You had expected to pursue the Prince Valarr, when you’d first come to court. By all accounts, he was kind, measured, too dutiful for his own good. Handsome, if you were any judge of men’s looks. Easy, your mother told you. Prince Valarr would not deny you anything, should you become his wife, and you knew it from just a few minutes of conversation with him. If you nudged, he would flop over, belly up. 

And yet, against everything you had been raised to want, you found yourself pulled to his father instead. Every conversation you had with Prince Baelor was more engaging than the last when you realized he did not expect you to only be knowledgeable in matters of fashion and embroidery. His willingness to converse with you deeply, truly, beyond courtly pleasantries, brought you closer till you spent more time with him than his son — more time than was appropriate. 

Now, a moon’s turn after your departure from King’s Landing, you were returning as the Crown Prince’s betrothed instead. 

He had taken some convincing, when you first confronted him with your desire, one you knew he returned despite his insistence that it was a passing fancy, that you did not truly want a widower who is twice your own age, that you knew not what you spoke of. But you were nothing if not skilled at persuasion, and when he finally came to you at Highgarden, you were smiling at him knowingly before he could even bend down on one knee. 

There was another month to go, still, till the day of your wedding, much to your dismay. While you were uncompromising on your vision for the grand occasion — you’ve had the details planned since you were a child, and you would not let something as silly as time stop you from importing the Qaathi silk of your dreams for your wedding dress — you must admit, the precautions taken to preserve your honour in the time since you’ve arrived are beginning to grate your nerves. 

Baelor Targaryen is known for his impressive patience. It is his ability to lie in wait that won him countless battles against the Blackfyre pretender, and it has never once hurt his cause to exercise caution, to wait and strategise before charging in headfirst. 

And yet, he feels his patience slipping. 

He held himself back when he first met you, repressing his affections as you grew closer, reminding himself countless times that it was improper to want someone ostensibly meant for his own son. He was hesitant even when you yourself proposed a marriage, confessing that you loved him, as he loved you — he barely allowed himself to indulge when you threw your arms around his neck and pulled him into a desperate kiss. Even then, he waited over a fortnight after you left in disappointment till he rode for Highgarden, taking the time to discuss it with his son and his own father. 

Baelor Breakspear, the Hammer, known for his unbreaking composure. How humorous, he thinks, that my reputation will be soiled by someone in a silk dress instead of chainmail. 

The dresses you brought with you from Highgarden were all quite stylish, elaborate and brightly coloured, and much more low cut than anything worn by the other ladies at court. Even now, as you sit across from him in an evening gown, properly long-sleeved and dark-coloured, the sleeves sit just under the curve of your shoulders, exposing the top of your chest. Your hair, perfectly curled and braided, does nothing to hide the expanse of your neck from his roaming eyes. 

You converse pleasantly, ever the agreeable girl you’re known to be, chatting with his nieces about the wedding preparations and how you’re finding King’s Landing now that you know it is to be your home. You are the picture of propriety, and yet he is having trouble keeping his eyes off you. 

He is painfully aware that he could call you to his chambers. You’ve been kept on the opposite side of the Red Keep, far from the Tower of the Hand, in the same Maidenvault built to save the first of his name from his own temptation — the irony is not lost on him. And yet, if he sent for you late at night, no one would deny him, not now, when you were to be his wife in a month’s time. He could take you, over and over again, loudly, and no one would question his honour as a Prince of the Realm. 

The judgemental eye it might draw upon you, however, is something he could never forgive himself for. 

That is what stops him every time, when his base urges creep in, reminding him of his royal privilege to have whomever he wants; he cannot bring himself to compromise your honour. 

You, on the other hand, seem determined to do the opposite. He accompanies you back to your chambers after supper, the Kingsguard and one of your lady’s maids following behind as faithful chaperones. Quiet chatter fills the silence on the long walk back to the Maidenvault, discussion of who might run into whom during the wedding reception, which Lords are not to be seated together lest old, petty rivalries rear their ugly heads once more. 

“Mm, but who are we to deprive your subjects of free entertainment?” You say, a playful smile gracing your face. An easy chuckle leaves him; he found himself laughing more in a minute of your company than he had in the last two years

“I suppose they will have to settle for the free entertainment the Crown is already providing, considering how many musicians have been brought from the Reach for the occasion.” His tone is light-hearted, no real heat behind the admonishment of your excessive requests for the wedding.

“I know so few dances from this region, Your Grace, and I will not be deprived of dancing at my own wedding solely because I do not know the songs!”

“No, we couldn’t have that.” 

“You will, then?” You turn to stand in front of him, stopping him in his tracks, finally realising they’ve arrived at your chambers. “You will dance with me? As much as I please?”

That look you’re giving him, equal parts teasing and pleading, sends a shock down his spine, the same one that overtook him when he first laid eyes on you. Those eyes have haunted his dreams ever since, taunting him with his own desire, no matter how hard he tries to ignore it. 

“Of course, my dear.” He tells you, his voice calm, measured, the smile on his face giving very little away. He wants to call you much more. My love, my heart, the object of my every desire, my wife. He curses the chaperones you are constantly accompanied by while in his presence, always within earshot, stopping him from speaking to you openly as he did when you came to him that night and bade him to admit his affections. He had never spoken so openly before, not even with Jena, and now he longed to tell you again, that he would dance with you till his feet fell from his ankles as long as you wished it, that he’d keep you up all night if he could. 

When you lean up, onto the tips of your toes, and press a whisper of a kiss to his cheek, despite the presence of your chaperone, he almost slips. His breath stops in his chest at the warmth of your lips on his skin, the exposed expanse of your chest pressed to his just so. He knows if he looked down he would see into your dress, down at your breasts, and he clenches his teeth together in an effort to stop himself.

“Thank you, my Prince.” You say, sweetly, your voice breathless. His jaw unclenches once you’re a safe distance away, but he can still smell your perfume in the air.

It’s all he can think about, even once he’s bid you a goodnight. He has half a mind to steal one of your nightgowns before it makes it to the laundry, just to keep the scent of you close. 

Try as you might, you cannot hold back the smug smile on your face.

Baelor has not been able to tear his eyes away since he laid them on you today. You’d sent for him, having asked around till you discovered he had zero meetings with the Small Council today, and bade him to accompany you on a walk through the palace gardens. A chaperoned one, of course, but the chaperones could not stop you from wearing one of your most daring dresses; your mother had smirked when she saw it. It was a pink number, the fabric light and airy, well-suited for both the Reach and King’s Landing when summer heat hung heavy in the air. The detailing on it, winding embroidery creating patterns of stems and vines all along the dress in red thread, was some of the finest you’d ever seen.

There was also, of course, the extremely unnecessary cut outs at your waist, framed by a red rose-patterned silk, baring the skin of your waist just so. At Highgarden this dress wouldn’t have so much as turned a head in your direction, but this was not Highgarden, and for that you were grateful. 

Baelor was doing his best to keep his eyes and hands to himself, purposefully setting the former forward, and the latter clasped behind his back, where he could squeeze them as tight as he needed to in order to restrain himself. 

The conversation came easy, as it always did. No Small Council meetings did not mean no work, there was always a petition to grant, a marriage to approve on the King’s behalf, a grievance to assuage.

“I appreciate that you can speak so freely of the work you do, my Prince. There are many a Lord that would never concern a Lady in such matters.” 

“You are to be Queen one day, my dear,” He replies.  “Soon you will curse me for burdening you with such matters.” 

You give him a humoured smile as you reach a grand fountain in the gardens, carved from gleaming marble and babbling with water. You wander closer, silently beckoning him to follow — you know, with the chaperones a safe distance away, that any conversation between you would be masked by the sound of flowing water. “Well, I doubt the Small Council would allow a woman to sit in on policy discussions even if she is Queen, much less one that is with child.”

That raises the Prince’s eyebrows, in shock and intrigue. “Rest assured, there will be no pressure for you to bear children so soon after we are wed, as I have two heirs already. I promise, you will be spared much of the early scrutiny. If you were to desire no children at all, my dear, I would not force it upon you.”

His reassurance is sweet. Far too sweet for your intentions. 

“I should like to begin fulfilling our marriage duties as soon as possible, my Prince.” You look up at him through your eyelashes as you speak, your expression schooled, so your chaperones might think you’re having decent conversation. You lower your voice, just above a whisper, though you know they cannot hear you. “A moon’s turn feels much too long to wait, does it not?”

Baelor’s eyes flutter shut, his chest rising with the deep breath he takes, and for the first time since you’ve met him, the Prince of Dragonstone flushes a subtle pink. You can’t help the small proud smile that upturns the corner of your lips. 

“I have waited an agonising amount of time to be with you, my love,” He finally speaks, his mismatched eyes settling back on you with a new intensity. “I will not have you dishonored because I cannot wait a moon’s turn longer.” 

It’s your turn for your cheeks to heat, a burning ache filling your chest at the sound of his voice, far lower than you’ve heard it before. You know, tonight, you’ll do your best to recall it with a hand between your thighs, desperately trying to sate the hunger he’s inspired in you. 

“My Prince-” 

“My Lady!” Your Septa calls, her stare a disapproving one, and you both realise that you are standing far too close to each other. 

“The tulips are this way, my dear, I know you wished to see them in full bloom.” Baelor announces, loud enough to be heard from meters away, and leads you away from the fountain before you can say another word to make his britches feel too tight. 

You try not to let the frustration at her interruption show on your face for the rest of the walk. 

It happens several days later. 

You have scarcely seen your betrothed since that afternoon in the royal gardens. His time became far too occupied with matters of the Realm as the Lords of Westeros arrived from far and wide for the wedding, using their time in the capital to make their petitions to the Crown in-person. Every time you happened upon the throne room, the Good King Daeron was seated on that ghastly chair, a crowd of noblemen filling the room as they await their turn to speak. And next to the King, there he was, standing at his father’s side as his trusted Hand, looking every bit the part. It caught your breath every time, to set your eyes upon him in this setting; you could see it then, the crown on his head, clear as day. It might be you there someday, standing next to Baelor as his Queen while he sits upon the throne. 

And yet, you found you cared little for the title now. All that mattered was that you were with him. 

You’ve grown restless in his absence. It’s barely been a week, but you can’t stand the sight of his empty chair at supper, the brief greetings you share when you pass each other in crowded halls, your eyes brazenly displaying the way you long to spend more than a clock-tick in his presence. 

It felt like madness. All your life you believed marriage would be simple for you, as it was for your mother, and her mother before her. A husband was an easy thing to influence, to wrap around your finger and bend to your will, and you’d grown into a woman of marriageable age assuming no man would ever cause you grief. This tugging ache, this burning for someone’s touch, was not what you anticipated, from a husband nor a lover, and you found yourself, for once, incapable of containing yourself. You felt it — in the frown that marred your face when Baelor retreated from you, the ache of longing at the sight of his back, the dizzying heat between your legs when you thought of him late at night that you simply could not soothe by yourself. 

When he finally summoned you to his solar, much too far into the night to be appropriate, you could not dress quickly enough. You cared little about the nervous stares from your lady’s maids as they helped you into your gown, a deep red colour, perfect for a Targaryen bride. The Kingsguard knights trailed far behind you, your steps far too quick for them, but you could not find it in you to delay. 

You are breathless when you finally land in front of his study. There is little time to collect yourself before the guards step in front of you to open the door, quietly announcing your presence to the Prince before departing. Leaving you standing before your future husband, alone, and several meters further from him than you’d like to be.

He stood up when you’d entered the room, like one might expect a common Lord to do in the presence of royalty. And yet he stayed behind his desk, frozen in place, his eyes meeting yours with something unknowable in them; something smouldering and torrid that you couldn’t name if you tried. 

You stay like that for what feels like forever. Stunned into stillness before each other, silence only interrupted by the thudding of your heartbeat in your ears and the low, crackling fire. 

“I have missed you.” Your words come quieter than you expected, almost a whisper. There is no one here to watch your impropriety, and yet you cannot speak your words any louder out of careful habit. 

“As have I.” His voice is hoarse, like he is straining to speak, and his eyes never move from yours. 

You take a hesitant step towards him. “Baelor-”

And then whatever stupor had overtaken him is broken. He rushes towards you, his hands coming to either side of your face, cradling you between them, and his lips are on yours quicker than you can fathom. 

His kiss is feverish, demanding, invading your every sense so you have no choice but to surrender, but you wouldn’t resist him anyways. You arch your neck backwards to accommodate his height, you let his tongue pass your lips, you let him steal the breath from your chest till your lungs burn, and still you whine quietly when he pulls away, never allowing more than a clock-tick to pass before your mouth is back on his. 

He has to tug you away, forcing you to still so he can rest his forehead against yours, his lips still tantalisingly close. 

“I am a selfish man,” He declares with a rough whisper, his eyes closed, as if looking upon you might damn him forever. It feels like cruelty when he brushes his nose against yours, teasing you with his closeness. 

“Baelor, please-”

“I have struggled, in vain.” He continues. “I have done everything to stay away from you, and I have failed, time and time again.” 

His lips brush against yours again, a ghost of a touch, barely there and then gone before you can blink. 

“Marrying you might be the most selfish thing I have ever done.” He says it like a confession. “I am a knight. I swore before the Gods to uphold honour, and yet honour means nothing to me when it keeps me from you. You have ruined me, my love.”

A laugh escapes you, quiet and light, far too light for the situation, making his eyes reopen and harden. “This is humorous to you, then?”

“Yes, my Prince,” You admit easily. “I have you right where I wanted you.” 

His lip curls, half-sneer, half-smile, and you are given no time to react when he reaches down, his hands moving away from your face, to your waist, to the back of your skirt before lifting you and carrying you to his desk. 

“You said a moon’s turn was not too long to wait,” You tease, still smiling.

“I lied.” Then he smears his mouth against yours again.

Your legs part instinctually around him, far too focused on his lips being back on yours to resist when he lifts your skirts. You cannot part from him, even as his hands trail from your stocking-clad calves to the bare skin of your upper thighs, drawing a gasp from you. Your arms come up to wrap around his neck, pulling him closer, your hand settling at his nape, fingers trailing through the cropped hair there. 

You would have kept him right there forever, if you could — it’s he that breaks the kiss again, ignoring the disappointed noise you make as he lowers himself to his knees, and brings yours to rest on his shoulders. He keeps his eyes on you, that same heated look in them, as he pushes your skirts up further, giving you plenty of time to protest before the fabric is ruched up to your waist. His gaze falls then, to the space between your legs, and it does not stray as he leans in to press a feather-light kiss to the inside of your thigh. You cannot hide the gasp that escapes you at his touch, and you cannot bring yourself to look away from him. One of your hands leaves his head, coming to rest on the desk behind you, balancing you as you lean back to watch him. 

His pace is slow as he explores your soft skin, pressing his lips to every inch of it, savouring the feel of it and leaving a burning trail simmering wherever he wanders. The mere heat of his steady eyes on the core of you is enough to make you squirm in place. 

“I have never seen anything so divine,” His voice is low, just for you to hear. He leans closer to you, close enough that you can feel his breath right where you need him most, and takes a deep inhale of your scent, a low groan brewing in his throat upon exhale. “As you, bare and soaked for me.”

“Baelor.. Wh- what are you-” And then his mouth is on you, cutting you off with your own gasp. 

Your eyes screw shut, suddenly unable to bear the thought of opening them, of seeing what he’s doing to you. The tales that you heard of this, whispered between women in scandalous confession, could never have prepared you for what you felt. The heat of his mouth on you, his tongue kissing and lapping at where you’re wettest for him, steals your ability to breathe. It is too much, too quickly, white-hot pleasure flowing through you and fogging your head until he has to squeeze your thigh to break you out of it. 

“Breathe,” He reminds you, but you shake your head.

“I can’t!”

“You must,” He pulls away, till you can no longer feel his warmth on your skin. “Or I will be forced to stop.”

“Dont!” The plea comes without hesitation. “Please, please, don’t stop, I want-” 

“Breathe for me, then.” He takes a deep breath in, and you follow him, stuttering air filling your lungs once more. Satisfied, he leans back into you. “That’s it. In… and out… in-”

His tongue dips through your folds again, turning your exhales into pleasured sighs. The sound is too obscene to bear. The slick, wet sound of his lips wrapping around the crest of your sex and sucking, pulsing rhythmically around the sensitive bundle there. The hand that had settled behind you on the desk now provides you an anchor, keeping you grounded as you match his rhythm with cants of your hips, chasing the pressure that builds low in your belly. 

“Yes, my love, just like that.” He says, reverent, watching as you give in to him fully, only able to answer with soft moans and muttered nonsense. 

His finger is much thicker than yours, stretching you more than you ever could as it presses into the tight ring of your entrance, just as you’d hoped. The metal of his ring, brushing against you every time he pumps the digit in, only adds to your pleasure, the cold-hard shock of it on your soft folds making you gasp with every movement. 

Baelor works you like he knows your body already, guided by every pleasured noise you make, every mindless moan of his name. When they turn high and uncontrollable, your head tilted back, rocking yourself against his mouth more insistently, desperately, he knows you’re close. A second finger joins the first, the pace just a touch faster, pulling you towards the edge at his will. 

The subtle press of his fingers upwards turns your moan into a soft cry, and it hits you all at once, the pleasure cresting and then washing over you. His mouth doesn’t leave you once, doesn’t stop his open-mouthed kisses at the top of your sex, sending pulses through your body till you’re pushing at his forehead, even as you continue to press your hips into him. 

He comes away with an awed, dumb smile on his face, drunk on the taste of you, his beard damp with it. He rises from his knees and leans over you, wrapping an arm around your middle to pull you up, and you’re too loose-limbed to do anything but go with him as he kisses you again.

You can feel his hand between you, shifting against your stomach, and you part from the kiss to find him grasping himself through his trousers, pulsing squeezes around his stiff cock. Quiet grunts fall from his lips with every press of his hand, and for a moment you simply watch, mesmerised. 

Then your hand lands over his, hesitant. Unsure. “I want… I want to watch.” 

A pained groan fills your ear as his forehead drops against yours. He makes quick work of the laces on his trousers, and you pull down his breeches with equal fervor, freeing his cock from the fabric. 

His member is thicker than it is long — you can feel the burn of him stretching you already, distantly, making you clench around nothing at the mere thought. The tip of him is a flushed, ruddy hue, dripping with a clear liquid that you dare to feel at, gathering the slick on your thumb just to see. Baelor’s breathing is laboured as he watches you bring your thumb to your lips and lick, a pleased hum escaping you at the flavour. 

“Fuck,” He growls, his hand finding his shaft again immediately, enveloping it like he can barely stop himself as he licks into your mouth, desperate to taste himself on you. 

His mouth slows against yours when you reach down again, resting your hand over his fist. He pants against your lips as he lets your hand replace his, guiding your fist over him in measured, hard strokes. 

He’s hard under your touch, hot and firm and slick with pre-cum already. Your cheeks burn as you realize just how much you like it, the heaviness of him against your palm, the moans you pull from him just with your touch. His lips move against your own, and he begins to rut into the tight circle of your intertwined hands, fucking your fist like- like-

The realisation, that this will be what he does to you, is breathtaking. He’ll move against you just like this, but he’ll be inside you, working his way into you till you fit perfectly around his cock, and you feel that ache of desire between your legs once again. You moan his name softly, absentmindedly, as you move to guide him towards your entrance, spreading your thighs and shuffling closer to him. 

The hand covering your own stills, forcing you to stop.

“Not yet, my love.” You whine in disappointment, but he hushes you gently. “We must be patient.” 

“Please, Baelor.” You are begging, you realise. Something you’ve never done before in your life. 

“We cannot,” He insists, still denying you, even as he moves closer to the edge of the desk, and slots his hips against yours. It feels like he’s branded you from the mere brush of his cock against your inner thigh, teasing you with how near you are to what you’ve begged him for. He’s infuriatingly gentle as he removes your hand from his shaft, shifting his hips and then thrusting himself between your folds.

Your mouth falls open on a cry as the tip of him slides against the crest of your sex, the most sensitive part of him nudging against the most sensitive part of you. He draws his hips back, then forward again, gliding against you instead of inside you, careful not to enter you as he does. 

At first, you cannot protest, not when the pace of his hips rutting against you leaves you senseless, unable to do anything but clutch at his shoulders and let him give you a rough feign of a fuck. Anyone who walked by his study now would never know that he isn’t deflowering you, from the sound of your skin slapping against his, your moans mixing with his. So close to what you want- need-

“Please, please, just the tip, my love, it won’t-” You find yourself pleading with him again, through desperate whimpers and pants every time his cock brings you another shock of pleasure, shooting up your spine and settling in your belly, building you towards sweet release. But he ignores you, the hand that’s not splayed across your back coming to bunch in your wrinkled skirts, fisting the fabric and pulling you against him, nearly lifting you off the desk to meet his thrusts. 

His eyebrows are drawn together as he stares down at you, unbreaking even as he chokes on his own air, looking mad with hunger for you. He’s unbelievable like this, restraining himself from taking you as he should, as he has every right to, divulging his urges while still leaving both of you wanting, aching for each other. 

He makes a sound like he’s wounded, then, his head dipping to rest on your shoulder before his teeth set hard on your neck, drawing a shocked cry from you as his punishing pace stutters, grows uneven and desperate. His hips bunch against yours once more and then you feel it, his release spurting onto your heated skin, spilling onto your sex and your thighs. 

You both remain still, panting together, for a moment. You cannot find it in you to loosen the grip you have on him, even as he lifts his head, pulling his hips away from yours just an inch so he can see the mess he’s made of you. The moan that leaves him is awed, his grip on you tightening at the sight of his spend all over you, dripping obscenely. 

“There will be no bedding ceremony,” He states, suddenly, drawing your unfocused stare back to him. “No one else is allowed to see you like this. I won’t have it. But the Lords will need their proof of our consummation.”

His hand comes to feel at your sex, causing you to jolt in his arms, a pained whine spilling from you. “That’s why I cannot fuck you the way I want to, not yet. When I take you on our wedding night, they will see it plainly on the sheets. They will finally know you’re mine, Princess.”

“‘M not a princess yet.” You find it in you to say, quietly, unable to raise your voice quite yet.

Baelor simply shakes his head, still looking down at where he’s marked you with his seed. “You are mine, now. In every way that matters.”

The hour had grown shamefully late by the time you decided you were done waiting.

Three weeks. Three weeks of turned backs and engineered absences and the particular cruelty of a man who could fill a room with his presence even while pretending to be entirely unreachable within it. Three weeks of watching Prince Maekar Targaryen look straight through you with those violet eyes and finding nothing in them that acknowledged what had been building between you for months.

You found him at dusk.

The armoury sat quiet at that hour, the training yard beyond it emptied of squires and knights alike, nothing remaining but the last copper light bleeding through narrow windows and the distant sounds of the castle settling into evening. Torches guttered softly along the walls, catching the dull gleam of hanging steel and leather.

Maekar stood at the far end with his back to the door, methodically checking the edge of a blade with the focused attention of a man determined to be unreachable.

He had been unreachable for weeks.

“You have been avoiding me,” you said. The words landed flat in the quiet. Maekar did not turn around.

“I have been occupied.”

“You walked out of a room yesterday because I entered it.”

“I had somewhere to be.”

“Maekar.” His name left you with enough weight that his shoulders stiffened visibly. “Look at me.”

He set the blade down with deliberate care and turned. His expression was exactly what you had expected — closed, guarded, wearing that particular blankness he deployed when he wanted to be mistaken for someone who did not feel things.

You knew better. You had always known better when it came to him.

“Whatever you believe you need to say,” he said flatly, “I would ask you to reconsider.”

