Dodo Girl 🐥👧

The height difference makes it practically impossible to have missionary sex so you’re forced to try out new positions, to see what works best for you.

Riding him is one of the options and personally Erling loves it. He stays seated, letting you ride him. To see you getting all flustered and sweaty, your hands dearly holding onto to his shoulders as you fuck yourself on his cock. The steady bounce of your breasts as you’re the one controlling the speed and how much of him you take. 

If you get tired, he can always move his hips from underneath you or help you ride him. His hands palming your ass, effortlessly moving you up and down like a weightless doll as you rest with your face on his shoulder, worn off.  

He definitely teases you in this position, a half smirk on his face.

“Getting tired already, huh? But, baby, this is only round 1 yet.” 

“So desperate for my huge cock. Fuck, keep going, baby.”

Doggy style is also an option, but Erling has to be careful as not to hurt you, given his immense strength. The good thing is that he goes much deeper, alongside with the primal feeling the position provides you. 

It’s usually reserved for when you need to blow off some steam, ending up in a rough sex session. It’s so intense to have him manhandle you, his fingers digging into your hips, holding you there as he fucks you.

“I’m gonna fuck you so good, you’ll feel me inside of you for weeks.”

“Look at that, taking my cock like you’re made for it.” 

Table top is also a frequent position in your sex life, being a good replacement for the impossible missionary one. You love it when he fucks you in this position, his hips steadily meeting yours as his hand sneaks to your clit, bringing you closer to your release, facing each other. The bed/table/furniture constantly squeaking underneath your joint weights, especially when Erling picks up the pace. 

Even though these are the most frequent sex positions you guys do, you clearly end up doing more riding and table top as they’re the ones that actually allow you to face each other, something that you love a lot. 

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A gasp fell from your lips as Erling shuffled behind you, the tip of his cock brushing against your sweet spot as he did.

You rolled your hips back into his, wanting him deeper than he already was.

His tired eyes watched as you continued to push against him, your cunt wrapped tightly around his cock, squeezing him.

“Feels good, doesn’t it?” Erling murmurs softly, his hand resting on your hip, gripping gently.

“Yes, so good.” You moan quietly, reaching down to rub against your aching clit. Erling grabbed your leg, tossing it over his own pushing him even deeper, just the way you wanted.

His hand slid up your neck, gripping your jaw to turn your face towards him. He leaned closer, kissing you gently, his tongue slipping past your lips.

You couldn’t help but moan into the kiss, continuing to roll your hips as he began to thrust into you slowly, savoring the feeling of being inside your warm cunt.

“You feel so good.” Erling moaned, his hand tightening around your neck, his eyes staring into yours and watching your face twist in pleasure.

“You too.” You arched your back against his chest and moved your hips faster, what Erling was giving you, wasn’t enough. You needed more.

“Harder, please.” You whimper, you were desperate and needy.

“Only because you asked nicely.” He kissed your shoulder before gripping tightly on your hip as he began to pound into you mercilessly.

His hips slapping against your ass repeatedly, the room filled with the sounds of skin slapping and your broken moans.

“Erling!” You cry out, your cunt clenching around him tightly, warning him of your release.

The Emirates Stadium erupted the moment the referee blew his whistle. Dortmund versus Arsenal. The fixture every football fan had circled on their calendar , not just for the title race, but for the inevitable showdown between the league's two deadliest strikers.

There were rivalries, and then there was Erling Haaland vs Y/n L/n

For three consecutive seasons, the footballing world had watched the two brightest young strikers tear each other apart every time Borussia Dortmund and Arsenal met. Every match ended the same way, with one of them celebrating, the other fuming, and both refusing to shake hands. They fought for every ball, every goal, every headline, and every individual accolade. The media called it football's greatest rivalry after Messi and Ronaldo .Fans called it a blood feud. Erling and Y/N simply called it another Saturday.

The young players had quickly caught the eye of the world after their heated argument when Y/n lost for the first time because of Erling Haaland. That day went down in history, naming this rivalry as one of the most heated rivalries ever seen in football.

Today was simply another day, fans were cheering throughout the audience for both the teams. More interested in Erling and Y/n facing each other rather than focusing on who's gonna win. As much as they despised each other, the tension between them was widely celebrated as something more than just a rivalry, maybe an attraction?

As the players emerged from the tunnel to a wall of roaring supporters, cameras immediately abandoned the captains and zoomed in on the two strikers. Both of them warming up with the most intensity they've shown as compared to their other matches.

Neither acknowledged the other at first, but everyone knew it was only a matter of seconds before they decided to turn football into rugby.

"Still think you'll outscore me this season?" he called, loud enough for only her to hear.

She scoffed, looking at her teammates "Check the Golden Boot standings, Viking." While he just let out a chuckle.

From the commentary box, the pundits chuckled. "And there it is. Thirty seconds on the pitch, and football's favorite rivals are already at each other's throats."

The referee's whistle echoed around the Emirates Stadium, sending over sixty thousand supporters to their feet as Borussia Dortmund tapped the ball into play. The opening minutes were exactly what everyone had expected , fast, aggressive, and unrelenting. Arsenal's midfield pressed high, Dortmund answered with quick one-touch football, and every successful pass was met with cheers or jeers depending on the colour of the shirt.

The cameras, however, barely left two players.

Y/N and Erling.

They weren't even on the ball half the time, yet they were constantly in each other's orbit, exchanging shoves as they jostled for position, muttering comments under their breath whenever the referee wasn't looking. It had become such a familiar sight that the commentators almost laughed.

"You'd think these two were more interested in annoying each other than winning the match." Said the commentator clearly enjoyed it just as much as the world did.

"Three years of this rivalry and neither has mellowed in the slightest."

In the seventh minute, Dortmund finally found an opening. Jude Bellingham intercepted a loose pass in midfield and immediately threaded the ball forward into Erling's path. The Norwegian exploded into space, eating up the distance with those impossibly long strides as Arsenal's defenders scrambled to recover.

The crowd held its breath.

Everyone knew what usually happened when Erling found himself one-on-one with the back line.

Before he could enter the penalty area, another figure in red darted across his path.

Y/N.

She timed her run perfectly, matching his pace stride for stride until they were shoulder to shoulder. Erling attempted to shield the ball with his body, leaning into her with enough force to push most defenders away.

She refused to budge.

"So that's your plan, Haaland?" she said between breaths, never taking her eyes off the ball. "Run in a straight line and hope no one catches you?"

"Oh?" Erling replied with an amused grin. "It's worked against you before."

With a sharp touch of his right foot, he tried knocking the ball beyond her.

Y/N anticipated it.

Sliding in at precisely the right moment, she hooked the ball cleanly away before popping back onto her feet almost instantly. The tackle was so precise that the referee simply waved play on as the Emirates erupted into thunderous applause.

The replay flashed across the stadium's giant screen while Erling turned to look at her, equal parts impressed and irritated.

She flashed him the sweetest smile she could manage."You'll have to be quicker than that. Can't just row your boat now Viking."

He exhaled a quiet laugh, shaking his head as he jogged back into position, "You know L/n, I've got eighty-three minutes left so that's plenty of time to embarrass you."

"In your dreams, Viking."

By the time the final whistle sounded, both of them were exhausted, covered in sweat and grass stains after ninety minutes of trying to outplay one another. They shared a brief nod as they passed in the handshake line in a silent acknowledgment that neither had made it easy for the other. It wasn't respect either of them would ever admit out loud, but it was there nonetheless, hidden beneath years of fierce competition.

Everyone noticed how their handshake stayed for a bit too long considering they hated each other on field.

The rivalry continued exactly as everyone had come to expect. Every meeting between Arsenal and Borussia Dortmund was another chapter in football's most infamous feud, with Erling and Y/N refusing to give the other even a second's peace. They argued over every foul, mocked each other's celebrations, and turned every post-match interview into another opportunity for thinly veiled jabs. Fans loved it. The media couldn't get enough of it. Neither of them ever admitted it, but they had become each other's greatest motivation. Every goal Erling scored made Y/N train harder and every award Y/N won made Erling determined to reclaim it. Somewhere along the way, beating the other had stopped being a goal and it had become an obsession.

Their next meeting, however, changed everything.

With Arsenal leading by a single goal late into the second half, Dortmund threw everyone forward in search of an equaliser. The tempo became frantic as tackles flew in from every direction, neither side willing to give an inch. Y/N chased a loose ball down the left wing, just managing to reach it before Dortmund's defender could.

She never saw the challenge coming.

A reckless slide crashed into the side of her ankle, sending her tumbling violently across the turf. The stadium fell eerily silent as she cried out, immediately clutching her leg. The referee's whistle sounded at once, but before anyone else had reached her, Erling was already there. A shocker for the crowd because he was not even near her when she fell, he ran through the field.

"Medic!" he shouted, waving frantically toward the touchline. "Get the physios on, now!" He dropped to one knee beside her, his usual cocky grin nowhere to be found.

"Y/N..."

She squeezed her eyes shut, trying to steady her breathing. "I'm okay" she croaked.

"No you're not." His voice sounded firm.

She managed a weak laugh despite the pain. "You sound worried, Haaland."

"Don't think too much of yourself, I'm annoyed, I was gonna beat you."

"Liar."

The medical staff finally arrived, carefully examining her ankle before signalling for the stretcher. Y/N's head shot up the moment the club physio looked at the referee and made the substitution signal. "No" her voice was shaky but firm.

"No, I'm fine."

She tried to push herself upright, only for a sharp bolt of pain to shoot through her ankle, forcing her back onto the grass with a hiss. "I'm staying on."

"Y/N—" the physio began gently.

"I said I'm staying on!" she snapped, frustration spilling over as tears of pain welled in her eyes. "It's the Champions League, I'm not coming off because of one tackle!"

The fourth official was already preparing the substitution board.

"No!" she cried, shaking her head furiously. "Don't you dare take me off!" She looked at her coach and yelled, "I am fine!!"

Erling crouched down until he was at eye level. "Hey" he called out. She refused to look at him.

"Don't."

"Y/n Look at me."

"I said don't." She turned her head to the side, clenching her jaw while holding her ankle in pain.

There was a brief silence before he spoke again, his voice noticeably quieter than she'd ever heard it. "You're hurt", she finally met his eyes, anger flashing across her face. "You'd love that, wouldn't you?" she spat. "One less problem for Dortmund."

For a split second, something in Erling's expression faltered. Then he gently rested a hand against her shoulder. "I want to beat you," he said quietly. "Not your injury." He didn't pull away. He simply squeezed her hand once before stepping back, watching in complete silence as she was carried off the pitch.

As Arsenal lost its star striker, they couldn't make it through causing Dortmund to win. Off field, Y/n was fuming seeing this moment and cursing herself but more to the one person. Erling Haaland.

She didn't remember walking there.

One moment she was sitting in Arsenal's dressing room, ankle wrapped in ice and replaying the match over and over in her head. The next, she was standing outside Borussia Dortmund's locker room, jaw clenched, ignoring the puzzled looks from the staff as she pushed the door open.

Erling looked up from untying his boots.

The room was empty.

"...Y/N?" He looked up to see her limping her way to him.

She slammed the door shut behind her. "So that's it?"

His brows furrowed."What?"

"You finally got what you wanted." She said coming closer to his bench

He slowly stood, his 6'5 self towering over her

"I have no idea what you're talking about." He asked with sheer confusion. Oh, don't play dumb." Her voice cracked with frustration. "You told me to come off the pitch because you knew I was the only one stopping you. The second I was gone, you had your chance."

For a long moment, he simply stared at her and then he let out a quiet, disbelieving laugh. "You actually think that's why I told you to leave?"

"Well, what else am I supposed to think?"

"I watched you get hurt." He said with a serious and unreadable look in his eyes.

"So?" He frustratedly ran a hand through his hair. "I was terrified. I don't care about beating you if you're hurt." He took a step closer, his voice low but steady. "I've spent years trying to outscore you because you're the only player who's ever made me work for every goal. I wanted to beat you. Not an injury."

She looked away, blinking rapidly."I thought you were relieved." Erling scoffed, "I couldn't even focus on the rest of the match." Silence settled between them. "I kept looking at the tunnel," he admitted. "Hoping you'd walk back out."

Her throat tightened."I was so angry with you," she murmured. "The moment you told me to go... I hated you."

"No." He said while taking a step towards her and she looked back up. "You hated what you thought I'd done."

Another step.

They were barely an arm's length apart now.

"I never hated you," he confessed quietly. "I hated losing to you. I hated seeing your name above mine. I hated that every time you scored, all I wanted to do was score one more."

A small, shaky laugh escaped her. "That's... incredibly unhealthy." "I noticed every time you'd suddenly have four goals the weekend after I scored a hat-trick." She let out an embarrassed groan.

"I was trying to beat you."

"So was I."

They both laughed, the tension finally beginning to crack. "I've been lying to myself for years," she admitted softly. "Every interview where I said I couldn't stand you... every sarcastic comment... every celebration in your face..." She smiled weakly. "It was easier than admitting I couldn't stop thinking about you."

His gaze never left hers. "I stopped believing we were enemies a long time ago."

"I know." She smiled.

"But I'd have been lying, if I told you I didn't think the same too." Followed by another beat of silence. Then she closed the distance between them, reaching up to curl her fingers into the front of his jersey. "So I guess we stop pretending now, Viking."

He looked down at her with a smirk, she leaned in first, brushing her lips against his in a tentative kiss that lasted only a heartbeat before she pulled back, searching his face one last time.

He smiled and then he kissed her again.

This time there was no hesitation, only years of stubbornness finally giving way. They laughed into the kiss when they bumped noses, neither willing to step away for long. When they finally broke apart, both a little breathless, their foreheads rested together. "Gosh I needed this so bad" he whispered against her lips as he trailed kisses down her neck.

She let out a quiet moan when he playfully bit her sweet spot and he held her waist tighter upon hearing her. As they got more into the makeout, Y/n pushed him away and whispered in his ear, "You know where I live, big boy." While kissing his cheek. Erling simply closed his eyes and smiled at the thought. "Go on before you break people's heart by revealing that the heated rivalry is over." He said as he gave her a light spank.

Y/n gasped and said , "Next time we play..." she rolled her eyes, unable to hide her grin." Remember that I'm still scoring more than you."

He laughed and kissed her again

"There's the rival I fell for."

“you can take it,” he breathes above you. his cock is only halfway in, and you already feel so full. he looks at you with hooded eyes, lust-heavy breaths as he pushes you further into the soft mattress. “deep breaths for me, baby.”

the entire night, erling has been treating you as if you’re a porcelain doll. as if you’re made out of glass. your walls squelch around his length, the slick you’re producing not enough to accommodate all of him. you feel so full, and he’s not even fully sheathed in you.

“n-no—” you wince out, “just give it to me, i— please.”

erling lets out a small, but audible chuckle at your eagerness. he grabs your hand from his shoulder to press a warm kiss to the inside of your palm. “you’re clamping down on me, sweetheart,” he laughs, “gotta open up a lil’ f’me.”

his thick fingers slide to your clit, and the moment his digits start rotating, you feel your jaw grow slack. your thighs flex open a bit more, slick dribbling down on the — now soaking wet — sheets. “oh my—”

“just a little bit, yeah?” your boyfriend groans. and despite his build, his length wedged within you, his bulging biceps next to your face, he can’t help but shiver when he pushes himself further into your heat. “doin’ so good.”

and you actually squirm. it feels like he’s in your throat. “move— please, do something,” you plead again, trying to buck your hips upward.

erling grabs your knees all the way up to your shoulders. “last one, okay? then i’ll fuck you, nice and slow,” he presses a quick kiss to your knee, a stark constrast to the lewd position he’s put you in. “biiiig stretch.”

with one last, lengthy push into your pulsing pussy and a helpless whimper from you, his hips end up flush to yours. “ah, fuck,” the blond grunts out, and your eyes actually flutter shut at his intrusion. “s’tight.”

he gives you one experimental thrust, his overwhelming weight pushing you into the bed before springing you right back. his tip kisses your cervix, all warm and snug in your channel.

“y’good, honey?” erling asks, a hint of concern in his stare. you stretch your legs over his shoulders in the process to make yourself feel more comfortable, and your boyfriend’s hands immediately come up to caress your knees, the underside of your thighs. because where you quiver underneath him, he’s stable and sure above you.

“can’t take it?” he questions, acting like you struggling to take him is a joke. like you’re just something to play with.

at his bawdiness, you clench around his cock. all you can do is take it. let him have his way with you. he’s fucking everywhere: above you, inside of you. his big hands caressing your face.

you swallow, all soundless and out of breath as he feeds you shallow, careful thrusts. “you’re so— shit— big.”

erling’s amused face gawks back at you. “aww, baby,” he coos, gripping your chin between his fingers, your lips pouting. you can spot a glint of mischief, of pride in his eyes. “you’re doin’ real good for me.”

maybe it’s just in your hazy mind, but his thrusts go deeper now, sharper. and before your mind can process it, erling grabs your flabby hand and puts it on your abdomen.

fuck, you can literally feel his tip prodding under the fine fibres of your skin. it feels as if your eyes are going to roll out its sockets at any given moment.

“y’feel that, baby?” the only sounds in the room the creaking sounds of the bedframe lightly hitting the wall and your skittish whimpers. your boyfriend looks at you, adoration and elation mingled together in his gaze.

when you don’t respond at all — mind too hazy to even think of an answer — he breathes out a somewhat unnervingly obscene snicker. “‘m all the way in your guts.”

Oh you've heard all about that, but it was adorable how she wanted to share this 'secret' piece of information with you, so you pretended to be caught off guard anyway, she was the nameday girl after-all, and a little white lie never hurt anyone, now did it? You did not know if she was to have another nameday as good as this one, considering the amount your father spent to show off, insurmountable amounts of coin that may never find their way back to the coffers.

