jj, maester of the freakidel

werewolf!cregan stark who loves chasing his pretty wife through the woods, snapping his jaws at the hem of your skirts just to make you gasp and run faster. you just look so good like that: skin warmed from exertion, chest heaving, mouth parting to breathe properly. he could catch you at any moment, but the view of your body swaying and jiggling as you quicken your pace, of the way you yelp and whine when your delicate bare feet scrape against the dirt and pebbles on the ground... gods, it makes his maw water, fangs aching to sink into any part of you.

werewolf!cregan stark who plunders your mouth, clawed paw willing your jaw open as far as it will go so he can lap inside, slow and filthy. he is uncaring of the way it must look, towering over you, maw pressed close, his textured tongue licking the inside of your mouth, tasting you fully. spit and drool running down your chin, and lower, glistening against your neck and dirtying your clothes, but you do not mind. not when your husband’s thick, long tongue is reaching the back of your throat, thrusting it as deep as it would go, fucking your mouth and making you choke around whines of pleasure. the feeling is debauched and sinful, but the growl of approval you get from the beast every time you struggle around the insistence of his kiss makes you preen.

werewolf!cregan stark who calls you pup in private, when it’s just the two of you, and he still has the sense of speech with him, more man than beast, crooning it into your ear, rumbled from deep in his chest. at first, you thought it was a means to make jest of you, but cregan wouldn’t dream of using such a special endearment with anything but aching devotion. “so pretty for me, pup,” he’ll mouth against your cheek, nuzzling into the warm flesh as he holds you close after another night of giving your bodies to one another. “does my pup want more?” your husband would ask seeing you eye the now empty plate of lemon cakes onto the table at supper, a pout onto your lips. “no, pup. we can’t afford such luxuries today,” he regretfully murmurs before pressing an apologetic kiss to your cheek. “be good for me, pup. don’t fuss.” cregan would growl against your nape as he held you down beneath him, ceasing your squirming.

werewolf!cregan stark who lets himself be the ancient, feared beast in the sanctity of your chambers. massive, furred, and dangerous, but never one to hurt even a hair on your pretty head unless you wished it. at times, you ask for the animal yourself, needing to prove to your husband that you love every inch of him. that, and having a hulking, panting mountain of a man-wolf wanting nothing but to lose himself in you makes your cunt shamefully wet. you know most people would find you mad, to feel and desire such a thing from a beast who could tear your throat out in one swift movement, but you cannot help yourself. for that is still your husband, and knowing that even like this, changed and wearing the skin of a wolf, he still wants for you in the most primal of ways, wills your thighs to spread open and present yourself to him in a heartbeat.

werewolf!cregan stark who takes you to the godswood late into the night and tells you to run as fast as you can, for he will give you a wide berth before catching you. the night air is so cold, and you’re wearing nothing but his cloak around you, since your husband wanted you bare and ready for him when he’ll get his claws on you. clothes are bothersome, and the beast is hungry, but he, of course, allows his wife the decency of a warm furred cloak, not wishing for you to freeze before the hunt even began. watching you move through the trees, giggles falling from your mouth as you make sure to sway your hips from side to side as you move further and further away, cloak billowing behind you, offering cregan flashes of soft skin and lush flesh he wishes to sink his fangs into. he had never transformed faster, bones creaking, flesh tearing to make room for fur and muscle and brawn, growling as he leaped into motion on all fours to follow your trail. his prey was waiting for him, and he could already sniff the slick of arousal between your thighs calling out to him like a spell.

werewolf!cregan stark who finds you no long after, but doesn’t pounce yet. instead, he circles. prowls through the trees, allowing you to see flashes of him, hear the rumbles of his need, and the snapping of his maw. your breath hitches, and your chest heaves with heavy breaths of exertion from running, but it does not compare to the delicious ache you feel between your thighs, pussy fluttering and clenching around nothing, the thrill of the chase spiking your adrenaline, steadily weening it into lust. and cregan smells it, willing him into getting closer, making himself seen, paws digging into the damp earth as he approaches enough to snag at the cloak with his claws and nip at a flash of bare calf that got too close to his maw.

werewolf!cregan stark who tackles you into the ground, tearing away the cloak from your body, impatience eating away at the little restraint he has, words ceasing to exist now, all that remained being the low sounds of need from a beast whose cock hangs heavy between his legs, needing to be sheathed inside your cunt as soon as possible. he covers you fully, pinning you belly first into a pile of leaves and dirt, jaws parting to close around your nape, scruffing you, as a wolf would a misbehaving pup, keeping you beneath him as he molds his furred body against the length of your back. the bite doesn’t draw blood, but wills you into obedience, limbs melting, surrendering yourself fully to the beast above you, which draws a growl from deep within his chest, a sound of satisfaction at your subservience. you’re already so, so wet, dripping down your thighs, and cregan cannot help but hump against your ass like a dog in heat, claws scraping against the earth on either side of your head from the feeling. he’s a bow drawn tight, and the way his big, girthy cock rubs between the fat cheeks of your bottom makes his fangs ache.

werewolf!cregan stark who feeds the head of his cock into your hole with a snarl muffled against your nape, holding back from howling from how snug your pussy is around his weeping length. he should be ashamed that he is knotting the air, gorged flesh already pulsing at the base of his cock, but can’t bring himself to when you squeeze so deliciously around him, pulling him deeper and deeper inside. cregan takes you like what he is: a beast. growling and panting against your skin, scruffing you firmly as he pounds into you with fervor, drooling against your nape from how good it feels, blanketing you with his massive, furred form, rutting into your pussy hard enough to jostle you back and forth against the ground.

werewolf!cregan stark who wishes words were still given to him in this beastly form, only able to enunciate the delectable pleasure you’re giving him with nothing but growls and croons and rumbles, hoping those are enough for you to know that your cunt is the best gift you could bestow upon him, next to your heart. your moans and wanton cries delight him, only coaxing him to fuck you harder, faster, deeper, nudging his knot past the opening of your hole and stuffing you so full of him you swear your soul ascends to the gods for a mere moment. the beast rumbles when you squeeze him tight, only able to give sharp grinds into your pussy now, the knot binding you both together. cregan unlatches his maw from your neck, rough tongue lapping at the indents his fangs have left behind in silent apology, but preening with pride at having left his mark upon your skin. you babble incoherently, so lost in pleasure you barely can form a word, tears running down your cheeks from the sheer mounting pleasure you’re given, which cregan licks sloppily, tasting salt and wife on his palate.

werewolf!cregan stark who pins you down and makes you take it, knowing you can, knowing you want it, even in the dirt, and breeds you so full it leaks out of you, dripping between your thighs and onto the ground, even staining his fur. it irritates and delights him in equal measure that your body is smaller than his, not being able to take all his cum into your womb, but loving to know that he is giving you so much of his seed, his potency and virility so strong that your hole cannot keep all of it. a shame, really, to waste it away, but that is alright. cregan will only have to breed you again to make up for it, like he always does. your womb is made to take his litter, to have his pups, and he will make sure he prepares your body for it accordingly, giving it what it needs for the seed to catch.

werewolf!cregan stark who loves to press a heavy paw against the pudgy flesh of your belly, right above your crotch, to feel the head of his cock kissing your womb. to feel the slight roundness of your stomach after he has pumped you full of his cum, the flesh protruding a little from the sheer amount of it. or, to apply pressure in time with his thrusts, making you feel every inch of him as he ruts into you like an animal.