“I have reconsidered for three weeks.” You closed the door and stepped further into the room. “I am done reconsidering.”

“Then be brief.”

“Why are you pulling away?”

“I am not pulling away. I am exactly where I have always been.”

“You are a liar.”

Something dangerous flickered in his violet eyes. “Mind yourself.”

“Or what?” You crossed your arms. “You will glare at me? You have been doing that for months and I am still here.”

“Clearly.” The word came out clipped, almost cruel. A deliberate blade.

You refused to flinch from it. “Something happened. Three weeks ago you were—” You stopped, steadied yourself. “And then suddenly you were gone. Present in body and completely absent in everything else. I want to know why.”

“Nothing happened.”

“You are lying again.”

“I am not accustomed,” he said with cold precision, “to being called a liar repeatedly.”

“And I am not accustomed to being deliberately shut out by someone who—” You stopped again.

Maekar’s eyes sharpened immediately. “Someone who what?”

The silence stretched taut between you.

“Someone who matters to me,” you finished quietly.

Something moved across his face so quickly you almost missed it. Pain, naked and immediate, there and gone before he could fully suppress it. His gaze dropped briefly to the floor.

“You should not say that.”

“Why not? It is true.”

“It is—” He stopped. Started again. “Unwise.”

“Unwise.” You stared at him. “That is what you have for me.”

“It is the honest answer.”

“No.” You took another step closer and watched him resist the instinct to step back. “It is the coward’s answer, and you are not a coward. Try again.”

Fury crossed his face instantly, the way it always did when he felt cornered. “You presume too much.”

“Then correct me.”

“I am correcting you by telling you this conversation is finished.”

“It is not finished.”

“I say it is.”

“And I say you are running away and dressing it up as dignity.” Your voice had risen now, heat climbing through your chest. “For weeks, Maekar. Weeks of barely a word, barely a look, and you cannot even give me the courtesy of an honest reason—”

“The honest reason,” he said sharply, “is that this—” his hand moved between you, a short furious gesture— “should not continue.”

“What should not continue? We have done nothing—”

“Exactly.” The word came out ragged at the edges. He turned away from you immediately, a hand pressed hard against the nearest table. “Exactly nothing. And it should remain that way.”

You stared at the rigid line of his back.

“Why?” you asked quietly.

“Because I am not—” He stopped.

“Say it.”

“Leave it alone.”

“Say it, Maekar.”

“Because I am not built for this.” The words came out low and furious and slightly broken at once. “Is that what you wanted to hear? I am the fourth son. I have been trained since birth to be useful, to be the sword, to stand behind better men and serve the family’s purpose. That is what I am for.” His shoulders had drawn up tight beneath his doublet. “Not—” A rough breath. “Not this.”

The silence that followed was enormous.

You stood inside it and felt something build in your chest that you did not immediately have a name for. Hot and painful and expanding outward until your hands had begun to shake with it.

“Not this,” you repeated softly.

“No.”

“You are not built for being cared for.”

“I am not built for—”

“You are not enough.” The words came out barely above a whisper. “That is what you mean. That is what you actually believe.”

Maekar said nothing. Which was its own answer.

And that was when it happened.

Something white and furious ignited behind your ribs entirely without permission. Not sadness. Not heartbreak. Pure blazing rage on his behalf, at every person who had ever let him believe that, at every comparison and every dismissal and every moment that had carved this particular damage so deep into him that he recited it now like scripture.

You crossed the distance between you before thought intervened.

Your hands hit his chest and pushed.

Maekar’s back met the stone wall with a dull impact, his eyes flying wide with pure shock — not at the force, though that seemed to surprise him too — but at you. At the fact that you had done it at all. That the person standing before him with their hands fisted in his doublet and fury written plainly across every feature was you, someone half his size, someone he could have moved aside with one arm—

He did not move at all.

“Do not,” you said. Your voice shook with it. “Don't you dare say that to me.”

“I—”

“No.” Your hands tightened against the fabric of his doublet, knuckles pressing hard against the solid warmth of his chest beneath it. “You do not get to stand there and tell me you are not enough. You do not get to decide that. You do not get to spend weeks pulling away from me because some ancient cruelty convinced you that you were made only for function and nothing else—”

“You do not understand—”

“I understand perfectly.” Your eyes were burning now. Furiously. “I have watched you for months. I have seen what you are when you stop performing severity for long enough to simply exist. And you are—” Your voice cracked slightly. You pushed through it. “Maekar, you are extraordinary. Not despite what you are. Not in comparison to anyone. Yourself. And the fact that you cannot see it—”

“Stop.” His voice had gone rough. Unsteady.

“The fact that you have been standing in this family your entire life believing yourself a sword and nothing more—”

“I said stop.” Rougher now.

“It makes me want to—”

“Stop.”

He kissed you.

Not gently. Nothing like gently. His hands came up and caught your face and his mouth found yours with the sudden desperate urgency of a man who had simply run out of other options — who had used every deflection available to him and found you still standing there, furious and certain and refusing to let him be small, and had no idea what to do with that except this.

It lasted one stunned breathless second.

Then he pulled back.

His hands still cradled your face. His breathing had gone ragged. Those violet eyes searched yours with something almost panicked in them — the expression of a man who had just done something irreversible and was only now calculating the consequences.

“I should not have—” he began roughly.

You kissed him back.

Not as apology. Not gently either. You pulled him down by the front of his doublet and kissed him with the full force of everything you had just said and everything you had been holding quietly for months and felt the exact moment the last resistance went out of him completely.

Maekar made a sound against your mouth that you felt in your spine.

His hands slid from your face into your hair, tilting your head back, and suddenly he was kissing you like a man discovering water after a drought — not with careful reverence but with something rawer and more desperate beneath it, like he could not quite believe this was allowed and intended to have all of it before someone told him otherwise.

He broke the kiss with a ragged breath, forehead dropping against yours. His hands were shaking. You could feel it where they cradled your head.

“I have been—” His voice was wrecked completely. “Gods. I have been trying—”

“I know,” you breathed.

“You should have let it be.”

“No.” Your hands slid up his chest, feeling the hard planes of him beneath the fabric, the rapid thumping of his heart betraying every bit of composure his expression had ever pretended to. “I should not and I will not.”

A rough sound escaped him.

His eyes searched your face in the torchlight — violet and open and utterly unguarded in a way you had never seen from him in any council chamber or training yard or castle corridor. The severity was gone. The careful blankness gone. Just a man, terrified and wanting and finally, catastrophically out of excuses.

“You mean this,” he said quietly. Not quite a question.

“I have meant it,” you said, “for a very long time.”

Something in his expression broke entirely open.

His mouth found yours again, slower this time, deeper — and gods, the difference of it. Still hungry but the panic beneath it easing now into something that felt dangerously close to wonder. His hands moved through your hair with a care that contradicted every rough and prickly thing he had ever said or done, like beneath all of it, beneath the sword and the severity and the practiced distance, there had always been this.

Someone who simply needed to be told he was allowed.

“Maekar,” you murmured against his mouth.

A shudder moved through him at his own name spoken like that.

“Gods help me,” he said roughly. “I do not know how to—” He stopped. The admission visibly cost him. “I do not know how to do this.”

Your heart turned over completely.

“Yes, you do,” you whispered. Your hands found his face, thumbs brushing the line of his beard, the old scars beneath it. He exhaled shakily at the contact, eyes falling briefly closed. “You already are.”

That alone seemed to cost him — you could feel it in the rigid tension held through his entire body, in the way his hands remained carefully at his sides where he had lowered them despite the kiss deepening between you. Like he had given himself permission for this much and was terrified of reaching for more in case it proved too much to ask.

So, you decided for him. You took his hands. He went completely still as you lifted them from his sides and placed them — slowly, deliberately, holding his gaze the entire time — against your waist.

Maekar stared at you like you had done something incomprehensible.

“You are allowed,” you assured quietly.

His throat moved. His fingers remained motionless against your waist for one suspended moment, barely making contact, as though the fabric between his hands and your skin was the only thing keeping him tethered to composure.

Then, haltingly, his grip tightened.

Just slightly. Just enough to feel the warmth and solidity of his hands spanning your waist, large enough that his fingers nearly met at the small of your back.

The breath that left him was unsteady.

You rose onto your toes and kissed the corner of his jaw. Felt the muscle there jump immediately beneath your lips. His hands tightened further at your waist, involuntary, like his body was responding entirely without his permission.

You kissed along the sharp line of his jaw toward his ear, unhurried, feeling the roughness of his beard against your lips and the warmth of his skin beneath it.

“You are—” His voice had dropped to almost nothing. “You should not—”

“Maekar.” You pulled back just enough to look at him. His face was flushed, violet eyes dark, every line of him radiating the strain of holding himself still. “Stop telling me what I should not do.”

His jaw tightened. But he said nothing.

You kissed his cheekbone. The high plane of it, just above the beard, where the old pox scars tracked faintly beneath your lips. He made a sound so quiet you almost missed it. Something helpless and involuntary swallowed almost before it could exist.

Your hands moved to the front of his doublet, working the fastenings with steady fingers while his breathing deepened above you. Each button gave way and Maekar stood and let it happen, stood and watched your face with those dark eyes like a man waiting for the dream to end.

You pushed the doublet from his shoulders. It fell in the narrow space between his back and the wall, behind him. Beneath it, linen stretched across broad shoulders and a chest that rose and fell with increasing unevenness. You spread your palms flat against it and felt his heart hammering beneath them, rapid and entirely beyond his control.

Something deeply fond moved through you at that.

“Still with me?” you murmured.

“I think so,” he said roughly.

You laughed softly and felt him exhale shakily in response, his hands sliding fractionally further around your waist like they were making decisions independently of him.

You kissed his throat then. Open mouthed, slow, just below his jaw where his pulse beat rapidly against your lips. Maekar’s head tipped back slightly, an involuntary concession, his fingers pressing harder against your waist.

You kissed lower. The rough scrape of his beard gave way to the warm skin of his neck, and you felt the shudder that moved through him at the contact, felt his grip on you tighten to something that was no longer gentle—

You bit him.

Not hard. Not cruelly. A deliberate scrape of teeth against the curve where his neck met his shoulder, your lips pressing warm against it immediately afterward.

The sound that left Maekar was nothing like anything you had heard from him before. Low and rough and dragged from somewhere entirely beyond his composure. His entire body went rigid for one suspended second—

Then it was like watching a dam break down.

His hands moved.

Suddenly, completely, with a decisiveness that stole the breath from your lungs. One arm swept around your waist and hauled you flush against him with a sureness that made the floor feel uncertain beneath your feet, the other hand sliding into your hair and tilting your head back, and then his mouth was on yours and gods—

Gods.

Nothing hesitant in it. Nothing careful. He kissed you like the last three weeks of distance had been a physical pressure he had been holding back with both hands and your teeth against his skin had finally, catastrophically, released it all at once.

You made a startled sound against his mouth. Maekar just swallowed it and kissed you harder.

He walked you backward through the armoury with complete certainty, steering you through the low torchlight without breaking the kiss, one hand spread wide and immovable at the small of your back and the other still tangled in your hair. The back of your thighs met the edge of the long wooden workbench, and he lifted you onto it without apparent effort — large hands spanning your waist and depositing you there like you weighed nothing of consequence — and stepped immediately between your knees.

The new height brought you almost level with him and he took immediate advantage, cupping your face in both hands and kissing you with a thoroughness that made rational thought extremely difficult.

“Maekar—” you managed between kisses.

“No.” The word came out low and absolute. “You had your turn to talk.”

You laughed and he caught the sound with his mouth and made a rough noise against your lips that sent heat rushing straight through you.

His hands left your face and began moving — not hesitantly now, not waiting for guidance. Large and warm and entirely purposeful, sliding from your jaw down your throat, tracing your collarbones with a focus that suggested he intended to learn every inch of you and had decided to begin immediately.

When his fingers found the lacing at the back of your gown he paused for just a moment, just long enough to pull back and find your eyes. The question was there without words. Still him beneath the urgency. Still that fundamental core of a man who needed to know he was not taking something without being allowed to.

“Yes,” you said before he could ask it.

Something moved across his face. Raw and unguarded and painfully honest.

Then his hands resumed with steady, certain fingers, unlacing slowly at first, then faster as the fastenings gave way.

“You have no idea,” he said roughly against your temple, voice low enough to vibrate through you, “what you have done to me.”

“Tell me,” you breathed funnily.

His hands stilled briefly at your back. “Months.” The word came out almost pained. “I have spent months trying to—” He exhaled roughly. “And you simply—” A sound of frustration. “You walked into a room and I forgot how to be sensible.”

The confession hit somewhere directly behind your sternum.

“Good,” you whispered.

A rough laugh escaped him. Short and startled and entirely real. You felt it against your cheek and stored it somewhere permanent.

His hands resumed their work.

“You are,” he muttered, the lacing finally giving way entirely, “the most inconvenient thing that has ever happened to me.”

You pulled back to look at him. The torchlight caught the flush beneath his beard, the dark intensity of his eyes, the silver threaded through pale hair falling slightly over his forehead. He looked thoroughly undone and absolutely furious about it and so devastatingly his that your chest ached with it.

“Likewise,” you said softly. The look he gave you afterward nearly stopped your heart.

Because beneath the urgency and the feral edge of finally having broken loose — there it was. What lived underneath all of it. What had been living underneath all of it for months in training yards and castle corridors and cold battlements at dusk.

Not just wanting. Something far more dangerous than that.

His forehead dropped against yours.

“I do not know,” he said quietly, the roughness in his voice now carrying something almost bewildered beneath it, “how to be careful with you.”

Your hands rose to his chest. “Then don’t be.”

The breath that left him was long and shaking.

“I may not be able to stop,” he warned lowly.

“Maekar.” You held his gaze. “Do not make me bite you again.”

He stared at you for one moment.

Then something shifted in his expression — the last fragment of restraint dissolving into something that was equal parts exasperated and consumed and desperately fond — and he kissed you again with the full and undivided attention of a man who had just been given permission to stop pretending he wanted anything else.

The lacing gave way beneath his hands with gratifying speed.

Maekar worked with focused single-mindedness, fingers steady now where they had mildly trembled earlier, the fabric loosening incrementally as the fastenings came undone. You sat on the edge of the workbench and let him, your hands resting against his chest, feeling the heat radiating through the linen still covering him and the rapid thumping of his heart beneath it.

The gown loosened around your torso.

Maekar’s hands moved to your shoulders, sliding beneath the fabric to push it downward, and then his patience — which had already survived considerably more than it was built for tonight — ran completely out.

The sound of tearing fabric split the quiet armoury like a small thunderclap.

Maekar went absolutely still.

You bit the inside of your cheek against the laugh trying to escape you.

A beat of silence.

“I—” he began.

“Don’t,” you said.

“The seam—”

“Maekar.”

He looked at you. The expression on his face was genuinely extraordinary — caught somewhere between mortification and the barely contained urgency of a man who had not actually stopped wanting what he had been reaching for, the two things warring openly across his features in the torchlight.

“I will have it mended,” he said roughly.

“I am sure you will,” you agreed pleasantly.

His eyes narrowed slightly at your tone. Then the fabric shifted and his gaze dropped and every coherent thought visibly left his head at once.

You were bare beneath it.

Completely. Deliberately. The torn gown pooled at your waist, the torchlight warm and gold across your skin, and there was absolutely no question that this had not been accidental.

Maekar stared. The silence stretched long enough to become something else entirely.

“You,” he said. His voice had dropped to something low and rough and barely functional. “You planned this.”

“I have absolutely no idea what you mean,” you said serenely.

His eyes dragged slowly back up to your face with an expression that suggested he was reconsidering everything he thought he knew about you and finding the revision both alarming and catastrophic in equal measure.

“You came here tonight,” he said slowly, “without—”

“Maekar.”

“Deliberately.”

“The armoury can get quite warm,” you offered.

Something shifted in his expression then. The mortification burned away entirely, replaced by something darker and more focused, and the look he gave you was nothing like anything you had seen from him before. Not the prickly severity. Not the careful blankness. Something that had been living underneath all of that for months, patient and hungry and entirely done waiting.

“You,” he said quietly, “are going to be the absolute death of me.”

Then his hands were on you.

No hesitation this time. None. Large and warm and completely certain, sliding up from your waist and cupping your breasts with a directness that dragged a sharp breath from your throat. His thumbs moved and your head fell back immediately, a sound escaping you that echoed faintly off the stone walls.

Maekar made a low rough noise in response.

“Gods,” he breathed. The word came out reverent and wrecked at once, his eyes moving over you in the torchlight with an intensity that felt almost tangible. His hands moved with growing urgency, learning the weight and warmth of you, and you could feel in every touch the months of restraint finally broken loose — not gentle, not careful, just present and consuming and entirely focused on you.

His head bent.

His mouth found the curve of your breast and your fingers flew immediately into his hair, loosening whatever order remained in it and sending pale silver-threaded strands falling forward as he pressed an open mouthed kiss against your skin.

The groan that left you was embarrassingly immediate.

Maekar responded to it like a man receiving confirmation of something he had suspected and filed carefully away — his mouth moving with sudden purposefulness, tongue warm against your nipple while his hands held you steady against him.

Your grip tightened in his hair.

He groaned against your skin and the vibration of it shot straight through you.

“There,” he murmured roughly against your breast, the word low and satisfied in a way that was entirely new from him. Like he had discovered a language he had not known he spoke. “I want to hear that again.”

You gave him exactly what he asked for.

His mouth moved across your chest with growing confidence, learning what made you gasp and returning to it with focused intent, his large hands spanning your ribs and holding you exactly where he wanted you with an ease that made you feel impossibly, wonderfully small against him.

At some point his mouth travelled upward again, kissing the curve of your throat, the line of your jaw, finding your mouth with sudden renewed urgency while his hands remained occupied and his thumbs moved in ways that made coherent thought genuinely difficult.

You broke the kiss with a rough breath. His forehead dropped against yours, both of you breathing unevenly in the warm torchlit dark.

“The dress,” you managed. “You owe me a dress.”

A sound escaped him. Short and low and startled — that real unguarded laugh again, the one you had been collecting like something rare.

“Add it to my debts,” he said roughly against your mouth.

“Your debts are mounting, my prince.”

His right index and thumb pinched the sensible mount of your breast and stole whatever you had been planning to say next directly from your throat.

“Then,” he murmured, low and certain and devastating, “allow me to begin repaying them.”

Your hands found the hem of his linen shirt. Maekar pulled back slightly at the contact, just enough to look down at your hands, then back up at your face. Something flickered briefly in his expression — that old reflex, the instinct to stop this before it became something he did not know how to carry.

You held his gaze and pulled the shirt upward.

He let you. Lifted his arms without being asked, a concession so simple and so enormous from him that something ached sweetly in your chest at the sight of it. The linen cleared his head and you dropped it somewhere behind him without ceremony.

Then you looked at him and forgot, momentarily, what you had been about to say.

The torchlight caught him gold and shadow — broad shoulders, the hard planes of a chest dusted with pale hair, the evidence of years of training written into every line of him. A scar crossed his left side, old and long-healed, another at his shoulder. Marks accumulated quietly over years, worn without comment, without complaint.

Your hands rose before thought intervened.

You pressed your palms flat against his chest the way you had through the fabric earlier, except now there was nothing between your skin and his and the warmth of him nearly stole your breath.

Maekar went very still beneath your hands. You felt his heartbeat. Rapid and entirely beyond his control, hammering against your palm with a candour the rest of him would never willingly allow.

“You are—” He stopped. Something worked in his jaw. “You should not look at me like that.”

You dragged your gaze up to his face. “Like what?”

“Like—” The words seemed to cost him. “Like you find something worth looking at.”

The ache behind your ribs sharpened immediately into something almost painful.

“Maekar.” Your hands slid slowly upward across his chest, feeling the warmth of him, the solid reality of all that restrained strength beneath your palms. “I have found something worth looking at since the first time you glared at me on a battlement.”

His throat moved.

“That was not—” He stopped again.

“You are breathtaking,” you said quietly, a faint smile accompanying your words.

Something shifted in his face. The vulnerability flickering through before the familiar impulse to suppress it could fully engage. Your fingers traced slowly across his shoulder, following the line of the old scar there with deliberate gentleness. Maekar’s breath caught.

“Does it bother you?” you asked softly. “When I touch them?”

A long pause.

“No,” he said roughly. Then, quieter, “That is the problem.”

Your heart turned completely over. You leaned forward and pressed your lips against the scar at his shoulder. Felt the sharp intake of breath above you, felt the hands at your waist tighten convulsively.

Then you kissed across his collarbone. His chest. The old, healed line at his ribs, your lips warm and unhurried against each mark while Maekar stood and endured it with the expression of a man being quietly and thoroughly dismantled and lacking any remaining means of defence.

“You are doing it again,” he said. Strained.

“What?”

“Being—” A rough exhale. “Kind. About things that do not require kindness.”

You looked up at him from where your lips rested against his ribs. “They require it from me.”

The flush that climbed his face was immediate and violent, spreading beneath his beard and straight to the tips of his ears. He looked furious about it in the way he always did when caught feeling something he had not prepared for.

You rose back up at the workbench’s edge and kissed the line of his jaw, his cheekbone, the corner of his mouth.

His hands slid up your bare back, warm and spanning and pulling you closer against the heat of his chest, your skin against his now with nothing between you and the contact stole a soft sound from you both simultaneously.

Maekar pressed his mouth against your temple.

“You are going to ruin me,” he said quietly. Not an accusation. Something far more honest than that.

Your arms wound around his neck.

“I think I already did,” you murmured against his jaw. Then you found his throat again — the place you had bitten before, still faintly marked — and pressed your tongue there deliberately.

The sound that left him resonated through his entire chest as his arms tightened around you completely.

“Again,” he said. Low and immediate and entirely without shame this time. The commanding quality back in full force, the vulnerability of a moment ago folded back underneath it — except now you knew it was there, now you had seen it, and no amount of authority in his voice could fully conceal it from you anymore.

You smiled against his throat and obliged.

His hands had been moving through your hair, your mouth still warm against his throat, when you leaned back from him and slid slowly, deliberately, from the edge of the workbench.

You felt the exact moment he realised what you intended when he looked down and saw how your knees met the stone floor.

The expression that crossed his face was unlike anything you had ever seen from him. Not the flush of embarrassment. Not the guarded severity. Something rawer than open shock, moving through every feature while his hands remained suspended where they had been, hovering uselessly in the air where your hair had been a moment ago.

“What are you—” His voice came out entirely wrong. Rough and halting and stripped of every trace of the commanding certainty of moments ago. “You do not have to—”

“I know,” you said simply.

Your fingers found the laces of his trousers.

“I want to,” you added, and looked up at him while you said it, held those violet eyes deliberately while your fingers worked the fastenings loose, and watched the words land somewhere so deep inside him that his jaw tightened against whatever sound tried to escape.

“You—” He stopped. Tried again. Failed again.

The laces gave way.

Maekar inhaled sharply through his nose, a sound so controlled it betrayed exactly how much effort the control was costing him. His hands had found your shoulders now — not pushing, not guiding, simply resting there as though he needed something to hold onto and you were the only solid thing available.

You freed him slowly.

The rough sound that left him at that alone nearly undid you entirely.

He was already hard — he must have been for some time, you suspected, given the considerable evidence — and warm and heavy and when you wrapped your hand around him and simply held for a moment, looking up at his face, the expression you found there stopped your breath completely.

Wrecked did not cover it.

Maekar looked like a man who had been struck. Colour high beneath his beard, eyes dark and blown wide, chest heaving with the effort of breathing evenly. His hands on your shoulders had tightened to something that might leave marks and you found you did not mind that even slightly.