You could not say you were particularly excited about the arrival of your guests of honor, being what you were. The kind term used for you was "natural daughter", although many preferred the short and sweet title of "bastard" when your back was turned.

And while the reputation of bastards were never truly as flowery as that surname branded upon you the moment you drew breath—it did not help at all that the war waged by one that shared your affliction was still fresh on the minds of all. Sufficed to say you were unsure of the wisdom of your being here—more so on your task of "earning favor" from your honored, royal guests, which was a more dignified way to say you were to doll yourself up to entice them into taking you as paramour—that was the best case scenario.

You doubted anything would come of it. For one, even if it was a trivial thing, you hardly knew a thing of the royal princes for you did not expect to meet them in person, much less see them a single time in your life.

As a result of that realization, you decided to pay a visit to that increasingly packed meadow, confident that you would find what you desired there, because you certainly weren't going to get any from your lord-father.

Naturally, the information was easy to find, and even more so entertaining was the night you spent acquiring it, this was one upside of bastardy, prying eyes were not constant and you were allowed to do as you wished so long as you were not recognized—an easy feat.

Opinions and telltales on the Targaryens were as clashing as night and day, you'd found.

Most were not completely content with them, one man drunkenly regaled you with tales of times he never really witnessed himself, of times before the Conquerors, when the kingdoms were independent and spent ample time affronting the house of dragon with a blistering, audacious loudness — you left him mid-rant, of course.

You doubted that any of the treason he was wasting your time and his breath with was truly any of your business, if it was anything true, and it certainly was not giving you anything of substance for you to use.

The song of the Hammer and Anvil kindly gave you a little perspective on them, not much on their personalities besides them being an excellent, unrivaled pair of soldiers, but you learned about one other thing. If you enjoyed his company enough and were so inclined to try and solicit the older prince to take you to bed—you would have a good time, if the song held any truth, what with his giant veiny "host of dornish spear-men."

The Hammer's son, Valarr, was married so that was that, you were not exactly desperate enough to be a homewrecker.

The Anvil's sons, Prince Daeron and Aerion were close to you in age, you found, neither of them had any tales or accounts that tugged at your heartstrings, they were not particularly the type of men you would swoon over. You liked your gentlemen older, leaving you only two choices, their fathers.

The older prince seemed the kind to humor a young maiden and allow you his time and conversation, but the younger prince? You were unsure of him, the man would most likely kick you right out, you doubted someone with as many sons and daughters, many of which were described with distasteful words such as "disappointing" and "monsterous", a man who had to take care of such a brood alone would not care nor have the time or energy for baser pleasures such as a woman's company.

But at a certain point during your little investigation and plans you decided not to overthink it. Princes they may be, they were no different than the men you've brought to heel before. A fact, self-evident and unchanged was as followed: there was nothing so undoing to a man than a lady's touch and smile. And you will prove it once again when those black and red banners finally show themselves in Ashford Meadow.

"Our Lord of Ashford humbly welcomes the great and honorable Baelor Targaryen, firstborn son of King Daeron the Good, Prince of Dragonstone, Hand of the King and heir to the Iron Throne," the Herald might as well pause to drink some water from how many titles he had to mention and no one would fault him for it.

And if his titles hadn't made you dizzy, the man himself made sure to make it so you were. Draped in Targaryen black, he took your breath away; with his broad shoulders, his greying hair and beard that only emphasized how handsome he was.

He towered over them all even from your perch on the stands above, you were thankful for your bastardy then, because you knew you would make a fool of yourself if he were before you now, and smiled at you like that.

"and his brother, Maekar." The herald rushed in a near stumble of words, that misstep not missed by the man heralded, you were certain his name was not said correctly either—or you thought you were certain, at least.

Was it 'may-kar' or 'my-kar'? Maybe the herald was onto something with that 'mee-kar'.

Oh who in the hells cared?

That chain of thought that only sprang out as a futile distraction from the intense heat and dizziness you felt when you saw his brother was abandoned as quickly as your mind took it up, because what little sense remained—what little he spared you at the sight of him—reminded you that you mustn't even be here.

And so you retreated back within the castle with your marching steps matched with the rushing rhythm of your heart. Your quickened pace made some castle servants slow their own to see if you were well, some instead staring at your retreating form with a raised eyebrow, wondering what managed to chip at the Lady Flowers' polished poise so much so that she would rush in a manner so unlike herself.

In the solar that doubled as a chamber for guest reception, you waited, willing away all the jitters you felt as you inspected the bowls of fruits laid out on the table for what felt like the hundredth time but truly was the fifth.

It would not do to lose composure like this.

You believed that you've perfected the art of pretending.

Ever since you've known what it meant, you've been a pretender.

You've pretended to not notice the little slights of Lady Ashford, the biggest of all being the creation of your moniker: "Lady Flowers."

It used to wound, but now you were numbed to such artless mockery.

Adding to that your many dresses being devoid of the Ashford sun, but each generously overflowing with flowers from the tops of the bodice down to the base of the skirts—each petal a reminder, underhanded yet as clear as that sun you were deprived of for so long.

It was only after your sweet sister's insistence that you would match her in garments when you finally got the chance to know what it felt to bear the sun—it felt empty.

Your grandest performance was in pretending that it did not annoy or upset you how many times you were thrown onto lords for alliances that would never bear fruition, because no matter how charmed a man would be he would much rather marry the daughter of a greater lord to better serve his position, you were momentary, an alluring distraction that was to be forgotten the second the hoofbeats of departure drummed their way out of town.

You did not understand what your father hoped to gain from this. Did he think the princes—the heir apparent and the man who was more soldier than prince—would ever think to ask for your hand?

It was laughable—but hey, at least you would be spending time with Him, and if you were lucky it would be until the morning, your father would not shame you for it, apparently—annoyingly. It seemed your "whoring" was acceptable if it was with a prince.

Speaking of, you could hear a march of steps and your father's voice following along the sounds, carrying on a conversation you'd rather not interrupt. With a deep breath, you smiled gently and charmingly, the smile of a lady who has never been tense a day in her life, the smile of a lady that doesn't know the meaning of trouble, but would be down to get up close and personal with it — the smile men liked to see.

The silver-haired prince did not even realize you were there, as did most of them, not even your father realized you were in the room, but you did not truly blame them, because you stood in their blind-spot beside the solar's entrance, and you did not announce yourself, who were you really, even your lord-father let the conversation proceed without him, so why interfere?

The older prince saw you first, his gaze sweeping, eyes sharpened with the honed perceptiveness of a man who had to learn to count every head and to whose body they were connected to before he could let his guard down for even a second in any room he stepped into.

You held his gaze, his eyes of light and dark unfaltering in their focus.

They were pretty, you decided, especially when they flitted down to take you in. The motion quick and one you wouldn't have noticed if you weren't staring back at him.

Perhaps staring directly at a prince was insolence, but he did not seem to mind, so neither should you.

Your smile grew wider, the nerves you felt settled down, he was as gallant as they all said, respectful and humble, gentle and kind with the servants, calm and understanding with his agitated brother. Regardless of his lack of respect for his hosts, deeming your sister's nameday celebrations a "miserable circus."

Your father turned around and nearly jumped in place, making the princes turn sharply to where he was staring, your name burst out of his lips in a shout.

Your smile stayed unmoving, no matter how many times you scared your father like this it was always hysterical, it was made more amusing by how the hands of the princes found the hilts of their daggers in a flash, thinking there was some danger by the way your father jolted, you allowed yourself a passing glance at the older prince's hand—just for a moment.

"Your graces, allow me to introduce you," your father started as you walked towards him at the outstretch of his arm beckoning you close.

You gave a curtsy as you were introduced, just like those disdained septas taught you, back straight as an arrow when you bent down, swift and graceful. To your surprise (and utter delight) Baelor extended a hand, palm facing up in a polite and wordless request to take your hand in a kiss, a request you granted in a near instant with girlish eagerness shrouded by a lady's restraint.

Just before his lips touched your hand the booming voice of the Anvil had him draw back. You did not like that man—at all.

"You!" He shouted and all heads turned to the doorway to find what held the man's ire.

"Who are you? What do you mean by spying on us?"

A tall man timidly showed himself from behind the carved, curved wall, the way he believed that he hid himself well was comical, something told you that was a thing that happened to him a lot. No man of that stature can really blend anywhere, but his posture disagreed with him, he slouched as if that could make the prior statement untrue.

Having realized the impropriety of your proximity, that his hand was still holding onto yours, you pulled away reluctantly and took your place next to the steward, and you watched. Looked on to the hedge knight's appeal to the prince, who only responded with grace and patience, unlike his brother who kept on interrupting, disgruntled by everything.

The admiration you held for him only grew stronger and stronger. You've never met a nobleman that was as devoid of arrogance as he. To remember a hedge knight, a stranger one met once upon a joust was not something any would bother doing, but he did.

It was refreshing, and you could tell the knight thought so too, having been turned away by so many men who have had his old master nearly die countless times under their service but were too entrenched in their own splendor to care about him over his lack of a great noble name. You were happy for him, truly, it was your sincerest hope that he would win, if not you wish he'd be agreeable to having his horse and armor bought back by a lady and not prattle on about propriety and how it would be unseemly for him to let a woman spend her silvers on him, he seemed the type, you could see it in his big doe eyes.

Now that you thought about it—does he even own any armor? Seemingly not, from that sorry string of rope tied around his waist acting as belt.

After all was said and done, and the hedge knight took his leave, you felt that it was your turn. You were done with the prelude; You have introduced yourself to them, might even go as far as to say that you already held their interest—Baelor more so than Maekar, you could not tell if the latter's looks were of interest or not, what with his scowl etched deep in his face, he was offended by your presence, most like.

But Baelor?

Everything pointed to him taking a liking to you—it was exciting. His mindful eyes spread a pleasant warmth at the core of your stomach, spreading outwards, like the warmth of a hot drink in a cold winter's night. If only that hedge night hid himself better, maybe you'd know what his lips felt like on your skin, you wonder if you might've fainted then if only his eyes had caused butterflies to swirl in your stomach.

The tall doors of your father's chambers loomed overhead — you stared blankly at them, but the frustration was close to showing itself on your face.

Mind absent, you didn't hear the footsteps approach.

"If you mean to speak to your lord-father, my lady," a genteel voice that was sure to haunt your dreams cut through the fog surrounding your mind. "you will not find him here—he has been kind to allow me residence in his chambers for the time being."

The surprise lasted hardly a second before you quelled it and gave him a curtsy. It wasn't that you hadn't known about this lodging agreement, it didn't surprise you at all when you were informed of it, your father is arguably the physical manifestation of sycophancy, it was more embarrassing than anything else if you were to be honest.

"Your grace," you greeted with a small smile. "I did not know of this change—I apologize,"

"Do not apologize, this is your home," Baelor reassured with a small smile.

Quietly, you nodded. "I will not disturb you any longer, your grace."

"Enjoy your night," you said as you passed him and the kingsguard whose name you did not know. Perhaps you could have made an excuse and said you wanted to take back something of yours, a necklace, a book, anything, you were sure he would be kind enough to let you in — but did you want to disturb him after such an eventful night and day? His patience and hospitality surely had limits.

Baelor's gaze followed your retreating form—eyes drifting down despite himself at the bare of your back—he watched until you left the corridor and his vision turned their focus towards Ser Willem, who watched the doorway you exited through with some unfounded interest—still.

The scene irked him, the man should approach his duty with the mindfulness and zeal it required—not stare stupidly like a love-struck boy.

"Ser Willem," the call of his name snapped the knight out of his stupor. "the lady is no threat— be sure to mind your manners," he said before striding off to his bedchamber, the knight following behind with a lowered head.

"I understand, your grace," the knight replied respectfully, head inclined.

The prince only gave a hum in response, eyeing him before he stepped into the unfamiliar room.

Baelor had only been here once, the feeling of discomfort he felt then remained even now—especially now. Because he could only think about it's owner's daughter, the odd feeling of want made even odder now that he inhabited the man's quarters.

It seemed that everywhere he looked he could only find the sun, whether carved into wood or stones, that sun-in-splendor would look back at him. It was not a bad thing, not quite, he found it rather amusing—until a flash of your sun-shaped pendant which hung too low off your chain crossed his mind's eye. It was not amusing then.

He stroked the spines of books as he walked along the towering bookcases, hoping that he would find something boring enough to make him drowse off as soon as he could, and stop himself from thinking about those cheeky eyes and soft hands.

Half an hour passed and he has already discarded two books, the third making the same mistake as the ones prior and failing in its job to distract him.

The headache did not help ease his plight, after a minute of massaging his temple he decided he didn't want to be in this place anymore.

"You may rest now, Ser," Baelor dismissed the knight. Ser Willem thanked his prince with some reluctance in his voice, but he didn't argue and took his leave.

He stepped onto the sundeck, eager to just get some cool air on his skin and into his lungs. Leaned onto the banisters, he took a deep breath.

A grinning honeyed voice to his right made itself known.

"Can't sleep, your grace?"

He turned, the motion quick and graceless—unlike him.

You were here.

Leaned on the palm of your hand and cross-legged with a bottle of wine beside a cyvasse board sat on the table, you had a finger playing with a dragon piece, your soft digit petting it's head with slow and gentle motions, and for a moment, an absurd feeling of envy crossed his heart.

"My lady," he greeted calmly after regaining his composure from the surprise and quite honestly, the scare. "I apologize, I did not realize you were here."

"It's alright," you reassured smilingly. "it seems like this is a habit of mine."

"Not being noticed?" Baelor questioned with a tilt of his head, he could not believe that for a second.

You hummed as you frowned, matching the tilt of his head with one of your own, looking thoughtfully at something in the far distance. He almost apologized for the offense he caused before you spoke up again.

"No, I have no issues with that," you said, then grinned again. "I meant my habit of scaring the living daylights out of the poor souls around me."

"and it seems you are my victim for the night," you said playfully and casually before raising the goblet to your lips—unknowing of the less than innocent thoughts those reckless words put in his head, dishonorable thoughts unbecoming of a man like him.

"Sorry for that, your grace."

"You needn't worry about that, I was hardly startled," Baelor lied with a smile, pleased that you hadn't run away yet. His eyes found the table once more. He was not unfamiliar with this game, but he would not say he understood nor knew much of it, busy as he was and will be for the rest of his life, most like.

"Will your friend be returning? I may leave if you wish – I would hate to intrude on your fun," He inquired, eyes set on the pieces that were out of place, who was with you? that ridiculous feeling returned to him.

"No, there is no one, I was playing with myself," you replied casually as if what you just said doesn't sound deranged to anyone with ears to hear and a mind to process.

Baelor did not comment. He sat down across from you.

"I must confess, I've never gotten to play this," he confessed.

"Too busy huh?" You asked and he nodded, smiling steadily.

"I have seen it firsthand many moons ago, a Volantene trading caravan passed King's Landing on route," he told you as he held up an ivory colored piece, examining it, it's details, the timbered feel of it. "among the many items was this game—I dare say I've never seen the courtiers more enthralled by a pastime that was not a tourney nor a feast."

"I imagine they were more docile then," you commented offhandedly, and he laughed, the sound pleasant but carried a degree of exhaustion that told you everything you needed to know.

"Oh no—no," he refuted gently. "the court is not a place for serenity, but I will admit it was… amusing to watch them compete."

Baelor looked at the disorganized board with a pair of pieces in his hand, he had the look of a lost man trying to finish a task with no instruction. He thought that maybe he should have paid more attention as he spectated Valarr and Matarys' games the few times he sat with them of late.

"Where do these go, my lady?" He asked you, lost and unsure.

"The pieces go wherever you want them to — it is a game of strategy," you explained, gathering the pieces on your side in a line, readying them for introductions.

"I can teach you the rules, then you can best decide where each piece should be—" you looked up to him with a glint in your eyes. "—that is assuming you do want to play with me, of course."

Baelor hoped that he would have enough patience and willpower to survive the night without any tainted thoughts to sully his mind. "Enlighten me, my lady." You slid the cup you were sipping on to his side, and he only realized then that there was only one. "You will need some of this to ease the headache this will bring you, your grace."

What you told him was no lie, the rules of this game were hard to take in, but he learned regardless. Time passed by, and he hasn't won a single game yet, but he was not particularly interested in winning.

Strangely, the game was not the main source of his fun, it was your conversation. You spoke with him like he was an old friend, not a prince. You spoke to him so naturally, you weren't afraid to tease and taunt, you made him question his moves with a tsk and a smirk in your eyes, not going easy on him nor letting him win—and he let you, it felt freeing in a way.

"Do you believe in spectres, my prince?" you asked, your catapult taking his dragon again. His brow arched at the strange turn of conversation – not in mockery, of course – it was a bit unexpected to go from telling him (or taunting him) on how you were going to win this match in three moves to discuss whether dead spirits walked among you.

"I could not say," he replied honestly, trying to assess whether this was a tactic to throw him off his game or not, finding no answer in your lovely eyes.

You smiled. "So… it's a no then?"

"The world is full of oddities, I am impartial on the matter of their existence, the fact I haven't seen one does not dispute that they are real." A snicker left you, he was taking the question too seriously. Baelor gave an amused smile in response.

"May I ask why you have brought this up?"

"Word has it that our castle is haunted by a ghost of a young girl—or it was haunted—it has been a while since anyone spoke of seeing her, although some servant girls swore recently that it was her behind unexplained happenings: such as slammed doors, or that it was her who called them awake by name when they tried to fall asleep, commanding them to do their work,"

"Do you believe any of it?" He asked, eyes on you and unblinking when his king fell and you won once again.

"I do not," you responded as you sat back. "anyone would attribute the doings of the wind and a half-asleep mind to a ghost if they were tired enough, especially if their madame overworks them for nameday preparations,"

"There has to be some explanation to what the servants have seen all those years ago," he said.

