that it has irritated her stomach something fierce."

He did not remember crossing the castle. He only remembered the cold spike of fear that had lanced through him, the way his heart had hammered against his ribs with a violence that had nothing to do with exertion. He found you in your chambers, curled on your side in the great bed, your face waxen and beaded with sweat. The maester was there, a fussy old man who was doing far too much hand-wringing for Maekar's liking.

"She will recover, my prince. It is a mere gastric disturbance. But she must eat to keep her strength up, and she refuses. The princess will not touch the porridge."

Maekar looked at the tray on the bedside table. A bowl of plain, unappetizing porridge sat there, cooling and congealing. You were facing away from it, your eyes closed, your pout firmly in place.

"Leave us," Maekar commanded. The maester and the maids scurried out like mice before a dragon.

He sat on the edge of the bed, the mattress dipping under his weight. Your eyes fluttered open, and you looked at him with such a mix of misery and embarrassment that it made something twist painfully in his chest.

"I am sorry," you whispered, your voice thin and reedy. "I am being foolish. It will pass."

"You will eat," he said, reaching for the bowl.

"My prince, I cannot. The very thought..."

"You will eat," he repeated, and this time his voice was gentler, an unfamiliar softness creeping in despite his best efforts. He scooped a small portion of the porridge onto the spoon. "Open your mouth."

You stared at him, those big eyes glassy with discomfort, and for a moment he thought you would refuse him. But then you parted your lips, a tiny, obedient gesture, and he carefully slid the spoon into your mouth. You swallowed with visible effort, your face scrunching up, and he immediately had another spoonful ready.

"Good," he said, the praise awkward on his tongue. "Again."

He fed you the entire bowl that way, spoonful by painstaking spoonful, his large, calloused hands surprisingly steady. He did not rush you. He waited between each bite, murmuring gruff words of encouragement that felt foreign and strange, like a language he had never been taught. When the bowl was empty, he set it aside and reached for a cloth, dabbing gently at the corner of your mouth.

Your eyes were wet, but you were smiling. That smile. The one that made him feel like a hero from a song, when all he had done was feed you porridge.

"Thank you, Maekar," you breathed, using his name without his title for the first time. It hit him somewhere deep, a blow he had no armor for.

"Rest now," he ordered, his voice rougher than he intended. "I will stay."

He stayed. He lay beside you, fully clothed, and let you curl into his side. He stayed until your breathing steadied and the color slowly returned to your cheeks. He stayed even after that, watching the firelight play across the ceiling, feeling the steady rise and fall of your chest against his, and wondered what in the seven hells he was doing.

But still, still, he put off the matter of bedding you.

It was not that he did not want to. The realization had crept up on him with the slow, inevitable force of a rising tide. He wanted to. Gods help him, he wanted to. The sight of you in your thin nightdress, the way your hair spilled across the pillows, the warmth of your body pressed against his each morning, it was testing the limits of his resolve, which had never been particularly strong where matters of the heart were concerned. He had simply never had his heart involved before.

But to bed you would be to open a door he was not certain he could close again. He had built his life around duty, around the cold, hard certainties of obligation and honor. He had loved once, and loss had carved a hollow in him that he had believed was permanent. You were filling that hollow, day by day, smile by smile, and the sensation was as terrifying as it was intoxicating.

He was a coward. Maekar Targaryen, who had faced down rebel lords and laughed at the prospect of single combat, was a coward when it came to his own wife.

Then came the night of the kiss.

It was an evening like any other. You had spent the day in his solar, helping him draft responses to a particularly tedious batch of petitions. Dinner had been a quiet affair, just the two of you, and you had made him laugh, actually laugh, a deep, surprised rumble of sound, with a wicked impression of a pompous lord who had visited the previous week. You had retired to his chambers, as had become your custom, and he had told you about the Dragonknight's campaigns in Dorne until your eyes grew heavy.

"Goodnight, Maekar," you said, your voice soft and drowsy.

And then you kissed him.

It was not a forceful kiss, not a demand or an invitation. It was a brief, gentle press of your lips against his, as natural and unthinking as a breath. A goodbye. An act of simple, uncomplicated affection. You pulled back, your eyes already closing, and nestled into your pillow with a contented sigh, as if you had done nothing of any particular note.

Maekar lay frozen, staring at the canopy above him, his heart thundering in his ears.

You had kissed him.

This was his fault. The thought careened through his skull like a loose cannon on a ship's deck. This was entirely, unequivocally his fault. He had done this. He had planted this notion in your head, watered it with his attentions, and now it had bloomed into something he could no longer ignore.