But beneath all of that — beneath the hunger and the shock and the barely contained urgency —

Something bewildered. Something terribly, painfully young. Like he was genuinely unable to comprehend that you were here, on your knees, looking up at him like this. Like the image of it did not fit inside any version of himself he had ever been allowed to imagine.

“You do not—” he tried again, jaw working. “I am not—”

“Maekar.” Your thumb moved over the tip of his cock and his entire sentence dissolved instantly. “Let me.”

A shaking breath left him.

You held his gaze one moment longer. Making sure he saw it — the intention in your eyes, the complete and utter absence of reluctance, the certainty that this was chosen and deliberate and wanted.

Then you leaned forward and took him into your mouth.

The sound he made was immediate and violent and nothing like anything that had left him all evening. His head fell back against the shelving behind him with a dull impact he seemed entirely unaware of, a rough broken noise tearing free from his chest as his hands flew from your shoulders into your hair — not gripping, not guiding, just holding, fingers tangled and shaking against your scalp like he needed the contact to confirm this was real.

You took your time. Deliberately. Thoroughly. The way you had kissed his scars earlier — with a focused attention that communicated unmistakably that this was not obligation, not performance. That you were here because you wanted to be here, on these cold stone floors, with this impossible prickly furious man coming completely apart above you.

“Gods—” The word came out shattered. “Gods—”

His hips shifted forward fractionally, involuntary, immediately arrested as though he had caught himself. Still trying to restrain even now. Still terrified of taking too much.

You took him deeper in direct response.

“Seven hells—” The curse left him in a rough exhale, every muscle in the hand tangled in your hair tensing simultaneously. “You— I cannot— gods, you have to—”

He did not finish the sentence. Could not, apparently. You looked up at him through your lashes and that was what finished it.

Meeting his eyes from where you knelt — watching the full devastating wreckage of his composure written openly across his face, the flush and the parted lips and the shaking jaw and the violet eyes looking down at you with an expression that contained hunger and wonder and something so much larger than either that it had no clean name—

Maekar made a sound that came from somewhere entirely beyond dignity.

“Please,” he said roughly. Barely audible. The word seemingly startling him as much as you, like it had escaped without permission — Prince Maekar Targaryen, the sword of the family, the prickly unmovable fourth son, pleading to the ceiling of an armoury with his hands shaking in your hair.

Something triumphant and tender and desperately fond moved through you simultaneously.

You gave him everything.

He lasted considerably less time than his pride would probably prefer, which you found entirely endearing. The hands in your hair tightened with sudden urgency, a rough warning that was also half a question, and you answered it by staying exactly where you were and he broke apart above you with your name leaving his mouth like something torn free from the centre of him.

Not gods. Not a curse. Not a prayer. Your name. Just your name, rough and wrecked and reverent all at once.

The silence that followed was enormous.

Maekar stood against the shelving breathing like he had run a considerable distance, chest heaving, one hand still tangled loosely in your hair and the other against the wall, almost as if he needed it to keep balance. You rose slowly from the floor, brushing stone dust from your knees with the composure of someone who had absolutely planned all of this, and looked up to find him staring at you.

The expression on his face nearly made your heart stop.

Not the satisfied blankness you might have expected. Not even the lingering hunger. Something bewildered and open and completely undefended, sitting raw across every feature in the torchlight. Like what had just happened had rearranged something fundamental inside him and he was still taking inventory of the damage.

His mouth opened. Closed.

“You,” he said finally. His voice was completely destroyed. “You are—” He stopped. Seemed to genuinely lose the words.

His hans moved to your face, slowly, cupping your jaw with fingers that still trembled slightly. His thumb traced once beneath your cheekbone.

“I did not know,” he said quietly, “that someone would—” He stopped again. Jaw tight. “That I could—”

“You can,” you said softly.

His eyes closed briefly. You rose onto your toes and kissed the corner of his mouth. Maekar exhaled shakily against your cheek.

Then his hands found your waist with renewed purpose and he walked you backward toward the workbench again. The look in his eyes when he pulled back to find yours was nothing like the bewildered wreckage of a moment ago.

Certain. Focused. Warm beneath the hunger in a way that was entirely new from him.

“Your turn,” he said quietly.

He lifted you back onto the workbench like you weighed nothing.

The ease of it still sent heat rushing through you — the casual certainty of those large hands spanning your waist, the complete absence of effort, the way he stepped immediately between your knees and looked at you in the torchlight with that focused unhurried attention that had migrated from training yards and council disputes and settled here, on you, with its full undivided weight.

“Maekar—”

“No,” he said. Quiet and absolute. “You had your turn.”

“You said that already.”

“And I meant it both times.”

His hands found the fabric pooled at your waist — the ruins of your gown, the torn seam still hanging where his impatience had destroyed it — and pushed it further down your hips with steady purposeful fingers. You lifted slightly to allow it and the fabric fell away entirely, leaving you in nothing but the torchlight and his gaze.

Maekar looked at you.

Slowly. Completely. With the focused thoroughness he gave everything — as though you were something that deserved to be properly examined before anything else could proceed.

The flush climbed your own face this time.

“You seem to be gaping, my prince,” you said conceitedly.

"Perhaps," he said lowering his mouth again to your sternum and upwards. "Or perhaps I am simply wondering how you manage to be so insufferably, distractingly beautiful," he murmured against your lips and closed the distance again.

His kisses were slower than before. Deeper. With the particular quality of a man who has just had something enormous confirmed and is no longer in any hurry to pretend otherwise. His hands moved across your bare skin with a thoroughness that suggested he intended to learn every inch of you and considered this a reasonable allocation of his evening.

His mouth left yours and travelled downward yet again.

Your throat. Your collarbone. The curve of your breast where he had been earlier, returning with renewed focus, and the sound you made when his mouth found your nipple again was immediate and entirely undignified.

Maekar made a low satisfied noise against your skin.

“There,” he murmured. The word vibrated warm against you. “I have been thinking about that sound.”

“You—” Coherence was becoming genuinely difficult. “You have?”

There was no response to your question, him being entirely focused on savouring your breasts to a point where you thought he would devour them entirely,

“Maekar—” you pressed whining.

“Mm.” Not really listening. Occupied.

His hands slid down your sides, your waist, the curve of your hips, with an attentiveness that made your skin feel oversensitive everywhere he had not touched yet. He took his time. Deliberately. Like he was paying something back with interest and intended to be thorough about it.

His mouth followed the same path downward, pressing open kisses across your stomach while you sat on the edge of the workbench and tried to remember how breathing worked.

When he lowered himself to his knees in front of you the sound that escaped you was involuntary and immediate.

Maekar looked up.

The sight of him there — this enormous severe prickly man, on his knees, violet eyes finding yours from below with an expression of complete and utter focus — nearly stopped your heart entirely.

“Consider it returned,” he said quietly.

Then he pulled your thighs over his shoulders and lowered his head to tour core, and every coherent thought you possessed simply ceased to exist.

He was not tentative. Not uncertain. Maekar approached this the way he approached everything — with complete commitment and zero interest in half measures — and the wet, filthy sounds filling the quiet armoury within moments were yours and entirely beyond your control.

His hands held your hips with firm certainty, keeping you exactly where he wanted you with an ease that made you feel helplessly, wonderfully at his mercy. His mouth and tongue moved with focused intent, learning what made your breath catch and returning to it immediately, cataloguing every reaction with the same attentiveness he gave a training yard or a tactical problem.

“Gods—” Your hands flew into his hair, fingers tangling in the pale silver-threaded strands. “Maekar—”

He made a sound against you that vibrated through your entire body. Your grip tightened. He did not seem to mind even slightly.

“Look at me,” he said against your inner thigh, pulling back just enough to speak. His voice had dropped to something rough and low that resonated somewhere in the base of your spine. “I want—” A brief pause. Something working in his jaw. “I want to see you.”

You looked down and found his eyes already waiting.

He held your gaze and resumed and the combination of it — those violet eyes watching your face with naked focused intensity while his mouth worked with devastating thoroughness — unravelled the last remnants of your composure completely.

The tension coiled so tight it became almost unbearable.

“Maekar—” His name came out broken. “Please—”

Something moved in his eyes at that.

He pressed closer, arms wrapping around your middle and pulling you against his mouth with sudden decisive urgency, and the tension snapped apart all at once. You came with his name on your lips and your hands fisted in his hair and your entire body shaking with it, and Maekar held you through every tremor with steady certain hands like he had always been built for exactly this.

Like he had been built for you specifically and simply not known it yet.

The silence afterward was soft and golden and full of your uneven breathing. Maekar rose slowly from his knees.

He stood before you in the torchlight, flushed and thoroughly dishevelled, pale hair falling loose around his face, and looked at you with an expression so open and unguarded that it nearly made your eyes sting.

Not the bewilderment of earlier. Something that had moved past bewilderment into something quieter and more settled. Like a man who has just understood something he had been refusing to look at directly for a very long time.

You reached for him.

He came without hesitation — no flinching, no deflection — and let you pull him in until his forehead rested against yours and his hands settled at your waist and the warmth of him surrounded you entirely.

“Still think,” you murmured softly, “that you are not built for this?”

A long pause.

“No,” he said roughly. The word came out almost wondering. Like the answer had surprised him.

Your hands found his face. Thumbs tracing the line of his now wetted beard, the scars beneath it, the high flush still colouring his cheekbones. He closed his eyes briefly the way he always did when you touched him there.

“Good,” you whispered.

His hands tightened at your waist.

“We are not finished,” he said. Lower now. The commanding quality returning beneath the softness, threading through it rather than replacing it.

Heat rushed through you immediately.

“I thought so,” you agreed.

He pulled back to look at you, something certain and hungry and devastatingly focused sitting in those violet eyes. He had you on your back against the workbench before you had fully processed the movement.

One moment upright, the next flat against the worn wood with Maekar’s hands braced on either side of your head and the full commanding weight of his attention pinning you as effectively as anything physical could have managed.

The torchlight caught him from above — flushed, breathing hard, pale hair falling forward around his face, every trace of the prickly guarded prince burned away entirely — and gods, the sight of him like this did something catastrophic to your ability to think clearly.

His forehead dropped briefly against yours.

“I want—” He stopped. Something working visibly in his jaw. “I need you to tell me.” His voice came out rough and strained and carefully controlled. “If I—”

“Maekar.”

“I am not—” Another stop. The flush deepening. “I do not want to hurt you.”

The vulnerability beneath the urgency hit somewhere directly behind your sternum. You reached up and took his face in both hands.

“You will not hurt me,” you said clearly.

“You do not know that.” His eyes searched yours with an intensity that had nothing to do with desire and everything to do with that bedrock quality of him — the thing that made him reposition himself between danger and others without thinking, that made him remember injuries, that made him protect fiercely everything he considered his. “I am—” A rough exhale. “It has been some time. And I—” He stopped completely. The flush had reached his ears. “I do not do things gently when I—”

“Good,” you said. He blinked. “I do not want gentle,” you said. Plainly. Clearly. Holding his gaze so he could see every word landing true. “I want you. All of it.” Your thumb traced his jaw and felt the muscle jump beneath it. “Do you understand what I am telling you?”

Maekar stared at you.

“You are—” The words seemed to fail him entirely.

“I am certain,” you said. “I am telling you I want it rough. I am telling you I have been waiting weeks for this and I am done waiting.” A beat. “I am also telling you that I am considerably less fragile than you seem determined to believe.”

Something shifted in his expression so completely it was almost visible as a physical thing — the last protective restraint dissolving, replaced by something dark and focused and entirely done being reasonable.

“You are certain,” he repeated. Not a question this time.

“Maekar.” You held his gaze. “I came here tonight practically naked.”

A sound escaped him that was almost a laugh and almost something else entirely. Then his mouth found yours and whatever he had been about to say disappeared completely.

He kissed you with the full pent up force of weeks of deliberate distance, of every turned back and every carefully engineered absence and every moment he had spent convincing himself he was not allowed — and you felt every single day of it in the urgency behind it, in the hands sliding beneath your thighs and repositioning you against the edge of the workbench with sudden decisive purpose.

He settled between your thighs and you felt him — all of him — and the sharp breath that left you was immediate and involuntary.

Maekar stilled.

“Still—”

“Yes,” you said firmly.

His jaw tightened. His hands gripped your hips. And he pushed forward slowly, carefully despite everything, a concession to that bedrock protectiveness that apparently even weeks of pent up wanting could not fully override—

The sound you both made simultaneously when his cock went smoothly into your dripping cunt echoed off the stone walls.

“Gods,” he breathed. Barely audible. The word stripped of everything except pure involuntary honesty. His forehead dropped to your chest, both hands gripping your hips hard enough to anchor you both to reality, every muscle in his body held in rigid check while he gave you a moment to adjust.

You felt— full. Completely. Wonderfully overwhelmingly full, the stretch of him settling into something that sat on the precise edge between too much and exactly right.

“Maekar.” You wrapped your legs around him. “Move.”

Something in him simply let go.

He drew back and thrust forward and the workbench scraped against the stone floor with the force of it and you cried out into the quiet armoury with absolutely zero remaining concern for who might hear.

Maekar groaned low against your throat.

“Again,” you managed.

He obliged.

And again. And again. The careful deliberateness of moments ago burning away entirely as the rhythm built — deep and certain and relentless. The workbench protested steadily beneath you while his hands held your hips exactly where he wanted them with a grip that would leave the memory of his fingers on your skin for days and you found you wanted that. Wanted the evidence of it. Wanted to carry it back to Queen Myriah’s chambers tomorrow like a secret pressed beneath your skin.

Maekar was not quiet about it.

That surprised you — this man who guarded every reaction, who suppressed every sound, who had spent a lifetime performing composure — coming apart above you with rough broken noises pressed against your throat that he seemed entirely beyond managing. Low and urgent and devastatingly real, dragged free by every movement, every sound you made in response, every time your hands gripped the back of his neck and pulled him closer.

Like he had been holding all of it for so long that now the dam had broken there was simply nothing left to hold with.

“You feel—” His voice came out wrecked and wondering against your jaw. “Gods, you feel—”

“Don’t stop,” you breathed.

A rough sound. “I could not.” Said with complete and utter certainty. “I physically could not.”

Your back arched off the workbench.

His hand slid beneath it immediately — that same instinct, even now, even like this — supporting you, keeping you from the hard edge of the wood while the other gripped your hip and his rhythm deepened into something that stole rational thought entirely.

“Look at me,” he said roughly.

You found his eyes.

Violet and dark and completely unguarded, holding yours with an intensity that had nowhere left to hide — every wall down, every practiced blankness burned away, just Maekar looking at you like you were the only solid thing in the room and he was holding on accordingly.

The expression on his face finished you.

Not the hunger, though that was there, overwhelming and undeniable. But underneath it — wonder. Still wonder. Even now. Like he still could not entirely believe this was real and had decided to look at you directly until it became impossible to doubt.

“I see you,” you whispered. His rhythm faltered for one broken moment.

Then his mouth found yours and he kissed you with everything he had left and the hand at your hip tightened, the workbench scraped and you stopped thinking in words entirely.

The tension had been coiling for weeks — through every turned back and every engineered absence and every moment of deliberate distance — and when it finally broke it broke completely, your whole body arching against him while his name tore free from your throat in a way that would absolutely echo and you found you did not care even slightly.

Maekar followed you over the edge moments later, his cock throbbing inside you and filling you up so deliciously.

Your name again. Just your name, the same as before — rough and broken and said like it was the only word he had ever been certain of.

The silence afterward was vast and golden and full of ragged breathing.

He did not move immediately. Simply rested his forehead against yours, both hands gentling from their grip to something that was almost cradling, chest heaving against yours while the torchlight flickered its slow indifferent commentary across the walls.

You lay on a workbench in an armoury with a discarded torn dress and a thoroughly dishevelled prince and the distant sounds of the castle carrying on entirely without you.

“Maekar,” you said eventually. Soft, nails gently caressing his scalp.

“Mm.” Not fully returned yet.

“The workbench survived.” A long pause.

Then that laugh. Low and startled and utterly real, resonating through his chest and into yours where you were still pressed together.

“Barely,” he said.

You smiled into his shoulder. "Think this thing is sturdy enough for a second assault?"

His laugh deepened against your throat where his face had finally landed. His arms tightened around you once — brief, fierce, communicating something he did not yet have words for — before he pulled back enough to look at your face with that new expression. The one that had moved past bewilderment into something quieter and more permanent.

“You are—” He stopped. Looked almost frustrated by his own inability to finish the sentence.

“I know,” you said gently.

He looked at you for a long moment.

“No,” he said quietly. “You do not.” His thumb traced once across your cheekbone. “But I find myself— wanting to explain it to you.” A pause in which he seemed to surprise himself. “Eventually.”

Your heart turned completely over.

“I am not going anywhere,” you said.

Something settled in his face at that. Deep and slow like a foundation finding solid ground.

“No,” he agreed. “You certainly are not.”

The next morning, you had managed the dress. Barely.

The torn seam had required creative pinning in places that would not have survived close examination, which meant you had changed entirely before dawn and disposed of the evidence with the focused efficiency of someone who had absolutely thought this through.

You had not, however, thought about what your face could tell.

Queen Myriah’s chambers sat warm and bright in the morning light, the fire already built up against the early chill, and her grace herself sat composed and unhurried before her mirror while you worked through the familiar ritual of her morning hair with hands that were almost entirely steady.

Almost.

You had been telling yourself for the better part of an hour that you were perfectly fine. That nothing in your bearing communicated anything unusual. That you were a consummate lady in waiting with complete command of your own expression and the events of last night were entirely invisible on your person.

You were doing very well at believing this.

Until the door opened and Maekar stepped into the room.

He had managed himself considerably better than you — composed, dressed, every trace of last night’s dishevelment erased, only the faintest shadow beneath his eyes suggesting the hour at which he had eventually sought his own chambers. His gaze found you immediately, the way it always did now, and something shifted briefly in his expression before the careful blankness reasserted itself.

Your hands stilled in Myriah’s hair for exactly one betraying second. Heat climbed your face with the subtlety of a siege engine.

You resumed immediately. Smoothly. Professionally.

In the mirror, Queen Myriah’s eyes moved from her son’s face to yours. Then back to her son’s. Then back to yours.

The silence lasted approximately four seconds.

“Maekar,” she said pleasantly. “How unexpected. You rarely visit before council.”

“I had correspondence to discuss.” His voice was admirably even. “If you have a moment.”

“Of course.” Myriah’s eyes returned to her own reflection, her expression settling into something that was almost serenity and was in fact the most dangerous thing you had ever seen on a human face. “Though you look tired, my son. Did you sleep poorly?”

A beat.

“I slept adequately.”

“Mm.” Her grace examined her reflection with great interest. “And you—” this to you, in the same pleasant tone— “you look rather flushed this morning. Are you well, my child?”

“Perfectly well, your grace,” you said. With tremendous composure. “The fire is just warm.”

“It is, isn’t it.” A pause. “Maekar, does she not look remarkably well this morning?”

The silence that followed was catastrophic.

You did not look up from her hair. You focused on it with the complete and total dedication of someone whose life depended on a particular arrangement of pins.

“She looks—” Maekar stopped. Cleared his throat. “Fine.”

“Fine,” Myriah repeated thoughtfully.

You could feel her smiling in the mirror without looking at it. The specific quality of it radiating outward like heat from a particularly self-satisfied fire.

“Your correspondence,” you said to her reflection. Firmly. “Shall I fetch it after I have finished your hair, your grace?”

“There is no hurry.” Her grace was the picture of morning leisure. “Maekar, sit. You are making the room feel crowded standing in the doorway like a man who wishes to be somewhere else.”

He sat. With the expression of someone accepting a siege they know they cannot win.

You finished the final pin with hands that were absolutely trying not to shake.

“There,” you said. “Your grace.”

Myriah examined her reflection. Turned her head slightly left. Then right. The gesture of a woman entirely satisfied with her hair and entirely unconcerned with that being the subject under discussion.

Then she looked at you directly in the mirror.

“You may take a moment as well,” she said pleasantly. “You have been standing since dawn.”

“I am perfectly—”

“It was not a suggestion, my dear girl.”

So you sat.

The three of you existed in the warm morning quiet of the solar for one extraordinary moment — Queen Myriah composed and radiant, you studying the middle distance with tremendous focus, and Maekar to your left apparently finding the grain of the table deeply fascinating.

“Well,” said Myriah eventually. In the tone of a woman setting down a winning hand at cards. “This is very pleasant, is it not?.”

Maekar’s ears went red. You became very interested in your own hands.

Her grace looked between you both with the expression of a woman who had navigated the politics of two great houses, raised four sons, and survived the court of King Daeron with her dignity entirely intact — a woman, in short, who had seen absolutely everything and could not currently be less surprised by any of it.

The smile she was not quite suppressing was the most Dornish thing you had ever witnessed.

“I always did think,” she said lightly, returning to her own reflection and touching one pin with a satisfied air, “that the armoury at dusk was terribly romantic.”

The silence that followed had texture.

“Mother—” Maekar began.

“The correspondence can wait,” said Myriah serenely, already rising from her seat and making for the door. “Enjoy your morning, children.”

I just had to make Maekar's version more reader-domineering, I could not resist myself. So, what are your thoughts on this one??

Taglist: @qardasngan @nerdyinfluencertastemaker @princessphilly @shyravenns

the thick heat of the sept brought a flush across your cheeks and chest, warmth radiating through the tight, laced bodice of the dress gifted to you by your father for this momentous occasion.

"a true blessing..." you thought gently, "to be wed in the magnificent sept of baelor."

multicoloured streams of light decorated the walls around you, refracting from the ornate stained glass windows depicting the history of the targaryen house. the crowd below murmured in anticipation of your soon-to-be husband's entrance, creating a vibration that travelled through your planted feet and to your poised shoulders glowing from the lathering of the shimmering oils you received from your cousin in lys on hearing of your betrothal to the great prince aerion targaryen.

the delicate lace of your gown tickled your neck as you shifted in place. it was hard to keep your face composed in front of the audience waiting to see the blessed union take place; a toothy grin threatened to break every minute you stood awaiting your prince. the joy of fulfilling your duty to the realm made your heart swell and pulse beat ever quicker.

after what felt like years of waiting, the dark wooden doors swept open with a great thud. the sound lifts your head up sharply and causes each individual hair on your delicate body to stand to attention at the entrance of your prince.

trumpets sounded, and the thick crowd shuffled in unison to land their gaze upon the high septon as he spoke loudly, "make way and attend, all faithful and noble souls. by the will of the seven who are one, and under their watchful light, we welcome his grace, prince aerion of house targaryen. son of the blood of old valyria, scion of the dragonlords, heir to ancient flame and sovereign legacy. let the bells ring and the faithful bear witness."

your breath caught in your throat, a thick wad of spit hanging from the back, burning as a harsh swallow forced it down.

he was every ounce as beautiful as the rumours claimed he was to be, and somehow more, if such a thing were possible.

his silver-gold hair glistened in the midday light, small tufts catching in the air as if he were sparkling, and his slender and tall frame made him the imposing dragon many referred to him as when noble ears were not listening, as he moved through the parted crowd.

the deep reds and dark blacks of his robes seemed to suck in the light surrounding him, the angles of his face sharpening in the contrast. behind him flowed a velvet black cloak and embroidered in the centre, in a red that matched your moon's blood was the symbol of his noble house. the three-headed dragon.

he did not walk as other men did. he advanced. moving slowly towards the stone platform in an almost hypnotising trance.

the air seemed to part for him, the murmuring crowd shrinking back without instruction. there was something untouchable about him, something distant and bright and terrible.

for a moment your hands trembled.