A grin fought it's way to your lips again despite your attempts at resisting it, mischief danced in your eyes once more, like you knew more than you were letting on and were itching to reveal it. "The only plausible explanation is that it was merely a prank blown out of scale, there was only so much to talk about that wasn't about the war at that point in time, it was no wonder they clung to the tale."

Baelor hummed thoughtfully before his hands finally moved to rearrange the pieces back in place, this time with the same setup as before.

"It was you wasn't it?" He accused.

A laugh tore through the silence that followed, all sunny and mirthful. "What gave it away?"

Baelor looked at you as if you said something preposterous, he chuckled with an arched brow. "You all but confessed with how knowing you looked, and with your penchant to joke and terrify it was hardly a challenge to connect the dots."

His smirk fell into a gentle smile. "It was good of you though, to distract them,"

Your gleeful gaze turned something coy when it left his. "You flatter me, your grace, I've only done it because I found it funny, nothing more, nothing less,"

Since it didn't seem like you'd relent, Baelor decided to leave it at that and gestured to the board with one hand. "Your turn to start I believe."

"Hm…" You looked at the board, lost in thought — for a moment — the better way to describe the look you had now was one of a trickster in bliss, by the way you tried to hide your scheming grin behind a lonesome finger to no avail, he could not help but smile when your eyes met his. Whatever you had planned he was eager to uncover it.

But uncover Baelor did not, he could not — because how could he expect that your scheme would be turning the board the opposite way? "This is hardly permitted, my lady," Baelor said as he accepted defeat and took in the formation of the pieces that were now his and wondered, should he start trying?

"Oh it's not permitted—but isn't it more fun this way?" You told him, the curl of your lips all happy and sly-like, satisfied with your little ploy.

"I will allow this, but you will be making the first move," he told you.

"Whatever my prince wants," you told him, the silvery words light and teasing, sending his thoughts into frenzy, longing fantasies with you as the sole focus clouded his mind and urged his breaths to quicken ever so slightly.

The silence only fanned the flames of chaos in his mind.

"May I ask you something, my lady?" Baelor said, making you look at him curiously. "Of course," you responded.

"You were not in attendance for the first tilt this evening—how come?"

When he could not find you, he had assumed you were tired or disinterested in such activities. However, owing to all he learned about you in these past few hours you shared—your liveliness and love for your sister—it made little sense that you have not come to enjoy the tourney in her honor.

"No," you said coolly. "I was there."

His brows furrowed in confusion, were you teasing him again? "But I could not find you?" With your chin rested atop your interlocked fingers, you smiled wickedly.

"Oh? Were you looking for me, my prince?"

"I was only curious where you might have been," Baelor replied, the warm hues of the candlelight hid the flush on his face, or he hoped they did.

That impish grin of yours fell into a gentle smile, finding the reaction to his blunder so endearing you decided to have mercy on him.

"I was in the crowd," you shivered, the action causing the strap of your dress to slip off your shoulder, you giggled as you recalled the events and raised the fabric back in place, unaware of his wistful gaze at your skin. "had the closest view of Lord Tully's sensational stunt,"

"That was dangerous," Baelor said, voice steady and stern, but you did not pick up on his meaning.

"I would not be concerned if I were you, the man must have done it so many times I doubt any raw fish would make him sick–" you said laughingly until Baelor cut you off.

"That was not what I was referring to—you should not have been down there—had you even brought any guards along with you?"

"No—there was no need for that," you said, confused by his sudden lecture. He gave you a questioning look. "How so?"

A momentary silence passed over the both of you. It would be a lie to say his concern hadn't sent warmth through you, but you were not about to get scolded for allowing yourself to have a bit of fun without having to sit with people you had to mind your manners with or else you would not hear the end of it. It was only for this night anyway, surely you can be allowed that little freedom?

"I am a woman grown, and there is no shortage of gallant men to save me should anything happen, that is discounting the ashford guards out and about the meadow vehemently instructed by my own lord-father to keep the peace—how could I not walk around without fear or care?"

Baelor's chest rose and fell with heavy, irritated breaths as he sat silently, as he looked at you silently. It was maddening how you could not see the danger behind your actions, yet your words did not lack in sense. You were right, but your reasoning—even if sound—did not ease his anxieties.

"Were you not allowed in the stands? and at this evening's supper?" Baelor questioned, restlessly twisting the ring around his finger. He did not understand, Lord Ashford hardly looked ashamed of you, no, he was more than happy to introduce you. Had anyone advised him against it? He hadn't done nor said anything to make anyone think your presence bore any insult to him or his, quite the opposite, so why?

An exhale of a laugh left you, both sardonic and entertained. No, you were not forbidden to attend, the Lord and Lady of Ashford would not pass up an opportunity to have you paraded around with so many princes, lords and landed knights about. Because if the princes did not care for you, other options should be explored.

"It was a personal choice of mine to watch the tilt where I had," you said, coldly, or perhaps it felt that way to him, he could not tell, all he knew was your warm smile and sweet laugh, the lack of them felt jarring.

"as for supper," you continued, practiced smile finding it's home on your lips. "I was not hungry." That was in a way, a lie. You had your fill—but your absence wasn't due to a full stomach—you were largely preoccupied with what you might do or say to him, figuring out which dress appeared the prettiest in the low light (or which of them slipped off easiest), cleaning off the sweat of your outing beforehand, making sure the most fragrant of oils scented the waters of your bath and now your skin, the kind you knew to turn men's heads — but you could not tell him any of that.

Imagine if you had, though, he did let you get away with so many comments and jokes that should have had you in the cells before daybreak, as soon as you verbalized them, matter of fact. "I was actually busy planning how to seduce you, your grace." Yeah… Hilarious.

So hilarious, in fact, that you decided to say it as is.

Shock, confusion, then denial crossed his face in quick succession. He chuckled, the sound betraying his confused, nervous mind and emotions, his fingers grew even more restless as they twisted and twisted that ring around. "Is this your version of an ice-breaker, my lady? because it is not as humorous as you think"

"I may have said like it in jest," you replied, eyeing him for any further reactions, heart thudding all the while. "but I spoke no lie."

"My lady, this is…" Baelor could not find the right word, or rather; He could not say it without feeling like a hypocrite.

"Inappropriate?" You finished for him cheekily. "You cannot truly believe that, was it not you who decided to sit here with me for hours, laughing and sharing wine, all while unchaperoned?"

"A lapse in judgment, a mistake I will not repeat again." Baelor responded firmly, guilt, longing and regret warring in his mismatched eyes. He stood and you followed suit, blocking his escape.

With a finger playing with the tip of his blade's hilt, you smiled, the curl of your agonizingly soft lips almost innocent, as if you were not shredding what little remained of his self-control into pieces. The space between you was far too narrow, so narrow he could catch the scent of lavender and incense with his every breath.

To him no one acted as audacious, as brazen and fearless as you were, it left him amazed how you could just speak like that, to the crown prince no less, but he had to admit to himself if not to you that it was admirable — to speak so freely, never had he such a freedom. What he had no knowledge of was your shaking hand, hidden and clenched into a fist behind your back, you were terrified.

"It was not a lapse in judgment," you countered, watching his jaw clench as his once steady eyes flitted up and down your face. "you knew exactly what you were doing; what you wanted." You stepped closer to him, expecting him to step away, but he did not, urging you on.

"You have spent your whole life working to achieve the realm's needs and wants—but what about you?"

You pressed yourself close to him, taking his face in hand, the scratch of his scruffy beard pleasant on your palm as you ran it up slowly, reverently, the heavy scent of musk and agarwood fueling your desire for him even more. Your other hand rested on his chest, feeling his heartbeat hammer in rhythm with yours. Feeling bolder at his lack of rejection, you leaned your face closer to his, and whispered: "What about your needs and wants?"

Baelor felt helpless.

He had to leave, but his legs failed him. He had to push you away, but his hands cradled your face. He had to pull back, but his nose nuzzled at yours. Every voice in his head screamed at him to run — it took the slightest brush of your lips on his to silence them. Just one brush — and what little restraint he had crumbled into dust.

He pressed you hard against him, his other hand tangled in your hair as he kissed you, lips moving against yours fervently. His tongue lapped at yours, he recognized the sweet taste of arbor red on your tongue, despite that, it was the taste of you that intoxicated him, that urged him to keep losing himself in you.

This must be the relief and ecstasy singers and poets sung about so fervently, the feeling one felt after securing their heart's desire after so many years spent hungering for it, he was so lost in that feeling that he nearly forgot of his need to breathe. It was only when you pushed at his chest that he drew back to relieve the restrictive tightness in your chests.

Baelor's hand wandered up and down your naked back, relishing in the shivers his touch caused you. "You will regret wearing such light clothes, my lady," he warned, breath warming your ear. "the night will grow cold soon."

"I do not mind it," you confessed laxly. "that chill only promises that the warmth beneath the covers would feel even sweeter. Rain is always more cherished after a drought, is it not?"

Baelor looked at you and took in the swell of your lips, that hungry feeling gnawed again and he bent down for another kiss, only to pause midway when your wandering hand found the hard line of his cock and squeezed, the sensation caused him to back you onto the table and grip at the edges of the table to hold himself upright.

His groans and pants were music to your ears—to think you were once nervous to meet him—it was only when you had the gall to let out an exhale of a laugh that he took your hand off of him, holding it up by the wrist.

"You believe this funny?" He questioned as he stared at your self-satisfied expression, voice low and tinged with a hint of offense.

"No, my prince, I was only thinking that we could have been at this sooner if I had been bolder,"

"Bolder?" He repeated, more to himself than you, not believing his ears. "There's not a single drop of meekness in your body."

"There could be many drops of you in it, if you wished it so," you offered mischievously. Baelor sighed, exasperated but no less entertained by your tempting words. "Hush now," he said, silencing your giggles with his mouth as he slipped the loose strap of your dress down your shoulders, delighting in the noise that left you when he felt and squeezed at your soft breast.

"Hands on the table," Baelor said, breathless and gaze as hazy as your own, his pupils eclipsed the pretty rings of violet and brown. You obeyed with bated breath, mind in conflict with your body, was it wise to do this here? He had that Kingsguard with him, didn't he? You didn't trust yourself to be quiet when he finally fucked you. That chain of thought was quickly abandoned, it was hard to think when you had a handsome prince reverently caressing up and down your front as he whispered words to you in a language you could not understand when he was not kissing and mouthing at your shoulder.

Just when you were about to voice your impatience, his hands left your body and you heard a clattering sound. You turned your gaze downwards to see his rings laid on the table, discarded. The implications caused that ache at your groin to strengthen, only for it to alleviate when his fingers found home, moving slow — too slow.

"You are wet," Baelor observed, gathering the wetness with smooth strokes up and down your folds, circling at your clit and going low again—his voice was too smug in your opinion. "Too wet—and you've no underthings either. You've been waiting for this moment—haven't you?"

"I—ah!" You could not get a word in before he suddenly slid in a pair of his fingers, the motion smooth and swift. Maybe you were too sensitive. Maybe it was that your body wanted him as much as your heart or that you fantasized about his hands too much — but just those two long boney fingers were enough to make your legs shake and your knees buckle under you. Baelor held you up against him with his free arm, and he chuckled. You were sure he did it on purpose, entering you just when you were about to speak. In your daydreams, you expected him to be far more gentle, but maybe it was just the fruits of your labor, poking and prodding at him the way you did — you liked this side of him, maybe you could make him worse in the best way.

Baelor listened to your poor attempts at staying quiet, moans and cries of "my prince" prettying the silence of the night. He considered keeping the fact that no one could hear you to himself, only for a bit of time, but his better nature won out.

"There's no one but us, love," Baelor told you, he could tell you were about to come off the edge by the way your walls convulsed around his fingers. "you can be as loud as you want."

"My prince—I'm so close," you whined, gripping hard at the edges of the table under you. "I know—I know, you can let go now." A cry left you as your vision went white from the intense pleasure. He slowed his fingers and let you ride down your high. You sighed as he pulled them out, then took deep breaths to regain your composure. This wasn't enough, and when you turned and looked at him, you knew he shared your opinion.

Shivers ran up your skin — the promised cold finally filling the night air.

"Come with me," you said, pulling the straps of your dress back on your shoulder, a plea in your eyes. "my bedchambers aren't too far," you pulled at his belt. "I've yet to return the favor."

Baelor looked down at you, breathing heavily, he could not ignore the throbbing ache of his groin. He took your hand in his and squeezed. "Lead the way."

You tried to contain your eagerness but fell short when it came to steadying your pace — practically dragging the man through the halls like you were late for an important matter—in a way (to the both of you)—this was something long overdue.

Fondness stirred in him at your impatience, he could not recall the last time he wanted—needed someone so badly, and it was only made all the better by knowing that those feelings were not one-sided.

Baelor let you guide him into the darkness of your bedchambers. Immediately, that same maddening scent surrounded his senses, sharpened by the dimmed candlelight and his fierce craving for you.

The same craving that compelled him to pull you so strongly by the waist and into him it tore a gasp out of you that he silenced with a deep kiss. A thud sounded as his belt met the floor along with it's sheathed blade, a clink followed and resounded in the far corner as the brass hand pin met the stone floors, his movements practiced and unneeding of sight. You separated to help him undress, rearing back with a playful smile when he tried to chase after your lips.

"I cannot help you if my hands have no eyes to guide them, my prince," you teased, helping him out of his surcoat and tunic, you ran your hands through his dark chest hairs that somehow felt both rough and soft beneath your palms, raising them up to cradle his face and pull him into a kiss when he bent down to drop his breeches.

Baelor groaned into your mouth when he felt a pressure press onto the tip of his cock and circle, teasing him the way you teased the hilt of his forgotten blade, the way you petted at the head of that ivory dragon piece. Backpedaling until he fell onto the bed, Baelor pulled at the back of your thighs, coaxing you into his lap with your knees on either side of him.

You thumbed at his cheek as you looked down on him. "I want to try something, my prince." Pulling you close with his arms wrapped tight around your hips, he groaned at the friction this position caused.

He called your name for the first time, your lips parted, arousal sparking the hot feeling into a blaze, every intonation and syllable flowing off his tongue liquid sex to your ears. "I think we are past such pleasantries—call me Baelor."

"Baelor," you repeated, grin wide and eyes half-lidded. "may I try something with you?"

"You may," he gave consent, curious to see what you had in store, frowning when you pulled his arms off and breath slowing when you knelt down, he spread his knees apart instinctively. Baelor's mouth fell open with an exhale when your tongue lapped at the tip of his cock, glistened with all the precum accumulated after all that messing about.

It tasted better than your fantasies, the salty, earthy taste made you drool for more. His sounds and tight grip on the gathered hair of your roots urged you to take more of him in, to do more—but you did not. You kept circling at his leaky tip, teasing, kissing it gently, wanting to test his patience, see if you can break under that courteous demeanor again.

"If you begin a task, you should give your all to finish it," Baelor huffed, jaw clenched in frustration, you could tell he was holding back. He resisted the involuntary jerks of his hip up into your mouth, gripping tight at the sheets on his side. You drew back and licked your hips, gaze holding his, insolent, he thought.

"I'd like to take my time with you, it is not every night I have a man so handsome on my bed,"

Baelor pinched your chin between his fingers, gazing down at your all-too-pleased expression. "You want me to beg and plead—is that it?" He surmised, it all aligned in his mind. All you did was torment him from the moment you locked eyes, it was as if you were sent to him as a test to his patience, he was failing at it miserably. It was laughable, decades of self-governance and restraint sharpened by endless trials and adversities hounded onto him by his own blood, his own people, undone by one devilish smile from you.

"No, it is not," you replied, innocent in the face but not in your intentions. "I want you to make me beg and plead."

His breath hitched and he cursed, the words unfamiliar to his tongue. "Unruly thing," Baelor grunted, frustrated, grasping the side of your head. "you will be the death of me." He pushed your head down to his cock—finally, you thought, taking him in your mouth with a moan, rubbing your thighs together for some friction to soothe the torturous sensation you felt.

"Does it please you this much?" Baelor asked, impressed, watching you take more of him in with lidded eyes, hand stroking and twisting where your mouth could not. "Drooling and gagging all over my cock?" You did not answer, lost in the taste of him and the pleasured sounds you drew from his lips. Maybe it was the fact he has been anticipating this for a while. Maybe it was the pent-up years catching up to him, or that you were so good at pleasing him, but he was reaching his limit embarrassingly fast. He had to push you off.

After catching your breath, you looked up at him, wanting to search his face, finding his head thrown back and chest heaving as he tried to keep himself from spilling over you. "Have I done something wrong?"

Baelor did not answer, preferring to stand instead. "Rise," he commanded, firmly, and you obeyed, not being able to get a word in before he hoisted you up by your thighs, making you lock your legs around his waist and arms around his neck instinctively while he climbed onto the bed.

"You're so–" strong, you wanted to say, but your breath was stolen from you, your noses clashing when he could not decide which angle you tasted better. He removed the arms you had interlocked around his neck and sat back on his heels, pinning you down by the base of your neck when you tried to sit up. "Stay there," he ordered, and you obeyed with an impatient huff, aroused at the way he acted, the way he moved you like it was nothing.

"No wonder they all sing your praises, all those tales and songs," you drawled, eyes shamelessly looking over his arms, hand gripping at his wrist while the other clutched tightly at the sheets. "Oh?" Baelor responded, letting you drag his palm down your body, making him cup your soft breast. "And what do they say, exactly?"

"They spoke of your strength, your composure," you recounted, moaning distractedly as he pinched your nipple. "your good honor and your enormous…. hard… effort in winning the war." You laughter turned into a mewl when you felt him stretch you out in one smooth thrust. "I'm beginning to—fuck— question the bits about your composure and good honor," you managed, eyes hazy as you watched him lower to hover his face over yours. "Beginning to question?"