A fortnight ago, you had been helping him remove his heavy outer tunic after a long day of inspections, your small fingers working deftly at the clasps. It had been such a wifely gesture, so intimate and so natural, that before he had known what he was doing, he had leaned down and pressed his lips to your brow. A brief, chaste kiss. A thank you. He had not even realized he had done it until he saw the way you had frozen, your eyes wide. He had cleared his throat and muttered something about the fire needing more wood, and the moment had passed.

But you had taken that kiss, that single, thoughtless gesture, and drawn a conclusion from it. You had decided, in your sweet, hopeful way, that your husband wanted you to initiate affection as well. That he was too reserved, too gruff, too locked within his own silences to ask for what he wanted. And so, with that gentle, trusting kiss, you had reached across the chasm he had placed between you and offered him a bridge.

Did he want you to? The question burned in his mind, insistent and demanding. Did he want you to kiss him goodnight, as if it were the most normal thing in the world? As if you were truly husband and wife in every sense?

He certainly was not complaining. The ghost of your lips still tingled on his, and his body was reacting in ways that were entirely inappropriate for a man who was supposed to be letting his wife sleep. He was not complaining at all. That was the problem.

He should be complaining. He should be panicking. Because this, this sweetness, this trust, this quiet, domestic intimacy, led inexorably to one conclusion. You would expect children now. The thought hit him like a splash of ice water. Of course you would expect children. A princess, a wife, a woman who had been raised to understand that the bearing of heirs was a fundamental part of her duty. And you would want them, he realized with a jolt. You would want his children. Not out of duty, but out of genuine desire. You would want a babe with his silver-gold hair and your eyes, a child you could hold and nurture and love.

Gods be good.

He turned his head on the pillow to look at you. You were already asleep, your face peaceful, your lips still curved in that small, contented smile. You had no idea of the earthquake you had just set off in his chest. You had kissed him and promptly fallen asleep, trusting him completely, utterly unaware of the crisis you had left in your wake.

Maekar stared at you for a long time, watching the steady rise and fall of your breath, the way your lashes cast delicate shadows on your cheeks. His mind was a whirlwind of duty and desire, fear and longing, the cold echoes of past grief and the warm, insistent pulse of something new.

He could not keep putting this off. He could not keep lying beside you, night after night, pretending that this was a mere courtesy. He could not keep telling himself that he was doing this for your dignity, when in truth, your dignity was the last thing on his mind when he felt the press of your body against his in the dark.

But not tonight. Tonight, you were asleep, and he was a coward still. Tonight, he would lie here and listen to you breathe and feel the warmth of your kiss still burning on his lips.

Tomorrow, perhaps, he would be braver.

Or perhaps, he thought grimly, you would kiss him again, and the choice would be taken out of his hands entirely. The thought was not as unwelcome as it should have been.

The kisses continued.

Every night, without fail, you would bid him goodnight with that same gentle, fleeting press of your lips against his. It was never demanding, never lingering. It was a question posed in the softest possible terms, a door left slightly ajar, an invitation he could accept or decline as he saw fit. And every night, for the first several nights, Maekar accepted it the same way: by remaining perfectly, rigidly still, a statue of a man enduring a pleasant but bewildering assault.

He felt you withdraw each time, felt the tiny, almost imperceptible slump of your shoulders as you settled back onto your pillow. You never said anything. You never complained. But he knew. He was a dull rock, an unresponsive lump of granite, and he was hurting you with his passivity. The knowledge gnawed at him, a persistent, guilty ache that followed him through his days and haunted his waking hours.

The fifth night, something in him snapped. Simply, as you leaned in to press your customary kiss to his lips, he found himself moving. His hand came up, rough and calloused, to cup the back of your head. And he kissed you back.

It was not a passionate kiss. It was not the kiss of a man swept away by desire. It was a careful response, a returning of pressure, a silent acknowledgment. He felt your startled inhale against his mouth, the way your body went taut with surprise. When he pulled back, your eyes were wide, your lips parted, and there was a look on your face that made his chest constrict.

Expectation. Hope. A question that had been waiting, patient and trembling, for an answer.

Maekar looked at you, at your big eyes shining in the firelight, at your kiss-swollen mouth, at the delicate line of your collarbone visible above the lace of your nightdress. He thought of all the nights he had lain beside you, rigid with restraint. He thought of the way you smiled at him, the way you laughed at his dry remarks, the way you clung to his arm in sleep as if he were the only safe harbor in a storm.