"the seven have chosen boldly," you thought, steadying hands gripping the bright silk of your dress. you had been born for this, raised for this very moment. the chance to fulfil your duty to your house, your family, your father, and the realm grounded you.

"compose yourself," you internally chastised, the low thudding of your heart pulsed within your chest. "do not stare like some common, dazzled girl."

and yet when his gaze swept the sept, detached and assessing, your heart beat ever harder against your ribs.

he did not seem pleased, you noted; he did not seem eager. he did not seem to be affected in the slightest.

a quiet thought surfaced, gentle and resolute: "if he is proud, i will not take offence. it is not my place to be wounded, it is to be his wife."

the trumpets faded into a long, echoing hush as the handsome prince mounted the steps to the altar. his footsteps rang softly in the vaulted sept, deliberate and unhurried, each bringing a new wave of excitable nervousness crashing in your midsection as you fought to keep your smile from growing.

you stood waiting beneath the seven-pointed star, hands folded together in a silent prayer, and when he reached the final step, aerion stood a respectable distance from you.

up close, he was colder than descriptions of him from your ladies' maids had prepared you for. the striking violet eyes that looked upon your own were composed, untouched by the gravity of the moment surrounding you both.

you had not expected love.

you were not a woman drunk on girlish ballads or foolish courtly songs. this was an arranged marriage, forged by your fathers, not by fate. you understood that well enough.

and yet in the quiet bedchambers of your home, whispering beneath silken sheets with your sisters, you had allowed yourself a softer imagining.

that perhaps he would smile, even faintly. that perhaps his voice would greet you curiously. that perhaps, when he looked upon the woman who would bear his name and his children, there would be something warmer than calculation in his eyes.

not instant devotion so unbecoming that it shames the names of both your noble houses.

not unquestionable love that takes him over, body and mind, so suddenly that he may collapse at your feet.

not a desire so consuming that it made a spectacle of him before the realm.

just warmth, the smallest flicker of welcome from his valyrian eyes.

the silence thrums in your ears as he studies you, takes in your frame, your face, your entirety, and purses his lips. the pout draws all air from your chest, and you lower your head in a graceful curtesy, the delicate materials of your gown rustling against each other.

“your grace,” you greet him with a steady voice that surprised yourself.

moments passed without reciprocation, and your back began to ache with the unnatural bend of your spine. “this is a test,” you thought. “do not stand without his greeting.”

adjusting your hips to bear more weight, you kept your head tilted and eyes focused on his feet.

he hummed. and you could feel the shift of the sept around you as the crowd waited with bated breath for the prince's words.

"my lady," he replied.

you waited for a moment longer, anticipating words that did not come, and slowly rose to face him. the air between you felt tense and charged, nerves tingling your fingertips as you stood facing one another.

the high septon stepped forward suddenly, and pulling your gaze away from aerion became a difficult task with the muscles of your neck taut and stiff from the tension caught in your shoulders. you sucked in a deep breath in an attempt to steady yourself and turned towards the stone altar.

lifting his hands as if to command the crowd, the high septon began...

"we gather beneath the eyes of the seven who are one. the father who judges with wisdom. the mother who grants mercy. the warrior who lends strength. the maiden who blesses love. the smith who labours and builds, the crone who guides us through darkness, and the stranger who waits at the end of all paths."

the deep timbre of his voice echoed throughout the warm sept, dust mites danced in the golden light filling the hall around you, and from behind you heard the soft cries of your mother and sisters.

his dark eyes settled first upon the prince, "prince aerion of house targaryen, blood of old valyria and heir to ancient flame. as you stand before gods and men, do you take this woman to be your lawful wife? to honour her, to protect her, to share with her your heart and your hall, your name and fortune, from this day to the end of your days?"

a thin bead of sweat dripped from your neck and travelled beneath the soft collar of your wedding gown, dancing down your spine and settling in the small of your back. from a distance you heard the crowd of smallfolk awaiting your exit from the sept rumbling and churning as if part of some large machine.

without so much as a glance in your direction, aerion's reply came smoothly and unwavering, "i take her."

the words fell like a statement of ownership, not a vow.

the high septon now turned his attention to you. "and do you, my lady, take this man to be your lawful husband? to honour him, to cherish him, to stand beside him in prosperity and in hardship, to keep his counsel, to bear his name and his children, to be his, entirely and to serve him faithfully from this day to the end of your days?"

"i take him." your voice did not tremble despite the flurry of emotions threatening to take hold of your mind.

one loud, grating sob escaped your mother, and you sensed your father's movements as he wrapped her in his arms to console her. to the left of you, house targaryen made no movements; the many faces before you held no discernible emotions aside from prince daeron; who seemed quite irritated with the balmy breeze that lifted his sandy hair up to graze his cheek every few moments or so.

a thick, deep red cloth was lifted to the crowd; necks craned and shoulders shoved at the sight of the hand-wrapping ceremony's start. slowly you reached out your hand to clasp his. warm palm rested on warm palm as the cloth twisted around your grip; the fabric pressed your hands together tighter still, and you whispered a silent prayer to the seven.

"let it be known that these two are one flesh, one heart, one soul. bound together at the sight of the gods and men. what the seven have joined, let no man put asunder."

nodding, the septon released the tight cloth from your hands, aerion quickly returning his to rest at his side. pale skin twitching ever so slightly from the hold.

following his actions, you lowered your soft hand, thumbing the soothing layers of cloth beneath your dress. "breathe," you reminded yourself, "this is what the gods have made you for."

striking white armour moved before you as the lord commander of the kingsguard brought forward the cloak of your new house. with stiff knees you bowed lowly for your new husband. aerion's slim fingers moved deftly from shoulder to shoulder, unclasping your maiden cloak from your back.

for one suspended breath, you stood unmarked by any house, no longer your father's yet not wholly his.

then he draped the heavy red and black cloak of house targaryen around you, thick velvet fabric settling against your glistening skin. it stood stark against the soft, pale dress, sealing your new role as his wife.

"with this cloak..." the high septon proclaimed, "you cast aside your father's protection and take upon you the name and honour of your husband's house. from this day forth you are bone of his bone and blood of his blood."

"may the father grant them wisdom. may the mother grant them mercy. may the warrior grant them courage. may the maiden grant them devotion. may the smith grant them prosperity. may the crone grant them guidance... and may the stranger look away from them for many long years," the rehearsed rumble of the septons chanted, sending crows flying in all directions from the disturbance on their perches of the carved walls.

the sept held its breath for the final benediction.

"in the light of the seven i now proclaim you husband and wife."

a great deafening roar erupted throughout the sept, windows shook within their cages, and the light jingle of metal joined in with the heavy stamping of feet. you were sure the sept might crumble from the excitement and turned in tandem with your husband to face the crowd.

unable to suppress your grin for any longer, you allowed your lips to curve into a beaming smile. your beauty had been described in every corner of the kingdom, but for your subjects to hold your face in their glistening eyes was something that would be written about for the ages.

you could see your family now, tears threatening to spill down your flushed cheeks at the rush of emotion. your father held your mother in a tight embrace as she sobbed tears of joy into his strong side, and when his eyes made contact with yours, a slow and comforting nod was sent your way. your sisters, your wonderful sisters, leaning so far forward you worried they may tip over, with radiant smiles to rival your own across their faces.

pride tingled in your veins and along your spine, and you could not be more grateful to your noble family for their care and love. "the gods have granted me this," you thought steadfastly.

from the rafters of the ancient sept, the metallic chiming of bells rang out, turning one final time to face your husband as the high septon cried out, "you may seal your vows."

the roar of the sept dulled to a distant hum in your ears, as though you had suddenly been submerged beneath water, feeling every knock of your heart against your soft breasts, wild and breathless and hopeful despite yourself.

you may seal your vows.

the words rattled in your skull.

your first kiss. to be given to you before gods and men alike.

lifting your chin in quiet offering, you stared deeply into his eyes.

this was sacred. this was the path the gods had laid at your feet, and you would walk it without complaint.

yet his expression did not change.

aerion stepped closer, not eagerly and yet not hesitantly. he stepped forward simply because it was required. the scent of the blackened leather which adorned his doublet and the faint musk of ceremonial oils clung to him and invaded your senses. up close you could truly see him; the sharp lines of his jaw held no tension of anticipation, and his violet eyes, once so striking from afar, were dulled by something dangerously close to boredom.

his gaze lingered only long enough to confirm what he had already decided. that you were beautiful, suitable, acceptable. nothing more.

"he is a prince," you reminded yourself at once. "he has stood in halls grander than this, before crowds larger still. why should one ceremony unsettle him?" becoming frustrated with your own naivety.

"the seven had not shaped him to be soft. they had shaped him to rule, and it was not your place to expect tenderness from a man forged for greatness." you knew that affection would come in its proper hour; your mother had told you so when recounting the stories of her youth to you the evening of your betrothal announcement in an attempt to soothe your nerves.

it came as some comfort now as you closed your eyes just before his pink lips reached yours.

you had imagined it, you could not pretend to be completely modest. in soft, fleeting thoughts you had just as quickly confessed away. wondering if your knees might weaken as the poets of the reach so sweetly promised they would.

his hand did not cradle your face, and it did not settle gently upon your waist. he simply leaned forward and pressed his lips to yours in a firm display of finality.

your lips parted slightly from instinct and uncertainty, but he did not follow. aerion did not deepen the wooden gesture. he did not think it important to linger and withdrew from your lips almost immediately.

the entire exchange could not have lasted more than a breath.

when your eyes opened, his were already elsewhere, drifting back towards the cheering crowd, towards the roar of approval and nodding heads and clapping hands.

your mouth still tingled faintly; you did not know what a kiss should feel like, but you felt as though some element had been amiss. something that the tales of wistful romances had promised but the gods had not delivered.

you swallowed carefully as a flush crept up your throat from the sudden awareness that every beady eye in the sept had witnessed the moment.

"it is enough," you told yourself sensibly, folding your hands neatly before you. "he honoured the rite, and that is enough."

if this was how a prince kissed, then you would learn to be grateful for it. it was not your place to measure the manner of his affection. you had been wed to serve him and the realm, and you would do so dutifully.

beside you, aerion stood composed. to him, it had been nothing more than the final step of a ceremony.

he had taken many women to bed. he had known their bodies.

but he had never given a kiss.

Duncan lumbers through the crowded market streets, his large frame parting the tide of people who flow around him like water. He keeps one hand on the pommel of his sword, the other clutching a small pouch of sweets. Your favourite, he knows, coated in sugar with a treacle-sweet centre. He smiles to himself, imagining the look of joy that will pass over your face, seeing that your husband has brought you your favourite sweets, rather than the bread he claimed to have been craving.

Dunk ducks beneath a low-hanging awning as he winds his way between the stalls and through passageways between rickety buildings. The town reminds him a lot of Flea Bottom, and the shadows that dance through the walkways have a painful kind of nostalgia washing through him.

“Oi, watch it!”

Dunk startles, eyes shooting onwards where a market vendor, an angry vein bulging across his grime-coated forehead, points at an elderly woman wrapped in colourful shawls. Apples in reds and greens roll across the flagstones, a wooden box tipped on its side.

The vendor moves as though to strike the woman, but Dunk gets there first—somehow, he slips through the dispersing crowd and clamps a large hand around the vendor’s wrist. The vendor looks up, and up further, taking in the sheer size of Duncan, and the scowl on his face vanishes, melting back into the shadows.

“You will not lay your hand upon a woman,” Dunk growls, and then proceeds to shove the vendor away.

The vendor yelps, clutching at his bruising wrist—Dunk didn’t even realise he had grabbed the man that hard—while the hedge knight turns and squats, gathering the apples from the cobbles. When he returns them to the upturned box, he hefts it easily in one hand and peers down at the woman with a sympathetic smile.

“Are you alright?” He asks.

The woman smiles softly, reaching up to pat him gently on the forearm. “I am, my dear, thank you.”

Dunk nods to the box in his hand. “Does this belong to you?”

“I just purchased it,” the woman replies sheepishly. “But it seems my arms and hands do not work as well as they used to.”

“Well, my arms and hands work plenty fine,” Dunk says with a smile. “And my wife says I’m the best at carrying her things, so I shall carry the crate for you.”

The elderly woman smiles again, reaching up to pat Dunk’s cheek, before she turns, the pinks and greens and golds of her shawls swishing around her. She smells of powdery lavender incense and wax soap, and for the briefest of moments, Dunk is reminded of what little he recalls of his mother.

He follows her down the narrow lane after shooting one last threatening look at the vendor. She looks largely out of place amongst the common folk who traverse the market streets dressed in browns and greys, fraying cotton and stained linen. She is colourful, eccentric, her skin dark and clean of any age spots, the wrinkles shallow. She didn’t appear as old as Dunk first thought, but maybe he wasn’t paying close enough attention.

After a few minutes of walking, the woman leads Dunk through a small, dark alcove, and stops outside a wooden door painted a forest green, a brass knocker resembling a lion mounted to the front. She unlocks and pushes open the door, and Dunk is hit with a thick aroma of herbs and flowers.

“May I bother you to bring them inside?” The woman asks softly.

“Of course,” Dunk replies instantly, and he stoops low to avoid the overhang of the doorway, following the woman inside, where the hall opens up into a room full of things.

Shelves line every wall, bottles and jars of liquids and powders filling them. They shine in different colours, different consistencies, and the smell that accumulates at Dunk’s head-height makes him slightly dizzy. Dried herbs hang from the ceiling—which the giant man finds out when he is smacked in the face by a bundle of desiccated spices.

Dunk places the crate of apples onto a table in the middle of the room, the wood clinking against several empty and half-filled bottles across the surface. When he rights himself, the elderly woman places her hand on his forearm once more. Her fingers are almost completely obscured by stacks of gold rings, and the bangles around her wrists jingle like chimes as she pets him like a child would a cat.

“I thank you for your kindness,” she tells him. “You will make yourself a fine knight one day.”

Dunk doesn’t think twice about the fact the lady knew he was to be a knight, but the compliment makes him burst with pride regardless. He dips his head respectfully, hand pressing to his chest in a sign of good faith.

“It was no problem at all.”

“Here, allow me to give you something in return,” the woman says, and turns to the lines of shelves behind her, fingers flitting across jars.

Dunk shakes his head, clearing his throat as his hand, once again, comes to rest against the pommel of his sword. He’s trying to appear more noble, but when he stands up straight, he hits the crown of his head on a low wooden beam, making him grunt.

“There is no need,” Dunk says around a hiss, rubbing the top of his head. “I do not—”

The woman points to a jar on the very top shelf, one she cannot reach, interrupting Dunk smoothly. “May you retrieve that one for me?”

Dunk bites his tongue and does what he is told. His large fingers pinch around the small jar the woman wants, and through the tempered glass he can see a yellow powder that seems to sparkle as it catches the low light of suspended candles. He hands it to the woman, who thanks him and pops the cork with a flick of her thumb.

She turns to face him. “When was the last time you lay with your wife?”

“I—” Dunk chokes on his spit. “I beg your—”

“I suppose we have seen the face of the sun many times since you have?” The woman taps the rim of the jar against her outstretched palm, collecting some of the powder. Dunk notices the traces of pink amongst the yellow. “Nearly twelve nights gone? You poor thing.”

Dunk stammers, but can’t articulate words.

Okay, maybe it has been that long, but only initially because your moon blood had arrived. The two of you usually had no qualms with being intimate whilst you bled, but you were particularly tender, and no amount of stretch from your husband’s tongue and fingers seemed to eliminate the ache, so you both decided against it.

Then, even when your blood had passed, the two of you travelling tirelessly for several days straight had meant Dunk did not want you to exert too much energy, even when you did plead with him.

The fact this woman knows that has suspicion, not quite fear, passing through him like a phantom.

“Your wife longs for you, and yet here you are, resorting to obtaining sweets to ease her qualms,” the woman says, and now Dunk is slightly creeped out. The bag of sweets hangs against his hip, fastened to the rope belt around his waist. The woman chuckles softly. “And that is why I believe this will be as good a reward as any.”

She lifts her palm and proceeds to blow the yellowy-pink powder directly into Dunk’s face. He sucks in a startled breath and it fills his lungs like smoke, his mouth tasting the sweetness of ripened grapes and honeyed wine. Quickly, he screws his eyes shut, but the powder lingers already in his lashline, and when he blinks, his vision seems brighter.

“What the—?” Dunk lifts his hand and wipes it down his face, stumbling back slightly.

“It is harmless to your overall health, and the effects will fade when you…” She hesitates, and then pats him on the chest. “Are satisfied, although that may take some effort. Now, be gone with you, Ser Duncan. You have a wife to return too.”

The woman, with surprising strength, spins Dunk around and pushes him out the door. It slams closed behind him, and he stands there with his head spinning, wondering how on earth she even knew his name.

In the shadows of the alcove, he catches his breath, which comes in increasingly laboured pants as his entire body begins to light up with warmth. His clothes feel too sticky against his skin, the back of his neck prickling, his temples dampening. The rope around his hips is too tight, the sword hanging there too heavy.

“Gods above, what is happening to me?” Dunk whispers to himself, looking down at his body as something stirs low in the pit of his stomach.

He thinks of you, waiting so patiently back at the campsite. He groans softly, reaching a hand down to press flat against his groin, where his cock is slowly beginning to harden in his breeches. The thought of you sitting against a tree, maybe mending one of his cloaks, or sharpening one of his blades, has a dizzy sort of pleasure seizing his brain.

Dunk whimpers your name, and stumbles out into the streets. He needs to get to you.

—✿—

The sky above is alight with oranges and pinks as the sun slowly begins to sink below the distant horizon. You watch it calmly, the forest around you quiet and serene, the sound of the nearby river washing through you and instilling a sense of calm. Your hand moves where you clutch your bone-handled blade, slicing it, bit-by-bit, through a small chunk of wood. It now resembles a horse, for the most part. You have taken up carving as a means of passing time, and selling the little statues earns you a bit of coin.

Your serenity is interrupted by the snapping of twigs and approaching footsteps. Several yards away, your horses do not startle, but you grip your knife tightly anyway as the footsteps encroach louder, then louder still. But you can hear the heavy thuds and the wide gait, and a small smile splits across your face when you recognise your husband’s footsteps.

You place your carving and knife aside, dusting the wood shavings from your hands as you get to your feet. Dunk appears through the tree line and your smile grows when you see him.

“Dunk!” You greet him. “I’ve been waiting…”

You take a moment to look at your husband as he walks towards you. His chest rises and falls rapidly, a bright blush painting his cheeks. His eyes appear watery, and as he draws nearer, the hot skin of his face seems to shimmer with something iridescent.

He towers over you, and out of instinct, you reach up and cup your palms to his cheeks. His eyes fall closed and he groans, throaty and loud. He’s feverish, molten-hot. You smell overripe grapes, lavender and honeycakes as he shifts, ripping his cloak from his body and tossing it to the ground.

“What has happened to you?” You ask, concern overcoming you as your hands brace down his neck and chest now, feeling the rabbit-like thumping of his heart.

Dunk groans again, eyes opening to watch your hands work down his abdomen. A shudder racks through him when your hands stop at the waistband of his trousers, your eyes widening as you spot the straining imprint of his cock. Your eyes lift, sparkling in the evening light, and Dunk swears that look alone could have made him spill in his breeches.

“Have you taken something?” You question quietly, finding the knot of his rope belt. You unfasten and unravel it, hefting the sword too and placing it on the ground. Dunk watches with his hands balled into fists. He’ll tell you about the sweets later. You peer back up at him again. “Duncan?”

His name leaving your lips forces him to his knees. A whine rips from the back of his throat as he drops, and you gasp as his knees crackle through dried leaves. His hands reach out, encircling around your hips as he lines himself up with your abdomen, his mouth pressing to your stomach.

Your hands card through his hair, worried. “Dunk, my love?”

“A woman… she gave me something—blew a powder into my face,” Dunk gasps out, leaning his burning cheek against you, listening to your breathing. “Says I will… says it will feel better when I am sat–satisfied.”

You frown. “Satisfied?”

Dunk nods, nuzzling into you. His hips shift as well, and suddenly you feel the tent of his trousers pressing to your leg through your skirts. A soft gasp escapes you as you continue to card your fingers through his hair, tussling the longish brown locks.

You know what he means by satisfied, considering his cock seems to be burning hot through both the fabric of his breeches and trousers, and the material of your simple dress.

“It hurts,” Dunk mutters, mouthing at your dress now, lips pressing to the softness of your belly. The fabric wets with his saliva as his tongue darts out, dragging over the linen. You grimace and thread your fingers against his scalp, holding him firmly and dragging his head away. He whimpers loudly, eyes flying open as he whines out, “Hurts so bad, sweetheart.”

Your heart squeezes tightly in your chest, your stomach churning with worry. You don’t want your husband hurting, but what was really wrong with him? He had left to the market for bread or something of the sort, and returned, not only empty-handed, but flushed with desire with his trousers practically ripping at the seams.

“Duncan…” You continue to grip his hair so he can’t literally lick your dress. “What hurts? You need to tell me.”

Dunk groans as your other hand shifts back to his cheek, stroking the warmed flesh. He leans into the touch with drooping eyelids, his pupils blown so wide his eyes appear black in the fading light of dusk.

“My—” Dunk blows out a breath as if battling something in his brain. “My… oh gods, my love, I can’t say—I just can’t—”

You know what he wants to say. You know it when his hips twitch and he drags the imprint of his cock against your leg once more.

Something warm is blooming in your core now too. The sight of your husband on his knees before you, clutching you as if you were keeping him alive, feverish in his pleasure, has you starting to leak into the gusset of your smallclothes. Heat fills your tummy as you stroke his cheek, the tips of your fingers collecting a shimmering film of yellow and pink dust. It seems to be trapped in his pores, coating his freckles as he peers up at you.

You massage his scalp, which is damp with sweat. “Does your cock hurt, sweet boy?”

The words feel too alien coming from your mouth, much too crude for a lady, but the shock that passes over your husband’s face is euphoric to your slowly dampening core. His mouth drops open, his tongue practically lolling out like a tired hound, as a groan rumbles from his chest and he starts to nod. His cock presses to your thigh and he tries to grind himself against you, but you tug on his hair to get him to stop.

“Well, tell me what you need me to do,” you whisper down at him. “I can help you. You just need to be a good boy and tell me what you need, okay?”

Dunk groans. “Y-yeah, yeah, I can—I can be good. I just—I just need you, pl-please, my love, I need you.”

You coo at him. “Need me? I’m right here, Dunk.”

“No,” he whines out, leaning his forehead against your stomach. You let him. He groans again, this time more high-pitched, bordering on a whimper. “Need your…”

“Need my…?”

“Gods, my heart is going to implode,” Dunk huffs as an aside. “Please—”

“What do you need, Dunk?” You ask firmly, gripping his hair and forcing him away from your stomach. The broken sound that leaves him almost makes you feel bad, but you need him to make some kind of sense before you give him anything. You know exactly what he wants, but he needs to work for it.

Dunk licks his lips, looking you up and down, and the words that leave his mouth sound like nothing you’ve ever heard from him in the entire time you’ve known him. His tone is dark with need, but still light enough to know his words are edging around a whine. “Need your pussy. Need to fuck you so bad, sweetheart. Need to pump you so full that—”

He cuts himself off with a low moan as you push his head down, pinning him and muffling the rest of his rambling against the fabric covering your mound. His mouth laves over the linen straight away, and the heat that overtakes you threatens to burn you from the inside out.

“Come on then, my boy,” you whisper, rubbing his scalp gently, your other hand smoothing down the strong expanse of his shoulders. “Help me out of this dress and I can give you what you want.”