"You dare say that when you were the one who ruined me?" Baelor grunted, drawing back and pushing in hard, savoring the expressions and delicious moans you gave him, pinning your hands with one of his by the wrists when you tried hushing them. "Do not get shy on me now, sly girl, let me hear you."

No words could describe how good he felt inside you—and surprisingly but not so much—how grateful you felt for the ego that led your father into extending an invitation to the dragon house, you shuddered to think of a world where you never met this otherworldly man, a world where you never get to hear his voice or have a taste of his loving was a nightmarish thing to even think about.

You tried to kiss him but he evaded your lips, leaning back and smirking at your upset huff after he did it again. "Baelor…" You whined. "Hm?" He responded.

"You're acting cruelly."

"Am I?"

"Yes," moaning, you felt that same vein you ran your tongue over brush your insides incessantly. "Is this not what you wanted? You're quivering. What more could you possibly want?"

"Kiss me," you demanded when you should have pleaded.

"That's not how you ask for things," he reminded with heavy breaths, thumb trailing over your lips, taunting. "Baelor—please, kiss me—please," you begged, vision blurring from pleasure and tears. Baelor obliged, lips crashing with yours, his grip releasing your wrists to raise your legs higher, allowing his cockhead to reach even deeper, hammering into your cervix. In moments you could not even find the energy to kiss him, laying your head back from the intense sensations, you knew he was close too, his thrusts losing their constant rhythm.

As soon as you reached that sweet bit of ecstasy, he pulled out, chest heaving as he panted beside your head. "Baelor, why have you—" Your words turn to a gasp when he rolled you onto your stomach and pinned you under his weight, chest stuck to your back. "Not yet—I will love you thoroughly," Baelor promised, panting at your ear while he slid into you nice and slow.

"I will—mmh—still be here tomorrow," You reminded him, toes curling at the way his cock massaged your insides that still had not recovered from your release, at the way the head of it gently kissed your cervix. It was interesting, how he's made you come twice but he never allowed himself to feel it, not once. In the beginning you had not thought twice of it, plenty liked to chase that high over and over and not allow themselves to catch it too soon — but hearing what he said, you could not help but think that there was something deeper than mere fancy. Did he think you wanted this to be a one-time thing? Does he want it to be? "and the day after it too, I have nowhere else to be,"

"But you do," Baelor groaned. "only if you'd like." Your breathing hitched, for a multitude of reasons. His unexpected hold of your jaw pulling your head back into the crook of his neck, the scratch of his beard at the side of your face and the insinuation of his words. He wanted to take you with him; you will agree, you know you will, regardless of whether he wanted you as mistress or not, you did not care, as long as he was yours and you were his, it was the best you could ever hope for.

"Be my wife — come with me to King's Landing and I'll make you my princess,"

"But I am a—"

"Fuck that," Baelor said, not wanting to hear any of it. "there are no laws against it—and if there were I will marry you anyway." Pressing a kiss to your cheek, he spoke up again. "Would you like that?"

"I…" Your voice died in your throat, unbelieving of your ears, considering for a moment that perhaps you were in a fever dream, but no mind could think up a dream so lovely. "Very," was all you could muster. "Perfect—so perfect." Baelor groaned, breaths growing louder, deeper, you had an inkling it was not only about your agreeance. He slipped from you again, kneeling as he let your head drop to the soft sheets.

A wound-up noise left you while you stared back at the starry sky through your windows. "The sun will rise soon."

"I am sure." At the low, shaky words, you rolled onto your back to take in the exhausted state of him. "Do you not have somewhere to be early in the morn?"

He grinned weakly. "I heard there was a tourney at Ashford meadow."

"You will rue attending if you do not rest enough," You said, caressing the side of his face. "let me take care of you." His eyes flitted over your face, steady where his breathing was not. "Very well."

Smiling you had him lean up on the pillows and straddled him. His hands immediately found your hips as you lowered yourself on his cock, easily, your walls slick with your arousals beyond adjusted to take him in with no difficulty, a sigh escaped you both at the relief. It took no time before you were moving up and down in quick rhythm.

Baelor took one of your breasts in his mouth, licking and pulling with his lips, pushing you down to the hilt with his hands, your own anchored on his shoulders as you called for his name, blissfully, repeatedly. The only sounds echoing through the dark room were your cries, his quiet, pacifying words of a language you never got to learn, the lewd repetitive claps of skin on skin.

"Baelor!" You wrapped your arms tightly around his neck, face hovering over his, movements stuttering and legs growing weaker. Broken curses poured from your lips when he bucked his hips up into you. "I can't–'m sorry." Buried deep and holding you tight, Baelor had you on your back, and with renewed strength immediately set a vigorous, merciless pace, pushing and pulling inside you, over and over and over—the nails digging into his back, the pretty moans and whine in his ear—all of it goaded him to keep going, determined to have you come again.

"How it ails me that I cannot stuff you full of my seed." Baelor inhaled deeply at your temple, relishing your scent, groaning like the mere act brought him pleasure. Your back arched into him at the thought. "You can—please, Baelor." He pressed a chaste kiss to the side of your face. "You know nothing of what you ask, love,"

"I can take it just—" a whimper "—let me."

"I know you would—and you will," Baelor believed you wholeheartedly, he can already imagine it, you, brimming with his love inside you, the thought filled him with so much warmth, so much pleasure. "you need only patience until we are wed." You shook your head desperately, the coil inside you uncomfortably wound. "I need you."

He hummed in lieu of a response, circling his fingertips on your clit, the rapid motions along with his rutting into your sweet spot materializing the light of day into your ever blurred, darkening sight. "You have me." The earnest, gentle but resolute words, coupled with everything else he was undoing you with, send you over the edge, ripples of pleasure surge through you and his motions falter ever so slightly, distracted by the way you shuddered, the way your slick walls gripped onto him. "That's it—fuck."

Baelor pulled away from you, hot ropes of cum gushing out and dirtying your abdomen. Guilt ridden apologies fell from his lips as he rutted into his fist until the last drop ran down his soaked tip. After your breaths slowed into a speakable rhythm, he got off the bed and asked you to stay lied back and wait, receiving a weak nod in response.

When he returned, a bucket and towel in hand—your favorite towel which you would grieve later, but you couldn't be bothered to care about now, not when Baelor cradled your face and brushed away at the wetness from your cheeks with both his thumbs, eyelids fluttering in shame. "I am sorry," he told you, voice hushed.

"Why?" You asked smilingly, shivering at the damp coldness the wet towel left in its wake. "I've been unkind, I should not have been so rough," Baelor explained, wringing the towel of it's water and continuing in his task, hands tender like you would shatter at the slightest bit of force — it was maddening how easily he made you want to kiss him. Resisting the urge to roll your eyes, you smiled, endeared, and took the towel from his hands and begun cleaning them. "But you know I wanted you to be."

"I do, but—" a chaste kiss interrupted his rant before it went out of hand, warmth spread through his face to his ears, as if he was not drilling into you minutes before, it gladdened you, this reminder that he wasn't merely lust that sent him after you—but adoration too.

"Hush now," you said, pushing him down onto the pillows, resting your head onto his chest.

A huff left him. "You know I must leave for my own quarters now," Baelor told you, as he encased you in his arms and let you enlace your fingers with his and play with them. "I was hoping you'd forget about that," you said distractedly, memorizing the shape and feel of his palm and fingers by touch.

"I have a tourney I would rather not be late for."

"Sleep here." His brow arched at the suggestion, lips curled in a smirk. "You know precisely why I cannot do that,"

"Why not? None would scold you for not being in bed, you are a guest and a prince at that, besides you will have to get used to–" a thumb gently swiping over your lips, hushed you. "As you wish—but only for a while, understand?"

Minutes of hushed conversation passed by, negotiations that ended in a two-way victory; you would spectate within the safety of the stands if he entered the lists, recommending the castle's smith to armor him cheekily when he tried to use his lack of armor as an excuse.

That hushed conversation turned into hours of soft snores, your warmth gently guiding him to slumber — sending the royal servants into a frenzied search when the only things they found of him were his abandoned rings scattered on the surface of that table.

saw this on pinterest and it wholly encapsulated baelor in this...

sorry for not being active a while was busy getting rolled by my crippling anxiety,,, i am good now so i can get going on the wips <33

feedback is appreciated, i'm an esl english major so it'll help my career a lot, okay maybe not so much on the smut part lol but ig for recreational purposes i can learn — hope you enjoyed!!

Wounded dragon pride | @blueberrypancakesworld

With the Blackfyre rebellion defeated and his triumphant return with his elder brother, Baelor was celebrated more than Maekar. The prince leaves the celebrations early, representing another affront to his pride; only his wife gives him the recognition he deserves.

Starlight | @iolixz

When the quiet grace of a Lady of House Dayne meets the jagged temper of Prince Maekar ‘The Anvil’ Targaryen, she is caught between his cold silence and her growing fire. Finding a way to grab hold of the man behind the armor may seem harder than ever imagined.

you’re a big girl now, no more daddy’s little girl | @ghostlybfgf

what comes of losing the one person you thought you could never lose, torn between the love of your marriage and the death of what you once knew.

no eyes but yours | @jakecockley

during a royal hunt in the kingswood, maekar slips away from the noise to find solitude in a hidden meadow, only to be quietly followed by the noblewoman he is secretly courting. surprised but quietly pleased by your presence, the usually gruff and guarded prince softens in your company. as you both sit together by the stream, wrapped in each other’s warmth amid wildflowers and soft light, the weight of court and duty fades, leaving only the tender, unspoken intimacy between you.

you braid? | @/jakecockley

as you ready for the day, your husband wishes to braid your hair. who are you to deny him?

the price to pay | @sena-seastar

Maekar comforts Daeron after he has a nightmare.

Mourning Feast | @escapic-mezzanine

Maekar Targaryen’s bride seems to be the most tragic lady in The Seven Kingdoms. Not only is she to be wed to a man of grim and sharp reputation, but also her father gets slaughtered on her wedding day.

Doubt your man | @/escapic-mezzanine

If he only could, Maekar would gladly sit by his wife’s side through her whole sickness. When he finally manages to run from his duties and rush to her, he has to throw a certain man outside the chamber and care for the woman himself. Just like he prefers it.

His Father’s Son | @sedonasummer

Maekar and his newborn son reach an understanding in the early hours of the morning.

Greatest Offender | @/sedonasummer

you hear Aegon singing something in the yard and realize there is entirely too much foul language in your home. someone is going to answer for it.

The baby project | @/sedonasummer

When Maekar agreed to have a baby, he thought it a reasonable undertaking. He was not an old man. You were young and healthy and wanted a child of your own and he loved you, so he said yes. Simple enough. He was a fool. aka: you run your poor husband absolutely ragged in the name of family planning

The Dragon Princess | @poge-life

Only daughter to Baelor Targaryen, twin to Valaar and wife to Maekar, you were the heart of the Targaryens. Upon traveling to Ashford for a nameday celebration tourney, everything seems to have changed as one fatal mistake leaves everything in shambles.

Blessing of the Seven | @sylasthegrim

Despite having experienced fatherhood several times, nothing could have prepared Maekar to be called into your chambers to assist you in giving birth to his seventh babe.

Blood of my Blood | @karmaswitch

After his brother’s death, Maekar marries his niece out of a sense of duty. Neither expecting to truly love one another through the grief, love perseveres and proves them wrong.

Dragon Dreamers. | @entitled-fangirl

Maekar’s second wife was a dragon dreamer, much like Daeron. She is plagued by a particular dream Daeron has as well. But history is bound to happen, whether they wish it to or not.

Smallfolk | @/entitled-fangirl

Maekar’s wife is feeling trapped by her husband’s protective nature. With Daeron’s help, she sneaks out to Flea Bottom for the night to explore what really happens in King’s Landing when the sun goes down.

Drabble | @ethrlst

Good morning, My sweet Wife | @underratedcharacterslover

Your dear husband Maekar waking you up by eating you out .

Pretty in pink I, part two, part three, part four | @myladysapphire

Maekar never expected to marry again, never expected to love again. he tried to be a distant husband, a husband in name only. and yet you with your sweet smiles, kind eyes made it so hard for him to forget to be the stern man Westros knew him as, made it hard for him to forget that he didn't want to fall in love.

Hollow Nights & Haunted days, part 2  | @whimsisoul4

Maekar Targaryen x Baratheon reader | @emmaofnormandy

Imagine you are a sister to the Laughing Storm and he marries you off to Prince Maekar Targaryen.

Family time | @imnotcryingyouare1

Thunder and cuddles | @/imnotcryingyouare1

The new baby… | @/imnotcryingyouare1

“i’ll never be yours” | @detectivesophia

the five times Egg realizes his father was in love with his aunt and the one time he realized how truly doomed they were.

My belly is showing | @maidragoste

soothe the wrath and tame the fury, part 2 | @erwinsvow

you awake in a strange place with a prince at your bedside.

the dour brother | @eowyns-fantasy

Pride is a lonely thing | @theladysoleil

Maekar Targaryen has always been insecure of his scarred face. The people who compared him to his perfect older brother in hushed whispers has only help burn his insecurities brighter. What happens when he angers the one person who makes him feel loved.

Good Intentions | @catbayunthestoryteller

Maekar is trying to provide a good life for his new wife by removing himself from her company and offering alternatives. He fails.

Unexpected Love | @sconniebelle

Betrothed to Maekar, you slowly begin to break through the walls around him after he finds you reading to Aegon. Maekar quietly confesses that for the first time in years, he believes the two of you could truly be happy together.

AND ONE MORE MAKES SEVEN | @mariposium

after missing your bleed several moons in a row, logically you know what the most likely reason behind it is. however, with one of your step-children in exile, another an alcoholic, and the sixth off touring the realm with a hedge knight, you do not expect your husband to want another child to worry about.

MEETING SWEET WIFE | @julez-5

During a feast Maekar meets sunshine in human form.

MY STRONG HUSBAND | @/julez-5

You like watching your strong husband demonstrate his strength

THE DRAGON’S DOE | @/julez-5

The Tourney was suppose to be a fun time to relax until your husband lost the two children he was in charge of.

His Princess | @erebusbabylon

A knight questions your honesty and Maekar gets very angry.

Old Man | @samthegreenapologist

Through The Darkness | @/samthegreenapologist

The Weight of Love and War | @songofmist

It is the end of the Blackfyre Rebellion. Your husband has been away for nigh on a year and now returning to Kings Landing. The both of you hold no love for each other, strangers since the day you wed. That is until he starts to question the possibility of what could be…

Lord Ashford Fucks His Sheep | @thirstingseason

The only person who can truly make Maekar laugh is his beloved. And she loves to employ her talents as often as possible!

There is a mournful symphony beneath the masses of charred trees— faint sobs, wet sniffles, the small hitching whimpers of grief. The trees weep with him after their own fashion. Their blackened bark splits and glows, birthing little embers that drift upward to join the distant flecks of red suspended in the night. The air lies thick upon your tongue, heavy with the reek of scorched fauna and blackened fronds, and beneath it, curling and insistent, the sweet grueling stink of cooked flesh.

You tread with care across the ruin. Each footfall of your steel boots meets the ash with a soft hiss, a small betrayal of sound, and you pick your way through the scattered debris— fallen limbs, a shattered cart wheel, things you decline to look at twice— until at last you find the composer of that beautiful haunting melody.

There, in the middle distance, kneels a boy. He can be no more than seven summers old, slumped upon bent knees as if the smoldering ground held no dominion over his sorrow.

His straw-woven garments hang in tatters at his back, patches burned clean away to bare skin gone black at the edges and raw pink at the center, glistening. His hair is dark as wet soot, tousled and wild, though here and there the ash has laid its pale kisses upon him, a mockery of snow. His thin arms fold inward. He hides his face within his hands and mourns some terror you were not present to witness, and the sight of it opens an ache in your heart.

You approach slowly, low, your intent laid bare before you like an open palm.

"Rytsas?" you murmur. Hello? "Nyke māzigon rȳ sȳz." I come in peace.

Your hand reaches for his shoulder, deliberate and unhurried. Even through the gloom you can see the fragile frame trembling. Yet the moment your palm settles upon him, the shaking stills. The weeping stops. The whole forest seems to hold its breath, and the silence that follows was somehow worse than the sound.

Still he does not turn. He stays hunched as he was, and from this nearness you mark the knees drawn tight against his chest, the arms locked about his shins.

"I can help you," you tell him, gentling your voice to something soft as lambswool. "Please. Let me help you." Your brows knit. Your thumbs brush small circles against the ruined cloth at his shoulder.

"Perzys ānogār," the boy whispers. Fire and blood. So faint a thing, and yet it echoes.

Then the air goes wrong.

It thickens all at once. The warmth of the burning wood recedes, and cold comes creeping in its place— a wet, grave cold. You turn your head, sweeping the dark. A younger man might have missed it, but you have bled in enough places to feel a shift in a room the size of a whisper. Your left hand steals toward the dagger tucked within your waist and something seizes your other wrist.

It pulls. Hard enough that you pitch forward, nearly sprawling, your balance stolen out from under you. The grip clamps down until the bones grind, a strength no child's hand has any right to hold, and you wonder in some distant chamber of your skull how such small fingers could crush like a smith's vise. You turn.

The boy finally lifts his head. Slow and grinding, his head turns full around, and the sound of it is the sound of brittle bones cracking underfoot.

Your gaze is met with nothing but two hollow pits that swallow it. The breath leaves your chest as if the night itself had reached down your throat and drawn it out. Your heart hammers wild against your ribs even as the blood seems to abandon your veins, and you go down on your backside in the ash.