werewolf!cregan stark who gives in to his most primal desires, feral from the full moon, and fucks you into a cave at the outskirts of winterfell, at the foot of a mountain. it’s cold and damp and primitive, but your husband is too far gone to care, driving his cock into your sopping wet cunt, pressing you into the floor of the cave, only cushioned by his cloak. he claws at the rocky, rough surface, leaving indents behind on the ground on either side of your head as he mounts you like a beast, one paw lifting your hips up and backwards to meet his thrusts, presenting you to him, arching your body as far as it would go, like a cat in heat, ready to give him what he needs. your ass jiggles with every snap of his furred hips, and he howls in delight as his knot nudges deep into your hole and rubs against your gummy walls. your mouth is open and drooling onto his cloak as you leave yourself in his clawed paws to do with as he wishes, moving you as he wants you, pulling you onto his cock again and again while you moan and take it, warm cheek flush against the hard ground of the cave. cregan is mad with need, filling you with his seed until your belly swells with it, crooning against your throat as he nips at it enough to sting, then laps the pain away, only to do it again. his precious, gorgeous mate, spent under him, mewling and hiccuping wanton whines of pleasure as you let him use your pretty hole, even squirting around his cock, dampening his fur, marking him back. it satisfies a sick feeling in his chest, willing you to do it again and again, delirious with overstimulation until his fur is drenched in your juices and you are so spent you cannot string more than two words together.

werewolf!cregan stark who croons so sweetly as he cradles you under him, gentle as he turns you around to see your pretty face, your dazed, drowsy gaze, your drooly lips. and he swears there is no better sight in all the seven kingdoms and beyond. your husband is so careful as he curls beside you, using his massive, furred body to offer you warmth, paws maneuvering you slowly until you are pressed to his chest. his maw nuzzles against the top of your head, the length of your throat, the valley between your breasts, rough tongue lapping lazily at the sweat-slicked skin, offering comfort. cregan always handles you as gingerly as he can after he’s wrung every ounce of pleasure from your body, thanking you in his own brutish way for allowing him to have you, even like this, more beast than man. he grooms you, as a wolf would a pup, nuzzling and licking at every patch of skin he can, sweeping dirt and tears from your cheeks, crooning as he lulls you into drowsiness, your body lax and pliant against his hulking frame.

werewolf!cregan stark who begrudgingly allows his body to will itself into the form closer to a direwolf at times, at your request, growling as he listens to you argue that it is better for keeping you warm on the colder days and allows you to curl around him better than his other, more ferocious, towering form. you will never admit how fond you are of your husband like this, all furred and fluffy, a perfect candidate to hold and snuggle to bed, to his utter dismay. he gets more playful like this, nipping at your skirts and nosing underneath them, receiving countless scoldings from you, which the beast only responds to with a flicker of his ears and a swish of his tail. cregan can be a bastard at times, and he enjoys toying with you, lifting one of his forelegs to paw and knead at your ass or thigh when you least expect it. or smack it. whatever fancies him in that moment.

werewolf!cregan stark who has a hard time allowing you to be at your desk, foreseeing scrolls and letters for more than half an hour before he noses his way under your skirts to lap at the soft skin of your thighs and nip at your small clothes, tearing them away so he can get to your cunt. there is not much you can do when a beast is pushing his maw against your pussy, snout pressing against your slit, panting and drooling as he sniffs at the curls that hide his favourite meal. your husband’s rough tongue has no shame as it laps at you, parting your folds to taste you fully, furred ears twitching in delight as your slick floods his mouth and makes his fangs ache. his tail wags incessantly as he licks at your pussy, growling into the heat of you, uncaring of the work that needs your attention. your skirts are pooled over your waist, your wolf is between your legs, and you’re powerless to push him away, fingers coming to weave through the fur between his ears, petting fondly, eliciting a pleasant rumble from him.

werewolf!cregan stark who has no qualms in pressing his snout right against your crotch when he can sniff your moon blood has befallen you, whining needily, akin to a pup, until he can get his big, furry head under your skirts so he can lick away the blood between your thighs, lapping at it greedily, tail wagging in delight as the beast feasts. you are absolutely horrified the first time it happens, pushing at him and yelping as you try to scramble away, but big, clawed paws hold you still, pitiful whines and growls rumbling from his maw as he pleads, in his own way, for you to let him ease the pain and ache between your thighs, pulling orgasm after orgasm from you, cramps becoming merely dull afterthoughts under the care of your husband. looking at him afterwards always makes you ashamed, the fur around his jaws stained red with your blood, dripping down his neck, marking him. he licks at his chops, preening under your gaze, ears twitching. the bastard.

werewolf!cregan stark who is the first to know when his seed has taken root inside of your womb, circling you as he sniffs at every inch of skin he can press his snout against, crooning so deep you swear you feel it in the marrow of your bones. you’re going to have his pups. his litter. and he is utterly obsessed with keeping you close as much as possible, foregoing his duties when the north allows it so he can spend his time curled up next to you, nosing at your belly and lapping at the growing pudge, nuzzling it as he croons and purrs. your husband sleeps with his head onto your belly, or one heavy paw kneading ever gently at the skin there, needing to know every sound, every shift.

werewolf!cregan stark who fucks you slow and deep, even while you’re heavy with his pups, rutting into you as he’s pressing his hulking, furred body against your back, both of you lying onto your sides where you’re most comfortable, to not put strain onto your pregnant belly. one paw is splayed against it, holding it from the underside to ease the heaviness of it for you as he makes sure to drive his cock right where you need it, careful to keep his knot away, mindful of the way your body is too sensitive for such things now. instead, he knots the air, not nudging it inside your hole like he would’ve done before, restrain made of iron, the safety and contentment of his mate paramount. cregan offers his cock to you whenever you wish it while you’re pregnant, knowing that pheromones can make you crave pleasure more than before, and he is more than delighted to provide his length, mouth, everything at your service.

werewolf!cregan stark who cannot help but nuzzle against your chest, nipping at the neckline of your nightgown, sniffing greedily when he catches whiffs of sweet, warm milk leaking from your nipples and staining the fabric of your chemise. his rough tongue is lapping at the pebbled peaks through the soft material, hungry and greedy for a taste, whining and snarling softly, having half a mind to rip the garment to pieces with his fangs. he can’t help the rumble of satisfaction when you tug your neckline down with a huff, presenting your tits to him, heavy with milk and dripping what he can only assume is the nectar of the gods, for it tastes like so when he lets his tongue lap at your nipples like a frenzied dog, tail wagging incessantly behind him, looking more a pup tasting milk than an ancient beast thrice the size of his wife.

werewolf!cregan stark who fucks his pregnant wife with his tongue when he is too fearful to use his cock anymore, allowing you to rock against the textured surface of his palate to your delight, squeezing around it as if to milk him dry. he ruts his tongue into you steadily, giving you the pleasure you seek as you hold onto his fur and moan prettily. your husband is so good to you.

werewolf!cregan stark who will never admit how weak he gets when you let mewls of “good boy” slip past your lips whenever he is between your legs, his tail having a mind of its own as it wags uncontrollably, whining into your pussy from the praise, driving him to satisfy you with more vigour, leaning into the pets you offer him so sweetly.

werewolf!cregan stark who is like a sentinel when your pups are born, grooming them so carefully, licking at their downy heads and nuzzling their soft cheeks, cradling them against his furred body, cocooning them in his warmth. he scents them as often as possible, nosing at their chubby bellies and soft throats to make sure they smell just like him. so everyone knows that these precious pups are his and yours. a labour of your love.