Dunk grunts in relief as he hurries to his feet and spins you around so fast you feel dizzy. He walks you back a few paces until you can brace your hands against the coarse bark of a tree as he pulls at the ties along the back of your dress. He rips the knots undone, large hands trembling as he makes quick work of unthreading the ribbons he himself had tied earlier that morning.

His movements are harsh. Gods, he’s trying to be gentle, but he just can’t help it.

“Duncan…” You grumble, jostled as he tugs and pulls.

“M’sorry,” he slurs as, giving up on the last few ribbons, he hooks his fingers beneath the silky strings and rips them. You gasp as he practically pulls your dress apart, the sound of material tearing filling the forest as your dress loosens around your shoulders and breasts. Dunk slurs again, “M’so sorry, sweet girl.”

He pulls you to him as he drags your dress from your body, leaving you in your smallclothes as you kick the mass of skirts away. The chemise follows—Dunk pulls it over your head and spins you around at the same time, and you yelp at the speed of it all. Your breasts spill out into the cool air of the forest and his head ducks immediately, mouth attaching to a hardening nipple as one of his large hands finds the other. He kneads it as he drops to his knees once more, sucking harshly whilst his other hand finds your smallclothes.

“Dunk,” you call for him through a whine as he tugs them down, and you barely have time to send them away from your ankles before he’s ripping your legs apart.

His mouth drops from your tits, skims briefly over the soft skin of your tummy, before his nose is dragging down your mound and burrowing between your legs.

You gasp. “Dunk, oh my—”

“Need this,” Dunk grumbles. “Gods, need this. Got to—y’gotta give it to me, sweetheart.”

He inhales deeply, and the sensation makes you squeal and squirm, your back arching against the tree. Your hands find his damp hair again, tugging. But it’s no deterrent—the giant inhales again, this time followed by a loud, unabashed moan that sends the birds above flying from their roosts. The forest seems to echo with it, and you can feel the heat of his face burning deeper as he buries himself against you. You feel his mouth split open, warm lips parting for his tongue to curl outwards. He licks through your folds as another groan spills, the vibrations buzzing through you like bees trapped in a jar.

Your hands shift from his head to his shoulders, and you tug at the fabric of his tunic.

“Dunk,” you say hurriedly. “Off.”

He removes himself from you with a grunt, letting you help him in flinging his tunic off. It lands somewhere in the distance. Dunk doesn’t care though, descending between your legs again and drawing your clit into his mouth with one harsh suck. It makes you yowl, fingernails biting crescents into the freckled skin of his shoulders. His skin is sticky with sweat and impossibly warm.

With another animalistic grunt, Dunk takes one of your legs and tosses it over his shoulder. The new angle allows him to drive his tongue into your drooling hole, and the abruptness makes you keen into him, hips twitching as his nose bumps repeatedly against your clit. Blood pools low beneath the skin, simmering hot in your nerves as he ruts his tongue inside you, each movement eliciting a gravelly groan from the depths of his chest.

His other hand unties the knots of his trousers. He pushes the fabric away with fumbling fingers and pulls his aching cock out of his breeches, the material on the front wet with precum. When his fingers wrap around the length—hot iron wrapped in a sheath of velvet—and the sword callouses on his palm rub against a vein on the underside, his vision whites behind his eyelids. The pleasure is almost painful, the pressure pulling heavily at his cockhead, bruising a purplish-red. Precum leaks from the slit in a continuous rivulet that has his heart knocking against his sternum.

His balls are tight already, and as he tastes you, listening to the light whimpers that fall from your mouth, he realises he’s going to spill. He realises it as his precum wets his palm, his hand gliding without him even needing to spit on it. He realises it as his cock twitches heavily in his hand, again and again; that unmistakable pressure in his lower spine and belly building. He wants to let it happen—he rucks his hips, meeting the movements of his hand, fucking his fist. Grunts muffle in your wet pussy as he chases his high, your thigh warm on his ear.

The precipice of pleasure is right there, but he can’t reach it.

He strokes his cock, twists at the base, tastes the heady scent of you dripping down the back of his throat, but he can’t come.

“Dunk,” you call sweetly, tipsy on pleasure. “Oh, gods, Dunk, keep going.”

It feels like Dunk’s entire face is wet: the upper portion damp with sweat, the lower portion shining with your slick. His mouth moves against you like he’s kissing you, lips spreading and tongue curling. He breathes you in, moaning softly, head bobbing as he continues to fist his cock. It’s nearly trembling in his hand, and you can feel Dunk shivering as he chases a release that refuses to let go.

You can hear him fucking his fist over the wet slurps of his tongue against your pussy. As the forest darkens around you, your ears ring with it, your bare back scratching against the tree trunk as you rock your hips. His mouth is searing hot, forged from the very fires of Dragonstone.

Your thigh quivers over his shoulder as you speak. “Duncan, m’gonna come.”

Your only response is a deep grunt that vibrates your puffy clit, and that has your legs locking up even tighter. Pleasure takes deep root in the base of your spine, and it spreads as you take, take, take, until you topple into your orgasm. It rocks through you, and you hold him tightly, rocking your hips as you spasm around his tongue. Chants of his name roll easily over your lips, and he groans nicely against you as he fucks you through it.

Dunk pulls away after a couple of seconds. His breathing is ragged, lips wet, chest flushed red. He’s still fisting his cock, and you look down at him, meeting his round, watery eyes as he nuzzles against the thigh still draped over his shoulder.

“I…” He breathes in deeply. “I can’t—oh, fuck, I can’t—”

His hand is moving so fast. The sight makes your pussy clench around nothing, and you gingerly remove your thigh from his shoulder. Then, you tap his head.

“Stand up for me, Dunk,” you say gently, trailing a nail along the dip of his clavicle. “I’ll help you, I promise.”

Your husband springs to his feet before you even finish speaking, pushing his trousers and breeches all the way off.

He continues to grasp his cock. It leans forward under the weight of his pleasure, and you both groan when he rubs the head against the soft skin above your navel. Precum spreads across your skin, and when he pulls back, a sticky string connects you two for just a moment. You whimper his name when the string snaps, and he draws in a sharp, almost pained breath.

“Inside,” he whispers, more to himself than you. He drags the head of his cock down as he bends at the knee. “Need… yeah, need to be inside.”

The angle is slightly awkward—he’s just a bit too big—but he makes it work, stooping low as he angles your legs apart. The head of his cock finds the tight hole of your cunt, and he presses it there with surprising restraint.

“M’sorry,” Dunk breathes, leaning forward to mouth at your throat. You arch, and he purrs, pleased, as you willingly give yourself up to him. He kisses your jaw softly. “M’sorry, sweet girl, m’not gonna… I can’t wait. Jus’ need you, s-so jus’ be good, okay? I’ll try—I’ll try t’be gentle, my love. I’ll try for you.”

The head of his cock slips past the ring of your pussy, and you suck in a breath at the stretch. Wide, splitting, and no matter how wet you are, how long he took in stretching you open on his tongue or fingers, there was always a battle of bodies. Always a push to get him fully seated inside you, the tight walls of your cunt clutching around the thick intrusion.

You whimper his name again, nails needling into the tawny freckles along his shoulders.

“I know, I know,” Dunk chants, but he doesn’t stop. He can feel you tensing against him, but he doesn’t stop.

He’s overwhelmed: the heat of your pussy draws his cock in further, his mind going blank, the taste of grapes and lavender aromatic in the grooves of his molars, and leaking from his pores.

His cock slides in further, parting the wet walls of your pussy inch by inch. “Please take it, sweet girl. Please just—fuck, take it.”

It hurts. He’s too fucking big, and he knows it.

You writhe against the tree, standing on your tip-toes now as he drives slowly into you. You're thankful he’s at least easing in bit by bit. You’re not sure you would have survived if he simply took you in one fell thrust.

But at the same time, it feels incredible. The sting of the stretch is underlined by that usual, aching pleasure that festers deep in your pelvis. You feel it as the ridges of his cock run against your posterior wall, splitting you apart, rubbing you the right way. Your heartbeat thrums heavily in your clit, and your back arches against the tree, fingernails now scraping down his broad back.

“Dunk,” you whimper as he feeds his cock into you.

He groans against your throat, sucking harshly. The sound of his name on your mouth, so sweet, so beautiful, snaps whatever composure he had been holding onto. With another guttural groan, Dunk surges forward, jolting his hips inwards and stuffing the rest of his cock inside you.

You cry out, holding him tightly as he fucks into you. He’s rough, his pace coming in quick, brutal thrusts, and he’s panting against your dewy skin all the while. His body shakes against yours as he pulls his cock out, then shoves it back in. You yowl like an injured animal, and Dunk’s heart flutters in his chest.

“M’sorry, m’sorry, m’so sorry—” It rambles from him like a mantra but his hips don’t slow. He spreads you apart, girth still too thick, length still too long. He presses a wet kiss to your cheek. “I know it hurts, sweetheart, I know, but just… gods, just stay like that. Please, sweet girl, be good for me.”

Your back scrapes against the tree as his movements propel you. You’re practically bouncing against him, barely even touching the ground anymore as he takes what he needs. The slide of his cock does hurt, but your walls mould around him like clay. Made for him.

The heat and wetness of your pussy sends him over the edge, and you feel it. You feel him go rigid against you, muscles stiffening as his hips buck. His thrusts grow sloppy, seconds blurring together as his balls tighten and his cock twitches deep inside you. You feel it, feel it nudging up against the plug of your cervix as his hips roll. Then, with a rasping moan of your name, he spills inside you. Deep inside you. Warmth floods your lower belly, through the hollow of your womb as his hips jerk, his mouth biting and sucking at your neck.

And he keeps spilling. It fills you to the brim, and you can’t help but whimper as it drools out from around his cock. With a slightly disgruntled huff, Dunk pulls out, leaning back to look at where his cock hangs, still stiff, between his legs. Cum seeps from the slit, spider-web strings drooling from you too, and the sight almost has him coming again.

But he’s still hard.

“S’not…” Dunk’s brows furrow, and he slants his hips forward to drag his cock against your thigh. You squirm and whine as he wipes his cum across your skin, and then moan when the head prods back at your hole. Dunk whimpers. “S’not enough, need more.”

Then, he’s thrusting back in again. The forest’s shadows engulf you both as he slots himself inside of you, the glide quick and wet and audible as he drives home. You choke on a gasp, hands clutching his shoulders. Your legs are cramping, your back stinging, your pussy aching—but it all softens around the edges as Dunk ruts into you again and again.

“Dunk,” you whisper. “Dunk, please.”

Your husband lifts his head and finally kisses you. For the first time tonight, he slots his mouth against yours. The moan that leaves him has your cunt clenching tightly around the thick of his cock, and one of your hands finds the back of his neck as your tongues meet. It’s an intricate dance, but Dunk's movements are just too desperate to stick to the practised moves—his tongue is breaching, too thick and too strong, flattening against yours roughly. You swap spit, and he pants into the kiss as he chases your tongue and licks over the points of your teeth. It’s sloppy and messy and everything Dunk needs.

His hands are on your waist. Big, encompassing, fingers dimpling the flesh. His cock stretches you open, his heavy balls slapping against the curve of your arse as he ruts you against the tree. The wet sounds of you coming together echo softly through the forest, the sun sunk beyond the horizon now, shadows stretching far and flitting across your connected frames.

“Being so good,” Dunk mutters, licking over your parted lips. It makes you whimper, and your bottom teeth catch his lip. He groans when you release him after a playful nip. “Gods, always so good for me. Needed this so bad, sweetheart. Needed you so bad.”

“Dunk,” you mewl, scratches red along his big shoulders.

Your cunt squeezes tightly around him, another release building deep in your stomach: that same feeling as minutes before, a traction building along your spine as he fucks you. Dunk mouths along your jaw, panting into your ear as his thrusts start to stammer, and before you can react, he’s pulling you away from the tree and manhandling you to the ground. His hard cock slips out of you, the sensation forcing you to suck in a breath as his seed all but drools from your gaping cunt, the cool forest air a sudden stimuli as you’re spun around.

You let out a light grunt as he pushes you down onto your hands and knees, which find the wool of his discarded cloak. Leaves crinkle softly beneath your weight as your back arches and the warmth of Duncan appears behind you. Large, calloused hands trail up your sides, kneading your waist, before dragging back down and palming the curve of your arse.

Dunk gazes at you through the semi-darkness. “Prettiest girl in the realm, aren’t you? And you’re all mine.”

He grunts, then grips the base of his cock. It shines with your slick, wet with his spend too, and he slaps the thick head against one of your arsecheeks. You huff, and he drags the tip down the split of your arse until it ghosts across your hole—just lightly enough to make you draw in an anticipatory breath—before it finds your pussy.

“This is mine,” Dunk utters, and you almost don’t hear him. Even in the relative silence of the forest, his words are so quiet you could have mistaken them for the nearby river. Dunk circles his tip through your soaking folds before notching it and pushing in again. The groan that leaves his mouth makes you shiver. “This—fuck—this fuckin’ pussy, s’all mine. Hey, sweet girl, isn’t that right? Yeah? Tell me this is all mine.”

He thrusts in and you shout, voice carrying through the forest.

“Huh?” Dunk thrusts again, hard and fast. The angle drives him deep against you, tip knocking against the plug of your cervix. He leans over you, sweat dripping from his forehead, hair messy, cheeks pink. His hands pull your arse back onto his pelvis, meeting you thrust for thrust. “Come on, sweetheart, tell me. Need—need you to tell me. Please.”

You don’t know what that woman gave him, but you can see what it’s done to him. You can hear what it’s done, and feel what it’s done.

His rutting is brutal, his cock driving deep towards your womb, your belly full of him. Your arms shake where you hold yourself up, sweat damp in the crook of your elbows as you fist his cloak. It smells like him, and that makes the whines trapped in your throat break free.

“It’s yours, Dunk,” you manage to say as he leans over you, his body hot and too fucking big pressed against your lower spine. You gasp when one of his hands wraps around your hip and heads south, a finger finding your swollen clit. “Oh, fuck, it’s yours.”

Dunk draws a tight circle over the bud, marvelling in the way your pussy immediately tightens around him. “Yeah it is. Gods, I’m the luckiest man in all the seven kingdoms.”

You don’t correct him.

Your body trembles beneath his, and it’s almost like you can feel his cock swelling inside you. He’s impossibly thick, the ridges and veins sliding against the velvet of your walls, the head nailing that perfect, spongy spot inside you. Dunk always knows how to make you feel good, can always get you to where you want to go, but this is something entirely different. There’s an intensity within him you’ve never seen before. A feverish need that’s overtaken him, that flows from his pores, that infects every fibre of his being.

It makes you keen, back arching, listening to the way he grunts with each of his movements, cock splitting you open, heavy balls slapping against your clit as his fingers work against it too. The meat of his muscles are warm against you, solid and sturdy, holding you in place. It all adds to the sensation.

Another orgasm is quickly pulled through your body, and Dunk praises you through it as it crests like a wave.

“That’s a good girl, there we go,” he coos as you come around him, mouth dropping open in a silent moan. Your spine dips, hips stuttering, and Dunk removes his fingers from your aching clit to place a hand in the middle of your back. He forces you into a deeper arch, the new angle punching a scream from your throat as he coos again. “I know, I know, don’t make a fuss, sweet girl. You can do it. You can take me.”

Dunk’s breathing is laboured, and his stamina starts to falter as his cock twitches. Your cunt feels like heaven—a warm, silken heaven—and he screws his eyes shut momentarily, visions of him spilling deep inside you, straight into your womb, vivid in his mind. Maybe you shouldn’t drink the moon tea he finds you brewing during rest stops. Maybe he won’t have to spill across your stomach or tits or arse ever again.

He opens his eyes and grunts around a clenched jaw. “Ah—s’about time I breed—fuck—breed you, sweetheart. Huh? What do you think? Come deep inside this—ah, gods—t-this pretty pussy and give you my child. You’d look so beautiful all fat with my babe, wouldn’t you? Keep you n-nice and bred.”

“Yes, Dunk, fuck,” you moan. “Please, I can’t—”

“You can,” he growls out, fingers a vice on your hips. “Let me feel you. One more time, c’mon, my sweet girl. Let go for me one more time.”

You don’t know if you can.

Your body feels wrung out, like a dress soaked and dried by the river. Your heart clatters against your chest as your breasts push against the material of his cloak. There’s an uncomfortable pressure building in your lower tummy, mostly overwhelmed by overstimulation, but you can feel the remains of pleasure there too.

And Dunk knows you have it in you.

“One more,” he says. “One more, sweetheart, you can do it.”

Body on fire, nerves flaming at their ends, you meet his sloppy thrusts as best as you can. Your limbs tremor like a fawn, and your moans have long run dry: only hoarse whimpers roll from your tongue tasting lightly of honeyed wine.

And then you do give him one more.

Your body reacts to the manic pushing of his cock inside you, reacts to the thick of his cock splitting you open, reacts to the way he whispers your name like the sweetest kind of prayer. You come around him, arms collapsing as your pussy flutters around his girth. You topple forward, moaning his name while the ground shifts to meet you, and your legs seize, verging on a cramp.

“Yes, yes, that’s it, that’s what I want,” Dunk babbles, a large hand wrapping around the back of your neck now and pulling you onto your knees. You’re boneless, and he’s so strong, so you can’t do much but let him haul you back against his broad, sweaty chest. He presses a hot kiss to the skin just beside your tragus. “Such a good girl—you did it. Gods, my sweet girl, my perfect girl. You did it, an’ you did so good for me.”

Bulky arms encircle you, bouncing you back against his cock. He grunts into your ear, ragged and bearish, as his entire body pulses with heat. He’s feverish, ill with pleasure, and you’re his soothing balm: the perfect remedy.

With one last pathetic whimper of your name, Dunk shoves himself to the hilt, as deep as he can possibly go, as his orgasm flows through him. His teeth sink into the skin on your shoulder as his cock jerks, hot spurts flooding thick into your womb. You sigh softly into the cool early night air, reclining back against your husband as he empties himself inside you again, your pussy milking him for all it’s worth. Dunk groans into your shoulder, fever finally breaking, his cock giving one last jolt before it slowly starts to soften inside of you. The feeling nearly makes his eyes roll into the back of his head, relief filling him.

You stay like this for a little while. He presses silent, delicate kisses along your bare shoulder and onto your cheek, his hands rubbing over your breasts and belly, but not in a sexual way. His big, rough hands are calming as you both fizzle down from your highs.

Soon though, Dunk realises the forest around you has grown too dark. Wordlessly, he helps you to your feet, bundling you in his cloak before guiding you towards the fire. It is made, but unlit, but it’s roaring in mere minutes as Dunk—who has hurriedly thrown his breeches and trousers on—adds more fuel to the flickering orange flames. 

Then, beneath the firelight, Dunk cleans you up. You sit on a stump before him as he dabs a wet cloth between your legs, wiping his seed from your core. He presses tender kisses to the inside of your knees, and soon you’re dressed, and the two of you snack on salt beef, cuddling beneath the stars.

“Maybe you should go back to that woman,” you say jokingly, turning your head to find Dunk already looking at you. His eyes reflect the fire. You smile. “I like it when you’re needy. I wonder if she has a long-lasting one?”

Dunk flushes, averting his eyes. “I don’t want to have to go through that again. As much as it felt great, my cock also felt about ready to break in half.”

You laugh, and Dunk resumes watching you carefully. After a moment, something lights up in his eyes, and he gets to his feet, still chewing a mouthful of salt beef, and retrieves his rope belt from where the horses graze nearby. When he returns, you lean your head against the pillowy muscle of his upper arm, peering at his big hands as he plucks a small pouch from the belt.

“I got you these,” your husband says shyly, handing you the bag.

You beam when you open it and see your favourite sweets. You incline your head and urge Dunk down to you, drawing his mouth into a sweet kiss.

“Thank you,” you tell him. “I love you.”

He smiles. “I love you more.”

Then, you laugh. “Oh, you poor boy. You went to the market to purchase some sweets, and instead you got poisoned—” you say that part sarcastically, “—by a little old lady. My poor, poor boy.”

You reach up and stroke his hair, watching with awe as his eyes fall closed and a deep purr leaves his chest. His arm wraps tighter around you, pulling you closer into his side.

He never wants to let you go.

———

god he’s so hot

Laughter and cheers fill the Great Hall. The gathered lords and ladies clap for the circus performers, their faces red from the overindulgence in the Dornish wine flowing from golden goblets. It would be unsurprising if the clamor of your wedding celebrations echoed far past the stone walls of Dragonstone.

Your Lord Husband spared no expenses. Jesters, jugglers, fire-eaters. An entire company of circus performers plucked from the Free Cities. A flock of white doves released from the highest tower at the end of the ceremony. A lavish banquet fit for a king…well, future king. Roasted swans, glazed wild boar, spiced deer pies, pears dipped in wine and so forth.

The spread alone makes your head spin.

Your gaze glides over to him. Baelor Breakspear Targaryen, your Lord Husband. At eight and thirty, twenty summers more than you, he remains an astounding warrior and sharp-witted hand to the king. Or so your father told you. You know not the man you wedded at evenfall.

No more than a handful of words were traded between you and him before the ceremony. The bargain struck with your father was swift, your consent immaterial, your obedience expected.

All decided before you even crossed the Narrow Seas.

Even as you both uttered your wedding vows, him swearing to protect you and you swearing to obey, he said no more than what custom demanded.

Your eyes trail the sharp angle of his bearded jaw, his noble profile, his steely stare.

Targaryen majesty radiates from his being, lighting the very air around him ablaze.

As a keen mismatched gaze finds yours, your stomach clenches.

You nervously pick up your wine goblet and swallow another sip. A sip of courage. Tonight is your wedding night. The septa who prepared you beforehand had but scant knowledge to share. She said your lord husband will know what to do and your only task is to obey. It did little to soothe your unease.

Wives are vessels for heirs, instruments to further bloodlines. That is what you are now. A vessel. Your fears, your hopes, your dreams…they’re now as inconsequential and forgotten as yesterday’s rainfall. A proper lady must be soft, quiet. Seen but not heard. It is what mother used to say.

Prince Baelor’s eyes tumble to your uneaten plate.

“You have not had a bite,” he says, concern clouding his unflinching gaze.

You swallow the lump in your throat, nudging a gentle smile on your lips.

“I fear my travels have soured my appetite, your grace.”

Your husband studies you a long while, his pointed scrutiny needling your skin. Your eyes widen as he rises, offering his hand.

“Mayhaps that is enough revelry for the evening,” he states. You understand the unspoken command and slip your fingers in his open palm. His hold on you is firm, steady. That hand around yours is the only thing keeping your quaking legs from collapsing on the ground. You are thankful that the wine has gone to your head, begun to haze your senses. Perhaps it will make the entire ordeal more bearable.

As Prince Baelor escorts you away, the back of your neck tingles. You turn to glance behind you. Discomfort stirs your insides as a fiery mismatched gaze that eerily resembles your husband’s collides with yours.

Prince Valarr.

From the moment you got off the ship bringing you to Dragonstone, the princeling has made his disfavor of you a plain fact to all. He has not spoken a word to you. In fact, he has stormed off every single time you have tried to greet him. Unlike the young Prince Matarys who instantly clung to your skirts after the wedding and called you his new mother, Prince Valarr displayed no such warmth. You fail to understand what you have done to offend the princeling. You have endeavored to be kind, sweet, pleasant…everything your mother bid you to be. Yet the princeling appears to find your mere presence a curse upon House Targaryen.

The frightful ballad of your heart swells in your ears as you walk through the dim hallways of Dragonstone besides your new husband.

You reach Prince Baelor’s bedchambers. He shuts the door. Sweat blooms on your palms, your insides knotting with dread.