The sight is beyond bearing. The empty sockets weep a dark crimson tar that oozes thick down his cheeks, sluggish as pitch. His mouth hangs open on teeth gone broken and rotted, some missing altogether, the survivors packed with dried blood and dirt and matter you have no name for. You wrench at your trapped arm. His jagged, filth-caked nails only bite deeper into your flesh, and when at last you tear yourself free with a desperate heave, the numbness of pure fright floods you— for his hand comes away with you, severed clean at the wrist, still clinging to your own.

"Tolvys drakaro pelro zālilaks," he hisses in a voice no human throat had made, thin and wet and old with malice, and specks of that tarry blood fleck your face. In a wave of dragonfire, all will be burned.

The stench of it came a heartbeat later, and it was enough to bring the gorge climbing up your throat. It stank of opened graves and of butchers’ pits left standing through a summer, of blood gone sweet with rot and of flesh burnt and then abandoned to spoil beneath wet soil, all of it fouled further with the acrid bite of charred timber and the stale bitterness of smoke. The night drew in around you. The darkness gathered and thickened, and the glowing embers at the edge of your sight dwindled small and far away, helpless against so much black.

You drag your free arm across your cheek to wipe the foulness away, and when your vision clears his face is a hand's breadth from your own.

His features fold into something no longer human. The corners of his cracked lips draw downward, and downward still, splitting the skin, sagging until they reach the very points of his jaw in a grin turned inside out. At his throat the tattered cloth bears a sigil you know not by daylight— three black castles upon a field of orange.

"Perzys ānogār!"

You woke with a violent gasp, dragged up as if from deep black water. Your breath came ragged and fast, your silk night shift clung damp against your skin, and the sweat rolled in cold beads down your pallid face while your heart still battered at your ribs, as though some part of you had not yet crawled free of that burning wood.

The cabin stank of tallow smoke and salt-damp wood, and beneath it all the iron tang of the sea that wept through every seam of the hull. Lantern light lurched drunkenly across walls hung in scarlet silk and threaded with gold, the colors of your house swaying with each slow heave of the water, as if even your banners had grown seasick.

"Let me guess, Prince Hazkar again. Or the one whispered to fuck his stallions with more often than he ever his wives?"

You did not need to turn to know whose voice had crawled out of the dark.

The words unspooled from the blackness at the far end of your chambers, and their owner assembled himself out of it in no particular hurry.

First the hair, long and loose-waved, drawn into a small neat knot at the crown, a few strands loosed to hang against the sharp planes of his face. Then the rest of him, gathered from the gloom piece by piece, clad head to heel in black armor chased with gold that caught the swaying light along every edge.

Lan. Your sworn sword. And once, in the years before oaths and titles wedged themselves between you like a drawn dagger, something nearer a brother.

Map of your journey in Essos.

He had been but four-and-ten when your paths first tangled, two years your elder, a lean and watchful boy trailing a father whose name still had weight in the whispered corners of Yi Ti. A famed general, that one, exiled from the empire and undone twice over— first by grief when his wife went cold in the ground, then by the wine he tried to drown that grief beneth.

Stripped of rank, cast out by the God-Emperor himself, a great man reduced to a sour smell and a shaking hand. Father and son had found you half-starved and wandering witless across the parched flats of the Great Sand Sea, that endless waste where the Patrimony of Hyrkoon had once stood in ancient splendor before it crumbled into so much grit and rumor.

You had not been alone. Imaani walked at your side, a Shamyriana woman of striking ebon skin set with rubies along the curve of each cheek, six years your elder, and it was she who told the two astonished newcomers how she'd stumbled on you moons before, staggering out of the deserts of the Jogos Nhai like something the wind had forgotten to bury.

You had claimed, she said, to have come all the way from the Shivering Sea, the white waste itself. They had laughed and named it the boasting of a child— all save Imaani.

For who could credit that a girl of two-and-ten had crossed that merciless span of ice, slipped past a Thousand Ilse and the xenophobic folks upon them who fed strangers to their gods, and then endured the burning sands and the fierce horseriding nomads who ruled them? Yet Imaani only smiled and told them not to look so meanly upon what a woman might survive. Men always underestimate the small and the female.

None of them knew of that day you remembered.

Your father had cast you out of New Valyria for the crime of mercy. A conquered Ghiscari city knelt in its own ashes, streets still smoking with dragonfire, and its ruler bent his neck before you while the surrendered council watched in a silence thick. Your father pressed the Valyrian blade into your small hands and bid you take the head. You had asked for a treaty instead of a corpse.

You argued that fear makes a man kneel; kindness makes him rise and follow. A frightened nation waits for its chance to slit your throat in the dark, but a grateful one guards your door.

What it bought you was the cold iron of his gauntlet across your cheek, a blow your slight frame could not answer, hurling you back with blood on your lip and stars behind your eyes. You did not weep. Weeping was a habit pain had beaten out of you years before, and you had known crueler pains than this by far.

"You are soft," he had told you, his voice as level as still water, "and it is a weakness, a rot that spreads. You are the failure of an heir and a stain upon the name of House Belaerys." He crouched to your height, which was its own small cruelty. "Foolish child. It is wrath and dread alone that bend the necks of nations. For peace, blood must be shed."

House Belaerys, his. House Zaeryn, your late mother's. Two-score rival dynasties, amongst the forty dragonlord families,that had clawed at one another for dominion when Valyria stood at the height of its pride.

When the Doom swallowed the Freehold, your ancestor Aurion had led the survivors upon dragonback to Gogossos in the Basilisk Isles, and there, where the wider world believed him swallowed by the sea, he set about the mad and patient work of rebuilding a dead empire in the plague-ridden jungles of Sothoryos, among cannibals thick of limb and short of mercy.

The Valyrian blood had guttered near to dark before your father seized the throne and, through brute cunning and a strength that spared no one, carried conquest ever eastward, raising in secret what all the world had wept for as lost.

Power among dragonlords was measured by the size of the beasts they rode, and your house had risen above every rival in wealth and sorcerous renown, famed for the purity of its blood and for dragons of monstrous bulk— though scarce one egg in any clutch ever deigned to crack.

No one dared challenge him. 'Cept you.

You had defied him more times than there were stars over the Sand Sea.

However many heads you watched tumble into the dust, however much blood pooled warm about your boots, however often the whip and the fist and the glowing iron came to teach you the shape of obedience, you refused him, and so at the last he sent you to the white waste to die. He set you upon his own dragon, Daekhar, and delivered you to the Shivering Sea alone, and named it necessary— for your growth, he said, for the endurance of the dynasty. Everyone knew the truth of it, and none more clearly than you. A death sentence in the borrowed robes of duty.

Those years upon that barren sea of ice were a dark you did not care to wander into over wine and idle talk. And yet even that horror had come to seem a lesser thing beside the care of your father and your late lady mother. Had your blood been anything less than pure, you did not doubt a fouler end would have found you long before the ice ever could.

For five years the four of you wandered the breadth of Essos, until word of your stubborn refusal to die reached your father and his men rode out to escort you home— the word that always tasted of ash.

By then he had swallowed the whole of the Red Waste and half the Dothraki grass as far as the Painted Mountains, and seeing that Lan and his father Lo Gai handled steel more finely than any sword in his host, he offered the elder a general's rank.

Gai accepted in the end, set down his cups, and undertook to raise both his son and the strange daughter he had found half-buried in the sand, you.

When Gai died and the same offer passed to Lan, the son refused it, choosing instead to swear himself your sworn sword, and so keep faith with his father's last wish.

You could scarce credit how many years had slipped between your fingers since. He loomed over you now, broad through the shoulder and cleanly made, his face grown sharp and hard to look away from with the passing seasons, yet beneath the black steel he remained the same aloof and sardonic creature he had always been, courteous to a fault whenever courtesy happened to suit him, and not one heartbeat longer.

"They were one and the same man," you said flatly.

Lan crossed the swaying floor and pressed a golden goblet of plain water into your hand. You met him with a glare and snatched it, and he smothered a laugh before his face softened into something true, that quiet tenderness he showed to no living soul but you.

"How gladdened I am," you said, "that my father's peculiar appetite in suitors furnishes you such bottomless amusement."

"The last prince was hardly the worst of the lot," Lan said. "He was scarcely thirty years your elder."

"He was a glutton and a sot who could not lift his own cock to piss, let alone go hunting for a woman with the sad thing."

Lan chuckled low in his chest, and then the silence came and settled over the room, thick as the stuffy heat of it.

"Another dragon dream?" No trace of jest warmed his voice this time. It came soft, edged with a care he seldom let show its face in daylight, and you answered only with a slow nod.

"The boy?"

You stared into the trembling water in the cup and dipped your head once more. Lan remained quiet.

"I am sick unto death of this place. You know full well how I loathe sailing. Whoever first dreamed up such a wretched contrivance deserves to be pitched headfirst into a fire and turned slowly, like a spitted pig."

He laughed again, quietly, as though he half agreed.

Rap-rap. A knuckle rapped hard against the chamber door. "We have made port at Tyrosh, Princess," a guard called through the wood.

"How marvelous. I would sell a finger, and perhaps a toe to sweeten the bargain, to be quit of this cursed boat before it hounds me into madness." You had been moons at sea, and the hunger for solid ground beneath your boots had grown into a real ache, low in the belly, like grief or bad fish.

"You are not to disembark until your lord father commands it, My Lady," Lan ceases you.

"Preposterous. What earthly purpose do you and the rest of the guard serve, if not to walk a bored girl to shore?" You rose and dragged your fingers through your silver-gold hair, reaching for the cloak folded over the chair.

"You are sole heir to the feared Valyrian empire, Princess. Our enemies would spend everything they have to take you."

"Which is precisely why I keep the finest sword in all of Essos loitering at my elbow," you said, tipping your head toward Lan, and made to slip past him. He set himself before the door and would not budge, a wall of black steel with an insolently patient face.

"I am quite certain no soul beneath the stars covets my head so hungrily as my own father does."

"Y/N." Lan spoke your name at last. He so rarely let it cross his lips after his oaths that the sound of it dragged you backward into the older days, when he had been an elder brother to you and not a shadow sworn to keep you breathing.

You let out a defeated breath, and he answered it with a small, insufferably triumphant curl of his mouth.

You flung the cloak at his head. He caught it without so much as a blink, of course he did, and you burrowed back beneath your sheets like a child hiding from morning.

They had told you the Archon of Tyrosh had arranged an audience on your father's behalf with some peculiar personage, though your father had let slip nothing of the particulars. No doubt another bargain a-brewing, another scheme to dangle you before hungry men as leverage for his endless, grinding conquest. A daughter made a fine coin.

Hours pass.

"I have reached the very end of my patience with all this shaking. I mean to go up, if only long enough to remember what a sky looks like." You groaned and hauled yourself upright.

"I cannot permit that, Princess." Lan planted himself before the door once more.

"Are you his sworn sword, or are you mine? Move."

"That will not be necessary." The voice reached you a breath before the door swung wide, vile and familiar as an old scar, and your father filled the frame of it. Lan's spine snapped straight, chin lifting in crisp salute.

"Prepare her," your father said. "See that she is presentable by the time we arrive." A cluster of Tyroshi women swept into the chamber in a rustle of skirts and exotic perfume, jasmine laid too thick.

"Arrive? Arrive where?" you demanded.

"There is to be no flaw upon her," he told the servants, ignoring you as he often did. "She is to be perfect." Then he crossed to you at his unhurried pace, the steel of his boots and armor clinking against the boards with each measured step, a sound you had learned to dread before you had learned your letters.

"And what, pray, calls for such perfection, Father? Have you not already wrung your fleets loose from the Tyroshi grip?"

"No." He drew close, and a smile uncurled somewhere beneath his cold gaze, slow as a snake finding sun.

"We sail for Westeros, child. A far richer proposition has come seeking me. We go to make the acquaintance of our long-lost kin."

Then he bent until his face hung a bare breath from your own, close enough that you could smell the wine on him, and ground the words out from between his teeth.

"And this time, you will not fail me."

NEXT>

a/n: Don't judge my drawings. 🥲😭😂

"please—"

it wasn't the first time you'd begged. you'd begged for many, many things in this same position, truth be told. robby behind you, jack below. both of their cocks splitting you open. jack was thick, just like the rest of him—thick fingered, thick bodied, thick cock throbbing and twitching where it stuffed your pussy. robby, on the other hand—long and curved up to the right—enjoyed fucking you in your tight puckered muscle, making you whine and squirm beneath him.

robby laid down over you, crushing you further into jack's chest, who moaned with you at the change in angle. robby’s breath was hot against your ear, his lips pressed into the shell.

"please what, baby? hmmmm?" he groaned, his voice hoarse and cracked, his chest wiry with hair against your slick back.

you brought your hand up to fist in his hair, holding on tight as he pulled his length from you almost to the very tip before thrusting slowly back in.

"oh my god," you heard jack curse, his hands tightening at your hips, his mouth opening in a gasp.

both of them were to the right of you—your face laid down on jack's collarbone, robby's chin hooked over your right shoulder. they were so close. breathing one another's air, enough that you could feel jack’s breath leave him and robby’s cheek shift against the side of your head when he opened his mouth to kiss the crest of your shoulder.

you tightened your grip in the latter's hair.

"wanna see you kisssss—"

jack let out a breathless little laugh, robby chuckling into your shoulder.

"baby, we talked about this—" jack said, his voice hardly more than breath, his chest heaving under yours.

"—but it would be so hottttt," you whined.

robby ignored you. "how's she feel, brother?"

jack's head tipped back into the pillow beneath him, and you watched the rough scruff of his unshaved neck shift as his adam's apple glided up and down, swallowing around the broken gasp he pulled in.

"so god damn good—go a little harder, she squeezes me so fucking tight when you really give it to her, mike."

you barely had time to register the gleam in robby's eyes before he was swinging his hips back again, this time thrusting hard against you, his skin slapping hard, balls clapping right above where jack's cock was buried deep inside.

you squealed and jack groaned loudly. your hand hung on tighter to robby's hair, your other hand digging into jack's shoulder beside your head.

"ohhhh fuck—" you mewled. "so—so deep, robby, oh god—"

"she sounds so pretty when she makes those little noises," jack strained to say, turning to kiss you on the nose. "huh, honey? robby's dick feel good like that? yeah? gimme a kiss."

you tilted your chin, pushing into his lips lazily, your tongue reaching out to lick at his, wet muscles sliding together. when you began to drool out the side of your lips, you brought robby's head down closer, resting your cheek back to jack's chest.

"your turn—" you murmured sleepily, your brain fucked out of any logic.

nothing passed through you but the ecstasy of having these two men and being sandwiched between them and their weight pressing in around you. jack began jerking his hips up into you, making you hiccup and whine, his thrusts getting erratic, his breath heavier.

robby's cock pushed deeper into you too, the pressure of both of them at the same time making you feel so content, so full, so cock drunk.

"please, please," you chanted. "wanna see you kiss so badly—"

"she really does beg so cute, doesn't she?" robby murmured, kissing your shoulder.

"yeah—" the other breathed, a light groan strangling the word as both of them slid in and out of you in tandem—full of jack's cock, then robby's, empty. then again, both of them filing you at the same time. the rhythm made your jaw go slack, your thoughts thinning. it felt so right, with jack below you, robby behind you, both of them too big, too hot, too much. still, you wanted more. wanted this so badly the need burned behind your eyes.

"like this—" you said, ignoring their cooing, and you craned your neck, pressing a chaste kiss to robby's lips.

it was hardly a second, your brain too foggy to make it anything more.

"that's it, huh? that's what you want, honey?" robby murmured, voice even hoarser with mirth as he smiled at you.

"yesss!" you whined, kicking your feet into the bed beneath.

"not good enough to have both of us, huh?" he teased. "such a needy little girl."

"be nice, mike—" jack moaned. "she's a good girl."

his praise always effected you—making you flutter around him, and you knew he could feel it, even with the increased fulless from robby deep inside you with him. he cracked a little knowing smile between moans.

"oh, i know she's a good girl, brother," robby said, and his mouth dragged over the back of your shoulder. "no doubt about it. but we've spoiled her. she thinks she can have whatever she wants."

you pouted, the prick of tears in your eyes not from him denying you, but from the utter fullness of their cocks punching in and out of you. from the easy back and forth of them—robby pretending there wasn’t a soft spot in him you could reach with the simplest look. and jack caught it every time and teased him for it.

"enough talking—" jack cursed. "fuck, fuck, she's tightening up on me— think she's gonna come, mike, oh god—"

"please—" you moaned louder, thrashing a little bit out of frustration.

"fuck it—" robby growled.

he leaned down and placed a kiss on the corner of jack's mouth.

they didn't stop entirely when robby pulled his lips away from jack's. their thrusts only softened into shallow rocks, jack's hands tightening on your skin, both his and robby's throbbing lengths still pressed deep enough inside you that every quiet breath made you feel the stretch of both of them. you held yours without meaning to—waiting, feeling both of them still around you.

robby's chest pressed heavier against your back as he breathed through his nose. you felt jack's beneath you, his ribs expanding, pressing against your breasts.

"yes," you whispered, though not wanting to rush them. your mouth brushed jack's skin when you said it, soft against the damp hollow below his collarbone. "more."

"you're right—" jack huffed a little laugh that shook his chest on the way out. "she really is needy."

robby smiled, as if grateful for the lightness, "told y—"

but he couldn't say anything else, because jack's lips were suddenly on his.

a deep, harmonized groan passed between the two of them, and it did something terrible to you. your stomach dropped, your hips jerked. even a little lick of jealousy flamed in you, warming your skin, but they looked good together. so good. exactly as you pictured it. it made you moan and writhe to see their mouths slot against one another, lips parting, tongues sliding, jack's stubbled jaw working under the rough scrape of robby's beard.

"oh my god," you whispered.

when they paused their kissing, a string of spit connected them, shiny and wet.

"d'you feel that?" robby whispered.