He resigned himself. The decision came not with a sense of defeat, but with a strange, liberating clarity. He did not want to become the object of your resentment. He could not bear the thought of those eyes looking at him with bitterness, with the slow, corrosive realization that your husband was a man who denied you not only his affection but the most basic experiences of womanhood. You were young and full of life, and he had been keeping you in a gilded cage, feeding you porridge and kissing your forehead as if you were a child rather than a wife.

"You deserve pleasure," he said, his voice low and rough, the words feeling as if they were being dragged from some deep, hidden place within him. "I have been remiss in my duties."

Your breath caught. "Maekar..."

He moved before he could lose his nerve. His hands found your waist, and he lifted you as if you weighed nothing, settling you onto his lap with a decisive, careful motion. You were warm through the thin fabric of your nightdress, your body soft and pliant against the hard planes of his chest. He could feel the rapid flutter of your heart.

"I will not take what I have no right to claim," he said, the words a rough murmur against your temple. "But I can give you this. Let me give you this."

His fingers found the hem of your nightdress, and he pushed it up slowly, giving you time to object. You did not object. You only watched him with those enormous eyes, your hands resting on his shoulders as if you did not quite know what to do with them. He touched you gently, so gently, his battle-roughened hands moving with a delicacy that surprised even himself. He explored the soft skin of your thighs, the curve of your hip, the dip of your waist. He learned the shape of you by touch alone, his gaze fixed on your face, cataloguing every flicker of expression.

When his fingers found the center of your heat, you gasped, your head falling back, your fingers digging into his shoulders. He moved with slow, patient circles, learning what made you sigh, what made you shudder, what made your hips buck involuntarily against his hand. He was methodical in his attentions, as he was in all things, and he brought you to the peak with the same focused determination he might apply to a siege.

You shattered against him with a cry that was half surprise and half relief, your body arching, your hands fisting in the fabric of his tunic. He held you through it, his free arm wrapped securely around your waist, anchoring you against the storm of sensation. When the tremors subsided, you slumped against his chest, breathing hard, your face buried in the crook of his neck.

He gave you a moment. Then, with the same gentle efficiency, he rearranged your nightdress, lifted you from his lap, and placed you back onto the bed. He drew the furs up to your chin and pressed a kiss to your forehead.

"Sleep now," he commanded, his voice a low rumble.

You blinked up at him, your expression dazed and soft and so full of something that looked terrifyingly like adoration. "But you..."

"This was for you," he said, cutting you off with a firmness that brooked no argument. "Rest."

You slept. He did not. He lay beside you in the darkness, his body aching with unfulfilled need, and told himself that this was enough. He had done his duty. He had given you pleasure without complicating matters with his own involvement. It was a tidy solution, a clean, surgical strike. You were satisfied. There was no need to get himself fully involved.

This, too, became a habit.

Every few nights, when the expectant look in your eyes grew too pronounced to ignore, he would pull you onto his lap and touch you until you came apart in his arms. He learned the rhythms of your body. He knew the spot just below your ear that made you whimper when he pressed his lips to it. He knew the pace that made you clutch at him desperately, the slower, teasing touches that made you gasp his name like a prayer. He gave you pleasure as a general might distribute supplies to a besieged city: regularly, efficiently, and with a steadfast refusal to partake himself.

He thought you accepted this. He thought you understood the unspoken terms of this arrangement. He was a fool.

It was a quiet evening, the fire burning low in the hearth, the castle settling into the deep hush of night. He had just returned from a grueling inspection of the eastern watchtowers, his muscles aching, his mood as dark as the storm clouds gathering over the mountains. You were waiting for him in his chambers, a book open on your lap, a cup of warmed wine already poured and waiting on his desk.

You were always waiting for him now. The thought should not have warmed him as it did.

The night's ritual had been completed. You were nestled against him, your body still humming with the aftermath of pleasure, your breathing slowly returning to normal. He was preparing to settle you back onto your pillow, to pull up the furs and press his customary kiss to your forehead, when you spoke.

"Maekar." Your voice was soft, hesitant, but there was a thread of steel beneath it that he had learned to recognize. "May I ask you something?"

"You may," he said, his guard instinctively rising.

You were silent for a moment, your fingers tracing idle patterns on the fabric of his tunic. Then, you lifted your head to look at him, and the expression in your eyes made his heart stutter.

"Why do you not want anything for yourself?"

The question hung in the air between them, simple and devastating. He opened his mouth to deflect, to offer some gruff platitude about duty and obligation, but you did not give him the chance.