werewolf!cregan stark who needs to leave his mark on you and his pups, scenting all of you heavily every morning before he leaves for court and duties, needing to groom and tend to his little family, crooning and purring happily when all of you nuzzle back into him. cregan’s heart couldn’t be more full.

bobby

music: springsteen (born to run is a personality trait), ccr, tom petty, fleetwood mac when he's feeling adventurous. same six albums since he was sixteen, all objectively perfect, will defend with sources (the sources are basically vibes). sings in the car, badly, loudly, totally unashamed.

movies: field of dreams (annual scheduled crying event, blames "allergies" he doesn't have), rocky i & ii, caddyshack quoted three seconds before every line, die hard every december as a matter of principle. comfort rewatcher supreme honestly. the fortieth viewing is the point actually.

porn: filmmaker's eye, so naturally, he watches with taste. appreciates a well-lit set, a real POV, a shot held at a good angle. watches: amateur couples ("we tried this for the first time" is basically his whole genre), FFM/MMF threesomes out of curiosity not ego, mirror POV, praise-heavy content, pool/gym/cheerleader stuff, face-riding, cowgirl (he genuinely loves being ridden 🥰). has almost certainly shot his own with you, warmly lit, one take, nothing you didn't sign off on. enthusiasm is essentially his whole thing, but with sexy-possessive teeth underneath. he's the guy who cheerfully shares his sandwich and will also absolutely growl mine while you're on top of him. loves praise both ways and runs his mouth constantly because that's how he's with you naturally. dirty talk turned up to the maximum, running commentary, telling you exactly what he's going to do before he does it. no ego on the switching, all of it lit like he framed the shot himself. because he did.

bb

music: he doesn't listen to music so much as he collects sounds. your humming, a random stream he liked, birdsong in the meadow, the exact rhythm of your footsteps. the one song you played while teaching him to dance and he has memorised to perfection. taste in music, essentially: you.

movies: consumed them as research. baffled by most of them, bewitched by even more of them. loves edward scissorhands and will not explain why. went completely still during ghost and asked to stop it before the end.

porn: watched it only a few times thanks to bobby insisting "its a right of passage". wanting a stranger doesn't compute to him. if pushed toward anything he'd tolerate: long, unedited single-takes, whispered instructions, first-time nervousness, ASMR-adjacent audio, slow undressing where nothing else happens for ten minutes, edging clips that go on forever. and, once, hunter/prey. he clicked it by accident and did not close it. he learned the difference between wanting and taking the hard way, and now the discipline of asking is the erotics. sensory-fixated to the point of obsession: scent, sound, breath changing, the weight of you. would keep you on the edge for hours because the wanting itself is what he's after. but the hunter/prey clip? that one had him locked in. he recognised himself in it. the vast old shape of what he actually is.

twin!bb

music: type o negative, portishead, radiohead's sadder half, cigarettes after sex played low at 2am. where bobby got the dad rock, bb got everything slower and darker. headphones in more often than not; sharing an earbud with you is functionally a love confession since he's incredibly private about everything he likes.

movies: actually watches them. lights off, full attention, because that's how he does everything, including looking at you. black swan, nocturnal animals, secretary (make of that what you will), hereditary and insidious watched without flinching while bobby yelled from behind a pillow. has quietly watched every film you've ever mentioned liking. mentioned none of it.

The neon pink light felt like the back of a club in Max’s ‘den’. You were behaving like someone found in the back of a club— lips stretched around his length, lashes teary as you bobbed up and down. One of your hands cupped his stones, the other gripping on Max’s thigh.

He was sprawled out, long legs stretched as the blonde lounged, blue eyes hazy and lidded, his pink lips curled up. Max hummed as his hand moved to your hair. Gentle at first. You hollowed your cheeks more, thighs trembling with growing arousal.

The smell of him, the stretch of your lips, how he sat on your tongue? Your hips squirmed helplessly as your neglected cunt ached. Your pretty dress was shucked up your thighs with every shift of your body.

Max’s long fingers got a handful of your hair and he pulled, hard. You whined around your boyfriend, eyes shutting as your hands shook and a hot spike of arousal hit your belly. Yet he kept pulling, pulling until you were off of him.

You blinked, eyes watery, lips slack and swollen as confused fell over your features. Max’s lazy expression shifted into something mocking. His voice dropped as he spoke, “I don’t need my mum seeing you on your knees like a common whore. Be quiet.”

You blinked, nodding as you rasped, “I’ll be quiet.”

Max gave you a smile and leaned back. He gestured towards his slick length and stones, “Alright, back to it then.” His grip guided you down onto the tip of him, leaking salty pre. You kitten licked at it, aching even more. Max scoffed, shoved you down further as you breathed in a timed manner, throat relaxing.

“No need for that grade school shit, you know what I need, babe,” he cooed, head falling back as the blunt head of his cock slid down your throat. Max huffed a breath, holding you until your nose hit trimmed light brown hair at the base of him.

You breathed through your nose, cunt dripping into your panties. Max’s grip on you released, only to relocate to the back of your neck, hand big and warm. Warmth flooded your body at the touch. You looked up through your lashes.

“Going to fuck that slutty throat of yours,” Max murmured, eyes dark with arousal. He squeezed your neck, adjusting you as the blonde began to shallowly thrust into your throat— the slick noises and Max’s stuttered breathing had your soaked cunt clenching on nothing. You bit back a whimper, breathing through your nose.

Your boyfriend watched you with pale eyes and an open mouthed smile. His hand slid to your cheek, giving it a pat. Max’s voice cut through the stagnant air, the low thrum of his music.

“Take me like you were born for it. Fuck- fuck babe, goddamn whore throat. That’s what you love, huh? Taking my cock like a dumb slut. Drooling. Cute.”

Your breath hitched, catching your breath again when he eased out. Your belly was a mess of knots, pussy throbbing with how fucking hot you were. The breaths through your nose grew sharp, frantic. Max’s big hand wrapped around your throat, squeezing at the sides.

“Tight, fucking hell, you’re squeezing me, fuck- hah, babe, riled up over some talk.”

He squeezed harder, you felt your vision begin to blur. Your hands scrabbled at your boyfriend, body thrumming as the lack of oxygen made pink and black swirl in your vision. Max shoved you down once more, gasping on a curse before spilling down your throat.

You watched your vision dim completely and ecstasy rolling up your spine before he let go, you reeling back coughing. Max watched you, eyes bright, his lips spread into a self-satisfied smirk.

He leaned forward, smoothing your mussed hair down as the deviant greedily drank your state. Shaking, sweaty, tears and snot and drool. Max grinned, thumbing your swollen lips. His voice softened a hair, thumb lazily tracing the puffy flesh.

“You came huh? Soaked your knickers in your garden dress from choking on cock? You’re so fucked up, you know that?”

He looked proud of you. You swallowed that sentiment down.

Max cupped your cheek. You instinctually leaned into it, wet eyes on him. Shame suffused your face with heat. Shame of how much you loved this. This being however Max Hastings had ripped into your brain and let loose something once unconscious.

Max always got what he wanted.

His voice dropped again in a simile of a coo, “Go clean up babe. No detours, right to my shower. Mum needn’t see that.”

Max’s lips grazed your ear as he whispered, “She still thinks you’re that prissy society girl. Go now, bun. Can’t have my family know I date a girl so easy.”