"yeah," jack answered, his one hand squeezing your hip while the other came up to robby's hair along with yours. "her pussy is gripping me like a vice—"

"yeah, she really tightened up—fuck, c'mere."

robby's hand went up to jack's hair too, fisting in the messy graying curls. jack's mouth fell open in a guttural groan, and robby's other hand came to the nape of your neck in answer. he pulled you into himself harshly, his tongue sliding against yours as your mouths met.

it was slick and wet and lewd, and just when you began to moan in earnest, their thrusts picked up again. harder now, less patient. jack fucking up into you from beneath, robby driving into you from behind, the bed frame knocking against the wall harshly again and again.

then you felt a second tongue at the corner of your mouth.

you pulled back only enough to welcome it—jack's tongue sliding against yours, robby's flicking against the two of you together.

the room filled with louder moans and the thick slap of skin, the wet drag of mouths, jack's rough little curses disappearing against your lips. robby's hand stayed tight at the back of your neck, holding you there for it, making you take the kiss you had begged for. you gushed around them, pussy fluttering and convulsing in pleasure.

"come for us, baby," robby whispered between kisses. "come for jackie. he wants you to come all over his big cock."

jack groaned under you, his hips jerking up harder, his member punching even deeper.

"I wanna feel it too," robby said. "c'mon now, gave you what you wanted. now I get to feel this perfect little ass take my come."

"just wanted your boyfriends to kiss, huh, baby?" jack cooed, his hand moving up to grip your face, forefinger and thumb squeezing your cheeks. his thumb hooked into the tender hinge of your lips, sliding along your molars to pry your mouth open wider for the two of them.

you cried out around his salty skin, and he pouted in mock pity as he looked at you.

"come on my cock, baby," jack moaned, leaning in to keep licking and nipping at your lips. "know you wanna, come on my cock now—gonna fill you up so good, mmmm—"

"i'm—i'm—i'm coming—oh, god, oh god—"

"yeah, that's it, that's it—oh fuckkk—" robby groaned, his thrusts slamming harder, turning erratic before he froze up, jaw unhinging, breathing hotly against wanton mouth.

jack's opened too, in shock, in awe, and when you looked at him you saw his eyes go wide before they rolled back behind his eyelids.

your orgasm ripped through you, a heady pressure down your spine and tightening your hips, making your legs lock up before it crested you like an ocean wave swelling and crashing. your hand clenched in robby's hair as your mouth fell open around jack's thumb. both of them groaned in tandem, trapping you between them, both buried deep while your body squeezed down, making jack curse and robby bare his teeth.

as the euphoria eased and your body went loose with the oxytocin flooding your blood, the three of you kept kissing—gentle little nips, soft flicks of tongue, spit sliding and glistening at the corners of your mouths, collecting where lips met and parted. jack retreated his thumb from your mouth to gently pet at your cheek, and they let you have as much as you wanted, just like always. spoiled thing, they'd tell you again afterwards, while they washed your hair in the bath and cleaned you up.

but for now, you kissed them as your eyes grew heavier and heavier, your breathing deepening against jack's chest. robby's weight behind you felt heavy and comforting, tucked between two men, utterly spent and completely content.

Prince Baelor was hesitant to remarry. In fact, he was perfectly content to be on his own after his wife's passing. He already had an heir, there was no rush. But then your father had offered your hand and when he'd laid eyes on you he couldn't refuse.

Your inital fears had vanished soon after your wedding. He was older, yes, but he was kind. Stories of cruel kings becoming crueler husbands were common to to noble born girls. Hushed lessons taught by worried mothers in an attempt to save their daughters from a shared fate.

Your wedding day was full of nerves, stomach turning as your maid from childhood dressed you for the last time. You were conscious of each footstep down the aisle, desperately trying to make your way to the alter without fumbling on your dress or your own two feet. Everything had occurred exactly how you imagined it.

Your wedding night? That was completely different that you had been told. Your mother had sat you down the night before and told you everything to expect. She also reiterated that it would hurt, but it was important to smile while you performed your wifely duties. You were not to make too much noise, not to move unless he instructed and to be patient until it was over. Your heart hammered in your chest as Baelor undressed you,

But after your down had slipped to the floor, he'd kissed your shoulder and lain you on the bed. Your whole body stiffened as he spread your legs. But instead of the head of his….member stretching you open his fingers gently pressed into the sensitive skin of your thighs, holding you open as he pressed a kiss to the sensitive bud between your legs. You could feel his smirk against your skin as his tongue ravished your body.

When he did finally push into your entrance, you were pleasantly surprised that it actually felt good instead of the searing pain your mother described. You body was pleasantly loose from Baelor's earlier actions, which helped your body accomodate him.

And after you'd gotten a taste of this new activity, it was hard for Baelor to deny you. There was just one problem-

"Lady Dyanna," your sister in law turns to you as you call out for her. The two of you are enjoying your tea on the balcony overlooking Kings Landing, "Because of my union to Baelor we are now sisters, correct."

"Yes, princess."

"May I ask you a question then? One that may be considered too…vulgar for me to ask another," your face warms.

An amused smile unfolds on her face, "Of course, princess. Though it was a while was many moons ago, I remeber what it was like to be newly married to the son of a king. What plagues your mind?"

"When you are finshed with your relations," you look at the foor unable to meet her eye, "How are you meant to deal with the mess afterwards."

Dyanna chuckles, "A simple cloth will suffice. You may ask your maids to warm the water as well. It well help soothe the ache that sometimes occurs. Though you want to be careful not to wipe away too much or you may be preventing the future heir from settling in your womb."

"This I know," you pause, unsure of how to say your true intention, "I mean moreso - when you are walking around afterwards. How do you manage the…leaking."

The older woman tilts her head, confused, "Well I remain in bed for the rest of the night so that is not as much of an issue."

"You've never had morning relations?"

"Not never," she says, a bit nostalgic as she thinks back to her youth, "Though I can't say I recall not being able to solve that issue with a cloth before I left my chambers."

"W-well I do," you sputter, "But sometimes it's quite a lot and it's uncomfortable when I walk. Especially if we've also had relations the evening before as well-"

"Relations in the evening and the morning? I didn't realize Baelor was quite so ravenous."

"It's not always him who initiates," you murmur, stirring your spoon in your tea, "In fact it's usually not him who initiates."

Dyanna laughs, "Oh, how I miss my youth. Though, I do not blame you. They are a handsome set of brothers are they not?"

Baelor has been busy this past week. He doesn't call you into your chambers until early the next morning. He's sitting at the desk in his room when you arrive. He smiles at you when the squeak of the door on its hinges announces your prescence.

"My prince," you say in greeting.

"My love, I am sorry to wake you so early. I missed your presence while I was away," he beckons you over with one hand as he stands, silver rings glinting in the light, "Did you sleep well?"

Your body follows easily, drawn to him. You shake your head as you fall into his embrace, "My chambers are far too cold without the blood of a dragon near."

"My apologies, my princess," he chuckles tipping your head up, and gently pressing his lips to yours, "The hunt lasted longer than inteded, but I am rested now."

His hands grip your waist firmly to pull you closer before reaching back to peel you out of your night clothes. You hesitate, stepping back.

"My lord, perhaps we should wait until this evening for those activities."

"What's wrong, my love?" he frowns, emphasizing the lines between his brows that you adore.

"Nothing," you shake your head, "I may have embarassed myself during my meeting with Dyanna and I need time to heal my pride, my lord."

"What happened?"

Your face warms, "I'm not sure I should discuss these matters with you."

"I am your husband, and the prince of the realms, you can discuss anything with me, my love," he tucks a stray curl behind your ear.

You sigh, "I had a question for her about…relations and now I fear she may believe me to be too enamoured with it."

Baelor chuckles, sitting on the edge of the bed, pulling you along with him.

"You are aware that Dyanna and Maekar have six children. There is nothing we are doing that they haven't done already."

"I know that," you say with a groan, buried your face in your husbands neck, "You should have seen the way she looked at me when I told her of my problem.

Your husband tilts his head, "Problem? You did not speak to me of any problems. Pray tell, I have not been hurting you have I?"

"No, no," you shake your head, reassuring him, "I have no complaints of our relations itself, husband. It's afterwards that I am sometimes I encounter a nuisance is all."

"I see," he nods, "Care to elaborate on this nuisance?"

You avert your gaze to the wall behind him, "It doesn't concern you, husband."

He smiles, "If it concerns my queen, then it concerns me."

"After we finish," you sigh, "Sometimes when I walk about the castle, I can feel you dripping down my leg. I simply asked Dyanna what she does, but it seems as though she does not have this same issue."

Your husband nods. He's had his suspicions about his condition. He may be king but he has taken part in his share of celebrations after a particularly well won tournament.More than a few of his past acquiantences have brought this very same topic to his attention before.

"My love, I believe I have a solution to your nuisance."

He stands to undo his robes. You lean back on your elbows watching his clothes fall to the floor. You bite your lip in anticipation, pulling his body on top of yours.

Your legs fall open for your husnband, your mouths moving languidly against each other as he his fingers reach the coarse hairs at the apex of your thighs. You sigh when his long fingers skim across your folds, diping into your entrance to spread your slick. He teases your sensitive bud with a light touch.

"Baelor," you whine which makes your husband smile as he kisses your neck, "Do not make me wait."

"I thought you were prepared to wait until nightfall, my love," the heel of his hand stays pushed up against that spot that drives you mad while his fingers slip inside you.

"Changed my mind," you pant, pulling him closer you you, "You would keep your wife waiting, my lord?"

"Never, my love."

Your back arches off the bed as Baelor pushes into you. He grips your leg, hooking it over his shoulder as your hips meet. His nose nuzzles along your jaw making his beard hairs tickle your neck.

"How's that feel, my love?" he murmurs planting a kiss on your collar bone.

"G-gods, Baelor," you groan, "So good."

He moves slowly, watching the way your face contorts in pleasure as he drags his cock inside you. His hand slips between your bodies to slow circles that drive make you moan.

He knows your body well, works it like like an instrument tuntil you're clawing at his back and shouting his name. He manages to stave of his own release but only for a few moments, just enough to drive into you once more filling you to the brim.

Though he tried his best, some of spend starts to leak out of you once more.

"Shh, my love," he coos, as he stands, trying to doge your attempt to keep him close, "I'm not going anywhere."

He sinks to the floor, grateful for the rug cushioning his aging knees. He wraps his arms around your legs, tugging you towards him.

"Baelor!" you gasp out, "What are you-"

"Why do you act as though I have not done this before," he chuckles, pressing a kiss to your mound, "This is my favourite place to be while unwind at the end of the day."

"But you've already...finished."

"I am quite aware, darling, worry not about me."

He spreads your legs apart, groaning at the sight of his seed leaking out of you.

"Wish you could see how we look together, my princess," he teases, leaning forward kiss your inner thigh, "Perhaps we should move the mirror to the bedroom."

He doesn't wait for your response, too entranced by the sight of you. He licks broadly, moaning at the taste your joined mess. You squirm in his arms, still sensitive from your release. He chuckles, digging his fingers into your thighs, holding you in place.

"We're divine together my love," he groans, licking at your entrance, "Want a taste?"

He meets your eye, grinning when you nod hesitantly at his words. He uses his tongue to scrape at your walls, collecting your shared juices with an obscene slurp and gently holding your ankle in the air to keep you from kicking his head.

He crawls up the bed to where you await with wide eyes, anticipating his neck move. He holds your head in place and forces your jaw open his thumb.

You don't even flinch when he spits into your mouth. You close your eyes, licking your lips with a moan when you swallow.

You're summoned into the Princes chamber later that night once more. Baelor is already in his bedclothes atop of the covers. You rush over, settling yourself on his lap.

"How was your day, my prince," you greet with a smile, running your fingers through his hair.

He preens, "Much better now that you're here, my love. How was yours?"

"Much better now that you're here," you laugh, repeating his words.

"And tell me, how was my solution to your nuisance today?" he chuckles. His hands start to lift your night dress, exposing more of your tanned skin.

"It worked," you smile, toying with the hem of his shirt, "Though I must admit I missed the reminder of you."

"Oh?" he quirks a brow, "How so?"

"I felt…" you pause, tilting your head trying to think of the right word, "empty today."

"Empty,?" Baelor repeats. You giggle, feeling the start of his interest poke you in the thigh.

You nod, "I missed the feel of my prince leaking down my leg during the day. Though I did enjoy what we did this morning-oh!"

Your yelp turns into a moan when Baelor flips you over and your back hits the mattress.

The infants still wailed with the raw vigor of their first desperate breaths, though Dyanna herself remained lightheaded from the ordeal. The heavy scent of sweat and blood lingering in the chamber stirred a throbbing ache in her temples — one she chose not to ascribe to the twins’ ceaseless cries.

Maekar appeared at the doorway the moment the maester granted him entry, confirming that the birth had gone flawlessly. Still, he did not release the breath he had been holding until his gaze fell upon the three figures nestled together on the rumpled bed.

“You must rest, my love,” he murmured, his voice nearly lost beneath the infants’ cries. He approached the bed, one arm extended. His eyes settled upon the babes, and a rare gleam of wonder softened his characteristically solemn features. He kneeled beside her. “Give one to me.”

Dyanna shifted carefully against the pillows, preparing to pass him the child closest to his side — the boy.

The slight movement drew the twins momentarily apart as she turned to lift the infant toward her husband. Their cries sharpened at once, growing even more piercing.

Dyanna froze, brow furrowed in concern as she studied her son.

“What troubles him?” Maekar asked, his tone firm yet laced with unease. He glanced about the room as though answers might linger in the air. The maesters had withdrawn to afford them a moment of privacy now that the peril had passed. His gaze returned to Dyanna, then to his son. “Is he in pain?”

The mother had no answer. Slowly, she drew the boy back to her body, pressing him closer to his sister. Their tiny hands fluttered across her skin, and the boy’s delicate fingers curled instinctively around his twin’s wrist, like the softest of anchors.

The wailing ceased at once — for both of them.

Dyanna and Maekar exchanged a fleeting glance. While her eyes brimmed with tender affection and quiet awe, a shadow of uncertainty flickered in his.

Only the Gods knew what destiny they had woven for these children, for they only sought comfort in one another.

࣪ ִֶָ☾. 𝕻𝖗𝖊𝖘𝖊𝖓𝖙.

The morning sun’s rays streamed through the tall windows lining one side of Ashford Castle’s corridor, bathing the interior in a pleasant, golden warmth. Outside, the clatter of horses’ hooves, the metallic clang of armor, and the murmur of the crowd could be heard — most likely placing wagers on who would triumph in today’s jousts.

Aerion strode down the hallway already clad in his armor. Crimson dragon crests in enamel stood out boldly against the dark steel of his helm, rendering it as imposing as a dragon itself. He carried the helmet tucked beneath his arm, pressed against his coal-black surcoat, where the swirling flame-like patterns gleamed in the sunlight. No one turned to stare; the extravagant design made it obvious who approached: Aerion Brightflame. No one sought trouble with the monstrous prince.

Though he paid no mind to the worms he passed, his gaze remained fixed on the great mahogany door beyond which lay his sister’s temporary chambers. His steps were purposeful, determined to see her before mounting his horse and unhorsing every fool who dared face him. He wished to make her proud — as he always did.

An unconscious smile curved his lips as his hand reached for the door handle, but it burst open before he could grasp it. He staggered slightly as a servant girl fled the room at a frantic pace. He did not bother chasing her or punishing her insolence, as he normally would. Instead, his smile turned mocking. He stepped inside, slamming the door shut behind him, and his heart gave a heavy thud at the sight of you.

Oblivious to the commotion, you stood before the vanity, adjusting a piece that the clumsy girl had failed to place properly in your braided silver hair. Unlike a common tiara, your dark headdress rose several inches upward — black as jet, its central base adorned with intricate filigree flowers and glittering with inset rubies. As extravagant as your twin brother, and as dazzling as someone of your bloodline was meant to appear.

“Sister,” Aerion called, watching your reflection in the mirror as he approached with that effortless familiarity he reserved only for you.

A calm smile touched your lips, as though you had not just terrified a harmless servant.

“Oh, brother.” You placed your hands on the front of your skirts and exhaled heavily. “The servants in this castle are all utterly inept.”

Aerion’s gaze lingered on your celestial headdress, then drifted over your blood-red gown with its black ribbons, the shoulders rising like dragon claws, and the chain bearing the three-headed dragon emblem crossing your chest horizontally.

“How did they fail you?” he asked, genuinely curious. Everything seemed perfectly in place — every accessory, every jewel, crafted as though made for you alone.

“Their hands trembled like a newborn’s while fastening the pins,” you replied with a contemptuous curl of your lip. “She kept pricking me like some fumbling novice.” You finally turned to face him. “She fled in terror. I merely told her that if she hurt me again, I would rip out her windpipe with my bare hands and feed it to the pigs. It was nothing more than a warning.”

“We keep them better trained at home,” Aerion scoffed. “They don’t shatter from a mere threat.”

You made a soft sound of disappointed agreement in your throat and moved away from him to pick up a delicate, translucent dark silk cloth. Turning, you held it between two fingers. He approached at once, as if he already knew what you wanted. He removed his gloves, setting them on the bed, and took your hand with surprising gentleness.

“Use this to bless me with your favor in the jousts,” he asked commanded as he began tying the silk around your wrist so it could be easily untied and given to him on the field.

You could feel the warmth of his touch against your skin, a sensation you had grown accustomed to since you first knew your own name. Accustomed to his heat. To his overwhelming presence. To the silent understanding that you were his and he was yours by right.

“If I were to grant it to you, I would tie it on your wrist myself without delay,” you said, your eyes watching as his fingers stilled the moment your words sank in.

His violet eyes, identical to your own, lifted to meet your gaze.

“Hm?” His entire expression had grown deadly serious, as though some foul jest had left your lips.