"Every night," you continued, your voice still soft but gaining strength, "you give me such pleasure. You are so gentle, so careful, so attentive. But you never…" You hesitated, a flush creeping up your cheeks, but you pressed on with the same determined courage you had shown since the day you arrived at Summerhall. "You never let me touch you. You never seek your own release. It is as if you believe you do not deserve it, or as if you think I am not capable of giving it."

"You are capable," he said, the words escaping before he could cage them.

"Then why?" Your pout was there, that unconscious, pretty pout that he had come to know so well. But it was accompanied by a look so loving, so open and earnest and full of desperate hope, that it struck him like a blow. "I could learn. I could learn how to please you, if you are willing to teach me. I am not afraid. I want to be a true wife to you, in every sense."

He felt something cracking inside him, the carefully constructed walls he had built around his heart beginning to crumble. "It is not a matter of teaching," he said, his voice strained. "There are…consequences. You are young. You should not be burdened with..."

"Children," you finished for him, and he was stunned into silence. "You are worried about children."

It was not the only thing, but it was the easiest to admit. He nodded stiffly.

You took a deep breath, and he watched as you gathered your courage, your hands clasping together in your lap. "If you do not wish for children," you said, your voice steady despite the tremor he could see in your fingers, "I can drink moon tea. We can postpone the idea. I have spoken to the maester, and he has assured me it is safe when used sparingly."

Maekar stared at you. You had spoken to the maester. You, his sweet wife, had gone to the old man and asked about moon tea. The image was so absurd, so unexpectedly bold, that he almost laughed.

But you were not finished. "I would like to have a child someday," you continued, and now your voice grew softer, more wistful. "One child of my own. No matter a boy or a girl. And I would raise it with the best of my ability, with all the love I have to give. But…" You reached out, your small hand coming to rest on his cheek, your thumb brushing the line of his jaw. "I would like to have a life first. A marriage. A husband who does not treat me like a delicate piece of glass that might shatter at his touch."

Your eyes were wet, but you were smiling. That smile. The one that had undone him from the very beginning.

"I want you, Maekar," you whispered. "I want my husband."

The walls crumbled. The last defenses fell. Maekar Targaryen, prince of Summerhall, breaker of rebellions and terror of his enemies, looked at his young wife and realized he was only a man. A man who had been fighting a losing battle against his own heart for longer than he cared to admit. A man who loved his wife.

He loved you. The truth of it was a physical thing, a weight in his chest, a fire in his blood. He loved your laugh, your pout, your clever mind and your gentle hands and your infuriating, wonderful habit of clinging to him in sleep. He loved your courage, standing before him now and baring your soul with nothing but hope to shield you. He loved you.

"Gods be good," he breathed, and then he was moving.

His hands found your waist, and this time there was nothing careful or clinical about the touch. He pulled you against him, crushing you to his chest, and his mouth descended on yours in a kiss that was nothing like the chaste, hesitant presses of lips you had shared before. This was a surrender. A desperate, hungry admission of everything he had been too stubborn to say.

You gasped against his mouth, and then your arms were around his neck, your fingers tangling in his hair, and you were kissing him back with an enthusiasm that made his head spin. When he finally pulled back, you were both breathing hard, your faces inches apart.

"You foolish, stubborn man," you whispered, but your voice was thick with tears and joy. "I have been waiting for you to understand."

"I understand now," he said, his voice a low, wrecked rasp. "Forgive me. For all of it. For the neglect, for the distance, for the guard I foisted upon you like a fool..."

"You gave me Ser Elyas?" Your eyes widened, and then a surprised laugh bubbled up from your throat. "Oh, Maekar. I thought he was just a very attentive guard. I wondered why he kept trying to recite poetry at me."

Maekar groaned, dropping his forehead to yours. "I am an idiot."

"You are my idiot," you corrected, and the possessive warmth in your voice was his final undoing. "My husband. And I believe you owe me a proper wedding night."

He looked at you, at the mischievous glint in your eyes, at the loving curve of your smile, and he felt something he had not felt in many, many years. Hope. Joy. A future unfolding before him that was not merely duty and endurance, but something bright and warm and achingly beautiful.

"I owe you much more than that," he murmured, and he lowered his mouth to yours once more.