He grinned as you tucked him back in his trousers. You stood up and turned to the door, Max giving your arse a smack as you tugged the dress down, legs trembling. It wasn’t much longer after the door shut did Max come to follow along.

He taught you to be his pretty pet in the first place. Max was proud of how far you’d come along.

A big mess it was — Giuliano tried to refuse to say he will not walk the path someone written for him. That he will love whomever his heart decide it loves and marry whom it beats for. Yet Lorenzo's golden tongue worked harder than Giuliano's golden heart. The marriage came quickly but without much of celebrations. You attended it — of course — saw how reluctant your brother was to become a husband of the Foscari girl, you wore a beautiful gown and smile while guests spoke to you, you held Simonetta's hand while she smiled at you with a smile that didn't reach her eyes.

You did everything a good sister would do. You were there to show support for your family, support of the union and the new treaty between Florence and Venice.

Yet the shameful, more sinful part of the evening came later, when you already disappeared in the depths of your family villa, when you gown fell off and you slid quietly under the furs of your bed — candles burning low on your nightstand as the light illuminated in the red wine you brought in your goblet.

You were at last joined by Francesco — a guest invited out of politeness, joining his brother Guillermo that took home in your house, at the side of Bianca. He too escaped the endless celebration where everyone but the bride and groom laughed and danced before showing in your room like a shadow — like a demon tempted by the sound of the thought that ran through your head. It was far from a new thing that he did so — sneaking into your room to have you in his arms.

Sinful, sinful thoughts that would make a maiden blush, redness spilling over her cheeks like a flame of the fireplace over the walls.

And then he slid into your bed, lips pressed to you temple as a knight kissing his princess before going off to battle. Honorable really — except he was not. His hands wandered, skimmed over, gripped and caressed. His lips worshipped you in a way you thought none of the painters ever would worship their muses — pressed to your heated skin, planting needy kisses on your lips as his ragged breath dawned over them.

He always did it — left you breathless and flushed and so so loved.

Because Francesco Pazzi loved you so so much and so so desperately that each time he had to lie to his brother or to his uncle about his whereabouts he wanted nothing more than to say he was with you — loving you, adoring you. He wanted nothing more than to scream from the very top of Palazzo Vecchio that he was the man that loved the Medici lady more than anyone in the entire Florence.

But he didn’t — he never did. You kept it hidden from the curious eyes of merchants and family members that wished you bad. He kept it a secret, even from Guillermo as he couldn’t risk the news of him sneaking to bed a Medici reach his uncle.

And there he was, standing in the red doublet and golden chain around his neck — proud like a peacock when Clarice handed Bianca the newborn.

The ceremony began soft steps of them both echoed through the chair as all of the eyes were focused on the little Piero, laying snuggly in your sister’s arms as she smiled at her own husband — her belly round with their own child that would soon come too.

Then as during every baptism the sleeping bundle was handed to the godfather. Francesco’s warm smile as he leaned with the boy in his arms melted your heart — how focused he was on doing in properly, he said himself that he was never fond of children and doubted he’d ever have ones of his own if not the duty calling. But now, as your eyes scanned over him, seeing how tenderly he was holding your nephew you was tempted to call him a liar — that he seemed almost natural with a babe by his heart.

The priest spilled the holy water on Piero’s forehead and you watched as Francesco’s head turned first towards Lorenzo and his smile widened as he held his son before his gaze flickered to you and something in his eyes warmed — not quite a smile, God knew Francesco shouldn’t be smiling at you, not with everyone’s watching. But still his always stern gaze softened like always when he looked at you.

The sound of the prayer echoed as you lifted your chin slightly to quietly show approval and appreciation. The words ‘you? Bad with children? Yes, I wouldn’t be so sure’ pressed down on your tongue as your eyes followed his brown irises. You could feel your heart swell as Francesco brought the bundle of blankets closer to his chest, holding him securely as the bells rang.

You stepped out of the church alongside your mother as she held your arm, keeping you close to the side among the people Lorenzo and Clarice decided on inviting. Among faces of family you saw Simonetta with her own husband and Giuliano with his longing gaze following them as he walked hand in hand with Sandro with his studying eyes — both trying to mask how their eyes followed her every moves

The music echoed in the room in the Palazzo Medici yet it was the murmurs that were louder than any lute played by the musician.

Clarice stood with Piero wrapped in blankets and listened and thanked to the congratulation of guests that were coming up to her each time someone finally left her alone. Behind her — of course — stood Lorenzo, his hand grazing over his wife’s back in quiet support as a proud grin decorated his face.

“Will you hold him for a moment?” Clarice asked, her hands ready to pass you the infant as her gaze turned pleading. “I must find Novella and I’ll return with her to take him.” She nodded quietly and gaze you a small smile as you reached to take your nephew.

“No trouble at all” you said with you gaze pinned to the little bundle — Piero already eager to look at you with his eyes already so like Lorenzo’s

He was so light — so light and pink wriggling before he settled back into slumber in your arms as you rocked him gently with a smile.

“So strong already, isn’t he?” A voice of Francesco appeared next to you as he reached his hand to graze over Piero’s fist.

You swallowed quietly before nodding in approval “so small yet so strong” you said and watched Francesco’s eyes soften as he looked at his godson. “He’ll grow into a strong Medici” you raised your chin stubbornly as your gaze settled on him

“There is no mistake on that” he nodded yet you had a feeling that was more sarcastic than anything “yet it’s rumored that it’s Pazzi children that grow faster and stronger” he said and gave you a sidelong glance before his eyes swept back to Piero you now rocked gently to help him settle into a deeper slumber. “With coin and sworn already mastered” he added and a corner of his mouth lifted gently.

“Oh I bet” you shook your head resigned get humored “we’ll see soon enough when Bianca beat your brother’s child” you said and fixed the blanket around Piero.

Silence settled between you and him — a comfortable one yet still charged with the tension none of you tried to escape. It was a strange pull between you — caused by night spend in secret and days at pretending none of that was happening. It was strange, how close and distant he was at the same time, how good at hiding what is between you.

With the corner of your eye you saw how he nodded his head at the sight of people lifting their cups to him — silently congratulating him at becoming a godfather to the Medici heir before he leaning in and you felt his breath fawning over your ear.

“I was thinking about us not Bianca and Guillermo” he muttered before straightening and fixing the blanket once more

You eyes widened in surprise before you cleared your throat and looked at him “Francesco—“

“Will you meet me?” He whispered looking at you “later… when they focus on Lorenzo and drinking and scheming new trade routes and all this nonsense” he added and crossed him hands behind his back.

You could hear your heart beating faster and faster in your heart as he awaited your answer with hope in the brown of his irises.

“…I will meet you when Clarice return and take Piero back” you mumbled quietly scanning the crowd to see if anyone was looking in your direction and listening to your words.

“…and where did she went?” He grumbled quietly before straightening.

“She’s looking for Novella” you answered quietly and fixed your grip on the boy “…a girl you were so kind to reject” you added and looked at his profile pointedly.

Francesco’s eyes snapped to you before he shook his head making the curls on his head bounce with each move. “…don’t act like you don’t know I didn’t just for you.” He grumbled out.

You clenched your teeth and inhaled deeply as the meaning of his words hit you — Francesco rejected marriage with Novella because of his love to you, rejected a whole treaty with Venice just to not betray you by having another woman by his side.