“You heard me. Father has been pressuring me about marriage again,” you replied lightly. Aerion stared at you as if the words could not possibly be yours.

How dare you even entertain such a thought? It was written in the blood that two dragons such as you were destined to be joined in marriage. The duty of keeping the blood pure fell upon you both. And it was not duty alone that drove him. The desire to possess you ran like molten fire through his veins.

With an angry snarl, his free hand seized your other arm, nails digging into your skin as he forced you to face him squarely.

“We dragons stand far above arranged marriages. We do not bow to the laws and decrees of Westeros as lesser men do. We are gods.” His voice dropped low and rough, as though merely speaking the reminder cut like knives across his throat.

And you knew it to be true. You clung to that truth as fiercely as he clung to you. Yet your gaze held his without faltering. A small spark of satisfaction gleamed in your eyes.

Yes, you were destined. Yes, there was no purer blood than yours — the blood of twins born from the same womb, fated to be together from cradle to grave. Your temper complemented his, and together you were terror incarnate to any fool who dared provoke the dragon’s wrath.

But you had grown tired.

With you, he was relaxed, so certain of your belonging that it rivaled his certainty in himself.

Yet you craved more.

You wanted his fire. You wanted his rage. You wanted to see him erupt. You wanted to watch him burn the kingdoms for you.

So you smiled.

“Let the knight who unhorses you be worthy of my favor in the coming jousts,” you said sweetly, like honeyed poison. “And of my hand in marriage, should he prove bold enough to claim it. Which he will.”

Fury danced in Aerion’s violet irises. His fingers remained pressed into your skin, leaving marks. His knuckles had turned white, and his jaw was clenched so tightly you saw the muscle twitch.

“You speak as though you have already foreseen my defeat,” he hissed. His tongue swept across his lips, fighting the urge to tear yours away with his teeth for such provocation. With remarkable restraint, he released you and snatched up his gloves, stepping back. “You are wrong, sister. I do not come here to play, like this herd of swine who dare compete. I come to win. And you know the dragon ought never lose.”

“You should hurry. The knights must already be assembling on the field.”

Rage bubbled hot inside his veins, a feeling he wasn't accustomed to when the receiving end were you. A heated, ugly feeling was shaping in his core. Aerion bared his teeth in contempt.

“You will regret those words.”

The sun bathed the high royal stands where you sat beside Maekar, granting a privileged view over the field where the jousts would soon commence.

All around, the hurried bustle of squires attending their knights, the nervous whinnying of horses being armored for the impending clashes, and the lively chatter and laughter of the common folk formed a chaotic symphony that did little to calm your racing heart.

You tilted your head, glancing at the empty seat where Aerion usually sat beside you. He was now mounted upon his great coal-black stallion. Your eyes returned to the field, sharpening like a falcon’s upon your twin. He drew every gaze with his extravagant splendor. His mount was draped in a barding of fabric cut in the furious hues of fire — orange, crimson, and gold. With every powerful stride, the cloth billowed and snapped like living flames. A dragon-scale chanfron adorned the horse’s head. It was impossible not to stare. The rider attracted attention like a magnet, and his regal, arrogantly graceful seat made the more impressionable ladies smile behind their fans like helpless fledglings awaiting devouring.

Your upper lip curled in open disdain. Maekar shot you a stern glance. Everyone was watching — not only Aerion, but you as well. The announcement that your hand was available for marriage had several knights eyeing you with shameless interest. You showed them no contempt, however.

Your earlier words to Aerion still echoed in your mind. If anyone unhorsed him, you would accept their offer of marriage.

Fortunately, you knew no one was capable of throwing him from his saddle. Especially not now, with the future of his beloved sister at stake.

The blast of trumpets pulled you from your thoughts. When you refocused, your eyes were still locked on your twin as he paraded his horse at a slow, deliberate pace. Not once did he lift his gaze to the royal box. He must still be furious.

A herald began the announcements. It seemed Aerion was to face a capable knight of House Tyrrell, easily recognizable by the rose emblazoned upon his shield.

Your fingers toyed absently with the fine dark silk tied around your wrist — the very token Aerion had fastened there with such certainty that it belonged to him. You straightened your spine in anticipation as the knight in question halted his white destrier before the royal stands. A sudden hush fell over the crowd. Aerion, completing his own lap of honor, reined in his stallion and turned in your direction, lifting his visor with narrowed eyes.

“My dragon princess,” announced Ser Tyrrell with solemn courtesy. He raised his lance so that its tip reached you near the wooden railing.

You rose gracefully and folded your hands neatly over your abdomen as you stepped forward. The knight appeared far more nervous in your presence than at the prospect of facing your brother. That would change soon enough, you were certain.

“I humbly beg your favor for this joust. Would you do me such an honor?”

Maekar kept his gaze fixed on the scene, tapping his finger uneasily against the arm of his chair. Aerion clenched his teeth, staring daggers at the knight while gripping his own lance with the clear desire to charge forward and drive it through the man’s nape until it burst from his mouth. That was his sister. His lady.

“You dare present yourself before me,” you asked with icy composure, “begging my favor to defeat my own brother?”

The knight seemed to reconsider every choice that had led him to this moment. A terrible threat coiled in your throat, yet the words that left your lips were soft as silk. “Foolish. Or perhaps brave. Here it is.”

Ser Tyrrell exhaled in visible relief as you tied the dark silk around his lance. The crowd erupted into fresh cheers.

A dragon granting her favor to a rose, so that it might face another dragon. What madness was this?

The trumpet sounded once more. The knight offered a slight, respectful nod before riding to his position. Aerion did the same with barely contained rage, slamming his visor shut and urging his stallion forward with a sharp, angry thrust of his hips.

Aerion was seeing red.

Moonlight bathed the sandy arena where the jousts had unfolded hours earlier. The ground remained churned and scarred, yet an eerie stillness hung over the field, as though time itself had halted. There was no one else present — only you and the solitary song of crickets accompanying your steps. Shards of splintered wood and lingering traces of blood still marked the earth, imperfectly cleared by the squires.

You walked slowly toward the largest pool of blood staining the sand. The dried blood of Lord Tyrrell, now a dark, crusted stain upon the arena floor, summoned vivid memories of the events that had transpired mere hours before.

The thunderous clash of lances. The piercing screams of horses. The sudden whirlwind of sand thrown up by pounding hooves, followed by a sepulchral silence as the entire crowd held its breath. When the dust finally settled, Tyrrell’s convulsing body lay exposed, the tip of your twin’s lance driven through his throat. Too precise to be an accident. Aerion never missed.

The wet, gurgling death throes of the dying man drowning in his own blood were eclipsed by the horrified gasps of the spectators, who turned away and covered their mouths in dismay. Yet you felt a dark, twisted satisfaction watching Aerion’s unnerving calm as he committed murder — for you.

A faint smile curved your lips.

The sound of footsteps made you turn. Aerion stood before you. He stepped unhesitatingly into the pool of dried blood, his eyes finding yours.

He had shed his armor and now wore his customary red-and-black attire. Less imposing, yet no less dangerous — though those wide, almost boyish eyes refused to leave yours.

“Do you see what happens?” he asked, lips tightening with irritation. He gave the crimson sand a dismissive kick. He regarded you as one might scold a wayward child, his voice soft as silk sheathing steel. “When you doubt your brother. When you wager against him. I struck the blow… but you killed him.”

“I did not aim the lance at his throat,” you replied dryly, fighting the urge to smile with open satisfaction.

Aerion pressed his lips together, suppressing a grin of his own, and shrugged with feigned innocence. “I felt obligated.”

That look on his face — as though the most natural response to the threat of losing you was violence. As though he would gladly slaughter any man and walk away unscathed, solely to keep you by his side. As though he would defy every law of Westeros for his beloved sister.

“You have pleased me,” you declared, lifting your chin with regal poise.

“I did not do it for your pleasure, my dear sister.” His mouth widened into a dangerous, wolfish smile as he stepped closer. The heat radiating from his body became almost tangible. “I did it for mine.”

His gaze dropped to your lips, and he slowly licked his own. Before you could draw another breath, his hand closed firmly around your arm. He pulled you after him, dragging you toward a small, deserted pavilion not far from the bloodied sand.

To claim the reward he so richly deserved.

Aerion had kissed you before. Innocent little pecks, fleeting brushes of lips — before your father had swiftly put an end to such behavior, at least in his presence.

But the way he kissed you now was savage.

His mouth claimed yours with raw hunger, his body pressing you back until you stumbled against a table. Even then, he did not break the kiss. If anything, it grew more dominant. His teeth sank into your lower lip, drawing a stifled gasp that he seized upon, plunging his tongue into your mouth to taste you as he had always longed to.

Your tongue met his with equal fervor, sliding and coiling around it with a sensuality that stole the breath from his lungs. His dominance faltered for a moment as you sucked on the slick muscle, pulling a deep groan from him. He braced himself with one hand on the table beside your hip.

With his free hand, he impatiently untied the laces of your gown, one by one, until the fabric slipped from your shoulders and pooled at your feet.

The cool night air kissed your bare skin, but your brother’s merciless mouth soon warmed every inch it touched.

Breathing hard against your cheek, lips parted, he tilted his head to trail kisses along your jaw, down your neck, and across your collarbone, leaving a wet path in his wake. While one of your hands braced against the wooden table behind you, the other buried itself in his hair, not guiding but holding, as his heated mouth descended to one of your breasts.

“Someone could walk in,” you gasped, even as you made no move to stop him. “We don’t even know whose tent this is.”

A crooked smile curved his lips before they closed around one hardened nipple, drawing a sharp arch from your back.

“Let them enter,” he murmured against your skin. “They’ll learn it belongs to us now.”

You meant to reply, but he silenced you with a sharp bite to the side of your breast. His mouth moved to the other, lavishing it with the same hungry attention. He licked and sucked until the peak glistened with his saliva, then continued downward. Lower. And lower still.

“Brother,” you whispered breathlessly, eyes widening as you watched him sink to his knees before you.

He rested his chin against your stomach, looking up at you with an arrogant, predatory smile. His lips were slightly swollen from the kiss and glistening with the mingled wetness of your mouths.

“What?” he asked mockingly. “Is this too fast for you?” He lowered his head again, pressing kisses and soft bites across your navel and lower abdomen. His hands gripped your waist firmly. “This is what happens when you keep poking the dragon all day. You haven’t stopped teasing me once — and I won’t stop now, even if I have to drag your apologies from you screaming.”

Without another word, he hooked one of your thighs over his shoulder, spreading you open for him. He buried his face between your legs, eyes fluttering shut as his nose brushed along your swollen folds, making your hips twitch. His grip turned ironclad, holding you still as his tongue dragged a long, slow lick through your slick heat. Then he closed his mouth around your clit and sucked hard.

Your fingers tightened in his hair, nails digging into his scalp. The sharp sting only made him groan with pleasure and devour you with even greater fervor.

His tongue plunged inside you, drawing a loud moan from your throat. Aerion growled against your cunt, tilting his head to reach deeper, his nose brushing your sensitive bud with every thrust.

He loosened his grip just enough to let you grind against his mouth while he fucked you with his tongue. His eyes remained locked on your face, drinking in your expression of ecstasy, which only made him more ravenous.

You were close — your walls fluttering and clenching around his tongue, your movements growing erratic.

“Come in my mouth,” he rasped against your soaked flesh, baring his teeth in raw desperation. “Please… you taste too fucking good.”

You surrendered completely, pressing his face harder between your thighs. The coil of pleasure snapped, unraveling in a wave of moans and curses from you both. Aerion never pulled away, drinking every drop as it flooded his tongue and dripped down his chin. He swallowed greedily, as if he had never tasted anything purer — or more sinful.

When he finally drew back, a shadowed, satisfied smile played on his glistening lips. His chest heaved in time with yours.

“Was this what you needed from me?” he asked, pressing one last lingering kiss to the inside of your thigh before rising to his feet. His eyes burned into yours. “For me to kill for you... to kneel for you?” He leaned in closer. “Next time, speak plainly... or I’ll take you in front of all those fools who think they have any chance with my sister.”

Jealousy danced on your tongue, tasting thick as bitter tea leaves. Dragons circled the sky in flashes of red, blue, green, and gold. The reign of Queen Rhaenyra brought many dragons under her yoke, evoking memories of Old Valyria, and her lineage continued the legacy. She ensured her descendants understood the responsibility that fell before them. Dragons were a power to be used wisely and with great discretion. She valued the opinions of the dragon keepers, who understood the creatures even more than their riders did. They held revered positions and worked closely with the royal household to preserve the mystical beasts, ensuring they flourished.

Tears burned your eyes, fingers slowly curling into fists before you tore yourself away from the happy scene playing out in the cerulean and cream skies. You walked over the red and black chest that sat by the foot of your bed, opening the latch and lifting the shimmering purple egg swirled with silver and pink into your arms, cuddling it close. It was the egg your Uncle Baelor had placed in your cradle. The one that never hatched. The only Targaryen without a dragon. Even your studious father had bonded with the elusive Grey-Ghost, the two shy beings finding companionship with one another.

A knock sounded at your door, and you quickly wiped your tears away before the guard announced your Uncle's presence, granting him entry. Baelor frowned when he saw you cradling your egg, tears rolling down your cheeks.

"I came to see if you'd like to ride with me on Vermithor," he said softly, walking over and pulling you into his warm embrace. Your Uncles were always kind enough to offer their dragons, their saddles big enough for two. Vhagar remained the largest left, but she had made a home in Pentos, living out the rest of her days in peace.

"That is kind of you, Uncle," you whispered, tucking your egg between you.

"We will find you one yet," he assured you. "The keepers say Silverwing has been spotted over the Gullet. Perhaps with her return, you will at last have one.

"Mayhaps." But you did not wish to get your hopes up.

"Come, sweet girl, ride with me. I'm certain it will lift your mood," Baelor whispered, kissing your temple.

"Allow me a moment to change," you smiled.

You were left to your thoughts as your ladies helped you into your riding leathers, egg tucked safely back into your chest. It felt unfair that, as the eldest grandchild, you were the one left without a dragon. One should be yours by rights. How is it that Aerion could claim one, yet they avoided you as if you were a plague? You pushed the tears down and went to join your Uncle, your hand pressed tightly in his. How you loved him. How you loved Maekar.

The Bronze Fury waited in the courtyard, and immediately, you felt in a better mood. While he was not yours, you had spent much time on his back with Baelor. Almost as much time as you had with Maekar and Meleys. You had a soft spot for the Red Queen. Vermithor snorted, letting your gloved palm rest against his muzzle before you climbed the leather netting up his body to slip into the saddle. Baelor joined, sitting behind you with one arm around your waist and the other on the reins. His breath was warm against your neck, nose nuzzling your soft flesh before stealing a kiss. A roguish gesture; one you expected from Maekar, but you enjoyed it when that side of Baelor came out to play.

"Uncle," you gasped against his mouth, though you knew that while high up on Vermithor's back, none were likely to see.

"I have half a mind to chase them all from Dragonstone so it can be you and I alone there," he whispered in your ear, hand spanning across your belly.

"Even Maekar?"

"I suppose he may stay, but I do enjoy having you to myself at times," he admitted. He was not immune to jealousy.

"Both of you make me happy. I do not think I could choose between you." Your father was kind enough, but it was Baelor who placed the egg in your cradle, and it was Maekar who took you for your first ride. They nurtured this need growing inside you, more than your father did. They filled a void.

"Luckily, we would never make you." He drew another sweet kiss from your lips before taking to the skies on Vermithor. "Sōvēs, Vermitos!"

A crimson slash cut through the clouds as Vermithor approached Dragonstone, and you grinned as Meleys swooped down, the two dragons flying side by side until they landed on the bridge. You climbed down Vermithor and ran into Maekar's arms. Meleys spread her red wings, offering a shield as you kissed him.

"Crying again?" Maekar said, studying your wet eyes and puffy face before smoothing his leather-clad fingers over the remaining tear tracks and wiping them away. "Girl, you must move on from that damned egg. We'll find you a dragon."

"Baelor says Silverwing has been spotted."

"If she makes home in the mount, we'll have her brought to you."

"Thank you."

You held onto their arms while entering the castle, vibrant with the family's energy. Once a month, everyone rode their dragons to the Dragonstone and supped together in a grand feast. Aelora, Daella, and Rhae twirled around the great hall as the musicians practiced and Aemon and Aegon chased each other with wooden swords. Daeron huddled in a corner with Aelor, each sipping on wine, while Aerion sat in a chair, leg thrown over one of the golden arms, using his dagger to cut into a green apple. Matarys walked with Myriah, your grandmother, who was bathed in bright orange silks and held onto his arm. Valarr stood with your grandfather and father, no doubt, discussing history together. Alys rested on a bench, belly swollen with a third child, while Rhaegel fed her grapes.

"Oh, darling, you're here," your mother smiled, rushing over to greet you. While your father's love was dim, your mother's shone through like the brightest star in the sky. You were the one thing she had desired above all else. A precious child to call her own. Her only one. The Gods had blessed her with the first royal grandchild, but none after that. Perhaps that is why she understood your yearning for a dragon more than Aerys did.

"I promised to deliver her safe and sound, Aelinor," Baelor smiled, passing you into your mother's arms. It felt a bit foolish considering you were a young woman of twenty, but you still craved the fuss she made over you. Her gaze lingered on Baelor a bit longer, and you wondered if perhaps she knew. She had always been observant. Yet she made no move to pull you away from your Uncles. When the time came, she knew one of them would do the honorable thing and take you to wife. But which would it be? Only time would tell.

"My darling girl, I've heard Silverwing has been spotted. Mayhaps your time is coming," King Daeron smiled, leaning on his cane and holding his hand out toward you.