Baelor

holy waters - @the-darklings

something about getting manhandled by Baelor… - @dearlizzies

A patient man and his sweet wife - @lostrealityr

the spare bride - @withpearlsandpetals

In the Shadows of the Red Keep - @sem-ra

sugardaddy!baelor targaryen - @boyloveisnteasy

The Portents Had It Wrong - @omyhoney

hopelessly devoted to you- @erwinsvow

Maekar

His Princess - @erebusbabylon

soothe the wrath and tame the fury - @/erwinsvow

HOW DID YOU GET SO MANY? - @ghostlybfgf

The Flirting Game - @/lostrealityr

MY HOT HUSBAND - @targlocket

recluse neighbour (series) - @cintoasted

incarnadine - @winterstellars

LIKE FATHER, LIKE SON - @julez-5

Baelor & Maekar

HATE OR LOVE - @/julez-5 (and honestly all of their Baelor & Maekar x Reader work)

Of tainted beards and wet lips - @sweetwhisperingangel

love is (the death of duty) - @eowyns-fantasy [on AO3]

Aerion

forget me nots (series) - @blackfyrebitch

Drunk Words, Sober Thoughts - @celestialwyvern

SOFT SPOT - @/celestialwyvern

it will come back - @cherrysweets-world

THE CRUEL SAVIOR - @kittyminion

aerion targaryen returns defeated after the trial of the seven - @pinkdoeweirdo

things you do for love - @louloucake

testing your devotion - @/ghostlybfgf

Valarr

STEEL AND SILK - @lilyswritings

Modern Valarr Targaryen as your boyfriend headcanons !! - @daeronsmissingear

THE JEWEL OF THE REALM - @/dearlizzies

a line never crossed - @daiscript

untouched - @westerosey

To Have and To Hold - @sadesluvr

Charmed - @ofcrowsandravens

septa-in-training - @cloak-of-righteousness

Daeron

Cannibal (series) - @saeransangel

dream a little dream - @cherrysweets-world

drunken husband - @eu-nicola

blood bank - @halfformedthing

THREE IN THE MORNIN' - @redwinelewis

AN UNEXPECTED BRIDE - @sansaorgana

bathing with husband!daeron - @r0ttn

(drabble) - @oakleafing

Duncan

of!dunk - @spicyrose

touchstarved!dunk - @knightofcassiopeia

meet me in the woods - @cosmictheo

inner desires - @/louloucake

no use crying over spilled tea - @goldenhoneyedwine

She'll know me crazy, soothe me daily - @dustofstarss

M'LADY - @/targlocket

if yer done with it - @bunnyishh

Lyonel

What is it if not craving? - @/lostrealityr

The storm that bites (and everything to do with Lyonel x Lady Dondarrion) - @punk-in-docs

Storm kissed - lightning stung - @/punk-in-docs

STORMS AND DRAGONS - @iydiamartinx

Love me - @feral4youu

the stupid, the proud - @marsrambles

Delicate Indulgence - @pearlessance

Mediations - @escapic-mezzanine

Sounds Joyful | 1

Your husband informs you about a Tournament that is set to take place on a moon's time, you are definitely going with him.

A refreshing man | 2

Your adventure in Ashford Meadow starts on a rather interesting way, children lost and new introductions.

Utter Chaos | 3

A new day of celebration ensures a tournament filled with chaos.

The Gods Listen | 4

Accusations are made, conversations take place and your heart cannot help but feel for the innocent.

Misdeeds | 5

Justice is to be made, in the eyes of some. In the eyes of others, it is simple injustice towards those with lesser knowledge. Unfortunately for you, your husband is bound by duty and honor.

A Trial of Madness | 6

Baelor breaks his promise to wake you and let you accompany him, though you do not stay put.

Something to hold on to | 7

Baelor lays fighting death while you stand stubbornly by his side.

Up to the Gods | 8

Your husband finally wakes up from his slumber, though it is brief as he keeps in and out of it.

Not one life but two | 9

The aftermath of learning that your husband doesn't remember you.

A childless mother | 10

A few days ago you had everything; your husband and your baby in your womb, now you have to face a great loss with many eyes on you.

A terrible idea | 11

You refuse to see Baelor, he refuses to see you even when he is starting to remember pieces.

See reason | 12

While they keep you drugged to avoid another incident like the one on the balcony, Valarr and Matarys worry for you. Valarr tries for his father to see reason, Baelor remembers your life together.

A burden to bear | 13

Baelor confronts you, you want nothing to do with him.

Decisions made | 14

Your arrival to King's Landing is rather chaotic. Emotions rise, confessions are made, bonds are strengthening.

All yours | 15

A journey to Dragonstone is your next destination, Baelor does not want you to go but instead convinces you to allow a Knight to go with you for protection. He makes sure you know he is willing to mend what he broke.