“…You wasted a good alliance.” You mumbled before looking back down at Piero with your gaze troubled and a lump in your throat. “A move made out of selfishness.” You said and shook your head gently.

“A move made out of love.” He said after leaning down to whisper the words into your ear like a spy sharing secrets. “…would you really have me married to another while I know that your heart beats for me only?” He added and looked at your profile as you still looked at your nephew deep in your thoughts and troubled feeling in your chest.

“…no” you whispered and shook your head gently before sighing quietly. “But without doubt it was an unfair move towards Novella…”

“I have no care for her.” He said and fixed his doublet straightening. “She got her marriage, your family got the treaty with Venice, what more might you want?” He asked and his eyes narrowed as he gave you a sidelong glance with his head tilted slightly forward.

“A marriage in which she’s miserable and unhappy—“

“You must learn to put your happiness above others.” He said. “…It would do us well.”

Francesco turned a little away to nod to another merchant or aristocrat your brother invited to celebrate the baptism of his firstborn. The smile he put on looked painfully fake, it did not reach the dark of his eyes and there was only coldness on his face — maybe except for the pride he wore like a cloak to hide what is inside.

You inhaled deeply again, rocking Piero gently as he fussed quietly, nearly silent squeaks alarming you as if you were a natural in this major. As if motherhood — if only a momentarily one — came to you easily. A relieved sigh left your lips the moment Clarice walked back in the room, now with Novella by her arm, shifting you leaned towards Francesco the last time.

“…I’ll join you in my rooms the moment I can slip from here.” You whispered before nodding quietly as your eyes spotted the mischievous glint in his own gaze, the dark irises softening to the point where even the color of them seemed lighter.

“…very well.” He swallowed before walking away — mixing with the crowd again as he had it in habit to do.

Your steps were light as you walked over to Clarice with a smile — one that her and Novella reciprocated with softness in their eyes. Clarice immediately reached for her son, now that he qui slept he brought he no trouble whatsoever.

“He fell asleep without problem.” You said, passing her the infant without trying to wake him.

Clarice smiled, taking Piero into her own arms and shushed him as he wriggled from being jostled. “It seems like you have a gift for children.” She joked only before cradling his head in her hand and pressing a light kiss to the pink forehead.

“If you’d excuse me for a moment” you uttered before grabbing the skirts of your gown as you passed them and walked out of the room.

The murmur died out immediately as soon as you stepped out and walked to your wing, trying to appear as composed. Yet your heart bear wildly, you could hear it in your ears as you passed the columns of the hall and doors to the rooms of others you didn’t dare not want to enter.

Your steps were hurried and you tried not run but you could feel the rush inside you as you came closer and closer to the wooden doors of your own bedroom.

They were cold against your palm as you finally pushed them in, your hand on the cold metal of the handle as you inhaled deeply and came in.

And there he was — pacing calmly around your chamber as if he was bored waiting for you, the dark curls looked brushed over and you guessed he probably was running his hands through his hair in impatience. Your eyes met as you tried to catch his breath. It’s been weeks since you last had the chance to be like this — not hiding in the alleys, kissing like some children not wanting to be spotted and scolded by their parents or like Bianca and Guillermo once did. And you felt utterly ridiculous by having to do it so secretly.

The moment you locked the doors and turned the key in them he moved — his steps hurried as he walked to you. One hand — cold long fingers, cupping your face as he pressed his lips to your in rush. Your lips moved against his as your fingers slid onto his torso to grip the velvet of his doublet. You felt his hands slid down — one moving to tangle in your hair and gripped to tilt your head back and deepen the kiss.

You gripped his collar the coldness of the gold chain around his neck was both striking and grounding.

“Francesco—“ you breathed pulling away as he kissed down to the corners of your mouth and then down more to your jaw and neck until you had to tilt your head back.

“Just let me— let me have you.” He murmured against your skin as your eyes flickered closed

He leaned lower, burying his face against the curve of your throat where the pulse hammered wild and frantic. Francesco inhaled deeply in the way a man drinks when he has been dying of thirst and the scent of you flooded him — sweet like honeyed perfumes all the ladies seemed to wear now.

The laces of your gown came out easily under the work of his fingers — each skilled of not from pen or coin flipped between them then from the times when you’ve given yourself to him completely. Again and again and again — each lace came out with a jerk and a sound of the fabric being pulled against the fabric.

“You’ve really denied Foscari?” You breathed and your head turned to him — your eyes glossy and soft with each caress “when he came to your house, asking you to marry his daughter? You denied him for me?” You’ve asked as your knuckles came to caress his jaw and then cheekbone feeling the sharpness of them under your skin.

“For us—“ he said and leaned into your hand with softness in his eyes you saw rarely “…so we may one day be the ones that are wed.” He said and his voice was rough, hoarse “not like Lorenzo and Clarice or Giuliano and Novella… on our terms…” he said and nodded as his hand went up to stroke the apple of your cheekbone with his thumb.

You pressed your cheek to his hand — large one that cupped the whole of profile and was pleasantly cool despite it all.

“…were you serious?” You asked and your eyes flickered up to him. “About wanting child with me?” You added and swallowed with both anxiety and hope in your heart.

Francesco hummed quietly — scanning your face, your eyes, the way your fingers curled into the fabric of his doublet as if afraid he’ll stride out of your room if anything.

“I was… and still am” he said and pulled you closed “…I will have a son of my own from you one day… if you’ll have me” he said and leaned but haven’t kissed yet — simply let his breath graze over your skin as the tension went up.

He didn’t get an answer — not with words but with lips. Your mouth pressed to his again in a rushed manner, lips crashing into lips in a bruising way that would leave your path panting and stumbling towards the bed as soon as you’d part.

And that was it indeed. As soon as you pulled away, a string of drool connected you both before he pulled you into him by the hair again. Stumbling you were guided towards your bed that stood clean and proper — made by maids in the morning when you were getting ready for the mass.

You felt your gown loosen up the moment the back of your knees hit the mattress. The gold chain that was wrapped around his doublet came off and hit the floor with a clink before your hands grasped hurriedly at the fasting of the dark velvet to take it off.

With each kiss planted and each piece of clothing stripped from you your heart beat as if it would beat its way through your bones and skin and fell into his hands. A gore way but oh so tender at the same time.

“I will never tire of the sight of you” Francesco murmured against your lips before laying you down on the softness of your bed and his fingers skillfully pulled the fabric of your small clothes just to toss them carelessly on the floor to lay with the fabric of his doublet and shirt.

His hot lips pressed against your thigh and the followed by planting each little peck closer and closer to your aching core in a teasing manner just to pull himself up and caged you between his arms with a smug smirk on his face while looking at yours covered by blush.

“You speak of loving me yet you treat me so unkindly” you gasped quietly as your fingers moved to wrap around his wrist.

“Do not worry… I shall give you everything you might be in need for” he murmured against your neck as his fingers travelled down to rub you gently and collect the wetness that almost dripped from your core.

“Touch me then—“ you whimpered as you thigh grazed against his hip “please Francesco—… I will perish if you—“

Your words were cut off by his hips slotting their way between your legs, his hardness pressing against your inner thigh and pulsing with need as he claimed your lips into another kiss.

“May I?” He asked as his hands held your hip and waist to ground himself.

“Yes— god please, yes” you whispered as your fingers buried in his dark locks.

You felt his tip grazing over your entrance — teasing you as the first drops of precum collected in the pink flesh. You gasped quietly as the first few inches pressed into you and you could hear Francesco’s quiet grunt as he squeezed his eyes shut.