The soft glow of the candles paints the walls, the moon’s silver hues seeping through the curtains. Fear sings in your blood. You will it to not show.

As your lord husband turns, clasping your hands in his, his forehead creases.

“You’re trembling,” he notes.

Your stomach plummets. Have you already failed at your wifely duties?

“Apologies, your grace,” you mumble, guilt searing your chest.

Prince Baelor lifts your chin, assessing your expression. Your breath hangs still beneath his studious scrutiny.

“You are scared,” he says.

Panic clutches your heart. You give a frantic shake of your head.

“I am well, your grace. I am…delighted.” The lie wobbles off your tongue uneasily, its falsity scorching your throat.

His thumb sweeps over your bottom lip, his expression solemn.

“You need never lie to me.” He pauses, his mismatched stare corralling yours. “I swore an oath to protect, cherish and honor you. I aim to honor that oath.”

He brings your hand to his lips, brushing a gentle kiss on your skin. Heat floods your cheeks.

His deep voice is as gentle as a ripple over the sea, washing over your overwrought senses.

“I know how far from familiar shores you are, my lady. But I dare hope that, one day, you will call Dragonstone home.”

This draws a curtain of tears over your sight. Memories of your childhood home invade your mind, longing crushing your heart in its unforgiving fist.

“I harbor the same hope, your grace,” you croak.

Prince Baelor cradles your face, plucking your tears. Your chest heaves, unsightly sobs escaping the confines of your throat. Your armor shatters. To your astonishment, your lord husband collects the broken pieces, leading your quivering form to the bed’s edge.

He swaddles you in a thick blanket. For the first time since arriving at Dragonstone, a rush of warmth fills your chest.

Tremulous sobs swell in the room. Lord Baelor sits besides you. At first, his hand hovers, hesitant, searching. A silent inquiry. As your eyes swing to his, he seems to find the answer he sought. His firm hand settles on your back and you unleash a heavy breath.

You sag against him. He is unbothered by the flood of tears soaking his doublet, the steady press of his fingers your anchor amidst the rushing tide of emotions you throttled into silence. Now they refuse to be shackled.

When your tears subside, the weight of failure settles in your chest like lead. You were instructed to be meek, obedient, agreeable. Instead, you made a pathetic spectacle of yourself in front of your husband. Father would be furious. Mother would be disheartened.

Your gaze lingers on the floor, a blanket of defeat draping over your shoulders.

“Speak to me, wife,” Prince Baelor says.

Your heart leaps. Your husband speaks with the poised confidence of a man who has never needed to raise his voice to be heard, a mere whisper enough to inspire respect and compliance. Meanwhile you wager that you could scream until your throat bleeds and your words would still fall into unlistening ears. Such is the fate of a woman in this world.

His gentle yet firm command tears the words from your throat.

“I fear my melancholy ruined our wedding night, your grace,” you confess.

The shadow of a smile sways on his lips. His focus shifts to the window.

“Ruined? The moon and stars still hang in the sky.”

A bashful smile tugs your lips.

“They do,” you say.

When your eyes find Lord Baelor's this time, a heat is nestled there. Your stomach tightens. Your nerves flare again. Not from fear this time. Mayhaps a strange anticipation. One that sears your stomach and dampens your palms. Your attention falls to your lap, your fingers twiddling with the linen beneath you.

A firm hand slides under your chin, angles it up, keeping you from evading sizzling, mismatched orbs.

Your throat knots.

“My lord-”

The words are seized from your lips as Prince Baelor’s mouth slams into yours. Your cry of surprise shrivels on your tongue. Steady fingers cradle your face, your husband's mouth gliding over yours with purpose. The path of his tongue is languid, fevered as it explores your mouth. Your body grows feeble against his, your mind going hazy.

Your hands tighten on his doublet as you get lost in your first genuine kiss.

His passion knocks the breath from your lungs, a startling contrast to the composed, regal lord you had come to know.

His hand drifts to the back of your head, twisting in your hair. You gasp as Prince Baelor tilts your head back, giving him complete dominion over the expanse of your neck. He abandons your mouth, leaving it swollen, tingling. He scatters a trail of fiery pecks with his lips. His teeth dance on your skin and a broken whine slips from your throat. Your Lord Husband relishes every sound, embers of desire sizzling in his stern gaze.

His hands travel down your throat and your breath stills in your lungs. His callused palms sweep over you until they find your hips. His fingers clench on the embroidered silk. Your heart bounces in your chest.

Darkness clouds your husband’s gaze as it traces your face, the motion of your throat, your heaving chest. His throat bobs, his lids sagging.

When he peers at you, still clutching the fabric of your dress, a question hangs in the sweltering air of the room.

A dull trepidation remains but the rising heat in your blood silences it.

You give a tremulous nod.

Prince Baelor peels the dress off you and it falls to the floor with a soft thud. Your husband’s eyes darken as they sweep over your bare, goosebumped flesh. You sit on the bed, watching him remove his royal attire. A dragon shedding its scales, letting you see what lay beneath.

So this is what a man looks like. You soak in every line of corded muscle, every pale scar and… the blatant evidence of his desire for you. Heat settles in your cheeks.

Your heart sings a clamorous, chaotic ballad in your ears as he approaches.

He presses his thumb over your parted lips. Despite the hunger etched in his mismatched gaze, you feel his silent inquiry again. It lingers in the hesitant graze of his fingertips along your arm.

You give another nod. The fear, the apprehension…they have shifted into a heated curiosity for what comes next, what husbands and wives do on their wedding night.

He nudges you backwards until your back lies flat on the plush covers.

You wait, your stomach clenched so tight it seems it might soon burst.

He rubs his swollen tip against your entrance. Your breath stumbles. Heat gathers between your thighs. The friction is maddening. You clutch at the linen, a whine spilling from your mouth.

He clutches your hip, lining himself with your folds. He enters you, and the world turns red. Despite bracing yourself for the discomfort, tears spill down your cheeks.

“My Lord,” you mumble, your voice hardly more than a husky breath.

“My Lady,” he replies, cupping your face.

He freezes, wiping your tears as he looms above you. His eyes never leave yours.

When he drags himself out and sinks into you at a sluggish pace, you tense.

“The pain will not last, sweet girl,” he whispers in your ear.

Your voice is distorted by your sobs.

“Do you swear it?”

He takes your hand and drops a gentle kiss on your knuckles.

“A knight never breaks a vow to his lady,” he says softly, his fingers twining with yours.

He moves his hips and you cling to his shoulders, his tender words anchoring you amidst the painful tide. The symphony of flesh against flesh swells in the room.

Your husband speaks truth.

The pain is ephemeral. Soon, delightful tingles bloom over your flesh; fire consumes you.

You melt against him, stars flooding your vision.

In his arms, you forget how far from home you are. Every gentle whisper and careful touch makes you feel safe, desired, cared for.

In Prince Baelor’s arms, you are no longer adrift. You are found. Again and again.

As your husband shifts you, making you straddle him, it’s when it begins.

Cool tingles along your spine that do not relent. They start down your back and bloom outwards. Persistent shards of glass embedded into your skin. Your head turns, your eyes landing on the wall. A feeling of dread settles in the pit of your stomach as you stare at the tapestry and wardrobe.

Your husband grips your chin, swaying your focus back to him.

“What is it, sweet girl?”

Your chest clenches. It is just you and your husband in this room. Dragonstone is brimming with dark corners and old statues that play tricks on the mind. You force a smile on your lips.

“Nothing. It is nothing, your grace.”

It is enough for Prince Baelor’s hip to start moving again, yanking a broken moan from your lips.

You dismiss the peculiar sensation along your back, yet it lingers even as you ride your lord husband with abandon.

Your days are filled with peace and joy. More fulfillment than you could have fathomed. You had worried your husband’s famed fondness of his first wife Lady Jane would be an unassailable opponent, that you would struggle to carve a place in a heart already claimed. But no such thing occurs. Prince Baelor seeks you out whenever his duties for the days are done. He takes you to bed almost every night, showing you countless paths to pleasure.

You even overhear the maids say that they haven’t seen their lord look so merry in years, which brings a smile to your face.

Little Matarys accepts your presence with ease, clinging to your skirts and allowing you to tell him stories from your home.

Soon, every fear you held close to your chest when you first set foot on Dragonstone dissipates. You settle into your life as Prince Baelor's wife and Lady of Dragonstone.

Still, the shadow of Prince Valarr’s hostility looms large over you.

Your stepson makes his distaste for you a truth known to all, skipping every dinner or feast when he’s made aware you will be in attendance. Every attempt at breaching the ice walls the prince erected around himself are met with crushing defeat. Your stepson won’t even look at you. And the rare times he does, your blood chills from the searing hatred burning in his mismatched gaze. The prince stares at you like he wished to tear you limb from limb or have your head mounted on a pike above the castle walls for all to see. Mayhaps both.

You cannot deny that this blatant rejection hurts, a fact you do not conceal from your lord husband.

“He is a child. He will grow to adore you as I do, sweet girl,” Prince Baelor mumbles, planting a tender kiss atop your head. Your chest warms with his words but the doubts nestled there remain.

You ache to argue that Prince Valarr is no more a child than you are, as only a few months set you apart from him. You have never been allowed such fickle whims. From a young age, you were taught a proper lady is to be ever pleasant, ever agreeable. But your stepson’s chilly glares and icy words leave a taste of failure on your tongue. As if every teaching and lesson was for naught. As if you will never be good enough, worthy enough. Everyday you try to engineer new ways to make the sullen prince despise you a little less. Everyday you find your attempts thwarted.

You lean back against your husband’s chest, your eyes falling shut. You soak in the smell of fresh cranberries and pine trees. It soothes your frazzled mind. Sitting in Aegon’s Garden always casts a blanket of serenity over your worries and fears, quiets your woes.

“It has been four moon turns, your grace,” you say, resigned.

“My son loved his mother dearly. So did I. Her kindness and sweetness knew no equal…until I met you,” he says with a smile, bringing your hand to his lips.

“I’m sorry he lost her so young.”

A shadow of grief flickers in Prince Baelor’s gaze.

“Me too.” He squeezes your hand. “Give him time. He is a good lad.”

“I know,” you reply, your heart sinking. It is the very reason that rejection aches so deeply. You’ve witnessed how gentle Valarr is, with his family, little Matarys, even the servants. You’ve seen him help an elderly servant to her feet when she apologized for spilling his food. He is kind to everyone. Everyone but you, his own stepmother.

Your husband plucks you from the depths of your forlorn thoughts by pressing you against a nearby pine tree, his hands firm on your hips.

“Enough about my son…especially when I have my lovely wife all to myself.”

You smile, your heart fluttering.

His lips tug upwards against the column of your neck, his fingers creeping below your dress. Your eyes swing to the nearby turret, the windows thankfully absent of any spectator.

An airy giggle soars from your lips as he trails languid kisses along your throat, his hand traveling to your inner thigh.

“My lord…we are out in the open. Someone could see…” you scold him though there is no real heat laced in your words.

“See me attend to my wife as a true husband should?” he says, drawing a gasp from you as his beringed finger sinks between your folds. Your back arches against the pine tree, your lips parting around a lustful whimper. The heat in your lower belly grows as your husband’s steel ring drags along your slick walls.

You bite your lower lip, riding his finger, seeking more of the delightful friction.

As you tilt your head back, your focus lands on a figure at a distance. A disturbingly familiar figure standing at the tower’s window. You shove Baelor away, your heart leaping.

“Wait…your grace!”

Prince Baelor scowls, confused by the expression on your face.

“What is it?” he inquires, following your gaze.

You blink, your eyes rounding when you realize the window is now empty.

“I…Apologies. I thought I saw-”

Prince Valarr.

But you dare not speak the thought aloud. Because it sounds ludicrous, unfathomable.

Why would Prince Valarr stand at a window watching you and his father in the throes of…passion?

Your husband cradles your face, concern wrinkling his stern features.

“Saw what, sweet girl?”

You shake your head.

“Exhaustion must be wearing my senses,” you mumble, ignoring your thundering heart.

Prince Baelor takes your hand.

“You shall rest then.”

You ignore the itch to glance back as he leads you away, that peculiar chill settling over your spine once more. The very same sensation that has plagued every intimate moment you’ve shared with your husband for several moons. In your chambers, his chambers, the gardens, the great hall…everywhere. Like a shadow tracing your every step.

Ever watching.

For the next few days, you are in hell, your own mind becoming a cage assailing you with doubts and inquiries. Did you truly see him? Were your overwrought senses conjuring false apparitions? Perhaps you are so far away from home, so desperate to be liked, that you are growing slightly mad.

There is no reason he would be there, staring. After all he cannot stand the sight of you, a fact he has made astoundingly clear.

You should go pray, light a candle to clear your mind of the unthinkable. The Septa says proper ladies must offer a prayer to The Seven at least twice a day. You have faltered in your duties to the gods. Perhaps it is why your thoughts are so scattered, your mind so hazy. Your husband is a pious man after all. You should follow his example.

As you are lost in a spiral of daunting musings, your feet lead you near the throne room. The sound of incensed, familiar voices reaches you, causing you to halt your steps.

“I will not marry her, father. You cannot make me.”

Your heart skips a beat as you recognize Prince Valarr’s voice. He’s angry…no, he’s furious.

You cling to the wall, clutching your chest when your husband’s imperious inflection fills the throne room.

“It is your duty, son. Or have you forgotten what is at stake for House Targaryen? Our dragons made us gods amongst men. Without them, we must be wise in choosing every match. The girl from Tyrosh is-”

“You had the freedom to choose your own wife,” Valarr snaps, his words sharp as the strike of a whip. “Why can I not?”

You hear your husband’s heavy sigh.

“I have done my duty, son. Therein lies the difference.”

“Indeed,” Valarr sneers. “Now that you have heirs, you may bed any fresh, pretty cunt you desire. Is that not right, father?”

Your chest tightens. Prince Valarr may have been unwelcoming, but he has never tossed such crude terms to your face. Tears hover beneath your lashes. You suppress them, your lip wobbling.

“The boy I raised would not speak with such a wicked tongue,” your husband says, his voice bleeding with disappointment. “I will speak to you when you remember your duty to this house.”

The irate stomp of your husband’s boots rises and fades. Silence then falls in the hall.

You close your eyes, willing yourself not to weep right here.

You remind yourself that those words were not designed for your ears. Still, despair squeezes your heart in its unforgiving fist. What have you done for him to loathe you so? What grave offense would warrant-

“I should kill you where you stand. How dare you spy on my father and I?”

You gasp, your eyes snapping open as a blade is pressed against your throat. Prince Valarr’s dagger. Angry, mismatched irises pin you into place.

Your pulse quickens.

“Apologies,” you croak, your eyes watering. “I was just-” The words stumble in your throat as the blade is pushed against your skin. A lone tear slides down your cheek.

Valarr’s gaze narrows, suspicion laced in his tone.

“Is this what you are, a spy? Sent here by the Blackfyre traitors mayhaps…It would make quite a bit of sense.”

An anxious squeal escapes your lips.

“I’m not a spy, my lord."

You gulp in a large breath, gathering the nerve to ask the question that has sizzled your insides since you first met him.

“Why do you abhor me so much, my lord?” you blurt out.

Valarr freezes at that, his eyes widening.

“My lord, Valarr…” you stammer, acutely aware of your pulse singing under the tip of his blade. “I have tried so hard to be agreeable yet you seem to hate me for the mere fact that I draw breath.” Flames dance in his eyes as he gapes at you, silence stretching to the point of discomfort. You quell your fear and mumble, “Have I done anything to hurt or offend you?”

The prince’s gaze narrows.

“You do not get to interrogate me, or question me,” he hisses, his dagger traveling down your flesh, along your heaving chest.

“You are a plague upon my house. A curse.” His eyes follow the path of his blade, his breath growing more erratic. His voice deepens, hoarse and hateful. “Your very existence fills me with rage. A rage I cannot contain.” He removes his blade, instead wrapping his hand around your throat. His voice lowers to a gravelly whisper. “Every time I see you, I just…I do not feel as myself, and I hate it. I hate what the mere sight, the mere thought of you does to me.”

His heavy, chaotic breaths flow over your face, his fingers squeezing your neck. You whine at the pressure and he releases you, his eyes wide and panicked.

He slams his fist besides your head into the wall. You leap in fear. He narrowly missed your face.

“Begone, mother…before I do something I regret,” he snarls.

Not having to be told twice, you gather your dress and race back to your chambers.

After the events of the throne room, you are the one keeping your distance from Prince Valarr. Even if you were aware he wasn’t fond of you, you didn’t expect such venom spilling from his mouth. Every time you remember his cruel words, tears rush to your eyes. You did not think it possible for someone to harbor such deep-seated hatred for you.

At least, you find comfort in your husband’s arms.

While he notices your melancholy, Baelor doesn’t press you to confess what’s gnawing at you. Thankfully. You decide to keep Prince Valarr's words to yourself. It would break Baelor’s heart. And what purpose would that serve? There is enough misery in you already. You do not wish for that burden to be shared with your husband, not when so much already rests upon his shoulders.

“I have to leave Dragonstone for a few weeks,” he announces one night as you lie in bed together.

You sit up, tugging the sheet against your bare frame.

“What?”

Baelor cups your face, his thumb sweeping over your cheeks.

“There is a Blackfyre uprising in the south. We must crush it before it is too late.”

Your heart plummets. You know that men must sometimes head to war. Such is the way of things. But you don’t want yours on a battlefield, in harm’s way. So often men leave and never return.

Your brows thread into a worried frown.

“Cannot your brother Maekar settle it on his own?”

His expression softens as he strokes your hair.

“What kind of future king cower from a minor rebellion?”

Understanding fills you, though in that moment you hate Baelor for being so honorable, so dutiful. You wish he were more selfish, selfish enough to stay besides you. But you know if he were selfish, he wouldn’t be your Baelor. He wouldn't be the man who owns your heart, body and soul.

He lifts your chin, brushing a tender kiss on your forehead.

“Although duty calls my name, my heart calls yours always,” he utters softly.

Your heart swells and shrivels all at once.

“If I could stay, I would, sweet girl,” he says, studying your sombre expression.

Resignation laces your tone. “I know.”

“Valarr will protect you in my absence.”

You go still, a chill traveling down your spine.

“I know there have been…hurdles. But he is my son. He will do what honor demands. You are safe with him.”

You swallow your words. Your husband is about to go to war. His mind must be clear, free of worries or distractions. You cannot cost him his life with petty grievances.

You give a bright smile.

“Of course, my love. I will pray to the gods everyday for your safe return.”

Fondness glimmers in his mismatched gaze.

You pin him with a stern stare, lifting your finger.

“Do not make me a widow, Baelor…or I will hunt you down in the afterlife and kill you again myself.”

Baelor grabs you by the waist, pinning you under him as you both laugh.

The day Baelor leaves, you feel as if a piece of your heart tore from your chest and walked away. The day itself mirrors your gloom, angry clouds roaring above Dragonstone, rain pouring down in thick sheets over the castle. Your desperation hit such a nadir that you begged your husband to take you with him the night before, but he reminded you that a woman’s place isn’t on a battlefield. You argued that your place is wherever he is and he gave you a smile that shattered your heart.

You lie in bed the entire day. You do not eat. You do not sleep. You do nothing but stare at the cold, empty space in the bed where your husband used to be.

Of course, Baelor’s words echo in your head. A minor rebellion. But how often do men go away to settle a minor rebellion, a trivial skirmish or enter a meager tourney to lose their life when the gods flip a coin?

“You have not eaten today. Come.”

Prince Valarr’s sharp tone startles you. Your gaze lands on his form near the door.

You ignore him, burying yourself further in the bed.

“I do not wish to be disturbed,” you counter, injecting all the meager authority you can in your feeble voice.

A deep sigh ripples through the room.

“My father told me to keep you safe. I intend to keep that vow.”

A sad laugh bursts from your lips.

“Even if you despise me?” you mumble.

“Come down and eat.”

“I’ve no appetite.”

“I care not. You will eat.”

His tone is icier. When you refuse to move, Prince Valarr does. Quick as lightning, he picks up your limp form from the bed and strides out of the room.

Your protests are ignored, Valarr’s expression determined as he stomps to the Great Hall, cradling you in his arms.

The prince all but drops you in a chair at the dining table before finding his own seat. Your eyes drift to Baelor’s empty seat at the head of the table. Your chest tightens.

Valarr’s mismatched gaze follows yours and his jaw ticks.

“He will return,” he states as a servant places a steaming plate of stew in front of you. “There is no warrior more fierce and capable than my father. Now eat.”

Impatience twists his boyish features.

“In my father’s absence, I am the lord of this castle. I command you to eat, lest I find less…pleasant ways to make sure you do.”

You shudder. Fingers wobbling, you collect the spoon but your stomach lurches at the sight of food.

“Please eat, my lady,” a familiar voice erupts besides you.

You blink, dazed. Little Matarys. The young prince’s expression is etched with concern. You didn’t realize he was here. Your mind lingers in a fog you can’t find your way out of.

Valarr rises from his seat, makes his way to you. He looms over you, his scent coating your senses.

His heated whisper tickles your earshell.

“What will my father say when he comes home and finds a skeleton waiting for him instead of his wife?”

His blunt words stab at your bleeding heart. Hand shaking, you take a slow sip of the stew. With every bite, you think of Baelor. He would hate to see you like this. You are a dragon’s wife. You must be strong, resilient. Your grip tightens on the spoon.

Beneath Prince Valarr’s watchful eye, you finish your plate.

The days fly by, each harder than the last, your husband’s absence carving a deeper hole inside you. The days erode into weeks. During these desolate times, Prince Valarr cares for you the way he promised he would. To your surprise, your stepson is the one reminding you to sustain yourself each day, displaying a care you did not think was in him. You learn to stand tall in your agonizing wait. Little Matarys’ gentleness helps. The long walks on the beach and games of cyvasse by the fire you play with the little boy help ease his father’s absence. While Prince Valarr’s gaze never sways from you, he makes no attempts at warmth or kindness, always keeping a careful distance. You’ve grown so used to the prince’s hostility that it leaves you numb. You just long for your husband’s swift return.

Every day you light a candle for him in the Sept, begging the gods to return him to you whole.

Most days, you hold on. You cry yourself to sleep no longer.

But tonight is different. A storm breaks out near the shore, dusky thunderclouds raging over Dragonstone.

You sit against the wall near the wooden wardrobe, your huddled form shivering.

You’ve been terrified of storms since you were a little girl. Baelor knows that. Whenever the heavens raged, he would cradle you against him, his deep, tranquil voice lulling into a sense of calm. He would stroke your hair and kiss your forehead, and never let go until slumber found you. With Baelor’s soft touch, the storm fell away, becoming a distant rumble.

In his absence you cannot stop shaking. The sky seems as if it might split open and the roof appears on the brink of collapse. You rock yourself back and forth on the floor, hands covering your ears to muffle the noise.

“My Lady?”

You lift your head, startled when a mismatched gaze fills your vision.

Hope flares inside your chest, tears filling your eyes.

“Baelor…” you mumble, overwhelmed with emotion.

“I’m not him.”

Your eyes round as you are yanked back to reality, realizing you are looking into Valarr’s eyes. You forgot how eerily similar they are to your husband’s.

The prince's jaw clenches as he studies you, kneeling before you, a flickering candlelight in his hand. You note that he dons a simple loose shirt and breeches, a sharp contrast to the armor you are so used to seeing him in. The candlelight casts shifting shadows over his face.

“Why are you…what are you doing here, Valarr?” you ask, shuddering as a bolt of lightning appears behind the window, heavy rain slamming against the glass.