His naked back was on full display, the blanket barely covering his backside. A smile tugged on your lips as you watched his calm frame. The usual frown on his forehead was gone, he looked genuinely at peace. Your fingers slowly ghosted over his skin, burning to touch him. You slowly lowered them, barely making skin contact, but you still felt the heat radiating from his body. The fingertips flew across his skin, dancing over his muscles.

That moment felt so fragile, so sacred, so intimate between the two of you. Your touches were gentle and soft as if you were scared that this peace would vanish if you moved too quickly.

Outside a church bell rang once, then again. Chris stirred – his eyebrows furrowed, taking a deeper breath, you noticed movement beneath his eyelids. Your fingers found his and he immediately tightened his around yours in a quiet way. In that small, unconscious gesture, there was something grounding.

He made a small sound, then his eyes fluttered open, just barely. At the view of you his eyes immediately softened and he raised your interlaced fingers to his lips, leaving a gentle kiss on your knuckles. “The sun drew a halo over your head, you look like a literal angel”, his raspy, tired voice half mumbled against the cushion and your smile grew even bigger.

“And you look like someone sculpted by god himself.” He chuckled quietly, hiding his face completely, his ears turning red. You chuckled and scooted closer to him, nuzzling your face into the crook of his neck, leaving featherlight kisses there. He tucked in his neck, completely caught off guard by your touches. “Baby”, he exhaled, followed by a loud cackle, which only encouraged you more.

Your lips moved down across his spine, leaving a kiss here, a light bite there. His back was now a playground for your affection and you fully enjoyed your togetherness in this moment. You slowly worked your way back up, your lips now hovering next to his ear. “Good morning, baby”, you whispered and pressed a kiss on his ear. He turned his head to face you, sleep still in his eyes. He shot you the most devastating smile as his thumb and index finger found your chin, gently grabbing it and pulling you toward him to leave a soft kiss on your lips. After he detached himself from you, he whispered a low “Good morning, baby”, to you too.

You slowly climbed down and laid next to him. You buried your fingers in his hair, gently massaging his scalp, which earned you a satisfied grunt. “You wanna grab some breakfast?”, you suggested, while he closed his eyes again, fully melting into your touch. “Yeah, sure”, he replied, but didn’t make any effort to get up.

Your stomach started to growl. “Ok, just lay there for a couple of minutes, I’ll be in the bathroom”, you were about to detach yourself and get up, but his hand quickly found your wrist, preventing you from doing so. “Nooo”, he whined, trying to pull you back to him. “Let’s just lay here.” His eyes were still closed, but boy his grip was strong.

“If I don’t get anything into my stomach, I am going to riot.” He chuckled and put his forearm over his forehead. “You know what? I have an idea, what you could put into your stomach-“ You slapped his chest, gasping. “Christopher!” He laughed, finally letting go off you. “I am kidding! Ok go get ready, I’ll be up in a few minutes.”

Now you sat outside a café at a small table with an exquisite sea view. The morning air was soft and salt kissed, drifting in from the sea just beyond the low stone wall of the café terrace. The water shimmered in slow blues and silver light. A white tablecloth, one Cup of Espresso and one Cup of tea, a basket of warm bread still releasing faint steam when torn open.

You were talking about something – nothing important, a dream you had half remembered, but you kept getting distracted by the view, pausing mid-sentence just to look out at the horizon.

“You’re not even listening”, you said eventually, narrowing your eyes at him. “I am” , Chris replied, too quickly. You raised an eyebrow. He didn’t deny it again. Instead he reached casually for his phone, pretending to check the time. But you noticed immediately. “No”, you laughed. “Put that away.”

“It’s not what you think”, he lied, badly.

You leaned back in your chair, suspicious now but amused. “If you’re taking photos of me while I’m eating bread again-“

“But you look so pretty and cute right now.”

“Ugh, you’re unbelievable.”

The wind moved lightly through your hair as you turned back toward the sea, pretending to ignore him.

Click.

You reached for your coffee, sunlight catching the edge of your sleeve.

Click.

A small laugh slipped out when a wave hit the rocks below a little harder than expected.

Click.

“Are you done?”, you asked without looking at him.

“Almost”, he said, lowering the phone but not entirely. You turned back. “Let me see.”

He hesitated just long enough to make you suspicious again, then he slid the phone across the table. You scrolled slowly. There you were – unposed and completely yourself. The wind tangled hair, the half smile you didn’t realize you were making, the way the light softened everything around you. You looked up at him.