Your eyes squeezed shut as he bottomed out pressing his hips to your bottom.

“Oh god—“ your head tilted back against the mattress as you felt him filling you completely.

“You don’t want anyone to hear us, do you?” He rasped out before pulling away just to thrust softly into you and wetting his lips at the tightness of you that enveloped him so sweetly. “They will know… but not today… today you’re just mine” he added and pressed his lips to yours.

His pace fastened — soft, little thrust quickly turned into more sensual ones, faster ones as he rocked his hips steadily. Dark eyes scanned your face to watch over every little expression — every grimace of pleasure, every gasp and little frown he learned you made when he hit the right spot with his cock.

Your breath was ragged already — weeks without properly touching each other, nothing more than a kiss or a warm embrace showing themselves with how desperate you both were. How desperate to touch, grip, how desperate for pleasure that was building steadily in your lower belly.

This soft tingling you grew so fond of, the coil in your stomach that you were sure only he could make you feel as his cock worked steadily inside you — wet sound echoing in the room with each thrust, a lewd sound really but oh god how hot it made you all over, you it made you crave more and more until your couldn’t take more.

“What a beauty… Botticelli is a fool for choosing to paint Simonetta and not you.” He said as his fingers pressed into your hip — unmistakably trying to leave a mark no one but him will know it’s there.

“Francesco do not say that—“ you murmured as your eyebrows pulled into a frown and you could feel your eyes water under your eyelids as you felt the warmth spreading.

“It’s true—… he’s either a fool or he’s blind” he mumbled as sped up with a grunt to the point where his hips were snapping against yours.

“You’re cruel for saying that.” You closed your eyes and your chest lifted and fell down with each breath.

“…Mayhaps I am… but God knows my words are truth” he said and his hands slid to grip your waist.

You gasped as he shifted — pulling you against him as turning violently. Your landed on his lap — each knee on other side of his hips and you gripped yours instead. His chest was heaving as he looked up at you with pleading in his eyes that watered themself and you could feel him pulsing inside you desperately.

Your hands wrapped around his arms as you slowly begin to rock his hips against his — a gasp left your mouth as you felt him hitting this sweet, sweet spot that made your toes curl and cheeks to pink up even more.

Your thumbs brushed over the sharpness of his jaw as your head tilted back even more and his nose grazed over your skin — breath hitting over it with each tingle of pleasure you felt.

Your hair sticked to your forehead and bare back as a moan escaped your mouth — not able to keep quiet in the chamber as you moved with desperation.

Francesco’s fingers pressed into your skin as you whimpered as he seemed so settle to mark you in some way — even if painful.

A surprised whine left you as you felt the wave of pleasure crash into you at full force — you wrapped your arms more securely against him hiding your face in his hair as you stepped from the cliff and fell into the abyss as the coil finally snapped.

You clenched on him as he held you — hands gripping you as if he was scared you’d leave, leave him when he was so soon to follow. A mere thrust away he spilled too — deep inside you with a groan and face pressed into the crock of your neck as you felt his eyelashes and hair tingling against your skin.

A soft breath, a caught one and you simply held each other in a quiet embrace before Francesco spoke up — his fingers brushing away the hair that stuck to your forehead.

“You are both my doom and salvation” he rasped out as his Adam’s Apple bobbed in his throat with the swallow he took — pupils blown wide as he looked at you in awe.

“I love you.” You mumbled cupping his cheeks and stroking over his skin with your thumb.

“I will worship you till day I die.”

Thank you for reading! I hope you liked it! I had the luck to publish it on literal steps of Palazzo Pazzi in Florence and oh my god Florence is really as beautiful as they say it is. Literally I’m like… okay I’m in Florence, Francesco Pazzi where are you? 😛 Also I wanna thank you SO MICH for 3k followers you mean the world to me!!!

taglist: @ghostlybfgf @trixxxel @userhotd @qardasngan @elisabethturner1919 @sczlxdy @itspbjellytime @morriganstark @aerangi @nanascharms

One little stall selling painted glass birds had caught your eye while your fellow ladies chatted amongst themselves. You had wandered only a few paces, stopping to admire how the afternoon sun caught the tiny wings.

When you turned your ladies were gone.

“So strange…” you murmured to yourself, standing on your toes to try and get a better look. There were too many people.

A fishwife shoved past you carrying two buckets. A butcher dragged a squealing pig through the crown. Merchants shouted over one another.

“Fresh bread!”

“River trout!”

“Fine Dornish silks!”

You hurried in the direction you thought your party had gone. Only to find yourself somewhere entirely different.

“…Gods.”

Your heart began to pound. Every street looked the same. The towering walls hid the Red Keep from view, and the city swallowed every landmark you’d thought you’d remembered.

You stopped beside a fountain, turning slowly. “I was just…” you whispered helplessly. “It was this way… was it not?”

A whistle echoed somewhere nearby, then shouting.

“Move aside! Gold cloaks coming through!”

The crowds parted almost immediately.

Men in dark armor trimmed with gold strode though the street with practice confidence, their golden cloaks billowing behind them.

At their head rode a broad shoulder knight atop a dark bay horse. Even seated in the saddle he looked imposing.

His armor was immaculate despite the dusty streets, polished until it caught the sunlight. A trimmed beard framed a stern face weathered by years beneath the sun, while sharp brown eyes swept over the bustling marketplace with quiet authority.

The commander. You know him at once from whispered conversations, you’d overhead since arriving.

Ser Luthor Largent. Commander of the City Watch.

He noticed you almost immediately. Perhaps because every other noblewoman hurried from the streets with their escort.

You stood completely alone.

His horse slowed and the men behind him halted without question. Ser Luthor studied you for a long moment before speaking.

“My lady.” His voice was deep and calm. “You appear rather lost.”

Heat rushed to your cheeks. “I…” You attempted a smile that quickly faltered. “Perhaps only a little.”

“A little?” he questioned.

“I do know I am somewhere in King’s Landing.”

One corner of his mouth twitched upward. “That is quite the remarkable deduction, my lady.”

You couldn’t help smiling despite your embarrassment. “I became separated from my fellow ladies.”

“I gather as much.” He responded. He swings easily from his saddle. Up close he seemed even taller if that was even possible. His cloak settled heavily behind him as he approached, removing one leather glove. “You are no common merchant’s daughter.”

“No.”

“The embroidery on your gown gives you away.”

You glanced down. Your traveling gown bore your father’s sigil stitched in silver thread across your sleeves as typical of a daughter of a noble house.

“I am the daughter of Lord—”

He nodded before you finished. “I know of your house, my lady”

That surprised you, “You do?”

“Your father arrived yesterday.” He replied.

“Do you mayhaps remember every visiting lord that comes to King’s Landing?”

“I tend to make it my business.”

Of course he did. He commanded the safety of the entire city.

“You are fortunate.” He paused looking around the crowded streets. “There are worse place in Flea Bottom to lose one’s way.”

Your stomach dropped at hearing where you were. You heard the tales of Flea Bottom and were told to stay far from there. “This is Flea bottom?”

He raised an eyebrow. “You did not know?”

“I thought I was near the Street of Silk at least.” You said sheepily.

One of the Gold Cloaks behind him let out an unmistakable snort. Ser Luthor cast him a look. The man immediately found the ground suddenly fascinating. Luthor returned his attention back to you.

“The Street of Silk is several turns away.”

“…Oh.”

“You wandered quite far it seems.” He spoke.