"I am hopeful," you said, taking his hand and squeezing it. You heard Aerion scoff. For some reason, he took pride in teasing you over not having a dragon.

"Some of us are late bloomers," your grandfather assured you.

You went to greet your grandmother, kissing her cheek before venturing further down towards the mount, sitting on the edge of the gantry and letting your legs dangle over the stone lip. It was warm and misty, smelling of smoke and burnt meat. You could hear the dragons moving through, claws digging into rocks, and the slither of their bellies. Moondancer ventured closer, leaning her head down to sniff you.

"Rytas, Hūrlilios," you greeted her, extending your bare palm. She grazed her massive head against it before slithering back into the mont.

You basked in the warmth the space provided, enjoying the music of the dragons with their lilting chortles and deep brays. You closed your eyes, singing the lullaby you knew by heart,

"Drakari pykiros. Tīkummo jemiros. Yn lantyz bartossa. Saelot vāedis. (Fire breather. Winged leader But two heads. To a third sing.)

You looked out into a sea of glowing eyes as they gathered around you in a thunder, listening to the song. If only you had one of your own to sing to, to call forth and bound with. You stood and made your way to your guest's chambers to change and get ready for dinner. Golden silk and jewelry adorned your frame, choosing a warmer color in honor of your grandmother's house. It often felt luxurious and otherworldly to be at Dragonstone, and you wished to express that through your dress. It seemed other members of the family had picked up on this as well, a sea of color scattered around the long table. Your grandfather looked rather dashing in his blue silks, emulating the color of his beloved Dreamfyre. You took a seat next to your mother and cousin, Aelora.

"Morghul loves your singing," she whispered to you, an almost dreamy look in her indigo eyes.

"All the dragons do, it comforts them," Baelor smiled before lifting the golden cup to his lips.

Aerion pierced a bloody piece of venison with his knife, shoving it into his mouth as his gaze settled on you. How you wished another had stolen his attention tonight.

"Caraxes couldn't care less about your pretty voice," he hummed. "He'd rather be hunting down a pig."

"One that resembles his rider no doubt," you murmured under your breath, and noticed Baelor's lips quirk briefly with amusement before he gave you an admonishing stare.

"Boy," Maekar warned, anger flashing in his violet eyes.

"There must be something off with you. All of us have laid claim to a dragon," Aerion said. Picking on you seemed to be his favorite pastime.

"Aerion," Myriah scolded, and your mother placed a gentle hand on your shoulder.

"Young man, this is not the place for such childish taunts. Leave your cousin be," King Daeron chided.

"A pity too. Even our dear great-grandmother flew on the back of Silverwing. They say you look like her. 'Tis a shame, your blood must be too diluted," he sneered, managing to insult you and your mother in the process.

Gentle, jovial Uncle Rhaegel bounced to his feet, balling his hands into fists. Your grandmother placed a gentle hand on his arm as the sound of forks clattering against plates clanged through the room.

"Do not fret, my darling," Myriah told him soothingly, and he sank back into his chair, next to Alys. He was rather protective of your grandmother, and many taunts swirled around her Dornish appearance; he would not stand for it. She gave Maekar a pointed look.

Maekar smacked the back of Aerion's head so hard that a sudden silence fell through the hall. Your grandfather did not subscribe to the belief in Valyrian blood purity; the proof was in his own children and grandchildren. It was a sharp, cruel jab that Aerion took, and he meant it with every bit of venom. It was foolhardy as he backhandedly insulted himself in the process. His mother had been of Dornish stock, and he was no more Targaryen than you. Baelor's head dropped, face red with embarrassment from Aerion's words. It seemed all felt shame except for your wretch of a cousin. Your chair scraped agaisnt the floor before you fled the hall, no longer possessing an appetite.

The handmaidens were finishing preparing the bath you requested after dinner, surprised to see you so soon. You thanked them, then dismissed them, wishing to stew in silence. However, you were not surprised to find Baelor and Maekar entering your rooms mere moments later. Baelor moved behind the tub, gently washing your back as Maekar paced the room.

"I do not know when that boy became such a vicious creature," he seethed.

You and Baelor stayed silent, knowing full well this was how Aerion coped with Dyanna's death. The heart of that family was gone, and damage was dealt in various forms, lingering behind like deep scars. Baelor had slipped into melancholy after Jena's death, finding strength in his sons and you. Everyone dealt with tragedy differently.

"One would think I'd be used to it by now, but it still stings," you admitted.

"You are no less Targaryen for not having a dragon," Maekar said gruffier than he meant to.

"I know," you sighed. "But that self doubt lingers. Why am I the only one? Even my father, with his nose stuck in books, bonded with one."

"I think you need to get away from King's Landing for a bit. We should send you to Dorne, you might find peace there and be away from the family," Baelor reasoned.

"I do not wish to be separated from either of you," you whispered.

"I can find an excuse to join you. Brother?" Baelor responded.

"I could take the children to Starfell to visit with Dyanna's relatives, then join you in Sunspear," Maekar said, perching on the edge of the tub before dipping his hand into the warm water to squeeze your calf.

"I would like that very much," you smiled.

"You may not have a dragon, sweet girl, but you have managed to capture two powerful princes," Baelor hummed.

"Yet I can hardly brag about that feat," you chuckled.

Their lips were warm on yours after the bath, stroking your flushed, damp skin with eager fingers slipping between your thighs, guiding you into the blissful throes of pleasure. You were in a floaty stage of peaceful slumber when you heard the soft voices bickering outside the door. Grabbing the chamberstick, you ventured toward your doors and pulled them open, finding Maekar's younger children standing there.

"It is late," you told them flatly.

"Silverwing has returned!" Egg told you excitedly.

"We were going to see her," Rhae smiled.

"By yourselves? That is dangerous!"

"That is why we came to get you," Egg reasoned, and you noticed Aelora swaying in the shadows. The twins had been longtime companions of yours while you were growing up in the Keep.

"Aelora came just in case," Aemon explained.

"Please, cousin, she is pretty, and she might be yours!" Daella whispered.

"Alright, let us go," you sighed, taking hold of Aelora's hand. She was only four years younger than you, and her gossamer robe billowed around her. She was sweet and kind, but in no such mindset to protect the children if they were attacked or harmed. You handed Daella your chamberstick and lifted one of the torches into your hand. The amber glow flickered over the rocks and magma until a flash of silver caught your eye.

"Naejot māzīs, Gēliotīkun," you called to her.

She merely blinked her blue eyes in response; they shone through like sparkling sapphires in the dim light.

"Sing to her," Rhae whispered, tugging on the sleeve of your robe.

"Hen ñuhā elēnī: Perzyssy vestretis. Se gēlȳn irūdak. Ānogrose (From my voice: The fires have spoken. And the price has been paid with blood magic.) You continued the song from earlier.

She crawled closer, warmth seeping from her silvery scales. Her breath was hot against your cheeks; meanwhile, you held your own as she crept closer. Her muzzle hovered mere inches from your face. Hope flooded your chest as you reached your hand toward her. You could almost taste the magic in the air. It was all dashed away when she snarled, snapping her large jaw before crawling away into the dark confines of the caves. Anger and disappointment swirled through your body.

"I…I'm sorry, we all thought she might choose you," Aemon said softly, squeezing your hand.

You gave him a little smile. "It is alright, but I wish to go back to bed."

You and Aelora saw the little ones back to their beds, and she kissed your cheek just outside your rooms. "It is not the mother you seek, but the daughter. You will find her in the sand," she whispered in your ear before twirling her way back to her quarters. Exhaustion clung to the corners of your mind, too tired to try and find the meaning of her words.

After seeing your cousins settled in Starfall, you departed with your Uncles for Dorne. You flew with Maekar on Meleys, your arms wrapped around his waist, and your cheek pressed against his shoulder.

"Tymās, Mēlī!" he bellowed out. The Red Queen spun through the air, making your belly lurch and tighten when she turned upside down. Laughter chimed through the air as you clung to him.

Dorne proved the perfect respite, full of warmth, delicious food, intricate fashions, and interesting people. It was a good distraction for your mind, and while your Uncles had their dragons for people to fawn over, you slowly came to terms with being dragonless and accepting that wouldn't be the worst thing in the world.

What was the saying? Things happen when you least expect them.

Your great-aunt Daenerys arranged for you and your Uncles to enjoy the Water Gardens by the Summer Sea. The turquoise waters were healing, and you enjoyed the sound of them crashing against the cliffs.

"I fear I do not wish to return to King's Landing," you smiled, head resting in Baelor's lap. He wore cream and gold silks in the Dornish fashion, his dark chest hair laced with gray on display. You lie topless, soaking up the warm sun.

"It is rather freeing here," Baelor commented, massaging your scalp.

Maekar sat in the shade of a red silk parasol, a cup of strong wine in hand, clad in green silk. The hot sun proved a bit intense for his skin. You suspected it was refreshing for him to have a break from his six children. He was half asleep, and you didn't have the heart to wake him. You stood, wading into the water and letting the silk fall away from your body. Baelor nudged Maekar awake, and soon your Uncles joined you in the water, their hands all over your bare body.

Maekar's mouth wrapped around a nipple while Baelor's cock nudged between your thighs. You paid no mind to the sun's dimming overhead; Vermithor and Meleys lingered nearby, and their wingspans were wide enough to cast a shadow over it. Besides, you were too lost in the full feeling of your Uncles stretching you wide with their cocks, legs wrapped around Maekar's thick waist. Baelor's furry chest tickled your slick back, his large hands supporting your arse. It wasn't until you heard the soft, familiar chortle of a melody you knew by heart that you cast your gaze up toward the sky.

Your finger's tangled in Maekar's white hair, Baelor's mouth hot on your neck, then your shoulder. You were so close, but you couldn't pull your gaze from the dragon looming overhead. The dragon that was neither Vermithor nor Meleys. The dragon that was mimicking the lullaby. You clung to Maekar, reaching a hand behind you to squeeze Baelor's hip as a sweet release washed over you as the shimmering sea lapped at your uncles' ankles.

"I…I have to go to her," you whimpered.

"What?" Maekar huffed against the swells of your breasts, teeth grazing over your delicate flesh.

"Look up," you whispered, tugging on his hair to lift his gaze, then nudged Baelor's chest with your elbow.

Their gazes turned to the sky and saw the dragon overhead, her body blending in almost seamlessly with the sky, but you could see the delicate, pale pink membranes.

"Seven Hells," Baelor whispered against your neck, carefully withdrawing his cock, his seed leaking down your thighs. "Maekar, put her down."

Maekar grumbled, but did so. You waded farther into the sea, washing between your thighs before making your way up the golden sands. The dragon began to swoop lower just as you finished drying off and draping the green silk around you. She was smaller than your Uncles' dragons, closer in size to Egg's Stormcloud. She crawled toward you using her back feet, chortling the song once more.

"Perzyro udrȳssi. Ezīmptos laehossi. Hārossa letagon. Aōt vāedan (With words of flame. With clear eyes to bind the three. To you I sing.) She brayed as you sang, moving until she stood in front of you and gently nudged your chest with her periwinkle muzzle. You gently grasped her warm maw, smoothing your thumbs down the concave of her snout. "Hae mērot gierūli: Se hāros bartossi. Prūmȳsa sōvīli. Gevī dāerī (As one we gather: And with three heads. We shall fly as we were destined. Beautifully, freely.) Her lilting chortle matched your pitch, and you finished the song together.

"Rytas, I have been waiting for you," you smiled. Aelora's words played through your mind once again. You knew Silverwing made home in Dorne from time to time and most likely laid a clutch or two. This must be one of her hatchlings. Upon closer inspection, you could see silvery scales intermingled with the pale periwinkle ones. Her muzzle bumped your cheek before she lowered her long, elegant neck and stretched out a wing, tipping it toward you.

Mayhaps it was a bit foolish to climb onto her in silks and bare feet, her scales hot against your skin and the spikes rough against your palms, but you pushed through the pain until you were on her back. You had come too far to let yourself be deterred. Once you were settled, she lifted into the air and flew around the perimeter of the Summer Sea. Baelor and Maekar looked like mere specks on the sand beneath. After a few laps, she descended onto the beach once again, and you slipped down her wing, rushing into your uncles' outstretched arms, letting them hug you between their sun-warmed bodies.

"Well done, sweet girl," Baelor whispered, kissing your temple before lifting your palms to inspect the sore skin from gripping the dragon's spikes.

"Without a saddle, most impressive," Maekar murmured, nuzzling the spot just below your ear. "But hardly surprising, it is in your veins."

"We should have a feast tonight at Sunspear to celebrate," you beamed.

"I could think of a better way," Maekar smirked, his hand curling around your hip.

You had to admit that claiming a dragon had gotten your blood pumping, so you let them ravage you once more, after returning to the Water Gardens. You wished to be splayed over cushions instead of the sand.

"She needs a name," Baelor murmured, stroking your back as you rested against his chest. Maekar's head rested between the curve of your arse and thigh, his teeth marks embedded in the tender skin.

"Vāedra, a play on the word for song," you smiled, reaching down to stroke Maekar's hair.

"Very beautiful," Baelor said.

You celebrated again with your Uncles late into the night. Dornish sour rolling down your breasts in ruby rivulets, gathering and splashing onto their eager tongues. Baelor held your thighs back, pink scrapes marring them from climbing Vāedra earlier, while Maekar's cock sank deep inside, so deep that your legs turned to jelly in Baelor's hands. Maekar's thick, pearly seed seeped from your swollen cunt, his flushed mouth and skilled tongue lapping and suckling it down. The two switched positions, Baelor fucking your tender cunt next, sinking just as deep as Maekar's had, making you mewl and whimper. But you were helpless under Maekar's strong grasp, knees nearly bent to your shoulders. Baelor's seed filled you, thick, dripping, and strong.

Once you regained your strength and your limbs felt slightly more solid, you took turns pleasuring their cocks. Your Uncles stretched on the bed, side by side, as your mouth alternated sliding over their velvety, stiff shafts, feeling their veins pulse against your tongue. Pearly seed filled your mouth, and you swallowed it down greedily, like a famished creature. Opalescent remnants clung to the corners of your lips, which your Uncles kissed away.

"Our dragon princess," Baelor smiled, massaging your legs to help you fully regain feeling in them.

Maekar stood, naked, on the balcony, glancing up at the moonlit sky as he drained a cup of red wine. The three dragons circled close to the beaming, silvery moon.

"Is it wrong that I yearn to see the sour look on Aerion's face when we return to the city?" you smiled.

Maekar scoffed. "He has been relentless in his teasing. You deserve to gloat."

"I would say it is well earned," Baelor hummed, usually one to take the high road, but he had hated Aerion's harshness toward you.

"The children depart tomorrow, so they'll arrive at the Red Keep before we do. We'll keep it tight-lipped until then," Maekar said, returned to the bed with you and Baelor.

"I will cherish the few days we have left here. It's like being in a private paradise."

"Mmm, but we must face reality sooner than we would like," Baelor said, smiling as he kissed your fingertips while Maekar tucked his long, warm body against your back.

Outside the palace, the dragon mimicked a similar position on the beach; the three wrapped around one another.

Luckily, you had your riding leathers with you, which made for a more comfortable flight back to King's Landing. Maekar had helped braid your hair that morning. Vāedra would be fitted for a saddle and reins by the keepers, but you had found an agreeable enough position on her back, and your gloves made it easier to grip her spikes. She seemed to sense all this, keeping her flight smooth and easy. She landed in the courtyard of the Red Keep, shaking the ground and letting out a loud bray before you slipped down her wing, tugging your gloves off with your teeth.

"Well done! I knew you would find your mount," your grandfather chuckled, and you rushed into his arms to hug him.

Happy tears shone in your mother's eyes before she tenderly embraced you. "Well done, my darling."

"What say you now, cousin?" Matarys teased Aerion before clapping you on the back.

Aerion scowled, face red as the Targaryen sigil, before storming off.

Aelora kissed your cheek. "The daughter is found." Her words were not lost on you this time.

Your younger cousins gathered around, eager to meet your dragon. You introduced each one to Vāedra, letting her get used to their scent and touch.

"Oh, she's so pretty," Rhae beamed.

"She is," you agreed.

You glanced over your shoulder, watching Baelor and Maekar walk off with your grandparents and parents. It gave your belly a nervous twist, but you agreed to let your Uncles handle that matter. Part of you wished to be Maekar's wife only because you had no desire to be queen one day, but you would happily accept either as your husband. However, you couldn't bear the thought of Baelor taking a second wife and losing him. You shook such thoughts from your head and stroked Vāedra's neck. You only hoped the decision would not be left to you. How could you choose between the men you loved?

In the end, you received what you wished. Your grandparents and parents agreed to marry you to Maekar. Just in time, it seemed. Vāedra had woken you early three days after the betrothal announcement to fly you around Dragonstone before venturing into a cave to show you the clutch she had lain. Her proud bray made your eyes water. Then your eyes widened as you pressed a hand to your stomach after her muzzle gently pressed there.

"Oh, fuck," you whispered before laughing softly and nuzzling the scarly space between her eyes.

You returned to the Keep, summoned your Uncles to your chambers in the Holdfast, and told them the news.

"Are you certain?" Baelor asked, pressing his hand agaisnt your stomach.

"I would need a maester or midwife to confirm, but one who is discreet," you replied.

"You do not wish for moon tea?" Maekar asked curiously.

"If we are wed within two months, it will be of no concern," you reasoned.

"I will find a discreet midwife then, I only trust the maesters so much," Baelor said before kissing you.

Maekar walked over and captured your mouth after Baelor finished. "One more mouth for me to feed," he teased you.

"We could kick Aerion out, then it would even out," you said cheekily.

"The babe will be well loved and well cared for," Baelor smiled.

"Indeed," Maekar agreed, and you snuggled between them.

It seemed the Targaryen line would never lack for dragons nor descendants.