Mumble Jumble

The roar of the crowd was a distant beast now, its thunder muffled by the heavy canvas walls of the tournament tent. You sat perched on the edge of a wooden table, fingers laced tightly in your lap, waiting. Your pulse thumped heavy in your ears, each beat a nervous rhythm that made your chest feel too tight.

Heavy footsteps sounded just outside the entrance flap, and you slid from the table, smoothing your skirts with damp palms. The canvas flew open and there he stood. Sweat-slicked, blood-spattered, and grinning. Aerion Targaryen, victorious. And absolutely reeking of it.

You crossed to him before you could think, drawn by some pull you'd never learned to resist. His armored arms closed around you, hauling you against the cool, unforgiving steel of his breastplate. The smell hit you first, horse and sweat and blood, sharp and metallic and utterly him. His gauntlets dug into the soft flesh of your waist hard enough to bruise, and you didn't care. You didn't care at all.

"You're alive," you breathed against his neck.

He laughed, low and rough. "Did you doubt it?"

You pulled his helm free and he snatched it from you, dropping it to the dirt without a glance. His hair was plastered to his head, clinging to his forehead and neck. A cut at his hairline wept blood down his temple, smeared across his cheekbone like war paint. His face was flushed beneath it all, ruddy and gleaming, absolutely feral with victory.

"That Harding cunt never stood a chance." His lips found yours before you could respond; hard, claiming, tasting of salt and victory. The kiss was all teeth and demand, his tongue sliding against yours while his metal-clad hands roamed down to grip your backside, pulling you flush against him.

When he finally broke away, you were both breathless. He looked around the tent at his men, his squires, the servants hovering with towels and wine. His lip curled.

"Out."

The word cracked like a whip and everyone scattered, dropping cloths, backing away, vanishing through the flaps until only the two of you remained in the heavy silence.

Aerion turned back to you, and his eyes had gone dark. Wanting.

He backed you toward the table, and you went willingly, your thighs hitting the wood's edge. He stood between your legs, the cold metal of his greaves pressing against your calves through your skirts.

He raised his gauntleted hands. "Take them off."

Your fingers trembled as you worked the buckles. First the left, then the right. The leather and steel fell away, revealing the sweat-sheened skin beneath, the fresh bruises purpling along his wrists. You lifted one of his hands to your lips and kissed the scraped knuckles gently.

"I was so worried-"

His hand closed around your throat.

Not hard enough to hurt. Just enough to remind you who you belonged to.

"I know," he said, thumb brushing along your jaw. "I could feel you watching. Every time I looked up, there you were. Pale and pretty and chewing that lip." He tilted his head, studying you like you were something he'd won. Which, you supposed, you were. "Did you like watching me win?"

"Yes." The word came out breathy. His grip tightened slightly.

"Did you like watching me knock that smug bastard into the dirt?"

"Yes, my prince." You kept your eyes on his, not daring to look away.

"What else did you like? Tell me."

You swallowed hard against his palm. "I liked seeing you victorious, my prince. Seeing you so strong, and brave, and handsome. I wanted-"

He grinned. "You are such an obedient little wife." He leaned in, his mouth hot against your ear. "So pretty and well-trained."

A shudder ran through you. Your hand found the laces of his breeches of its own accord, fumbling with the knots while his thumb stroked slow circles against your throat. He watched you struggle with the leather, made no move to help, just waited with that smug half-smile curving his lips.

When you finally freed him and wrapped your fingers around the hot, heavy length of him, his breath hissed between his teeth. You stroked him slowly, letting the warmth of his skin seep into yours. His eyes slipped closed.

"Keep talking," he murmured, hips pushing into your fist.

"My prince is a fierce warrior. Strong and fearless-" Your words broke off as his free hand slid down your chest, over your belly, under your skirts. You were bare beneath, just as he liked, and he made a satisfied sound at the discovery.

"Don't stop," he said, but he was the one making it impossible. His fingers parted you and found you slick and ready, pressing two fingers in inside, rough and knowing; and your hand stuttered on his cock.

"Handsome," you managed. "There is none like you. On the field or...-oh... or off."

He worked you faster, his thumb pressing hard against that sensitive nub while his fingers curled, found that spot inside you that made your vision blur. You let go of his cock entirely, your knees spreading wider, your head falling back. The rough drag of his fingers sent hot tendrils of pleasure curling through your belly.

"Aerion," you breathed.

He withdrew.

You whined at the loss, but he just smirked, bringing his slick fingers to your lips.

"Clean them."

He pushed them past your lips and onto your tongue. You closed your mouth around them and sucked. The taste was salty and heady, your own arousal mixed with the sweat on his skin. The calloused pads pressed into the back of your throat, and you tried to stop yourself from gagging, a wet sound escaping your nose.