“Yes. I noticed.”

Another faint smile touched his lips. “So, you did.”

For a moment neither of you spoke. The noise of the city rushed around you. Finally, he inclined his head. “If you permit it, my lady…”

He offered his arm to you. “I shall return you safely to your father’s apartments.”

You looked at the offered arm. At the commander standing so patiently before you. “I would be most grateful.”

Your fingers rested lightly against the leather covering his large forearm. His armor was warm from the afternoon sun.

Without another word he began guiding you through the city and up to the red keep. His men followed several paces behind.

You discovered quickly that Ser Luthor knew every inch of King’s Landing. Every alley, every shortcut, and every merchant greeted him with respectful nods. He acknowledged each with a brief inclination of his head.

“Do you know everyone?” you asked.

“Not quite everyone.”

“It certainly seems that way.”

“I know enough or who matter.”

A little boy darted between them carrying stolen apples. Before anyone else could react, Ser Luthor reached out, caught the child gently by the shoulder, removed two of the apples from beneath the boy’s tunic, and handed them back to the furious fruit seller.

He looked towards the boy giving him a stern look, “No more stealing today. Do you understand?”

The boy nodded miserably and Luthor released him from his grip. With that the child sprinted away.

You asked, “You let him go?”

“I did. He was hungry.” The fruit seller grumbled but accepted the two silver coins from the commander in exchange for a couple of the apples.

“Why did you pay for them?”

“The city is quieter when hungry boys become honest ones.” He replied.

You stared up at him with that answer. “You are kinder than your reputation lets on.”

“My reputation?” he asked.

“They say the Commander of the Gold Claoks is stern and does not falter.”

“I am.”

“But they also seem to neglect the fact that he is also generous.”

“I try not to advertise it.”

You laughed softly. His eyes flickered towards you then. It was the first time you saw genuine amusement there.

“You laugh easily, my lady.”

“I’ve always been told that is one of my better qualities.”

“I would agree.”

The words came so simply and so matter-of-factly. Yet they sent warmth rushing to your cheeks that you had hoped he did not notice.

By the time the familiar banners of the Targaryen’s came into view, servants were already searching the street in a panic.

“There she is!” you heard your father say. Your father came rushing through the courtyard before dignity could stop him. “My sweet girl!”

He pulled you into a fierce embrace. “Seven save us! We feared—”

“Do not worry. I am well, Father.” You looked toward Ser Luthor. “The Commander found me.”

Your father’s expression transformed immediately. He released you before bowing respectfully. “Ser Luthor.”

“There was no harm done to your daughter, my lord.”

“You have spared me a terror I shall never forget.” A Lord though he was, your father clasped the commander’s forearm with heartfelt gratitude. “I owe you and thank you greatly.”

“No debt exists, my lord. It was my duty to make sure she was brought back to you safely.”

“Nonsense. There most certainly does.”

Your father looked towards the keep up to where your apartments were located. “You must allow me to thank you properly.”

“There is no need.” Ser Luthor said.

Your father was not having it. “But I insist.” He smiled broadly. “You will dine with us tonight and I will not have any more disagreements about it.”

Ser Luthor hesitated, “My duties—”

Your father cut him off before he could finish. “They can survive for one evening. I will ask Prince Daemon to approve this.”

At this point you found yourself speaking to the large knight standing next to you. “I would very much like to thank you as well. Please.”

For the first time since meeting him Ser Luthor looked almost uncertain, but only for a heartbeat. Then he inclined his head.

“I would be honored.”

Dinner passed in easy conversation. Your father asked endless questions about the city and Luthor answered each patiently.

“The crime has lessened this year.”

“And the prince supports your patrols?”

“He supports results. Prince Daemon was the one who gave me this Gold Cloak and I do not try to disappoint him.”

“And the people? Do they also agree?” your father asked.

“They tend to complain less when they feel safe.”

You watched him far more than you contributed. How carefully he listened before speaking. How respectfully he addressed your father despite their different stations. How his laugh—rare though it was softened his entire face. At one point he caught you looking.

Your eyes met then. You looked away first.

Gods… how embarrassing.

That night, long after the candles had been extinguished sleep refused to come.

You laid there staring at the carved canopy above your bed. Your maid thought you restless from the fright. She was wrong. Every time you closed your eyes you saw golden cloaks sweeping through the marketplace. Brown eyes meeting yours.

“You laugh easily.”

“I would agree.”

You remembered the warmth of his arm beneath your hand. The quiet confidence that followed him like a shadow. The way everyone in the city seemed to trust him.

You smiled in the darkness. It was ridiculous, you had known the commander for scarcely half a day. And yet… The handsome commander of the Gold Cloaks had become the only thing occupying your thoughts.

Somewhere beyond your chamber window, the bells of King’s Landing rang in the late hour.

You wondered if Ser Luthor was still awake. Whether he had already returned to patrolling the streets. Whether he had already forgotten the young noblewoman who had gotten hopelessly lost amongst painted glass birds and winding alleys.

You rather hoped he had not.

The Red Keep was infinitely easier to navigate than the street of King’s Landing. That did not make it any less lonely though.

Your father had spent nearly the entire morning preparing for his audience with Queen Rhaenyra. Every ribbon upon his cloak had been straightened twice over, every word of his oath rehearsed until even you could have recited it to her.

“It should not be long,” he’d assured you.

It had nearly been two hours at this point. You had watched squires hurry through corridors carrying messages. Lords in rich velvets passed one another with carefully measured smiles. Ladies whispered behind jeweled fans while servants moved as silently as ghosts.

You had explored nearly every gallery that was open to visitors over the last few days. Admired tapestries depicting Aegon’s Conquest. Paused before narrow windows overlooking Blackwater Bay. Counted the dragons carved into the stone columns simply to pass the time.

By the time you reached one of the long galleries overlooking the inner ward, you rested your forearms upon the stone balustrade with a sigh.

“I should really have brought a book.”

Below, knights crossed the yard. Stableboys hurried after horses. Gold Cloaks entered through one of the gates.

Your attention drifted lazily across the courtyard until one familiar figure appeared.

Black armor edged with gold and a heavy golden cloak. His broad shoulders that seemed impossible to mistake. Ser Luthor.

Your heart gave an entirely unreasonable leap. He crossed the courtyard with purposeful strides, disappearing through one of the council entrances.

“He’s here…” You smiled to yourself before quickly looking away, as though someone might accuse you of staring.

It had been four days since you saw him last. Four days since he’d escorted you safely back to your family. Four days of finding entirely too many excuses to wonder what the commander of the Gold Cloaks might be doing.

You wondered whether he remembered you at all. Surely, he met dozens of noble ladies. Surely you had been nothing more than another duty for him.

You sighed softly, “Foolish girl.”

Not terribly far away, Ser Luthor emerged from a chamber, the heavy oak door closing behind him. His conversation with Prince Daemon had been…productive.

Daemon has wanted additional patrols around the harbors after rumors of the greens coming in by ships. Luthor had given his reports. The prince had argued and Luthor argued right back.

The meeting had ended precisely as most conversations with Daemon did—with mutual respect from decades of friendship that was hidden beneath sharp words.

He rolled one shoulder as he walked the corridors. Then he slowed.

Something made him glance toward the gallery above. A familiar laugh, one that was soft and warm. His eyes lifted to the sound.

There you stood near the balustrade, sunlight spilling through the tall windows behind you. You were the vision of the Maiden herself, he thought to himself.