“You are scared of storms,” Valarr says, like it's obvious. “I wanted to ensure your well-being.”

Your brows knit.

“How do you know that?”

“Know what?”

“That I’m scared of storms.”

Silence lingers, the prince’s gaze drifting away from yours.

“My father told me.”

He clears his throat and offers his free hand, helping you to your feet.

He leads you to the bed and you sit on the edge, your fingers trembling in his, your attention glued to the window.

“It is alright. I’m with you,” Valarr assures, placing the candle on the night table.

He hesitates a few seconds before wrapping his arms around you, tugging you into his embrace.

At first you are stunned. You freeze, completely still in Valarr’s arms. But it’s been so long since you’ve been held like this, felt safe like this. You surrender, sagging in Prince Valarr’s arms.

Fingers sweep over your hair, a soft voice pouring into your ear.

“You need never be scared when I’m with you.”

For a moment, you forget you are in Valarr’s arms. You imagine yourself in Baelor’s. In your mind, your husband is home. He is whole and he holds you through the storm the way he always does. Your arms wrap around Valarr’s neck. His hand settles on your back, traveling up and down in a soothing motion.

“I hate this,” you say.

“I know. I know,” he replies softly.

Remembering yourself, you retreat.

“Apologies, your highness.”

Valarr doesn’t pull away. He cradles your face, sweeping away your tears with his thumbs.

“You need not apologize. You have done nothing wrong.”

The prince's gaze roams over your face, landing on your lips. Clouds mirroring the ones in the angry sky darken the prince’s gaze. He drags his thumb down your cheek, presses it against your mouth.

You girdle your breath.

“Truly…nothing.”

The prince’s mouth slams into yours. Your eyes go wide as his lips devour yours, his tongue slipping into your mouth. You bite his lip, groaning in protest. The metallic taste of blood coats your tongue, Prince Valarr’s kiss turning hungrier, feral.

He pushes you onto the bed, his mouth tracing awful, fiery trails on your neck. You push his face, his chest, whatever you can grab at. His iron grip fastens around your wrists, pinning them above your head.

Disbelief makes your head spin. You struggle beneath Valarr, fighting him harder as he spreads your legs, his hand creeping under your night shift.

“No…” Tears blurs your sight as his mouth travels down your chest, his lips latching around your nipple. His tongue swirls until your peak hardens. Your body shakes with sobs, your whimpers swallowed by the rumbling thunder above Dragonstone.

The prince grunts as he cups your cunt, his thumb pressing into your tangle of nerves.

You shake your head, jolting as his thumb swirls around your sensitive nub. It grows swollen and slick under his hand. Your face heats.

“Highness…Valarr, you can’t…”

He buries two fingers between your folds. You gasp, your thighs closing around his hand. He thrusts inside you as you weep beneath him, the wet squelching melting with the sounds of the storm.

His breathy whisper flows over your face.

“I can’t stop…” He buries his fingers further inside you and you cry out, your back arching against the sheets. Valarr forces your thighs open with his knees, his hard tip nudging against your folds.

His long lashes flutter, an entranced expression on his face as he licks your essence off his fingers. You gape at him, horrified.

“I’m sorry, I can’t stop…”

He sinks into you to the hilt, drawing an ear-splitting scream from you. His hips collide with yours, the bed rattling with his frantic pace.

His chest brushes against yours, trapping you between his body and the bed.

Beads of sweat drip down his brow, landing on your face as he grunts above you.

He brings your wrist to his lips, dropping tender kisses there that twist your stomach in knots.

As you clench around him, your body betraying you, tears stream down your face.

Whenever your face turns, Valarr grips your chin, forcing your gaze to hold his as he ruts into you with abandon.

“Forgive me. Please, forgive me…” he repeats as he keeps slamming his hips into yours.

You lose track of time, going limp under him. You don’t remember when he leaves, when the storm ends. You only know one moment Prince Valarr was burying his cock inside you and the next, the sun is spilling through the velvet curtains.

You are alone in the bed. It is morning, you realize. For a few moments, you wonder if all of it was just a horrible nightmare conjured by the storm. You are wearing your shift, the sheets are clean. But the soreness in your limbs, the ache between your thighs…it’s all too real for all of it to be a dream. Your body tells the truth of what happened. You bring your fingers to your throat, your breaths growing erratic. You can still feel him, feel Valarr inside you. You rush to the nearest chamber pot and empty the meager contents of your stomach.

A maid barges into your room.

“He has returned, my lady!” she chimes.

You wipe your mouth with the back of your hand, staggering to your feet.

“What?”

“Prince Baelor! He has returned from his travels.”

The blood rushes from your head to the bottom of your feet, the room tilting sideways around you.

“My lady! My lady!” the maid yells, catching you as you topple to the floor. The room darkens around you, pins and needles scattering on your arms.

As you lose consciousness, you hear the maid’s muffled scream.

“Get the maester! Now!”

When you awake, you are lying on a soft surface, Baelor’s tender expression crowding your vision. He looms over you, a smile tugging his lips as he strokes your hair.

“Well, it is far from the sort of reunion I had hoped for, but I suppose it will have to do,” he says. His teasing lilt summons tears in your eyes.

“Husband,” you exclaim, throwing your arms around his neck.

He chuckles, rubbing your back in that achingly familiar way. A quivering sob escapes your lips.

“Now, now, sweet girl…there is no need for tears. I am unharmed, am I not?” He lets you weep in his arms. You cannot stop the flow of tears. You cry for your husband’s safe return. You cry for what happened the night of the storm. You let yourself drown in a sea of emotions. The relief, the elation, the despair, the pain…and the sobering, aching realization you do not know how to tell Baelor the truth without ruining this fragile happiness.

He cradles your face, collecting your tears.

“We are both unharmed, both safe. Please, sweet girl, I loathe to see tears on that lovely face of yours.”

“Both unharmed, both safe...” you repeat, your stomach sinking.

“Valarr told me there was a chill with the storm yesterday.” The sound of your stepson’s name coming from his lips makes bile rise to your throat. Baelor's knuckles sweep over your cheek. “Mayhaps you have fallen ill.”

When you remain silent, Baelor gets to his feet.

“I shall leave you to rest.”

Your fingers clutch his, your expression pleading. You cannot bear to see your heart walk away. Not again. Not right now. You need him here, where you can see him, hear him, feel him.

“No, I beg of you, your Grace, stay.”

Baelor’s brow wrinkles in concern. His thumb rubs the inside of your palm. He sits beside you on the bed, pulling you into his arms. Unleashing a heavy breath, you curl against him.

“Of course, sweet girl. Of course. I will not leave your side,” he whispers, his chin settling atop your head. You close your eyes, soaking his scent, the press of his body on yours, the soothing motion of his fingers over your hair. Fresh tears flood your sight.

Your fist tightens on his doublet.

“Do not leave me ever again. Swear it.”

“Alright. I swear it, my love.”

His lips brush against your forehead. The familiar tickle of his beard makes your stomach flutter.

“I will not leave your side…ever again.”

As you stand before the funeral pyre, the only thought in your head is that your husband lied to you. Fury mingles with grief. Baelor was supposed to stay by your side, to never leave you again. Yet he did. For good this time. Without a warning. Without a goodbye. Without giving you one last chance to look into his eyes and tell him how much you loved him. Just one more time…you wish you could tell him.

The trip to Ashford was supposed to be a mere courtesy appearance. Your husband was not even supposed to enter the lists. He did not even bring his own armor. He wore Valarr’s. He died in Valarr’s. And a small, shameful part of you wishes it had been Valarr, not your beloved, who fell in the tourney.

Your gaze swings to him. It is impossible to guess what thoughts lurk in the prince's head. His eyes are dry, unlike yours, the flames of the pyre dancing in his mismatched eyes.

You drag yourself away from the pyre, needing to be away from the scent of smoke, away from the smell of your husband’s burning remains. Your entire future, your love, your dreams…all gone up in flames and smoke.

You find a secluded spot in the grass. You completely sag in your spot, your body too heavy to carry. The air itself feels heavy. The beautiful sunset is a mockery to your grief. The lush forests are an offense to your loss. How dare the world go round, the sun still rise and dip on the horizon, the moon and stars still hang in the sky…when Baelor is dead. How dare the birds not stop singing, the wind not stop whistling, the waves not stop crashing against the rocky shores?

How dare the whole world not hold its breath when yours drew its last?

“We shall journey back to Dragonstone on the morrow.”

You are torn from your thoughts when Valarr’s voice shatters your peace.

Your voice rises, shaky but firm.

“Journey back to Dragonstone? My husband lies dead.” You hold Valarr’s gaze. “Lord Maekar arranged for me to board a ship so I may return home to my family.”

The prince’s jaw flares.

“I am your family, and Dragonstone is your home,” he says, his tone icy, resolute. “You were my father's responsibility and now, you are mine.”

Dread settles in your gut. After that awful stormy night, you avoided him. You never spoke a word of it to Baelor in the weeks that followed, burying the secret deep within your heart, so it may never hurt your husband. You are glad Baelor died thinking his son good and honorable, thinking him fit to carry his name and legacy. Still, you have no desire to be anywhere near Valarr ever again.

“I do not wish to return to Dragonstone with you, my lord. I have done my duty. It is only right for House Targaryen to release me.”

His gaze narrows.

“I do not care for what is right. I care that you stay where you belong.”

You lift your chin and get to your feet.

“I belong back home with my mother and father,” you say, starting to walk away from him.

His hand latches around your wrist. Your pulse quickens.

“No, you belong with me.” There is an edge of desperation to his words now. His fingers tighten on your wrist. “I will not lose both you and my father on the same day.”

“Apologies, my lord. It is done.”

You tug on your wrist but Valarr yanks harder, drawing a pained yelp from you. He drags you down to the grass, looming over you. His glistening eyes are brimming with emotions. Emotions that strangely mirror yours. Hatred, grief…utter despair. There's also that wicked glint of lust that chills your blood.

“I’m the one who ought to apologize, for not making myself more clear.”

Valarr pulls down his breeches and panic seizes you. You crawl to your feet but he's faster, shoving you onto the grass once more. His body traps yours, forcing you onto your stomach. You sob as he bunches your dress around your waist.

“You were my father’s…and now you are mine,” he mumbles against your ear, sinking himself completely into your dry entrance. Your nails break as you rake your fingers across the dirt, whimpering as he slams his hips into yours roughly. “And soon, you will be my lady wife, and I your lord husband.”

Valarr drapes his hand over your mouth, silencing your screams as his pelvis snaps into yours from behind. Tears blur your sight, your muffled pleas swallowed by the grass.

Prince Valarr’s warm breath tickles the back of your neck.

“Dyanna is dead.”

Those words from Lyonel hung in the air and made your ears ring.

What were you supposed to say? What were you supposed to think? Things couldn’t have been worse than they were in that moment.

Before you could form a thought or even say anything, Lyonel grabbed your hand and whisked you away.

You glanced back at Maekar, whose eyes met yours instead of looking at Baelor.

Lyonel brought you back to your room, shutting the door behind the two of you.

You walked towards the edge of your bed, leaning against the footboard— your heart in your throat.

“Did Maekar kill her?—“

“Did he kill his own wife?” You asked, your voice coming out small.

Lyonel stood near the chairs and table, shaking his head as he poured himself some wine.

“Not that I know of. He apparently said that he’d come to check on her again after her being ill and she was cold to the touch.”

“Perhaps he should’ve killed her, after her outburst yesterday.” He mumbled.

You closed your eyes, a deep sigh leaving your lips— your fingers twisting the pendant on your necklace.

“May the old gods watch over her, may she never be forgotten.” You whispered.

Lyonel hovered over the table near him, the goblet still in his hand and a scowl on his face.

“You pray for her?—“

“The woman that threatened to take your child from you in her last day of life.”

“I pray for her children, especially the young ones that are now without a mother. I pray that her death does not break them, that Maekar can guide them.” You replied.

You walked to your window, tears falling down your cheek.

Your tears weren’t of sadness or for you, but for him— for how he’d feel at the end of all of this.

Lyonel sipped wine from his goblet and laughed in the midst of doing so.

Your eyes flickered over your shoulder towards him.

“They ruin everything that they touch, even ruining the simple life that we had planned. You pray for them as if they deserve it, it’s nonsense.”

You wiped your face, staring back out the window at the snow and ice covering the ground.

“I may be many things, but I’m not cruel. It never hurts to be sympathetic to their loss.”

He put down his goblet, wiping his lips.

“I have no sympathy left for any of them, especially after that stunt that she pulled. She threatened our—“

His words were interrupted by a knock at the door, the door opening with Baelor standing there.

“Lady Stark, I’d like to speak with you.”

You turned to face Baelor, your mouth opening and closing as your words failed you.

You nodded, leaving the room with Baelor and the two kingsguard that he had present.

You walked down the hall with Baelor, your eyes watching as servants walked with purpose. Your home felt unrecognizable for many reasons outside of the obvious.

It was a mess and too quiet, like everyone had forgotten how to breathe after the news broke.

Baelor walked you to the council meeting room, guiding you in as the kingsguard posted outside of the door.

You didn’t know what to expect, not really.

Inside the room Queen Myriah sat in one of the chairs, waiting on the two of you.

The door shut with a loud thud behind you, your palms beginning to sweat.

Baelor took a seat, gesturing for you to sit as well.

“Lady Stark, I am sure that you have heard the news of Dyanna’s passing.” He spoke.

“Yes, I have and I’d like to offer my deepest sympathies to your family.” You replied, your voice shaky.

Queen Myriah stared at you, her eyes bloodshot as if she’d spent hours crying.

“I just want to say that what happened at that meeting should not have happened. No one wanted to take Rhaenyra from you..but there was a tabled discussion on how to handle the situation.” Baelor informed you.

You stared at him, your tongue pressed against your teeth.

“This whole ordeal was supposed to be a simple thing. We were to discuss and handle the matters that pertained to the realm, have a few grand feasts, resolve the issues, and return home—“

“I’ve instead been disappointed by my son and by you.” Queen Myriah admitted, staring at you.

Her words of disappointment made your stomach turn into a knot. It was like you were hearing the words from your own mothers mouth. You never intended to disappoint anyone, it was never supposed to happen this way.

Baelor tapped his fingers against the table, his focus on you.

“My brother's wife has died and we’re only a few days into our stay.”

You shrugged, wiping the tears before they fell from your eyes.

“Yes, that is unfortunate— but it has nothing to do with me. I am unsure of the need to summon me over this.” You responded, your voice coming out in a higher pitch.

“You are not summoned about the death of Dyanna.” Queen Myriah commented.

“You are here because we need to discuss Rhaenyra.” Baelor added.

You bit your tongue, your head hung in defeat— a laugh escaping your mouth before you could stop.

All anyone cared about and wanted to talk about was Rhaenyra, like it was the only word anyone knew. She was yours, why couldn’t they just let well enough be?

“I never intended for any of you to find out about her in truth, I didn’t mean to cause any harm or concern. I wanted us to be fine here and left alone..”

“We knew peace before the arrival of the royal family, let us get back to that.” You boldly admitted.

Queen Myriah’s eyes widened, her shoulders pulled back.

Baelor’s lips twitched, his fingers no longer tapping against the table.

“One doesn’t have to intend harm to do it, Lady Stark. You should not have indulged my brother by lying with him.”

You scoffed, pinching the bridge of your nose.

“I have had plenty of nights to sit with my reckless decision, to understand the life that I have given my daughter. I do not need your judgment, Baelor.”

“We are not here to cast judgment as no one in this room is perfect—“

“Given the fragility of the situation, we have to ask something of you. I am unsure how you’ll respond to this request, but we ask you to consider it nonetheless.” Queen Myriah interjected.

“With the untimely passing of Dyanna and the revelation of Rhaenyra, there has now been a constant tension. Rhaenyra is blood of the dragon, bore from a woman of a great house.” Baelor continued.

“We want you to marry Maekar.”

Your eyes felt like they could bulge from your skull as you stared at him.

“What?—“

“Is this a jape?” You frowned.

“No, far from. The stability of our house is fragile and this request does not come lightly.” Myriah responded.

You stood from your chair, your brows furrowed.

“This is an ugly, vile request and I will not consider it! I am to marry Lyonel.”

Baelor chuckled, low and deep in his throat— shaking his head in disbelief.

“Lyonel Baratheon? This stay is getting more interesting as the hours pass.”

“It is only a request at this time, Lady Stark. However, Rhaenyra shall be connected to her family. I doubt the king will have it any other way, it is only his abundance of care that this is a request to begin with—“

“It might not be one for long though.” Myriah confessed.

You pulled your shoulders back.

“He would demand it?”

She shrugged her shoulders, wiping her eyes as they watered.

“If he felt it necessary, considering the two of you cannot stay away from one another. He does not want to though.”

“I’d like to be excused.” You asked, your heart racing.

She nodded.

You left the room, your heart feeling like it was in your throat. The walk to your chambers was hazy, everything felt off and wrong— you felt off. When you reached your room, you were thankful that it was empty.

You slammed the door behind you, startling the servants.

The room felt like it was closing in on you and your veins burned with rage.

You knocked everything off of your desk, glass shattering as it hit the stone.

“Fuck!” You yelled, your tears flowing from your eyes.

This situation had spiraled beyond your reach, far beyond what you could control and understand. Dyanna was barely cold and they were already preparing for you to marry Maekar.

Maekar sat in Dyanna’s chambers, her cold body only being taken away a few moments prior.

She was here one moment and gone like a whisper in the wind the next.

There were no true words to describe his feelings, none that could explain how weird it was for him. Weird to now be without the woman that he’d been married to for years, but relief because he was now free.

He was at a loss, no idea how to begin getting his children through this loss.

What was his life supposed to be like now? What was he supposed to say in response to people’s sympathies?

For the first time in his life, he was lost— lost navigating something that he’d never been prepared for.

He sat there in the seat near the bed, staring at the stone as if it would change into something else.

Even in the time alone in that room, you crossed his mind. His wife had just died, yet he thought of you and your child. It was disgusting and he was ashamed, it was a special kind of torment.

Winterfell was now in mourning, your home felt colder than it usually did. All meetings and realm dealings were to be paused until after the funeral. Your home hadn’t felt this way since your own mother had died years prior.

Rhaenyra sat on your bed, playing with the small wooden toys that Lyonel had made for her.

You knelt beside your desk, placing the things that you had knocked off back onto it. Your hands shook as you picked up the big shards of glass that were scattered across the floor.

The glass being broken into small pieces is how you felt, you felt like something broken— something that was broken beyond repair. Your life would never be what you wanted, not anymore.

Your life was a complete mess, the entire thing. It was never perfect before, but it was yours. It was your small, quiet, and ordinary life. It may not have been normal or fitting for a lady to others, but you loved it— every part of it.

Once you picked up the glass, you grabbed the broom and began to sweep the smaller pieces.

Your mind went back to the conversation with Queen Myriah and Baelor, what they asked of you. Their solution to the problem that you had dumped in their lap.

You wanted to blame them, be angry that they’d suggest it— but this was all on you. Your selfishness, your lack of restraint, and respect for yourself.

How were you going to tell Lyonel? Gods, you couldn’t even figure out where he belonged in your life at that moment. What the two of you had before was perfect, it was simple and now it was chaos. You didn’t want to ruin it or ruin him.

Rhaenyra babbled on the bed, trying to chew on one of her toys. She was completely unaware of everything that had happened, she was happy and smiling.

You emptied the glass into the waste bin beside your desk, the door to your room opened— small footsteps against the stone.

“Lady Stark..”

“I wanted to meet my sister.” A small voice spoke, his words coming out small and unsure.

It was Aegon with Rhae right beside him, both of them standing in front of you with only one thing on their mind. They stood in front of you, their faces puffy and eyes red— looking at you like they couldn’t bear you telling them no.

Your expression softened staring at them.

“Does your father know that either of you are here?”

Egg looked at Rhae and they shook their heads.

You walked over to the bed, picking Rhaenyra up— holding her in your arms.

Egg and Rhae mustered smiles as you knelt in front of them with Rhaenyra.

“She looks like me, Egg.” Rhae spoke with a giggle.

Rhaenyra walked to the center of the carpet and sat down, grabbing more of her toys from the basket.

You smiled at the sight of her, but your smile faded at the sound of sniffling. Egg stood in front of you, tears streaming down his pale cheeks and onto his neck.

“Oh, Egg.” You mumbled, walking over to him and giving him a hug.

Rhae sat on the carpet by Rhaenyra pulling out toys for her and Egg tightly wrapped his arms around your waist, clinging to you as he sobbed— his tears wetting your gown.

Your heart broke for them, the loss of a parent was unlike any other kind. You rubbed his head, trying to comfort him as you held back tears yourself.

“I am so sorry about you losing your mother.” You muttered, trying to overcome the tears that wet your waterline.

Hearing his sobs shook you in a way that you hadn’t expected. He was such a joyous boy and now he clung to you, his world falling apart.

He pulled away from you, wiping his face. You knelt again, staring into his violet eyes.

“Do you need me to get your father?”

He shook his head, taking a deep breath— trying to calm down.

“I just want to spend time with you and my sister, if that is okay.”

You nodded with a teary eyed smile.

The servants brought food to your chambers at your request, you hoped to keep the children occupied and to provide any comfort that you could.

“Will father be okay?” Egg asked.

You looked up from the scroll that was on your desk, staring blankly.

“Only time will tell, but he is strong— as are you and your siblings. I think that with time all of you will be okay.”

Egg didn’t smile or anything, he just stared at you— his mind clearly at war with his feelings.

After a bit of playing and plenty of laughs from them as they were amused with Rhaenyra, Rhae gave you one of the books that you had. It was the book that you often read to Rhaenyra before bed.

“Can you read this to us?”

You were a bit shocked, but willing to if they genuinely wanted it.

“Do you really want me to read this?”

Rhae nodded, “please.”

You, Rhae, Egg, and Rhaenyra laid in your bed as you picked a chapter from the book to read. They wanted to hear the chapter that talked about the conquerors, which you obliged.

You read it to them, your voice animated— taking your time while they looked at the drawings on the pages.

That chapter had come to an end and all the children were asleep, you even found your eyelids feeling heavy. You fell asleep after fighting it for a few minutes.

The day was just barely in the afternoon and all of you were tired, completely worn thin.

You slept peacefully, completely losing track of time— but your door swung open.

“Have you seen—“

Maekar stopped in his tracks at the sight of you. You laid there in the bed, a book propped against your chest and the children sleep around you.

He had begun to panic when he was told that no one could locate them, but it was clear that they went where they thought best.

Maekar didn’t want to disturb you, so he sat on the window seat — watching as all of you slept. The sight of you and his children finding comfort in each other made him feel a small amount of ease, not because he’d depend on you— but because at least they weren’t entirely alone.

In some world this was the life for the two of you— multiple kids, no scandals, no grief, just the kids and bliss.

When you awoke, Rhae and Egg were gone. It didn’t worry you much as you figured that the servants had come to get them or they left on their own.

You slept good for the first time in a while, you slept and didn’t cry yourself to sleep beforehand.

Rhaenyra pulled your cheeks, “mama.”

You chuckled softly, a smile coming onto your face at the sight of her. Your precious daughter that mattered more than anything else in that world.

After a few minutes of laying in the bed, you prepared your chambers for the night and had dinner brought to your room for both of you.

The night had come quicker than you had expected, but even then the day still felt never ending.

You sat with Rhaenyra in one of your chairs, Greywind walking in your room behind a servant as they placed supper on the table.

The room was quiet with the exception of the fireplace and Rhaenyra humming as she ate her potatoes. It didn’t take long before she got fussy and didn’t want the rest, so you fed it to Greywind.