His eyes darkened, watching you struggle around his fingers with something between amusement and hunger. He other hand took hold of your skirts, gathering them up until you were fully exposed to him, bare and trembling on the edge of the table.

You spread your legs wider, knowing what he wanted.

He pulled his fingers from your mouth slowly, letting you suck them clean one last time and wrapped that hand around your throat instead. The other gripped your hip, pulling you forward until you felt the cold bite of his greaves pressing into the soft flesh of your thighs.

He angled you just how he wanted, and then he was pushing inside you in one long, brutal stroke.

"Ah!" You arched against him, a choked sound escaping your lips. He filled you perfectly, and for a moment it was all you could do to cling to his shoulders, your nails scraping against the metal of his armor, the cold steel biting into your naked skin.

His hips moved in a smooth, steady rhythm, holding your legs open with his hands. He was watching you, that smirk still curling his lips, snapping his hips just hard enough to send you sliding along the wood.

"Tell me," he said.

"You are a warrior worthy of song," you gasped, each thrust making the table creak and his armor clatter. "And I am yours. Always. Yours."

"Good girl," he said, and his thumb brushed over that sensitive place between your legs again.

Your back arched. Your mouth fell open. You felt your walls fluttering around him, the pleasure building, a hot knot in the pit of your belly.

"No no, not yet." He chided, his tone teasing, but his movements didn't slow. His fingers tightened on your throat. "I'm not ready for you to come."

You whimpered. "My prince-"

He grinned, sharp and vicious, pressing his fingers back into your mouth and pushing deep until you gagged, saliva running down his knuckles. You moaned helplessly, the sound muffled, your vision blurred.

"You will take what your husband gives you."

You couldn't respond. Couldn't speak, couldn't even breathe, just clung to his wrist and held on as his pace quickened, the sound of his breathing loud above the wet slap of skin.

Your own breathing was a harsh rasp in your chest, your pulse pounding in your ears, the pressure of his hand the only thing keeping you tethered to the earth. The hand on your throat pushed you down into his thrusts, his armor poking your inner thighs, his fingers digging bruises into the soft skin.

The sounds he made were obscene, grunts and gasps, his teeth bared. You were nothing but a tool for his pleasure, a warm, wet place for him to sink into. A toy for him to use and abuse as he pleased. And you loved it. Loved him.

The pleasure built inside you, hot and insistent, despite his command. You were panting and gasping around his fingers, and he let out a dark, rumbling sound, his thrusts growing uneven.

"Fuck," he growled. "I'm going to fill you, wife. Going to fill this pretty little cunt until it's leaking. You'll be walking back to our tent with my seed dripping down your legs, soaking your skirts, so everyone will know-"

He groaned and pressed deep, his hand leaving your throat, bracing himself on the table as his hips bucked, once, twice, three times. You felt his release filling you, his cock twitching, his breath hissing through his teeth. Your walls fluttered around him, squeezing tight, drawing another moan from him.

The pleasure snapped, a white-hot explosion that cascasded through you, and you cried out around his fingers, a broken, desperate sound. Your whole body shook and convulsed, toes curling, hips rocking, nails raking his armor. He cursed, fucking you through it, his eyes fixed on where you joined.

He slowed, watching his spend drip down your thighs, smearing across the polished steel of his greaves. You felt dizzy, floating somewhere between here and heaven, a pleasant sort of numbness tingling through your limbs.

"Look at the mess you've made," he said, a smug tilt to his lips. "We're going to have to clean that up."

"Yes, my prince." Your words were slurred, barely more than a whisper.l

He laughed, tucking himself back into his breeches. "Hand me some wine, will you?"

"Yes, my prince." You were barely coherent, but still, the response was automatic.

You got up onto shaky legs, and began to walk to where the wine sat chilling, his seed already dripping down your thighs. You felt a bit dizzy, your head spinning, the room tilting dangerously.

His hands caught your hips and steadied you with a laugh, he pulled you back against his chest and held you there.

"I see I've left you a bit unsteady, my sweet wife." He kissed the side of your neck and you tilted your head back, letting his lips find your jaw, your cheek.

"Just... A bit," Your eyelids fluttered closed, his mouth hot and insistent against your skin.

"Come on," he said, scooping you into his arms. "There's better wine back at the keep. Why don't we go bathe, perhaps have some food." 

You rested your head against his shoulder, the metal cool against your cheek. "As you say, my prince."

"And you can tell me about the songs you'll write about today's match," he added, walking towards the entrance.

"I’d like that, my prince..."