You were looking out over the courtyard completely unaware he’d seen you. For reasons he couldn’t entirely explain and yet his feet changed direction.

You had nearly convinced yourself to continue wandering when a familiar voice sounded behind you.

“My lady.”

You turned so quickly your skirts swirled around your ankles.

“…Ser Luthor?”

He inclined his head. “It is good to see you again, my lady.”

“And you!”

Gods. Was that too eager? Judging by the faint smile that touched his lips…perhaps not.

“I trust you’ve managed to avoid becoming lost again?”

You laughed then. “Sadly, I have remained entirely within the Keep to avoid such things.”

“A wise precaution.” He said with a smirk.

“I thought it would be.”

For a moment neither of you spoke. It wasn’t an uncomfortable silence, but merely quiet.

“I hope,” he said at last, “That your stay has been pleasant.”

You nodded, “It has.” But then you hesitated. “Although I confess I have grown rather bored as of late.”

He looked a bit confused by that. “Bored?”

“My father has attended meetings nearly every day.”

“The affairs of lands and kingdoms are rarely exciting for those waiting outside of the room.”

You realized you nodded in agreement a bit too quickly. You tried to change the subject hoping you haven’t proved yourself boring to him as well.

So, you blurted out, “I’ve begun naming the ravens.”

One of his eyebrows rose. “You’ve named the ravens?”

“Yes. There are six I see most often lately.”

You two slowly began to walk down the hallway relishing in each other’s company.

“I should like to know what you named them.”

You wrung your hands together before you spoke, “Well there is Lord Peck.”

Ser Luthor blinked. “…Lord Peck?”

“Yes. He is the one who seems to carry himself most importantly. There is also Lady Feather. She is a very distinguished bird.” You couldn’t help but giggle then. You drew another rare smile from him.

“You truly do laugh easily.” He spoke.

“You remembered.”

“I remember many things. Especially the sound of a lovely lady’s laugh.”

The words settled warmly inside your chest.

He looked toward one of the open archways leading outside. “Have you had a chance to visit the gardens?”

“No, I have not actually.”

His gaze returned to yours then. “If it would please you?”

He offered his arm once more. “I could show them to you.”

Your answer came before propriety had the chance to interfere. “I would like that very much.”

The gardens were unlike anything in your father’s lands. Stone pathways wound through flowering hedges. Roses climbed up white trellises. Lavendar swayed in the breeze while bees drifted lazily from blossom to blossoms. Somewhere nearby water trickled from a marble fountain.

“It is beautiful.”

“Many princesses from prior years favored this place.” Ser Luthor said.

“I can understand why. I would too if I had a garden like this.”

You both walked side by side beneath flowering trees. Neither of you felt rushed to fill the silence. It surprised you how comfortable the quiet could be when enjoying someone’s company.

Eventually curiosity won.

“May I ask you something?” you asked.

“You may.”

“Were you always commander or did it take years for you to get to?”

A soft chuckle escaped him. “No. I have only been commander over the last few years.”

“Huh. I cannot imagine anyone else doing it.” You admitted.

“I began as any other gold cloak, but I have the pleasure of having Prince Daemon to be the one to give me this cloak nearly twenty years ago.”

“I’m sure that was an imposing sight a younger you with Prince Daemon.”

“One could say that. I was also considerably less patient then.”

“I find that difficult to believe.” You jested.

“I assure you, it is true.” He spoke.

“Well, you are patient now.”

“So, I’ve been told.”

“By everyone?” you asked.

He looked sideways at you.

“Only by one lady in particular.”

Heat blossomed across your cheeks hoping he was meaning you. You lowered your eyes with a smile trying not to make it obvious.

The gardens eventually gave way to a stone overlook. The wall overlooked the cliffs below. Far beneath, waves crashed against black rocks. Beyond stretched Blackwater Bay, glittering beneath the afternoon sun. Ships dotted the horizon with various colored sails.

The sea breeze tugged gently at your hair.

“It feels…” you searched for the words. “Peaceful here.”

“It is.” He agreed.

You rested your hands upon the weathered stone. “I think this may be my favorite place in King’s Landing.”

“It is mine as well when I can get the chance to see it.”

You looked up to him. “Do you come here often then?”

“Not usually. Being commander, I do have more time to patrol all over King’s Landing. So, whenever I get a chance to come see the gardens I try to. Just for a few moments of quiet. King’s Landing truly never sleeps.”

For several moments you simply watched the sea together. Then, quietly you gave yourself enough courage to finally admit your thoughts.

“There is something I’ve wished to tell you, Ser Luthor.”

He turned towards you. His brown eyes are fixated on you now. “What would that be?”

You swallowed. “I fear it may sound terribly foolish, but I believe I must get this off my chest.”

“I do not think it would be possible for you to sound foolish.”

You laughed nervously while wringing your hands together. “I’ve scarcely stopped thinking about you.” You blurted out.

There was a long stretch of silence between you two.

Gods. Perhaps you should not have said it, but you only continued. “I know we have met only briefly.”

Your words tumbled over one another again. “And perhaps it is terribly improper and perhaps I ought not say such things. But after you found me and after dinner and now seeing you again…”

You looked down at your hands. “I simply wished you to know how grateful I am.”

Before you could continue, he broke the silence. “You’ve been thinking of me?”

You nodded once right away. “I have.”

A long silence followed this time. It wasn’t awkward or uncertain. Only thoughtful.

When he finally spoke, “I had hoped I was not alone in my feelings.”

You looked up quickly. Almost shocked that he said that. “What?”

“I’ve though of little else these past four days.” He admitted.

Your breath caught. “You have?” you asked taken aback.

“I have found myself wondering whether you had returned back to your home.” He smiled faintly. “And whether you’d become lost again.”

You laughed through your surprised “I have not thankfully.”

“I wondered whether I’d imagine how easily conversation came between us and I wondered whether inviting you to see the gardens today was inappropriate.”

“I am glad you invited me.” You said with a smile on your face.

“So am I.”

The breeze stirred between you. He took one step closer as if the breeze was pushing him towards you. It was close enough that you could see the flecks of gold hidden in his brown eyes.

“I am no prince,” he said quietly to you.

“I know.”

“Nor am I some great lord and my life belongs largely to this city.” He added.

“I know it is.” You said reassuringly.

“And still…” his gazed searched yours hoping it would reveal what he was looking for. “You’ve occupied my thoughts from the moment we parted.”

Your heart felt impossibly light now.

“So we have both been equally distracted.” You quipped.

“It would seem so.” He agreed.

For a moment neither of you moved and then very gently he lifted one hand. Not to seize yours, but only to brush a loose strand of hair back behind your ear that the wind took. His fingers barely grazed your skin.

“If this is unwelcome, my lady you must only say.” He said comfortingly.

“It isn’t.”

His eyes searched yours one last time. Giving you every opportunity to step away.

You didn’t. Instead, you closed the small distance left between you. You stood on your tiptoes to reach up to his face and as he leaned down, he kissed you and it had been impossibly soft. Barely more than a brush of his lips against yours.

When he drew back, you found yourself smiling before you even realized it.

“So…” you whispered.

“So.”

“I believe,” your smile widened. ‘I shall be thinking of you even more now Ser Luthor.”

A quiet laugh escaped him. “I am afraid the feeling is mutual my lady.”

Behind you, the sea continued its endless song against the cliffs, and for the first time since arriving in King’s Landing, the great city no longer felt quite so overwhelming.