“They are actually good”, you said softly. “You are so good at taking pictures. Is there anything you can’t do?” He shrugged like it was nothing. “It’s not difficult to take pictures of someone who literally looks like a goddess.” You handed the phone back, shooting him an eye roll. “Have I already told you, that you’re unbelievable?”

His hand caught yours over the table, a wide grin spreading across his face. “Maybe you’ve mentioned something like that.” You leaned back in your seat, glaring at him, but he acted like nothing happened and took a bite of his bread, while he typed something on his phone.

Now it was your turn to take some candid pictures of him. You took some pictures of him mid bite, some with his full cheeks and some normal ones – all without him noticing, he was completely oblivious to it.

“So, now that we are fueled, should we go explore the city a bit?

The streets were alive but unhurried. Small shops spilled onto the cobblestones: ceramics painted in bright blues, linen dresses fluttering on racks, and tiny bakeries perfuming the air with lemon and sugar.

You stopped in front of a shop window full of hand painted tiles. “Look at this”, you said, pointing at a small plate decorated with lemons and sunbursts. He stepped closer. He looked at you in awe, as you adored the plate – looking all excited. “I am looking”, he said, though his eyes were on your face. “It’s so pretty”, you mumbled and entered the store to go to the check out. Before you could place the plate onto the counter, Chris gently grabbed your wrist. “Hey, before you buy it, I just saw matching mugs out there, you should check it out.” Your mouth widened, as you gave him the plate to hold. “Shut up, what?”, you ran past him, running toward the shelf where the alleged mugs were, but you couldn’t find them. In confusion you started to check out the environment around it, but you couldn’t find it.

As you went back to the check out you stumbled into Chris, who looked at you with a mischievous smirk. “Did you prank me? I couldn’t find any”, you pouted. Instead of answering you right away, he just kept smirking and grabbed your arm, pulling you out of the shop. “Wait, my plate!” “Don’t worry about it”, he held up a bag, which now dangled in front of your nose.

You looked at the bag. Then at him. Then back at the bag. “You … you did prank me right? You just didn’t want to let me pay for the plate myself, right?” You crossed your arms in front of your chest, looking at him all disappointed. He started whistling, looking into the air, acting all innocent. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

You rolled your eyes, but you couldn’t help but stepping forward, wrapping your arms around him. “Next time you let me pay”, you mumbled against his chest. He put his arms around you as well, squeezing you tightly. “Debatable.”

At a corner shop, a woman was arranging bottles of olive oil in the sunlight. You stepped inside and the bell above the door chimed softly. It was cool in there – filled with the scent of herbs and citrus. He wandered toward a shelf of limoncello, while you got distracted by a stack of handmade postcards.

“You’re going to buy everything again”, he said, watching you pick up a postcard, then another. “You mean, you’re going to buy everything again, because no matter what I do, you are not letting me pay for anything? Like in the last five shops we went in?”

He leaned closer, brushing a loose strand of hair behind your ear without thinking. You paused for a fraction of a second, then softened into it, like the gesture had undone something small and unnecessary. He slowly took the postcards out of your hands and without another word he headed to the checkout to pay for them as well.

This sneaky … When he got back, you still stared at him dumbfounded. “I can’t believe you distracted me like that!” With a crooked grin he booped your nose, before he grabbed your hand and pulled you out of the shop.

Outside again the light was sharper, brighter. You tried to grab the 100 shopping bags that he was carrying (and paid for), but he was insisting on not letting you do any work today.

At this point you had been walking for hours through the winding streets, drifting in and out of little shops, stopping too often for things you didn’t need. By the time you reached a quieter stretch, the charm of the day was still there, but your steps had started to slow. You hesitated for a moment on a sun-warmed cobblestone, then shifted your weight slightly. He noticed immediately. “What’s wrong?”, he asked. “It’s nothing”, you said too quickly, then sighed when he raised an eyebrow. “Okay, maybe my feet are kind of dying.”

“Kind of?”

“Okay, fully dying.”

He laughed softly, glancing down the street as if thinking. Then he pulled you with him. “Come on”, he said. “Where?”

“I have a better plan than continuing your slow suffering.” He pulled you gently forward, weaving you through a small side street until you reached a tiny grocery store – nothing fancy, just a slightly cluttered shop with baskets of fruit outside.

Inside it smelled like citrus and bread. He grabbed a small basket and started tossing things into the basket: cold drinks, a couple of pastries wrapped in paper, a small box of strawberries. “Pick out some things”, he told you and you did as he told you. You had no idea, what he was up to, but you couldn’t say no snacks, so you added some chips and grapes into the basket.