You took Rhaenyra to her own room and helped prepare her for bed. She kissed your cheek when you tried to lay her down in her bed, giggling when you kissed her cheek. She held your finger and fidgeted around in her bed— trying to fight her sleep, but you watched as her blinks lasted longer with each one. Within a few minutes she was sound asleep.

She looked so beautiful as she slept, her silver hair all over the place. In some lights, she looked exactly like Maekar and nothing like you.

While you sat there, you had a bath prepared for you in your chambers.

You thought about what Queen Myriah said, you thought about your own feelings, and Rhaenyra’s life.

Would you be cruel to keep Rhaenyra from them? Would she resent you or Lyonel? Would they resent you for it?

There was no perfect answer and that was what drove you mad, what made you feel hopeless— because no one knew what the outcome would be.

When you returned to your chambers, you were ready to relax in the bath and maybe have a nice cry alone.

Lyonel stood in your room, waiting for you.

You shut the door, a huff of air leaving your mouth.

“I did not expect you to be in here, I figured you would have run off after earlier.” You mumbled, walking towards your bed.

Lyonel looked down at his feet and back towards you.

“I must admit that was not my finest moment earlier. I am sorry.”

You pulled your boots off, listening to him while he spoke.

“It’s fine, Lyonel.”

He rubbed his beard, trying to find the right words.

“My love, I shouldn’t have been so crass earlier and I am truly sorry—“

“I should’ve been sympathetic.”

You walked towards him, placing your hands into his and staring into his eyes.

“I forgive you, my love.” You whispered, stepping even closer to him.

He loved when you called him that, but the way that you went about it was what turned him on most. How you stood in front of him, staring at him through your lashes — your voice laced with need.

Lyonel stepped closer, his body pressed against yours.

“Hmm.” He hummed.

His hand cupped your face, both of you lost in the moment and nothing else mattering.

“You look so beautiful, so fucking beautiful.”

You couldn’t help but smile, glancing away from him.

“You’re just saying that, hoping that you’ll get your cock wet.” You teased.

He chuckled, his lips brushing against yours— his breath warming your skin.

“Even without fucking you, I am the luckiest man in the seven kingdoms. You are the love of my life, the woman I’d go to the ends of this world for.”

You pressed your lips against his, your fingers gripping his doublet.

He kissed you back, his arm wrapping around your waist.

You felt so good with him, yet your heart was conflicted— torn between two men.

“Can I share the bath with you?” He asked, pulling his lips away from yours.

You nodded.

The water steamed around the two of you as you sat down in the tub, you sat in between Lyonel’s legs with your back pressed against his chest.

“I dream of many nights like this with you.” Lyonel confessed.

You smiled, rubbing your finger against his thigh.

“You do?”

“How could I not? What man wouldn’t want to end his night with a fierce wife beside him.” He added.

Lyonel helped wash your back— telling you a story about how he’d met some large knight, who wasn’t really a knight a few moons back. A man named Ser Dunk, which sounded incredibly silly to you.

He cupped water onto your hair, a smile on his face.

“You laugh, but I’m serious. His name was Dunk and he was..”

“Something.” Lyonel trailed off.

“I imagine that he was, especially if he called himself Dunk.” You laughed again, the kind of laugh where tears welled in your eyes. The story sounded ridiculous, but Lyonel was serious.

After your bit of laughter that went on for what seemed forever, you rested your head against his chest.

You realized that you still hadn’t told him about what the king had requested of you.

“Lyonel.” You spoke.

He rubbed his hand against yours. “Yes, darling.”

You took a deep breath, trying to find the right words and hoping that you wouldn't upset him.

“When Baelor asked to speak with me earlier, he brought me to the council room where Queen Myriah was also waiting.”

“The queen summoned you?” He asked.

“Something like that..”

“She and Baelor needed to speak with me about Rhaenyra.”

His hand stilled against yours, “what about her?”

“They want me to marry Maekar.” You hesitantly answered.

“Oh—“

“I see.” He muttered. You could hear the way that your words instantly affected him, how he seemed heartbroken already.

There was a silence, a silence that felt like the two of you were frozen for a beat. He didn’t say anything or move and neither did you.

“What did you say to that?” He questioned.

You turned in the tub, water splashing onto the stone. You faced Lyonel, staring into his eyes.

“I told them that I am to marry you.”

He nodded, his fingers resting on the edge of the tub.

“I take it that they did not like that revelation?”

You looked down at the water, looking at your reflection— your eyes watering again.

“What if they make me marry him? Force my hand?”

He stared at you, his own eyes watering.

“What is a man to do when he loses the love of his life to someone who is unworthy?”

You tilted your head slightly, a frown on your face.

“Lyonel..”

“Is what I speak not the truth?” He questioned.

You couldn’t bring your eyes to face him, it was like they were unable to in that moment— like you felt guilty to agree with him.

“You are.. magnificent in every way, that is the truth. You give me hope that there is more for me out there, that I can take a wife that I’m proud to have—“

“I know that you are torn and I’d be a fool to pretend that this isn’t the case, but I cannot compete with him.. not when you keep your heart closed to me.” He continued, the words leaving his mouth slowly as he knew that he might regret them.

Your eyes met his instantly.

“You don’t think that my heart is open to you? That I don’t love you?”

He sighed, trying to grab your hand.

“That is not what I meant.”

You pulled away, standing in the tub— the water falling from your body. Your bare skin exposed to Lyonel, disrupting any thoughts that he had only a moment ago.

The water splashed across the stone as you stepped out, grabbing your robe.

“I only meant that—“

“Save it, Lyonel.”

Lyonel stood in the tub, following you— completely bare while you prepared the bed.

“I did not mean to offend you, but it is obvious that you still care so deeply for him.”

You stopped what you were doing, facing Lyonel and keeping your eyes on his face.

“I am to marry you, Lyonel. I figured that it was clear that you were who I chose? That you were who I wanted?”

“Am I what you want? or do I simply provide you a means to run away and prevent the evident temptation that brews between the two of you?” He pried.

Your mouth fell open slightly, your eyes widening with disbelief.

“I.. cannot believe that you just said that, that you’d even think that of me— that you think I’m merely only using you.”

The regret on his face was instantaneous.

“I should not have said that, I did not.. I didn’t mean it.”

You bit your tongue and kept from expressing the true thoughts that came across your mind.

“It is a shame that you think so lowly of me, Lyonel. I welcomed you into my life, my daughter's life, and talked to you about a future. Maekar returning wasn’t even on our minds, it has always been real with you.”

His mouth opened and closed, his heart racing fast.

“But he did.. he did return. He returned and you still can’t admit that you’re done with him, can you?—“

“Were to be wed, but the thought of him still sends shivers down your spine! You also fucked him since he’s been back!” His voice raised.

You gasped, being completely taken by surprise at him saying that.

“My Love.. I am not upset over that—“ he stammered, wiping his face.

“You clearly have drunk too much.” You scoffed.

Your ears felt warm to the touch as Lyonel continued to speak, your heart in your throat. You stared at him blankly, stumped on what to say.

“I shall bid you goodnight. I am quite tired.” You mumbled, pulling the cover back on your bed.

“I don’t want to end our night on a sour note.” He replied.

You scoffed, “you should’ve thought about that.”

Lyonel put his clothes on and exited your chambers, a lingering silence in the air. A distance between the two of you that didn’t exist beforehand now consumed the room.

Your relationship with Lyonel was quite simple and different in some ways, but that’s what made it work so well. He accepted you and you accepted him.

The two of you never argued or yelled at one another, not really— but that night you did. Something in your relationship snapped, something that you had no control over. You just knew that maybe he needed space and maybe you did too, from both of them.

The passing of Dyanna had everyone feeling off, it changed everything. Even in the days after, you had still avoided Maekar. There was nothing you could say to make anything easier and it’d probably only continue to get complicated. He needed plenty of things, but condolences on his wife from you was not one of them.

Maekar looked for you, but he found it painfully clear that you were avoiding him and did not wish to speak.

It was finally the day of Dyanna’s funeral.

You stood outside in your black gown, holding Rhaenyra— amongst the royal family, your family, Lyonel, and other noblemen. All of you gathered outside to join the royal family in their mourning.

Vermithor stood near the pyre where she laid, a loud roar leaving him as he moved closer.

Maekar stood close to the pyre, looking like a man that had been cut in half— a man that was lost at sea. You doubted that it was just grief that troubled him, maybe it was everything all at once.

Lyonel stared at you from afar, an apology on his mind and lips— but paralyzed with guilt.

You adjusted Rhaenyra on your hip, watching as Vermithor burned Dyanna on the pyre in front of him— the sounds of the fire cackling and the smell of burning flesh seared into your mind.

After the funeral, you handed Rhaenyra off for a nap and retreated into your chambers. You took off your boots and began to unlace your gown when there was a faint knock at the door.

“Come in.”

Maekar opened the door and walked inside, shutting it behind him.

“You’ve been avoiding me.” He spoke, not completely accusing you— but leaving no room for you to say otherwise.

Your fingers stilled against your laces.

“I decided to let you be.”

“Who told you that I wanted that?”

You turned your head at an angle, the crack of light just barely catching his scarred face.

“No one told me, it is what I know. Dyanna just died and it would be improper for me to come to you.”

His eyebrows raised with a scoff, “improper is it?”

You rolled your eyes, untying the rest of the laces to your gown as he walked towards the window.

“Don’t start, please.”

“No one ever tells you what to expect when a wife dies.. how you might feel or how you might move on later—“

“They tell you nothing about it, even when it’s a common occurrence.” He trailed off.

You pulled off your gown, standing in your shift and gently folding it.

“You are strong, you will recover and so will your children.”

He pushed the shutter open further, glancing out.

“My children..” he started and then stopped.

You placed your folded gown on your desk and took a seat in the chair, your shift just barely hiding your figure— not that it mattered much.

“What about them?” You followed up.

He hesitated, like he was afraid to finish his sentence.

“Nothing.” He grumbled.

“I saw that my youngest son and daughter came to visit you.”

You sat back in your seat, pulling the pins from your hair. “Aye, they did.”

He turned from the window, his focus and saddened eyes fully on you.

“Why did they come to you? Were they okay?”

You glanced at him and placed one of the pins on the desk.

“They were fine.. they wanted to meet Rhaenyra.”

“And how did that go?” He questioned.

You pulled out the last pin, running your fingers along your scalp to ease the tension that you had felt all morning.

“Unlike most adults, children are not inherently cruel. They were just excited to have a sister and to take their minds from their mothers passing.”

He nodded, his eyes lingering at his feet.

“That’s.. good.”

He walked over to the desk, standing in front of it and you. He had that look on his face, the look that you knew all too well.

“Do you still intend to marry Lyonel?”

You chuckled as if a joke had been told, maybe one had— one that not even he could understand.

“I do. I intend to marry Lyonel and get away from this place, away from your family.. away from you.” You finally admitted.

He looked like you had struck him with an arrow, like you had torn a string that was within his heart— like you truly meant those words.

When you saw his reaction, your face dropped— not in horror or fear, but sadness. As harsh as your words may have been, they were true— you wanted to be away from it all.

“Don’t turn your back on me.” He muttered.

“I should’ve saved myself the heartache and did exactly that moons ago.” You argued.

“Queen Myriah and Baelor asked me to marry you.. for the goodness of the realm I suppose.” You confessed.

His brows furrowed, the scars of his face deepening.

“They did what?”

“They said that it was necessary for you, for Rhaenyra—“

“They didn’t tell you?” You asked.

“No, I was not informed that my mother and brother asked you to marry me immediately after Dyanna died.”

You didn’t respond, because in this instance you didn’t know how to.

“Please, do not marry Lyonel.” He pleaded, his eyes looking at the desk in front of him.

“I will.” You replied plainly.

He looked at you as if you had betrayed him, his eyes glassy.

“Why?—“

“I am right here.. asking you not to.”

You stood from your chair, your footsteps slow and methodical as you walked over to him.

“You are here now, but there were many nights where you weren’t.. where I was alone.”

“But, you’re not alone now.” He added.

“It’s too late.”

He grabbed your hand, bringing it to his chest — his glassy eyes staring into yours. His gaze felt as if you were being sucked into his tide again, unable to escape the way that the water would feel against your skin— the way that you wanted to welcome it.

“I cannot fix the past, but I can promise that I’d never leave your side again—“

“Only in death and then I’d still wait for you, if the gods let me.”

You pulled away, a tear streaming down your cheek— your lip beginning to quiver.

“It is far too late, Maekar!—“

“I chose you the first time around and you didn’t choose me. You could’ve been a selfish prince and chose me, but you didn’t.”

He wiped the tears that fell down his own reddened cheeks.

“I thought of you everyday, regretted my choice everyday.”

“Regretted it so much that you fucked six children into her?” You swore.

He began to frown, biting his lip to keep from getting angry at your words.

“That’s not fair..”

“What’s not fair is loving someone so much that you wanted to die when they broke your heart. What’s not fair is having to watch them get the life that the two of you romanticized.”

“What’s not fair is that despite everything, I wasn’t enough for you to choose me first.” You sputtered.

His hardened facial expression softened, his expression reminding you of how he looked at you years ago.

“I cannot—“

“You are correct, you cannot! I do not wish to do this with you anymore, Maekar.”

“I am asking for us to do it right this time.” He corrected you.

You began to sob, turning away from him— your hand covering your mouth to muffle it. Maekar stood and watched, knowing that there were no words that could undo that damage he caused.

You grabbed your gown and swiftly put it back on.

“We were so close.. so fucking close, Maekar.” You mumbled, wiping your nose with the back of your hand.

“I know.” He replied.

You turned back around. “I choose Lyonel this time, I choose him because I have a choice—“

“Because he chose me and Rhaenyra first.”

Maekar stepped closer to you, his chest pressed against yours.

“Tell me that you do not love me anymore.”

Your brows furrowed, head tilting.

“It was never about me not loving you, it was the fact that I do love you— that was the problem.”

He pressed his lips against yours and you slightly kissed him back, but you pulled away.

“I have spent far too much time dwelling on the past with you, I won’t continue this—“

“Don’t you see it? See that everything around us and our relationship is a tragedy?”

He winced at your words and their finality, watching as you slowly stepped away from him and made your way to the door— opening it and leaving him standing there.

He had lost you and he’d lose the daughter that the two of you shared, a loss that would make him crumble.

You left Maekar standing in your chambers, but when you left you didn’t feel happy or even content. It felt like there was a weight on your chest, a pressure that no herb could heal.

He was the relentless and unstoppable pain that coursed your body, the wound that was etched onto your heart.

Despite the history between the two of you, you wanted to choose something special— a person that made you want to dance, a person that made you laugh, a person that loved even the ugliest parts of you.

You walked the hall, nodding with still wet eyelashes as the staff spoke to you.

You took your time walking, trying to gather your thoughts and hopefully put everything properly into words. You stopped in front of the heavy double doors, giving a gentle knock.

“Enter.”

When you entered the room, your father and brother were in the middle of a conversation.

“Oh, I did not realize that you were in the middle of something. I can come back .”

“No, I’m glad that you are here. I must speak with you.” You father mentioned.

Your brother stared at you, an unpleasant stare like he’s cross with you.

“What is the matter?”

“I have been told that you refused the request of the royal family.” He replied.

Your brows raised and then furrowed.

“The request to marry Maekar?—“

“Yes, I did.”

“May I ask why?”

“I do not want to, I want to marry Lyonel.” You mumbled, your fingers clasped in front of you.

“Are you fucking serious?—“

“This is downright embarrassing for the family. You get to finally marry the man that you’ve been whoring with and you say no?” Your brother snapped.

“Excuse me?” You fumed, your shoulders pulled back.

“Son, walk that back. You apologize to your sister this instant, I will not have this.” Your father demanded.

Your brother sighed.

“You are spoiled and the only thing that saves you from a harsher fate is because King Daeron does not wish to have you suffer! You parade around your—“

“My what?—“

“Say it brother.” You challenged.

“You parade around your bastard and everyone turns a blind eye to it, everyone has to act like this is normal—“

You walk over in two strides and slapped him across the face with all your might.

“She is your niece! My child!—“

“and I may not be perfect, but she will not be talked about like that by you.”

“Enough!” Your father spat, slapping his hand on his desk.

“This family doesn’t treat each other this way and I won’t tolerate it.”

Your brother's face was red like a tomato, his hand rubbing against his cheek.

“Father, I—“

“A request from your king is not something that should ever be taken lightly. He has good reason to want you to marry Maekar.” He interrupted.

You shook your head, twisting your fingers.

“I understand and I know what I am asking of you, father. I just ask that you support my decision.. my decision to marry for love.”

Your father and brother shared a look.

“This is—“

“Please, I do not want to lose him.” You begged, your eyes watering.

Your father looked at you, the look that he always gave you when he felt as if he couldn’t deny you.

“What of my granddaughter? What of her not being around her family?”

“We are her family, Lyonel is her family—“

“He loves her like she is his own, she loves him. He has never looked at her differently or made comments about her parentage, do you think that family will be the same?”

“Aerion knew of her for only a few hours and was already making comments.. and he’s her brother.”

Your brother's eyes flickered over to you, noticing your eyes— how you genuinely seemed fearful that he wouldn’t support you.

“I will talk to King Daeron. Perhaps, we can have it arranged to be sooner rather than later— putting this entire matter to rest. I will support your decision to marry Lord Baratheon, only because I know that you love him.”

There was a sigh of relief that escaped your chest, you walked over to your father— wrapping your hands around him to give you a hug.

“Thank you so much, father. I truly cannot thank you enough.”

He gave your arm a quick pat.

“Anything for you.”

You quickly left the room and walked with a purpose to Lyonel’s chambers.

When you reached Lyonel’s chambers you barely knocked before entering, surprising him as he paced around the room.

“My love?”

You shut the door behind you with a loud thud, walking to where Lyonel stood.

You grabbed his hands, holding them in yours.

“I don’t want to fight with you.”

He looked at you with some confusion, he couldn’t tell if you were upset or if something had happened.

“I don’t want to fight with you either. I take no pleasure in it.”

“Is something wrong, darling?” He questioned.

You shook your head with a small laugh. “No.”

“I told Maekar.. I told him that I choose you.”

The look on Lyonel’s face was different from any of the other expressions that you see, it was as if multiple emotions were hitting him at once.

“You did?” He asked, his brow raised.

“Aye.” You smiled, your eyes filled with tears.

“I just.. I cannot lose you. I want to be selfish with you, I want Rhaenyra to grow up with you as a father.. I want to live a life with you.” You confessed.

Lyonel grabbed your cheeks and pulled you into a passionate kiss.

“Loving the two of you is the best choice that I’ve ever made.”

You pulled away, breaking the moment of passion.

“I want you to be sure about this, my father said he’d talk to the king—“

“You will never have to ask if I’m sure about this, what could be better than living in Storm's End with my girls?”

You stared at him for a moment, your chest rising and falling fast— his eyes never leaving yours.

“I’m sorry about before, I shouldn’t have been rude.” He admitted.

You shook your head.

“I don’t want to worry about what happened before. It’s just me and you. I forgive you.”

You pressed your lips back into his, your tongue pushing past his teeth.

“Hmm.” He groaned.

“Fuck me, Lyonel—“

“Right now.” You breathed, already reaching for your laces.

Lyonel wrapped his arm around your waist, lifting you off your feet and carrying you to his bed.

“No need to pull all of that off.” He smiled, laying you down gently on the bed.

You pulled up your gown as he unlaced his trousers with complete precision.

The cool air pressed against your exposed skin while you watched Lyonel’s cock spring free, the veins lining it prominent in the light.

Lyonel came between your legs, his lips meeting yours as he teased your entrance— making you whine.

“Please.” You rasped.

He chuckled, “please what?”

You rolled your eyes, a gasp suddenly leaving your mouth as he thrusted inside you.

“Hmm, you feel so good.” He whispered.

He pushed your legs up further, pushing them back as far as they go— watching his cock slide in and out of you.

“Fuck—“

“You’re so deep.” You whimpered.

“Yeah?—“

“I’m so deep inside that pretty cunt of yours, darling. It’s so tight and wet, just for me.” He grunted, his rings pressed into your thigh.

Watching his cock snap in and out of you almost made him finish quicker than he intended.

He kissed you fiercely, his tongue gliding against yours as he claimed your mouth.

“I love you.. I love you so much.” You moaned.

He kissed the side of your face, his warm breath mingling against your skin.

“Love is not a strong enough word for how I feel about you.”

“Gods, I am not going to last long this time.” He moaned.

Your mouth widened, your toes curled as you unexpectedly reached your peak— your cunt gripping his cock intensely.

“Already?—“

“So needy.” He teased.

His grip on your legs tightened, his thrusts got messier and faster— his breaths ragged.

“Gods.”

“I want you to finish inside me.” You begged, staring at him through your lashes.

He glanced at you, his words caught in his mouth— unable to think past the feeling of fucking you.

“How can I say no to you when you’re looking at me like that? Hmm?”

He thrusted into you three more times, a deep groan escaping his throat as his seed spilled inside you.

Once he came, he fucked his seed deep inside you— riding out the high.

You kissed him like you couldn’t get enough, his hands finally leaving your legs— an indent from his rings on them.

“I love you, darling.” He grinned.

You smirked, “I love you too.”

Once he pulled out, the two of you laid on his bed for a bit— laughing and enjoying the moment between the two of you.

“I will talk to my father, but once the wedding happens I want to leave for Storms End. I don’t think me not being present will be an issue.”

He pushed a stray hair from your face, looking at you like you were a perfect statue.

“You’re ready to leave?”

You nodded, rubbing your fingers against his.

“More than ready.”

“I’m going to freshen up, would you like to join me on a walk outside here shortly?”

His tongue swiped his bottom lip, “of course.”

You went to your chambers and freshened up, the smile on your face unable to leave.

At first you were worried about things between you and Lyonel, worried about Maekar— worried about everything but what you truly wanted. You’d allowed yourself to be blinded, but realizing that Dyanna died and just understanding how precious moments are— you didn’t want to waste any more time.

You met Lyonel outside, the two of you holding hands— your boots crunching against the snow.

“I can’t believe I’m going to leave this.”‘ You mentioned.

He glanced around at all the snow and ice coating everything, then back at you— his eyes fixated on the small snowflakes in your hair.

“Take it in, Storm’s End is nowhere as pretty as this.”

You chuckled, “I might grow to love it.”

“Doubtful.” He argued.

“I cannot wait to make you mine, shout to everyone about my lovely wife..” He added.

Your heart jumped in your chest listening to him talk about you in that manner, the way that he loves you so deeply and effortlessly— a love that you never thought you’d experience.

The snow continued to come down, a bit heavier than you had anticipated— but nothing that would deter your walk with Lyonel.

The words that you wanted to say were hung in your mouth when you heard commotion and the horn.

You looked at Lyonel, listening to the noise— but confused.

The horn blew once, then twice, then a third time.

People in the area began to run in various directions, “Three times is for… wildlings.”

All of sudden you winced and felt a sharp sting against your body, heat radiating through you.

You let go of Lyonel’s hand, touching your body— only to see blood on the glove when you pulled it back.

“Wildlings!” A man yelled.

It was as if everything was in a haze, figures moved through the snow and you could hear swords clashing.

Your eyes slowly looked at Lyonel who stood in front of you, “My love.” He mumbled.

Two arrows sticking out of him as he collapsed into the snow.

You tried to take a step, but your legs wobbled— feeling like sand.

You fell into the snow beside Lyonel, hearing dragons roar in the distance and everything fading away.

“Lady Stark!” A voice yelled.

˗ˏˋ ♡ ˎˊ˗

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