When you stepped back outside, the light had softened into the late afternoon gold. The sea was closer now, visible between the buildings. He pulled you to a quiet stretch of rocky shoreline just outside the busier paths. No crowds, no noise – just waves folding gently into stone.

You kicked off your shoes the moment you sat down. “Ughhh, freedom”, you sighed dramatically and flexed your feet. He sat beside you, opening the bag and handed you a drink first without even asking. “Drink something.” That was him – always making sure you were hydrated.

You leaned into his shoulder as you took a sip letting the cool drink contrast with the warm air. He tore open the bag of pastries and handed you one, brushing his fingers lightly against yours as he did.

For a while, you didn’t talk much. Just the sound of the sea, the occasional laugh, the rustle of paper bags.

At some point the sun had started to dip lower over the coast, turning the sea into a darker shade of blue. Half empty snacks bade you, the last of the strawberries gone, the world around you quieter than before. The warmth of the afternoon had faded into something softer – pleasant at first, then just a little too cool.

A small shift in posture. A subtle pull of your sleeves over your hands. A glance toward the horizon that lingered a bit longer than usual. “You cold?” Without waiting for an answer, he shifted closer took of his own flannel, that he wrapped around your shoulder, before adding his arm, pulling you closer.

“Better?”, he asked quietly. You nodded against his chest. “Much better.”

One hand was resting on your shoulder, while the other brushed lightly over your arm, creating some extra heat.

The wind picked up slightly, carrying the faint salt of the sea and the distant sound of waves breaking against the rock. You exhaled slowly, sinking further into him. “You’re like a human heater”, you murmured.

“Always for you”, he murmured and pressed his lips on your forehead, while pulling out his phone at the same time. A quick look at his display revealed that he recently had changed his lock screen. It was replaced by one pic of you that he took this morning during breakfast and you couldn’t help but smirk against his chest.

He raised his hand, opening the camera and pointed it at the two of you. “We look so cute together right now, let’s take a pic”, he exclaimed in excitement. He put his cheek on the top of your head, while he happily looked into the camera and you also shot a shy smile.

You glanced at the screen as he pulled the phone back, his grin widening instantly. “It’s actually … really nice”, you admitted quietly. “Really nice?”, he teased, nudging your shoulder lightly. “That’s all I get? This is clearly masterpiece-level.”

You rolled your eyes, but the smile lingering on your lips gave you away. “Okay, I like it Picasso.” He laughed, satisfied, then glanced back at the picture again, his expression softening for a split second – something more genuine.

He slipped his phone into his pocket and looked at you again. “Come on”, he said, a spark of excitement returning to his eyes. “Let’s get closer to the water.” Before you could respond, he reached for your hand.

And just like that he started leading you down toward the shoreline, the sound of your footsteps mixing with the rhythm of the waves. You left your shoes back and got closer to the shoreline. Without overthinking it, you stepped forward and you squealed for a moment, as you made contact with the water, that was colder than expected. You instinctively grabbed his arm. “Oh my god, that’s freezing.”

He laughed immediately, wincing as the water hit his own feet. “Okay, yeah no one warned me about that.”

But neither of you stepped back.

Instead you slowly adjusted letting the chill settle into something refreshing. The waves rolled in gently, brushing against your ankles, then retreating again. You started walking along the shore side by side, your shoulders occasionally bumping, while holding each other’s hands. “Gosh, it’s beautiful here. Look how the sea is glistening”, you pointed out to the sea that reflected the moon on the sky. “It is indeed”, he agreed, giving your hand a gentle squeeze, before halting to a stop.

You looked up at him in confusion. But before you could say anything, he suddenly wrapped his arms around your waist and lifted you off the ground.

You let out a surprised laugh, instinctively holding onto his shoulders as he spun you around, your feet leaving the wet sand completely. “Hey, what are you doing?!”

He laughed and spun you once more before finally slowing down. When he sat you back on your feet, he didn’t let go. Instead his arms stayed wrapped around you, pulling you into a warm steady hug. You could feel his heartbeat, fast and close.

Then he tilted his head slightly, his voice softer now. “You’re really cute, you know that?”

Your face warmed instantly. “You’re unbelievable”, your murmured. “If I had a dollar for every time you said that to me today I’d have three dollars”, he replied with a smirk and you playfully rolled your eyes. “But that doesn’t change anything about the fact that you’re cute.” And before you could come up with a comeback, he pressed a gentle kiss to your lips – soft, a little shy despite everything. As if he wanted to consume everything in this very moment.